Monday, December 28, 2009

Happy Holidays Folks, Wherever You May Be

Sorry for the belated holiday wishes, but I haven't had much computer access, and if I were to be completely honest, when I did, I just didn't feel like writing.

It was a psychotic tempest of a holiday for me, but what else could it be? At least it wasn't like the Worst Christmas Ever - a post which I feel the unhealthy need to read every so often.

We have been in Houston since Christmas Eve and just came back tonight. No major family feuds or anything, but definitely some interesting turns of events, one of which I will blog about at a later date, and another of which was Jethro's mother springing upon us the news that she was going to have a complete hysterectomy the day before she did. The girls and I stayed in Houston after Christmas while Jethro went back to New Town to support us. He came back in on New Years Eve and we went to a party at a friend's house.

Now that was a bloggable event.

Our friends are great. They just bought a new house and they quite understandably wanted to throw a New Year's party. Jethro and I arrived around nine. The karaoke machine was just getting revved up and a drink of pomegranate champagne punch combined with some pseudophedrine was enough inducement for me to sing Angel of the Morning in a duet with some chick who's name I still don't know. I sang harmony.

I wish the other guests were as cool. Sadly, one of our friends from college, who was a last minute invite, decided to bring two of the most wretched humans on earth. They didn't know anyone, but had no problems asking where the beer and the refrigerator were (because they didn't like any of the food that was set out). They were already pretty drunk when they arrived (or high, or quite possibly just very very slow-witted). I don't know. I didn't care. I just wanted to not talk to them, but who gets buttonholed? Me. The wretched humans were a couple. And the female of the species kept me for 5 whole minutes of my precious life to tell me about a money-making scheme involving our friend sexually assaulting me, which would invite my husband to punch his lights out, which could net us some cash by betting on the outcome of the ensuing brawl. Maybe this made more sense in her head, because I couldn't see the point of organizing a betting event where the only thing we knew for sure was that I would have my boobs manhandled. I mean of all the variables, that was the only sure thing. This just strikes me as witheringly bad logic. But just so you know, this is why the poor stay poor. If anyone tries to tell you differently, punch them in the face for the backwards, incompetent, malcontent, communists that they are.

And just for the record, I was not in bad form that night. I wish I was thinner, as always, but hair was good, make-up was great, boobs were buoyant. I was feeling pretty hot until that very weird interlude.

But still in all, it was a fun night. There were tons of fireworks (which I don't actually like much), my friends' house was beautiful, and I got good and buzzed. So mostly a win.

I hope everyone else had a fantastic holiday. I'm sorry I didn't get around to the blogs, but I hope to make up for it by visiting more this year.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

You know you might be overwhelmed by the holiday when you are having relations with your husband and visions of sugar plums (and christmas wreaths and candy canes and wrapping paper) start dancing in your head......and they get you off.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Joys and things

Oh how my little blogs suffers. Boring life has taken over this rich, colorful tapestry of imagination and progress.

First off, my massage class of all women and one rotund, progressively slothful instructor is going only as well as can be expected. I stuck my neck out for one of my classmates whom I don't even like, but was being mercilessly picked on by the fat, annoying classmate who didn't like me. And now Fat Girl is gone, so it was much ado about nothing. How I managed to get involved is beyond me. I yearn for a simple life which includes no cunts, male or female, and yet I find myself surrounded. Did I tell you my non-sexy instructor told us all about how his testicles had not descended when he was born? It was all I could do not to sarcastically ask if everything was okay now. And he is shaving less and less. I think he is being overworked, but it could just be that he feels comfortable enough to not bother trying to impress us with minimal hygiene. And he's becoming increasingly inappropriate. My classmates can be pretty crude (there is something about putting your hands all over other people late at night that lends itself to the unseemly), and I admit that I indulge as well (although I try to be as clever with my vulgarity as possible), but I expect my instructors to have some control in this regard, or at least be wittier than the average slattern. But the non-sexy instructor, or the NSI for short, is somewhat slower with the banter. Yes, yes. I did know that head can be a double entendre. Perhaps it is hypocritical of me, but I feel an instructor should rise above, or sink so far below that he or she cannot be touched in any way. Which brings me to inappropriate touching. There is a girl in class who is pregnant. She's married and this is her second baby, but the NSI is always touching her stomach. I find this squirmingly uncomfortable to watch, mostly because he reminds me somewhat of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. Pregnant Girl is polite about it, but I have to look away so I don't vomit. I guess it's just weird because his stomach is bigger than hers which causes me to wonder why if a belly is so fascinating, he doesn't just touch his own. And then I remember that he does and I have to look at the pictures of the STDs so I don't think about it.

Other than that, it's going well.

I feel that I have a handle on the Christmas shopping, except for one present. We draw names in my family because no one can afford a present for everyone even if they're cheap, and I ended up with my sister's girlfriend. On one hand, this is impossible. But on the other hand, it's a challenge. And sometimes I enjoy a challenge. However, all I've got so far in the way of ideas is a customized t-shirt stating: "Carpet Ninja." But I think that might be in poor taste.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

George Soros???

If the press is going to quote this man as if his unelected, unsolicited opinion means something, shouldn't they be revealing his ties to the Democrat party and his other organizations each and every time? Shouldn't they reveal his notoriety in wreaking havoc on financial systems the world over?

This man is corrupt to the core and we are now being given his point of view without any kind of counterweight.

Check out all the AP and other press articles quoting and aggrandizing him while barely touching his political affiliations.

(check out the bizarre correction at the end. Since when is the Times that detail oriented, especially when the story wasn't initially wrong? It would appear someone's taking marching orders from the subject.)

This last one is mind-blowing. Check out the headline. Nuance. That holographic code word. The article actually defends fascism (think of it as a governmental system in terms of the economy, not concentration camps) as implemented by the NAZIS and quotes Soros in defense of it. Even if Germany never started its genocidal death camps, fascism is still a terrible form of government.

This is the one article I found that gives any real information on this man. In spite of the headline, it's actually quite balanced and informative. Of course it was published back in '98 when the press wasn't his bitch...
These paragraphs cut right to the heart of the matter:
"Still, many observers wonder about Mr. Soros' straddling of so many fences in the worlds of finance, economics and politics.

''I think there's a built-in conflict between making money in public markets and improving the world,'' said James Grant, editor of a newsletter, Grant's Interest Rate Observer, and the author of several studies of financial markets. ''Soros is out there telling you what he's done, what he's going to do and how he'll save the world. I think there's a conflict because those goals seem at cross-purposes.''

''It raises questions about inside information when you're able to talk to central bankers and policy makers at the same time that you're involved in financial markets,'' Mr. Grant said.

For his part, Mr. Soros, dapper and attentive, defended his probity in a wide-ranging interview last week, saying he has always strived to keep separate his roles as a hard-nosed trader placing global bets and a financial guru able to rub elbows with the highest of the high and mighty. Though he had run-ins with American regulators in the 1970's and 80's, he has never been accused of insider trading or similar financial wrongdoing." [emphasis mine]

He's "tried" to separate his roles? Tried? Come on. If Martha Stewart went to jail, I'm guessing there's about a billion ways to send Soros there, not that I'd necessarily advocate that.

But how about letting in the sunshine? Let's pretend this is '98 and Soros hasn't bought off the press. Let's find out more about him and his intentions for our country. He has billions, his influence is everywhere, he sponsors the left-wing, free speech/information squelching orgainzation "Media Matters" as well as the highly partisan, left-wing (among others), which the mainstream media quotes without fact-checking, he is being quoted willy-nilly in the press without question.....something is very wrong with this picture.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009


....briefly considered mixing the scotch in her mouth with soda directly from the bottle, but in gazing upon her husband's stern, somewhat nauseated visage, thought the better of it.

Sunday, December 06, 2009

The Tale of Two Rabbits

Wow. It's been a long time since I posted. And I was just starting to get back into the swing of things too. All I can say is that I've been busy. I'm still working on the house, I'm still in my massage classes, and I'm trying to get ready for the holidays.

But I have loads of stories, and I did want to tell of the rabbits.

Our friends gave the girls one of their rabbits. His name is Phillix. He has brought much joy and cooperation in the mornings, as in the girls no longer meet their day with groggy thrashing at the unkind morning world and instead leap from their beds to care for their silent, cuddly friend.

The second rabbit is not so cuddly. And it belongs to me.

The august Trashman made contact to let me know he had a present for me. Jethro and I picked it up from his place of employ - a convenience store directly off the freeway. He was busy with a short line of customers when we walked in, and it gave me time to reflect on just where life's path had led me. If anyone were to have told me it would lead to a convenience store off 35 to pick up a bright orange sexual accoutrement, I would have.....well....probably believed them, but it doesn't change the delightful absurdity of the situation.

When he was through with the customers, we went to his car where he presented me with a multiply layered package. Had this been witnessed by law enforcement, I'm sure I would have had a far more exciting tale to tell.

Now I think I'm supposed to give a review. Trashman has heard of women leaving their husband's for this inanimate object. But I think I must disagree. Since it vibrates, I'd be hard-pressed to call it inanimate. I don't know how interesting the porny details are since we're just a married couple doing what married people do, so I'll give it my patented 9 word review. "It can go ahead and quit it's day job."

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

I really didn't like The Virgin Suicides. My parents were exponentially more strict.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Happy Veterans Day... all our vets. I'm alive and happy and free in a wonderful country because of you. Thank you.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

12 13 Dead, But Let's Not Forget To Thank Fucking Ken.

He is such a douche. Reminds me of his idiotic comments after the Virginia Tech massacre.

Oh, and they were killed by a Muslim. The media is twating out, as expected, but someone has to say it. There's a rumor that Muslims don't like us much.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Oh So Many Things

I was going to post about a certain present gifted to me by the resplendent Trashman (who is posting again like crazy fun) but I have contracted some plague that rendered me a font of spewing magnificence within earshot of my entire massage class, so I will have to postpone.

I apologize for the delay.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

How Does One's Garden Grow?

I can never decide whether it's more fun to be cheerful or more fun to complain. Since I can't decide, and the last post was a complaint of sorts, I guess I'll post a cheerful one.

This is the view from my deck.

Since it faces directly west, we get to watch the wild Texas sunsets, which pictures hardly do justice. But they're my favorite part of the house.

I know the backyard needs a lot of work, but considering it was not taken care of for over a year, and we are just coming out of an extraordinary, extreme, mega-unheard of drought, I think it's manageable. I'm mostly going to put in vegetables and zeroscaping anyway. I've never seen the point in not using native plants in one's landscaping. Trying to keep a lawn of unnatural grass in the climate we have just seems like an exercise in futility and time that could be better spent on growing something productive. I intend to chop down and de-stump every last cedar tree (we're all allergic), replacing them with peach and orange trees and maybe a lemon tree. I would like some berries too.

Now I just have to learn about growing things in Texas. Every bit of knowledge I've retained as far as plant growing, is from my childhood up north. And I can't explain just how, but things grow differently down here.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009


My massage therapy classes are boring. I think I've mentioned that. The only redeeming factor was the fairly cute instructor who could at least provide some eye candy while I debated the merits of poking out said eyes. So of course they fired him. There wasn't any good reason I could see, but the ignoramuses were looking for an excuse for their constant failure, and he was the scapegoat. I wonder what the school will say when their grades don't actually improve.

So as luck would have it, his replacement is a portly gentleman of somewhat less than average looks who regaled us on his first day with an exhaustive description of the surgery he had to correct his deviated septum, leaving out nothing including the removal of his nose tampons in all the bloody, stringy, mucousy detail. I don't hate him or anything, but he's constantly saying disparaging things about the other instructor, and he's certainly no beauty.

And I got into a heated argument with him after a test. He marked an answer wrong on my test that was technically correct. It was a multiple choice question and the correct answer was misspelled which made it an entirely different word. One of the other answers was 'none of the above' which was the one I chose. I thought it was a trick question. Apparently he had warned everyone of this question at a moment I was either not in the room or absent. He wanted to mark the answer as incorrect because I wasn't there to glean the information, and I argued that I shouldn't be held responsible for a misspelled test question since I had studied and not only knew the answer, but also knew how the answer was spelled. On top of that, the answer I chose was actually correct. He disagreed with me, and I disagreed with him in a slightly louder tone. He disagreed again and said he wasn't responsible for the test because he wasn't the one who had written it. I said that I wasn't either and I should get credit because I knew the answer. He said it was my fault that I wasn't in class to hear him tell everyone what the answer was, and I said that would have been a valid point had there not been an answer on the test that was correct given the misspelling. If there hadn't been a valid answer, I would have deduced that it was a misspelling. I further added, that it was ridiculous that there were any misspellings on the tests at all, and that it was extremely unprofessional.

He ended up giving me the two points and then shook my hand as if I was a man that he wanted no more quarrel with. That was kind of cool.

Then came the next class on the reproductive system. Judging by the ever changing hues of purple his face kept turning, I don't think it's his area of expertise. We came upon the term 'sexual intercourse' and he asked everyone what another word for that was. We all looked at him as if he was out of his mind. One girl ventured, '' "Sex?" he said, mockingly. "Come on. Don't you know the biological term? I'll spell it. C-L-O-T-U-S."

I was completely befuddled. "Do you mean C-O-I-T-U-S?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Maybe it's C-L-O-I-T-U-S. Spelling isn't my strong point."

"I don't think there's an L in that word," I said.

"No, I'm pretty sure there is," said he.

"I've never heard of an L in that word. And I've seen that word many times," I insisted brazenly and pointlessly.

"Well, let's look it up," he said smugly.

We whipped out our i-Phones, he looking up his version and me looking up mine.

I was correct, naturally. I tried to soften the blow by telling him there wasn't anything I didn't know about coitus, which I think didn't make him feel better because it made it seem as if he knew nothing by comparison. It's probably true, though.

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Jethro's Been Eating His Wheaties

Or rather these new manly vitamins that make him, for lack of a better word, EXTREMELY HORNY.

Now I'm as game as the next wife. I am. Maybe more. But these vitamins don't have a female equivalent and sometimes I need to sleep. The second I get into bed, it's hands, hands, hands. The other night, after futilely defending myself for about 10 minutes, I exasperatedly reverted to cliche.

"You're like a kid in a candy store," I said, to which he replied, "Or a grown man in a pussy store."

You can't block teleporting hands when you're laughing.

New Topic:

Jim Treacher, a lovely, clever boy, and one of my favorite political satirists and just generally funny people of all time ever, got his Top Ten Reasons To Accept That Job Offer From David Letterman read by Mark Levin and Dennis Miller.

He also does funny things with cartoon bubbles.

Really, he's a treasure, especially for the right side of the political spectrum who tend to miss mockable moments in their haste to express outrage.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

But Is It Art?

Hey remember when Mel Gibson said mean things about Jews and called a female cop "sugar tits" and everyone said he was a giant fucking douchebag?

He was.

Roman Polanski drugged a 13 year old girl and stuck his dick in her ass.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Funny Video

Quite possibly, I've never laughed so hard at a youtube video in my life.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

I know I have a post in me somewhere. It's not as if amusing things aren't happening. For instance, Jethro and I were attempting a quickie this morning and the alarm went off blaring something with a heavy club beat just as I got mine. So it turns out that I can never again say I don't get off on hip hop.

And massage classes are going as well as can be expected given the fact that they are as boring as dust on a windless day.

I have discovered, however, that girls don't like me. Or I don't like them in a group, or something like that. Basically, the women I'm taking the class with don't like me much. I'm very much excluded on break, and in other more subtle ways. I can't decide if my feelings are hurt. I guess I think they ought to be, but I don't feel awkward or uncomfortable about it, so they really aren't.

I think it's one gal in particular. She's my age, but she hasn't been to school since high school and she seems to be reverting to high-schoolish patterns of behavior. She's made another girl her minion and she includes people in their intrigues at her discretion, as if it's an honor of some kind. It's been interesting to watch how power is gained through this scenario. Or at least it's more interesting than the endocrine system.

But I'm not sure how excluding me serves her purpose unless she just really doesn't like me at all, which is probably the case. Sometimes I feel like a boy with ADD in that class, and she seems like the type to be irritated by that especially since I can cut up and joke with the instructor and still know almost every answer.

That's a problem too. I'm not sure what to do. The instructor does a review of the information for each test and we're supposed to call out answers to the questions. I can answer most of the questions before he even finishes them, but it takes everyone else a long time. So I'm not sure what to do. Usually I wait what I think is a decent interval and then answer the question. If someone gets it before, then great. But it's mostly me answering them. This is annoying both to me and to everyone else. There was a guy in the class who could have given me some competition and wasn't afraid to answer all of them, but he dropped out. So it's just me.

If none of this is interesting at all, welcome to my world.

I also switched Gwennie and Emma's school. Emma didn't want to switch, but Gwennie didn't like it, and what Gwennie wants, Gwennie gets. I transferred them to the school they are zoned to at the new house. They started yesterday, and Emma, lucky little dragon-baby, got into the same class as our next door neighbor who she's already made friends with.

Gwennie, on the other hand, has a teacher I already detest and I'm sure Gwennie will come to detest. She's a manic blonde, probably a former cheeleader, and was rude to Gwennie when she couldn't decide where to sit after stupidly being given a choice. I grudgingly forgave that one, but she was rude again when I picked the girls up from school. Gwennie's attention wanders easily, but I'm not really keen on anyone snapping her fingers in her face, especially in my presence. I felt my deadly silence come on and I just stared at her in disbelief. The woman yammered on about what Gwennie needed to catch up to the class, and I did not answer a word. One more incident and Wrath will be my deadly sin.

Update: Just picked Gwennie and Emma up from school. Bitch teacher let everyone chew gum except Gwennie because she didn't have my "permission." That was really fucking nice. I'm about to get pissed off. If I think she has it in for my kid based on one moment of indecision over a stupid fucking desk, I'm going to make her life miserable. Just for fun.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Today is September 11th

I had no intention of going to ground zero while I was in NY. I don't need to go. I know what happened. I remember those buildings and the thousands of people inside. My daughters aren't going to get much out of looking at an excavation site because they never knew the buildings that used to stand there.

But we took the West Side Highway back to Brooklyn from Manhattan and we went right past it. So I snapped a picture and felt nothing.

My friend died trying to give these backwards death-cultists a chance at a better life, and we've elected someone who apologizes for our country and wants to prosecute the people who kept us safe.

So here's the picture and I hope it means something more to someone else today.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Back to My Old Back Porch

I am sitting here without my pants and I have no idea how that happened. One second I was wearing pants (shorts) and now I am not. And I don't even see them anywhere nearby.

Anyway, we're back from NYC. It was a really great trip. I stayed with my friend of 20-something years at her condo in Brooklyn. She lives near Brighton Beach which is now all Russian. It's so Russian, the shop signs are in Russian. It really was cool. So many of the ethnic enclaves disappeared as the city became more gentrified. And while I'm never one to render judgment on natural progression, pockets of diversity is what the city is known for, and it's a little sad to see them vanish in favor of the generic eclecticism every city seems to be striving for.

Anyway, it was a great time. My cousin's wedding was so much fun. They had it at this very, very Hebrew restaurant called "Bubby's" in Brooklyn, situated just between the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges. The food was fantastic. Salmon or fried chicken, with a side of baked macaroni and cheese, and green beans. You might think fried chicken is more of a southern dish, but you'd be wrong. It is that too, but the Jews make it as well and it's different. I can't quite put my finger on how, but it is. And it made it onto my list of all-time best wedding food at #2, #1 being my own wedding which was the best food ever.

And my kids got to see another cousin on the other side of the family who is just Gwennie's age and adores them. They all played in the Diana Ross playground in Central Park. We went to the Museum of Natural History which is always cool, we ate dumplings at the speed of light in Chinatown, drank all-you-can-drink wine at another Chinese restaurant by Central Park, toured the M&M factory (and bought fistfulls of M&Ms), rode the ferris wheel in Toys R Us in Times Square, took pictures of Radio City Music Hall (a special request of Gwennie and Emma), went to a Brazillian Festival, took the subways everywhere to the great delight of my daughters who shrieked with delight every time the train started and they got flung, which made even the jaded NYers smile, and even made it upstate for a day to visit my godmother on her little farm. I got to show my daughters the elementary/middle school and church I attended, the house I lived in, and the town I spent 6-9th grades in.

Our last night, we went out with my friend and her husband to a Russian restaurant. It was amazing. I don't even know how to describe it. It was a mix of Asian and Mediterranean and Scandinavian food. You eat, drink, dance, eat, drink, dance, on and on and on until you

And of course there were things I wanted to do that I didn't even get close to doing, like seeing Beth. I also wanted to visit a graphic design museum and The Met, but it was not to be. I did, however, buy a dress at Bloomingdale's for the wedding. I hadn't planned to, but my friend had to pick up a dress there for another wedding, and I thought I would look around and see if there was anything that had a chance of fitting me. There was, and I bought it. It's purple. I think I'll wear it for Christmas, New Year's, and any other occasion that might call for it. It was expensive. But gorgeous. I love it.

Now for a small pictoral:

The M&M factory (where else?)

Radio City Music Hall

Rockefeller Center

View from the subway station in Brighton Beach

Jethro, me, and my purple dress from Bloomies.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Jethro, the girls, two sisters, and I are in New York City until Tuesday. We had to move, start school, and leave for NY in four days. I love it and I'm dying to write about it but there is no time. Everything is great, though. See you on the other side.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

We Closed, and We're Moving.

Finally. I'm sick of talking, writing, or thinking about it.

I have to get back to moving, but you must see this in the meantime. Hearty chuckles all around.

"Designed specifically for women" because men have no need whatsoever!

"Hey girls! I know how you can get paid to exercise! Send me $19.95 and I'll tell you!"

Feel free to add.

Friday, August 21, 2009

It Must Be Said

I'm going to admit something that is probably pure heresy to children of the '80s.

I hate Pee Wee Herman.

Even as a child, I detested him. I wouldn't watch his show, I wouldn't watch his movies, I just couldn't stand him. There is nothing about him I found even remotely funny, and I'm not anxious to suffer through a retro resurgence, which I fear is coming. My 14 year old sister sent me a Pee Wee Herman link and asked if I remembered him from way back when.

Updated: New Topic:

I yelled at the girl at our mortgage company. I told her if we did not have documents today, then I wasn't signing at all. And I mean it. I told her two months of her life will have been wasted if we do not have docs today. I realize they're now at the mercy of the lender, but I don't care. If they don't have the clout to get those docs from the lender, then I am not closing. I will rent a house and buy something else using a competent mortgage brokerage firm. They will not get their fee, and I will spread the news of their incompetence far and wide (which actually I'm already doing).

To go into the details of how incompetent they are would take a very long time and might make a useful artery of mine explode. One of the more minor details was misspelling my name, and putting the wrong address on the initial docs. You can extrapolate from there.

Which brings me to just how stupid Jethro and I are. Especially me. I knew better than to use someone we knew nothing about. I knew better. I worked in real estate for years and have seen firsthand how people get fucked by mortgage companies they use because a friend works there, or they were promised something fantastic and unreal.

Jethro and I used this guy because he was part of Jethro's business network. We felt a certain sense of obligation and took a risk. Any amount of critical thinking on my part and I would have never taken that chance, but I have this bizarre altruistic tendency that rears its ugly head every so often, and I will find myself concerned with someone else at my own expense.

And it really was altruistic. Referrals from this douche weren't nearly as important as actually closing on a house, and we knew it. But the guy was new to the group, and seemed nice (probably is nice) and eager to work. The clinic was doing really well and we thought we'd spread the wealth around.

Such a bad, stupid, moronic thing to do. And I really did know better. I don't like learning lessons and I hate learning them the hard way. But what I hate most of all is learning lessons that I've already learned the hard way.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Typical Life

I don't want to post depressing things, but that's part of what's going on, and it's part of life.

First, we simply can't close on a house. Our loan hasn't been rejected, but neither is it fully approved. We've been in this limbo for months now. And we have to be out of the house by the end of the month. I don't really know what to do.

The 2nd anniversary of Charles' death/murder was on the 12th. Our friends in Houston went out to commemorate and the evening was hosted by one of Charles' former roommates. I'll call him Cade. He was a wild guy and I have a few funny stories about him, but he is, from what I can tell, nearing the end stages of Lou Gehrig's disease. I suppose it was bittersweet. He wouldn't talk to anyone after his initial diagnosis except Charles. I know people would have been there for him, but I have no doubt he didn't want to be slobbered over. I remember Charles telling me about it and saying that Cade would want people to remember him in better times. I know I would.

But Cade came out of his self-inflicted exile to remember his friend. A whole lot of dust gets in my eyes when I think about it. I saw the pictures. He looks not good, and I can understand someone with any amount of pride refusing to be seen in that condition. But he came out for his friend. I hope death might not seem as frightening to him with someone like Charles waiting at the end. I'm just sad that it was Charles who had to pave the way.

Anyway, it's too misery-inducing to write much more about it.

I'm trying to think of something more cheerful.

Jethro and I got drinks with a former blogger who is somewhat local to us last weekend. It was fun. I felt like getting my drink on, and I did. The $3.00 jack 'n' cokes at the local Coyote Ugly did their part. There were some hot chicks dancing on the bar too. They were neat looking. But there is the ugliest trend occurring. Tube socks with cowboy boots. I saw two girls wearing them, and it was not cute. You have to have one hot little ass to pull off that kind of ugly, and I'll give them some credit there.

Anyway, it was a fun night.

And I'm losing weight again, I'm happy to report. I can't believe I went on a diet at such a stressful time since food gives me such joy and happiness, but Jethro says if I can withstand it through this stress, it shouldn't be so hard when all the stress is over. I see his point. And the healthy eating is probably helping to keep the stress from killing me. And an even bigger plus, I've experimented with some new recipes and they're freaking delicious. And healthy. For example. Shepherd's Pie. I love, love, love shepherd's pie. But it's pretty fattening and full of bad bad carbs from the potatoes. This recipe was different. The South Beach diet calls for cauliflower to be used instead of the mashed potatoes, but I don't really care for cauliflower no matter how much sour cream you use, so I used Great Northern White Beans instead. I heated them up, put in two (heaping) spoons of sour cream and an egg yolk, then fluffed them up with a mixer. I had no idea how they would turn out, but they were really good. Very similar to potatoes, but healthier apparently. For the ground beef mixture, I sauteed onions and garlic in a wee little bit of olive oil, then added the ground beef. When that was browned, I added two cups of edamame instead of peas (which have a lot of sugar), added two table spoons of balsamic vinegar in lieu of Worcestershire sauce which has sugar in it, one can of beef broth (that was too much) and let it simmer awhile. Then I put it in a casserole dish and spread the mashed beans over it. Then I covered the top with low fat shredded cheddar and baked it for 25 minutes. It turned out really well. The only problem was that there was a lot of liquid from using too much broth. I'll just reduce that amount next time.

So big problems are always there, but the little things are good.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

I started massage therapy classes. I don't want to go into the whys and wherefores, but suffice it to say I have good reasons. Unfortunately, they're very boring. The hands-on part is okay - you get a massage each class - but the anatomy and physiology class is going to kill me. I don't care about any of it. It consists of the instructor (who is actually pretty cute) reading the textbook and then getting tested. The highlight of the class is reading ahead waiting for the cute instructor to say 'vagina.' What? You all know I'm not right.

And we're still waiting to close on the next house. I'm afraid. I don't know what is going on and I don't want to talk about it.

So I'm just going to watch lions eat a antelope calf on Animal Planet. I think that will have a calming effect.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

On Motherhood and Such

Sorry for not writing much. The main happening in my life is waiting anxiously for another loan to go through on another house. Until it happens, I'm awash in crippling anxiety manifesting in dizzy spells, ennui, and irritable bowel syndrome. In other words, I'm not much fun.

But for good news, my little nephew is pure sweetness. We were back in Houston to see him two weeks ago, and we got to my sister's apartment just as they were getting back from the hospital. Gwennie, Emma and I were pushing and shoving to be the first to hold him. I won. Finally. They're small, but scrappy.

We spent some time there and then left to go out for the evening with some friends. The next morning, I got a call from my sister who was crying very hard. My heart turned to burning ice and the adrenaline flushed out my hangover but swiftly.

"IS THE BABY OKAY???" I bellowed.

"Yeah, he's fine," sobbed my sister.

Turned out she was just overwhelmed with learning how to breastfeed him. The nurses at the hospital had been such psycho, Nazi bitches about it, telling her that if he didn't eat every three hours, they were going to keep testing his glucose (which involved pricking his heel), so she better cooperate and give him a bottle. I really thought those days were long gone, but apparently not. So my poor sister was terrified that he wasn't eating enough when all the poor little thing wanted to do was sleep.

Jethro and I still drove over as fast as we could and I spent the day just trying to be calm and assuring her that her dear little baby was just fine.

Now I'm not trying to brag here, and I'm not putting my sister down at all for her panic, because she really did have a bad experience with those nurses that I never had, but when I look back to how I did with Gwennie at 23 years old, I'm pretty proud. It never occurred to me that I had done a good job. I have always been sure that I had done a mediocre job. But I actually did well. I didn't enjoy breastfeeding, but I did it until I got pregnant with Emma which was a solid 9 months and I nursed Emma for a year. I have plenty of faults as a mom, to be sure, but I also have strengths. And the best thing I ever did was to ignore every piece of advice that came my way once the baby was born. It's probably the strangest notion, but my rationale was if crack addicts can raise their children past infancy, then I can. And it worked. The thought kept me confident.

Anyway, I'm done here, and must now feed my children as the law dictates.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Words of Wisdom

Drinking non-alcoholic beer is like going down on your cousin. Sure it tastes the same, but it ain't right....

Friday, July 17, 2009

It's a Boy! A Real Boy!

I'm finally an Aunt. My little nephew, Phillip Thomas, was born yesterday at 11:42 in the morning, weighing in at a very healthy 8 lbs 1 oz. I've only seen grainy camera phone pictures so far, but I adore him already. He looks like my sister and my father, who he was named for. Jethro and I and the girls are headed back to Houston to see him and I'm sure I will have a hard time keeping Gwennie and Emma from abducting him to become his slaves.

I feel that euphoria one only gets from having a new baby in the family. My arms are just aching to hold him.

That doesn't mean I'm not busy, though. I have to clean the house, pack for the weekend and buy some presents. And my grandmother just called to make sure we'd pick her up when we go to visit. She's already gone to see him, but she's wasting no time piggybacking on whomever hasn't. Can't say I blame her, though. It's her first great-grandson.

I have to say that for being only 5 minutes old, he's remarkably unslimey.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Funny Stuff

I have yet another decision to make. Jethro and I have been discussing it and he would like it if I got my massage therapy license and worked with him in the clinic. I know I now have my associates degree in graphic design, but I always planned to freelance in that regard, and with a massage therapy license, I could have definite work.

So I went to an open house for a massage therapy school right down the road from the clinic.

Dear, sweet, mother of pearl. Every inch of this office was filled with clutter. From papers, to equipment, to kitschy Asian junk, there was no room to even leave fingerprints.

I walked into this den of hippies trying to keep an open mind, but as soon as I hear "chi flow" and witness the blank, vegan stares, I start feeling my skin crawl and I want to take it off. Jethro and the girls had come with me to check it out, but as soon as Jethro saw the ionic foot bath, he grabbed the girls and hightailed it out of there. I could hear him screaming in his head.

I don't mean to sound so condescending with regards to alternative medicine. It's our livelihood, after all. But so much of it is crap with no evidence (or worse, false evidence) to back up the claims. And even if something is eventually proven, it seems wrong to sell treatments before they are. Telling someone "the Chinese have done it for thousands of years, so you should pay out the schmoobie" doesn't strike me as very objective or scientific.

I know it's hard to imagine some unhygienic vegan in rags bilking people out of money, but they can do it just as easily as a guy in a suit.

Anyway, I'm tired and rambling and I think I'll go to bed now.

Friday, July 10, 2009


Overdue hat tip to ALa of Blonde Sagacity. That was her cake in the picture below. She won a contest with it last year, and her husband won the year before. They seem to have a gift with the fondant. I don't. I tried making it once and it seemed to attract every piece of hair and fuzz and bug in a 5 yard vicinity. Not my best effort.

Things are going. I've been without my husband for almost 5 days, and I'm feeling kind of growly. Jethro is up in New Town, and I'm in Houston with the girls visiting his parents. It's not my preferred way of doing things, but they miss the girls so much and it's no real trouble for me, although I miss Jethro. We seem to be very co-dependent and I guess I'm one of those sick people who think that's healthy.

It's been an interesting week, though. I've seen quite a few people and have plans to see quite a few more including a young man I met at this gay homeschooling christian youth sports thing I went to in high school. I know he liked me back then, but I refused to date him because he was a year younger than me. I had ridiculous standards at 16. I wouldn't date anyone younger, but I would have given my left tit to have had the babies of a local auto mechanic sporting a golden mullet. Honestly, it's such a good thing for me that I'm married to Jethro, because I'm still that freaking weird.

Saturday, July 04, 2009

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

A Nose By Any Other Name...

I want a nose job. I know, I know. I don't approve of plastic surgery. And I really don't. Find the character to transcend your flaws is what I alway say, and shake what yer mama gave ya.

But I can't stand my nose. I'm pretty sure an ex-ray of it would reveal internal complications so whorled and maze-like and deviant, that a cottage cheese covered, anal sex receiving porcupine fetishist would shudder in ecstatic loathing and revulsion. Half-Jewish, and half-horrid-Scottish-bulbous-rosacea, it's as if the two genes collided then tried to run off screaming before they were frozen in stern, unyielding cartilage.

For such an offending appendage, it doesn't look that crooked. But it is. You should see the nose pads of my glasses. Mind-blowingly off center. One is somewhat straight and the other veers waaaaay off to the side and twists back.

But you should see it when I cry. For most people, women at least, crying is cathartic. But not for me. Actually, I don't know if it is or not because the physical effects of a good cry are so awful. My sinuses swell to the point where I can't breathe through my nose at all and a headache goes without saying. And it lasts for days. At least 4 days after a good cry, you can tell I've had a good cry. It's very aggravating.

Really, there's no point to this at all. I just wanted to write something.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Jon and Kate

I hate even talking about that show. Gwennie, Emma and I loved watching and cooing over the adorable little children who looked so much like them, and now those stupid parents have ruined it all.

Honestly, the last thing I intended to do was render some high holy judgement on those people. I knew they were getting paid a shitload to exploit their children, and I was okay with that. That's a lot of kids to raise, and money comes in handy, and I don't begrudge people what the market will pay them for anything as long as it's honest. I can understand them exploiting their own kids for the sake of their college educations, and I don't even begrudge them the perks that come with the show like tummy tucks, hair plugs and choppers. Sometimes silly, superficial, material things make it easier to keep trudging through some tough baby years.

But they didn't have the character to withstand the immersion into hard-core materialism and now these spoiled brat parents can't even keep it together for the sake of their little meal tickets. Those kiddies made their fabulous lives possible, and they repay them with a broken home. They suck. There's more I want to say, but that's all I really can say. They suck.

I'm Boooooored!

I have The Strep. I am taking antibiotics and trying to recover, so I'm dutifully remaining in bed, but I'm sooooooooo boooooooooored. I wouldn't even mind cleaning if it meant I didn't feel so shitty.

I watched 4 movies yesterday. Old movies, so no one cares, I'm sure, but one of them was The Professionals with Burt Lancaster. It was pretty good. It must have been made when people were just starting to say real swear words in movies because when they did use them them, they said them like they knew they're going to shock someone. When Burt Lancaster was asked where a bullet got him, he says "in the ass" in a very unnatural way. Then in the last lines of the movie, the Evil White Capitalist Man calls one of the professionals a bastard, and you could hear the exclamation point in his voice. But then the professional guy delivers one of the best lines in the movie, saying "Yes, sir. In my case an accident of birth. But you, sir, you're a self-made man."

It was a good movie. But if I looked anything like Claudia Cardinale.....

I'd be ruling the world right about now. Seriously, I don't know how she never made it to icon status. She makes Sophia Loren and Raquel Welsch look like horses.

Anyway, my fever's breaking, so I'm going to go sweat for awhile.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

So no sooner do I work past the disappointment of losing the house I wanted, then I get laid out by some kind of plague. Probably swine flu, given my luck. But everything is okay. I have so much. I have two daughters who I love more than anything, a husband who has not only been a comfort to me all while running his business, but who is taking such good care of me while I'm sick. When I'm sure I won't infect his johnson, I'll make it up to him.

So in spite of it all, I'm happy. Not calm, exactly, but happy. I'm gonna go to bed now. I hurt all over.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


Not gonna get the house that we want forever 'n' ever. I haven't cried yet, but I have no doubt it's coming.

Update: It came. And went. I'm moving on. And it's not a case of the fox and the grapes, but there were things that were not perfect about that house. The driveway was god-awful steep and hard to negotiate. The yard would have always needed a lot of maintainence and I wilt after 5 minutes past air conditioning. Of course we knew all this and would have bought the house anyway, but remembering these not insignificant drawbacks takes a little bit of disappointment out of the EPIC FAIL of our loan officer.

And BTW, I hate VPs of mortgage companies who used to be sports personalities on television. The only satisfying thing I could get out of this would be to kick him, deliberately, repeatedly and forcefully, in his softest parts until he begs for my dispassionate mercy.

So essentially, we're back at square one. We need to find a house and probably start the loan process all over again because we're certainly not keeping our file with the same preppie, WASPy, effete douchebag we were using. I'm gettin' me a Jew this time 'cause I'm tired of screwing around.

I'll be back when I've had a few margaritas and given Jethro the anger-fuck of his life.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

I'm Already Going to Hell, I May As Well Blog About It

First things first. I'm done with school. This means I have Finished Something. It's momentous. Really.

But the real blog fodder is the wedding I attended recently. I mentioned a few posts back that we had a wedding in NY. I was the best woman (I refuse to say matron-of-honor, it makes me sound like a sadistic, but oddly rewarded prison guard).

I had been looking forward to this wedding for months, ever since the bride asked me to be in it. It was in upstate NY, not exactly close to where I grew up, but a lot closer than I've been in years, so I was pretty stoked to go.

I flew into Houston Wednesday evening so I could fly up with my friend Jen early Thursday. The wedding wasn't until Saturday, but I thought I'd go up early and help out and Jen said she'd go up with me. Way back when we purchased our tickets, we found a really good price, except that there was a layover, which didn't seem like too big a deal at the time, but actually was when we finally made it up to Rochester. We were exhausted and then we had to rent a car at the airport and drive the 40 miles to the town where the wedding was.

One day I will tell the bird story. Or maybe I'll let Jen do it. It was bizarre.

By the time we made it to the hotel, we were giddy with fatigue. We hauled our luggage through the doors and were immediately greeted by a large, puzzling sign declaring "NO MORE R WORD!"

Jen looked at me and mouthed "R Word?" Then we looked around. Helmets and motorized carts as far as the eye could see.

Yes. That R word. We were in the midst of a 'tard Convention. And yes, I know I'm not being nice.

We were gasping for air from holding in our laughter by the time we made it up to our room. Mind, it's not that we thought a convention of that sort was particularly funny or mockable, but when you go someplace where a wedding is about to be held, the last thing you expect to see is a parking lot full of short buses and crash helmets. It caught us unawares is all.

But do not fear. This gets so much worse.

Later that day, Jen, Jethro's ex Micky, and I, ended up in an elevator with a young man with CP and his motorized chair. He asked us to push the button for his floor and we obliged. His floor came before ours and we held the door for him as he tried to manage his chair. It seemed he was having a little trouble because he'd go forward and then go back a little, forward, then back, forward, then back. We weren't quite sure what to do. I'd have happily pushed him through the doors, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings or anything. Finally he made it out the door and we let them close just as he went back again a little. The backpack on the back of his chair looked like it might be caught in the doors and we frantically tried to open them, but it was too late and the elevator started moving. We froze in panic (well, actually Jen and Micky did. I think I yelped something and started to climb the walls. I had started drinking by then) and waited for a scream. Fortunately it didn't come, but we did almost have heart attacks.

Now Jen and I were sans kids and sans husbands in a podunk little town in upstate NY. The logical thing for us to have done would have been to go to bed and get a good night's sleep. But that would not have been as much fun as going to the hotel bar.

The bartender was a hapless, 19 year old Indian boy who (as we found out later) didn't eat meat and didn't drink in accordance with his religion. This meant that in spite of a rather well stocked bar, he was not able to do more than pour beer and shots as we discovered when Micky tried to order a dirty martini. She grimaced on the first sip and asked him to make it dirtier, to which he promptly responded by pouring in more vermouth. That was pretty funny.

Then the convention, which had been in full swing complete with band and dancing (I think it was dancing) ended, and the real fun for the poor bartender began. He was doing such a brisk business in milk and O'Douls, that we were beginning to feel neglected. We met some Canadian kids at the other end of the bar and wondered aloud if we needed to wear protective head gear in order to get a beer. But all the conventioneers had partied themselves out around 9:30, and the bartender gave us his undivided attention. He apologized for ignoring us, and complained he hadn't been tipped very well. He took back the terrible martini and didn't charge us, which was nice of him. Jen, being sensible and tired, had a smoke and went to bed.

Micky and I stayed to talk to the Canadians, a very young couple who had come down to Podunkville for a Kenny Chesney concert of all things. The young man was buying lots of shots and teaching the young bartender a thing or two about jagermeister, while trying to outdrink Micky and me.

It didn't work out so well for him.

If you look very carefully, you can just make out the penis I drew in eyeliner on the side of his face. I was drawing upside down, so it's not directly even with his mouth, but you get the idea.

I don't even look drunk in this picture, but I certainly wasn't sober. We talked with the young man's girlfriend awhile (she took the picture) and then toddled off to bed.

The next day was the rehearsal dinner.

The bride and groom were getting married in the garden of one of their friends' houses and having the rehearsal dinner there as well under a lovely white tent. I called them to see what I could do, and the groom said he'd pick me up at the hotel while he went to give the bride's father his tux. Then he'd drop me off at his friends' house.

When I got down to the lobby, there was a gentleman waiting who was not the groom. He stared at me for a second and asked if I was Zelda. I replied in the affirmative and he said he was a friend of the groom's and that he'd been asked to wait for me while the groom dropped off the tux. I asked if the groom told him I'd be the one without the helmet, and he chuckled heartily. That kind of set the mood for the day.

They dropped me off at the rehearsal site, and told me my job was to stuff little clear bags full of flower petals that were to be hurled at the bride and groom as they departed. Then after the stuffing, I was to spritz the petals with distilled water so that they wouldn't wilt overnight.

Then they left. Now maybe it's just me, but I tend to feel a little awkward sitting at someone's house I don't know, stuffing petals into little plastic bags then spritzing them. Luckily, the homeowners were really nice and friendly and after a beer or seven, I was loudly regaling them and other members of the wedding party who had managed to straggle in, including the bride, with the stories of the 'tard convention, figuring that amusing them was the least I could do in exchange for their hospitality. And it was funny. I had everyone in stitches - clutching their sides with my impersonations and hand gestures, except for the bride who was kind of giving me the stink eye. But she'd always been ultra PC, and she knew I wasn't at all, so I figured she'd just roll her eyes at me, call me a peasant, and that would be that.

So there I was, happily working and chatting and drinking, and in the very best of moods when the bride's family arrived. Oh, dear god, let the earth swallow me whole and cast me down with the sodomites.

Three of her siblings had The Challenges. Three. Not one, not two, but three. And one of them quite severely. And her mom was tooling around on a motorized cart.

I don't think I can properly describe the exquisite humiliation. I took the bride aside the second I had the chance and apologized quickly, but profusely. She looked squirmy, and I don't blame her a bit, but I think I might have been an even bigger asshole if I hadn't apologized. I'm really not sure, though. I think I might just really be an asshole and no amount of apologizing will atone.

Needless to say, I was her bitch for the rest of the weekend.

It didn't stop me from drinking more though, and I managed to tie on a pretty good one at the hotel bar later. The young bartender was stingier with his coke than his rum.

The next morning was not fun. I had to be out the door by 7:30 to go to the salon with the bride to get our hair done. I hauled myself up early, took some headache pills, took a shower, and still managed to be 15 minutes late. But I felt like shit and I didn't care. Luckily the bride didn't go bridezilla and we were only 2 or 3 minutes late for the hair appointment.

The other bridesmaid had very, very short hair, so there was absolutely nothing that could be done with it, which meant that while the bride was under the hair dryer, all eyes turned to me. It seemed obvious that something needed to be done. I had discussed this with Jen and Micky and we decided a french braid a la Jennifer Aniston at the Oscars would be easy and doable. No such luck.

This was the 'do I ended up with. I looked like a 12 year old swiss yodeler from the neck up. But I wasn't unhappy. My hair was out of my way and that always makes things easier. And what do I care, really? It wasn't my day.

After the hair and make-up, we arrived at the wedding house to get the bride dressed.

This ended up being somewhat of a Herculean task. The bride is not a small woman, and she had chosen a dress of maximum complexity complete with panels and corsets. We slipped the dress over her head and had begun the process of lacing her in, when she realized she had forgotten to take off her pants.

Given my bitch status, if fell to me to remove them. It was epic.

We huffed and puffed and pulled and tugged and snapped and tied and finally it was complete. I was sweaty and exhausted, but I went around to survey the front.

My eyes filled with tears.

She was absolutely beautiful.

The bride had always been sensitive about her weight and I'm sure she had spent a lot of time agonizing over her dress. And while nothing can make a fat person look skinny, the dress did make her look perfectly lovely. And really, she is the cutest, prettiest fat chick in the entire world.

And that was the highlight of my trip. There was more good stuff at the wedding and the reception later, not the least of which was Jethro becoming enthusiastically drunk and "helping" to clear up afterwards. I finally had to tell the groom to just let him do whatever he thought needed to be done because there was just no arguing with him. That was pretty funny too. Jethro is occasionally unpredictable when he drinks.

But honestly, every other funny part aside, seeing my friend marrying a fantastic guy, beginning a wonderful life, and looking so exquisitely beautiful, was pure joy.

Friday, June 12, 2009

I got a call from Big Dick last night (he's once again sharing his peculiar brand of humor with the net). It seems he's been without power for awhile and he wanted me to update his blog for him.

So in honor of his predicament, here's some Black Stone Cherry.

H/T to Inanna for turning me on to this neat little band.

Friday, May 29, 2009


Here's a school project I did for a golf resort:

I thought it was funny. My critique ended up being one running ball joke.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Perils of Marriage

A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally did something I'd wanted to do for a long time, but always had the sleepy good sense not to.

I punched Jethro in the balls when he snored.

To be fair, the tv was up as loud as it could go, and I was just about to solve a Medical Mystery. Jethro had dozed off and was snoring apneatically and at certain intervals, I would do him the favor of punching him on the leg so he would start breathing again. But being engrossed in the program, I had failed to notice his body shift and when his epiglottis had sealed long enough for me to become unconsciously concerned, I punched without looking.

I felt a certain thrill of horror shoot through my arm as my fist bounced on something soft and warm and jiggly instead of the muscle and bone I'd been expecting. I drew back my arm in consternation as Jethro's breath whooshed out. He curled, slowly, slowly into a fetal position, and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. I sat there, transfixed as a look of pain and confusion came over his face.

"You racked me!" he said, in a hurt, bewildered, accusatory way, looking at me with his sad, sweet eyes.

And then I laughed. I tried not to. But the more I tried not to, the harder I laughed. I'm laughing now. I hate myself.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


The inspections were fantastic.  A bit of cosmetic work, but the structure is sound as sound.  It's really kind of nice.  I don't dare go nuts until the bank approves our loan, but I can't help getting excited.  I tend to take disappointment in stride and get on with life, but if everything went kapluey and we didn't get it, I would probably cry very very hard for at least a week.

Because, you see, it's the house I want forever 'n' ever.

Here it is:
Front (no, it's the back, Zelda)
Back yard
More back yard (there's a lot of back yard).
View from the long, steep, curved driveway.
View from the long, steep front steps

Jethro and I didn't expect to find anything great at this stage of our lives.  We were planning on buying a small, easy to maintain property, with no emotional investment, and saving up slowly for the house we wanted.  But I love this one.  It's the perfect compromise for Jethro and me.  He  wanted a home in a subdivision, close to the clinic and schools, and I wanted land to grow a garden and raise rabbits.  The subdivision is nice and subdivision-ey with a community center, school, park, and general convenience, but the yard is almost half an acre.  Half an acre of lovely trees and a house on a hill.

And while it's more than we wanted to spend on a little crap-box-eventual-rental-property, I don't think it's too much for a house we'd want to make our home forever 'n' ever.Anyway, I have three more weeks of school, then it will be freedom, blissful freedom.  

However, the fact that the end of school and all the madness that accompanies it coincides with what we hope will be the house closing and a wedding in NY, means my stress level is about to hit a peak I heretofore did not know was possible.  But my loins are girded.  Girded, I tell you. Which probably accounts for some slight spasming.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Indulge me, it's my birthday

I am not having a good day.  My back is killing me.  Jethro is working on it whenever he can squeeze me in, but it hurts really badly all down my left side.  Also, I don't want to be thirty...gulp...three.  Yes I know people are older than me, but I don't want to do it.  I pretty much want to be 12 except with my kids and Jethro.  And I know that sounds icky, but it's how I feel.

And we're buying a house.  We accepted the counter offer last week, and the inspections will be this Thursday.  I have cold feet like anything.  I mean, it's nearly perfect.  It's 2500 sf, 4 bedrooms, 2 and a half bathrooms (you have no idea what a happy thought that is), enough room for our furniture and entertainment center, it's on a gigantic, nearly half acre cul-de-sac lot.   It has a gorgeous view from the front door and the master bedroom.  It's in a very large, but very pleasant, low-key subdivision, and miracle of miracles, it was in our price range!!!

But I'm scared of it.  It intimidates me.  It's this giant house on a hill - the first thing you see when you turn down the street.  It stands out and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.  I was excited to move into a trailer and now I find myself trying to buy a freakin' mansion.

I didn't sleep well all last night worrying about it.  What if we hate the neighbors?  What if there is a mudslide and the house disappears?  What if we have a severe reversal of fortune and go bankrupt? What if I get in great shape from lugging groceries up a hill and up stairs?  What if no one wants to buy it when Jethro and I retire?  What if I go totally insane with self-doubt and burn it to the ground while I dance around outside, naked, with a martini, screaming Shakespeare and Bible verses?

I have a million things to do.  I even have a list.  I never have a list, but today, I have a list.  I want a drink so badly, but I have to drive a million miles today.  I should get going.  I should.  But I want to write more.  I've missed it.

I should write about the bridal shower I helped put on over the weekend.  I made this champagne punch that was awesome.  I fibbed and said I had a recipe, but really I just made it up.  It wasn't on purpose that I made it up.  They didn't have the stuff I needed at the store, so I had to wing it.  But if it turned out badly, I wanted to have someone to blame it on, so I said it was a recipe.  But it actually turned out pretty good, so I should have just kept my mouth shut.

And another time I should have kept my mouth shut was at the shower when we were playing games because I ended up saying "ass cream" in front of the bride's mother.  I blame the champagne punch.

After the shower, we went to the bachelorette party.  I'd rented a limo driven by a man named Kenneth Cole.  No lie.  He had a cooler in the limo stocked with Bud Light and Bartles and James pineapple wine coolers.

It was fun.

The bachelorette party was weird because the bride had requested that it be classy.  And we were classy.  Horribly, boringly classy (for a bacelorette party) and yet we still seemed gauche.

Just think if we'd been wearing penis necklaces!

And I didn't get checked out once.  That was even more depressing.  Usually I can get someone to glance my way, even if they look away immediately, but not that night.  I passed a guy in a very tiny hallway, and not only did he not look at me, he turned his head when I looked at him, as if to say, "I don't want your drunk ass even thinking for a second that you have a shot with me."  As if I wanted one!  Usually I prefer men who are over 4' 11" and who don't comb their hair into phallic little spikes.  And that made me even more sad.  I couldn't even get a first look from a fucking midget.

I'm going to go now.  The sooner I can get things done, the sooner I can drink.