Bikini Wearer?

It's unholy ohmygodforreal hot here, in Louisiana, in August.  The baby is back at school and people are legitimately wondering if they will be allowed to go outside for recess.  It truly is THAT hot.

But that's not what I want to talk about.  I want to ask this.  Should I wear my bikini?

Yes.  That.

Here is the picture.

I am 5'3".  I weigh 138 pounds (which is pretty goddamn fantastic, honestly).  I have a concave behind, an extraordinarily short torso, a helluva a belly, and a wide rib cage.  And a rack.  I have a hefty, though adorable, rack.

From the front, I look relatively slender.  I'm not wide on the sides.  I have tiny hips.

In profile, though, sweet Christ.  I look like Hank Hill.

If I lie on my back, all the fat slides away and I look like I have abs.

All of this said, I'm going to wear the bikini.  I wear it in Hancock Co., Mississippi, where the average person must be considered morbidly obese.

I wear it out in the back yard, where I sweat for an hour in a desire to look black (for my next show, this is an actual thing, not a racial slur) until I can no longer bear the oppressive, heavy, disgusting heat that is right now.

I do not wear it in front of my mom.  I did, once, and she said, "If you pulled it up it would hide your love handles."  I could not pull it up even a millimeter more.

Would I wear it at my gay friends' house/pool?  Probably not.  Am I skinnier than said friends?  Yes, but they are dudes and the rules are different.  Am I skinnier than their other (female) friends?  No.

Would I wear it to the water park?  Maybe.  It depends on if my mother is going.

Would I wear it on the boat on the 4th of July?  Not a chance.

Would I wear it to my friend KT's dad's house, with it's gorgeous pool?  Highly doubtful.  Even though this one time, a girl named Crystal wore a bikini there, two-fisted beers and made me pretty much entirely envious of her entire existence, and she had to weigh close to 200 lbs.

Later, that same year, Crystal died.  That's a sad ending to a girl who I found very inspirational.

Fuck it.  I want to wear the bikini.  Invite me to swim.  Invite me to a water park.  I need to get blacker and I need to show my fat little tubby belly and I need to get to a point where I can do that without worrying about it.

I want to wear the bikini.

Black Poltergeist Home Owner

My very best bestie in the whole wide world is coming to visit this weekend.  Janetpalooza is imminent, and I am excited, and I am bouncing and starving.  I don't expect you to get that, so here's an asterisk and I will explain later on.  There's something else I need to tell you about right now.  So here:  *

When friends are coming, I generally like things to be neat, so I wanted to sweep and vacuum and what-all, but I've been putting it off because I've been sick and lazy but mostly sick.  So tonight I did do all those things I wanted to do, like clean the bathtubs and the floors and everything.

Anyway, so I got that all done, and then I did the whole ahhhhhhhhhhhTimeToSitOnTheCouch thing, and it was lovely.  Having forgotten that I need to stare intently at CNN and wonder at the fact that I LITERALLY DO NOT KNOW WHERE THINGS ARE IN EASTERN EUROPE AND THE MIDDLE EAST, and oooooh airplane shot down and ooooooooh war???? - wait, where was I?  Oh, yes.  I had momentarily forgotten all of that, so I figured, hey, Jeopardy!

I have lots of episodes.  I watched one last night from May 27.  MAY.  27.  I'm a little bit behind.

Julia is still winning, if that means anything to you.

Okay, so anyway, I sat on the couch, yarn nearby, and I turned on the DVR, and I saw this:

Now.  Let's discuss a few things here.

Thing One:  This was recorded at 9:17 a.m.  I was at work at 9:17 a.m.

Thing Two:  It got the whole episode.  35 minutes.

Thing Three:  BET.  The High Def one.  I did not even think I got that channel.  I've certainly never not once watched that channel.  I obviously don't have time, when I can't even watch my Jeopardy collection.

Thing Four:  Seriously.  38 episodes of Jeopardy.  Also, do you want to judge me for Return to Amish?  Yeah?  Fuck you.  Also, High School Musical is mine, not Caleb's.  I OWN MY CRAZY.

But seriously.  SERIOUSLY.  Moesha!!!

There is no sign of break-in.  I called Sam and asked if he stopped by my house today.  "No," he said, then he muttered "weirdo."  That might not really have happened but kind of it did.  Anyway, I told him what happened, what I found on the DVR, and he agreed that this was, indeed, really fucking weird.

I also texted my dad, the only other person in this town that has access to my house, as my mom is out of town.  He didn't come over, either.

So I called him and told him the deal.

"So no sign of break in?"  Right.  "Could you have accidentally set it up to tape?"  I guess I could have, but I seriously don't think that happened.

Katiebird thinks that my cat did it.  I'm inclined to agree.  Little Hitler likes Brandy.  But even that requires some serious coincidences.  He'd have to have already had it on the right channel.  He'd have to have hit this tiny button the the remote.  It's the smallest button on there.  I'm not sure...

In the end, my dad has decided I either have a black poltergeist or there is a message for me (from God, via Moesha) that I need to experience, so...

I'm going to go watch Moesha.  I'll let you know.



And if another thing records, I'll know it's the real deal.  I've got guests.  They coming fo' me, 'lizabeth!

* Years and years ago, before cell phones, I was going to visit Janie or she was coming to visit me, back when we lived 4 hours apart, and anyway, so she had left me a voice mail at work.  I had a post it in front of me, as one does, where I took a note while I listened to the message:

"Hi!  I'm so excited!  I can't wait to get off work so we can get together.  I'm totally bouncing off the walls!!  Also, I'm STARVING so let's plan to eat..."

I wrote:  "Janet - bouncing & starving"

And a trend was born.

Here we are, a good solid, what, 15?  17???  years later, and I'm here, watching Moesha, and bouncing and starving!

Don't You Poop On Me...

I like dogs.  I really do.  Like 'em.  Loves 'em.

But I don't have one, which is why this is particularly disturbing.

Let's start like this.  For the last few days, I have occasionally caught a whiff of eau-de-poop in my bedroom, but I checked for cat poop in the bathtub (happens) and all was clear.  Couldn't spot any logical culprit, so I didn't worry too much about it.  Besides, last weekend, I drank a whole pot of Raspberry Coffee, and I'm allergic to raspberries, so it was a quick weight-loss (and water-loss) scheme for me.  But it was good.  So there.

Anyway, so this morning, I got dressed and came to work, where I sat at my computer for a little while, doing worky things, then I got up, and got myself some coffee.  Then I came back to my desk and sat down again for a little while, then I got up and decided to get more coffee.  I didn't even realize that there was an inch or so of coffee still in my cup, which I swung around like a drunk college kid with a party cup full of pink champagne (true story), resulting in a significant splash of coffee on the leg of my pants and on my foot.

Sigh.

So I got to the kitchen and I pulled some paper towels to mop up my foot area, when I noticed a bunch of mud on the side of my shoe, which is weird, since it hasn't been raining.

And even weirder, it wasn't mud.

After much yelling of "EW," and a good scrub of the shoe in question, in the bathroom, it looked like everything was going to be okay.

So I proceeded with my day, and then, maybe an hour or so later, I kind of realized my chair had something on it...

which was poop.

ON MY CHAIR.

(I tend to fold my leg under me while I sit.)

And this means, there was poop...

On my butt.

!!!

Let me repeat - I do not have a dog.  This is unfair, truly.

I still don't know what the source of the dog poop was.  It's been remedied, but I'm still smelling phantom poop, and I really cannot wait to change out of my pants.

I keep telling myself that, if this is the worst thing that happens today, then it's a good day, but still.  Poop.  On.  Me.  Argh.

Tales From The Courthouse

It's very late, and I'm writing this on my phone, so y'all gonna hafta forgive typos and shitty grammar and whatall.

I spent the day in court, child support court, because my state handles my child support case, which I think is pretty awesome of them. 

They usually, I'm gathering, encounter some of society's rarest specimens of The Crazy, and they have a tendency to be, well, fucking mean, but I understand where they are coming from.  The crazy, I tell you.  So high.

Today was different in that they were really very nice to me, this after waiting for NINE HOURS to be called from the anteroom into the chamber.

But it's the anteroom that deserves a blog post.

My mother, god bless her amazing soul, came with me, as she usually does, to offer moral support and snarky commentary and, also, so she can make friends with strangers, as this is muchly her favorite thing to do.  After driving me to the town where court is, about 30 miles away, she parked her very badass little Volvo, and we started to walk into the courtroom.  We both quickly noticed that she was hobbling, and so she stopped in the plainly marked "do not walk on" grass, to look at her shoes.  The tops of the shoes were fine, cute, even, a birkenstockish, bohemian basket-weave mule, with a strap around the ankle.  I also want to note that she's finally learned not to wear pantyhose with this kind of shoe.  Atta girl, Cathy!!

The bottom of her shoes, where normally one has an inch or so of sole, consisted of rocks jammed into loose styrofoam. 

Really.  Rocks.

Which fell out, taking chunks of black shoe bottom, as she walked.  Into the courthouse.

And oh, we laughed.  

Hansel and Gretel need a lesson from my mom, because, 9 hours later, her path through the courthouse was clearly marked.

Note:  she said they didn't hurt, but I offered to swap shoes with her, and I also suggested she run to the Walmart and get some new shoes.  But she didn't.  Forty bucks says she will put these shoes, now pretty much completely bottomless, into her closet, and six months from now we will have this exact same experience again.

Please God, let me be just like my mama when I grow up.

Next, let's talk about the anteroom.  The majority of folks waiting were individuals, sometimes with a buddy, who were formerly matched to somebody else who sat across the room and refused to look at them.  This makes a fun game, usually fairly predictable, but sometimes downright shocking.  "Oh SHE goes with HIM??" You think.  "Good for her for upgrading, that new guy is much better looking," and the like.

There was one couple near me who provided nonstop entertainment for me for over an hour.  He was still sooooo into her, and he was trying to convince her to plea down his support amount.  She smiled prettily and said, all super ghetto-voiced, "I gave you the bess gif you will evuh have, a precious chile, so you can just stop right theyuh."  And he DID.  I was like, well, go 'head, honey bunches. While I took notes.  

Well not really, but for sure in my head.

There was another girl who was really twitchy and wanted to talk?  To everybody?  And ask questions?  With everything she said?  Only then? She would prove, like, how she was super duper smart?  Especially about how her kid needed to be spanked?  And how pitbulls are awesome?

And the whole time she was questioning people, she was undoing and re-doing a sloppy bun in her hair, the kind you make with a pony tail holder, and she always left a straggly piece out that she twirled on her finger.  By 3 this afternoon, it looked like a dreadlock sticking out of a donut.

There was Sweater Set Lady, for whom I felt very bad, as she was the last to go before me- and I was dead last- and came out in tears.  Get this- I offered to hug her (by then, we were friends, I could tell you where her kid goes to school, what grade he's in, where she works...). I.  Offered.  To.  Hug.  A.  Stranger.

Mercifully, she declined.

There was Tiny Baby (also the name of my favorite doll when I was a child of no imagination who named her babies literal things like tiny baby, tall baby, sick baby- her hair kept falling out, and dolly), who was maybe 4'10" and had yellow curls to her ass, who, at 2pm said, "fuck this shit" and curled up across three chairs for nappy time.  The tiny baby of my childhood's eyes ALSO closed when you laid her down.  Weird.

There was the saddest old, and deaf, and rather forgetful man, in a wheelchair, who came out of the area where divorces are filed.  What appeared to be his grandson pushed his chair, and frequently, the old man started carrying on about not being sure what was going on, what happened in there, and why, after loving her for 65 years, was this happening.

(I think it was about her giving money to indulged grandkids, and him not being happy about it, but she gets to keep the car...). (Also, this guy had the makings of a good second husband for me, until he said, about one of the indulged kids, "he's a real drunk, I tell you, a regular old drunk," and I knew he was out.)

It was one of those surreal, strange days, where you kinda think, this isn't real life.

But it is, I have proof, there is a track of bits of my mom's shoes that finally, eventually, led back to her car.

Post Party Depression

First off, the party was awesome.  I had 40 people in my home, and I'm pretty sure that everybody had fun, and oh, glory, there was food (SO MUCH FOOD) and drinkies (SO MANY DRINKIES) and there is a lot left over.

I get it, why people throw parties.

I will never* have to buy alcohol again.

My friends all rock and brought me presents and they all seemed to have fun.  It was nice to have them all there, to look around and think, "these people?  They like me.  That's a good time."  But then, later on, I was glad when they all left and my mom helped me to load the dishwasher and put things into tupperwares and stuff.

It was a good party, and I'm pretty sure that I haven't thrown a party (other than a birthday party for the baby) in my own home, since New Year's Eve 1998.  I thought it was 99, but then I remembered that we played "1999" on repeat and that I had to work Y2K in 1999, so it was definitely 1998.  Oh, good times.

Anyway, I'm also glad it is over.  I haven't fully recovered yet, and I also haven't vacuumed the floors, so it's time, now, to get back to normal.

In other news, I had a dream where the artist formerly known as my husband had told his sisters and mom that he was paying child support (he's not) and they found out he wasn't and got all sorts of mad at him, and in the meantime, I took my kids and two of his cousins for a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving, at the Holiday Inn, using the $57 I found in a pocket while doing laundry.

So that was weird.

In other, other news, I think the floor of La Hacienda is getting painted today, and I'm excited to see what it looks like.  I also hope my kid hauled my lawn mower to the lawn mower fix it shop today.  Good, exciting times, here.

And we sang a gig on Saturday and it went okay.  So there's that.

Lord, I'm boring.  Here's something fun.

http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/cgi-bin/seigmiaow.pl



Because cats that look like Hitler are funny, indeed.

*by "never," I mean, "until the summertime, or three months.  Whichever comes first.

Party Host

I'm throwing a party.

I don't do this, the throwing of parties.  If I DO decide to get my friends together in one place, I usually choose a place that is away from where I live.  Caretta's.  Or Copelands.  Someplace with alcohol and somebody else who can clean up afterwards.

This is a "There Goes the Neighborhood" party.  Aka, a Sarah-Moved-In-And-Really-She's-Quiet-And-Well-Behaved-But-We-Like-To-Pretend-We-Are-Rowdy party.

I've invited everybody that I know that lives within 100 miles of my home.

I keep squashing the little voice inside my head that says, "hey, your house?  not that awesome."

It is too.  It's fucking great.  It might be little and old and goofy looking (especially on the outside).  It might be not new and fancy and have hardwood floors.  But it IS clean, sweet, and very, very Sarah.  It has fresh paint and touches of red and granite countertops and a goddamn HACIENDA, so beat that.

BEAT THAT.

And if you don't like it, well that's all right.  Nobody else HAS to like my home, just so long as I do, and so long as the baby does.  And we do.  We like it fine.

So there's that.  A party.

It starts at 7:00 (tomorrow), and so I hope that it's clear that I'm not providing actual supper-type food.  I'm going to have munchies, and I'm going to have drinkies.  And music.  That's pretty much all I am doing.  Munchies and drinkies and musicies.  Anything else will have to spontaneously happen, or somebody else will have to plan it.  No pin-the-mustache-on-the-bandito.  No dancing.  Maybe dancing.  We'll see.

I'm nervous, but I'm excited, too, if that makes any sense.  Why is it so intimidating to invite people into your home?  Nobody judges homes, right?  I mean, maybe if it isn't clean or if it smells like cat pee, but otherwise?  Shit, now I'm feeling insecure.  I have a cat.  I know the house is clean but what if it smells like cat pee...

Anyway, the good side of it is this. I'm taking tomorrow off, so I get to have a special extry long weekend, like extra-crispy, and the baby just happened to be off school tomorrow (not part of the original (recipe) plan), so that's good.  Good for my mom, who doesn't have to keep him.  Good for him, who gets to wear pajamas most of the day.  Good for me, in theory, who gets extra time with the baby, although I have lots and lots of things I want to do tomorrow, some of which involves coffee and alone time with Dexter*, but it's all good.

I'm having a party.  People are coming.  It's going to be fun.  Or not.  But who cares.

There will be drinkies.

And possibly dancing.

You should come.

Lurch

Oh, my God.  I nailed it.  I FINALLY figured out why the new sales manager is driving me so batshit crazy.

He just called his wife back, ostensibly having missed a call from her.

"you RANNNNNG," he said, a la Lurch from the Addams Family.

MOTHER FUCKER MY EX HUSBAND USED TO SAY THAT EVERY FUCKING TIME HE WOULD CALL ME BACK.

And we all know how that worked out.

Mystery, solved.  Now I'm off to find a missing airplane.  Obvs, I am on a roll.

Jeopardy Watcher

Tonight, I watched three dvr'ed episodes of Jeopardy.  One of the categories was announced for Double Jeopardy, by Alex, just as I switched to "play," from "fast forward" (having skipped the commercials.)

A-freaking rivers.

Or, African.

God, I love Jeopardy.  That's all.  

Grown-ass Man

Goddamn Lent is killing me, smalls.  I gave up negativity, and you know, I might as well have given up, I don't know, smoking, or drinking wine, for all the ability I have to stick to it.  Week one went well until a blow-up at work, more of which I will feed you in a minute, but this week is balls.  I don't know what my problem is.  But balls, I tell you.

The thing at work was as follows, and it doesn't translate to paper well, because it sounds so fucking STUPID, but we'll give it a whirl, anyway.  I may or may not need to preface this with the following fact:

I'm not a hugger.  I have strong need for people to respect my personal space.  I have three (yes, three) bottles of hand sanitizer on my desk.  I don't hug.  I barely high-five.

Okay.  So let's give you a little back story.  We hired a new sales person about six months ago, and I am having a tough time being friends with him, some of which stems from the fact that his predecessor is a freaking amazing person, and he is... not.

But really, he's fucking irritating.  He doesn't do a great job at his job, and he doesn't take accountability, which is REALLY the thing that makes me nutso.  He gets his panties all up in a wad and says things like, "I'm a grown-ass man."  That's a quote, folks.  You know what makes you sound NOT like a grown man?  Calling yourself a "grown-ass man."

Anyway, one of his favorite things to do is to pester people.  Like most grown-ass men, he doesn't know what he can get away with it, and when he needs to not, like, say, when a client is here.  Or ever, when it comes to pestering me, if said pestering involves touching me or otherwise invading my personal space.

Weeks ago, he started doing some magic evil thing where he buzzes his fingers really close to my ear, and it sounds like a mosquito in my ear.  He's done this several times, once leading me to losing my absolute total shit and beating my fists on his arm, saying DON'T DO THAT over and over again.  Good times.

On Friday, we were in a casual meeting, with four or five of us sitting at the table, discussing shit.  And he did that buzz thing to me.  I said (and I swear to God, I used my polite voice):  "Would you please not do that.  Seriously?  I need you to respect my space."

He lost his mind, blew up at me - and everybody, really - right there in the meeting, fussing at all of us.

My boss went and had a Big Talk with him, telling him that I will never, ever respond in the positive when someone invades my personal space, and blah blah blah.  After I cooled off, I went into his office.  "Can we talk?" I said.  "I'm sorry for fussing at you in front of everyone.  That was unprofessional of me.  That being siad, I have asked you to not do that before..." and on and on.

He apologized, and said (yes, I quote), "Look, I don't care if anybody here is my friend or whatever.  I'm a grown ass man and I can handle it."  I made nicey noises like, "well I do care, I want to be friends, but I need you to respect my boundaries" and what-all.

And that was that, and we are ok, but then...

I spent the whole weekend thinking about all the things he SHOULD HAVE said.  Things like this:

1) "It's never okay for me to invade someone else's personal space at work.  I should have know that, being that I am a grown-ass man."
2) "I'm sorry I created a hostile work environment for you.  It's wrong of me and I won't do it again.  I am a grown-ass man and I should have known better."
3) "You are the greatest person I have ever known, and I could not respect you more.  Being a grown-ass man, I still aim to strive to be more like you in every aspect of my life."

Fucker.

Let's find the positive.  I think I can safely say that, if that tool gets in my personal space again, I can both beat the shit out of him and threaten lawsuit.  Because, I, too?

Am a grown-ass (wo)man.

Lessons from Rocky - III & IV

The other night, I was clean worn out, due to having been to Bacchus the night before (because, fuck it, I live in Louisiana, my kids weren't in town, and it was time to party), and then having to work that day.  It was the night before a holiday, though, so I allowed myself to wander around in the twilight land of sooooo-sleepy-but-not-asleep, flipping through channels on the tv.

ROCKY II was on.  And it was just starting.

So I watched it, loving it so much, half rooting for Apollo, but just in general, being all enchanted.

And then they started with Rocky III.  I knew I wouldn't make it through that one, so I ran out to the living room and tuned up the DVR to record it, as well as Rocky IV.  I did NOT record Rocky V.  It sucked.

So the next day was Mardi Gras, and it is a holiday for us, and it was raining, cold and disgusting, so I didn't go down to any parades.  I cleaned my house, scrubbed the bathrooms and the floors, did all my laundry (which is to say, both loads).  And then I sat down on my couch to spend some time with the Itallian Stallion from Philadelphia.

Things I learned from Rocky III:
1.  Clubber Lang, aka Mr. T, really DID say "I pity the fool."  He was talking about Rocky.  Who's pitying whom, now, Clubber?  HUNH?

2.  Clubber Lang wore clip on feather hair extensions a long time before the hipster kids got ahold of them.
3.  I still want a feather hair extension but my hair is short so it would look weird.
4.  No way, in real life, would any Rocky fight not be called on a TKO.
5.  For that matter, why the fuck doesn't Rocky guard his face?  WHY?  That's Boxing 101, folks.

Things I learned from Rocky IV:
1.  Russians are all crazy blonde and icy-blue-eyed, and they want to kill us.  Because Americans are assholes.
2.  Rocky looks better with a beard, but I'm still not sure why anybody found this man attractive.

3.  Talia Shire is fine, but it's hard for me to understand why a mob boss family girl would hook up with a loser from Philly.
4.  "I Must Bldreak You" is my favorite line in the movie.

5.  ALL RUSSIANS ARE LYING CHEATING STEROID-SHOOTING BAD PEOPLE who KILL LANDO CALORISIAN.

Note:  I recognize that I'm mixing media, here, but that's the way my brain works.  Also, I'm not at all sure how ol' Lando's name is supposed to be spelled, and I sure as shit am not looking it up.

Note:  All generalizations are, of course, ridiculous, and I happen to be madly in love with two small russians, one of whom is a blonde but who, I think, does not want to kill me.  Usually.

Seriously, what I want to note is how freaking Amer'ca Rocky movies are.  Oh, we are going to insinuate that Russians are evil, because it is 1987 and we have been thinking they are going to hit the red button any ol' day for 30 years?  That's cool, because we have a pet robot who can talk.  And who might or might not jerk off the loser Uncle Paulie.

(nice product placement, Baskin.)

WHAT.  THE.  FUCK, Amer'ca?  I hate how freaking sanctimonious we come across in that movie.  It's embarrassing.  I kinda wanna be like, hey guys?  This?  This is why they hate us.

Well, this and Rambo.

Sylvester Stallone single handedly cost America its reputation.

I jest.  But it sure didn't help.

HOWEVER...


And not just because of the amazi-crazy good Survivor Song Burning Heart, Rocky IV remains my favorite Rocky Movie.  I love the little guy beating out the giant.  I love Amer'ca beating the commies, I admit it.  I think maybe this movie helped spur on the fall of the iron curtain.  I love the lesbian-swimming-champion-wife-who-is-a-prized-athlete-herself-but-who-smokes (ALL EVIL PEOPLE SMOKE).


 I love Beard Rocky Running Up a Mountain.
I love Rocky.  And I learn stuff from it.

Moral Questioner

This morning, while I was miserably trying to run my little two mile day-kicker-offer - which was a big suck today, and I can't tell you why, honestly, I just felt like crap, with legs made of lead, and you know what, that is FINE, I did it anyway - I encountered a moral dilemma.

Running down the road, I happened to glance down and notice a ten dollar bill in the street.

It was assuredly not mine.  I could use it, though.

Thoughts of Starbucks went through my head.

It's only $10.  Not $100.

What would you have done?

In retrospect, I kind of wish I had left it exactly where it was, on the street.  I think it probably belonged to a school-age kid who was on their way to school.  Probably some poor kid's lunch money for the week.

If I had left it in the street, maybe they would have seen it after school, retrieved their money.

Maybe I could have saved a kid from an ass-kicking.  Maybe saved a single mom from stressing out over lunch money.

By the time I really registered what I had encountered, the bill was in my hand, and I was moving forward (though not quickly, I assure you.)

I put it in the next mailbox.

What would you have done?

Celebrity Look Alike

Oh, my fucking god.  I am laughing so hard that I'm crying.  You put in a picture of you, then you tell this one website to go find out what celebrities you look like.  This is what I got:

Yes, internets, you saw it here.  I'm a fucking dead ringer.

Happy Friday.  I'm going to go and sing Respect, now...

Oh Yeah it's Moooo-vin' Ti-yi-yi-yi-yi-am

Tomorrow is moving day.  I'm feeling odd about it.  Half of me is like, OHMYGODGETTHISOVERWITHALREADYFORCHRIST'SSAKE, and half of me is like, BUTWAITI'MSCAREDHOLDME.

It's happening, whether I am ready or not.  Get the fuck over it, already, homeskillet.

And that is all I really have to say right now.  Wish me luck.  Wish me home.

Six Snippets

Snippet #1:  I went to the eye doctor on Monday.  Just a regular check up, which is to say, I was out of contacts and it's been nearly two years since I saw him last.  HAHAH YOU CANNOT MAKE ME CHANGE MY CONTACTS IF I DON'T WANT TO.

Anyway, so my prescription is the same as last time, astigmatisms in both eyes, but the left eye's vision is pretty much fine, and the right eye's vision is a piece of shit.  I asked him if that seemed weird to him.  "Yes," he replied.  "I bet you were a forceps baby."

WHAT THE HELL?  I'd ask my mom, but the 70's were good times with the child-bearing-drugs, and I'm pretty sure that she remembers only rainbows and happy little pink frogs from my delivery.  So fuck it.

Snippet #2:  When you buy a house, especially a HUD house, you get what you get.  I've got a big ol' house that needed some work.  I've painted that bitch, a lot, actually, and I like painting, but I'm tired.  I've spackled.  I fixed a bullet hole (which is to say, my dad fixed a bullet hole.)  I've done a LOT of work in the one week I've owned that place, but every day, there's something new.  Oh, the paint is peeling?  Let's poke it.  New hole in the drywall.  Sinks leaking?  Let's cut a hole in the drywall.  New hole in the drywall.  Nobody REALLY wants a home phone jack on the wall in their kitchen, right?  New hole in the drywall.  After spending four days with a paint brush in my hand, I look forward to two more days of the same, this weekend, although I will be taking a break to run an 8 mile race (WHAT AM I THINKING HOLY SHIT I AM UNPREPARED) on Sunday.  At any rate, it's coming along, and I have two more weeks, and it's going to be fine.  Right?  RIGHT?

Snippet #3:  It got icy here, on Tuesday, and being well prepared, our parish closed the school district for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.  My boss followed suit, and I got an extra 2 1/2 days off, which absolutely rocked.  I needed that time to paint.  And paint I did, believe you me.  The kid was constantly watching for an opportunity to play in snow, an opportunity which never came.  It was cold.  There was ice.  There really wasn't enough snow to say "snow," and he was stuck inside.  He has been amazing, completely great, completely awesome, but I'd be willing to bet he is ready for this move to be over.

Snippet #5:  I'm getting a cold.  An ear infection, maybe.  It blows.  I'm taking drugs for it.  I need that shit to be gone.

Snippet #6:  I have watched a couple of episodes of this show where this one lady takes girls and helps them be made over into pageant superstars.  It's a cute show, and I'll be damned if one episode didn't make me cry like a little bitch.  Sarah needs to get a boyfriend.

1968 Movie Viewer

Things I learned while watching Chitty Chitty, Bang Bang, with my 7 year old son, this last Friday:

1.  Dick Van Dyke was pretty foxy in the 60's.  I'm grateful that there was no fake cockney accent in this particular show.


2.  Russia and Germany and all the little Russia sub-nations (at the time) were VILLAINOUS in the 1960's.  All bad guys had slavic accents, wore black hats and long coats, and looked like Boris Badinoff from Rocky and Bullwinkle.


3.  All women in the 1960's both looked kind of like, and wanted to be, Shirley Jones.  And who the fuck can blame them?  I want to be her, too.  Makes perfect sense to me.


4.  I'm not teaching my son how to be a good father.  The inventor dad, while truly being a very loving father, is clearly a total eff-up in life.  "What do you think," I asked my child.  "Is he a good father?"  C responded, "Yes, and no.  He is very responsible." NO HE IS NOT.  He is nice.  He is the opposite of responsible.


5.  Alzheimer's was pure entertainment back in the day.


6.  There are no children allowed in Bulgaria.


7.  All movies of that decade were musicals.  They could make a musical about nazis.  Oh, wait, they did...

(Julie Andrews also kind of looks like Shirley Jones.  I'm not sure which is the egg and which is the chicken, here, honestly.)

8.  During the last week of school, while I was in elementary school, we were piled onto the cafeteria floor and were force-fed terrible movies to kill time until summer break.  Chitty was DEFINITELY one of them.  Yet, I had zero recollection of the plot beyond the fact that there was a car involved.  What the fuck was I doing during the playing of this movie??  Sleeping?  Talking?  (I'm going to go with talking...)

9.  There were lots of inventions on the plate for this little family that were insanely awe-inspiring at the time, but are definitely being used in the back of the house at McDonald's.  I am pretty sure a McEmployee hasn't actually touched food since 1997.

10.  Ian Fleming liked to hit acid.

11.  Truely Scrumptious is both my dream name and the Best Porn Name, Ever.

Suri's Biggest Fan

So.  There's this:

http://surisburnbook.tumblr.com/

That's pretty much all it takes to amuse me today.

Love you,
Me.

Flower Growing Baby Mama Future Nun Pirate Whore.

It's a little known fact, but I like to kill grow flowers.  I do.  The artist formerly known as my husband really wasn't a fan, especially of inside flowers, but I still went through a phase every few years where I would spend a few dollars on some flowers, tend to them for a while, then get all "eh, fuck it" and let them die.

It's been a few years, though, and...  I dunno.  I think I might be back in the place that I once lived in, a place that once featured about 30 potted plants on a back porch.  I like pot.  s.  Pots.  haha.

We started with impatiens, and oooooh, they are pretty, and ooooooooh, they are easy.

This success has brought us to pot two (not to be read as pot, too):  marigolds and petunias.

 Thing is, my plan was ultimately to be to become a nun, so they can teach me how to garden and my kids won't have to support me come retirement age.  We all know I won't be able to support myself.  But now, what to do?  I'm learning how to garden all on my own!

Speaking of kids, it's almost Mother's Day, and, good gracious, I love these kids.  My sweet babies:

 The ni ni kitty was cold.  Bless it.

 Look at my sweet baby.  He's just getting too big.

This boy was tired out, kind of dirty, and had just gotten home from work.  Also, "Sam, smile," doesn't work well with him.  He's such a cute boy, though.

Anyway, the other day, I told the baby, "Hey, Mother's Day is coming up, did you know that?"  "I know," he said, "I made you a picture at school."  "Wow, thanks," I said.  "I LOVE your pictures!  I can't wait to see it."

"You are in the picture.   And you are wearing one of your dresses."

Okay.  I mean, it's like, once every four months that I wear a dress, but, you know, cool.

"You know that part where you can see your chest?  I drew that in, too."

UM.  WHAT?

Happy Mother's Day, everybody!  I'll post the drawing of my rack once it comes to me.  I'm not known as The Pirate Whore Monsterknockers for nothin.

Week of Bad Things.

Dear Fucking Universe,

I'm pretty Goddamn Sick and Tired of The Week of Bad Things.

For the last two years, I've steadfastly ignored that The Week of Bad Things exists.  "Oh, it's April 17," I'd think.  "We are mid-way through The Week Of --- no, no, this is just any ol' week."

And kind of, it worked.

Three years ago, I'm all THE SPELL IS BROKEN, and all NOTHING BAD HAPPENED "except a little fire on an oil tanker or something," which turned out to be the most historic and devastating oil issue in the history of time.

And here we have a shooting, at a marathon.  White man's sports, running.

God dammit.

I've got to go for a run.

Victim of Rape by the Toyota Dealership. Or so it seems.

I love my car.  I really do.  I drive a little, 2004 Rav 4, it's white, it has 118,000 miles, and it runs.  It runs really well.

But GOD DAMN, when did car parts start getting so expensive?  Like, seriously?  I remember getting my oil changed for $12.  Now it's $36.  And they don't even vacuum the interior.  As if they could get to the floor mats.  I digress.

Today I dropped my car off to get an oil change, and also to have the dealership "fix the check engine light." This will be the third time said car has been into said dealership to fix said light.  We have:  1) put a new cover on the gas cap.  2) changed out the O2 sensor.  Neither of these things worked.  So now, SO NOW, they call me to tell me that I need a new EVAP system.  Know how much that costs?

Guess.

NO YOU ARE WRONG.  $1032.  FOR FUCKING REAL.

Anyway.

So I'm getting it fixed, because my mother loves me, and this is still cheaper than buying a new car, and you know what?  FUCK IT.  FUCK IT ALL.

I think she knows this makes me feel bad about myself, like I personally broke my fucking EVAP system, like I did so on purpose, because she just offered to feed me and my kids dinner.

You bet your ass I want you to feed me dinner.  So let's summarize:

1) My car is not really broken, but my mother is about to drop $1000 into it to make some lights turn off.
2) She feels sorry for me for this, and is going to feed me.

Guess who is a great big winner today?

ME!

Capeside High School Junior, at least in Season Two

It's "let's play a game" time, again!  HO HO HO, FUCKING MERRRRRY CHRISTMAS!

Today's game is called:  Name this late-90's series that was really too young for me, even at that time, that I watched religiously, and now am re-visiting via Netflix, end-to-end, in chronological order!!!

Name it!!!

Need a hint?

Here you go:

OH FUCK YES, THAT IS DAWSON'S CREEK.

Y'all, girl, please.  What is wrong with this girl, who is truly in her late 30s, even though she tries to pull off early 30s, which is still a solid decade and a half too old to like this show.  To, ahem, even shed a few tears at the conclusion of Season 1, when Jen's (SPOILER ALERT) gramps died and Dawson and Joey did a little smooching.

SHUT UP.

Here's my analysis, here's why I think this is so appealing to me, right now.

1) Set in a New England town:  As you may or may not care, I went to high school in a small town in Connecticut.  Which is to say, a non-seaside town, not even on Long Island Sound, but close e-goddamn-nough.  We spoke with similar cadences to Dawson, which should surprise NOBODY because...  guess what?

James Van Der Beek?  FROM THE SAME TOWN.

Yep.  I know him, at least, I did know him, once upon a time, which meant that, back in 1998, when I had my first obession with this show, this phone call happened:

Me:  "Hi, Jay, look, there's this show, Dawson's Creek, you know, and, have you seen it?  I swear, I can't put my finger on it, but the Dawson guy is just... so familiar..."

Janie:  "Idiot.  We went to high school with him.  James Van Der Beek, only he was usually called "that loser Van Der Geek."

(She didn't really call me an idiot.  She probably thought it, though.  She may also not have shared the slur against his majesty himself, although I definitely, at that time remembered a production of Lil' Abner starring himself, wherein I thought, hey, this guy is super adorable, and then, hey, this guy is a total douchebag.  So there you go.)

2)  Blonde high school age boys:  My very favorite first love in the whole wide world was a blonde boy in my high school.  A boy who was artistic and sensitive and adorable and tall and thin and had super light blonde hair and it flopped in his eyes and he was a super awesome perfect first love, and I treated him like shit because I was a TOTAL BITCH.  But anyway, I was also stupid and in high school, so I forgive myself.  Because I'm rad now.  In addition, we did NOT talk the way the DC kids do, we did not use the big words and speak reallyfuckingquickly causing mid-to-late-30's age people to stop and rewind all of our Deep Conversations, but otherwise, TOTALLY THE SAME.

3)  1998:  DC originally debuted in 1998, wherein I was 23, living in my Very Own Apartment with a little Beanie who was 4.  I was being a grown-up, ish, but still waffled between trying to be Very Grown Up (i.e., watching Ally McBeal) and Embracing My Youth (i.e., Dawson for the win).  But I flipping ADORE the music of that time.  Jann Arden.  Sarah McICan'tSpellHerLastNameAndSheHasRuinedDogsForMe.  Mandy Moore.

Oh, yes, Mandy Moore.  God I want to be her.

As an aside, I'm pretty sure my 1998 Boyfriend ALSO wanted to be her.  Not WITH her, mind you. 

Ahem.

4)  Boats are pretty.

So what's going on?  Am I having a mid-life, I-miss-my-youth, Single-again-feeling-angsty moment?  

Nah.  I just think the show is visually gorgeous, well-written, and entertaining.  With great music.  So fuck it.

So, in the interest of Christmas Cheer, I'm going to do the following all weekend:

Sleep.  Eat.  Be Merry.  Watch A Boat Parade.  Attend a Christmas Party.  Cook.  Shop a little (I'm actually pretty much done, BOOM.)  Watch MOTHERFUCKINGDAWSON'SCREEKSEASONTWO and KNIT.

How badly do you want to be me?

You know you do.

Merry Christmas from Capeside!!!