Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Since I am all for Robot Freedom and strongly believe they can go anywhere they want, I am going to give Wordpress a try. I hate to leave my spot here, but what's a world with only one kind of robot.
This is my new address: http://kristilz.wordpress.com/
Please notice that there is an l in there. That's an L in lower case. This is a little different from the address here, but someone else had taken kristiz. Please don't read that blog and think it's me because it's probably a wacko blog about robots or porn or something. I'll leave this up indefinitely so you won't miss me too much, or at least until I decide the robots over there are more forgiving. And I figure out how to import my posts from here. I have no idea how to do that!
Friday, December 18, 2009
I went to my father's house to do laundry today. Yeah, I know. How old do I have to be before I stop using his hot water? He is starving for conversation, or more like a willing victim to tell his every thought to--from the draining of carbohydrates in the maple sugaring process, to his relative's insanity, to how much firewood he's using now that he's home all the time. I enjoy this time with him, but today I had something really important to say and it was hard to just throw it in there after hearing "yeah, the dog hasn't had a seizure in a while."
That's great Dad, but you know that guy who came for Thanksgiving? We're getting married. Yeah, he'll think I'm marrying the dog and Nick has seizures sometimes.
So I snuck my way around that question, just like I sneak my way around anything I have to say that's important but the other person might not like it..
"Will you watch the girls while I go on a trip in February?"
Sure, sure he would. He calls me just to take them anyway when he's bored.
And later on, after hearing about the company watch that he should go pick up, but doesn't really want, and the variability of the price of dish detergent on the Price Is Right, I threw in the real news that he never asked for because he was still trying to understand how the woman on the Lifetime Channel movie was really the daughter of her grandmother's daughter, whom she always called Auntie.
"I'm going out to visit Nick."
I snuck that in there really well because he never even paused to take a breath and instead went through a seed catalogue showing me what he was going to buy for next spring and told me twice that he had started his 65 Chevy truck, that sits in the garage.
So now I can say that I DID TELL HIM that I was marrying the love of my life and moving back to Wyoming next summer, and that he of course is invited to the wedding and that we'll work out how he can take the kids for part of the summers and he can't say I didn't.
It's not that I don't love Nick and I have to hide him. It's just that 5 1/2 month is a long time to be around people who don't want me to move. And I want that ring before I announce anything. It'll make it real and then they won't think I've lost my mind, not completely anyway.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Besides, he gave me the idea of posting the TOP 20 USES of NickAngel. (Hint to him: don't ever GIVE me ideas freely.) I have decided to only post 12 however, because that seems about right.
3. On a Coffee Mug:
7. On a Card
8. On a Wanted Poster
9. With Edward
10. On a Stamp
11. In a Museum
12. On Christmas Ornaments
Sunday, December 13, 2009
See that girl, crush that can, digging the Ghetto Queen
Friday night and the lights are low
Rats come out and play in the snow
Where they sit and light one up, getting in the swing
You come out to look for a king
Anybody could be that guy
The neighbors are young and very high
With a Bud Light in hand, everything is fine
You're in the mood for a beer
And that's how you'll find your man...
You are the Ghetto Queen, old and mean, only forty-teen
Ghetto Queen, feel the beat from the Ghetto scene
You can drink, you can drive, having the time of your life
See that girl, crush that can, digging the Ghetto Queen
You're a loser, you hang one on
Leave them crumpled and then you're gone
Looking out for another, any can will do
You're in the mood for a beer
And when you get the chance...
You are the Ghetto Queen, old and mean, only forty-teen
Ghetto Queen, feel the beat from the Ghetto scene
You can drink, you can drive, having the time of your life
See that girl, crush that can, digging the Ghetto Queen
Friday, December 11, 2009
I decided to start drinking the beer last night and poured a can into a giant beer mug in an attempt to make it classier. My mistake, it looked like a giant mug of pee, only not my pee because I don't drink nearly enough water to make my pee look that light.
It had no flavor at all until I was about halfway through and I must be a lightweight because I already had a little cheap beer buzz going on and it started to taste like something. Not like beer. More like water that is just slightly better than my nasty tap water.
Then I realized that I had unknowingly succeeded in the plan I had made when I moved into the ghettos two years ago. If I was going to live in the slums then I was going to become the Queen of the slums and sit on my doorstep drinking beer out of a can. (This was the slummiest thing I could think of and obviously shows I belong here.)
After moving in I realized that if I did something like that the neighbors would think I was cool and friendly and come over and talk to me! Nooooooo! So instead they probably have me labelled as more of a stuckup bitch. Much better.
So I think I'll keep drinking the beer, but I won't be doing it on the doorstep. I'll remain a closet Queen drinking pee out of a glass. I can still crush the empty cans on my forehead before I throw them into the recycling box in my hall closet.
That's about as idiotic as my ex husband suggesting he work out any misunderstandings ahead of time with the man I'm marrying in September.
I like to try to sit on things for a day before I let them fully sink it. Hang onto the panic that comes whenever I hear from him. Sit alone in the dark and breathe or lay on the livingroom floor, because if I shut myself in my room the girls tell everyone they can find that I'm lost, or dead, or having some major crisis. At least in the livingroom they only lay down next to me and stare at me, waiting for me to take my last breath so that they can have my new favorite scarf that Abrah gave me for my birthday.
Where was I going with that?
After a day of trying not to take any specific direction on this outrageous email I have come to 20 different conclusions. The most important one is that he just screwed himself out of the best direction he could have taken in controlling my life by saying that he's happy with my relationship and that I'm moving. It will be nearly impossible to go to court now and claim that I can't move because I'm taking the girls away from him.
Major Strategic Mistake!
His second mistake is thinking that he can use my man and my therapist against me. And not very subtly either. "Kristi won't like this" is a huge understatement. But then he's tried to undermine me with the girls by telling them stories about me, with my mother by trying to get her help in seeing the girls, with my father by buddying up to him, with the principal of the girls' school, with the police chief, with everyone at Family Court, with the Office of Child Support, with the Department of Family Services. The only person I think he's never tried this on is Abrah.
He wouldn't DARE call Abrah and attempt to be friends.
I'm a bit surprised he didn't ask to bring her to therapy too, because if he wants to hang out around me and be invited into my house he would definitely have to get past her.
And Bill too of course.
The third mistake which should kick him out of the game immediately is thinking he's in control and stating in a booming all powerful voice "All is Forgiven."
He needs to take a logic class.
Anyway, I'm hoping that in writing down my conclusions I can get them out of my head and move on to other things like grocery shopping. So let's make a list of the 20 conclusions of Kristi:
1. He is mistaken about who is in control. I think it might be Ellen. But then again I hired her.
2. Documentation works both ways.
3. My fiance will never side with him against me.
4. Twisted is as twisted does.
5. The chances of running into him are slim.
6. And #5 is not a big deal anyway. I can scream really loud.
7. The criminal is the one to be forgiven, not the victim.
8. Forgiveness is not one of the stops on the Path to Gof.
9. Unless it's forgiving myself for having a Stupid Moment.
10. Or maybe a couple.
11. Delusions full of contradictions will only bite you in the ass in front of a judge.
12. Using big words only makes you look stupider.
13. I need more therapy.
14. This is merely a good test, to see who's who and who does what.
15. I need to be protected sometimes.
16. Sending me an outrageous email while I'm at work makes for an interesting day.
17. I can get through this without self-medicating.
18. If I can laugh, I can breathe.
19. He's afraid of Abrah.
20. Installing a microwave security system is a really good idea!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
That's the way I like it in the ghettos.
I might have also been whistling tunelessless and pulling my pajama pants up cause they kept slipping down. And I didn't want the bottoms to get wet so I'd have to sit around all morning wishing I'd kept them out of the slush.
I think they're slipping down cause my boobs are shrinking.
Yes, we're back to the boobs.
I went off the pill 5 days ago!!! Woo hooo! 5 Hormone Free Days. I'm like an organic cow. I feel okay, a little loopy. That may be normal though for being so close to Christmas, licking Christmas frosting to make sure there was just enough salt in it, and missing Nick. My boobs definitely do hurt though. Everything shrinks back to normal noncomplacent size. Hopefully this will happen with the pudge as well. It would be WRONG to have small boobs and a huge pudge. Maybe I could convince people that my boobs just SANK and joined together.
Anyway, I drove Haley to school in my pajamas and stopped to ask the other girls why the school bus hadn't come yet. I rolled down my window and the sheet of ice that was stuck to it fell in my lap. I am an idiot. So my pant legs are dry but I still need to change.
Obviously I'm much better than yesterday and I think Ellen might be the Queen afterall.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Unable to do anything.
Just kindof blank and fuzzy.
Hopefully it will fade soon.
In July of 2003 I happily packed all his things into the back of his truck and sent him off to Idaho. I didn't care how bad things would get, just as long as he wasn't around anymore. And things did get bad. He stopped paying the mortgage because according to him "it was now my responsibility." He turned off the utilities one at a time, expecting me to switch them over to my name, even though in the six months until I left he send me a total of $800 and most of that was the first and only child support check he actually wrote out without it being garnished.
Soon I was sitting in the cold and the dark, borrow money from the girls' piggy banks to buy a loaf of bread for Christmas Dinner.
And most of the time I was happy enough. Except that he would call and call and call. He would call to make sure I was home. He would call to find out if I had left the girls in the house alone. he would threaten to call the police. He would threaten to come back and throw me out. He would beg to talk to "his girls." Fifty times a day he would call and leave messages.
I spent alot of time lying on my bed staring at the ceiling in some kind of comatose state of anxiety. I was packing and cleaning and making a plan to run while he wasn't looking. He would call and tell me exactly where I'd been that day. People stalked me for him. Was he going to come back and break all the windows on my van, loosen the spark plugs, take all my money? All things he's done before or said he was going to do. When he came over to "his" house he would go through everything, lecture me on how all the men in town would be trying to come over and screw me because I was vulnerable, and tell me how messed up the girls would be if we weren't together. He would talk at me until I started to cry and then he would apologize and be all nicey-nice. I wasn't buying it.
This time I didn't drink or smoke. I planned and I protected. And I forever pay the price for all of that. I didn't sleep much. I was living in some kind of fog in between sleep and being awake. I had 6 hours head start if he found out I was going in the other direction. I lost weight. I was down to a scary 115. I was running on adrenaline and not much else.
Yes, it's true. I feel like I'm right back there although things have changed. I have alot more power now. He can't legally call me ever. He can't send nasty emails. If he comes anywhere near me I'll just scream. But it's like the POW's trapped in a small cell for months. If the lights go out, even after they're safe at home, they go right back to that terrible place in their heads.
And even though it logically seems like there's not a whole lot he can do I can't feel free of it. He still chases me in my dreams. So I guess Ellen's right. I have to fix this. I have 6 months to fix this. I have to be free.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Because I love him more than anything and being together means so much to me that I want it to be perfect and simple and meaningful.
So today I found a dress and they wanted measurements.
I wonder what my waist is.
I pulled out the measuring tape.
Where exactly is my waist?
Do I measure over the pudge or above it?
I can definitely find my hips though.
I must be measuring all WRONG. My measuring tape is broken! Or I need to stop thinking about things and start running toward Johnny Depp again. This is a nightmare!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Here's a list of the things they found were so important that they had to run up the stairs and come in to turn on the light and tell me, or yell "MOM" twenty times from downstairs until I couldn't take it anymore:
MOM, where's the milk? Oh, it's in the fridge of course.
MOM, Haley gave me an evil look!
MOM, can I have a cookie?
MOM, can I sit on the couch and read a book?
MOM, I need a ride--in an hour.
Mom, I forgot how to butter bread. Can you show me?
Mom, I found this used popsicle stick that WAS MINE in Haley's room. She's stealing my trash.
Where's the Christmas Spirit people? All I want is FIVE WHOLE MINUTES to myself. The funny (but not really) part is that I feel so ALONE all the time since he left. But I am alone--in my head.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The logic these days is that if it doesn't happen on Facebook it's not REAL. If you don't post that your boyfriend is cheating on you, it didn't happen. If you forget to tell the world that you're vomiting repeatedly and hugging the bathroom floor then it's just all in your head. If you hate your job, your family makes you crazy, or you are dying of boredom then everyone must know or it won't count.
But if everything on Facebook is REAL then I am a lesbian, I'm very confused and overwhelmed ALL THE TIME, and I have a canoe and an ARK. I drink alot of wine, I'm forgetful and I live with a puppet.
Okay, that doesn't necessarily prove my point.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Now I need some boob physical therapy and I am NOT going back to that surgeon who stuck that big needle into my hip without telling me what it was because no one is sticking a foot long needle into my boob.
I'm just going to keep holding it and saying "My Boob" at work today. No one will even notice.
And I'm too old for baskets at the grocery store. Next time I'm going straight for the motorized carts.
At least now I have an excuse for not helping the kids. When Haley says Go get my backpack from my bedroom Mom while I put on my shoes, I can say No My Boob Hurts. Or when Emily keeps calling my name to come check out some stupid video on the computer about a photo booth I can say that laughing makes it hurt more, so no thank-you. Or when Gina pushes me away when I'm trying to hug her, I can complain about my aging body and how I'm going to die soon and she'll feel bad that she didn't show me some love.
On a small tangent: It is a sign of EXTREME LAZINESS to call my cell phone as I sit in the living room from the house phone that you carried to the upstairs bathroom to tell me you're out of toilet paper.
And why was my box of sugar in the bathroom medicine cabinet? I still haven't figured that one out. If anyone knows please leave me a comment.
And You Live in a Crazy House is not an answer.
Monday, November 30, 2009
So that the next 183 days will go by faster.
Only I hit my ass instead.
On the corner of the coffee table.
(And no, the coffee table is not super-tall and I am not a midget.)
But it must have caused some amnesia
Because I don't remember what I was doing under there.
It was after I had rearranged all the furniture.
And after I found Haley's retainer container in the hall closet.
Leave it to me to do it entirely wrong.
All I got was a bruise on my ass and a mild case of amnesia.
And now this post looks like a poem about my ass
Which is so amusing to me that I'm going to leave it this way.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
- If I can hang out with Keira Knightley by climbing into a cupboard then I'm going to do it right now. I hope she's under the kitchen sink because I think that's the only one I can fit into.
- Why do my teenager's friends use up my limited texting by telling me they have to pee and they're going to use my bathroom?
- How do I tell someone what I really want without making them feel unmanly?
- Haley would be perfectly happy with a pomegranate and an old crusty mostly empty jar of Fluff for Christmas so why am I buying her a new camera?
- How long is 184 days?
This was a problem.
I stopped eating things that hurt and started drinking Fennel Tea and taking peppermint capsules but it was too late. I was up until 2 a.m. feeling extremely hungover.
So today I took all the crazy and I put it into a more productive behavior than eating food dye and high frutose corn syrup and fat and instead I had Haley help me clean her entire room which is a huge feat that rarely happens all at once. Sure, I sneak in there every day and pick up trash that she'll never notice is missing. Today we sorted her books by size, color, and copywrite date, found lonely socks under her mattress where they slither away to hide from her sweaty night feet, and found her retainer container--which is a fun thing to say outloud.
Then I pulled the bed halfway out of the couch downstairs and had Haley crawl into the crack to dig out all the trash that the kids had stuffed in the couch to make it look like they NEVER eat in the livingroom. Then I vacuumed the mattress, and under it, and Haley's butt. IT WAS RIGHT THERE. What was I supposed to do? We rearranged the furniture back to where it was before that odd askew day last year when I wanted my ENTIRE life to be crooked just so that it would make more sense.
Then I had Emily help me clean her side of the bedroom she shares with Gina. It's nice to see their faces when they realize how much crap they keep and how much space there is when you throw away all of those crumpled up pieces of blank paper, broken toys, and dead mp3 players. I almost think they might dig through the trash can in the kitchen to save the things I've thrown away, cause I swear a couple of those mp3 players had already seen the inside of the trash can two years ago.
Ok, so now what do I do? This place is too small to clean forever. Maybe annoying the kids will be my new hobby. Hey Haley! Come here so I can vacuum you some more!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
And the BEST news is that the girls informed me last night that they have Monday off from school. WHAT??? Monday isn't a holiday?! I'll bet the teachers decided they just couldn't handle seeing kids so soon after having to be thankful and wanted to hold off reality just a little longer.
So here I am stuck with them one more day and I can't shut myself in my bed and curl up on the side he slept on and pretend he's still here. Because they come in every 30 seconds with excuses like: Can I have a piece of bread? or Can I call Grandma? Or Emily has been on the Wii 2 hours and 28 minutes longer than me! I know they really just need to know where I am and what I'm doing every second so they feel secure that I'm not upstairs crying.
Besides, they pick on me when I cry.
It's not the End of the World Mom.
Yes, yes it is. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Friday, November 27, 2009
I hope he had an interesting trip
- escaping across the border and back, and across and back
- listening to my father name every tree on his 27 acre tree farm, the bear scratched tree, the racoon's home tree, the stump from the tree he cut down in 1976
- while the girls and I walked behind with our sacred sticks and fern crowns, bowing to the sacred stumps and moss and trees and puddles and noisily mocking Grandpa
- watching Gina catapult a pencil into her own eye
- making too-perfect icicles on the gingerbread house
- visiting the Magic Red Button
- trying to use nudity and cesspool in the same sentence on a Facebook status update
- watching people at the liquor store buy beer in shopping carts like real Vermonters do
And of course the second he left the November storm blew in and now I'm back to being stuck in the house with a girl who keeps popping out her retainer to swear at me properly and a girl who doesn't realize she's pmsing when she yells at me about how bored she is. ERGH.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
But now he's still in bed and the kids just went off to school so I snuck on here to post something quickly before he realizes that I'm missing.
We went out with Abrah and Bill Saturday night and things worked out better than I planned. Here's a quick run-down:
- Having the same part of the same thumb missing because of a woodworking accident makes you as good as TWINS.
- As long as there are plenty of quarters men are happy.
- Calling it man-scent doesn't make it smell any better.
- Bill is my new picker and as odd as that sounds, if he's comfortable enough to talk non-stop for 6 hours then something must be right. :)
- Blue cheese can be deadly.
- Hard cider DOES have alcohol and I can't believe I was the first person EVER to order that.
- There are at least 5 ways to get there from here--and all of them are the same distance.
- Vermont has ALOT of roads but FEW people
- Which is a GOOD thing because there are a lot of intersections I just don't know how to navigate. I think the locals set it up that way just to prove that we're not from there.
- I DRIVE ALOT.
- No matter how I look at all the details I just don't want to spend the rest of my life without him.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Well, I've spent the last week stretching out all of my clean jeans and putting them back in the drawer so that when HE gets here I can just slide into them like they fit perfectly instead of all the usual heavy breathing and swearing. I realize in writing this just how insane I am.
Well, this morning I opened the drawer to see if there were any I hadn't softened up yet and a pair was missing. So I went into Haley's room and there they were. She'd been wearing them. She stole the jeans I worked so hard to make comfortable and wore them! All that hard work gone to waste!
I know WHY. She isn't allowed to wear jeans with rips and holes to school. And she ruins her clothing. She also buys skin tight ones and I'll bet mine are just so much more comfortable, BECAUSE I DID ALL THE WORK!
So I'm going out to buy myself new jeans now and she can just keep stealing my old ones!
She's like the anti-pants FAIRY, taking away my best pants so that I can't wear them. I hope the two of them meet and have a huge BLOODY battle and she learns that you can't just give pants and have someone else take them away. Not without the wrath of a mom who likes her pants to have some breathing room. Next time maybe I'll make her do all the work--as PUNISHMENT.
Monday, November 16, 2009
I was reading the April Flores interview on her sex column and then started watching the video, which is a nice photo shoot with porn-ish music playing in the background.
But let's back up for a minute to about 3 weeks ago when the MAN decided to buy me a webcam and send it to me so that we could keep in touch. I immediately assumed a webcam would mean porn and made it clear there would be no porn. NONE. I guess American Pie was on my mind. Using the camera isn't as bad as I thought it would be--it's all nice and blurry and very forgiving. Perfect for my need to remain anonymous.
So here I was watching this ahem photo shoot (because she's all round and not stick thin and it was just such a relief to see someone who is a real size do this and look good) and he called me on gchat. It rings like a phone from the gmail page. I minimized April's window and accepted his call. And then realized that the MUSIC WAS STILL PLAYING.
He asked what I was watching.
"Um, nothing" was the best thing I could come up with! I own all of these words. ALL OF THESE WORDS. And I said "um, nothing."
And then my face turned red.
And although the webcam is slightly blurry and weak, I'll bet he knew. Yes, I was looking at another woman in her underwear. I don't know why at that moment I couldn't just say it. I admit it.
This morning I woke up at 5:30 again and started going about my morning of shoving everyone in the car with everything they needed. Then I suddenly realized that I didn't know if the girls' appointments were today or tomorrow. Of course, these weren't written on my calendar because I didn't remember long enough to write it down.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
There is absolutely nothing funny going on. The kids watch Spongebob for hours. I didn't know he had a cousin whose name is Stanley and he acts an awful lot like Haley, going from one thing to another and creating havoc and explosions.
I have washed everyone's bedding (That's like 10 loads of laundry) and I found 6 dollars in people's pockets and I used a Magic Eraser on Haley, but she's still here.
And my dog ate something nasty and her stomach keeps making terrible noises that squeal and gurgle and sound like there's an alien puppy growing in her stomach. She keeps farting and looking pathetic and embarrassed.
I miss the ghetto and all the things I had to complain about. All I can complain about here is how they grow immensely huge and fast spiders that only come out at night and strreak across the livingroom floor.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Now I realize those were just the schizophrenic thoughts of a tired mind. It was all true until the other kids went to school and I sat down to write an email. Then I saw the disconnect between my head and my hands. As soon as I started to type I lost the ability to think of words. Crash and burn. Coffee is not helping.
But I do have to say that I found a new pair of pants hanging in my closet with the tags still on that I must have forgotten about. I was a little afraid to try them on because sometimes I buy things without trying them first and then later I realize that I'd have to lose my pudge or let it hang over the top. I stuff those pants in the back of my closet and try to pawn them off on people. Or plan on finding my abs by spring and put them in a box marked "summer pants" along with all the other pants I've never worn but take out once in a while to admire.
These pants fit so well. They must have come from the Pants Fairy. As much as I ABHORE shopping, especially for pants--there is NO WAY I would have had the patience to find these myself. My ass looks good. My pudge is under control. Ahhhhhhhhhh.
Yes, I do believe in the Pants Fairy now. And I'm sure he's a gay guy with slender transparent wings and rosy cheeks who sneaks pants into the closet of people who willingly drive their kids to school at 6:15 in the morning. I'll be waiting for him tomorrow morning.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Today wasn't as bad but it still was bad. I had to go to fishing first then I had to walk up to riflery and then I had to walk back down for sailing then I had to walk back up line up walk back down for lunch walk back up for cabin time walk back down for kayaking then walk back up for farm and garden then walk down for dinner walk back up for poetry then we go to sleep. I miss you.
Runaway James (to the tune of Runaround Sue)
Here's my story, its sad but true
It's about a boy that I once knew
He took his stick then ran around
To every pool hall in town
Ah, I should have known it from the very start
This boy will leave me with a broken heart
Now listen people what I'm telling you
A-keep away from-a Runaway james
I miss his books and his pajama pants
His voice as he asks for just one more chance
So if you don't wanna cry like I do
A-keep away from-a Runaway James
Ah, he likes to travel around
He'll love you but he'll put himself down
Now people let me put you wise
He goes out with other guys
Here's the moral and the story from the one who knows
He'll leave so fast that he'll forget his clothes
Ask any fool that he ever knew, they'll say
A-Keep away from-a Runaway James
He likes to travel around
He'll love you but he'll put himself down
Now people let me put you wise
James goes out with other guys
Here's the moral and the story from the one who knows
He'll run so fast that he'll forget his clothes
Ask any fool that he ever knew, they'll say
A-Keep away from-a Runaway James
So besides rewriting songs and laughing about them I also have decided that I do in fact have hobbies. I may not hunt or fish or make anything right now (unless this song counts) but I do like vampires. Vampires are a hobby. And I like wine. And I do like to bitch sometimes. That's a hobby. I wear sweatpants too, which is this new hobby I just picked up a couple of month ago when I stopped caring about what I look like when I'm at home. And I am really good at loud sighing. I'm just full of hobbies!
How did Haley get to school if one of her new shoes is under the coffee table??? I'll bet she forgot to put shoes on. I'd better go find her.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Today I got the birthday present I bought myself through the mail. I am now feeling supported and separated, lifted and somehow thinner. Is this really where the boobs are supposed to be? I keep hitting my chin on them and I can definitely see the six pack of small rolls where my abs should be but aren't. When not dragging against my knees they look really HUGE. I am so amazed that I keep looking down and then feeling them, cause I can't quite believe they're mine.
I took Haley to Dartmouth yesterday where her doctor (who I LOVE) thought there's a good chance most of her issues are caused by a sleep disorder. So she filled out the paperwork (one piece of paper) for a referral to the sleep clinic to at least rule this out before we go the ADHD route. She said that when she faxes these down to the sleep people they somehow lose them and so she wanted us to walk it down (2 buildings over and 3 floors down) and hand it to them in person. When we found the sleep clinic all the doors were shut and because it's a small city I finally decided to enter the business office.
The three women who were sitting there chatting were AGHAST that I would walk in. They spoke ANGRY INTEROFFICE language at me that sounded something like "You can't hand this to us! You have to send it by interoffice doctor transportalator facsimile machination" and each one looked up at the sky (or ceiling) like whatever it was lived above us. So maybe they meant I had to talk to God first, and when I refused and said "The doctor said to walk it down here and hand it to you" they were even more AGHAST that I would refuse to bow down and worship this thing they so feared and revered. "The doctors keep doing this to us, instead of using the interoffice doctor transportalator facsimile machination," they said to me so that I would be on their side of the interoffice schism. And maybe I was or maybe I wasn't, I didn't really care as long as the paper got to where it was going.Then they just looked at me like I should apologize for bring this nasty piece of paper to them. I turned to the one nearest me and asked politely "I have no idea what you are talking about, but can you please get this to where it's supposed to be."
She took it from me and said that she would fax it upstairs so that it would be faxed back down to her, the way things are supposed to work in the hospital. If this order was not kept apparently the whole system would fall apart. I don't doubt that she made a paper airplane out of it and threw it down the elevator shaft after I left. And I now realize that she may have been merely following the Pathetics on the Way to Gof, in which case I commend her attempt at trying to make me feel like she was doing me a huge favor and as long as the paper made it up to God and back I'm okay with it.
The third thing that happened was what I found when looking back through the history on my laptop to find a walkthrough for LOTR for Emily that she looked at on Thursday. I haven't seen so many bizarre sites since the days of Joe and Jim in my basement. No, no, no! I wish I'd never seen those pictures. When I was a kid you had no access to these things and now all you have to do is find the five minutes when MOM has locked herself into the bathroom and type Animal Porn into google and there it is!
Can you tell that they've been home sick all week and I haven't had a break since a week ago Friday?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I don't believe in forgiveness for things like this. Not even that old forgiveness is for yourself bullshit. There was no reason for any of this to happen. No excuse. You knew exactly what you were doing to me by making me make that choice and by keeping me running and poor. I am not sad that he died Monday night, on the full moon, as any black cat should. He was old and it was good that he died in his sleep. I am angry that I couldn't spend his last 2000 days with him, that I had to sacrifice him in order to leave you. The cost was impossibly high and my soul is forever scarred.
"MOM!" she exclaimed.
And I knew what she was thinking. She had found another crazy piece of highly processed food, created in the weird image of Jesus, or miniature like that flour tortilla, or musical like a carrot, or bumpy like the badly twisted pretzel. She had found a cheesenip that would join Jesus on the holy shelf of all things weird and not to be eaten.
I looked at it. I looked some more. I couldn't see anything weird about it, except that a corner had broken off, leaving the cheesenip as a rough triangle shape. She flipped it over and over in her hand, until she saw that the edge was indeed ragged and not accidentally shaped that way by an error of the cheesenip manufacturers.
She was SO disappointed. But I laughed and laughed and laughed and then bit the corners off more cheesenips to show her how it's done. This cheesenip would not be joining Jesus and neither would the others.
She was so offended by my laughter that she then confused herself for a cheesenip and said "But I thought that the Gina was special."
Yes the Gina is special. The cheesenip is not.
Monday, November 2, 2009
But that's not really the digusting thing I wanted to talk about tonight. The truly disgusting thing is that my children don't want to talk to their father and so he sent me this tonight:
I am going to assume that your phone has been cut off. I will call you at work tomorrow to set up a way I can talk to my children.
At work? Seriously? Now, this appears to be a bluff but then sometimes he really does the things he says he's going to do. Like calling my employer to tell them I'm selling crack in the parking lot. And maybe that time he said he was going to call the financial aid office at the college I was going to to tell them I had inherited money from my dead Grandmother so that they wouldn't give me grant money.
All she left me was a Rubik's Cube.
Is he really going to call a counseling center? In his demented head this forces me to
- Do what he says, which is to force the girls to talk to him on the phone which makes me a hypocrite and a bad parent
- Tell everyone at work all about him in case he does call
- Live with the anxiety that at any minute he could start calling my work over and over and over and tell them I'm selling crack in the parking lot.
The problem with this twisted manipulative plan of his is that THEY ALREADY KNOW. I tell everyone I work for and with, all my friends, every school my children go to, the mailman, the street cleaner, and the guy who wears the orange vest and directs traffic at deserted intersections.
It's true that some people do believe his stories. But I don't need those people anyway. They are easily bought and suckered. I need people like the police chief in my town who listened to my ex talk about how he was moving to my town and they needed to be prepared because "something is going to happen"--and thought he was completely off the wall.
So yeah, call my place of work. I just hear MC Hammer in my head singing "Can't Touch This" which is very bizarre but so true.
Oh, and I spilled my wine on the carpet in a moment of spaz, not unlike Meg Ryan who throws the best fits in movies I have ever seen. I admire that.
I was surprised to have a male hygienist this time. It feels a little personal to have a man looking in my mouth. They've looked in other places--but never there. He was a very short little man and when he stopped quickly and I tripped over him in the hall I reached out to steady him. Sorry little man for hurting you. When he put on his weird sci fi surgeon style goggles I closed my eyes so that it wouldn't seem so intimate. I thought he'd be timid and gentle, the way other male doctors and other professionals usually are. (Except that surgeon I went to, let's not forget that incident!)
And then the pain began. A half hour cleaning turned into an hour of torture. Okay, he was good. And vicious. I practiced deep breathing. I counted to ten instead of slapping his goggles right off his close little face. I wondered if he did this to children as well. I wondered if anyone ever requested him. I tried not to cry. I thought about happier times. I kept telling myself it could only last so long.
Not entirely unlike other intimate moments with men.
I now have a healthy fear of the dentist.
Thank goodness he didn't decide to become a gynecologist instead.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
- Lose 20 pounds
- Get a haircut
- Clean the underside of the toilet seats
- Stop chewing my nails
- Stop chewing my nails to lose 20 pounds
- Stick butter in my hair to make it shiny
- Stop eating black beans entirely
- Only drink water
- Clean out my car
- Make all kinds of plans to see everyone
- Teach the kids some manners
- Get rid of these dark circles under my eyes
- Will Oil of Olay take ten years off if I use it right now?
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
And they must really be my children because instead of shock, outrage, and pathetic crying over the cruel treatment of the beloved puppet they just rearranged the scene better.
I think we'll all get along just fine.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Now let's talk about candy. CANDY. CANDY. CANDY. I'm pretty good with a weekend of candy, especially if I bought it for the kids because they're having friends over and I just have a couple of pieces and then it's GONE. But it's only okay because knowing there is an end to it means that I have enough willpower to not make myself sick and then I can spend Monday detoxing.
It's like bumming one cigarette off my little brother. I know I'm not going to go buy a pack, so I enjoy it and then I cough for a couple of hours, and then I wake up all stuffy and I go on with my life.
But if there's candy Monday then I'm in trouble because then the sugar low I'm experiencing from withdrawal needs to be fed. And if it gets fed then it becomes an addiction.
The WORST part of it is that I already know that an hour or two after eating chocolate or anything with corn syrup or dye I'm going to bloat up like I've swallowed a balloon and have cramps and feel like I want to die. And the withdrawal the day I stop eating candy leaves me fatigued and depressed, which is why it is dangerous to have any around because I'm eating to feel better and not because it actually tastes good anymore. And that's a bad sign.
I can write all this BUT the thought that there are m&m's in my hall closet is killing me right now. I spent the day dragging my ass around, laying on the floor holding my stomach, and hearing Billy Idol sing Dancing With Myself over and over in my head until I annoyed myself half to death and Abrah along with me.
That bumper sticker the kids put on my car makes sense to me now. If I must die, let it be death by chocolate. I just though that meant I'd accidentally drown in a vat of milk chocolate. Now if I see that vat I'm going to turn around and RUN.
Monday, October 26, 2009
So today the youngest was in my bed, reading a book, when I yelled "time for bed."
"Not yet, Mom. I have ten more minutes," she demanded.
"By the time I get you in there and you're done the whole bedtime routine, IT WILL be bedtime," I said.
Then I did a fifteen minute skit playing myself, her, and the sister she shares a room with, mockingly showing her what bedtime looks like in my house. Nothing at all like the Walton's Goodnight JohnBoy, Goodnight Grandpa.
No, this was more like:
Me: Goodnight Gina.
Gina: But Mom, I just thought of something. Then I forgot. No, don't leave. It was important . . . while gripping my hand.
Mom, I feel like something is watching me all the time. Do you believe in ghosts? Why are some people bad? What happens to stars when they die? One hundred and fourteen days ago someone took my hair tie and I can't find it. Emily took it!
Me: It's late Gina, go to sleep.
But Emily took it! I hate her. She's a retard!
Emily from the bottom bunk (in a squeaky high voice): I'm not a retard. Mom, punish her. Why don't you ever punish her? She hit me forty-two times today and you didn't do anything. I swear I'm going to hit her if she says one more word.
Me: No, you're not. Go to sleep. You can fight tomorrow.
Gina: But I had a really bad day at school. What are they going to do at the Doctor's tomorrow? Hmmmmmmmhmmmmhmmmm
Emily: Mom, she's humming. Make her STOP.
Gina: Hmmmmmmhmmmhmmmm, I am not humming. You retard. You never should have been born.
Emily: I am not a retard. You're an IDIOT. I'm going to hit you.
Gina: Mom, mom . . . she's calling me names. I'm uncomfortable. Can I switch pillows with you? I know this was yours. I want mine back. Fill up my water bottle. No, don't go. I remember what that was I wanted to tell you. No, wait. I forgot again. Will you come check on me in fifteen minutes?
Emily: Wasn't it easier with just two children?
I thought this was a pretty accurate representation of what goes on in their room when I shut out the light and say goodnight. Especially when I walked in there with Gina to really say goodnight, after she laughed hysterically at my version, and the first thing Emily said was "Mom, I hate you. Now go heat up my rice bag, turn the fan on low, and tell that little idiot to shut up."
We're not the Waltons. That's for sure.
It would seem to me that I'm fighting against some universal rule. That everything in my home tries to become disorganized and that I am expending a lot of energy trying to keep it at a level that it does not naturally like.
The Second Law of Thermodynamics states that in a closed system (my house) everything runs from hot to cold (from organized to disorganized). This says it all (from a University of Idaho paper on entropy): An ordered entity requires a quantity of energy to create and maintain itself as an entity. Once it reaches an ordered state, it will, without further infusions of energy, gradually become disordered.
This should also, however, include a clause about the energy infusion going on strike and the DIRE results of pissing it off and causing it to resign itself to watching the disorganization to occur unchecked. Who am I to fight against the natural state of things? For example, I am sure that that tablespoon sized lump of peanut butter belongs on the floor beside the trash can.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Yes, my closet is full of GOWNS. I wear them to many events: Balls, the Opera, and around the house cleaning. I wear them to therapy appointments, the dentist, and in my mom-taxi. I wear them when I take the trash out to the dumpster and while carrying in a fresh box of wine. I wear them to the bus stop to do my happy dance when the kids leave for school. I have a closet full of GOWNS.
So while I'm thinking about my gown collection, she's on my cellphone talking to a friend and I hear "I have a black dress that's kind of like my mom's hooker dress only without the sequins."
Friday, October 23, 2009
I have to sneeze.
I cant spell Monket
I GOT IT RIGHT.
Gof is scary, very scary.
I dont know what to write, you still havent asked me what i am typing... Oh never mind you caught me and told me not to publish anything.
IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I DIDNT MEAAANNN TO HIT THE PUBLISH BUTTON
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
So today I received this (censored) email from the ex husband. He really should know better than to send me things he wants to keep private, including finally telling me I win!
Stop posting things about our divorce etc. on Facebook. This thing about the 2 checks that allegedly bounced. And you cant believe that ppl who bounce checks to the govt. aren't put in Jail. That was over a year ago and it was The Tavern. And you still got paid. This only makes you look like a winer, at least that is what the ppl who contacted me said.
Until I opened it I thought maybe I'd finally won something! Of course, after reading it I came back down to Earth and remembered that I have an ex who bounced child support checks, can't keep a job, and tries to tell me what to do because he'd rather keep it a secret that he's a deadbeat and he wants me to help him keep that secret too because it's embarrassing for me to tell people that he's such a deadbeat. But what he doesn't get is that I DON'T CARE.
Oh, I'm sorry, I look like a winer. Which must be a winner or someone who drinks wine OR BOTH, because that would make a whole lot more sense than me caring about whether the world knows he's $20,000 or more behind in child support. Shhhhhh, I'm supposed to keep that a SECRET.
I'd better get on with the wine part of wining, cause I'm a bit pissed off that he would tell me what to post on my Facebook page. Oh yes, he thinks he's ENTITLED to privacy about his abuse, but I'll tell you the huge secret men like him don't want to share with the world. Telling people about it is the only way to make it end! Now where's my wine. I've got to start wining.
And what is he doing anywhere near my Facebook page anyway? And who are these people? Oh yeah, that's right! He's always got these imaginary witnesses to back him up, like his little mafia. Only I've never seen them. But hey, if they think I'm a winer too, well I kinda like them!
- Fairy Sparkles
- Finding your true love
Ah, hell, where's the fun in that? Let's talk about how I always look like I'm dressed for a funeral when I go to work and how despite my desire to become a vampire, I've decided it wouldn't work now that I'm middle-aged because I would FOREVER be stuck with these boobs. Let's talk about that!
Monday, October 19, 2009
Gof first contacted us, and by us I mean me and the one other follower that I know of so far, through gchat. Contact was in the form of what would otherwise be seen as typos, but gained importance as Gof's true nature became apparent through the following clues, which alone are meaningless but when looked at from a distance through scratched lenses, paint a picture of the next great religion.
- No one can truly know Gof because Nglish is too hard to follow.
- Followers of Gof can be found cracking themselves up alone in their offices.
- For everything there is an opposite equal, so in this case gmail is the anti-gof.
- If you think you are Gof, you're not. You're just schizophrenic.
And this is the ultimate proof of Gof, a picture taken of one of the Angels of Gof:
That horrified, disgusted, and strangely amused feeling you have right now is actually bliss. You just haven't been truly happy in so long you get the feeling confused with wanting to vomit. It's so awful that it's kindof awesome. Just like Gof. Follow the bliss!
Those of us who struggle with assertiveness need to stop trying so hard to say what we want, and instead embrace our pathetic spirit and make it work FOR US.
Thus the Theorems of Pathetics was created.
1. When given an opportunity to succeed first whine for 15 minutes to lower expectations.
2. Make it look like you're doing the WORLD a FAVOR just by continuing to breathe.
3. When asked to defend your position, pretend to be on the edge of a major breakdown so that if people don't take your side then your three year stay in a psych ward is their fault.
4. Agree with them that it is all your fault. Everything. Its all you. And since it can't be 100% anyone's fault they will most definitely assure you that they are partially to blame.
5. Always have a disheveled appearance, that way everyone knows how busy and overwhelmed you are, but that you will STILL help them. Even if it obviously will push you over the edge.
6. Whatever you do, don't allow sunlight to touch your skin so that you always look like you haven't slept in days. Accentuate the dark circles. And acne.
7. Carry Rescue Remedy in your purse. Offer it to people, then use it yourself. Often.
8. However, the Golden Rule of Pathetics is that you must never TALK about how hard your life is because then you just look like a whiner and no one wants to hear it. Pathetics is all about giving the image that your life is extremely difficult, but never sharing the details because no matter what they are you just appear annoying.
9. Spend some time at the Humane Society and mimic the body language of abused dogs. Almost anyone will treat you really well if you cower.
10. Never do anything productive if no one is watching. Save it up in piles. Sigh alot. Look overwhelmed. Never complain. People love to help. It makes THEM feel better to make YOU feel better.
Pathetics are the road to a new life, a creed by which to travel the highway to Gof. I don't really know what Gof is, but I do know that it's so indescribbleable that it must be good.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Now it's much longer because of the whole internet, facebook, texting, voicemail crap that connects us all even when we don't want to be connected.
Boy meets Girl, Boy and Girl do stupid things that are spread all over Facebook, Girl's mom wants them to breakup so Boy's mom tries to tell her that it won't work, then Girl's therapist breaks up with him for her, then Girl's mom breaks them up on Facebook, but Boy passes notes to Girl and Girl passes notes to boy, and Boy keeps calling Girl's house, and Girl steals Mom's cellphone and texts Boy, and Boy's mom tells Girl's mom she's a bad parent for keeping them apart although it's none of her business, so Boy's friends tell Girl's sisters that they are still together although it gets Girl in trouble every time because it's all over Facebook, and Girl's mom asks Boy's mom to tell him not to call anymore, but he still does and so does she, and then they read her entire blog, and Girl's mom blocks them on both her phones and Girl's Facebook account, but apparently this is still confusing to someone, but not to me.
I miss the simple days of a few tears.
Honestly, I have been trying to figure out how I attract these people and I think Abrah is right when she says "you KNOW when people are acting like psychos." Between the ex husband, the screwballs there are to date around here, and some of my family, my psycho meter is very well-tuned. In other words I have excellent boundaries from years of practice and I call other people on their lack of good boundaries.
Up next: The ten theorems of Pathetics, the Path to finding Gof. And other great typos.
Friday, October 16, 2009
My oldest daughter wants to have a Halloween movie night with her friends. Her choice of movies: The Unborn and Last House on the Left.
I don't want to be here when they're watching these movies. I don't even want to think about anything Unborn. Or something crawling down a hall with its head on backwards. Ick. And how am I supposed to watch her and her friends if they're watching this movie and I've got gum in my ears and a paper bag over my head? She has 4 boys and 1 girl on her list of friends. One boy being the boyfriend she really hasn't broken up with anyway. Hmmmm. No.
So I suggested renting sappy love movies. The theory being that if I start far to the left the compromise ends up in the middle. "Love movies are for Valentine's Day," she told me. I thought Valentine's Day was for uncomfortable dinner dates with people I should have dumped back on Election Day. One of the other girls yelled out "How about some porn then?" And then all three giggled and said "Mother's Day is for Porn!"
Children never forget anything you want them to, and they only remember anything important long enough to repeat it back to you and run out the door.
How come it seems to always work out that the right thing feels so terrible and heart-wrenching? Shouldn't the right thing be easy and floofy, and thank you kindly when you're done.
My oldest daughter is not going to thank me today when she gets home from school. I'm going to throw her weekend bag in my car, have a huge fight with her that'll end with her threatening to leave, and drop her off at the one place she might dread more than her father's. Ouch.
It's nice to have other people freely offer their services as the bad parent. But it's so hard for the good parent (me) to do something she'll never forgive me for. If I could send myself for the weekend I would. I would LOVE it there.
Instead I'm going to spend the evening house-sitting at Dad's with a bottle of whisky and my arthritic dog and my blind cat, and a golden retriever I have to carry up and down the stairs. I'll fit right in!
And when Haley comes back hopefully I'll be able to whistle and she'll come right over so that I can throw a saddle on her.
I cannot take her to Wyoming with me while she's being all defiant. She blames her attitude on how hard teenagers have it now. I can't say I blame her. Every other generation of teenagers had it so easy, so much respect and freedom and opportunity. I feel sorry for all her friends with their cell-phones and their playstations and 175 channels to choose from every night.
I think the feeling of being a traitor just passed and now I'm pretty pissed off that she looks at me and says "what are you going to do about it?"
Now I'd love a live web cam at Kath's. I owe that woman alot.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I mean, look at that big black triangle. That's my wine consumption compared to the other things I ate. Holy Shit! It's huge! And BLACK. And glaringly BLACK. 17.4% BLACK because I drank 10 ounces of wine. I just don't know anymore (shaking head sadly). What's there to live for?
Firstly, I'm completely jealous of Great Uncle Roy and his exercise regiment. I circle around my kitchen at least ten times every morning looking for something more entertaining than oatmeal to eat. And that's without lifting one foot, because my kitchen is too small to actually take a full step in any direction.
Secondly, I assume that this is the habit of people new to retirement. Calling me to tell me how old everyone is. How Jack the dog must have had a stroke and can't remember who he is. How Ollie the cat is blind and falls off things now, like the stairs. How Zoe the dog is lame in the morning. Dad seems to be giving aspirin to everyone.
When I visit he talks about people from work dying in accidents or distant relatives who are in their eighties and can't travel anymore.
The first thing he looks at in the paper are the obituaries. But not for people he knows. He looks at the ages everyone died and compares them to his age. If people are younger he seems to think he's overstayed his welcome and if they're older then he still has hope of another year or two.
Even as I walk away carrying the four loads of laundry that I just did at his house for free (because I firmly believe that if I ACT young I will stay young) he yells down the stairs that some 85 year old man just came down with Parkinson's.
As I spent my weekend comparing middle-ages ailments with my best friend, I suppose I shouldn't think myself too different from the gene pool I grew out of.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The 5 SUSPECTED pirates in their tiny little row boat, along with another pirate laden skiff, shot their little pop-gun rifles at the GIGANTIC refueling ship. Which means they must have been really really drunk. I mean, what are the bullets going to do, bounce off?
And the absolute worst part of the whole deal? They weren't just 5 drunken SUSPECTED pirates in a row boat. They were 5 armless drunken SUSPECTED pirates in a row boat who just realized that they accidentally shot the WRONG people. This is what the article said: "There were five suspected pirates on board. No arms, no water, no food,"
Poor pathetic drunken mistaken pirates. After looking at the picture of the HEROIC capture of these powerful villainous handicapped pirates I just want to adopt one.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
That whole bullshit saying "Fake it till you make it" is bullshit, just as much as this sentence is circular reasoning. Pretending to be happy until you are can be a dangerous thing. Now if you're just pretending in certain situations throughout your day, but you vent to your next door neighbor who just happened to be walking by as you were crying on your front lawn--then maybe it's okay. If you want to smile at work so no one really knows you're hearing voices--then maybe it's okay. There is a certain time and place for putting on a professional face. Like if your mother drops by unexpectedly and you REALLY don't want to share with her why you're still in your pajamas and bunny slippers at one in the afternoon, cause she'll just tell you that you're depressed and that you take after her. That will only depress you more so it's perfectly understandable that you pleasantly say hello, take the muffins, and close the door-with her on the outside.
HOWEVER, if you pretend all the time and have no outlet for all the anger, anxiety, pain, frustration, guilt, and confusion-- and you get up in the morning pretending and you go to school or work pretending and you go home and pretend to family and friends and your doctor and your counselor--this is a problem.
The vast difference between the way you want things to be, wishing so badly that everything is fine and that nothing is wrong AND what your intuition is telling you about the situation and the way you feel--this is where one day soon you're going to lose your grip in a big bad way. If you push all those doubts right down inside and try so hard to pretend that you are perfectly happy then they are going to continue to grow and you're going to have to work harder and harder to push back and pretty soon the incongruence between what you feel and what you pretend will cause a HUGE SNAP.
So the best way to be is just to be REAL. To not try to pretend. And to accept the small tragedies for what they are, normal parts of the human condition. And share with others, as I do here. So that we can all laugh together. So if I'm talking to a Peruvian Onion and I tell you about it, then I'm really okay. Right?
Let's take the easy one first. I bought a sweet onion and I was peeling it for lunch (No, not like I was gonna take a sweet onion to work and just gnaw on it!) and it is already moldy on the inside and I just bought it last night at the local grocery store. And I just happened to look at the sticker on it and it's from Peru. Is this the closest place on earth that makes onions? How long did it take this onion to get here? What kind of hardship did this onion go through before it arrived all moldy on my doorstep?
Maybe it took a trip like Dave on the Early Show's No Way Home, except I'll bet my onion didn't have 50 bucks and a Blackberry. I think it's cheating to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere and have 50 bucks and a way to connect to the internet! I think he should be dropped off with no money, a six-day beard and in his blue striped pajamas, like the rest of us were in the nineties or was that a flashback from the sixties in my head? Except I didn't have a beard, cause I'm a girl. No offense to all the girls with facial hair of course (just to cover my ass incase my pagan friend Pink also sports a soul patch). Laugh girl!!!
You shouldn't be able to connect with people on twitter who want to pick you up for their 15 minutes of fame. Instead you should have to beg and plead total strangers on the road who have never even heard of you. You should have to ride with large creepy men who ask you for a kiss before they let you out of the car. You should sleep on the floor of bus stations without a pillow. You should be thankful just to wash your face with soap once a day.
But I was talking about this ONION of mine. Don't they grow onions somewhere closer than Peru? What ever happened to onions from Washington state? The poor thing has been on quite a trip.
Can you see how bored I am, spending a couple of days a week at home alone. Worrying about the trials of being an onion?
Sorry, I'm not sane enough right now to talk about Sanity, which was the other thing this post was supposed to be about. I was going to talk about signs that you might be on the verge of a psychic break, and I don't mean lottery numbers appear in your head. There are signs that a person is going to crack completely. And I swear this has nothing to do with Peruvian Onions. But it might have something to do with the Early Show, which I swear I don't watch. I just don't like to feel all alone in the morning and it's nice to have someone talking to me who doesn't live in my head.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Stop Giving me Signs!
because obviously this all-powerful, all-knowing thing would be reading my blog to know exactly how to make me crazy and then setting it up so that the sound of bagpipes is coming from cemetary hill as I take a walk along the street. Bagpipes alone don't mean much to me (except some painful flashback of someone playing them in a closed middle school gym and having to hold my hands over my ears), but they seemed to imply that some significant moment was about to occur. Which I was unprepared for in my sweatpants, sweatshirt, and dirty old sneakers. However, I was carrying my cellphone in my hand in case some really important phone call came in, like Haley calling from the school to tell me that her shoes finally fell apart and that NONE of the twelve other pairs in the closet fit her anymore.
Anyway, so I left my usual comfortable place in my head and looked around me to see what that significant thing might be and there was another Wyoming license plate on a big truck in the driveway I was passing in front of.
That makes 2 in 2 days. I discovered the other while taking the trash out yesterday morning. It was attached to a tan midsize car in the visitor parking lot next to the dumpster and although it had the number 22 on it, which is not Cody, I looked around thinking maybe Nick was lurking somewhere and about to jump out at me. Although why he would drive 2600 miles just to lurk, I don't know.
Just so you don't think I'm crazy, there have been other signs as well, of this huge life-changing time coming at me. Old friends from out there finding me on Facebook, the National Geographic article on Yellowstone, my sudden urgent desire to poke Nick hard enough so that he'd talk to me, and the new bathtub that I HATE that's not big enough to be a bathtub for a normal human-sized person.
Enough signs already!
On second thought, keep sending them my way. I need to keep thinking that I'm not going to live in the ghetto forever, all alone, and drinking wine.
Which leads me to my other thought today: Wouldn't God (if there is one) be on Facebook? It's just such a great way to keeps tabs on everything that I can't imagine she wouldn't be. Has anyone found her yet?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
My youngest wanted me to buy it for her and she and I worked on it until we got to the end. There were some things I was a little iffy on, but she seemed to enjoy it.
NOW THE PROBLEM: Haley has rediscovered the game on this computer because she is so bored by not having any life at all. And those things that I ignored for Gina are SO OBVIOUS for Haley.
Like the sounds the characters make when you pick them up. OOH, AAH. It's like an Herbal Essence commercial and not in a good clean way!
And I pointed out that she could name her characters and it would be funny to name them what they are. So then she named one "Retard" and one "Whore" which wasn't quite what I meant. But "Retard" keeps running away from the tasks he's supposed to learn. And "Whore" keeps ignoring her duties and running off to breed.
Somehow I find it amusing that Haley spends her time virtually chasing after these people and saying things that sound a little like what I keep saying to her.
"Get back to work!"
"Why don't you learn after I tell you twenty times?"
"Kissing again and again makes you want to breed more."
Okay, not that last one. Not quite like that. But why have a game in which one of the skills you have to teach them is how to embrace each other and head off to the Love Shack to have babies?
Haley was mad when her doctor got pregnant. Well, not really pregnant. They go into the Shack and come out with a baby that they breast feed for two years (Two years!) and during this time they can't work for the village at all.
And I'm all like "SEE, Haley! That's what I'm talking about."
And she ignores me.
She should pay more attention to the game. Then she'll understand why she is to have NO CONTACT with any boys until she's 35.
Friday, October 2, 2009
So we have created our own NATURAL CONSEQUENCE which can be seen everyday in small interactions with the new set of fledgling teenagers.
A barely 13 year old boy thinks he can debate with me about whether or not he should be allowed to date my daughter. Which he's not. In my generation, no child would have ever imagined calling, texting, or emailing an adult to argue anything EVER!
Part of me wants to give him my reasons for not allowing continued communication with my daughter, but I find that debating with a 13 year old little boy to be, well, RIDICULOUS. At 13 he does not have the capacity or ability or language or life experience to understand what I would have to say, even IF I cared to tell him. It seems that children now think they are equals to us and have the right to share their opinions. Humph. His opinion seems to be that It's Not Fair!
Maybe I'm just not SCARY enough. I have yelled at him in front of a crowd of teenagers at the movie theater. I have thrown my daughter into my car when I find her walking down the road with him. I have given him the STINK EYE. I have talked about placentas and played country music in my car. How much scarier can I get? In my day (here I am sounding old again) adults were scary because they were ADULTS. That's all it took for them to maintain authority. There's no authority now.
And no grasp of the English language either.
All of this texting and email and chatting online is turning proper English into some kind of shorthand gibberish that everyone makes up differently. Did the tower of Babel story in the Old Testament say anything about computers or cellphones? Fledgling teenagers in middleschool have gone past the boundaries of anything decipherable and are now making up words.
"do you think im a pesation or somthing cus every time she gets in troble you take me away and thats not fair to me cus i didnt do anything."
Now seeing as I spend some time on the internet and I can now text fairly well without spelling errors that turn boxes into boxers when I'm sending a text to my daughter's therapist, I can decode most of that sentence into something that makes sense, EXCEPT for the word PESATION.
Is it short for Compensation?
Is he a Superstar Sensation? With an ego so big that he dares email me?
Does it have to do with PEZ, as he's 13 and should be into PEZ right now?
Truthfully, I appreciate that he's given me this new word to play with. I LOVE new words.
But if you're going to try to argue with an adult by hiding behind an email, cause you know that if you try to argue to my face I will SMACK YOU DOWN like the little punk you are, then at least show me that you're smart enough to not be a pesation.
It's not his fault really. It's the fault of parents who give a kid a cell phone without teaching them social rules. It's the fault of a parent who will tell another parent that they don't understand how not letting the kids keep seeing each other is going to help the situation. It's the fault of a parent who says things like "If we don't let them see each other they are only going to do something worse."
Sounds like you're a hostage to your teenager, and not a parent.
Which would be why your son thinks he can argue with me. To take me hostage as well.
Perhaps pesation means CHILD. I think he's a child and that's why he has to follow my rules concerning my daughter or not be allowed to speak with her.
I can hear all those NEW AGE people coming after me with their robes flying and their crystals and their electronic music playing the Age of Aquarius.
I'm just going to yell out "Pesation" and shut the door now.