The Martini Chronicles

Oops, My Depression is Showing

2012-01-20T19:01:00.000-08:00

I don't think of myself as a person with depression. I often think of myself as a depressed person, but that's not the same as the clinical definition. I was just diagnosed two years ago when my therapist got tired of me crying in every session. I thought it was totally normal, it was therapy after all. But I was actually crying all the time. At my desk at work. In the car. Walking the river trail. I thought I was just Sad and it would go away, but it only got worse. So she recommended medication.

When my doctor prescribed Lexapro, she said it wouldn't change my life, that I'd just wake up one day and feel not-so-bad. And I did. It was like one day I realized that I didn't cry. It didn't make my life better, it didn't make my problems go away, it just took the edge off. It made everything more bearable and less stabby. I stopped crying. I thought it was a life-saver, which sounds kind of stupid, but when you don't have to run to the bathroom at work anymore because you don't want to be embarrassed by sobbing at your desk, it's really kind of a big deal. Which is mostly how my depression exhibits itself. That and the crushing anxiety I sometimes feel. I've never had a full-blown panic attack, but I've been fairly close. And although my depression wasn't debilitating, I could still basically function and get out of bed when I had to, it was nice to just get up without thinking about it. I thought I'd never give up my medication.

When I got laid off, I switched to the generic prescription because I could no longer afford my beloved Lexapro. I didn't like it as much. It felt like I had room for more. Like I could be a little happier, but just a little. And then I got used to it and forgot I was on something different. The major difference I did like was that if I missed a couple of days of Lexapro, I was sick. Dizzy, nauseous, icky. The generic doesn't do that so quickly which is probably not really a good thing.

I've been feeling better lately. And like I said, I don't think of myself as a person with depression. I think I'm normal. Well, maybe not exactly normal, but chemically balanced. I started thinking that my depression was just a situational experience. I started thinking I could stop my meds. You're never supposed to stop cold turkey, so I started skipping a day or two. When I missed three days with no apparent side effects, I did stop altogether. Big mistake.

At first I didn't notice anything. I started not sleeping very well. But big deal, I just napped during the day. Then this week I started questioning things that I was really sure about just a week or so ago. The thing that had made me really happy started to seem not so worth it. I started to wonder if I just wasn't that into it, if I'd somehow fooled myself into thinking I was totally in love. Which isn't like me. It actually takes kind of a lot for me to even like someone, I'm pretty dismissive. And that scared me. And then I realized that what I was feeling was numbness. Apathy. Very unlike me. I get excited over the dumbest things, and I started to feel like I didn't care about anything at all.

Next came the anxiety. Sitting in the doctor's office with Mr. A. yesterday totally freaked me out. I was convinced that they were making us wait so long just to drive me crazy. And Mr. A? He wasn't looking so A at the time either.

Today was the last straw. Yeah, I went to a sad movie, but then I couldn't stop crying after that. The remodel in Target made me sad. It was all I could do not to cry when buying eye cream at Clinique. I cried in the car all the way home. Over nothing. Or the rain. Or that fact that I almost cried in front of the Clnique lady. Or because I don't like my clothes. What I'm saying is, there was no concrete reason for it. And that's apparently how my depression defines itself.

My depression. It's funny how I take ownership of it. I don't want it. It's like a roommate that I live with and simply tolerate. It's not invited. I'd be happy not to have it. I almost convinced myself that I don't. Almost.

Depression is stupid because nobody takes it seriously. It's only physical to me because it's not visible to everyone else. If I'm grumpy or ragey or teary, then I'm just being a bitch or a weirdo. If you say you're depressed, people say so what? Everybody has bad days. But I can have a perfectly good day and still fall apart. Which further complicates the problem by sabotaging what little self-esteem I'm trying to hold onto. Even trying to explain it sounds like a cop-out. So I don't. If it's a particularly bad episode, I just wait for it to stop. I hide out and try to avoid people because that's what is best.

This week made me realize that I have this stupid disease. I am imbalanced. At least chemically. When something that made me blissfully happy just a couple of weeks ago ceases to matter for no reason at all, that's not okay. Or normal. Or acceptable. I owe it to myself and the people around me to do something about it. I'd saved a few pills on the off-chance that I'd actually need them. It turns out I do, no matter how much I wish I didn't. So I'll be better in a few days. More like the self I want to be. The self I can be. With the help I don't want but so obviously need.

Those sharp edges will be blurred again soon. Honestly, it can't happen soon enough.

SOPA is Evil and Must Be Destroyed

2012-01-17T22:30:00.000-08:00

First, I have to admit that I don't know a whole lot about SOPA. When I try to learn about it and figure it out, I get bogged down in a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo that completely turns my brain off. Seriously, it goes like this:

My Brain: I hear that SOPA is bad. I must be more informed. I will Google this thing called SOPA.
Google: SOPA is bad. What it means is blah, blah, blah, privacy, blah, government, blah, rights, blah, blah, blah...
My Brain: Yawn.... yeah... that sounds bad.....

What I understand is that it is bad. That's all. Why is it bad? Because I love the internets. I have fallen in love with many things on the internets. I have even fallen in love with a person because of the internets. People should not be kept from falling in love. Whether it is with a person or something simple like a beautiful quote or a recipe or a song or a photo or whatever. There isn't enough love in the world and anyone who wants to get in the way of Love must be Evil. I don't need to understand legalese to understand that this is Wrong.

Of course, there is a lot of Yuckiness on the internet. Child pornography. Bullying. Campaigning by stupid people. But there are so many things to fall in love with, that I think that cancels out the Romney propaganda. Plus, the internets have also told me more about why Romney is such a douche bag. Overall, Love is greater than Evil.

So there. That is the extent of my knowledge. I could be more profound, more verbose, and yes, more intelligent. But I don't really need to be. It's as simple as this: Love is Good. Censorship of Love is Bad. Do what you can to preserve what is left of Love in this world.

Open Letter to the Assholes on the River Trail

2012-01-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

Most people know to use the river trail here in town for exercise. Most people understand this basic concept. It's not that hard. However, some of the people using it for the right reasons are subjected to those who don't. Some people don't know how to use it at all. This is dedicated to all of you who fall in this latter camp. Assholes, please take notice.

1. Dude With the Cigar - Are you fucking kidding me?!?!? I smelled you from 20 feet away, but I thought I was hallucinating. Because who is insensitive enough to smoke a motherfucking cigar on the river trail? And then I saw it. The huge cloud of smoke ahead of me. Next to a stroller with a baby in it. Okay, it's enough that you don't care about my lungs, but you don't even care about the lungs of the small person you are walking next to? Fuck you. Smoke in your den at home, not out in public. Asshole.

2. Same goes for the few smokers I have seen. Have you even noticed the people running past you? Or the people walking in their exercise clothes? Yeah, we're all out there for a reason and it isn't to clog our lungs up with your nasty nicotine habit. It's hard enough to breathe without breathing in your smoky shit. Fuck you.

3. Ladies. Do not wear perfume when you are working out. Trust me, it doesn't cover up the sweat smell that you think you are hiding. It just makes you look (and smell) more obnoxious and high-maintenance than someone exercising in nature should be. The rest of us can't breathe when we're coughing up your cheap perfume. Just don't.

4. Men. Don't take off your shirts. I realize it's cold and it's been a while since any of you have done this, but I'm still recovering from some of the exposure I saw last summer. Only about 2% of you can get away with this. The rest of you can't. Seriously, you don't want us ladies throwing up in our mouths when we pass by you, right? Cover that shit up. The other 2% of you who can get away with it? Don't stop. Please don't. Just know who you are. If you have any doubt at all, you can't get away with it and keep your shirt on. For the love of god, cover your shit up.

5. Men who talk. Don't do this. We women are honestly out there to exercise. Lose weight. Train for some type of race. We don't want to be approached. We are sweaty. We most likely haven't showered. We are gossiping with our girlfriends. We are not out there looking to hook up. We don't want you talk to us. If we are attracted to you, we will let you know. Trust us on this.

6. Off-leash dogs. I'm torn on this one. Some dogs are just fine, others aren't. I guess you should use some common sense here. If you have any. My dogs must always be on their leashes. They are assholes who can't be trusted. My girl dog is a bitch, literally. She hates anything that walks on four legs. So I know to keep her on a leash at all times. And then we'll meet a dog off-leash who circles her and sniffs her. Sure, it's not aggressive so its owners think it's okay. Only it's not because it gets my dog in this freak-out-aggressive tizzy. She can't handle it. And I don't need the stress. If your dog doesn't care about another living soul in the world and won't corner my dog trying to sniff her ass, be leash-free. If there is any doubt about your dog's intentions, leash the motherfucker. Seriously. Don't stress the rest of us out. I will have to resort to kicking your dog in the nuts if you can't be responsible.

I know we can all get along. We can. Even Rodney King can. Just follow these simple rules. Please. I can't be held responsible for those of you who break these simple rules. You're assholes and get what you deserve.

You have been warned.

How I Know My Kid Is Mine

2012-01-11T16:47:00.000-08:00

D is very talented. She sings. Sure, I sang in glee club in elementary school, but it's not quite the same thing. She sings in public. And plays guitar. She dances. Trust me, she got none of her grace from me. I have no moves and I run into walls and furniture on a regular basis. In my own home. Clearly, we are different people. But once in a while, she does something that is very much like me and I'm assured that she wasn't switched at birth. Yesterday was one of those times.

I got a call from a cell number I didn't recognize. I thought it might be about a job so I answered it, when normally I would just ignore it. It was D. She sounded like she was in a vacuum. Turned out she was in the bathroom with a friend on the friend's phone because she had left her phone in the classroom that she left when she got gum in her hair. That she couldn't get out and she wanted me to pick her up because she just "couldn't" go back to class with gum in her hair. I laughed. I giggled. I laughed some more. She asked me not to laugh. I couldn't help it. Finally she said, "Just come get me and you can laugh all you want."

I didn't get there until five minutes before school was over. Seriously, she could have stayed but she said she wouldn't leave the bathroom until I got there. She informed me that there was a fire drill while she was sequestering herself. "And you didn't leave in case there was a real fire?" I asked. "No, I texted my friend to make sure it was just a drill. And I would have stayed in there anyway." I now know that they don't do sweeps of bathrooms during fire drills so I'm slightly concerned about the deaths that will occur from girls getting gum in their hair.

I used peanut butter to get it out. Which worked, but it was disgusting. She was already detesting the smell of mint and now neither one of us may ever eat peanut butter again. I may fill her stocking with mint gum this Christmas, because now it's funnier than coal. Plus I'm evil like that.

D swears she will never chew gum at school again. I swear I will laugh every time I tell this story. And be reminded that she really is my kid.

Ode to Wonton Pizazz

2012-01-11T16:07:00.000-08:00

Oh Wonton, you brought us such joy with your little froggy antics. We loved the way you and Potato sat on each other. The way you looked at us through the plastic of your little tank. The way you scuffled with Potato over food. The way you made us laugh when stretching your little webbed feet.

Wonton, you had more personality in your little half-ounced size body than most people I know. We won't soon forget you.

Rest in peace, my froggy friend.
Wonton Pizazz 2011-2012

The Night I Became A Bendite

2012-01-04T17:00:00.000-08:00

Central Oregon residents enjoy many outdoor activities throughout the year. During the summer, I love it here. I float the river, I hike, I did my first 5K last year. Hell, I've even been known to camp a time or two. But come winter, I am singing a completely different tune. A tune that goes like this - "It's cold, I hate winter, snow is stupid, when is it going to be warm again?" I don't ski. I don't snowboard. People ask me why I live here. That is too long of a story to tell.

At any rate, I participate in no winter activities. None. I stay inside and drink. A lot. Until this year. Or at least last week. K (AKA Mr. Adorable) asked me to go snowshoeing with him, his friend, and his friend's FWB. Oh, the things we do when in new relationships. But he did buy me my first pair of snow pants (yes, first ever. I have never worn a single pair.) so how could I say no?

And you know what? I actually liked it. I kind of liked it a lot. We went at night and at first I was freezing. And coughing on the snowflakes I was breathing in. Through my mouth. And then I warmed up and only my face was cold. And then I really warmed up and the sweat from my body kind of steamed my face and warmed all of me up. The best part of all was the little shelter where we (by we, I mean the army dude that was with us) built a fire and I got to drink flasks of booze. And water. But mostly booze.

The way back was even sort of romantic. The moon was out, the snow had stopped and, mostly, I knew that I would live and not get lost in the woods or get eaten by a mountain lion or killed by some crazy snowshoeing serial killer (actually I'm not convinced that couldn't still happen).

So there it is. I now have a winter activity. I'm cool. Time for a celebratory drink!

Happy New Years to Everyone Except the Stupid Bitch Who Called the Cops on My Kid

2012-01-03T17:05:00.001-08:00

D went to a New Year's party this year with about 20 of her friends. I thought the parents allowing this party were crazy. Like a good parent (or something like that), I met them when I dropped her off and made sure they were going to be there all night. They assured me they would be and, when I told them how crazy they were for spending their night with a house of screaming teenagers, they let me know that it would be someone else's turn next year. Ha ha. Yeah, I'll take the rotation five years from now.

Anyhoo, I got a call from D close to midnight saying she'd had the cops called on her. It's every parent's dream to get this call, right? It took a couple of days for me to get the full story after the initial adrenaline rush of that night. Apparently, the girls were a few houses down from the party house cheering "Happy New Year" at passing cars. Until the Drunk Trashy Bitch pulled over and started yelling at them. I think that what she relayed in her really intelligent adult language was that they were a "bunch of punk-ass bitches" and accused them of throwing a bottle at her car. One of the girls actually tried to have a mature, adult conversation with her, but DTB was stumbling and inhaling too hard on her cigarette to accomplish this task. She proceeded to go home and call the cops.

When the cops showed up, they got the girls' story but said they would have to go talk to DTB to get her side of the story and that if she wanted to press charges, they'd be back to do so. They never came back. Probably because they realized that DTB should have been arrested for a DUI and verbally assaulting innocent children.

That bitch is just lucky I wasn't around. Yell at my kid because you're a drunk, trashy asshole and I will tear your throat out. Only I get to yell at my kid like that.

Another Fun Teenage Conversation

2011-12-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

Last night D had a short performance with Youth Choir for a cancer survivor's group. Appropriately, she was completely focused on the teenage boy in the leather jacket.

D: He is so hot, he is so gorgeous!! Don't you think he's hot, Mom?
Me: He's a child.
D (to her friends): My mom thinks he's hot!!!
Me: That is NOT what I said. I said he's a CHILD.
Other teenage girl: That's okay, my mom says stuff like that too.

FML.

Losing It

2011-12-08T19:04:00.000-08:00

Lately I've found out what being unemployed for ten months will do to you. It will drive you crazy. Or make you really, really stupid. I think I'm both now. For example, this morning I was yelling for my dog to come in and getting really irritated that she wasn't listening to me because I didn't want to let cold air in the house. The poor thing was lying innocently by the fire. Inside the house. When I left to go meet a friend, I searched frantically for my car keys. Which were on the table next to my purse. Right in front of me.

And if that's not enough, my emotions are all over the freaking map. Two days ago I woke up grumpy. General grumpiness turned to anger. Like raging anger and hatred of everything in the world. For no apparent reason. I just hated everything. I wanted to hide out at home, but I also wanted to go out somewhere. But then I knew that I shouldn't be out in public with a very real chance of killing someone for doing something stupid like existing. This morning I was so restless I couldn't sit still. But I didn't really want to do anything other than sit on the couch. So I paced from room to room for a while.

I don't remember what day it is most of the time and I've started forgetting to do things I say I'm going to do. Like meet a friend for yoga. When I don't forget, I change plans in my head but I don't communicate them to anyone else. Which makes me feel so self-absorbed I can't stand myself. I think I'm going to start losing friends soon. I wouldn't be able to put up with me for long.

It's getting really pathetic. I'm predicting the next stage will be learning to knit sweaters for my dogs. And the invisible cats that I was talking to while decorating my tree alone.

Seriously. I need a job.

My Favorite

2011-12-04T00:22:00.000-08:00

So I've been complaining a lot lately about Nutcracker weekend and how much it sucks. And it does. I'm tired. D is tired. I have to have extra energy to get her through the times that she's tired and grumpy and sore and hungry. Which isn't fair, because she's younger than me and is supposed to have more energy. I spend more money than I want to on last-minute supplies and spend my time catering to her needs. Or wants. Or whines.

I'm dead tired right now and I think pajamas are the best thing ever invented and I'm about to sleep like the dead (with Nutcracker music stuck in my head), but I have to say one thing. I love my bugabooga more than anything in the world. I'm a mom so I know I'm supposed to say stuff like that, only I'm not that kind of mom. I don't like most kids. Some days I can hardly stand the one I have. But I love her to pieces anyway and tonight she outdid herself.

She had her first solo tonight and there really aren't words for how I felt. My heart nearly burst when she came out on stage. Doll has always been one of my favorite parts and she made the Best Doll Ever. She was beautiful and radiant and she floated across the stage and she looked so grown up and the only reason I didn't pass out from holding my breath the whole time was because I was concentrating on trying not to cry so that I could see her without my eyes getting all blurry.

Am I proud of her? Yeah, sure. But that's just too generic a term. She astonishes me. She surprises me in the best possible ways. I don't know how she got to be the person that she is. But I'm glad she is. And I'm glad she's mine.

Life Lessons from Mothers to Daughters

2011-12-02T16:12:00.000-08:00

Sitting behind a gigantic, lifted truck today, D and I had this conversation:

D: He must have a really small penis. You taught me that.
Me: Yes I did. He must have a snail-sized penis.
D: Snails are cute. I like snails.
Me: Snails might be cute, but snail-sized penises are not. You should run from those.

I'm always looking out for her.

I'm So Smart Sometimes

2011-11-30T09:32:00.000-08:00

Alright you guys, I have the most brilliant idea like ever in the history of my great ideas. Possibly even the world's ideas. It is that good. And if it actually gets done, remember it is my idea and I want the billion dollars that it will make.

So yesterday, I had to call unemployment. Which is the biggest waste of time because they put you on hold for precious hours of your life that you will never get back. I did it twice yesterday. The first time I was told my wait time would be 120 minutes. Really. 120. It takes me less time to count that high and even that is too long to wait for anything. After an hour I think someone picked up but then they disconnected me. Fuck me. Like an idiot, I called back. This time it was a 153 minute wait. Because they had to add in that extra 3 minutes. It couldn't just be 150. I waited another hour and gave up. Yeah, I need money but at this point my sanity is more valuable.

I got up early this morning specifically to call in hopes that less people would be calling at 8 a.m. This time I was told between 25 and 35 minutes. It ended up being 45, but whatever. At least she didn't hang up on me this time.

While listening to the same, repetitive music and messages over and over and over and over, I got my brilliant idea. Most of us have smart phones now, right? We can watch videos on them. So instead of playing stupid music that makes you suicidal, why don't they play videos to watch? Right? It's totally entertaining! And totally mindless, but so what. Waiting on hold for days on end is a mindless task anyway. I vote for cartoons. But only the good ones, the classics. Tom and Jerry. The Jetsons. Pink Panther. Mr. Magoo. None of these new retarded cartoons that must be made by monkeys. I would have to put my head in the microwave if Spongebob Squarepants came on. (Even spell check doesn't like Spongebob. Or Squarepants.)

I know, it's a totally rad idea. And it's mine. Steal it and you are dead to me. Not your money though, money is never dead to me. Plus it's my money in the first place because it's my idea.

My Little Apple

2011-11-23T16:06:00.000-08:00

Last night's conversation:

D: I'm going to text my man candy.
Me: Man candy? What did you say to him?
D: "What's up dog?"
Me: You say that to your boyfriend?
D: I'm not going to be all, "Hi honey." Gross.

She's also "training" him to be weird like her. Gotta love that kid.

Weird Moments For Moms

2011-11-19T18:47:00.000-08:00

Here's a good one: My kid just posted on her Facebook wall that she's in a relationship. Apparently the big moment in the life of teenage dating is making one's relationship "Facebook-official." And then your friends post things like, "I think I just peed out of happiness."

Two weeks ago she wasn't sure she was ready to date, now she's Facebook-official. Have I mentioned she's a Gemini? I can't even keep up with her moods, let alone her "relationship" status. And of course anything I would dare to post would be immediately deleted.

I really don't even know what to say. Or how to feel. I think something lame like weird works here. So, yeah. It's weird.

Ode To the Sweet Man at the Liquor Store

2011-11-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

You, my friend, as you know, made my day. And week. Quite possibly, my month.

Winter is not kind. All I've wanted to do this week is eat and sleep. Eat and sleep. Go back to bed to sleep. Eat some more. I think I'm really a bear stuck in a person's body. I would give anything to hibernate. As a result of this sleeping and eating, I'm already getting fluffy. Putting on my jeans this morning was a harsh reminder of this fact. Like, really depressing. I like to eat mushrooms, I don't like to look like them.

I decide to treat myself to a martini so I visit your store. You greet me in such a friendly way. Which is nice, because liquor stores can feel really skeezy. I prefer to be treated like a productive and functioning alcoholic, not a homeless boozer.

While ringing me up, you said you would flatter me by checking my ID. I always love when that happens, but I didn't expect your reaction, "DAMN, you're doing good baby!!" Apologizing for the "baby" wasn't necessary, it added the extra oomph that I appreciated. Really, someone buy this man a drink!

Thank you for giving me bragging rights and making me forget about my winter marshmallow belly for a few minutes.

You remarked at the end that "this is going to get around." My friend, you have no idea.
Cheers!!

Then and Now

2011-11-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

When I was in college, I thought that the older women, the "moms" that went back to school after 20 years were laughable. Why bother going back to school when their lives were half over? School was for young people. These women were supposed to be at home helping their kids with their homework, not doing their own. But, secretly, underneath my smirks, I was jealous of them for one thing. They got the better grades. I assumed it was because their lives were so pathetic they had nothing better to do, but I envied them that. Even if I hadn't been so painfully shy back then, I wouldn't have befriended them.

Well, guess what? I turned into that mom going back to school 20 years later.

For years I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought I knew what I wanted when I was 19. What a joke. I don't think I would want any of those things now. Including the boyfriend. And then I just sort of fell into every job I've ever had, aside from the ones I thought I wanted to do but soon discovered that I would have to be crazy to continue in that vein. Getting laid off this year provided me with the opportunity to revisit the broke feeling of my college days (daily spaghetti and the occasional Taco Bell). But it also became a wake-up call. Do I really want to go back to the same thing I've been doing? Not really. Do I want to just fall into another job? Nope. So I took some time to think about the things I've enjoyed doing over the last few years. The parts of my jobs that I did really like. And after some soul-searching and months of researching master's programs, I chose and enrolled in a school. Ta-da!!!!

College is an interesting concept now. I'm old. Or at least I feel old when I compare the differences between Then and Now. When I was in college, there was no internet. The one computer class I took taught DOS and we used floppy disks. I know, some of you don't even know what those are. Fuck you for being young. Now all of my classes are online. I don't buy books in a bookstore, Amazon sends them to me. I share classes with people from Alabama, Indiana and India. Only they actually, physically, live there. In college I wrote my papers on a word processor. I took notes on paper. On a desk without a computer. I actually had a callous on my finger from writing so much. I don't think people even get those anymore.

The other big difference? Yeah, it goes back to those better grades. Part of it is that I'm paying for it this time around, but that doesn't really factor into the day-to-day of class. Honestly, I've just gotten really competitive. Including with myself. And I think I'm smarter. I have "life experience" or some shit. So I can't accept less. My first class spoiled me; I aced it. I was lulled into a false sense of geniusness. My second class started easily enough - I got a 99%. Yes! Go me!! And then the second assignment brought an 88%. What? The fuck? That is NOT an A. This can't happen. I am an A student now. I kicked my ass on the next paper and am now checking for my grade roughly every 45 minutes. It has to be an A. Has. to. be.

Here's another little twist on the Now. I do have a kid in school still doing homework. I ride her little tush constantly to get better grades. I have high expectations of her. I push her and don't accept excuses. So now I have to set an example or something stupid like that. Honestly? I think I'm competing with my own kid now. Hey, whatever gets us that elusive 4.0....

Warning: Emotional Vomiting

2011-11-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

You might not want to read this one. I'm not about to be charming or witty or even amusingly sarcastic. I'm about to dive into self-pity so deep that I can barely stand to be me today. It's about to get ugly.

I've been unemployed for nine months now. The first couple of months were "whatever, I can do this, there's something better out there." Then I started to panic. And then it was summer and I got the best tan of my life. But now it's winter and I'm already prone to depression. As in, I'm already on medication. But this is bad. Unemployed, broke, depressed with no end in sight.

It's not for lack of trying. I've sent in tons of resumes. I've applied to the same places over and over. I just sent one in yesterday to a company I applied to last month. I did some contract work for a few weeks and had hoped that would turn into more. Nope. Bupkis. Crickets. Oh hell, even the crickets are gone.

If you've gotten this far, I really urge you to stop. I'm just about to get utterly pathetic. Ugh. Here it is. I'm alone. I have wonderful friends and I don't actually live alone. There's a teenager here. And a couple of dogs. But I don't have someone to hug me at the end of the day. There's no love in my life and right now it just feels lonely and magnifies my situation that much more. I don't have that person to fall back on. I am unemployed, broke and alone. Living the fucking dream.

And as soon as I break down, like I did today, crying my eyes out before I even got out of bed, I remind myself that it could be worse. That it is worse for a lot of people. I don't have cancer or chronic pain. My daughter is healthy and beautiful and blossoming. I have friends that mean the world to me. I have a home and sweet puppies and my car is paid off. Thus begins the joy of the cycle of guilt and self-hatred.

But I can't help it. This is just one of those days. I feel helpless and hopeless and trapped. I'm tired of being positive and strong because I'm not. I'm exhausted and out of energy. I'm tired of "hanging in there." It doesn't pay the bills. I can't even snuggle with one of my cute puppies because she ate poop first thing this morning.

Something needs to change for the better soon. I hate feeling like this and I hate being like this. And I could blame it on the cramps and hormones, but today I just give up.

The Joy of Flying

2011-11-04T23:26:00.000-07:00

Remember when flying used to be fun? When they gave you actual food and the flight attendants were really nice and would bring you pillows and blankets to help you feel cozy? When you didn't have to take your shoes off and you could carry a pair of tweezers or a bottle of shampoo? When I was little, they gave out those little wings pins and your dinner plate came with tiny glass salt and paper shakers. Which, incidentally, my mom "collected" but when I stole a piece of candy once she came unglued. Seems a bit hypocritical if you ask me, but whatever....

I used to love flying. Now I hate it. Even flying with my best friend didn't make it better.

To fly to Disneyland, we had to go Redmond-Portland-Seattle-Orange County. Do you see the problem here? We had to go north before going south. Yeah, it made a lot of sense to us. In Portland we changed planes. Or thought we did. We really just went in and out the same gate and back onto the same plane. Same flight attendants and everything. I even asked the guy, "Is this the same plane?" He asked where we were going and when we told him he gave us a weird look. J said "Yeah, apparently we have to fly to Canada before we can get to California." He believed her. Then he told us that there is a direct flight from Redmond to Seattle, which was completely missing the point. We don't want to go north at all, we wanted to go south. The really crazy part? We met a family on the shuttle to our hotel from Alaska. Their flight from Alaska was shorter than ours from Oregon. Makes total sense, right?

We annoyed everyone on all three flights. Except the one guy who was amused by our interpretation of the safety card. And the one flight attendant when I almost blew water out of my nose. On accident.

On the flight back, we didn't have seats together. We each had a middle seat in the same row. As we were boarding, we noticed an old man and woman in the aisle seats across from each other in our row. Assuming they were together, we asked if they'd mind switching seats so that we could be together. They said, "No. We want to sit together." Um, but you would be together. You'd be closer together. "No. No. We don't want to. No." Oh, well thank you for being such assholes about it. And, really. Who purposely buys their tickets like that? They wanted to sit together, but not actually next to each other. And they didn't say one word to each other the whole flight. In fact, when the old lady couldn't open her little bag of snacks, she asked J to help her. Not her husband who she had to sit next to. Wtf??

The only thing I was grateful for was not having to sit next to the asshole in the pirate hat who kept yelling at his kid when we were waiting at the gate. It was like he had to announce to everyone what a shitty parent he was. Obviously one of those dicks who hits his kid and probably his wife too. I would have stabbed him if I got stuck next to him. I don't know what I would have used since I wasn't allowed to have my tweezers. I would have figured something out.

Total Cute Overload

2011-10-29T23:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight was D's first real date. That one back in the summer doesn't count because she wasn't into him. She is very much into E. They went to homecoming last week, but that's not really a date either. It's a dance, it's sponsored by the school, there are a thousand other kids around.

My rule is that there are no couple dates until 16; she's supposed to go out with a group. But I kinda like this boy and I haven't liked anyone else she has before. I met E last week when I took pictures of them for the dance. He was quiet and shy, but looked me in the eye when I talked to him. His mom was there too and she was adorable and also shy and quiet. I was the loud mom in the room. Great. E also seems smart. He's in the advanced classes and he plays violin and guitar. He's also the same age and isn't driving yet so there was no danger of involving a car. So I said okay.

I just realized why I'm so tired tonight. Watching your child grow up before your very eyes is emotionally exhausting. First there was the uber cuteness. I dropped her off in front of the restaurant where she had asked him to meet her. He walked over to the car to greet her and I watched to see if he would acknowledge me. He did. He did a little wave in that relaxed way that guys have. It's what I love about them, when they seem so easygoing and comfortable with themselves. And then they turned to walk in together. I could tell he likes her. He walked as close to her as he could without actually touching her.

When I picked her up, his parents were there at the same time. The kids stood on the curb for a second before It happened. I witnessed my child's first kiss. It was just a small hug with a quick peck, but it was on the lips. I looked away quickly so they wouldn't see me watching. I did ask her if that was the first one and she said yes and asked if I was going to cry. Even in the dark she could see my face contorting. But I didn't. Not until now, as I'm sitting in my room telling you this and she's in the living room giggling with a girlfriend.

She's in love. It's puppy love, but she's getting there. She was giggly and goofy in the car. I know she didn't want to tell me everything and that was okay. She was also just living in the moment. In that first little rush that doesn't feel the same when we get older.

My heart is full and yet breaking at the same time. She's growing up and from this moment it's just going to go faster. I don't think I'd change it either. Yes, I'd like to lock her up and keep her safe, keep her with me. But I also like the person (young woman?) that she's becoming and I'd like to learn more about her. Mostly I'm just grateful that I get to be a part of her life.

An Original Douchebag

2011-10-28T17:51:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from a conversation that was unwelcome to begin with.

Random guy in a bar: Is that your real eye color?
Me: Um. What kind of question is that?

Later...
RGIB: You really need to change your eye color.
Me: Why?
RGIB: So that I'll stop staring into them.

I give him one point for originality but minus ten for the attempt.

Protecting the Sexy

2011-10-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

J has this cat name Yuki. He is black and best described as Sex on a Stick. He totally knows it too, which just makes him sexier. Yeah, somehow it's okay for a cat to know that he's the shit, but the same quality in a human is gross.

Anyway, we're going to Disneyland next week and she was worried about leaving him at home. Black cats and Halloween don't mix. At all. She was concerned that her roommates would get stoned and let Yuki get outside so that he could end up being catnapped and used in some disgusting satanic ritual. (Yes, there are some really sick fuckers out there.) So I volunteered my house since J2 will be taking excellent care of my animals. (And this way I'll know there's something sexy on my bed while I'm gone. Because it's certainly not there when I'm home.)

The whole point of this was to post this little exchange J and I had yesterday.

J: Cool. Gotta protect my sexy boy.
Me: Yes. He is too sexy for outside.
J: Yes he is. He is for our eyes only.

Our New Additions

2011-10-25T11:19:00.000-07:00

If you've been to Leapin' Lizards downtown, you may have seen some cute little water frogs. D has wanted one for a while, so I stopped by yesterday to pick one up for her. Just because. Because I'm an awesome mom like that.

She named them Won Ton Pizazz and Potato Beans. Teenagers are so weird. I heard her laughing in her room and I thought she was talking to a friend, but she was laughing at the frogs. One of them likes to sit on top of the other one. I don't think this is laugh-out-loud funny, but I think we have just established the fact that teenagers are weird.

Oh shit, you guys. I just went to look online for a picture of them to show you and I found this instead. Great. I just gave my kid pets that will make her sick. Mom of the Year, right here. Fuck me.

On the bright side? That picture is exactly what Won Ton Pizazz looks like.

Collette and the Dead Guy

2011-10-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

When the Wife (best friend, for those of you who are new here) and I went to Hood River last week, we took along our new friend Collette and the wife's dad. Or at least we took his ashes. And Collette is a stuffed, leopard-print dog. She's a very easy-going travel companion, we didn't even have to stop for her to pee and she didn't bark at strangers when we left her in the car.

Collette went along because we needed a mascot. Obviously. All road trips should have a mascot. Collette had her own photo shoot with pumpkins and pears and a tiny tractor. She had a little too much wine but since her mouth is sewn shut she didn't embarrass us too much.

J's dad went along because she thought there might be a nice place to leave him along the way. Part of him. Some of him. On the way up, we passed something called Pioneer Woman Grave, which seemed like it might be a nice place. Yeah, not so much. It's on this tiny, creepy little road. We missed the grave the first time and drove to a sign that informed us that the original wagon trail from point A to point B passed through here. "Here" is now a creepy forest. When we found the grave, marked with a plaque on a large rock, it was even creepier. There was some kind of memorial shrine set up next to it with little stick figures like from the Blair Witch Project. Plus some beads and sticks and rocks and coins. Of course we felt like we had to leave something. J put down a penny and then thought twice about leaving her "gold" dollar. "But it's a dollar!" "Is it worth your soul??" Because at this point I was seriously getting creeped out. It felt like we were being watched. And of course I had to pee. Collette was very brave during the forest part of her photo shoot, but I couldn't put her anywhere near the grave. I thought she might get possessed.

My skin was crawling for about half an hour after we'd left our Watcher In the Woods experience. Really, I don't recommend it as a great tourist spot. Go have some bad wine instead.

Excuse Me, Your Pony's an Asshole

2011-10-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

I stopped buying my pumpkins at the grocery store a few years ago when I learned about pumpkin patches. It's a little cheaper, but it's mostly the experience. It's like a little mini (I mean super tiny) amusement park. My favorite part is the petting zoo. The one I went to today had chickens, goats, bunnies, a giant pig and a lone little pony.

I wanted to pet the pony. I love ponies. I always wanted my own pony. So I pet the pony. I walked up to it and said "Hi, Pony!" as I reached out to pet its back. The pony whipped its head around and bit my leg. I got bit by a pony. I screamed more from shock, but it did hurt. Kind of a lot. J thought it was because I was wearing a skirt and it didn't like my naked legs. Well, fuck you pony. Don't you know ponies aren't supposed to bite? You're supposed to be cute and eat grass and let me pet you. Cute animals biting is just wrong. Pony, it's your job to be fucking cute! How hard is that? Seriously, pony.

Pony bites hurt. Even when they don't break the skin. I have a red welt on my leg and I'm sure it will bruise. I didn't tell on the pony. I mean, maybe it just had a bad day. Maybe it didn't get the right hay that morning. Maybe the chickens were calling it names. Or maybe it's alone in its pen because it's just an asshole. All I know is, I'm not petting anymore stupid ponies. Sorry ponies, blame me not petting you on the black and white jerk at the pumpkin patch.

Do's and Dont's in Hood River

2011-10-15T10:03:00.000-07:00

The wife and I decided to get out of town for a night and experience fall in Hood River, taking in the Fruit Loop and some wine tasting. It was lovely and beautiful and we had a fantastic time. However, we had a couple of pauses and decided that we should be in charge of travel reviews. Because we will totally tell you how it is.

Wine tasting. All trips should include wine tasting. Because it's fun! But not at the wrong place. Our first stop was Mt. Hood Winery. It was a gorgeous building, very fancy! We were the only people when we walked in, aside from the woman behind the bar who was on the phone. She was obviously taking some kind of order, it was business and not personal, so we didn't mind waiting. Until she turned her back on us. Without so much as a greeting or friendly eye contact or a quick "I'll be with you in a minute." And then she walked out of the room. So we walked out of the room. Back to the car.

After visiting a few fruit stands and working up an appetite, we headed downtown for some lunch. Travelocity said that Crazy Pepper was really good. Again, we were the only people in there. I guess nobody goes to Hood River on a Wednesday, so if you hate crowds and people in general, go on a Wednesday. You'll have plenty of time to yourself. Our waiter acted like the room was packed and he was the only server. The food was really good and the chips were my favorite kind, but we waited forever for our check. While we stared at remnants of our plates. Yuck.

At this point we were pinning all of our hopes for some kind of satisfying interaction with other people on Naked Winery. They did not disappoint. Shelly poured for us, immediately greeting us with some Foreplay. She taught us about the Tease and let us experiment with going Gay after playing with our Cougar side. We got Naked, had a little Penetration, and then two different Orgasmic experiences. Before you start thinking this was some kind of dirty sex we paid for, these are all names of their wines. Shelly was not shy about it either. The best part was when the timid older couple came in and she asked if they wanted Foreplay before declaring, "No, I think you should just go straight to Penetration!" Seriously a priceless moment.

She took our picture (they actually have signs for this. One said "girls gone wine" and the other, "I just got Naked."), then took one with us. She gave us seconds and thirds to help us narrow down our choice of wine to buy, although I would have bought them all. We had some of their picnic wine, which comes in a plastic bottle. How clever is that?? I came up with a little dirty slogan of my own, "Shove it in your box", which I'm hoping will get me a job there. Then we got another glass to drink while we shopped. Because how can you pass up buying a shirt that says "We aim to Tease"? I also had to get the booty panties. Duh.

After this experience, we really pushed our luck on the next one. Which probably isn't fair, but the differences ended up being pretty comical. We went to Cascade Cliffs' tasting room. I kinda wish we hadn't. Again, we were the only people there. And the guy pouring appeared to be completely stoned and put out that we even existed. Until he started talking. And told us things we never should have heard. Like things about the business, seriously wrong things. I won't embarrass the winery by telling you everything here. It just shocked me that anyone could be that stupid, especially in the age of social media. And then he got creepy. "Where are you girls staying so I can come stalk you later?" Um. It's a good thing we were staying out in the boonies. Even if he had gotten the energy to try to find it, he never would.

Which brings me to our hotel. Lodge. Room. The place where we slept. Cooper Spur Mountain Resort looked cute on the website. The Fruit Loop's website listed it as a place to stay. Neither one of them said anything about how it was out in the sticks and we might as well have just driven back home. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but it was out in BFE. The room was cute though, the bed covers were soft and fleecy and fluffy. There were lots of tiny shampoos and lotions in the bathroom. And our dinner was free with our room.

Oh yeah, the dinner. This is where it gets really weird. It wasn't really a restaurant as much as a room with a fireplace. With creepy pictures of dead people all over the walls. Well, not dead bodies, but they were really old so you know that they're dead now. Our waitress was this young girl who was nice, but it seemed like she was really new there. My steak was delicious. However, the wife's fettuccini alfredo was the worst alfredo in the History of Pasta. And they forgot the chicken on it. The "cook" himself came out to apologize. He was a child. He appeared to be a child who is beaten on a regular basis. I swear he was shaking when he came out to apologize and ask if she still wanted him to bring the chicken out when it was done. I seriously wanted to take him home and make him a grilled cheese and some cookies and tuck him in bed with some warm milk. There was no way we could have told him how bad the pasta was, I think he would have peed his pants.

In the morning, the woman at the front desk repeatedly asked us how our dinner was and how the servers were. We couldn't tell her anything bad because we kept picturing those poor kids locked up in a cellar for a week without food while being whipped with chains every hour. By the ghosts of the dead people on the wall. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. Not that much.

What we learned is that next time we will stay somewhere in town and spend all of our money and brain cells at Naked Winery. We're going to Disneyland in a couple of weeks so stay tuned for more amazing travel reviews then.

The Black Sheep

2011-10-10T22:19:00.000-07:00

D is sitting here doing a family tree for her French homework and asked if I ever feel left out of my family. I wouldn't say I'm left out, but I do think I'm the black sheep. There are good and bad things about this. One of the good things is that I got the good hair. My mom and my sister have thin, fine hair that takes years to grow, while I can cut mine to an inch and it will be down the middle of my back in six months. I also got my mom's boobs and my sister didn't. Yay me! The bad part is that I did feel left out when I was younger. My sister and brother are actually only halfs. They have the same parents and are whole siblings, while I grew up with half siblings and a stepdad. Don't worry, my therapist is fully aware of this.

Then there are some quirky things. I have always been a Coke drinker while my parents are Pepsi drinkers. I don't know how I ever learned to like Coke since there never was any in our house. I'm the non-athlete out of my siblings. Even my mom was a tomboy growing up. My dad must have have instilled some girly-girliness in me early on.

Here's the really crazy thing. The really crazy thing that makes me normal. A few years ago, my parents moved back to Mississippi (M-I-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-I-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-I-humpack-humpback-I). I was born there and my mom's family still lives there so when my stepdad got tired of the cold weather here, they decided to move to be near my mom's family. That part makes sense. My parents are homebodies anyway so it doesn't really matter so much where they live. But my sister and my brother, who are both still young, also moved. To Mississippi. Who throws away their youth to move to a place like that? I swear it's like time has stopped still there. The only new building they've gotten in over 30 years is a Walmart. What young person born on the west coast moves from The Land of Plenty to the Land of the Lost?

I love them all to death, but I'm okay with being the black sheep. It's made me more independent. Less insane, obviously. With better taste in soda.

Oh yeah, I have way better shoes too! I win!!

The Asshole In My Shower

2011-10-02T14:11:00.000-07:00

No, it wasn't a man. Not that I would know what one looked like if it were. Non-self-imposed celibacy is for the birds.

So, can you guess what I might possibly have found in my shower? Not a million dollars. Not the fountain of youth. A spider! Crazy, right? Because I haven't seen 50 bajillion of those in my house. Guess what else? It was a baby black widow! Awesome, right? Not really. Because of course I didn't see it until I was in the shower. Soaking wet. And guess where it was? Right over my head!! It just gets awesomer, right? (Awesomer is a word. Shut up, spell check.)

So, yeah. This bitch wasn't content to just sit upside down on the ceiling over my head. No, she enjoyed lowering herself up and down on her little yo-yo web, wiggling her legs at me. I almost got shampoo in my eyes trying to keep one on her. Up and down, up and down. I'm sure she thought it was hilarious.

Well, guess who got the last laugh? Yeah, that's right. Did she think I'd never leave the shower? That I was her prisoner? Dumb ass. And even dumber for not hiding while I went to go get the bug spray. Bwa ha ha.....

I swear I should change the name of this fucking blog to The Spider Chronicles.

How I Got A Dead Guy On Me

2011-09-30T13:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a gorgeous, beautiful fall, cloud-free-blue-sky day. J and I decided to take advantage of it to go hiking at Smith Rock. She decided to take further advantage by bringing along the ashes of her recently deceased father, reasoning that she'd like for him to be in places where she can best remember him. I didn't have a problem with this. First of all, I'd be an asshole if I did. Second, I want to be cremated myself but I've been thoughtful enough to let people know where I want my ashes scattered. J wasn't so lucky with her dad and had to come up with her own locations. Smith Rock is as good a place as any.

I didn't even get creeped out by the sight of his ashes in the little plastic baggy she carried. My parents had their stupid dog cremated and I saw her ashes. That fucking dog. There are no pictures of me in my parents' house, but the dog had her portrait painted and a freaking shrine set up after she died. Not that I'm bitter. Bygones.

So I didn't even think twice when she dropped the first set under a tree next to the river. And neither one of us thought to pay attention to which way the wind was blowing. Yep. She turned her little baggy over and I was standing right in their little wind-blown path. I've never met the man but I feel that we are intimately acquainted now. I think part of him got into a few of my pores. I hope he was a leg man, because that's where he went. And that's when I got completely, utterly, creepily ooged out. Dead guy. On my body. I kind of wanted to throw up. And scream. And jump into the river to wash him off. And sweat profusely to push him back out of my pores.

For the second scattering, I made sure to stay far away from any ash spray. And there's really nothing more to say about that.

I just hope he stays put and enjoys the view and doesn't haunt me for being grossed out.

Things I Did This Weekend. For Anyone Who Remotely Gives a Shit.

2011-09-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

I went to a friend's house and drank Bloody Marys while watching trash TV and using her dryer because my POS is broken. It got borked. I got a little borked because I'm a baby drinker now after having vertigo and barely drinking for a month. The corn nuts made up for it. So did the bacon pizza.

I watched my Bugabooga sing at the Roots Festival. I was so nervous for her because this was her first real public performance (because a school choir in front of a bunch of other parents doesn't really count) but then she said she didn't care because only "old people" showed up, her friends weren't there and she had a cold so she didn't feel like it. She did mess up one part of the first song, but it wasn't a big deal and she kept playing. I thought she sounded so beautiful and, if I wasn't so focused on trying to record her on my little camera without shaking all over the place, I would have been a heap of tears and kleenex on the floor. She just fit up there. Like she'd just been doing it forever. She had instant groupies.

Drove to Portland and back in a day to take the Singing Diva clothes shopping. She agreed to try on more of what I showed her than completely rejecting my suggestions so I feel we have made progress. Also, her style is more Bohemian/Classic Hepburn than anything resembling Jersey Shore Skank, so I feel I've done my job in that department. We ate crab fondue, which was the most sensually satisfying experience I've had in months except I had to contain myself with Sesame Street words like "oh, this is yummy" instead of taking the bowl into a back room and rolling around in it. It was a close call with the mashed potatoes too.

The drive back was anything but orgasmic. It was dark and raining and I was stuck behind a trailer. Seriously, Oregon drivers are the biggest dumbasses. There are turnouts every quarter mile for a reason, fuck puppet!! He was just lucky I still had some of my chocolate shake left to tame my road rage.

I bought a pair of Dr. Seuss Converse for me and Halloween pajamas for my dogs. And I wasn't embarrassed to do either. Just a typical walk on the wild side.

My Most Hated Question

2011-09-21T10:37:00.000-07:00

I'm working on the first assignment in my first graduate class. One of the questions, I am not kidding you, is "Where do you see yourself five years from now?" I hate this question. The person who invented it should be made to die a slow and painful death.

I don't even know what this means. And why five years? Why is five the magic number? Is that when goals are supposed to be suddenly realized? Why not two years? 3.5? And where do I see myself? Sheesh, I hardly know what I'm doing six months from now, let alone five years. The plans I made last week for this week have already changed. Life isn't static, there's no guarantee that my five-year plan will pan out. If I had one. Hell, five years ago I didn't imagine I'd be in the situation I am now. And five years before that? Nothing has ever turned out the way I thought or hoped.

You know what else? This question just makes me feel like a failure before I even start. Because I don't have a five-year plan, I feel like there's something wrong with me. The fact that it's even asked implies that there are people out there who have their shit together with five-year plans followed by ten and fifteen and twenty-year plans. I hate those people. I won't be friends with them. If you are one of those people, don't introduce yourself to me. I will shun you. Openly.

Here are the only things I know for sure. I will have more gray hair. The bastards are multiplying as I speak. I'll have a dog because I can't and don't want to live without one. My kid will be in college. At least she better be. I will still love food. I will still be trying to lose weight. I will still wish I had more money and hate paying bills. My moisturizer will be my best friend.

I don't think this is exactly what the instructor is looking for, however. I also don't think she wants me to fantasize about winning the lottery and quitting whatever job I have to travel the world. Or how my dream is to have a huge kitchen with a double oven, a sub-zero refrigerator and a pizza oven. Or that I wonder if I'll still be single or get cancer. It's more entertaining and much more interesting to me, but not very academic.

This is definitely going to take some creative writing. Lying. Finessing. Wish me luck.

Missed Connections

2011-09-20T13:09:00.000-07:00

I got a text from the wife last week telling me I was in Missed Connections. For those of you who don't know, it's a section in the personal ads on Craigslist. It's along the lines of "You were in line at McDonald's ordering extra cheese on your Quarter Pounder and wearing capris that showed off your cankles. Call me if you see this, I'd like to buy you a Big Mac." Some of them are romantic, some of them are just downright pervy.

I didn't believe it at first but when I went to check it out, he had pretty much described me AND the wife to a T. I was the "cute girl on the trail". I didn't know if I should be really excited and flattered or totally creeped out. These things can really only go one of two ways.

Out of sheer curiosity, and at the urging of almost all of my girlfriends, I wrote him back. And then I waited. With a few dozen thoughts bouncing around in my head. "What if he's super hot?" (Wife said he wasn't.) Maybe he's The One. This would make the greatest story ever. Wait, what if he's a total psycho and starts cyber-stalking me? I should have used a fake name. What if he's really short? What if we fall in love? What if we don't? Maybe he said cute "girl" because he's a child molester." Yeah, I know, I sound totally crazy and neurotic but I'm a girl. This is what we do.

After a few emails (most confirming that I was in fact the "cute girl" he had seen), he got right down to it. He's looking for a partner. (Which, personally, I hate. Partner? What does that even mean? Golf partner? Dance partner? Business partner? Gay is what usually comes up for me when I hear "partner".) Okay, so it's good to be upfront about these things. I guess. He has kids. Okay. Not unusual. He likes to run and mountain bike. Uh huh, totally normal for Central Oregon. And - ladies and gentlemen - he's a Sunday school teacher.

Um. Hold the fucking phone.

I am not Church Girl. I formerly lived with the King of Swearing. I now regularly hang out with the Queen of Swearing. I have a huge potty mouth. I kind of just have a big mouth. I'm the mom that plays the music in the car really loud. The music that's unedited. With the kid in the car. I drink. Like a fish. I smoke cigars. Does any of this fit into the image of a Sunday school teacher's "partner"? Yeah, not so much.

We did talk on the phone. Because I'd had a couple of martinis and thought why the hell not? I think he brought up sex at one point. Hmmm, presumptuous much? Also, something I said was "stupid." Well then.

I emailed him to let him down and tell him that I just didn't feel a connection (missed or otherwise). His response was that I've been on my own for too long. Which really = too independent. Maybe I am. Too independent. But maybe I'm not. And maybe if I weren't I wouldn't be the person that I am. Which may not be Church Girl, but I think is pretty awesome anyway.

At any rate, I'm not apologizing for who I am. And I'll stay independent for now.

Nature Is Gross

2011-09-12T14:52:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, while walking the river trail, the Wife pointed out a group of male ducks chasing a female and informed me that they were gang raping her. Yeah. Like that's how they mate or something gross. Personally, I don't equate gang rape with mating; I'd rather call it some horrible, disgusting form of impregnating.

Of course I had to Google this phenomenon when I got home. Not that I didn't believe the wife, she knows some shit about birds and animals. It just sounded too horrific. I wish I wouldn't have done that. There were videos. It's definitely rape. Then there was some science-y stuff about how duck penises have evolved to better force entry into duck vaginas and how duck vaginas have in turn evolutionized to better thwart the attempts of the penises. It's all so violent.

Seriously, this is so upsetting that I can't even think that little ducklings are cute anymore now that I know they're really rape babies. Next spring I'll be all, "Oh, look at that duck with her little rape babies." I won't even feel bad about eating duck. As long as it's a male duck.

So then this morning I was noticing the spider webs in my garage. At least a quarter of my blogs are written about my issues with spiders so it's no wonder that I am always on the lookout for them. Specifically black widows. One of the webs in the corner had six or seven egg sacs on it. Ew! Doesn't each sac hold like hundreds of babies? I do not need that in any part of my house. Ever. I looked on the other side of the garage door and the mother bitch was hanging out over there. With three more egg sacs and some recently hatched babies. I sprayed them all with Raid. All of the little motherfucking cocksucking assholes. Every. last. one. And then I swept them out next to the garbage can. And before you ask, the spraying of toxic poisons was not overkill. I wanted to make sure they were dead. Like I need a gazillion baby spiders growing up and taking over my house. No fucking thank you.

Yep. I think I'm done with nature for a while. Cute things are getting creepy and the creepy things are just getting creepier. Mother Nature is a twisted bitch.

My Memory of Today

2011-09-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure I want to write this, even as I'm doing it. There's already so much about today and its history. Websites, blogs, television shows, news stories are being dedicated to what happened 10 years ago. I don't have anything profound to add. I know it changed me somehow, but I don't know in what way. Not for sure. I was thousands of miles away. It's less concrete for me than the people that were there, who lost loved ones, who have scars and holes in their lives. Those who mourn for real. But it did mean something and it does mean something. For what it's worth, this is my memory of September 11, 2001.

My boyfriend at the time had spent the night on the 10th, we were leaving in two days for a friend's wedding in Hawaii. He had gone home that morning to get ready for work and I went back to sleep, only to be woken by him calling me ten minutes later. "Turn on the TV." Why? "Just do it. DO IT!!" By the time the west coast was awake and aware of what was happening, both towers had fallen. We knew it was a terrorist attack. We woke up in fear. And shock.

D was in kindergarten. The other parents and I stood around in silence. We didn't know how to talk about it. Or how to tell our kids. If to tell them. She found out shortly that planes had crashed. But to her, blissfully, New York might as well have been another country. And the planes toy planes. I didn't watch the news when she was in the room. She didn't know that there was horror or evil. She didn't understand any of it until it was taught as part of a history class in seventh grade. We've only recently talked about it.

I think the eeriest part for me was the silence. I don't live in a large city, I don't even think about planes flying over me daily. I hardly notice them. But I noticed then. The silence was deafening. It was like the world stopped.

There was no trip to Hawaii so we decided to take advantage of the days we had off to go to Victoria, B.C. I'd never been and I would have fallen in love with it anyway, it's a beautiful city, but I especially love it because I was there in the days after. There were signs everywhere - theater marquees, restaurant signs, church boards. "God bless our US neighbors." "Keep America in your prayers." There was a memorial set up in front of the Parliament Building with flowers, cards and candles and we stopped by there every day to pay our own tribute. We felt loved and accepted, part of a new community and something bigger than ourselves. I will never forget how I felt that weekend. If there was a perfect place to be during a time filled with fear and sadness, Victoria was it. I would never do it any differently.

Coming home was not fun. We waited in a line of cars for three hours to cross the border. They asked us where we'd been and why. What had we done. Where specifically had we gone? They went through our suitcases, looked under the seats of the car. This was home? This is who we are? We don't trust each other now? Canada had waved us in so friendly. We weren't welcomed home.

Maybe that's what I miss the most. Trust. That we've become divided more than ever. An event that should have united us more than ever has had the opposite effect, in the long run. That's the saddest part. I still love us though. U.S. We're damaged. Still. We're hurt and that's why we act like we do. We need to remember that we're better than this. We can do better. Right?

I hope so. And I can't be the only one.

My Summer List

2011-09-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

My biggest tantrum won't stop it. Fall is coming. I can tell by the location of the sun in the sky and the faint smell in the air. The biggest indicator is that school is starting this week, but I'm going to stay in denial about that one for a couple more days. It's not completely gone, we still have temps in the 80's so I'm going to squeeze out the last drops of sun while I can.

This has been a busy summer though, so I just want to take a second to recap all that I have learned. In list form, of course. It's how I roll.

1. My friends have my back. In an "I'ma cut you!" kind of way. The feeling is mutual. Don't mess with my posse.

2. My kid is really awesome when I'm not wanting to kill her. And smarter than I give her credit for.

3. My dog is allergic to insects. Benadryl must be purchased.

4. Beer is better than I thought, but it still makes me pee like a racehorse.

5. Vertigo sucks.

6. Being unemployed in the summer isn't half bad.

7. Life is short and scary, but being scared isn't living.

8. Rafting is totally fun. Even if I didn't get the Princess Cruise.

9. Tomato pie is freaking delicious.

10. I'm not in shape.

11. I'm done having babies.

12. Men are camping accessories but booze is not.

13. Making out is as fun as I remembered.

14. Certain species of humans shouldn't breed.

15. Old friends stay friends.

16. I really don't like weddings.

17. Funerals are sad, but I'm lucky that I've only been to a handful in my life.

18. It can always get worse.

19. It can also get better.

20. I'm a very lucky girl and new adventures make me a better person.

In Remembrance

2011-09-03T10:24:00.000-07:00

He was a programmer. Tall, soft-spoken, kept to himself. He frightened me a little. Especially when I had to pester him about looming deadlines.

And then I sat next to him for a year. We talked about our mutual California backgrounds, our kids, trips to Mexico, my cruise, his sailing and diving. We complained about work and made fun of co-workers. He went on a weight-loss plan with another co-worker. Every Friday they got out a scale and weighed themselves at his desk. He won most of the weeks' weigh-ins and he won overall. On our company river float I saw this guy on his paddle board. Tall, toned, muscular arms. Tan. Oh crap! That's my co-worker! Highly inappropriate. But, oh my.... He got bashful when I flirted with him.

I found out two weeks ago that he was in hospice. I was in complete disbelief. What? Who? What the hell are you talking about? He got sick soon after I was laid off, she said. She'd seen him, she said, and he was okay. He had accepted it. I did my bucket list, he told her. I heard the word "hospice" but it didn't register. It couldn't. I pictured him tall and tan on his paddle board. Is he going to be okay? No. That's what hospice means. He's dying.

I cried when I got home. I don't know why. We weren't that close, merely co-workers for a while. But he was a really great guy. And he was too young. 51 is not the time to die. Maybe it was the bucket list and being reminded to Live Life and Be Less Afraid.

His funeral was today. People said things like Quiet Dignity. Protective. Competitive. "Evil" Steve. I didn't know him that well, but as they talked I thought, yeah. That's him. His daughter spoke about how he lived life to the fullest and how she will take advantage of every opportunity because of him. It was harder than I thought it would be, but I'm glad I was there.

To Steve's family, I'm sorry. And that is a gross understatement. There aren't enough words or flowers or casseroles to fill the void that he has left. Just know that he has touched countless lives and that his spirit will live on through each of these encounters.

To Steve, thank you for allowing me to be a small part of your life for a little while. You will not be forgotten.

I'm Not Spinning Because I'm Drunk

2011-08-30T16:28:00.000-07:00

Ohmygod, you guys! This week has sucked!!

As part of my Summer of Firsts, I got to experience my first case of vertigo. Yes, vertigo. It's not as cool as that Hitchcock movie and I didn't just climb up a ladder and get a little freaked out. This is some serious shit, ya'll Serious. Like I could have lived my whole life without experiencing it and been blissfully, ignorantly, joyfully happy.

The doctor wasn't much help. Apparently it's an "inner ear irritation" that will go away on its own. Apparently in its own fucking sweet time.

Here's what else I learned:

1. Vertigo is stupid. Awful. Extremely uncomfortable. It's like being drunk without the benefit of being able to pass out. I couldn't trust myself to walk to the bathroom. Let alone pee.

2. Vertigo is kind of like the stomach flu. You throw up lots. Water, half a pancake, Sprite, whatever small amount is in your stomach. And then you dry-heave. Repeat.

3. I couldn't see with both eyes because nothing would stay still. One eye at least made things only double or triple and not like a hundred.

4. Reading is a privilege. Watching a movie is a privilege. Showering is a privilege. Driving is a privilege.

5. Also a privilege? Getting up at six in the morning to go run. I never thought I'd say that, but it's true. Not that I won't still complain about it and want to sleep in, but I will appreciate it more now.

6. Laying in bed for two days is fucking boring.

7. Being chronically ill or in chronic pain has to be intensely, unimaginably awful and I totally feel for those people. Seriously. All those privileges I have? Those people don't. If you know someone who is chronically ill, do something nice for them today. Right now.

8. I already knew this, but I'll say it again. I have the best friends in the world. The Wife drove me around, got me food and watched me puke (not for the first time, either). JW withstood the People of Walmart to get me a prescription to make the room stop spinning. I'm not even kidding. If you don't have friends like mine, your life is empty.

I'll be back when the ride stops and I can get off.

Embracing It

2011-08-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

I decided to embrace my Bendness this summer and I have done it successfully and then some. I have hiked, camped, "run" a 5K, drank beer, gone to Brewfest (twice, even!) and biked around town. So when my friend Jan from Book Club suggested we go rafting as a group, how could I say no? Especially when she and her husband had all of the equipment and are actual guides. And super especially since Jan said we could do a Princess Cruise-type trip that wouldn't involve any paddling. Bonus!!!

We started setting up at our point on the McKenzie river. While the raft was being inflated, Michele asked to have a little pow wow with Jan. A little talk on where and how to fit her special chair into the raft. True, she has real back problems and needs to protect herself, but this wasn't good news for me. My Princess Cruise went right out the door. She stole it right out from under me! I had to paddle. And if you know me at all, you know I punished her at least twice a mile for the whole trip.

I halfway forgave her for bringing a delicious Asian noodle salad. Our chief guide, Greg, was obviously impressed with how well we eat. Yeah, it's a picnic but that's no reason to lower ourselves to potato chips and peanut butter sandwiches. As if.

And then I unforgave her for suggesting that our winter adventure consist of cross-country skiing to the spot where her husband proposed. Oh, sure. Two reasons to kill myself. Sign me up.

Overall, rafting was awesome and super fun and I can't wait to do it again. Really. I totally get why people do it.

And the best part? Ya'll, get this. On my way home I was speeding. Which is like, whatever. What's new? And then I saw a cop turn around to follow me. Shit. I waited for him to turn his damn lights on, which he did, and I pulled over. As I'm sitting there waiting for him to get it over with already, he pulled up next to me with his window rolled down and said, "I gotta go. You're free to go." What? I got away without the ticket that I always-always-no-matter-what get?

This Bend lifestyle might not be so bad after all.

Honesty

2011-08-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

Last night D's friend came for a sleepover. M hadn't been over before, it's sort of a new friendship. We introduced her to the glorious trash that is The Bachelor Pad. I hoped it wasn't corrupting her too badly.

At 3:30 in the morning D came in my room and woke me up. "Mom? I need to talk to you." She sounded panicked and laid down on my bed with me. She started crying so I curled her into me.

"We had shots of vodka."
Why would you do that?
"M wanted to. I'm sorry. Are you mad?"
I'm disappointed. And concerned. But not mad.
"She got drunk and started saying crazy things. I hate it when people get drunk."
That's why alcohol is for adults.
"It scared me. I'm sorry. Will I throw up?"
How do you feel?
"Okay."
You won't throw up.
"Don't tell my dad."
Okay.
"Don't tell her dad. Please."
Everyone gets one hall pass.
"I'm sorry. I don't ever want to do it again. I love you."
I love you too.

She slept in my bed with me. I checked on M to make sure she didn't need any sort of medical attention. And then I lay there. Trying to decide the Right Thing To Do.

D asked me not to tell. Trust between us is Paramount. I need for her to feel safe. To tell me things. But I like M's dad and I respect him and I think he should know what his daughter is doing. Everyone can make a mistake but I get the feeling this isn't her first time.

Being the adult isn't fun. Being a parent is hard. I think the jury is still out on this one.

Right now the only thing I Know is how much I Love My Kid. I fail as a parent on a daily basis but at least I'm doing one thing right. It might be just one, but it's a big one.

My First Race

2011-08-21T10:54:00.001-07:00

I'd been using the excuse of having bad shoes to run much less this summer, so last weekend the wife and I went out and bought ourselves some new shoes. We were feeling all sporty and sassy and our friend K was there encouraging us to try a race. The Twilight 5K was described as a run/walk so we, in a moment of over-achievement, signed ourselves and our new shoes up for our first race. The fact that it was a mere four days away didn't even deter us.

Continuing our temporary insanity, we tried a new six-mile trail that evening. It was beautiful, the weather was perfect, the damn mosquitoes were out in full force spurring us on. I felt great, minus the mosquito attacks, until I got to the pavement. My perfect new shoes are trail shoes and they felt much different on pavement. I got a blister to prove it.

On the day of the race I perused the map and found that the whole race was on pavement. Not wanting to ruin it with blisters, I decided to wear my old gross shoes. Yeah, the ones that kept me from running all summer because they were hurting so much.

Wife and I got our numbers (I was 7) and cute new shorts for her and a (running) skirt for me. We felt sassy again. We drank water. We stretched. We were ready. At least as ready as we were going to be.

Those stupid old shoes I wore? Yeah. I got a serious shin splint in the first three minutes. I was whiny. It hurt. I walked. I jogged a little. Wife made me sprint a couple of times, which informed me of muscles I didn't know I had. On top of it all and at the risk of TMI, I had... well, let's just say female problems. I never run well on those days.

My original goal was just not to finish last and I didn't. But afterward I was so disappointed with myself and my time (40:25, even though it was reported incorrectly in the results). I felt like I could have done so much better. I guess I had more to prove to myself than I thought.

There's another 5K in a month and I'm considering it. I'm considering killing myself to get ready for it. At the very least, I have a time to beat now.

And something to prove to myself.

I Never Know....

2011-08-16T21:35:00.000-07:00

Waiter: What are you girls up to tonight?
Us: Um. This is it. Eating.
Waiter: Girls' night out, huh?
Us: Um. Yeah. Sure. (Dude, it's Red Robin. It's food, not a wild night out.)

Later....
Waiter: Can I get you anything else? Maybe roll you out the door?
Us: ha ha ha....
Waiter: I'm off in a few minutes.
Us: ha ha ha.... (Wait. Did he just call us fat or hit on us?)

The First Date

2011-08-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

Right now, as I speak, D is getting ready for her first date. She's going to an afternoon movie with a boy she's known since elementary school. To her, this is a long time ago. To me, it is yesterday. Her friend C is here helping her pick out her outfit and what perfume to wear. I'm sure she shaved her legs, but I'm not going to ask.

It's an odd feeling for me. I'm excited for her, but I'm not excited that it's happening. Already. So soon. I'm not ready and I know she thinks she is, but she's 15. She doesn't know how to turn the washing machine on, what does she know about boys? Ideally, I would lock her in her room until she's 30 but I don't suppose that's realistic. Even if every judge in the country with a teenage daughter would understand and be on my side.

Yesterday we went to the lake for the afternoon, friend C in tow. C and I wanted only to lie in the sun, soaking up all the warmth that our limited summer offers us. D wanted to be in the water, on her float. I could see her little five-year-old self, full of enthusiasm and childish wonder. I was grateful that it's still there.

She finally convinced C to go out with her; she was just bursting to talk to her friend about the upcoming date, with all of the cringe-inducing details that I don't want to hear. They floated to the other side of the cove and sat there, legs dangling in the water, for a couple of hours. (Which made my day much more peaceful than the woman's next to me. The one with the three and five-year-old boys who were constantly bickering and whining.)

They came back for a snack and we discussed whether or not this is a real date. Being the mom (and the woman) that I am, I told her it's not a real date unless he pays for her. I don't care what the cost, even a token $7 for an afternoon movie shows that he is interested and wants to make a good impression. A real gentleman always pays for the first date.

On the way home, we were stopped for road construction. We were the first car in the line and the road crew guy got the biggest kick out of it. Windows rolled down, music turned up, all of us singing. The girls were in the back seat were bouncing up and down, rocking the car. I think it made his day, he laughed several times and waved as we drove by. Silly teenagers have a way of doing that.

Halfway home, both girls started screaming something incomprehensible. I turned the music down, afraid I had hit a small animal or one of the girls had gotten stung by a bee. They finally calmed down enough that I could make out, "HE'S PAYING!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Ah. So it's a real date after all.

I'm suddenly nervous for her. I want to tell her a hundred things about boys and how they can't be trusted (after all, this is a teenage boy we're talking about) and start counting down to the first time this boy breaks her heart. But I can't do that to her. She'll find all that out soon enough but right now she's excited and giddy and those are good feelings to have. We should all feel like that more often. This is her moment and I'm just lucky that I get to share it with her.

I've promised myself that I won't embarrass her when I drop her off. I won't stare lovingly at her or glare at the boy. Really. But I can't promise that a tear or two won't escape as I drive off.

Ready or not, my little girl is growing up.

Princess Puppy Goes Camping

2011-08-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

Last week I went camping. Don't ask me why. I hate camping. Truly. But I thought the dogs would enjoy it. Remy had the chance to be Sailor Dog the week before and he was so cute, I suppose my fantasy extended to camping. I'm a very, very foolish girl.

As I said in my previous post, there were hordes of mosquitoes. Fucking hordes. We sprayed the dogs the best we could, but these were Evil Mosquitoes. There were still clouds of them around all of the dogs.

We built a fire and then went on the search for more firewood. Remy and Ruby were in dog heaven. The smells!! The places to pee!! The lack of a leash!!! Oh, heavenly day!!

I turned around to see Ruby several feet away with her face in the dirt. "What disgusting shit are you eating now?" Because this is what my Ruby Tuesday does. She eats shit, for Pete's sake! I called her, but she just looked at me and stuck her face back in the ground. I walked over to scold her, only to find that she had vomited and her face had blown up to grotesque proportions. Bumps all over her head. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut. Feeling her throat, I found bumps all along her neck. She looked like the Elephant Man in canine form. I was first horrified and then terrified.

Boston Terriers are brachycephalic dogs, which means that their airways are much shorter than other dogs. Their palates are softer and they are much more susceptible to breathing problems on a normal day. Add in a bad reaction from insect bites and it's a recipe for disaster. I called for Wife, trying to hide the panic in my voice.

Wife is an animal trainer and has worked in veterinarian's offices. I trust her judgment and asked what I should do, all the while cradling my Princess Puppy in my arms and begging God, the Universe, Whoever not to take her from me. I had brought ibuprofen for us, anticipating headaches from our night of drinking. She suggested I give her one to help with the swelling. I wrapped it in cheese, pushing the other dogs away. They hadn't properly earned a treat, being far from death.

We put Ruby in the car, to keep her from any more bites while we went to the three camp sites close to us to see if they had any Benadryl. Me with tears in my eyes, trying not to completely lose my shit. "We have Advil. " "We have ibuprofen." That is not what I asked for. Benadryl is not Ibuprofen. If I ask you for meth, are you going to offer me marijuana? Of course not.

I checked on her obsessively. At first, she laid on the car seat. Two minutes later, she was in the back seat. She perked up her ears when she saw me peering at her through the tinted window. I figured if she were alert enough to be curious about me, she'd be okay.

I left her in the car until we went to bed. She'd never been camping and had no idea what to do in a tent. She looked at me with her swollen face and an expectant look. Finally, she figured it out. She spooned into me. With her ass towards my face. And farted. I didn't care. I breathed that fart in like it was air freshener. It meant that my puppy was with me. Alive. I didn't sleep that night. I kept waking up to make sure she was breathing. If I couldn't feel her breath, I'd shake her until she stirred or snorted. She didn't get much sleep either.

In the morning, her swelling was reduced to one odd eye and a goiter on her neck. We had to leave our campsite for one without zombie mosquitoes and ended up at Sparks Lake. When she fought Candy for food, I was pissed. Bitches always fight over the dumbest stuff. And they got dirt in my macaroni salad. But I also breathed a sigh of relief.

I think my Princess Puppy has more in common with me than I thought. She's a city girl. She likes hotels and pillows. Ice water and fresh vegetables.

And, apparently, Benadryl.

The Only Reason I'll Ever Need To Hate Camping

2011-08-05T10:34:00.001-07:00

I don't know what's gotten into me lately, but I'm turning into Nature Girl. I think it's because I'm Unemployed Girl and nature is mostly free. Shoes and cocktails are not. So I suggested to the wife the other day that I'd like to go camping, which she jumped on immediately. I love Wife, but she's not the most motivated person that she or I know. Say the word "camping", though, and she immediately texted back that she had just bought a tent and when did I want to go?

We chose (Where's) Waldo Lake for the name and because the guide book touted it as having the Bluest Water In the World or something like that. We packed the good camping food, the dogs and the booze and headed out with the slogan "chips and dips and s'mores and whores."

It was beautiful. The trees were beautiful. The sun setting over the lake was heartbreakingly beautiful. The camping spots were charming and we found one near the water. The dogs finally realized they had been taken somewhere Fun and got excited. I opened the car door to get out and look at something and that's when the nightmare began.

Hoards of mosquitoes were awaiting our arrival. They must have followed the car or our scent through the car because they were right outside the door flying in as soon as it was opened. I closed it immediately so we could plan our next move. We had bug spray. We were confident. First, we'd spray ourselves and then let the dogs out one by one to spray them. Done and done. We walked down to pay for our spot, clouds of mosquitoes following us. The poor dogs were walking in their own little clouds of buzzing. A mosquito flew into my mouth and stuck to the back of my throat. Ew. I coughed so hard I almost threw up.

We hurried back to start our campfire, thinking that would help diminish them. No. It didn't. These were like zombie mosquitoes, they just kept coming. Nothing stopped them. They turned into tiny little flying honey badgers. "We don't give a shit you're wearing a shirt, we'll bite you through it. Bug spray? Honey badger mosquitoes don't care. We don't give a fuck. We'll bite your head through your hair and fly down into your shirt." They were relentless and they fucking hurt when they bit. It was like being stabbed with syringes.

I've heard there is something that you can eat or drink to make the blood less appealing to them. I don't remember what it is right now, but I would have drank my own pee to get them to leave me alone. It was miserable.

By the time we gave up and went to our tent to sleep, they had died down quite a bit. Probably because they were just full from their evening buffet, not because they decided to leave us alone. We were sure that we could enjoy our breakfast next to the beautiful lake and float out to the Bluest Water In the World the next day.

When I woke up in the morning to go to the bathroom, the little fuckers were already out there. Waiting. At 8:00 in the morning! The cloud followed me to the bathroom and back. They flew into the tent so that we had to zip back up as fast as we could and spent the next couple of minutes killing the ones that had made it in.

We lay there trying not to panic. It was starting to get quite warm in the tent. We saw mosquitoes sitting on the screens of the tent, just waiting to get at us. Just. Waiting. Patiently.

We started to imagine we were stuck in an insect horror film. That our bodies would be found days later, completely drained of blood. The coroner would be completely baffled as to why two women and three dogs all died of the same cause.

Breakfast by the lake was obviously not an option. Staying for five more minutes was out of the question. We threw everything into the car as quickly as we could, frantically, shoving the dogs in first. As we were driving back through the campground, we saw a couple of people wearing mosquito net hats. That is not something I should see during my leisure time. Driving away, we were swatting at mosquitoes on the windows, the windshield, our bodies, the dogs, the dashboard. The inside of the car looked like a crime scene with blood smears and carcasses scattered everywhere.

Since my return home I have found bites on my legs, ankle, the arch of my foot, near my eyebrow, along my hairline, in my hair, on my back, stomach, chest, side, basically any skin surface on my body. Motherfuckers!!!

Obviously this does not bode well for future camping trips. As if there will be another one. I'm not good at being Nature Girl.

Shoes and cocktails are just so much easier to enjoy.

Edible Memories

2011-07-30T12:43:00.000-07:00

When I was a snotty teenager, I insisted that I would never cook my own food. I hated cooking and swore I would have my own personal chef. I seriously don't even know who that girl was now. Sure, some days I'm totally lazy and eat Cheez-Its for dinner, but most of the time I love to cook. I pore over recipes online for hours and take at least a week to plan holiday meals. I talk about food endlessly with my friends who are as equally obsessed as I am.

It's not just the food or the taste or showing off at a party. I love the memories that go with the food. Certain smells evoke the memories in the strongest and most poignant way, but food memories are my favorites.

When I was really little, I'd hang out in the kitchen with my mom, handing her the items she needed. I sliced off a little taste of butter whenever I pulled it out of the fridge for her. I learned how to make chicken and dumplings watching her. I mean real southern chicken and dumplings, not those pathetic biscuit imposters. This was my grandmother's recipe. And probably her grandmother's. When I grew up, I only needed the ingredient amounts, but no instruction. For years D hated them, which made me sad. I had imagined this would be the one recipe passed down to my daughter and her daughter after that. She finally learned to love them like I do in the last year and my legacy is again alive.

As a kid, my mom made us whatever we wanted for dinner on our birthdays. I don't know why this was such a big deal to me, probably because it was the one day of the year I could reject less appetizing fare like liver and okra and lima beans. I always chose tacos. Every year. My sister always chose spaghetti.

I think visiting my grandparents in Mississippi is where I learned to equate food with love. We had dinner and supper, same-sized meals at different times of the day at a crowded, very full table. My mom said that my grandpa used to say that a meal wasn't complete without bread. He made the best biscuits and, for a while, my mom tried to replicate the recipe when we returned home. She never could and gave up after a few near-disasters. I'm still too afraid to try.

When we ate at seafood restaurants, I would get popcorn shrimp and hush puppies. I loved the name more than the actual food and hush puppies were one of the first comfort foods I attempted to make in college. I'm super snobby about them now. Yes, snobby about fried corn meal. It has to be done just right.

A trip to Disneyland isn't complete without a churro or two or three. I don't eat them anywhere else. D loves to go to the Mexican restaurant in Frontierland, not so much for the food, but for the view of Thunder Mountain at night.

In-N-Out. Oh, In-N-Out. I don't even care to debate this. It is just hands-down my favorite burger place in all the world. There are restaurants all over California and they have branched out to other states (but not Oregon, ahem. I'm looking at YOU, In-N-Out Corporate!). It wasn't always like that though. We used to go rarely, mostly when we went to the beach because we'd pass by one on those occasions. I had In-N-Out the day I bought my first car. It is probably the one thing I crave most often. Oh, In-N-Out. I love you so.

My favorite candy? Abba Zabba. If you've never had this delicious treat, it's like a bar of taffy with peanut butter in the middle. It's best frozen, but it also reminds me of going to the beach. I lost a tooth in one once.

Vacations are always about the food. In Victoria, it's afternoon tea at Butchart Gardens. Little finger sandwiches and scones and tarts and truffles and fancy tea! My summer cruise offered endless amounts of food but nothing on the ship compared to what I found in port. The Mexican resort provided freshly made tortillas and things I could never name, but couldn't get enough of. And fish tacos on a Mexican beach? There's nothing else like it. In Hawaii I had pineapple juice every morning and vowed to never eat mahi mahi anywhere else.

I love crepes and risotto and lobster, sushi and lamb and pretty plates of delicate pasta. But I also love fried chicken and fried catfish, bad, trashy food full of grease and fat and everything else that gives it a bad reputation. My favorite white trash food is Easy Cheese. You know, stuff that comes in a can that isn't really any kind of cheese at all. Easy Cheese and Pringles are the best snack to take for a day at the lake. It's good on celery if you want to pretend to be healthy. Last night I tried it on a hot dog. Omg, you guys. Try it tonight. Seriously.

Food. Memories of food. So many of them. College means popcorn and rice and fresh strawberries from roadside stands. After 52 hours of childbirth, I rewarded myself with french fries, ranch dressing and a chocolate shake. My ex and I went out for sushi the day our divorce was finalized. I taught D how to crack crab legs the day she got her first pair of pointe shoes and we had pizza when she got her braces off.

Food is family, love, birthdays, drunken Friday nights, beginnings, endings, celebrations, compromise, sometimes regret, more often pure joy. I've loved people with food. I've laughed over food. I've been comforted by it and had invaluable conversations during delicious meals. The best thing about all of this? There is just more to come.

World Fucking Domination, Ya'll

2011-07-15T11:03:00.000-07:00

So I was talking to my friend A about zombies. I guess I had zombies on the brain. What? It's totally normal to discuss zombies on a leisurely summer day.

Okay, so actually it stemmed from a conversation about dead squirrels and spiders and spiders who eat birds and the number of black widows I've found in my house. But that's just kinda grossly boring.

What isn't boring? Zombie. fucking. spiders. Right? A asked if zombies in general aren't worse. Um, no. We all know what to do with regular zombies that just start out as dumb people. Especially the redneck ones. He then suggested zombie birds, but I said no way. Birds start out cute. Spiders are never cute. They are creepy and sneaky and crafty to begin with. Imagine that with zombie added in. Fucking scary, right? They can hide in your shoes and behind the tv and jump out when you walk by. Even their webs would be fucking creepy. Fucking seriously.

Dude - if I was going to take over the world, I would totally do it with zombie spiders. Watch out, ya'll.

Because He's Like Us

2011-07-14T19:37:00.001-07:00

D decided today that she wants another frog. She had one a few years ago for a few months. Phoebe/Jade/Jasmine (her name was progressive) was a cute little green tree frog. I managed to keep her alive while D was gone for a week and then she promptly killed her when she got home. What is it called when you dehydrate a frog? Frogslaughter? Involuntary by a minor? It was sad. I cried and couldn't even look at her.

Anyhoo, we went to the pet stores today to scope out the amphibians. Wandering down the rodent aisle, we came across a "fancy" hamster running on his wheel. He was noticeably retarded. As he was running, he'd lean his head over to the side, but the crossbar would bump into him every rotation. It was like he was trying to decapitate himself. Run, bump, pull back, run, bump, pull back, over and over. Then he got off and we thought he had figured it out, but no. He jumped right back on. Run, bump, pull back, run, bump, pull back. D practically shrieked, "Can we have HIM?!?" Because he obviously is one of us. He would totally fit into our household. I could even put some vodka in his little drippy bottle and then he'd be just like me. Drunk and not learning from his mistakes.

I was seriously considering it until D pointed out his balls. Giant, elephantitis, dragging-on-the-ground balls. I just can't have that in my house. I think he even tried to high-five me through the glass when I saw what he had.

There were no frogs, but we tried to think of a name for the future frog. D thinks that Penis is a good name. "Do you want to see my Penis?" "I have a little Penis." She thinks that she might want two so they can be named Penis and Balls.

You know, there are some things I just never said in front of my mom.

Children of the Corn

2011-07-12T13:06:00.000-07:00

I hate my neighbors. Most people know this and anyone who has ever been to my house agrees that they are redneck trash. I know, that's not nice. But you would agree if you saw them smoking on their front porch, or noticed the car that has been sitting in the driveway for months with a flat tire or ever heard them beat their kids.

Speaking of the kids, they are even worse. Last summer their thing was to throw their toys over the fence into my yard. At first I threw them back, but I quickly tired of that game and started throwing them in the trash.

This year their thing is to come over any time we're outside and try to talk to us. I ignore them but they repeatedly chatter, "Hi. Hi. Hello!! What's your name? What are you doing?" They accost anyone who comes to the house.

Last week they started breaking into cars. Or just letting themselves in. The Wife caught her the first time. It was the girl, trying to get into her back seat. What kind of kid just helps herself into a stranger's car? Obviously her parents haven't properly scared her.

A couple of days later, my car was in the garage. Stupid me, I left the garage open for half an hour. I found my car's back door open. How creepy is that? Some little imp is crawling around in my car? While it's in my garage?

Yeah, I'm not trusting them. They're giving me the creeps. Sure, they're three feet tall, but I've seen the movies. That kid in Pet Sematary was like two feet tall, and he was fucking creepy.

Explaining the Concept

2011-07-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

I got bored today and turned on something I haven't seen in years, Days of Our Lives. D asked what it was and I told her I used to watch it all the time. In fact, I first started watching it with my mom when I was three. Her eyes grew big, "It's THAT old?" Oh, children have the most delightful way of making one feel older than Egyptian dirt. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

D: Oh, that's Ali from Biggest Loser!
Me: Yeah, she's been on here a long time.
D: Really? She's that old?
Me: Well, she started as a teenager.
D: What's a soap opera?
Me: It's a show that was made when women stayed home so they'd have something to do while their husbands were at work.
D: It's on every day? What if you miss one?
Me: Too bad. There aren't reruns, it's new every day.
D: WHAT is the point of that?? Is there someplace you can BUY old shows?
Me: No.
D: What? What is the point?? I don't get it! That's so dumb!! That is the dumbest thing I ever heard.

Followed by peals of laughter.

Oh fuck, I am old.

Cheesy Tourist "Fun"

2011-07-10T10:15:00.000-07:00

Two years ago I went along on a bike ride with Bend Cruiser Ride.
We started at Riverside Market, rode over to Old Mill and ended up at the top of the parking garage. That last part was the only miserable part. I am not a bike rider and not in shape for it. Still, it was a lot of fun and reminded me of a college party.

So last Thursday, The Wife said it's time we go again. The theme for the week was "cheesy tourist" so off we went in search of the appropriate costumery. Wifey ended up with a fanny pack, Mickey Mouse trucker hat and a Betty Boop camo t-shirt that spelled out "Major Hottie." Yes. However, I found The Perfect, Bestest Shirt Ever. One wedge of cheese is taking a picture of another wedge of cheese. The cheese with the camera says, "Saaay people!" Get it? Cheese? Camera? CHEESY TOURISTS!!! Am I only amusing myself here?

We show up at Riverside Market to meet the rest of the riders. We feel ridiculous. Wife wants to immediately bolt and go back home. Stupidly, I convince her that we are going to Do This. We meet Josh, who is hard to look at in neon pink and yellow, but he's a nice guy. A couple of other people introduce themselves to us, we approve of the Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals. The argyle socks with sandals are my favorite.

Starting out is fun. We cross the bridge over the river, and ride around over to the west side. Yay, fun. There's music, I'm not the only one dressed like a dork, riding is fun! And then we're going uphill. Up Mt. Washington. This was not part of the deal. I am dead last. I can no longer pedal without feeling like barfing. I am afraid I am going to puke, and fall off my bike into a pool of my own vomit. I get off and walk my bike. Cars drive by and I feel more pathetic by the second. In my faded-denim (so out of style!) shorts and socks with shoes that shouldn't be worn with socks. Walking my bike like a total wimp.

Of course we lost the rest of the group. C came back to get us and adjusted my bike seat. Which wasn't the point by then. I didn't want to die so much as cut my thighs off from the rest of my body. And throw up. We finally made it to the resting point, at the top of yet another hill. Someone commented that we should have warmed up for a ride like that. Really? No shit.

I did have some alcohol before we left but it was obviously metabolized on my hellish ride. I didn't feel it at all. And by that point, it was just too late. I was sober, exhausted and feeling very old. Remember that college party feeling I had the last time? Yeah, not so much anymore. I'm too fucking old for college parties.

I made it back down the hill because it was downhill. I made it almost to the Wife's house before I had to get off and walk again. So. Lame. I did not make it downtown with the rest of the group and I certainly wouldn't have made it to the top of the parking garage. I could barely walk down the front steps without feeling like my legs were going to give out. Fuck me.

Wife and I decided we must go again. We can't be "those really slow girls that never showed up again because they were obviously too wimpy and not cool enough to be here." But looking at the schedule, the next time that I can go is scheduled as lycra/spandex night. Somehow I don't see that happening.

Favorite Weekend of the Year

2011-07-05T10:53:00.000-07:00

July 4th weekend is the Best Weekend of the Year. It's summer and it's all about food and drinking and hanging out. I was going to say that this was the most disappointing weekend, but then I reread last year's post. At any rate, here's the low-down for this year.

Friday -
What I did -
It really has to start with Friday night. Daytime is boring. I went to First Friday with the Wife. We meant to go see ESO, but missed them because they actually played at 6:00. Wtf? When does anything happen at 6:00 and when is a band ever on time? Off to Silver Moon we went where a cute boy said he "knew" me because I had spanked him at a birthday party. Only I didn't. Not that I wouldn't have, that just wasn't me. Later I wondered if he thought I was a stripper. Should I be horrified or take it as a compliment? That one is still up for debate.

I ate, I drank a beer, I walked The Pug home. The end.

What I ate -
A slice of pizza, gorgonzola cheesy fries.

What I drank -
Vodka and soda, a beer

Saturday -
What I did -
I spent the day in the sun and it was glorious. I finished a book, read magazines. The Wife came over to bbq and we watched The Bachelorette. It was mellow and cheesy and perfect.

What I ate -
Chicken nugget happy meal, grilled corn and artichokes, roasted garlic bread, artichoke dip.

What I drank -
Gallons of water, two bottles of champagne

Sunday -
What I did -
I got up early to go to the dog show in Redmond. This could have been awesome. I say could have been, because making out with strange dogs is one of my favorite activities. It's like a hobby. It's easy. You don't even have to introduce yourself and dogs just go for it. But show dogs and show dog people are a different breed. Like, literally. I own purebreds (well, at least one of them is) and I'm not good enough for this crowd. I'm like the riff-raff that got in through the hole in the screen. The only dog I made out with was an Afghan Hound. Not my favorite. My favorite was the fawn Frenchie with the cute little round butt.

I went shopping. I can't afford shopping at my current three-figure salary but I can't say no to shoes. Shoes and dogs. Good day so far.

I went to a friend's birthday bbq. I thought it was a birthday, but her birthday isn't until next month. So apparently the band was an early birthday present and an excuse to have a party. Fine. But bluegrass bands should not sing The Clash. That is just wrong. Just don't.

Bbq number two was next. I was pleasantly buzzed by this point. Also? The first thing anyone said when I walked in was, "Hey - I have some pills for you!" It wasn't what I hoped for, but a nice offer. Oh well.

Next we went to Riverside Market so the Wife could play with her boy toy. Some douche-puppet tried talking to me. He made sure to tell me that he had a girlfriend and wasn't hitting on me. He was offended when I shooed him away. Yes. As in, "Shoo fly, don't bother me." Buzz kill.

What I ate -
Gross Sonic breakfast (as much as I could stomach), chocolate goldfish, guacamole, chips, potato salad, chicken salad, hamburger, a bite of a rib, strawberry-rhubarb pie, half of a cookie.

What I drank -
Copious amounts of water, a Coke, vodka and Gatorade, watermelon mojito, a beer.

Monday -
What I did -
Oh, glorious 4th! You are here!
Going to the Pet Parade is one of my favorite things of the year. Watching cute little canines strut their stuff is just Happiness. Actually being in the parade is pure torture. I am not even kidding. Not one little bit. The wife had to be in it because of her job and, by default, that meant I had to be in it. Because I love her or some stupid shit like that. It was completely unorganized and I wanted a drink five minutes after putting Remy on his leash. Why did I not fill my bottle with vodka? Because I'm stupid. Because I thought of hydrating my fucking dog first. I'm a good dog mom or something lame like that. The parade was humiliating. And lasted forever. Remy loved it. It was like a butt parade for him. Yippy skippy.

The wife and I went to lunch because we badly needed a Bloody Mary. Badly. We went to Olive Garden and I know, it's commercial and horrible and whatever. I didn't care. It was quiet paradise after the fucking parade. And they had alcohol. And our waiter, Shane, was the cutest thing ever. He told us he has a duck and a goose and takes them floating. I really need to see this because I can't imagine it. Are they on a leash? Why wouldn't they just swim away? We loved him for this and because he gave us extra bread sticks with our leftovers.

It was time to float but when I got home, Ruby looked so cute sleeping on my bed that I had to lie next to her and then I fell asleep. Because I'm old like that. And because I hadn't slept for two nights. And because I'm just old. By the time we finally did float, it was just a comedy of errors. I forgot my float, it was late in the day and not very warm. Actually, I was freezing. My ass was in water the whole way and was frozen along with my thighs. Why was I in water? Because my fucking float died. The armrest was the only thing holding me afloat. I got out of the water and it was just limp. Limp is not my favorite way for anything to be.

The rest of the evening continued this way.

We went to the wife's ex-boyfriend's house. Mistake. Awkward. Worst of all, they had already eaten. We left after a polite, tortuous hour.

Went to 10 Barrel to meet some friends. Who were already drunk and I was disappointingly sober. Drastically sober. Loved on The Pug and promised to make dinner for my drunk friend. When a guy in a dress suggested a leather belt, I remarked that it was the second time in the weekend that someone had brought up spanking to me. He said, "Oh, sure, if you want to be spanked. But I was talking about choking." Holy fuck, seriously? How do these things even happen to me?

It was after nine and we were hungry and still hadn't figured out where to watch fireworks from. I wanted a french dip so we went to Deschutes. Which no longer has french dips, what?? Luckily, we had our second awesome waiter of the day, Moshe (?). He said the beef brisket just makes him happy so we got that and we were happy too. Especially when my first bite was the most perfect, juicy piece of fat I have ever had. The fireworks started so we asked for to-go cups for our beer. Because that should totally be a thing, right? Awesome Waiter said no, but he would watch our beers while we went outside. So yeah, we watched the fireworks on the street with cars driving by. At least the beers were safe. He even covered them so "we wouldn't be roofied. By him."

What I ate -
Bad pastries, portobello ravioli, salad, breadsticks, alfredo sauce, an olive, beef brisket sandwich, salad number two.

What I drank -
Vodka (before it was ruined by nasty river water), two beers, a glass of water.

In summary, I didn't drink nearly enough and I'm not sure why. But I think I laughed enough to make up for it and I made out with the sun, if not dogs.

Until next year....

Loving My Life

2011-07-02T16:08:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to sunshine and warm summer weather and the realization that this is my favorite weekend of the year. I said that if I had any money I would totally love my life. The famous (and obviously wise) ML told me to "Love it anyway". So I will.

Here are the things I love about my life. Not in order (so my kid can't take anything personally.)

I have choices. Even when it doesn't seem like it.
I eat ice cream for dinner whenever I want. Or cheese and crackers. Or vodka.
My friends love me and let me be me and don't judge, even when I think they should.
My daughter feels comfortable enough and trusts me enough to tell me things I don't always want to hear.
I live with puppies.
I can order my pizza without meat.
Making mistakes isn't as scary as it used to be.
Booze exists, is delicious, legal and I'm not allergic to it.
I'm a food whore and will therefore never die of anorexia.
I know that knowing what I want isn't wrong.
My kid is really awesome when she's not annoying me.
I can be alone or with a girlfriend or a room full of people and I'm okay with all of it. Most of the time.
My sadness is temporary.
I can keep the covers to myself.
I can let the dogs on the couch or on the bed because it's all mine.
Laughter is usually just a text away.
I'm still surprised. Often.

And now I'm going to go continue loving my life in the sunshine. Cheers!

The Consequences of Safe Sex

2011-06-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Last week when Birth Control was here he drooled on himself, me, my couch, my dogs and basically any other surface he was standing near. He wet through his diaper and got pee on me. His hands were always sticky and I wiped a booger off of his face and changed his poopy diaper. I was starting to think that my dogs are super clean in comparison.

The other day I was sitting outside and noticed Ruby scooting her butt across the grass. I thought it was weird, because dogs usually save this nasty habit for carpet. When she turned around, I saw the reason for the butt-scoot. There was a condom hanging from her butt. Yes. My dog pooped out a condom. Only not completely. She needed help and guess who got that lovely job? Yep, I got to pull a condom out of my dog's butt. Gross.

I would like to think that this would be a lesson in not eating my bathroom garbage, but I know it won't stop her. Both of my dogs think my bathroom garbage is a treasure trove of treats. They're gross.

The damn thing is that I'm pretty sure there were two condoms in there that day. So I'm kinda waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Gross.

How Birth Control Works

2011-06-21T09:24:00.001-07:00

I know, he's only been here two hours but BC has totally earned his name. I have thought of at least a dozen reasons how his name fits him.

1. He has to be followed around constantly. You could maybe make out for about five seconds at a time before being interrupted.

2. You spend too much time cleaning up after him to have time to have sex. There are only so many hours in a day.

3. If there is time leftover, you're too exhausted after cleaning up and chasing all day.

4. There is the obvious fact that you don't want two of these things walking around the house wreaking havoc. You think he is cute until you see the weight of his bagel in crumbs all over the table.

5. It's hard to have sex with a tantrum going on in the background. Not exactly mood music.

6. "No" becomes an automatic, unrehearsed response.

7. Having pee on your shirt doesn't work as a pheromone.

8. There's no time to shave your legs or put on makeup.

9. There's no time left over after consoling the dogs and apologizing to them for the tornado you've let into their home that they don't understand.

10. If you turn your back for a second he might stab someone or burn the house down. It's hard to relax under those circumstances.

11. There's enough frustration throughout the day without having to worry about being sexually frustrated. And there's no point in starting something you can't really finish.

12. There's no watching porn to get in the mood because you always have the t.v. on something stupid like Wonderpets or fucking Spongebob on the off-chance that BC will get interested in it and sit down for five precious minutes. There is no bigger cockblocker than fucking Spongebob. (Spell check has a problem with both Spongebob and cockblocker. We have so much in common.)

Adventures In Babysitting

2011-06-20T18:46:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so I thought helping my friend out with her daycare emergency was brilliant. She would get an excellent provider (me) and I would get a little cash and some free child labor.

After the first hour this kid had a nickname: Birth Control. He was into everything. And I mean everything. I didn't realize how non-child-proof my house is. I have more breakables than I thought and all well within his reach. D was never like this so maybe I'm just not used to boys. Or I'm just old and amnesic. Really though, she was pretty calm.

In no time at all, BC had colored on my wine fridge, knocked a lamp off a table, expanded the hole in my screen door and picked up a knife. And totally freaked out my dog. Poor Ruby just couldn't make sense of him. She barked and barked and barked until I finally slapped her on the butt, which just completely broke her heart. I'm sure she thought she was defending me from some mutant-sized person and doing a really good job that I just didn't appreciate. Remy, on the other hand, wanted to lick the poor child to death.

We went to pick up D so I could take a shower and when I said "go bye-bye" he started packing up all his toys, including my styrofoam pumpkin that he fell in love with. I finally convinced him we'd be back so he grabbed his blanket, stuffed penguin and toy train. Which is not just a train, but a "railroad" train.

Stupidly, I had promised D we could go shopping to spend her birthday money. He loved hiding under the racks of clothes and laying on the floor. Basically all of the things I never let my own kid do but, you know, what the hell. Hanging a tiny bustier around his neck and donning a floppy hat was super cute. Twirling in circles was cute. Knocking shoes off of the display wall and trying to climb the shelves was not. He enjoyed his raucous freedom and did not want to be held, which was just too bad. So sad. I think I made the point of saying, to nobody in particular, that this was not my child.

BC finished off his cuteness for the day by throwing an hour-long fit because I gave him water and not juice. Because I'm super mean like that.

My arm is sore from lugging him around but yesterday's headache is gone, so am I ready to do it again today? You betcha. Apparently Ruby is his favorite dog. Yeah, he knows how to endear himself to me. Typical male already.

What I Did Last Week

2011-06-20T08:16:00.000-07:00

Last week wasn't a totally normal week, even by the standards of my abnormal life.

Sunday D and I got tickets to the rodeo. Rodeos are surprisingly awesome. I usually say no to cowboys but rodeos make me want to say yes. The only bummer was that there was a disappointing number of outfits to make fun of.

D's birthday party was Tuesday. There's not much else to say on that other than this party kicked last year's party's ass.

Thursday I did a video shoot for a friend, something I hadn't done before. I was called "talent", which cracked me up the whole time. By the end, I was feeling a little loopy and if this video had a bloopers reel, most of them would be of me. I also made the mistake of watching the last shot of myself. Cringe-inducing, totally.

Friday was my trip with Gadabout Adventures to see Cirque du Soleil in Portland. I volunteered as hostess to serve the old peeps snacks and entertain them with bingo. Cirque is one of the great loves of my life. It's inspiring and incredible and beautiful. What is it about real beauty that makes me want to be a better person? As for the old people, I was so cute and charming that even the crustiest birds warmed up to me. It was an excellent day.

A friend of mine had a crisis with her daycare last week so I offered to be her daycare. She needed the help and I need the money. Plus new blog material. I also want to teach the kids to pull my weeds and mix my drinks. I am going to be the best daycare provider ever. I just need to keep him away from the redneck retarded inbreds next door.

How the Farmer's Market Is Going to Make Me Fat

2011-06-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the wife and I went to the farmer's market. I had a total craving for grilled veggies. Nothing fancy either, I went for corn, asparagus, artichokes and tomatoes. Too early for corn? Too late for asparagus? The artichokes were tiny and there were no tomatoes. Strike out.

Wifey won a gift card to 5 Fusion, so guess where we went? We ordered booze and fried food. Fried shrimp, fried mushrooms, fried crab cakes, fried fritters. And then we went to Powell's and got gelatto and candy.

Thanks, farmer's market. This better not be the pattern for the summer.

A Birthday Party Experiment

2011-06-14T18:18:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow D is 15 and tonight she's having her birthday party. Last year was traumatic, unnecessarily so. I tried to mitigate some of the drama this year by shortening the time and the number of girls invited.

I am either a genius or there is a big difference between 14 and 15. I choose to think I'm a super genius. So far, anyway.

This is my experiment - I plan on live-blogging this party. Which won't be live by the time I finally publish it, but it will be as it happens. Except for what I have to get you caught up on so far, an hour and 20 minutes into the evening. And if it makes less sense as it goes on, it might be the craziness of being in a house full of teenage estrogen, but it also might be because I'm hanging out with my friend Vodka.

Here goes.

6:23 p.m. So far - I have overheard, "This sounds like 50's porn." Awesomeness right off the bat.

The girls went outside to lie on the sidewalk. I love this because I despise my neighbors. They are the biggest, fattest, stupidest rednecks ever. I have listened to them beat their kids. It's gross. But I don't feel sorry for the kids because they're fucking annoying. I would beat them if it were legal. It should be. Anyway, the girls lying on the sidewalk has completely fucked with the little neighbor brat. He was riding his bike on the sidewalk and now he's totally frustrated, trying to ride his bike on my grass. That part is irritating, but I'm hoping he'll lose his balance and fall in the road. The girls are ignoring him, of course. That's what they're best at this age. They should be, they practice on ignoring us parents constantly.

While I was typing this, a girl showed up who reminded me of a gazelle. I only say that because I hear that gazelles have long legs. No way. This girl's legs are endless. I have never seen legs this long. At this point I'm glad there is no male presence in my house. My staring was perverse enough.

6:35 p.m. O.M.G. This is the best party ever. The girls just came in to tell me the neighbor brat girl thought that one of them was Hannah Montana and asked for her autograph. I told you they're stupid. The teenager's mistake was not signing a fake autograph and continuing the joke. That would have made my whole year.

A mom dropped her kid off who called me earlier today. I think she was trying to make sure that I would be here, without asking directly; she asked to meet me when she showed up. Good parenting. Even if she did leave her daughter in the care of a lush. At least she can rest assured that her daughter won't be drinking.

7:11. p.m. They're playing hide-and-seek. At 15. I guess I don't have to worry about her growing up too quickly.

8:26 p.m. They are eating dinner and watching Ratatouille. Quietly. I might love 15.

8:28 p.m. OMG. They say thank you. For vegetables!!!

8:36 p.m. The vegan ate pasta. And bread. Score!!

8:53 p.m. No pictures of her opening presents because my camera battery was dead. Of course.

9:55 p.m. She just played guitar and sang with her friend. I might have cried. Maybe. Her friend called out, "Sing it out! Sparkle, baby!"

10:01 p.m. They're decorating their cupcakes. While singing "America the Beautiful". This should be interesting.
10:21 p.m. I'm now hiding in my room but I can hear them singing "Bugle Boy" in the kitchen. Karaoke must be next.

I'm signing off now. It wasn't as funny as I thought it would be but nobody cried so it's a win. I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and be grateful for my bugabooga, her talents and the difference a year makes.

As they sing "Dancing Cheek to Cheek"...

Four Months

2011-06-05T21:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked four months of being unemployed. Not exactly the kind of anniversary that I dreamed about as a kid. Or six months ago. It's getting harder. This week, which came with two rejection notices, sucked a little more.

I tried to roll with it for a couple of months. Play it cool. Not panic. But I'm starting to panic. The calls aren't coming and neither is the money. The jobs just aren't here.

Here's the rub - I'm not a superstar at what I do. I'm good, but not a star. So when I apply for jobs out-of-state, there's no incentive for a company to choose me over someone local. I'm sure there are plenty of locals already looking anyway. I'm not fishing in a small pond. The other side is that I'm overqualified for the jobs that will get me by for a while. Of course I'd keep looking in the meantime and not marry a job I don't want long-term. Employers know this. Again, there are plenty of people applying for those jobs, so there's no reason to risk a short-timer like me.

I feel like everything is telling me to move, my time here is over. My family isn't here, the jobs aren't here, the Relationship isn't knocking on my door and the winters are slowly killing me and driving me insane in the process. So, Universe, I get it. I'm open to change, I'll completely and wholeheartedly embrace it. I just need a little help getting from point A to point B.

I can read a map. I just need someone to give me one.

Silver and Gold

2011-05-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

Remember that song about friends? "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold"? I don't know why I know this song. It's in the recesses of my mind from elementary school. Somehow, it's true. Even if I'm not particularly crazy about silver or gold. Maybe it could be changed to diamonds and emeralds. Or sapphires. Or whatever is matching my outfit for the day.

Anyway, I had the total silver and gold experience this weekend. M is still a fairly new friend, but I adore her. My favorite emails and relationship advice come from her. She passed on some excellent advice to C last night. We were at a wedding, but I was more interested in the marriage of my friendships than the husband/wife/betrothal thing that was going on.

Last night two of my friends from high school were in town. E I saw briefly in college, K I haven't seen since we graduated. It amazed me how much she remembered about me from way back, over 20 years ago. Both of them sounded the same and looked the same. We've all had a thousand experiences between then and now, but we're still Us. Most importantly, we're still friends.

I spent today with J. We saw a movie that reminded us a little too uncomfortably of ourselves. If I had to be that sad with anyone, I'm glad it was J. It's only been a couple of years, but I can be my worst self with her and she accepts me. I don't want to be my worst self, but sometimes I need to be and she's okay with it. She's also the funniest person I know and makes me laugh more than almost anyone. On days like today, that means a lot.

Silver and gold. Diamonds and pearls. Hell, even cubic zirconia has a place in my box of friends. I love them all and I will keep them all. They only become more valuable as time goes by.

Starstruck

2011-05-26T10:05:00.000-07:00

Sunday I was in San Diego and went to a Padres game. Fun, but not overly exciting in itself and not what I really want to talk about. It's really all about the guy sitting two seats in front of me.

When he first sat down I said, "Hey, that guy looks like James Franco." The only thing not convincing me were the several gray hairs sprinkled around his head. I thought for sure that a celebrity would cover their gray hair better than that. I'm obsessed with pulling out any that I find and I'm only seen by a handful of people a day, not routinely chased down by paparazzi.

He got up for a bit and the girl he was with was gorgeous (I don't know who she was and don't really care) so that tipped the scale towards it actually being him. And then he smiled. It was, without a doubt, a James Franco smile. And yes, ladies, he is just as hot in person and has a pretty nice body. I should know because I spent the next hour and a half staring at him. From two seats away. Two seats people!!

Yup. My claim to fame and the highlight of my day. Commence jealousy now.

That's Not a Paper Cut

2011-05-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Are any of you old enough to remember the movie Saturday the 14th? It was like one of the original horror spoofs and I thought it was really, really funny. Of course I was like 11 and I think I saw it in a double feature (who remembers those, huh?) after a truly scary movie.

Anyway, I was only thinking about that because as far as Friday the 13ths go, mine was pretty uneventful. Thursday the 12th, now that's a different story.

My book club's reading of Watchmen turned into a Watchmen movie party, which started with an ice cream bar which then added a sandwich bar. We're just a little food-obsessed. Fiona and I made fresh bread. Of course.

MG has some very sharp knives. I have very dull knives. So I was excited to play with his. For about 45 seconds. I got halfway through slicing the first loaf when the shiny, sharp knife slipped off the end of the loaf onto my finger. MG saw it happen and asked if I was okay. I didn't even feel it and my knives leave paper cuts on me, so I was sure that I was okay. But when I looked at it, it was actually pretty deep and I was really not okay. I asked for a band aid ran it under water. Under water, it looked like a paper cut. But when I took it out to examine it, I saw how deep it really was. I saw white. As in, I saw my fucking BONE! I had to sit down immediately before I passed out. After laughing hysterically so I wouldn't cry.

MC wanted to give me stitches. She's an English teacher, not a doctor. She then tried to convince me to let her crazy glue it. Silly me, I turned down that generous offer too. I was happy with my wine and band aid.

It was two days before I got up the nerve to look at it again. I could only imagine the worst, that it wouldn't have closed up properly and would be a cavernous mess requiring a trip to the ER that I currently can't afford. I wanted a couple of shots of whiskey first. I peeled back my little band aid painstakingly slowly to find a very nicely closed-up little cut. A little bloody, but closed.

Off I went to the store to get myself some more band aids. Mickey Mouse, thank you. I cleaned up my cut and that's when I discovered that part of my finger is quite numb and noticed the jagged shape of the cut. It was a serrated knife.

I'm hoping that the numbness will go away and I haven't done any permanent damage. In the meantime, I've got D doing all the dishes, which doesn't overjoy her as much as it does me. MC is still a little pouty that I wouldn't let her stick a needle in me, but who needs needles when you've got Mickey Mouse? Yeah, I'm a bad ass like that.

Dancing for Jackson

2011-04-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to the Mr. Thunder Pageant with D at her high school. This is not like the Thunder Down Under, which would be very wrong since there were teenage boys involved. It wasn't dirty or sexy, but it was silly, goofy and, at times, touching.

There were 12 senior boys participating in the pageant with the purpose of raising money for Jackson, this year's Sparrow Club beneficiary (more on Jackson later). The evening's entertainment consisted of typical "beauty contest" events - sportswear, talent and formal attire with interview. Only with a twist, because these are teenage boys we are talking about. Sportswear meant putting on the uniform for whatever sport they compete in. For one boy this meant a fluffy, pink polka-dotted robe that revealed a neon pink leopard-print speedo underneath. My retinas pretty much have that image burned into them. It's not pretty.

The talent portion meant anything from a fake display of Guitar Hero skill (played to a YouTube video) to a Justin Bieber impersonation to a father/son duet to a stand-up comedian (who was really funny - just deadpanned it perfectly) to a self-choreographed dance. My favorite was the one-man band. This kid rocked. He played piano, bass guitar, acoustic guitar, drums, trumpet and French horn to a piece he composed himself. It was beautiful.

The teenage girls who emceed the event put together a wake-up video of each of the boys. They woke the contestants up at 5 a.m. and asked them questions like "What kind of mythical creature would you like to be?" and "If you were on a deserted island, which contestant would you eat first?" These were grumpy faces only a mother could love, grunting and hiding under their sheets. My favorite answer to the mythical creature question came from the single gay contestant. "I'd be a fairy because I'm already halfway there."

The funniest answer during the interviews was in response to the question, "What is beauty to you?" This was a boy after my own heart - "It would be really beautiful if everyone in the world stopped wearing crocs." The most touching answer came from the gay student. He claimed that his twin sister is his hero because she has been through it "all" with him. For a teen, this seems flippant. What hardships have these mostly-privileged teens faced in their young lives? But he was very open and candid talking about coming out and how his sister has always accepted and supported him. It was a moment of bravery.

However, the tears came for me in the beginning of the show. Each boy was introduced with a video of pictures from infancy through today and these were accompanied by blurbs about them that their parents wrote. I saw them as silly, goofy, show-off kids. Which they are. But their parents saw them as loving, kind, compassionate, generous people, young men that they are proud of and that they love. Which they also are. So I sat there and tried my best to wipe my eyes discreetly, because I was surrounded by a bunch of other teenagers who might not have been so nice. They can smell fear, you know.

And now the real reason that we were all there. For Jackson. Jackson is a little boy who just turned one. In his tiny little life he has had to endure six surgeries and over 80 days in the hospital. He has a condition I can't pronounce or remember but it prohibits his body from absorbing nutrients. He is on IV nutrition for 16 hours a day, which puts him at constant risk of infection. Jackson was present last night with his parents, his mom carrying his backpack of fluids, tubes connected to his belly. He's adorable. He's a perfect baby who doesn't deserve the restrictions his body has placed on him. His mom said it's easy to forget how sick he is because he is always so happy. But he is sick. He's very sick.

At the end of the evening, shortly before the Mr. Thunder winner was revealed, it was announced that as of last night, $41,000 has been raised to help Jackson and his family with their ongoing medical costs and care. Times are still tough for a lot of people, which makes this amount so significant.

I was talking to a friend about the pageant and fundraising efforts. She's a teacher and this wasn't her first time at the rodeo. She, rightfully, has a certain cynicism towards the whole thing. I get that. Kids do act dumb, some might not have really taken it seriously. But there's no denying that they did a Good Thing. I'm okay with teenagers making fools of themselves if this is the result. I know why their parents are proud of them. I would be too.

I'm sure Jackson's family would be more than willing to accept ongoing donations, but I couldn't find any contact information to give you. I suggest calling Summit High School as someone there is bound to be able to help you if you want to help Jackson.

Wedding Bliss

2011-04-16T18:18:00.001-07:00

Thirty years ago I was fascinated by a wedding and a princess. Charles and Diana's nuptials were the most romantic event in my young life. I ate up everything I could about their courtship. I went camping at the beach with my best friend and her family and we convinced her parents to let us watch the TV movie that reenacted their romance while eating s'mores. Miraculously there was a TV in the tent and we swooned and giggled with mouthfuls of marshmallows.

Mostly, though, I was in love with Diana. Charles was the prince, but he was comparatively old, and to be honest, a doofus. She was beautiful; she glowed. I wanted my hair cut like hers. I desperately wanted a copy of that red sweater she wore with the single black sheep. I even loved her nickname, Shy Di, because I was painfully shy at that age. She made shyness exquisitely charming.

My parents couldn't have been less interested in the royal wedding, but thankfully tolerated my infatuation. The only time I was ever allowed to watch television in their bedroom was to view the wedding as it was broadcast live. I was alone, but it was my own Cinderella moment. It was like a dream, a real-life fairy tale. I had never witnessed anything so enchanting - the yards and yards of her gown as she floated down the aisle, the grandeur of the ceremony, the couple waving at the cheering crowds of onlookers from the carriage that whisked them away from the church, that awkward kiss on the palace balcony.

We didn't yet know how devastatingly unhappily this marriage would end. The truths that were revealed were ugly and sad, but they never tarnished my love for Diana. When she died, I cried for a week. I watched her funeral and my heart broke seeing her two young sons following the casket, topped with white flowers and a card simply labeled, "Mummy".

And now her oldest son is getting married. "Wills" is the future king of England with his mother's smile. Will I be watching this wedding? Oh, will I!!!

I have scoured the internet for details of this wedding to Kate ever since their engagement was announced. I watched the engagement interview, carefully noting how they look at each other, how he talks about her respectfully and with love. I want this marriage to last. I don't know why it matters to me, it just does. It's as if Diana's love for her son should live on in his happiness, that her early influence will have taught him how to love someone in a way that she wasn't.

What will really matter in less than two weeks now is the glamorous celebration that will take place at 4 a.m. my time and yes, I will be awake. JW invited me to watch it with her. We contemplated a party and I wanted to send out invitations if only to get the "Hell NO! Are you crazy?" responses. But she thought people might decide to start showing up around 8 a.m. and that just isn't right. Only those awake from the beginning get to enjoy the champagne. I may be drunk by 6, but I will have earned it.

Here's the best part. We will be wearing pajamas after deciding to forgo the fancy hats and dresses. However, I will be wearing my veil and JW has created the most delicious pink taffeta-tiara confection. The menu has been planned to honor the bride and groom - tea sandwiches with cucumbers and smoked salmon, scones, eggs, pastry-wrapped sausages, tea and champagne. It will be the second-best thing to being at the actual wedding.

I'm pretty sure that even though Diana won't be there, she will be watching.
Cheers!

Daddy's Little Girl

2011-04-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship. Or maybe I only have a complicated relationship with him. Different animals.

My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember them ever being happy. As soon as we walked in the door at the end of the day, they were at each other's throats. I would sit quietly on the steps outside the kitchen and wait for my dinner.

The custody battle was long and ugly. I knew how much each parent hated the other. I felt responsible for their feelings and learned how to protect them, answering questions based on who was asking at the time. Secretly, I always wanted to live with my mom but he was given custody first. Most of my return visits were tense to say the least.

After my mom remarried and moved from our home in Texas to California, she continued to fight for me and was finally granted custody. I was six, halfway through first grade.

I saw my dad for the last time when I turned seven. He made the drive to California to pick me up for a summer vacation. I don't even remember where we went. Camping. Somewhere. I didn't know when he took me back home that it was the last time. I was just happy to be sleeping in my own bed again.

Then the phone calls stopped. No more birthday cards, no Christmas gifts. There was never any child support. I'm sure Mom was relieved. Since I don't remember having my own feelings, I can only assume I replicated her relief. Dad became my "sperm-donor" at some point because I had a new dad. Life went on in California.

When I was 24, living in Oregon and married, we found out he was looking for me. He had hired a private detective, some stupid woman who called Mom's house on a regular basis claiming to be a college friend of mine. The last straw was my dad showing up at my grandparent's house unannounced and wanting to show them every picture of me he had, oblivious to the fact that his presence was desperately unwanted.

I finally called him. I wasn't so nervous as angry. Angry that he had taken so long. That he had done it this way. I was also fiercely protective of my family. My grandparents were being dragged into the drama and my mom was beside herself with anger. Livid with hatred.

That was the first call, it ended up not being the last. He asked to see me; I hesitated for months and then acquiesced. Out of curiosity? I'm not sure. That first visit was horribly uncomfortable. He was like a stranger, but a stranger that I knew. Mostly I felt like he didn't know me, he could only think of me as the seven-year-old he saw last.

It's been like that ever since. I've been angry with him for being gone. Or coming back. They're sort of mixed up together. I sent a few hostile letters at first. I didn't know if I even wanted to keep him in my life, let alone how to fit him in. He clearly wanted to be a daddy and I was past that point and had been for a long time. I needed a daddy when it was Christmas, when I got braces, learned to drive, went to prom, graduated from high school and then college. I needed my daddy to give me away at my wedding. My dad was there, but not my daddy.

When my daughter was born I felt obligated to allow him into my life. I wasn't just making decisions for myself anymore. I felt she had a right to know who her grandfather is and form her own decisions about her feelings. Of course I forgot that she takes her cue from me and won't love him on her own. She is the second generation now that won't love someone without the permission to do so.

People have said, "At least he tries." "At least he is here now." Parent/child relationships don't work that way. Seventeen years is a length of time that "at least" doesn't cover. It's not superficial, not a surface feeling. I was a child. As a parent, I would never turn my back on my daughter. Ever. It isn't even physically possible for me. He has his reasons, his excuses, whatever he tells himself so he can sleep at night. But how does the eight-year-old child understand why her father is gone? Did he stop loving her? Was he tired of her? Does he love other kids now? Is he even still alive?

He has now been back for almost as long as he was gone. He won't let me push him away. He's the first person to offer help when I need it. Even I can't ignore that anymore. He's remarried and I adore my stepmom, even though I rejected her at first too. She helps to bridge a lot of the weirdness between us. She's a buffer and I think she knows it and doesn't mind in the least. I finally call them "my parents" and it doesn't feel strained. A year ago I absolutely refused to go visit him; this year I happily accepted his invitation.

What changed? I've lost a lot of my family. There is too much distance between most of us, both physical and emotional. I've lost important relationships that I never wanted to give up. I suppose I'm just taking family where I can get it these days. He genuinely wants to be a part of my life and it just gets harder to try to turn that down. It doesn't show up every day.

At my last book club, I was asked what connects me to my dad. My first answer was "guilt". Because for a long time it was. I didn't want to have regrets later. I didn't want to be the reason I didn't have a dad. Also, selfishly, it let me off the hook so that I could continue blaming him, I could have a scapegoat. I could be self-righteous and absolved when he left again because I did my part.

It might be more than that now. And maybe it's just time. Finally.

Nine Weeks

2011-04-10T10:31:00.000-07:00

That is nine weeks as in nine weeks of unemployed boredom. Not 9 1/2 weeks of tantalizing, honey-covered sex. Guess which one I'd rather have?

I realize it's been a while since I've given an update on my thrilling life of No Job, but really, there's no point. Aside from my little jaunt to Vegas, every week is the same. I sleep in, I complain about the weather, think a lot about eating, play online, drive the kid around and wait by the phone. Or email, as it seems to be in the technical world.

This week was only slightly different because this will be my first month being solely dependent on my unemployment "benefits". The severance was used last month to get caught up on bills so now I will feel the full weight of not having a regular paycheck. I woke up in a panic attack the other morning when I realized this. I have trouble breathing if I think about it for very long, so I try not to think about it.

I switched to a more affordable form of my antidepressant. Generic Celexa is not my beloved Lexapro. I feel like I'm on nothing at all. Hence the panic attacks, the crying myself to sleep at night and lacking the energy to clean my house. Forget about working out. Excuses come easily in a depressed state.

Here's the real news. It's time for a change. A big one. I'm in a rut, I'm tired of complaining and waiting for things to happen to me. Time to make things happen for me. I've started applying for jobs out of state, in warmer states. It seems like an impossible task; there is a lot to coordinate with D and her activities and goals and well-being. But I think it's time. My family isn't here, my relationship ended, the job is gone. If the universe is trying to send me a message, I also expect it to cooperate with my efforts.

Austin is at the top of my list. Is it crazy to move somewhere I've never been before? Does it count that I lived in Dallas until I was six? I've been doing my research. It's a top 10 city in the country for dogs and dating. Hopefully the two aren't related. There are numerous ballet schools plus one really great academy. Music, food, art, warmth, Life. There are even celebrity bats, what's not to like? The only negative attribute I ever hear is that it can be hot and humid. Are you kidding me? I'd willingly trade a couple of months of scorching mugginess over nine months of cold, gray, rainy, snowy oppressive skies.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, find me a job and pay for my move. I'll invite you to my housewarming party. Come on, it's a fair trade.

Okay. You're caught up. I did something productive today. Go back to your breakfasts and coffee. I'm going to go back to teaching the dog to play hide and seek.

Church, Naked Midgets and Oysters

2011-03-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

For my seventh week of unemployment, I decided to go to Las Vegas. D had spring break, the weather here was shit as usual for Central Oregon spring and my dad sprung for the plane tickets. Yep, Dad lives in Vegas so we also had a free place to stay and a chauffeur.

My dad and step mom don't drink or gamble so I knew this wasn't going to be my regular idea of Vegas fun, but I wasn't prepared for our first evening's activity. When they told us we were going to church, I balked. Church? In Vegas? I hadn't been to church with my dad since I was probably six and I don't remember the last time I've been since I've lived here. Huh. Well, when in Rome, right?

The church wasn't much to look at on the outside and wasn't located in the fancy part of town. The inside, though, had its own tiny charm. Best of all? Real pews! I haven't seen real, wooden pews in years.

The people were the real surprise. They had all heard of me; it was like I was a celebrity. I shook more hands than I could count and everyone was so warm and welcoming and friendly. My dad would start to introduce me and they'd say "yes, of course!" I was taken aback when one very sweet old man named Claude said he's been praying for me and it was nice to put a face with the prayer. Apparently they were all aware of my unemployment situation and I was unknowingly a part of their regular prayer requests. It was oddly comforting.

The sermon was simple, and appropriately fitting for me at the time. The pastor talked about anticipation and expectations and being open to more positivity and joy. It was just what I needed to hear.

As we left, my dad introduced me to more people, including a man named Napoleon and a Mr. Berry, both black men, one of which he goes fishing with. This was what touched me the most, how close he was to each person, no matter what color they were. This is a man who called my step dad the "n-word" when I was a small child just because his hair was curly. But I wasn't seeing the same person now. He was so accepting and open with everyone and told me that these people are his family. And he meant it.

I went to bed that night feeling like I had been exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment. I fell asleep feeling Gratitude.

The next two days were spent on the strip. I hadn't told D much about what it was like so that she'd be surprised. She's so my child. She loved the casinos - the lights, the sounds, the smells (minus the cigarette smoke). We shopped, we ate, we walked miles and miles until I thought my feet would fall off. We took picture after picture of everything, even the lion that peed. As it peed.

I think the part that amused her the most was anything to do with sex. And there is plenty of that in Vegas. She giggled at Hooters, snickered at Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, took a photograph of a sign that said "Even our condiments are sexy". She even began to imitate the countless peddlers on the street handing out their "porn". The real highlight was when one of them asked my dad and step mom, "Hey, you guys into naked midgets?" It was probably cruel to laugh, but I couldn't help it. I finally accepted some of the "porn cards" so that we can add them to a scrapbook.

Our last day we went to Hoover Dam. D was not pleased. She was bored out of her skull and didn't even hide it well. "I don't want to see stupid sights, I want to see a mall." Grampa made up for it by taking her to a mall and buying her shoes. Spoiled much?

At dinner that night I met my stepsister. It's so weird to say that. I didn't even have a step mom for most of my life and now I find out I have a stepsister! And she's cool! And she lives in Hawaii!! I think we are going to be bff's.

Leaving was hard. I knew that I was going to come back to cold and snow. In the car on the way home there was a commercial for laser bowling. D scoffed, saying, "That's what Bend has to offer? Bowling?" Yeah, coming back to reality was a hard landing.

Except that night there was a send-off party for those of us that were laid off with former co-workers. I expected a handful of the usual regulars but there were at least 20 people there. My friends. And my friends had missed me.

The next night some girlfriends and I went out for oysters and champagne. This was certainly not in my budget but it was worth every delicious, decadent bite and every moment of laughter and conversation. For the second time in a week, I was just where I needed to be.

I gained a lot this week. New family, deeper friendships and priceless time with my bugabooga. Hey, if this is what unemployment is like, I'll take it.

Open Letter to the Jerk in the White Car

2011-03-18T12:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Fuckpuppet,

Remember me? We met shortly after 6:00 last Friday night? You know, the roundabout by Ray's and Safeway. I was in the car in front of you that you rear-ended. Oh, that's right. We didn't actually meet. Why not? Because you. drove. off. Like an asshole. Seriously. Who rear-ends someone and then just drives away? Dude, I hit a Porsche and stopped to make sure I didn't do any damage. Then again, I don't have shitty karma now. Not like you do.

I would like to thank you. But it's only a tiny little thank you. Because of you, I had the best massage of my life this week. It almost makes up for the headaches and stiff neck and back that I've had all week. Or the calls I've had to make to my insurance company because this really should be coming out of your insurance. If you have any.

Yeah, good luck with that karma thing.

Insincerely,
Good Karma Seeker

Concrete is Really Hard. Who Knew?

2011-03-08T15:19:00.000-08:00

My friend ML invited me to her gym this morning. Despite the early time (9:00 is early for the unemployed), I accepted her invitation. I wasn't so gung-ho when the alarm went off, but I told myself I'd be glad I went. Yeah, right. I should know better than to listen to myself.

When I showed up with my bottle of water, ML remarked how smart I am. Umm... okay. She suggested I warm up on the treadmill because once the class starts, they "hit it hard."

Except at first it wasn't. Jog up and down the gym, woo hoo. Then run sideways. Oh, look at me! Look how fast and energetic I am! Oh no, don't look at me falling! Yes, I tripped over my own feet and fell on my knee. On the concrete floor. Audibly. Because I'm clumsy. I get asked how I can walk in four-inch heels. It's easy people, I'm walking. Walking is the key word here, not running in odd foot patterns.

It hurt. I've got a nice bruised scrape. It hurt for the rest of the workout. The rest of the workout hurt. I thought I would either pass out or throw up. Or puke while passed out, that would be super pretty.

I don't think I'll be mobile at all tomorrow. If it's not my knee, it will be my butt. Or my abs. Or maybe my back. I'm not sure what got the most abuse, as it was more of an all-over hurt while it was happening.

ML is crazy. She does this four times a week and is about 20 years older than me. She was my role model before, now she is my freaking hero.

Even if I'm cursing her tomorrow. Her and the concrete. And the inventor of concrete.

Jobless Loser Week 4

2011-03-04T13:45:00.000-08:00

Alright, so the week isn't over quite yet, but I'm going to go ahead and call it. I was productive enough to start my weekend now.

I had an interview Monday morning. It was a phone interview so I wore my pajamas. The downside to wearing your pajamas? It feels like you're wearing your pajamas. They lulled me into a false sense of security and when I actually started answering questions, I felt too fuzzy-headed to speak intelligently. I've spent the rest of the week second-guessing every sentence. Damn it.

Wednesday was another interview with a different company. I promised not to blog about them, but I will say that it was my second coffee interview. At first I thought it was kinda weird, having an interview in public with beverages, but I think I've decided I like it. You know some research person came up with the idea and then recommended it to the human resources world. Neutral turf, casual atmosphere, puts people at ease. Come to think of it, it was probably a Starbucks employee and they got paid a gazillion dollars for being so brilliant. I need to come up with an idea like that. If I was a gazillionaire (Really, spell check? Gazillion is a word but gazillionaire isn't?), I wouldn't have to go on any more interviews. At coffee or in my pajamas.

Oh, how about the martini interview? Of course most people would blow that one. Not everyone gets more charming after a martini or two. Most people just turn into idiots. But then that would eliminate the candidates pretty quickly too. Separate the idiots from the talent! I totally need to copyright this idea...

The rest of the week was fairly uneventful. Most of it. I did have this odd little nighttime quirk that freaked me out. You know how in the horror movies the protagonist gets woken up at the same time every night? Or there's a door that opens at the same time every night? Because that's the time that somebody died and the ghost comes back to do all the creepy stuff that happens forever after that? Yeah, my week was like that. Four nights in a row I woke up at 4 a.m. 4:00 on the dot. Seriously, last night I was going through my e-mail and Facebook to see if a relative had died and I missed it. And then I tried to stay up later to see if I could make myself super tired so I'd sleep through it. When I woke up at 3:38 I was ecstatic! Ha! I beat you, creepy-unknown-thing-that-keeps-waking-me-up-for-no-reason-at-all!! Of course now I'm thinking that I still woke up, within half an hour of 4 a.m., so the creepy, unknown thing is probably just fucking with me now. Great.

Yeah. 40, single, unemployed and haunted. I am living the dream.

Week 3

2011-02-26T14:03:00.000-08:00

First, I must report there were no meltdowns this week. There were, however, a couple of days of debilitating, mind-numbing depression. The rejections have started flowing in and my ego has taken a beating. I ended the week emotionally exhausted and vowing my forever-friendship with Lexapro. If it could take me to dinner, I would date it.

There were more layoffs at my recent job and my pal JW was laid off yesterday. At least my misery has good company. I'm thinking of starting an Unemployment Club with pajamas as uniforms. We can start drinking before noon and watch movies all day, pooling our limited funds for pizza delivery.

Stupid, wanting-to-take-over-my-life depression aside, the week wasn't all bad.

I planned a trip for my friends' business. They let me plan one with dogs - bonus! It won't be until June, but I am totally looking forward to it since I'll be hosting. Hanging with dogs all day? Always a good idea.

I saw a movie with some girlfriends (plus a token male), read books, ate ice cream, went to happy hour with former co-workers and watched my dog try to have sex. It's like dog porn, but two dogs who are both fixed have no idea what they are doing. They just know they want to do something, right-freaking-now, damn it! Leave it to my dog to provide the comic relief and gross-out moment of the week. All in one. That takes talent.

Tomorrow I've got a date with a little bald man called Oscar. Yep, the Academy Awards are on, my favorite television Event of the year. (Running a close second is the season finale of Dexter.) I don't even care who wins, I'm just going to enjoy the mini-break from Dreary Town and enjoy the glamour.

I did manage to score an interview Monday morning, so cross those fingers, people. I even agreed to do it at 9 a.m., which is unheard of as a wake-up time these days, but since it's a phone interview I can wear my pajamas.

Tuesday is book club, which is truly my fondest activity of the month. I get to eat good food, visit with wonderful people and feel Smart for a while. It will be like a little oasis of acceptance in the desert of rejection I've been stranded in.

I can do without more dog porn though. Seriously, once is enough to last a lifetime.

Unemployment Week 2

2011-02-19T14:18:00.000-08:00

The second week has been harder than the first.

First, the Negatives.

The week started with Valentine's Day. Unemployed and unattached. There was no way this could be a good day. I tried to get the day canceled, but it apparently makes too much money as a fake holiday for anyone to listen to me. Poo.

I went to the dentist, which sucked enough. But halfway through, I realized a song was playing that reminded me of my ex-boyfriend. In fact, it was "our" breakup song. The hygienist mistook my tears of sadness for tears of pain. I got a free chapstick.

The only man who touched me that day was my chiropractor. Is it dirty that I tried to enjoy it? Of course it was over too fast.

It snowed. A fuckload. Which started my meltdown mid-week. Crying was involved. So was vodka.

The next day some jackhole hit my car. Backed right into me at a stop sign. Yes, "stop" would be the key word here. Backed right up into me, crunched my license plate and drove off.

Oh yeah, I got rejection emails for three of the jobs that I applied for. Not that I'm counting.

Now for the Positives. Because there were a few.

I learned how much my friends watch out for me. MG, thanks for saving me from a night that sounds like something that would have pushed me over the edge into killing myself. JW brought vodka and listened to me cry. The wife made me watch "On a Boat" to cheer me up.

I had an interview and I think it went well. Also got a follow-up email from another prospective job. Fingers crossed that the one I really want will call next week.

After three weeks, three chiropractic adjustments and a massage, I finally woke up pain-free. Had I known my insurance was going to cover it all, I would have done this a long time ago. I've got nine days left and you can bet I am taking full advantage of it. Scheduling three more massages before it's over...

Yesterday I got a tattoo. It's small and only took about 15 minutes, but I love it. While we were waiting for the appointment, we went to another studio. This guy does fucking rad, beautiful work and he wants to do my peacock tattoo!! I am now accepting donations since the price of this one will be equal to a small car.

Sixteen Candles is on. It's movies and pajamas for the rest of the day.

And here's to hoping that next week brings far more positives than negatives.

Week 1 of Unemployment

2011-02-12T17:45:00.000-08:00

Sucks.

Yep, one week ago I was laid off. There was something about financials and making "tough decisions", blah, blah blah. Since I was the only one in my department that was let go, it's hard not to take it personally. And yes, it sucks.

I've been trying to stay positive though. I have found 7 or 8 jobs to apply to, filed for unemployment, spiffed up my resume, everything I'm supposed to do. I've also slept until 11:00, watched a dozen movies on Netflix and eaten banana pudding for breakfast.

It's been a weird week. When I'm lazy I feel guilty about it, but most of the time I can't figure out what to do first and remain immobilized. I went to Ignite Bend Wednesday night and, in the course of telling a friend about the jobs I'd applied for, discovered I was smack dab in the middle of a group of one of the companies I'd applied to. Impromptu networking. Good thing I washed my hair.

What's made the difference and kept me from shutting down in utter panic is the support I've received from my friends. Work friends, new friends, old friends, family. Kind words, hugs, a Super Bowl party, girls' night out, emails with offers of help. My friends are invaluable and the best and I love them to pieces.

We'll see what the next week brings. Hopefully calls for interviews, which brings its own set of nervous problems. More working out is on the agenda, a dentist appointment, lunch with a friend, maybe a trip to the dog park and hours more of Netflix movies.

Most importantly? Trying to breathe.

Another One Bites the Dust Storm of Raid

2011-02-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

It happened again. If you don't already know the saga, you can read about it here and here and here.

Yesterday I killed another black widow. In my house. Number 13, 14? I don't know. I've lost count. And I have nothing clever left to say about it.

Except that since they keep reproducing in my house, I think the bitches are getting better dates than I am.

The Small Moments Count the Most

2011-02-01T10:18:00.000-08:00

I once had the thought that I really know very little about my mom. I didn’t know her as a child or a young adult. For the first couple of years I wasn’t really conscious of her as a separate being and have very little memory of that time anyway. For many years I only thought of her as Mom and not as a person. If I know so little about my mom as an individual, who I’ve known my whole life, how well do I really know anyone?

As my daughter grows up, I think I know everything about her. Since I’ve known her for her whole life, not just mine. Since I’ve been there since the very beginning. Day one. I know she had not a single birthmark. I know when she broke her collarbone, who her first best friend was. I know her favorite foods, her favorite color, her favorite TV show. I know what she wants to be when she grows up and how sweet she looks when she sleeps. On top of it all, she tells me everything. More than I want to know sometimes.

Once in a while, though, she surprises me. Like last night.

She wants to get a job. She wants to go to ballet camp next year. Yesterday she told me her bright idea of how she is going to earn money. She is going to get gigs around town playing her guitar and singing. Um. She just started playing at the beginning of the school year. She also said this is how she is going to start her career. She’s 14 and starting her “career”. I sort of brushed it off. I didn’t take it seriously, but I’m also not going to tell her she can’t. That it won’t happen. Because who knows? Maybe it will. Maybe she will be the one out of thousands who makes it. I don’t tell her that she can’t or won’t.

She asked to play a couple of songs for me that she’s been working on. That’s when it happened. Her voice was beautiful. The songs she chose were ones I had never heard but very lovely. Fitting. When did this happen? How did I not know? This is my child? My heart swelled. I thought it would burst.

Halfway through the third song, a tear rolled down my cheek. By the time she was done, I needed a box of Kleenex. And in her teenaged-attitude voice she asked, “Are you crying??” I asked her to sing it again and she rolled her eyes a bit and told me not to cry again. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t. She really hated me clapping and cheering.

She was so beautiful and I could actually envision her playing somewhere. I told her this and then I planned her outfit. Before I could even say it, she said the exact outfit I was thinking of, down to the boots! Ha. I guess I know her pretty well after all.

Surprises are nice sometimes too.

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad."

2011-01-31T17:58:00.000-08:00

In order to tell you what I am about to, I had to make a double Cosmo. Also it's Monday. And I'm PMSing. And, after all, this blog has "martini" in the title. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't need an excuse, I drink every day anyway. But it really does help if I'm going to have to relive Friday night.

I said that I had a bad date. My guy friends all agreed that he was a tool, but seemed a bit incredulous at how much of a tool he really was. When I relayed more of the details to a girlfriend, she said it sounded like something made up, but she knew I wouldn't do that. People, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

There were several points at which I should have ended the date, but I think I was in shock; I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Besides, I wouldn't have this great story to tell you if I had. What follows are some of the lowlights.

1. Within 30 seconds he insulted me by telling me I'm short. Kind of douchey, but I was nice and chalked it up to nerves.

2. 45 minutes later, he asked if my boobs are real. Seriously. "How about those? Are they real?" I looked at him and said, "Did you really just ask me that? Really?" Total dick move. I still don't know what to say about that.

3. If I talked about a girlfriend, it turned into some kind of sexual innuendo. He actually said "I'm a lesbian." Barf. Gross.

4. He called his kids assholes. I know that dealing with teenagers is difficult. And it's personal. But I don't call my kid a bitch. Even if she's acting like one. Or an asshole. So what kind of parent does that? A bad one.

5. Next, he invited himself to see Empty Space Orchestra with me. I had planned on going with The Wife after drinks, but he decided he also wanted to go. Fine, whatever. Stalker.

6. We went to dinner. He asked what I wanted for an appetizer. I looked at the menu and declared "Tempura!" He looked at me flatly and said, "You know that's fried." "Um, yeah. And?" He did not order the tempura. Apparently there was a fat quota for the evening that I wasn't aware of. And I was too fat, but nobody told me. Asshole.

7. He went on and on about Charlie Sheen. He apparently worships a drug addict. He actually said "Charlie Sheen is living every guy's wet dream." And "I'd snort a briefcase full of coke but I get drug-tested so I can't." He also wishes he could sleep with porn stars. Unbelievable.

8. At this point, The Wife texted to see where I was. I was just about done with The Jerk and told her to meet us at dinner on the way to see ESO. I practically begged her to come meet me. Being a Good Wife, she did. I thought The Jerk was going to jizz in his pants seeing the two of us together. Barf. Gross. Pretty sure he thought he was going to get the two of us. No. No way.

9. Later, like the next day, Wifey told me that he talked about "choking bitches out." I had stopped listening at that point. I also didn't want to encourage him to talk anymore, because he was getting really loud and drawing a lot of attention to himself.

10. We went to Silver Moon. He decided that my hair was really soft and he needed to touch it every five minutes. Ew. Uninvited. He touched my ass, I slapped him. I told him not to be inappropriate. Did I ask you to touch me? No. No I didn't.

11. There was a drunk guy at ESO. What?? Someone got drunk at a concert? In a bar? The Jerk looks at him (I assume, I didn't want to look at either one of them) and says, "Classing up the place, aren't you?" Wtf? Who engages the drunk guy?

12. My favorite local band starts. Wifey and I move to the front. We start dancing. For some reason, The Jerk assumes that my dancing is an invitation to make out with me publicly. Ew. No. I move away. Several times. The very worst part? There is a very cute, very young boy eyeing me. I was cockblocked. Damn it!!!

13. Since he had taken a taxi to meet me, I had to drive him back to his hotel. He tried to entice me with a pull-out bed. Uh, no thanks. Oh, he had a king-size bed? No thank you. His parting words getting out of my car? "You women are all the same. You talk about how much you want dick, but when it comes time to put out you're too scared." What? What the fuck? Did I really hear that? At what point did I express I wanted to have sex with a misogynistic asshole? I must have missed that part of the evening.

The only thing I am thankful for regarding this date is that he took the hint and didn't contact me again. Whew.

The next night The Wife and I went back to The Scene of the Crime and I ordered the tempura and the tempura roll and anything else fried we could find on the menu. It was awesome. And fun. And the exact opposite of the night before.

Yep. Girls rule. Boys drool. I know who has my back.

Bitter, Party of One

2011-01-31T10:15:00.000-08:00

Conversation today with a co-worker friend. For real. I make nothing up.

E: well how about this for some suck -- i went out to get in my jeep this morning
and somebody had opened one of those starkist bags of tuna and scattered it all around the inside

Me: bag of tuna?

E: a pouch of tuna, instead of the kind in a can

Me: was the pouch open? like mushy tuna was in your car?

E: yes! the pouch was empty on the floorboard and tuna was splattered everywhere inside my jeep

Me: how did that happen?

E: no idea. some shithead teens in my neighborhood, i guess

Me: yeah, that sucks.
but you're getting married.
so my bad date trumps your tuna car.

Why Girls' Night Rocks

2011-01-30T11:12:00.000-08:00

I had a date Friday night, my first real date in ages. It doesn't matter who he was, because I won't be seeing him again. It was a reminder of why I don't date, the definition of a Bad Date. This should sum it all up: his role model is Charlie Sheen and he mentioned him at least four times throughout the evening.

While we were having drinks, a group of six or seven girls came and sat at the table next to us. I soon wished I was at their table instead and truly appreciating the time I spend with my girlfriends.

This is why girls' night is better than 98% of the dates we all go on.

1. Makeup isn't required and a ponytail is considered a hairstyle.
2. Pajamas are perfectly appropriate when having girls' night in.
3. We can skip shaving our legs. And elsewhere.
4. Nobody asks if our boobs are real (and a guy who's good will find out on his own, without asking).
5. Women know the difference between a cock and a dick. We only want one of them.
6. There are no lesbian references.
7. There is no inappropriate, unwanted touching.
8. We can talk about sex all night in dirty detail and it's not considered a come-on.
9. Nobody is appalled if we order fried food. We can eat as much as we want. We can have fried dessert and nobody gives a fuck.
10. If we're a bit too loud it's because we're having a good time, and not showing the world how obnoxious we are.
11. We know that we dance for us, not because we want to make out in public.
12. We laugh our asses off more with each other than any guy could ever get us to do.
13. We can get as drunk as we want and not be taken advantage of.
14. Impressions aren't necessary. Our friends already love us.
15. Girls' night is always the perfect way to spend a weekend and makes us so glad that we are women.

Cheers, ladies!!

How to Create a Crime Scene. Or Avoid One. Whatever.

2011-01-19T09:38:00.000-08:00

Fiona and I have made many delicious, tasty noms since she came to live with me. There was the bourbon cake, a dozen loaves of bread, “ocean rolls”, key lime pie, whipped cream, bread bowls, pizza crust and crème brulee. Like all relationships, we were in the honeymoon phase. I even introduced her to my friends. And then, like all relationships, we had our first little tiff. I admit, it was my fault. I got a little overeager, but she let me know quickly, and near-disastrously, to back off.

We were making a red velvet cheesecake. I was smart enough to turn Fiona off when I was adding my liquid ingredients since she wasn’t wearing her pouring shield. I thought I was saving a step by not having one more thing to wash afterward. Shows what I know.

I put in the cream cheese, eggs, sugar, vanilla, buttermilk. The recipe called for two bottles of red food coloring, but several of the reviews said that one was plenty. I poured in one bottle, mixed it up, and decided I really needed the second bottle because I wanted a deep, rich red color. I poured in the second bottle. And then I flicked the mixing speed switch too quickly, thinking I’m such a pro now. But I skipped the first two speeds and it went too fast! Fiona spat out most of that second bottle of red food coloring. All over my kitchen counter. My beige kitchen counter. I reached over and turned her off and took half a second to survey the damage. My kitchen looked like a crime scene. “Blood” all over the counter, “blood” spatters all over Fiona and her mixing bowl. (Oh, if only Dexter were there!) It looked like someone had killed a small animal on my kitchen counter. Violently.

After scrubbing up the mess and wiping Fiona down, we resumed our task. I took it slower the second time. The cheesecake? Obviously not as red as I wanted, but still every bit as delicious.

Last night we made up. We got out one of the new attachments and shredded cheese for a quiche in 30 seconds.

Tonight we have a date to make ocean rolls. I think we’re back on track.

A Special Kind of Hell

2011-01-16T16:54:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to do it. I wouldn't have, especially with the hangover causing waves of nausea in my alcohol-lined stomach. But I needed toilet paper. There was no way around it.

I had to go to Walmart.

I felt like shit, so I wanted to blend in. I did take a shower though. I may shop at Walmart, but I'm not a Person of Walmart. I'm not that gross. Dried my hair. Squeezed into a pair of jeans, not an easy task with booze bloat, threw on a t-shirt, sans bra. Remember the "fitting in" part? Slipped on some tennis shoes and was on my way.

The parking lot alone made me want to turn back and hide in the safety of my house. It's like a really sad carnival. Nobody really knows how to drive, most bodies are shuffling or stumbling around. Walmart zombies.

I walked in the door and was hit with the foulest stench. Seriously. Why the fuck would I smell stale beer? Did someone break a six pack or just throw up? I held my breath until I made it through that vomit-inducing odor.

I needed a shopping cart. Too hungover to actually carry anything. But there was a large Mexican family loitering around the carts. Like twelve of them. Fucking people, just move the fuck out of my way! It's Walmart, have they never been there before? Take a cart and move the fuck along.

I got toilet paper first, without another clusterfuck of loiterers. I needed laundry detergent too, just the next aisle over. Turned the corner and there was a really fat woman in some gold, shiny thing taking up half the aisle. I don't know where you even buy "clothes" like that. It hurt my eyes and offended me as a human being.

Decided that some Gatorade might be nice to have. It was on the way to the check-out stand. And this brought up a question. Does Walmart not know who their customers are? The fattest people in America shop there and yet they have the tiniest aisles. It's almost impossible to pass another cart. These aren't the kind of people I want to be that close to. I have boundaries, assholes.

Normally I go to the self-checkout to avoid any interaction with another person. Not this time. A sad little stringy, gray-haired lady asked if I was ready as I tried to pass by. Oh, what the hell. I was really too tired to all the work. She looked like she needed a purpose in life.

Lesson learned? Don't be close to running out of toilet paper and hungover at the same time.

Moments of Gratitude

2011-01-06T14:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday wasn’t a great day. It started out pretty great, I had coffee and an Ocean Roll with a friend I hadn’t seen for a while and it was just really nice to catch up; she’s one of those people that just makes you feel better being around her. I trotted back to the office in a little happy bubble.

A few hours later, that bubble burst when Reality poked its ugly head into my day. And for such a stupid little thing. But it’s the stupid little things that pile up and overwhelm me. They shouldn’t mean anything, in the grand scheme of Life. Really, what meaning does a cable bill have? Or putting gas in the car? But they’re nagging and immediate and demand to be taken care of. With resources I don’t always have readily available. And some days, like yesterday, it just feels like too much for one person to handle. At least one of me. I found myself wiping away tears at my desk, wanting to go home and crawl under the covers and hide, but knowing that wouldn’t happen because there was more Reality waiting at home for me. Dinner to be made, ballet taxi duties, homework checking and laundry.

I stared blearily at my computer screen until I saw an email pop up. It was from one of my favorite people. It wasn’t a long email; it contained no earth-shattering news of joy or offer of rescue. It just made me smile. It gave me a friendly little connection with something good, at just the right time, and helped me get through the rest of the day. It took just a little feather off of my heavy load, but I felt it and it made a difference.

It’s these little moments of gratitude that my friends give me that make such a difference. They don’t seem like anything that should change my life. Except they really do. And in smaller, bigger, ways, they change me.

My book club has no idea what they’ve meant to me. And, had I met them each individually, in another setting, I don’t know that we would have been friends. At first glance, they’re so different from me. Most days I feel like such a dork. I’m goofy and potty-mouthed. They all seemed so much smarter and I was a bit intimidated in the beginning, watching what I said and choosing my words carefully. Attempting to mirror their sentence structure and Smartness.

Then one night, one book unraveled it all. I found myself emotionally vomiting all over the table after our beautiful dinner. All of these feelings I didn’t want to share with people I hardly knew came spilling out, revealing parts of me I thought would make me as ugly in their eyes as I was in mine. Their simple questions about my thoughts provoked answers that burned like shame.

The next day I received a single email from M that healed it all. My comments, my sharing had meant something significant to someone else. Shame melted into acceptance.

The remaining year of books brought more challenges, frustrations, reflection. And through our dinners, - ham, mushroom sauce, caramel cake, jelly and bread bowls – I’ve learned to trust, accept, and know that I can be myself with people that I really respect. They let me because they are my friends. There are times that I even think I become my Best Self with them, because of our shared love of books. And food.

I love that I have such a variety of friends. Each one gives me something different, teaches me something about myself and about the world.

When I first met C, I thought her goody-two-shoes act was just that. Nobody could be that naïve or that good. Someone once said that rainbows and unicorns follow her around. Maybe they do. Because she really, truly is Good. I didn’t think that kind of person existed anymore, but she does. And because she does, I’m a little less jaded.

From A, I learned to really look below the surface, that people have hidden talents and loves that add more dimensions than you see when you first look. MH has shown me what vibrance looks like.

I know who I can depend on for advice at work. I know who to call when the tears just won’t stop for the hundredth time and she’ll listen with patience and not judgment. I know that with this smorgasbord of friends, I’ll never be hungry.

It might be a simple email or a lazy evening of watching movies. These are my quiet moments of gratitude that keep me going from one day to the next, sometimes even from one step to the next. If I start to tear, there is someone there to fix me. Only they’re not just fixing me. Each time they patch me up, they’re weaving something stronger. Someone stronger.

I’m learning to accept myself because they accept me. For that, I will be eternally grateful. There is no greater gift.

Holiday Highlights

2011-01-03T13:10:00.000-08:00

I’ve been meaning to write about my Christmas, but I’m lazy and I wasn’t sure anyone really cared, so I thought I’d just give the highlights. You win a doughnut if you can guess the theme.

Nutcracker weekend -

This went surprisingly smoothly, given the chances of someone being sick, hurt or complaining endlessly. D actually was sick and her toes did hurt, but she kept her complaints to a minimum. I was sober the entire weekend, my dad and his wife visited and I think I only complained about the lack of help we got from D’s dad. That hardly even counts, and when I consider how well I got along with my dad, I just get extra brownie-acting-like-a-grown-up points.

I took Stepmom (it is still really weird to say that after living over 35 years without one) to my cookbook club’s cookie exchange. I had at least one of everything and attempted to get everyone else drunk off of my bourbon balls. The parents helped me get my tree up and we watched the Snowflake/Flower Soloist flit across the stage.

The big news of the weekend was that my dad bought me the coveted Pink Artisan KitchenAid Stand Mixer, which I promptly named Fiona. I. Love. Her. She is going to change my life! She’s already changed my waistline.

Christmas –

Christmas Eve was very low-key, with a feast of breads and cheeses. Fiona and I made basil-beer bread. The leftovers are going to make really good croutons.

Christmas Day was also mellow. D came home and had to open her presents right away. No brownie-acting-like-a-grown-up points for her! She acted like she was four, but whatever. I wanted to make cinnamon rolls with Fiona and even had the perfect-looking, fluffy dough all rolled out when I realized I was out of cinnamon. Because I’m awesome, I used cardamom instead and turned them into “ocean rolls” and they were delicious!!

Wifey came over, we opened more presents, and found out who the best gift-giver is. Since the gifts were given to me, it’s not me. But I’m really good at getting gifts! Go me! We had a fondue feast with Monterey Jack cheese, red pepper and artichoke fondue, shrimp, mushrooms, apples, lemon parsley sauce, lime cilantro sauce and two bottles of wine.

My gifts? leopard-print slippers, Fiona, scarf, Boston Terrier ornament, French Bulldog ornament, the most darling apron, the softest-ever blanket and money that I partially used to buy accessories for Fiona. A stylish girl needs the right accessories.

New Year’s –

Another low-key evening (not the theme, by the way). A few friends and lots of food. I made tortilla soup, queso dip, guacamole, the Best Dressing Ever and “key lime” pie. JM brought flautas and we had margaritas and champagne. We played poker and Loaded Questions, which isn’t as dirty as it sounds but it can be. Mostly we just laughed our faces off and thanked JW for letting us know that the most dangerous animal in the world is a boar. We made it to midnight and wondered why on earth they still put Dick Clark on television.

New Year’s day I was super happy to wake up without a hangover! It was my little present to myself. I enjoyed one last day of laziness reading a book and napping, followed by a movie marathon while eating Chinese food. The Watchmen completely surprised me and I am thinking of nominating the “book” for a book club choice. Dinner for Schmucks was sad, funny and made me want my own little mouse diorama. Of course if it was about me, my mouse would have to have the best pair of shoes and her own tiny, miniature version of Fiona. And a tiny martini glass. I was “forced” to watch Saving Private Ryan when I made the mistake of revealing that I had never seen it. It is a great movie, but shouldn’t have been the last one we watched. It actually gave me nightmares.

All in all, it was exactly what I wanted and more. Fiona and I have also made crème brulee, French baguettes, whipped cream and bread bowls. Some things have been more successful than others, but, you know, we’re still getting to know each other. There is pie crust in our future.

In the Spirit of Christmas, I am Declaring War

2010-12-23T22:15:00.001-08:00

I am declaring war on spiders. And I am serious as a heart attack.

I once tried to make an agreement with a spider. I laid out the terms of him staying in my house, all of which I thought were reasonable. The fucker broke every single agreement. Lesson learned? Spiders cannot be trusted.

Second lesson learned? I am way too easy and forgiving. Well, I can tell you right here, right now, that is changing. There will be no mercy from Here. On. Out.

Last Saturday, D and I left the house on a small errand. As we're pulling out of the driveway, and the garage door is going down, I see, what? A spider dangling off of the garage door? I stop the door, pull up under it and see, what-the-fuck-is-that? Another motherfucking, goddamn black widow. Number what? Nine? In the last two years? I get out of the car, grab the can of Raid and spray her ass. She shrivels, then starts crawling up her little webby string. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Seriously? Die already, you fucking bitch!!!!! I got the shovel out and broke at least one of her legs. She still wasn't dead, but I was satisfied that eventually she would suffocate and, in the meantime, wouldn't get far with her two broken legs.

Nine days later, I'm home for lunch. After devouring the most delicious sandwich with the tastiest bread (thanks to Fiona), I'm on my way out the door when I see a spider. In my laundry room. On the fucking door. And, what? What is this? Oh, dear God, it's another fucking black widow. Must be a daughter of the one from the week before, because she was smaller. But just as resistant to Raid. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. Finally she crawled into a little ball and I was on my merry way.

Today I was noticing the "cobwebs" in the corners of my bedroom. I investigated all corners of the house. I found a spider in the corner of my bedroom. Yes, my sanctuary. The room in which I sleep. The last place I want to be unconscious knowing that there are eight-legged creatures about. Spray. Crawl. Spray. Crawl. WTF??? Are you fucking kidding me???? It can't be. Spray. Spray. Spray. It finally curled up into a tiny little ball and I was able to move it to the sink. And, yes. There it was. Faint, but it was there. A small, reddish-brown spot on the abdomen. Mother-fucking black widows are taking over my house.

So, here it is. I am officially and resoundingly declaring war. Anything with eight legs is not allowed in my house and will die. No mercy. No questions asked.

Merry Fucking Christmas, arachnids.

A Week's Recap, or Things That Seem Really Weird But Are Just My Life

2010-12-20T10:50:00.000-08:00

The week started normal. I guess. I don’t really remember all the way back to Monday, but I’m going to call it normal.

Tuesday is when the weirdness started happening. My manager scheduled a “brief discussion” for our team. A “brief discussion” is usually a bad thing. I don’t look forward to them. I dreaded this one. Even more so when he started the “discussion” with a red face and clearing his throat like he was trying not to cry and then saying, “It is with great sorrow….” Okay, stop right here. This is my thought process. “What? Why is he going to cry? What? Wtf? Great sorrow? Oh shit, our whole department is being eliminated. They’re moving everything out to Dehli. Oh, shit!! I don’t have a job? Wtf am I supposed to do? How can they do this right before Christmas? What ASSHOLES!!” And then he finished his sentence. “…. that I announce my resignation.” And then this went through my head, “What? Oh, it’s just you? Well then, that’s okay. As long as I still have a job. Hmmm, is this voluntary or involuntary? What’s going on that I don’t know about? Who cares, as long as I have a job. Oh shit, he really is going to cry. I can’t look at him. But I can’t look away, because he’ll think I’m being really rude and that I don’t care and he’ll be all offended, but if I look, oh crap, I’m going to start crying. Fuck, this is the weirdest ‘brief discussion’ in the history of Ever.”

The next day in my one-on-one with my manager, I tried to get the real scoop, but he wouldn’t bite. He hinted though, so I think I will be able to weasel it out of him. And I organized a roast of him in our Toastmasters meeting and enjoyed watching him turn about 25 shades of red.

Wednesday was my favorite holiday activity of the season. My office “adopts” a family that we buy presents for and I delivered them with a couple of other “elves” that afternoon. The kids in the family were so sweet and polite and obviously very thankful. But not so mushy that they made me cry and I liked them even better for that. Although the mom said she would send me pictures of their Christmas day and that might make me cry, but at least I’ll be at my desk and not making a fool of myself in public.

Friday was the most boring night in a while. Nothing to do. Nothing. For dinner I had a piece of pie and a Manhattan. Or two. I watched something on tv, it’s not even memorable. And then I got really grossed out by a worm on my sliding glass door. I know, right? How bizarre is that? How do worms live in 20 degree weather? The really gross part was that it was in the corner of the door frame so I couldn’t just brush it off. And since it was really creeping me out and I didn’t want it finding its way in my house, (because fuck knows there are enough damn spiders in there) I did something totally gross. I got out the long lighter and burned it. I know PETA will be all up my ass for this, but I don’t care. Except I did feel really gross when it curled its little body around trying to get away from it. Only it didn’t really try because it still clung to the door frame. Seriously, if someone was trying to set me on fire, I wouldn’t just lie down and twist around, I would fucking run. So really, it just shows how dumb this worm was and that it deserved to die. I’m not sure it did die though, it eventually just fell down and I was so ooged out that I had actually tried to burn a living thing that I closed the door and went to bed.

Saturday was a delightful adventure. M and I went to see the gingerbread houses in Sunriver. She insisted on trying my $85 tea and I insisted on making cookies for the drive. The houses were really cute (some of them) and I took pictures of them until my retarded, defective camera decided to stop working. Afterwards, we went to the Owl’s Nest for a couple of drinks and some soup. It was perfect – garland with twinkly lights next to us, a warm fireplace, and a view of snow-covered trees. The only thing that would have made it more perfect, and that I kept imagining, would have been a horse and sleigh jingling merrily by.

After my picture-perfect afternoon, I attended a party that promised beer pong. Yeah, the dichotomy of the two activities wasn’t lost on my either. There were a couple of drunk girls who looked to be about 20 attempting to sing Journey. One of them called it “baby-making music”. Um, sure. Whatever. Probably the best conversation of the evening involved E and his disappointment that Mike Tyson might be gay, which follows.

Me: Yeah, I could buy him being gay.
E: But he was my hero!
Me: Really? How do you define heroism? Biting someone’s ear off?
E: Well, no. I meant back in the 80’s.
Me: Oh, when he was beating his wife and raping women?
E: ………….

He walked off to tell the same exact story to a guy. I guess girls just don’t understand real heros.

Yep, always end on a high note. Or at least the last word.

Crack - It Does a Mom Good

2010-12-03T14:38:00.000-08:00

I want a new drug. Not like Huey Lewis, but like Crack for Moms. It can’t be addictive, it’s just something that moms get (for free) to help them get through the holidays without losing sleep, something that makes us moms look super happy and cheerful and helps us get everything done and done really well so that everyone thinks we are miracle workers and they will wonder at our amazing skills and charming dispositions. Even if I can’t have it for the whole season, can I just have it for this weekend?

Nutcracker weekend is D’s favorite and my most hated. Between rehearsals, sore toes, gift-buying , tree decorating, little sleep, super adrenaline rushes and winter weather, it’s a minor miracle that we both make it through in one piece. D had her first meltdown last night; she broke down in tears when I called to tell her that missing school today was not an option. That’s when she told me she broke her retainer and, since there aren’t enough hours in the day for school, orthodontist appointments, eating and rehearsal, I gave in and let her skip school. However, I canceled her sleepover for Saturday night which is “so unfair” and means that I “really don’t understand” her. Really? Because I never have to make compromises or give up things I want to do? Oh wait, this is supposed to be my free weekend but I gave it up so that I can cover hair-braiding duty, rehearsal/performance taxiing, assemble gifts for her fellow ballerinas and make sure she eats properly. I am SO mean. Is my evil witch wart showing?

I’m not really complaining, really just venting. And my lack of energy actually is a problem. I want to enjoy the holidays. I want D to enjoy her ballet. I want everyone around me to enjoy themselves and not have to stare at dark circles under my eyes or get their heads snapped off because, right now, most questions that have anything to do with my time feels like my blood is being drawn and is draining the life out of me.

I do take comfort in knowing I’m not the only one. It’s the challenge for all moms. And a few dads, but I think for the most part, dads are allowed to be grumpy. Dads are forgiven for doing things not-the-right way. Moms aren’t. Moms are expected to be superhuman. Honestly, I’m okay with that. I just need some help.

Mom Crack – something to get us through the holidays, birthdays, graduations and any other times in our lives that our families are depending on us to get an extraordinary job done with style, grace and a smile on our face. If it removes wrinkles and gray hair – BONUS!!

Someone get on that. Now. Please. Thank you in advance.

Redefining Beauty

2010-12-01T11:40:00.000-08:00

There’s a blog I like to read because the author is super funny and smart and I think we’d be BFF’s if we ever met. Only not better BFF’s than me and the Wife. Which, if we ever meet, I’ll have to tell her up front so she can decide if she’s okay with being second-best BFF but she totally would, because she’d still get to be a BFF with me and I’m just awesome. Anyway, she’s super funny and irreverent but sometimes also really poignant and her post today really made me stop and think.

It’s all about beauty and she asked her readers to reply saying why they are beautiful. And that’s what stopped me. Because most days, as in 364 out of 365, I don’t think of myself as beautiful. On good days I’m cute, on spectacular days when my hair cooperates and my jeans hug my ass just the right way, I’ll go so far as to say I’m hot, except that hot is really more of an attitude. Beauty, to me, has always been a physical description.

When I was growing up, I thought I’d never be beautiful. I was unfortunate enough to inherit the nose that just about everyone on my dad’s side has been cursed with. I say cursed because I hated it. It was big, wide at the tip and with a giant bump on the bridge. I started to notice it when I was around 11. That was when I realized that it wasn’t cute and the more I looked in the mirror, the more I decided it was ugly. By the time I was 12 I was going to bed and night with my finger pressed firmly on the bump, hoping that it would straighten out overnight. I started hating pictures of myself because all I saw was that Nose. I didn’t want to be seen from the side and even fretted about other drivers seeing my profile in my car. All my life, I wanted a nose job.

When my daughter was born, I questioned my desire to “fix” myself. What kind of message would it send her about self-acceptance? Did I want to emphasize the importance of appearance and image and beauty over intelligence and inner strength? I chose a non-girly name for her because I wanted her to be strong. In her toddler years I avoided telling her how cute she looked and instead focused on the smart things she did or said. She broke her collarbone when she was nearly two, which shattered her confidence in her physical abilities, so much so that she refused to go down the slide at the park, she was so terrified. I put her in a preschool with a focus on gymnastics, giving her back her confidence and her joy in playing and tumbling.

However, nothing I did in those early years prevented her from turning into a girly-girl. She likes pink, loves her hair long, she’s been boy-crazy since the age of four, loves ballet and has asked to change her name to Sophie. She’s a girl and she loves being a girl. She loves to look and feel pretty.

So, four years ago, I decided that I wanted to feel pretty too, that if there was something I could do about it, that I would. I researched plastic surgery and surgeons in my area. I scoured message boards on nose jobs, compared dozens and dozens of before-and-after pictures. Six months later, I made an appointment with a surgeon.

I liked him right away. Every place that offers advice will tell you to interview several doctors before making a decision, but I didn’t think it was necessary. Dr. Petroff was completely honest in his assessment, telling me I would be pleased with my results, without making any promises about how incredibly beautiful I would be or how it would drastically change my life. He was matter-of-fact and I trusted him. I scheduled the surgery appointment a week later.

I knew, from all of my research, that I’d feel a range of emotions after surgery, including depression. But I felt great. I felt great the week after, even with the bandage and the black eyes and the thumbprint-shaped bruise on my cheek from someone holding me down because I kept waking up during the surgery. (Here’s a tip – if you drink like a fish, tell your anesthesiologist that you drink like a fish. Don’t minimize that shit, they ask for a reason.) I couldn’t wait to see the “new” me.

I felt great until the day the bandages came off. My nose was still swollen, still red, I wasn’t magically transformed. I still looked like me. I cried all the way home. It was a three-hour drive.

It took a couple of days to calm down and decide that I really hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life and to know that looking like myself was okay. When I went back to work, nobody said anything. Nobody noticed. It’s still a little disconcerting when I tell people, even now, that I had my nose done. They say I look the same, that I didn’t need it.

But I did. I needed it for me. And people did notice. I went out for drinks with a friend a couple of months after my surgery and realized that people were looking at me. Guys were checking me out. I could smile back and flirt and it was fun. I realized that they weren’t reacting to my physical appearance, but to my attitude. I felt different - better, even sassy. I had a confidence that I never had before. And for that reason, I’d do it all again.

I still don’t love pictures of myself. I sometimes catch glimpses of the wideness of my nose, or I think I look too fat or that my hair looks goofy. I think that’s just called Being a Woman. The difference is that I don’t hide like I did. I want to be in photographs because I want the memories. And sometimes, I really do like the way I look, and that feels really, really good.

Today I decided to answer the challenge of explaining why I’m beautiful. And you know what? It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. It wasn’t that hard. And you know what else? It has nothing to do with how I look.

These are the reasons I’m beautiful:

I am beautiful because I love fiercely.
I am beautiful because I am constantly learning and evolving.
I am beautiful because I have a daughter that I am proud of.
I am beautiful because I can laugh and cry and know that I can't live without doing both.
I am beautiful because I learn to love myself a little more each day.
I am beautiful because I'm a woman.

Don't Eat the Yellow Snow

2010-12-01T09:56:00.000-08:00

There is plenty of it at my house. My dogs hate snow and demonstrate their dislike through sheer laziness. They take about two steps outside before squatting to pee. They’re effectively peeing on the patio. Technically, they’re not even in the yard. Rembrandt will even stare me down while he pees, like it’s my fault that it’s cold, like I made it snow and he’s going to punish me for freezing his balls off. He forgets that he has no balls.

Luckily, they do venture out into the actual yard to do their number two business. Sometimes I’m even nice enough to shovel a pathway for them to the side of the house so they’re not sinking down to their bellies with each step they take.

Lately, they’ve been using a snowless patch in the corner of the yard. I watched Remy this morning because I was in a hurry to feed him before getting ready for work (also because when he’s ready to come in, he’s really ready and he’ll practically knock the door down trying to get back into the house.) As soon as he was done, I opened the door to let him in and he made a beeline for it. Except it was the most comical thing I’ve seen in a while. He’s running full force, with his ears pressed back against his head and his eyes bulging out in this wild, frantic expression. The snow was mostly ice on top, so his back feet slid out from under him with each step, sending him more and more sideways, which only made him more frantic. He looked retarded. And hilarious. I laughed until I thought I would throw up.

Fine, so I’ll put up with a little yellow snow for some quality entertainment.

Squished Boobs Part 2

2010-11-29T15:14:00.000-08:00

Since I don’t have to report that I have boob cancer, I’m ready to report on my mammogram. Or, as D called it, my mammaries exam.

Yes, you heard right. Mammogram. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Raise your hand if you love getting them done. Yeah, I didn’t think so. I wasn’t too pleased when my doctor’s “Happy Birthday!” was followed with “now get a mammogram. You’re 40 and old and probably already cancer-ridden. I hope you’ve written your will.” Okay, so I added that last part, but she still didn’t score any points with me and we are not now BFF’s.

When I told my friends that I had made the dreaded appointment, I got lots of sympathy. Except for a couple of people, I’m the first in my group of friends to experience this monumental Rite of Passage. Those that actually had already done it said it wasn’t so bad. But I didn’t believe them. There’s a reason that women dread getting their boobs squished and I now have firsthand experience of why exactly that is. Remember, you heard it here first.

Before my appointment I turned to my good friend Google, who came up with some interesting facts that it was important to know beforehand. Things like don’t wear lotion or deodorant. Be sure to wear either a skirt or pants because you’ll be topless and you don’t want to also be bottomless. They don’t supply gowns, they supply crop tops. Think of a table cloth versus a napkin, you don’t want your nether regions exposed. And before any of you have some smart-ass comment about what else would you wear, some of us actually do wear dresses on occasion. However, if you do wear overalls or jumpsuits, don’t wear them to your appointment. Actually, just don’t wear them at all. In general. Don’t.

On the morning of my appointment, I stared at my closet for probably 20 minutes, trying to decide which pair of jeans or skirt would give me the smallest mushroom top. What could I stand to be seen in topless? My closet stared back at me and said, “Not much. You’re a giant fat cow and you should be embarrassed to take your top off in front of anyone.” I hate my closet.

After deciding on the most forgiving pair of jeans that I own, along with cute boots to detract from the gut spillage, I tossed my deodorant in my purse and off I went to the radiology office. I hadn’t been there since the ultrasounds I had when I was pregnant. At least they didn’t make me hold my pee until I thought my eyeballs would burst, but I also knew I wouldn’t be taking home an image of tiny, cute little feet pressing against my belly.

When they called me in, I was relieved to find that the technician was not only older than me, but also fatter. How humiliating would it be to get topless in front of some skinny, super-model bitch? The second pleasant surprise was that Google Images lies. You don’t have to get totally topless, they let you poke out just a boob or maybe an arm, but for the most part, you can hide your waistband flaws. Google did not lie about how much you will be handled. If you don’t like strange women touching your breasts and moving them around, just get over it now. I was positioned more than once for each image, sometimes both boobs were manipulated into just the right pose or pushed up onto the shelf-thingy. Luckily the tech stood to the side of me so there wasn’t a chance for awkward eye contact. Really, there’s no need to make a situation more awkward than it already is.

So, once all of your boob is where she wants it to be, down comes the hard, plastic paddle that flattens your poor boob as near pancake-flat as possible. You have to hold your breath and stay absolutely still, so there’s no chance to look down and survey the damage, which is probably just as well. I know what you’re all asking, “Does it hurt?” What do you think? Why don’t you just take your hands and squeeze a boob down to the thickness of a piece of toast? Yes, it hurts. But it’s over really quickly. As soon as she took her little picture, the paddle thing released and I could breathe. Actually, I think the not breathing or moving was the hardest. There was something about having my breast in a vise that made me want to panic and staying still for 5 seconds was almost impossible.

To make myself feel better, I tried to start a conversation with the tech. And what did I come up with? The most juvenile-sounding question ever. Seriously. I sounded like a 12-year-old boy. “Is it weird that it’s your job to look at boobs all day?” Yep. THAT came out of my mouth. For a minute she looked at me like I’d just grown blue and orange-striped boobs with tongues of flame out of the sides of my head, which I thought was a teensy bit of an overreaction. Come on, don’t people say weird things when they’re nervous? And I have never, ever met anyone whose job it is to touch other women’s boobs all day. It’s not like I have any frame of reference.
Finally, she thought of an appropriate answer to my obviously inappropriate question.

She said that when she worked in Salem, students would come through for training and she said that all of the male students exclaimed how lucky she was and how she must have the best job in the world. First of all, unless she was a lesbian, I don’t know why she’d get such a kick out of it. The male species is so retarded sometimes. But her answer to the retards was “Well, sure. Except that most of the boobs I see are the age of your mothers and grandmothers.” Which grossed out the retards but made me feel so much better. In that light, I probably had the best boobs she’d seen all day! Actually, I’m rather fond of my boobs which is why I was so concerned about them being damaged and permanently flattened. They’re actually kinda great, but compared to 60 year old boobs, they’re practically rock stars! And here I was, foolishly comparing them to 21-year-olds.

Anyway, I was in and out of there in a shorter time than it has taken me to write this blog. Or for you to read it, for that matter. I know, I’m a little wordy, but you know you want every detail. I was sent on my merry little way and told that my doctor would get my results and I would get a letter.

Only I didn’t get a letter. I got a call. From my doctor’s office. Telling me I had to go back. They told me it was routine, that they get five or six of these a week. The technician had even told me at the time of my appointment and Google confirmed the “normalness”. Still, there’s that little “what if?” What if it turns out not normal? What if I do have cancer? What makes me so special that I deserve to dodge this bullet? I only had to wait a few days, with Thanksgiving falling in between, so I had plenty of food and friends to keep me occupied.

At the second appointment, the tech showed me the image of the breast and the spot they were “concerned” with. My boob, in black and white, with funny, squiggly lines and a teeny, tiny white spot I never would have seen had it not been pointed out to me. She took two more pictures, one at a different angle than the last time, assured me that I would know something before I left, and had me wait while she ran over to the radiologist’s office. She returned in less than 5 minutes, time I used to Facebook and Twitter, saying that it was probably a lymph node, but he really wanted an ultrasound to be sure.

The ultrasound technician looked like she was about 14 and had a round, perky little butt even in scrubs. This is where it gets to be less fair. Except she had the insecurity of youth that kept her from making any kind of small talk lest she reveal how stupid she thinks everyone else thinks she is. I was starting to wonder though, when it took her approximately 5 minutes to find the spot she was looking for. I wanted to yell out at least three times, “Stop! There it is! Eureka!” But I kept my mouth shut and gloated quietly when she finally found it, knowing that I was right all along. She took several measurements of it and trotted off to show the radiologist.

Again I waited less than 5 minutes, but it was 5 minutes of anxiety, picturing how I would tell my daughter that her mother was sick, wondering how extensive treatment would be, if I could keep working if only from home. The spot looked really tiny, how damaged would I look if they just cut it out? What decisions would I have to face and would I make the right ones?

Perky –Butt Blondie popped back in and informed me that the doctor was “convinced” it’s just a lymph node and I don’t have to do anything else until my next appointment in a year. My anxiety seemed a bit silly after that, but hey, it happens to people. It happens every day. I’m really not special enough for it not to be me. My only saving grace is that I’m not that nice of a person and only really nice people die tragic deaths so that they’re missed desperately and held up as shining examples of how one should live their life. Nobody’s going to hold me up as an example of grace or kindness or overwhelming generosity. So maybe I am safe. At least for now.

All you bitches who have been ordered to get your mammograms are now ordered by me to go get one. I did it first, without tears or an unnecessary amount of whining, which is unusual for me. So now you know.

It’s really not that bad.

To be continued....

2010-11-24T11:27:00.000-08:00

I was going to write about my lovely boob-squishing experience I had last week because I know everyone is dying to know what that is like. Also, I'm the first in my close group of friends to have experienced this dubitable rite of passage so I get to set the bar for complaints. ha ha.

Then my doctor called and said my results were inconclusive so I have to go back for more. Oh joy. Am I thankful for this? Oh yeah, I'm thankful it's only one boob and not both. Although it's the smaller of the two so I kind of feel like it's getting picked on.

Don't worry, I will tell all when the story is done. Also, it's totally routine. The tech even told me not to be surprised if I got called back. My doctor's office said they get five or six of these a week. Routine. Famous last word, right?

It's Not the Monster Under the Bed

2010-11-21T14:25:00.000-08:00

There are some things in life that one doesn't expect or imagine will happen. Freaky things, mortifying things. Wardrobe malfunctions. Faceplants. Total oops-moments. Last night was one such occasion. And seriously, I didn't make it up. I wouldn't want to.

There has been an ongoing saga with washing machines since I moved into this house. The outgoing hose was plugged into the wrong hole. (using the wrong hole is always a bad thing.) Then I had a washing machine death. A washing machine replacement, which required a hose replacement. It's a long and boring story, the point being that for the first time in a month, I was able to wash my sheets at home yesterday.

However, sheet removal led to the discovery that my mattress was severely sagging in the middle. Really, really sagging. And here I thought Pretty Piggy Princess Puppy had lost weight. I decided that the mattress just needed to be flipped. A feat that I attempted on my own. With a king-sized mattress. I tugged, I lifted, I pulled. Said mattress was halfway off when I made a worrisome discovery. The box springs were also sagging. Which meant that the actual bed frame was broken. At this point I have seriously started to consider that there is a poltergeist in my house with a really twisted sense of humor. I had neither the energy nor the time to get to the bottom of this little debacle so I shoved the mattress back in place and left for the evening.

Later, much later in the evening, I relayed my sad little tale to some friends. Some pretty awesome friends because they offered to come home with me and put my bed back together. At midnight. How great is that? What wonderful friends I have!!

We all traipse into my room, pull of the mattress, the box springs and there are all of my boots that I shove under there, a couple of random pieces of paper, a lone sock and a book. Which everyone saw and noticed and joked about. Ha ha ha. And then I froze. I panicked. Quietly. Because also, under my bed, next to my nightstand, is Tom. Yes, Tom is my vibrator. I didn't name him, he came that way. For once I was grateful for having dogs to hide things from because he was safely put away in his nondescript white box. But I knew he was there. In plain sight. Next to him was a bag of other fun, assorted goodies in a not-so-nondescript bag. Oh shit.

Upon inspection, it was discovered that the "foot" of the bed frame had broken off and wasn't reattaching in a very safe, secure way. "Do you have any two-by-fours?" Um, no. Because I've never thought of any situation in which a two-by-four would improve my life. I just don't keep them on hand. Because there were two English teachers in my room, one of them asked if I have any books I don't really care about anymore. Yes! I had a bag in the garage that I was planning on taking to the used bookstore. They were promptly used to fortify the bottom of the frame until someone else who actually has two-by-fours can bring them in for stronger fortification.

MG was concerned about another part of the frame and asked if I had any high heels that could be used. Excuse me??? "No!! Shoes are NOT construction materials." As if. And THEN, I watched in horror as I saw him reach for Tom's nondescript box cover. Noooooooo!!!!! As casually as I could, I reached over MG and removed the box from his grasp, hoping I really looked casual and that I wasn't actually using my inside-my-head voice in an inappropriate manner and that I wouldn't really knock him across the room trying to get to Tom before he did.

All turned out to be well, everything was put back in its proper place, some jokes were made about how I can now only have "subdued" sex in my bed. Missionary-style only, little movement, ha ha ha.

This morning MC remarked how funny it all was. "Isn't it funny how you had two married men and me in your bedroom at midnight?" Oh, but she didn't know the half of it. But now she does. And so do you.

The G-Rated Version of How I Scored

2010-11-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

I write lots and tons and loads about how hard it is being a mom. Me: Whine, whine, whine. You: I think you are totally hot and props for being a single mom and all, but stop with the whining already!

Well, you will be very happy to know that this post isn’t going down like that. This one is all about how great I am, although I am knocking on wood at the same time because I realize it can all be taken away if I am too smug. But I’m hardly ever smug (at least about my parenting), so I’m going to brag just a little bit. And then we can go back to my regularly scheduled whining. Or we can talk about Baby Jeebus. Because he is starting to grow!

So, a couple of weeks ago Bugabooga sat down on the couch with a towel on her head and asked, “You know what?” to which my typical response is “Chicken butt.” Then she said, “You know how I used to hate you?” Yes, there was a point in time where my child hated me. And she told me about it. And why. I’d rather not dwell on it. Anyhoo, I said “What? Back to the hate again? Why must you torment me? I’m just sitting here watching Desperate Housewives!!” And then I was given the absolute best gift any child can give their parent. (Unless of course she became super rich and famous and bought me a 7,000 square-foot mansion. Yes, I can be bought. I’m not proud of it. Actually, I might be.)

This is what she said (it deserves its own paragraph): “Well, I used to hate you. But now I realize you are just a single mom doing your best and you’re hard on me because you want me to do well. I know you’re doing your best and I love you. I’m glad you’re my mom.”

And then I got all teary and she asked if I was going to cry and I said yes and she asked why and I said “Mommies don’t like to hear that their babies hate them!” Because I was still stuck on that part. But also because I didn’t know what else to say. It was like one of those movie moments and she had just said the most perfect, most wonderful thing that I never in my life expected and I didn’t have anything equally poignant and meaningful to reply with. And I didn’t want to blow the moment, but I kind of did, but then I thanked her. It was the best I could do.

Exhibit B: Yesterday she got out of school early so I took her to lunch and she BROUGHT HER HOMEWORK IN so we could discuss her English project. I convinced her to switch to honors, promising I would help her, so she wanted to ask if she was on the right track for her book report. In my usual way, I told her to make sure she sounded smart and put more thought into it and to make it sound like she really knew what she was talking about. Especially since I thought the book she read was kind of shallow and simplistic. And then she showed me.

She has to put 5 items related to the book in some type of container, also related to the book. I suggested a purse or a backpack, but she came up with the makeup bag on her own. “Because it’s like they’re really pretty and they wear makeup but it also hides who they really are and all of the secrets they keep. It’s like a mask they’re hiding behind because they’re not really so pretty. And the bag represents the shell they hide in.” Oh. My. God. I was so proud of her I could have peed my pants. But that would have ruined our lunch.

Of course 30 minutes later she was telling me I was ruining her life because I wanted to take her to my friends’ house for dinner. Well, win some, lose some. And lately my wins are bigger than my losses. Go me!

Lessons Learned

2010-10-27T14:33:00.000-07:00

Bugabooga and I went to San Francisco this past weekend to do her school-clothes shopping. Because I’m cool like that. And also because I had spent every night of the year so far in Bend and needed to get out of the state. Portland wasn’t far enough away. It’s also still in Oregon.

Anyway, I learned a few things on this trip; it turned out to be quite educational. Also exhausting.

Here’s the top 20:

1. Driving to San Francisco is NOT an 8-hour trip. More like 10.
2. Car accidents can create interesting cross-sections on Volvo trunks.
3. Napa’s beautiful scenery can be marred. Mostly by political campaign signs. Boo.
4. Napa is really beautiful when it’s foggy.
5. Little boys like to head-butt each other.
6. My child notices and delights in men flirting with me.
7. Gay men really do lisp.
8. Homeless people are amusing.
9. The entire population of San Francisco really loves the Giants. Obnoxiously so.
10. Freeways do not go through the city, they all go around it. This makes finding one very difficult.
11. Accidentally driving into the strip-joint part of town with your teenage daughter is a little jarring.
12. The best sushi restaurants are patronized by real Japanese people.
13. Five-year-old boys can be a little perverted. But in a make-you-pee-your-pants-laughing kind of way.
14. Redding is the Bible belt of the west coast. Every talk station was preaching it up. Except the one talking about what to do after having an abortion. Both were too extreme for me.
15. It’s best not to order a Manhattan in a Mexican restaurant. Even if they have it on the menu.
16. The Costco liquor department rocks.
17. Umbrellas don’t keep you dry.
18. College roommates are friends forever.
19. I look a thousand times better at 40 than I did at 20. At least a hundred times better. Or ten. The point is, I don’t want my 20-year-old body back. Or my 20-year-old hair. Also – hairdressers are totally worth it.
20. Friends who make you dinner when you get home after a long drive are gold.

Random Nothingness

2010-10-12T13:10:00.000-07:00

I don't know what my problem was last week, but I was totally hyper and ADD and couldn't shut up, as evidenced by the plethora of my posts. Because three in a month is a plethora for me.

This week? I got nothin'.

These are my current random thoughts that aren't even worth reading, but at least I'm doing you a favor by just listing them instead of trying to write a whole post about any one of them.

Cramps are stupid. Also? My boobs are kinda huge right now which only pisses me off because it's totally wasted right now.

Last week I was obsessed with Mexican food. This week it's risotto.

I will be ever so glad when this conference is over. As long as I don't completely embarrass myself in my presentation it will be a win. At this point, I will settle for not falling down in front of people.

It's been a year since I talked to my mom on the phone. Anyone else think that's a problem?

Anal co-workers are annoying.

Dexter this season is making me want to bake him chocolate chip cookies and watch Disney movies with him with lots of pillows and blankets.

I miss nap time.

I kinda feel like I need a really good cry but my Lexapro won't let me.

......

The Miracles of Baby Jeebus. My Baby Jeebus.

2010-10-07T11:22:00.000-07:00

Monday my boobs hurt all day. Boob pain in the absence of my least favorite monthly event. Curious.

Yesterday I was nauseous unless I was eating. Just like when I was pregnant. Curiouser.

Today I have been starving all day, even with my parmesan-bagel-with-cream-cheese-breakfast-of-champions. Curiouser and curiouser.

The only logical conclusion is that I have conceived immaculately. Because I highly doubt that the last sperm to invade my body was able to survive for the last three months. Nope. It’s Immaculate Conception. I’m special. I’m Chosen.

And how cool is that? I will have my very own Baby Jeebus!! A Baby Jeebus to turn my water into wine. Or vodka. Or whatever else I, as the Modern Madonna, choose to imbibe on any given evening.

I will have my very own little miracle-worker in my house! Maybe he can make the dogs stop farting. Forever. I could quit my job because we’d be traveling around the world performing all kinds of miracles. I would be the most awesome stage-mom in all the world. I don’t think there are many lepers left in the world, so maybe he can take on AIDS. And fix the economy. And multiply my shoes. Rescuing all of the homeless puppies in the world would be good. Homeless people, too, if he has time after fixing global warming and saving all the polar bears. No raising of the dead though. We all know how that really turns out, thanks to Pet Semetary.

Family dinners would be a whole other thing altogether. Can you imagine Christmas at my house? Brings a whole new meaning to sibling rivalry, doesn’t it?

Oh well, at least Baby Jeebus can heal my stretch marks after he’s born.

How I Want My Funeral and Anyone Who Breaks a Rule Will Get Their Ass Haunted

2010-10-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

I ended up in the most boring meeting ever. Ever. I thought I would die of boredom. Seriously die.

Which led me to start thinking what would happen if I really did die and what I would want my funeral to be like and I know not enough people really think about that, they just keel over without leaving instructions for their loved ones. Then people just stand around crying because they don’t know what else to do and that sounds really sad but also super boring.

So I got the great idea to tell you all exactly how I want my funeral to be. See how nice I am? Now, all you have to do is follow my instructions or I’ll haunt your asses for the rest of your lives.

1. No crying. I mean, I want to know that you’ll miss me and your lives will never be the same without me, but do it on your own time. My funeral will be like my birthday, it’s all about Me and what I want and I want only tears of laughter on my deathday.

2. You all must wear the most fabulous pairs of shoes that you own. If you don’t own any that would meet my standards, go buy a pair now. I don’t care what else you wear, you can wear pajamas if you want, but wear some totally kick-ass Shez.

3. The viewing. I’d rather not have one. I think it’s kinda creepy to look at a dead person. It’s like watching someone sleep, which is only sweet if it’s someone you’re in love with but even that has a limit. I wouldn’t want most of you to watch me sleep, it would totally creep me out. However, if someone, say, my mom, insists on a creepy viewing, I want to be wearing my red shoes. If my red shoes are not on my feet, someone’s ass is being haunted. I don’t care what else I wear, I could be naked for all I care. Except that dead naked is bad naked, so you should probably cover me up with something. Maybe my other favorite shoes. Just surround me with them.

4. The party. Remember the no crying rule? That’s because I want my funeral to be the Biggest Party Ever. I want a DJ to play all of my favorite songs. I want you bitches to dance. Dance your asses off. Whiskey-drinking is a must. I want you all to get drunk and laugh your gorgeous faces off. Bonus points will be given for getting laid. But only if it’s totally worth it. And by worth it, I mean your lips go numb and everything inside you melts after vibrating and bouncing all over the place.

5. The food. Obviously this will have to be an all-day affair because I want all of my favorite food represented. This is not a day for diets either, people. The rule is to totally gorge yourselves. If you have to throw up to make room for more, so be it. That will probably help you keep drinking anyway. I want biscuits and gravy, eggs benny, quiche, blueberry muffins, bacon and syrup and doughnuts. There should be plenty of bread and cheeses and fondue, pastas, enchiladas, nachos, sushi, stuffed mushrooms, fried mushrooms, pizza, lobster, crab legs, tea sandwiches, watermelon, anything that comes with a sauce or that can be dipped into a sauce. I need Easy Cheese and Pringles, hush puppies, French fries and onion rings and anything else that can be fried. Dessert should include crème brulee, cheesecakes, cobblers, pinwheel cookies, chocolate anything, chocolate-covered everything, 31 flavors of ice cream and caramel cake made by MG.

6. My dogs. They have to be there. Everyone is just going to have to put up with their snorting and their farting because they’re my dogs and I won’t be around to snuggle them and spoil them anymore. They can have anything and everything to eat except for chocolate and bones that would choke them. Someone needs to give them a bath and put cute clothes on them. Remy should definitely wear a bowtie.

7. My Bugabooga. She can invite 10 of her BFF’s. Any more than that and they’ll create more drama than she can handle and that’s the only reason I’m limiting the number. She can do whatever she wants except cry. Or wear my red shoes. But she can wear my other shoes if any of them fit her. And she can wear anything out of my closet, even a Halloween costume. Make sure she dances and feels all the joy at once that she has given me over the years. Fireworks would be nice, she’s too old for a pony ride. And make sure she has her own chocolate doughnut. And tell her she’s beautiful. Because she is.

8. Ashes. I want to be cremated because there isn’t one place in the world where I want to spend all of eternity. And I certainly don’t want to be eaten by worms or weird underground spiders and I think I’d be claustrophobic. I want at least half of my ashes spread in the Pacific Ocean, preferably from a cruise ship. If anybody wants the rest of me, I want to be kept in a leopard-print urn. Please travel with me and take me places, I can’t stand the thought of sitting on someone’s fireplace or some table in the corner collecting dust. Please do not leave me stuck in Mississippi. Sorry, Mom.

9. My mom. Someone needs to tell her all of these things. Also tell her that if she puts my urn next to that damn dog’s urn, I will haunt her. I want my own fucking shrine, damn it.

10. Oh yeah, you can cuss all you want. And tell dirty jokes and be wildly inappropriate. This is not the time to be proper and those of you that really know me will know better.

The Universe Has No Sense of Humor

2010-10-04T10:35:00.000-07:00

This is my horoscope today -

Leo - Oct. 4, 2010
Are you technically single but very deeply involved with someone, Leo? If so, don't be surprised if today you extend or receive a proposal of marriage. Recent events have brought you very close together and greatly intensified the bond between you. Your partner may want to legalize that bond. Do you? If there is even the smallest doubt, give yourself some time to think. Acting on impulse isn't a good idea right now.

Seriously? How fucked up is that? What kind of horoscope tells you that you're going to get a marriage proposal? I think this is like that episode of The Simpsons where the monkeys are writing all the fortune cookie sayings. Because this shit only makes sense if it were written by a monkey. A retarded monkey.

What-the-fuck-ever. I'm going back to real life now. Enjoy your Monday.

Never Listen to a Giraffe. Gee whiz.

2010-10-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

I don’t wanna grow up. And it has nothing to do with Toys ‘R’ Us. (side ramble: Oh. My. God. I just realized who is responsible for the dumbing-down of America. They started it with their ‘R’ instead of ‘are’. Sure, they thought they were all clever and shit with their laziness. Geoffrey Giraffe, I am on to you!) I don’t care if they have a million toys. I couldn’t even fit a million toys in my house. Unless I got like a million checkers and covered my roof with them. Or retiled my bathroom in Scrabble tiles. I guess I could buy a million Lincoln Logs and make my own log home. Or build a mansion out of a million Barbie houses. But then I’d have to sit on tiny furniture and drink out of tiny glasses and sleep on a tiny bed and that’s just retarded.

I don’t want to grow up because being a Grown Up sucks. It’s hard. Oh, wait. Let me say that with a little whine because that's how I really feel about it. It’s haaaaaaaaaaaarrrrd (insert pout here). Growing up means paying bills and cleaning the house and going to work so that I can have money to pay bills and a house to live in. It means making dinner when I’m tired and taking care of a kid and trying to be responsible and making hard decisions and always being tired and not having enough time to play. See? Fucking Toys ‘R’ Us. Even if I did have a million damn toys, I’d never be able to play with them.

When I was a kid, I thought being a Grown Up meant I could do whatever I wanted. And I can, to a point. I can drive a car. I can drink cocktails (which is really the only redeeming part of being an adult and I never, ever want to give it up). I can get a puppy and I can eat Easy Cheese and ice cream for dinner or refuse to eat brussel sprouts (because they’re totally icky!) and I can stay up all night and I can dye my hair any shade of Strawberry Shortcake pink that I want. I can even get in my car and drive across the country never sleeping and trying ice cream in every state and dyeing my hair a new color every day and filling my car with puppies and feeding them ice cream and Easy Cheese and teaching them to bite strangers who judge me.

The downside? I can’t do all of these things whenever I want. First of all, they all take money. Nobody just gives you an ice cream cone out of the kindness of their heart (which is probably what is wrong with the world). Money requires a job. For some stupid reason, jobs frown on you when you call in because you’d rather drive around drinking cocktails and petting puppies instead of coming in to work.

I could live off of Easy Cheese and ice cream but my body isn’t 10 anymore and punishes me for that fact by turning every bite I eat into fat. Hello? Ice cream has calcium! It’s good for us! Stupid body. Being fat is definitely not something I wanted to be when I grew up.

More than this, being a Parent means you have to be a Grown Up. Even if you only pretend to be. It’s like being Spider Man, but with all the responsibility and none of the power. Hear that, Toys ‘R’ Us? I will never buy a fucking Spider Man toy because it’s all a big, fat, comic-hero-sized lie. I’m supposed to set some kind of example for my offspring. I don’t even want to think about what kind of example Spider Man is supposed to be setting in his red leotard and his climbing all over walls and shooting nasty webs out of his body. Really, Spider Man? Spider webs are so totally creepy. Dude. Seriously.

So, riddle me this, Toys ‘R’ Us. How do I afford your million toys? When do I have time to play with them? Which one of your million toys is going to earn me a million dollars? Which Barbie is going to take time out of her busy doctor/rockstar/princess schedule to help my kid with her homework and drive her to ballet? Which Teletubby is going to cook dinner for me? Oh, I’ll answer this one. None of them! Because they’re too freaky to be allowed in my house, plus they’re stuffed and my dogs would eat all of the stuffing out of them but then they’d be possessed by the Teletubby’s evil soul and that would be even worse because I love my dogs and I’d just have to live in fear of them until some” unfortunate accident” removed their presence from my life.

Yep. Being a Grown Up sucks. Bills suck. Responsibility sucks. Most jobs suck. But ice cream rocks and alcohol is delicious. Guess what I’m doing tonight? Yup. Because I can. Neener neener.

How Not to Start Your Day

2010-09-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

1. Try on all of your jeans hoping one pair will fit and not squeeze you out of the top of them. What? Did they all shrink over the summer? This is why I like summer clothes better. Aside from the bikini, they’re actually more forgiving. Jeans are evil.

2. Eat a slice of banana bread. With chocolate chips. Hell, why not? You’re already feeling like a giant fat-ass.

3. Eat said slice of banana bread while driving. Think that you’re sufficiently stopped in the line of cars waiting to go through the roundabout, but find out you’re not when you bump the car in front of you.

4. Make sure it’s a Porsche that you hit.

Yes, this was my morning. Yes, I hit a car. Bumped it, really. Bumped it enough to see it move, but it was just a tap. Even Mr. Porsche Driver wasn’t sure that I hit him. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice, then saw him start to pull over. Oh, shit, he did notice! No, he kept driving, he didn’t notice. Shit, he’s pulling over again! In the roundabout. No, I’m not stopping in the roundabout. Let’s find a parking lot for our little rendezvous.

I pull over in a parking lot where we won’t have an audience. He has a small girl-child in the front seat. Great. I hit a kid. Wait a minute, small children aren’t supposed to ride in the front seat! Isn’t he breaking some kind of child safety law? I know, Porsches don’t have backseats, but still. Surely that makes him more of a criminal than me with my little tap to his bumper.

He gets out. “It had to be the Porsche!” Yes, I noticed that you’re driving a Porsche. Yes, it is far superior to my Honda Civic, circa 2000, circa turn-of-the-century. Thanks for stating the obvious. He asks if I hit him. Um, is this a trick question?? He says he thought he popped the clutch. A quick moral dilemma argument goes on in my head but I tell the truth. After all, I want my Karma to come back to me in the form of lottery winnings, not cancer in my face.

He examines his bumper. Not a scratch, not a ding, nothing. He examines my front bumper. With the huge scratch from the bike that hit me earlier this year. And all of the dead bugs. And the chipped paint. How white trash do I feel in this moment? Damn, I knew I should have washed my car this weekend.

I apologize. He smiles, says, “See ya. Thanks for stopping.” No exchange of information, no further humiliation.

Although, if he had been cute and didn’t have a small child in his front seat (thereby endangering her life), I would have given him my number. You know, just in case.

On Her Way

2010-09-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

My daughter starts high school today. My bugabooga. My lovebug. My munchiekins. My baby girl, who laughed so easily, walked so late, and spent more naps with me in the rocking chair than in her crib. My little girl, whose first word after “Mama” was “shoe.” Who, at the age of six had had more boyfriends than I have had, still, at age 40. Yeah, see where I’m going with this? It’s scary. She’s grown up too fast.

The last couple of weeks I have spent most days wanting to strangle her. She gets her anxiety from her father, worrying about whether the milk has gone bad or if chicken nuggets will poison her. I was really tempted by the end of last week to start crushing up my Lexapro into her meals without her knowing. “What if I don’t have any friends in my classes?” “What if I can’t find my class?” “My binders and folders have to match and be cute.” “I don’t want to get bullied.” And the new one yesterday – “I don’t want to get shot.” Endless worry on her part, frayed nerves on mine.

Last week we got her schedule and, of course, had to immediately get it changed since they’d somehow missed assigning her to biology. This only set her off about how stupid the school was and how she didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that her counselor mispronounced her name as “Divine”, which embarrassed her as much as it delighted me and I have vowed to call her that from now on. She hates me for it. By that night, she did a complete one-eighty and was ready to start school. Last night she went from dreading this morning to being completely prepared and calm. She even remarked how quickly her moods are changing. Yeah, I’ve got my own neuroses to deal with, I can’t keep up with hers too.

This morning she set her alarm for 5:30. And got up. On her own. Before me. By the time I got out of the shower, her bed was already made. She was smiling, not sulking, her usual morning demeanor. Color me impressed with a shade of surprised. Until I learned that she ate a hot dog bun for breakfast. Yep. At 14, my child is incapable of making a halfway decent breakfast for herself. She still needs me after all. Me and my chocolate chip pancakes.

I hugged her at least three times before she left to catch the bus. Hugged her until she rolled her eyes, squirmed just a bit and said, “Mom, I’m going to be late.” I watched her walk away, closed the door and cried.

I hope she forgives me for the “I love you” note that I snuck into her lunch.

Boobs, Booze and Dancing Shoes

2010-09-03T08:59:00.000-07:00

These are the ingredients to a successful birthday party. Specifically a 40th birthday party. Especially the booze part. Except cute shoes are also necessary. And the boobs? Well, they’re just always with me. Also, I was told they were fondled at some point during the soiree.

Recently, I turned 40. I didn’t know what to expect, I thought I would wake up feeling wise and no longer worried about things like the roll that is my stomach or how my butt looks in my jeans. The night before, I felt like I was supposed to perform some kind of ritual to prepare myself for my impending adulthood, before becoming a Woman of a Certain Age. I was excited about it; it felt like the start of a new adventure, a new chapter, turning over a new leaf and every other cliché that exists. Instead, after hearing from my daughter about what a complete failure I am as a parent and balancing my checkbook only to find that I still have no money, I was just depressed. 40, single and broke. So much for being a Grown Up.

The next day, on my actual birthday, I breakfasted at Chow with my bestie, AKA The Wife. Eggs Benny and a Bloody Mary – what better way to start the day? This yumminess was followed by pedicures, fro yo, a trip to the farmer’s market, a visit with a peacock, shrimp, chocolate cake and martinis with cute little umbrellas. It was the perfect way to spend the day, with the Big Party to follow on the weekend.

As for the actual party, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate my 40th. My wonderful friends provided their home for the festivities, a co-worker friend offered to DJ (all 80’s music, of course!) and The Wife got the most perfect cake ever in the entire world – leopard print with a pink ribbon. Chocolate. With a raspberry filling.

The night before I made all of the food, so on party day I just had to show up in my cute outfit, complete with matching pedicure, and greet my guests with cocktail in hand. The “bar” was quickly filled with rum, vodka, champagne, margaritas and wine. The food table held four types of lasagna, two kinds of homemade garlic bread, a Carla salad and various other snacky goodies. The rest of the night is a happy blur of feasting, dancing, drinking, laughing and finding out what people think they know about me (no, my favorite book isn’t the Bible, I didn’t major in business, booze or boys, my favorite drink is not milk and The Sound of Music was an excellent guess and I really should have given a point for that one).

There are tons of details but relaying them here just isn’t the same experience so I will just leave it at this – I have the best friends in the world and there aren’t words for what this night meant to me. I felt joy and love and absolute soul-satisfaction.

Thank you to everyone who was a part of that night, who showed up to be a part of my life.

Birdbrain

2010-08-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

I bought a bird feeder because I like watching little chirpy things with feathers bounce around tweeting at each other. And tweeting in the real sense, not in the social media sense. Then again, who knows what modern technology they have hidden in their nests? I’m picturing a trap door that leads into a secret room in a tree branch, complete with secret spy cameras to watch us all in preparation of their world takeover. Which begs the question of why I’m even feeding the little feathery fuckers in the first place, but maybe they’ll remember and spare my life when they begin their world domination instead of pecking my eyeballs out with the rest of mankind. Hitchcock already predicted this, remember? They’ve just been waiting for their technology to catch up. Anyway, I digress. I seriously digress.

My yard is suspiciously devoid of trees or branches or really any hangy things to dangle a cute little bird feeder from. There is one little plant hanger in front of my kitchen window and I thought it would be delightful to watch the little birdies flit around while I wash dishes, so there it went. Until I realized that, with the windows always open, they always hear me and fly away before I can enjoy them. All I get to see is a stupid bird feeder swinging back and forth. Dumb.

Also? Those little buggers are messy! They drop half of their food all over my front porch, with a rather large proportion of it falling on my patio chair. Sitting on birdseed isn’t really as comfortable as the naughty birds probably want you to think. However, I was okay with wiping off the chair and sweeping the patio, until – I discovered that they don’t only drop food during their mealtime perches. Yes, ladies and germs, they feel perfectly at ease pooping on said chair and patio. Gross.

Of course after deciding that the feeder had to come down, I finally spotted a little birdie creature eating. Of course. It’s like he knew what I was thinking. “Don’t take it down, look how cute I am. I’m small and feathery and my chest is this pretty blush color, which is kind of like pink, but blends in with my brown feathers better. And listen – I’m chirping so cutely to invite my friends to display their cuteness too. Cheep, cheep, cute cheep!” Yes, he was a dastardly little bastard, but I was not swayed by his uber cuteness. Poop, people. I already have two dogs pooping in the back yard, I don’t need more poop in the front. The feeder came down, the chair was wiped off and the porch was swept. The bird feeder? I just set it at the back of the patio until I decide what to do with it.

Later, as I was relaxing with a Manhattan and waiting for the impending thunderstorm, I heard some cheeping. Not cute cheeping, angry cheeping. Followed by fffffffttt, the flutter of angry wings. Not really fluttering, more like mad beating. It’s a good thing I’ve just been feeding little finch things and not something like an eagle or a turkey buzzard. Little Mr. Bird Turd hopped around where I had swept the seeds, looked at me, flew up to the roof, then ffffftttt’ed some more. Actually, he fffffftttt’ed a lot. It sounded kind of like a “fuck you” in feather-flight speak. He did find the feeder on the corner of the patio so I’m hoping he’s satisfied with that for a while.

Although now that I think of it, I’ve just put him right at cat-snack level. Damn, I’m going to have to move it before I’m added to the pecked-out-eyes list during the Bird Apocalypse.

Fffffffuck.