Psych!

Reason number  a lot that I'm going to hell;

I was on the elevator just now coming back from lunch when a two year old little girl announces to me very cheerfully

"You gots a BABY in you tummy!"

And for just a moment, I glanced over at her mother, face frozen in horror, clearly praying that I'm not going to go all pyscho fat bitch homicide baby killer on her, praying that her sweet little pigtailed oracle hasn't just commited the ultimate faux pas, and for just a moment, perhaps a moment too long, I contemplate bursting into tears as though mortally offended.

But I? I HAVE TURNED A CORNER and I'm all cherubic and shit and so I said "Yep!" and let the mother breathe again.

Where's my fucking gold star?

A Ranting We Shall Go

Why the hell are some people such big whiny babies? NOT ME. I wasn't talking about me, though if you'd been at my house the last few days you'd be all "well you SHOULD be, Whiny McWhiner" and then I'd cry. Because that's how whiners deal with shit. They whine some more.

One of the things I do is make the kitchen duty list. Everyone gets a turn. Today Chief Whiner was all "Where's YOUR name on the list" so I pointed it out and he's all "why is it only on there once, mine is on there twice?" Listen, ManBitch, my name is only on there once because I do kitchen duty every fucking day. Any time someone else has a meeting, is off, forgets or just doesn't bother I do the kitchen. Sure, it can be argued it's part of my job to keep an eye on the kitchen, but KEEPING AN EYE ON IT and standing in as your mother because you never learned to put a cup in the dishwasher are NOT the same thing. Don't believe me? I DON'T CARE, I make the fucking list and if you whine any more I'm putting your name on it every other week. Don't like that? SUCK IT.

Seriously, the next person that whines "it's not fair" at me is getting punched in the throat.

The Hell?

I am wearing white jeans today, Kittens. THAT IS HOW FAR OFF THE FUCKING DEEP END I HAVE GONE. White. Jeans. Seriously.

Now, let's examine the things that are wrong with this;

1) I am a slob.
2) I work in a manufacturing plant and there are pigeons living in the false ceiling of my office.
3) I drive an old POS truck that hasn't been washed since 2005.
4) THEY'RE WHITE FUCKING JEANS.

See? I'm not even making this up. I know that's a TERRIBLE picture, but you bitches can just shut up about how I look wrinkled and knock knee'd until you have tried to take a picture of your own thighs, you just don't know how fucking hard it is. THERE IS NO FLATTERING ANGLE. And I don't want to post one of those stupid 'in the bathroom mirror' shots because I hate them and also because the flash makes me look like a white pants wearing serial killer.

I'd keep going, but let's be real here, I need to not be all shouty because there is coffee on my desk just waiting to spill onto my lap.

Pretty Pitty

Some of you may be all too aware that I'm slightly obsessed with a trainwreck of a show called Toddlers and Tiaras. Have you ever watched it? It's HORRIBLE. And by horrible, I mean AWESOME. The kids are brats, the mothers are psycho's and the costumes make them look like the spangled offspring of a whore and a particularly tacky drag queen.

Basically, it's everything that reality television should be.

Sadly, I have no toddler. But I DO have a dog!

A dog who is probably going to kill me in my sleep now.

Table for Awkward, Party of Me

So remember when you were a kid and you thought your teacher lived in the school and then you saw her at the Safeway and you were all WHAT THE HELL? Mrs. Lyle DOESN'T live in a cave behind the coat closet? NO. WAY. Then she said "hi" to you and even though not two hours before you were waving your arm around shouting ME! ME! ME! trying to get her to pay attention to you, now, because you're not at school, somehow her saying hi to you makes you blush and sort of hide behind your mom?

Yeah. Well the adult equivalent of that? It's seeing your male gynecologist at the Victoria's Secret holding a pair of red lace thong panties.

Not Duck Short

My new swim suit arrived yesterday. It's exactly the same swim suit that I had last year.

OH, WAIT. NOT.

See, here's the thing. When you buy a plus sized suit (last years was a 16) the skirted bottom is 17" long. To compensate for your having things like, you know, AN ASS. Or, maybe, you know, BEING TALLER THAN A DUCK. The regular sized suit (a ten...so still not the sort of size one expects Heidi Klum and her stick legged like to be cavorting around in) is only 13 inches long. Now, you're probably thinking (like I was; because we're dumbasses) that after using a ruler and sort of hopping up and down so you can see in the bathroom mirror where the allegedly 13 inch skirt is going to end and then deciding that after you smacked your shin for the third time that it was probably long enough that you wouldn't have to wax your bikini line TOO exuberantly and anyway, it's only $30 which is a reasonable, because HELLO, It's VEGAS TIME in like two week and you're not going to actually lose that last twenty pounds and the prospect of standing in the unforgiving light and the 4H infested floors of the JC Penny dressing room is enough to make you hang yourself with your amazing new chain & ribbon necklace (shout out to Clairs 10 for $10 clearance and a big FUCK OFF to everyone who just said "you're not 14, why are you shopping there!?") and then you're all FINE, FUCK IT! and just order the damned thing. In black. Because black is slimming, right? You'll totally look just like Heidi Klum in a black swim suit, right? And anyway the blue one you really like isn't on sale and you're not a complete masochist so you can't justify spending $74 EACH PIECE for a new swim suit that you'll wear...twice? Maybe? And anyway, the black goes with your sexy (AHEM, certain people; SEXY, and FASHIONABLE, NOT SILLY) sun glasses.

Then, you wait excitedly. By "excitedly", I probably mean "drunkenly". By "probably" I mean "totally".

True to their word (hello, free standard shipping!) the package arrives in the allotted 4 to 7 days and even though you had a big fight with your husband the night before that wound up with both of you packing and then having a stand off about who had to actually move out and even though you've got a migraine and even though the dog puked in FOUR MOTHER FUCKING PLACES, you take that sucker into the bathroom and put it on.

AND THEN YOU STAB YOUR EYES OUT WITH THE TWEEZERS.

Because 13"? SHOWS A SHIT LOAD OF WHITE, WHITE THIGH.

Bastards.

How can they DO this to me? ME? Me of the pasty, white, white winter thighs with their soft whiteness and the glowing pale? After I told the WHOLE TEN PEOPLE who read this piece of Internet clogging awesomeness that I loved their damn swim suits and I'd wear it in public and now it would seem I meant 'wear it and show my pubic' which isn't NEARLY a good idea. Unless it's true that people will pay you to put your clothes back on and that's why the fat stripper earns the most (is that true? I could use a second job.)

SO THEN. Then, I have to return the damn thing (just the bottoms. The top is perfect) and hope that the replacement (a luxurious 15") will be long enough.

Otherwise, I suggest y'all don't look in the direction of Vegas unless you're wearing welding glasses or want the white, white glow of my ass burned into your retinas forever.

Out my mouth with the blah, blah, blah

My head is all full of rants today. Which is usual, I suppose, because it's Monday. Whose head ISN'T full of rants on Monday morning, am I right?

Of course I am. I'm always right. It's part of my charm.

All things considered I had a pretty good weekend. I had red velvet cake cheesecake on Saturday with a couple of my favorite people and one people I actively have to remind myself not to kick. But the other two I enjoyed very much. And there was cheesecake. And fried cheese. so really, pretty hard not to call THAT a win.

There *was* a little drama on Saturday night. It was prom night and M had bought a dress that she was super excited about. The only problem was it was so short you could see her scary knickers. I had to veto it, of course. Which lead to tears. Of course. Which lead to trying on everything in both of our closets. Which lead to more tears. Which lead to calling Baby Mama to try on everything in HER closet. Which lead to MORE tears and a trip to Ross. Can I get a Hallelujah for Ross? $17 and she had a short zebra print lurex dress with a hot pink sash. Looked cute, fit great and solved the drama. Well, that and the punk heels I let her buy. Zippers and studs. And about 7" tall. Pick your battles, Moms, that's my theory.

Sunday SIL decided that she wanted to do "something crazy". I suggested she pierce her nipples, find a casual encounter on Craigs List and then do some blow, but NOOOO some people are just no fun. So I took her to the place I get my hair done and while she was there I went looking for swim suits.

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL are designers thinking when it comes to swim suits, anyway? I can't be the only girl in the world who doesn't want my thigh fat hanging out for the world to see. And yet EVERY SINGLE FUCKING SUIT ends right mid-thigh fat. You know that part about 3" down from your hoo-ha? Right there. In the widest, palest, flabbiest part of your thigh as if to say, "Hey, y'all! Wanna see the cake I ate in 1990? LOOK RIGHT HERE!" That's fucked up, that's what that is. And really, $120? ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? Needless to say, I had to console myself myself with pretzel bites and cheese. I mean if the world is going to look at my pale fleshy thighs, there might as well be something to see, ya know what I mean?

I did find a pair of shorts though.

Sorry in advance for the sun spot that's going to reflect off my legs and cause y'all to go blind. I can't help it. I'm Irish. That's just what color we are. Be glad you can't see my ass. Be glad of that on a number of levels actually.

I did finally find a swim suit today though. Lands End. Can I get a wooooohoooo? Thought so. I got the Swim Mini and a top with scrunchable sides that hides mah belly./ I can't make it post the pictures, and I can't get it to post the link, so whatever. It's cute. And you can't see my upper thigh fat.

Which means? I can go eat some more cheesecake! Did you hear the angels sing just now? Thought so.

Friends Off

I have had house guests for the last two weeks. While I love these people, OH MY GOD WHY DON'T THEY ALL JUST FUCKING LEAVE? You know what I mean? It's all fine and good to see people that live far, far away and SURE I do love the excuse to do all the stupid touristy shit that is too cheesy to do as a resident but I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING WITH THE ALWAYS AT MY HOUSE BULLSHIT.

How's a girl supposed to walk around naked?!

Just kidding. I don't do that. It scares the dogs. And the neighbors have that restraining order. But I digress.

But if I WANTED TO, I couldn't. That makes me stabby. Stabbier. Let's be honest, I'm stabby by nature. Much like I would be naughty by nature if I had a less active guilty conscience. Oh, who am I trying to lie to? Me? Not so much with the guilty.

Except for that time I stole a lipstick from Bartells and then snuck in and put it back even though I'd already used it. It's the thought that counts.

So ANYWAY. Last night, I was hiding in the bathroom pretending to poo, but actually watching old SNL skits on YouTube on my iTouch when I had the MOST BRILLIANT IDEA EVER.

But then? Someone started banging on the door asking if I had died in there and I was tempted to pretend that I had, but I don't want to be that girl that died on the crapper Elvis Style, so instead I moaned a little as though I was giving birth to an epic food baby and said that I would be right out.

And do you think that I can remember what my brilliant idea was? NO.

So now? Not only have these house guests eaten all the Oreos they've robbed me of my Best Idea Ever.

Jerks.

Conspiracy Theory

Things that are proof that the Universe is Evil and conspires against us:

1) Those really cute shoes that are the last pair and really cheap will always be a half size too small. So you'll buy them anyway, because they'll TOTALLY break in, right? Only they won't and you'll have to hobble around with bleeding feet all day because OF COURSE it's the one day your normally sedentary life turns into a MUST RUN EVERYWHERE busy sort of day.

2) You only have a good hair day when there is no one to show it to. You will have a HORRIBLE hair day when there are to be photos taken. That girl you hate? Her hair is always perfect.

3) The next person to sit at the slot machine you just put $20 into will drop in a dime and win $500 on her first spin while you're still close enough to see her jump for joy.

4) If you used to wear a size xxl and now wear a size medium, everything on the clearance rack that you love will be a size XXL

5) The roadtrip you elect to opt out of will be the one that your friends will never shut up about for the rest of your lives.

6) The lipstick color that you LOVE and that looks perfect on you will obviously have to immediately be discontinued. Same with the jeans that make your legs look long and thin and the underware that doesn't ride up and the perfect shade of red nail polish.

7) If you pass a sign that says "no services for the next 60 miles" and you think "I don't really need to pee" you WILL REALLY NEED TO PEE and you'll have to find a bush on the side of the road, dig around under the seats for an only slightly filthy McDonalds napkin to use as toilet paper and pray that no one sees you squat and also that you don't pee on your shoes and that a snake or a rabid badger or a really big hairy spider doesn't creep up and bite you on the ass and so when that piece of grass tickles your ass you'll wind up jumping up mid stream and then there will pee all over your pants and you'll have to ride in pee-pants.

8) The time you don't close all the windows on your computer and leave Farmville open on your desk top when you get up to get a coffee will be the time your boss decides to come by and wait for you to return.

9) The $59 airfare isn't going anywhere you want to go at any time you could go there. Or, worse, becomes available on YOUR flight only after you've booked a non-refundable $250 seat.

10) If it tastes good, it's bad for you.

Thinking about Things

Did everyone enjoy "Let's Gaze At Our Navel and Repost Mopey Entries Week"? Super fun, am I right? L.G.A.O.N.A.R.M.E.W (pronouced lah gone are mew) may make a reappearance later thanks to a sadistic doctor who not only is switching my Crazy Pills but also took away my Ambien because blah blah addictive blah blah and the new stuff gives me nightmares about things like people in trench coats driving yellow cabs right at me while I find myself rooted to the ground thanks to a million octopuses (octopusi? octopi? Octomom? Whatever.) swarming around my feet and biting me with their vampire fangs as I try to scream but can't because instead of sound only blue light comes out of my mouth and then I'm wide awake and wondering WHY THE FUCK I care if Ambien is fucking addicting, it's WAY FUCKING BETTER than either 1) not sleeping or 2) sleeping extremely poorly and waking up sleep hung-over to the point that I am basically useless the following day.

In light of this, you're probably thinking that I am just going to phone it in again this week and guess what? You are SO RIGHT. Because, you know, that's how I roll. Because I'm all gangsta and shit, fo shizzle. (speaking of phoning it in, a big Monday morning Fuck You to Verizon for misdirecting my post Hope so that instead of posting on Saturday and finishing up LGAONARMEW in a reasonable time frame, instead I find it hanging around as a draft this morning and now it's LGAONARMEW part 2 only it's NOT part 2, because I lack four more mopey postings that fit that format. And also my bill? From Verizon? FUCKING UN-REAL. So, Fuck you Verizon! And fuck you Bank of America for other reasons. And also, a big Fuck You to City of Phoenix police department with a special shout out to the officer who ran the red light on Indian School and 63rd because he was TALKING ON HIS FUCKING CELL PHONE.) Has anyone seen my Xanax? Because I haven't had any breakfast and a Grilled Cheese and Xanax sandwich sounds delicious.

Just kidding. Maybe.

Right now I have both a lot of time on my hands and none at all, what with the working seven days a week for 10 weeks nonsense going on up in here. So while sort of five hundred years in the past for two of those days and for all of that I'm chasing about errant actors demanding that they play nicely with the paying customers instead of wandering around playing Jack Sparrow Bingo and even though the other five days are spent trying to use my sixth sense to determine if the other end of the ringing phone is an angry customer, an angry creditor or an angry representative of our corporate office while attempting to repair my fucked up desk top since the IT guy hasn't bothered to call and isn't returning my calls and I am completely techno-tarded, I have WAY too much time on my hands to think.* And I think it's safe to say that that? Is a Bad Thing.**

One thing to bear in mind in the Care and Keeping of your Kiki is that we are best suited to occupations that involve our whole brains, otherwise we think about Things. Not anything important or life changing like the cure to cancer or the best way to transport bacon for on the go snacking, but rather things like, Why do some peoples eyelashes grow down and some grow up? You know what I mean? How some people have upper eyelashes like elephants that grow sort of down and slanty so that they always are sort of looking through them at you and you're left to wonder if it looks like they're looking through a picket fence all the time? And Other Important Things, like who decided to grind up meat and encase it in INTESTINES and then eat it? Because, really, let's consider this. Intestines? Are filled with pre-poop. What about fleshy bags of pre-poop says hey! let's grind up all these left over bits and then stuff them in here and cook and eat it! Not that I'm going to stop eating sausage or anything, I'm not CRAZY, but let's be honest, it's a little off putting when you think about it. Same with Haggis. It's safe to say that most food from Northern Europe is probably the result of a dare. Lutefisk? I rest my case.

Actually, that sort of reminds me of the time that my friend Heather dared me to kiss a boy on the playground and I'm all BITCH, HELL NO. Then later, I wished that I had said yes because she ate those Orange Hostess Cupcakes right in front of me and I fucking LOVE those things even though they're made exclusively of sugar and lard and the orange flavoring that they use to make hand soap.

Damnation.*** Now I want bacon and Orange cupcakes. I bet if I sliced the cupcake in half and put the bacon inside it, then sprinkled it with Xanax it would make an excellent sandwich...


*Holy Run On Sentence, Grammar Man!

** Bad Things have less glitter than Good Things, but unlike Good Things, you really CAN make them with things you have lying around the house instead of driving six hours to find dried Star Anise and then feeling inadequate because you only have one color of ribbon in your house instead of 27 and you couldn't tell anyone the difference between turquoise and teal anymore than you could whip up a perfect ginger infused meringue torte for seven to serve (topped with berries from your own garden OF COURSE) with the mint and lavender sprigged rack of lamb and hand mashed turnips that you picked from your own garden and whipped using cream from the cow you milked this morning right before you wove the angora you combed yesterday unto the cloth you used to sew the sweater you whipped up after you delivered handmade cards to legless orphans in the orphanage you single handedly built out of recycled milk jugs and nails made from rolled soda cans.

***Yeah, I said Damnation. Fuck you. I may LOOK like a spritely 33 year old desert dwelling suburban housewife with the office job and abusive relationship with prescription sedatives, but at heart? I'm a sassy 70 year old Southern Belle with a heart of gold and wit of ice to compliment my nerves of steel and my perchance for gaudy jewelry and telling people to Shush.

Done

I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.

It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.

But this is my blog. And this is my side.

We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.

But.

For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.

When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.

A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.

He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.

What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.

But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.

It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.

And also?

I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.

Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.

I told him that I am done.

But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?

HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.

But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?

What can I say?

There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.

Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.

Seriously.

How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.

NONE.

The one where I whine

For the last four years, my husband has spent at least one day, usually two and sometimes more hunting.

For the last three years, he's also spent an entire week at hunting camp. Some years two.

For the last seven years, he's spent at least one evening a week competition shooting. At least one other night a week preparing supplies. Every few weeks he goes to a meeting about the club or a special event or something.

And I? Have encouraged every minute of it. I think it's good to have separate interests.

Apparently, he disagrees. Well, not exactly. He thinks it's FINE for him to have things to do that take up his evenings and weekends and don't involve me. But GOD FORBID I am not spending every waking moment attending to him.

For the last week or so, I've spent part of each evening getting ready for Faire to start. Either sewing or packing or mending or what have you. My sewing machine is in the dining room which is at one side of the the great room that includes the entry way and living room and leads to the kitchen. Basically, I'm in the middle of everything. Usually while I'm sewing I'm also doing laundry or making dinner and I'm always with an ear to what's going on in the living room, whether it be the program on TV or whatever he's talking about to whomever is there, interjecting my opinion about whatever it is (you know how I do). I've also made dinner every night, baked cookies, done laundry, cleaned the house and done the maintenance my car needed like topping off fluids and airing the tires. In short? I've been BUSY.

Then, as scheduled, as discussed for the LAST TWO MONTHS, Faire started and M and I were gone from Friday evening to Sunday night about nine.

Before I decided to commit to working seven days a week for two months, I asked him if he would mind. Not because I wanted permission, but because later, when he started to whine, I wanted to be able to rightly point out that he'd had his chance to object. He didn't. He said he thought it was a good idea and that I should go and have fun.

Only, apparently? He either didn't mean it, or didn't think I'd actually DO it. Because he's been a complete and utter ass about the entire thing.

The first thing he did when I got home Sunday, bubbling over with what a good time I had, the people I'd met, the things I'd done and seen (and OH MY GOD DO I WANT A ROBOT CAMERA EYE) including six separate Jack Sparrows on one day; he started complaining about how I'd ignored him.

Excuse me? What the fuck? For twelve years I've never ONCE said anything about the time he spends on his hobbies. The thousands of dollars we spend each year to support them. Well, that's not totally true. I do say things about it, but I don't complain. I encourage it. Because that's what you SHOULD do when someone finds something they enjoy, right?

Last night, exhausted from nine straight days and knowing that it was just going to get worse, I stopped at the grocery on the way home, made dinner (steak and gourmet mac & cheese with a ceasar salad), did the laundry, shampooed the carpet, worked on a few little costuming items that I'd agreed to make or repair and stripped and re-made the bed. All while engaging in a conversation from my corner of the room.

At 9:30, as I waited for the dryer to finish so I could toss in the final load? He starts complaining AGAIN.

What do I say to that? I'm sorry for ignoring you? Because a) I'm NOT ignoring him and b) even if I was, I wouldn't be sorry.

What is so terribly hard about being happy that I've found something I enjoy? Is it necessary to poke holes in my little happiness bubble? And if so why?

I know, I know. Complaining to you guys doesn't fix anything. It's not like I don't KNOW what needs to REALLY be done to ultimately stop the complaining.

I just don't understand why he can't be nice.

The Man

It's not that I believe in ghosts so much as that I don't disbelieve. There are things, I think, that are inexplicable. Unless they can be explained by the presence of an energy that feels the need to hang around.

The house that my parents live in was built in the mid 1920's and was purchased by my great grandparents for a shockingly expensive $20 a month. To make ends meet Grandma Fred (yes, Fred) sold eggs and chickens and kept a garden. Back then, the suburb was an apple orchard and the trains ran through the valley on coal fueled steam. Great Grandpa raised fighting chickens (I know. But it *was* the 20's and they had a very different view) in the back yard and Gram was charged with feeding them. To this day, she won't touch chicken skin.

Grandma Fred lived in that house for about 60 of her 86 years and so it's really no surprise that from time to time the attic that had been her bedroom and then was mine would grow cold. No surprise either that when you were sick, you'd feel her sit down beside you and lay a hand on your head. It wasn't scary, it was just Grandma. It was her house and that's all there was to it.

So, too, when Grandpa Jimmy (Grams husband) passed did it make sense that he would return to his home to pass the time knocking around in the basement workroom or sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood go by.

It's just the way things were. Are.

When I was a very little girl, just slightly more than six, our little family took a road trip through the northwest in a red Volkswagon van. It had one of those pop-up roofs and a wee adorable kitchen. We camped in it at night, Mum and Dad on the folded down seat, myself tucked up underneath it and CK nestled in the stairwell (she was three).

Near the very end of our trip, as CK, Mum and I dozed, Dad drove us through a twisty mountain pass on a two lane road. Around a blind corner, a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck us head on, rolling the van into the side of the mountain. We were lucky, the other side was a cliff.

I remember nothing of this trip, save for the this.

When I woke up, dazed, the side of my face destroyed by gravel, my arm was trapped under the vehicle. I had no idea what had happened, just that I was stuck and I was scared. I recall pulling my arm from the window (I think I broke it myself doing that) and then looking around for someone; an adult, to tell me what to do.

The roof of the van had come off when we rolled and through where the top of the van should have been, I had a clear view of the side of the highway.

God, was I grateful to see The Man. The Man (because that's how I've always thought of him) was in his sixties, grey haired and bearded; dressed in Levi's, boots and a work shirt.

He called me by name and told me to take off my seat belt. I did and then I dropped to the ground. He didn't come any closer, but that he was there was enough. He told me to unbuckle CK and I did and together we crawled (her femur was broken, but crawl we did) out on to the gravel. The Man stood a bit aside and he told me we needed to get far away from the van, it was going to explode.

It's eerie how quiet chaos can be.

By now, though, I could hear the horn blaring, I could hear Dad shouting, his pants burnt off, his tennis shoes melted to his feet, he was screaming for us, for Mum. I shouted back, but I doubt he heard me.

In the most serendipitous stroke of fate, the next vehicle on the scene was a motor home driven by a retired EMT.

They bundled CK and I into the motor home, the wife of they EMT's friend rocking CK back and forth and plying me with juice. Neither of us cried, there would be time for that later. Who were we? Where were we going? How old was I; was CK; were our folks? Where were we from? Whom could they call? It was a pretty boring game. I watched through the window as they led my father away from the wreckage, watched him hit the pavement only after they pulled Mum out on a backboard made of the table and laid her away from the smoking van.

"My mom is dead" I told them in the implicit logic only a child can conjure and of course, they assured me she wasn't. "Yes, she is. She's allergic to bees. If she wasn't dead, she wouldn't want them near her." The ladies looked at one another and one left to shoo the bees away with a white paper plate.

The roadway was scattered with nickles and Choc-o-dials. I could see one of my shoes on the yellow line. The hillside was scattered with poppies. There was a skid of red paint on the black top. The doors of the cabinets on the wee kitchens facade hung open, the plastic contents tumbled into a heap in the gravel.

Several minutes later, though it's hard to say how long, the van did indeed explode and I turned to the woman that had stayed with us and told her The Man had said it would.

"What man, lamb?" she asked

"THE man," I looked around for him then, but he was gone.

Much later, when I was grown up, my Mum (who had indeed died) told me that she too had seen The Man, she had seen him in the Summerland before she decided to come back. The man told her that he would watch me. Watch us.

From time to time, as I grew up, The Man came back. Never to the degree he had that day, but back still. In the corner of my eye, I'll see him in the hallway. I'll catch his scent, a mix of pipe smoke and the ocean, in a breeze. I'll turn around and expect to find him.

Am I crazy? Yes. But that's not the point. The point is that some time, some where in my past, The Man has come to see me as his. In times of great stress, I feel him more.

The day that M had her accident, I was sure The Man was on the porch.

I'd say he's not a ghost. Not exactly an angel (I rather get the sense that he was a bit of a trouble maker. And he's definitely a jokster. I hope he reads the interwebz, and if so I NEED MY DAMN EARRINGS BACK and I better not find them in the kitchen cupboards again) but something close. Some sort of other. The sort of other that makes a bump in the night.

It's not so much that he portends disaster, but rather that he shows up to stand just behind and beside me to remind me that I am strong enough to sail a stormy sea. So too, does he show up when things are about to change. Just before a move. Right before I make a big decision. When I need a push because I refuse to just leap.

This morning, I thought I smelled the ocean.

Keeping Him in the dark

At risk of being repetative, one more Operation Obnoxious story.

Scene: Sitting on the tailgate of my truck in the driveway drinking a glass of $5 wine.

Door to Door Jesus Lady: How're you today miss?
Me: (holds up glass of wine) Exxxxxcelllllent
D2DJL: I'd like to talk to you about God.
Me: Okay
D2DJL: Do you know God?
Me: Yes, we're on a first name basis. I call out to him from time to time*
D2DJL: That's wonderful. Let me ask you one question though.
Me: Okay, but just one. This wine isn't going to drink itself!
D2DJL: Will you go to Heaven?
Me: Only if He doesn't look under my bed. **




*during sex. Obviously.
**No, I don't actually have that under the bed. It's in the top dresser drawer.

Bet I'll get some interesting Google Searches from THIS one.

M is very joiny. She signs up for EVERYTHING. Which would be fine except she can't drive and *I* wind up driving her all over town. (That's a lie. Usually I make her ask other people for rides because I have things to do).

This year, after many years of begging I finally consented to let her work as a cast member at the local Rennaissance Faire. And by local? I mean AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES AWAY EACH WAY.

Anyway, the Faire entertainment director holds cast workshops on Wednesday night (a scant 45 minutes away). They're a good way to bond with the other cast members and we usually go.

Except this week, I was pretty sure I had maggots eating my brain (or that I was turning into a zombie. Could go either way.) and so I just dropped her off and holed up for the two hours they did dancing and singing and whatever else it is they do fully costumed on the play ground of a school.

As we're driving home M cheerfully announced

" I learned how to FLUFF!"*

Um. What. The. Fuck.

I assume that some of you are thinking something wholly innocent** and if that's the case I urge you to click here . Unless you're at work. Or around children who can read. Or don't like porn.

If you don't like porn what the fuck are you doing HERE though?



(* she meant arranging your lady lumps so they're properly supported and presented in your corset. But that's far less interesting. So I'm not telling that part of the story)

(**I know, right? Who doesn't know what fluffing is? Some people are so repressed. I bet they still wear white underwear, too!)

(PS. Sorry about the soda you just spit onto your key board)

(PPS. No, I'm not.)

JRP = CRAP

I simply don't understand why people want to make me screamy. I'm not a shouty, lathered up kind of girl. I have a wicked bad temper, yes. I get snappy, true. But all out DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR? Not so much. There is very little in life that to me, is worth getting myself all worked up about. Shouting almost never solves anything.

Except when it does, apparently.

M, as you know is full of The Drama. The child lives to be on stage. Or at least with an audience. In October, she was accepted to an acting school. The school runs sessions and the next session started in November. so I paid her deposit and we waited. When it came time to start class we learned that the adult class she was meant to be placed in was doing "love scenes" and because she's not yet 16, she couldn't participate. No big deal, we'll just start after the new year when the class schedule resets.

Classes were set to resume on 1/6. So I called on 1/5 to confirm that she was in fact scheduled for Wednesday at 7pm and that classes did indeed start the following day. This is how the conversation went:

Me: I need to confirm that M is scheduled to start classes tomorrow.
Hunan: Yes, that's correct, Saturday at 1pm
Me: No, Wednesday. She has prior commitments on Saturdays
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: Okay, yes. I moved her to Wednesday, she can start on Saturday.
Me: No, she can't. She can't come on Saturday, that's why she's in the WEDNESDAY CLASS.
Hunan: Oh, yes, I see.
Me: So class starts tomorrow?
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: No, class will begin on 1/13
Me: So not this week, next week?
Hunan: yes.

Seems fairly straight forward, right?

OH BUT NO.

Last Wednesday we drove all the way to the other side of town during rush hour traffic.

And found the office dark and locked.

Apparently they had MOVED. And did they put the new address on the door? NO. Of course not. That would just be silly! Instead it said "we've moved to the x mall!" Which, as you can guess is NOT HELPFUL. Like AT ALL.

So I start calling their office number and high tail it the 20 miles to the general area of where they may or may not be. And does anyone answer the phone? NO. OF COURSE NOT.

About call number 6 I get a poor guy in ANOTHER STATE that not only has NO IDEA where they are but has no idea if there is even a class that night. And has no contact information for anyone that MIGHT have it.

Awesome, right?

About that time the battery on my phone dies.

And that's when I get all shouty.

I call them back on M's phone and find out that not only is class canceled, but that THEIR OWN OFFICE (granted in a different state) has NO IDEA where, exactly they are.

I express that this? This is wholly unacceptable. I firmly insist that I get a call back, from a manager the following business day.

It's been a week. Guess how many call backs I've gotten even though I've called every single day? If you guessed NONE you're completely right.

Now this isn't an inexpensive class. This is college tuition expensive. This is used car expensive.

This? Is complete an utter bullshit. At this point, as far as I'm concerned John Robert Powers acting school in Scottsdale Arizona is a sham. Their utter lack of customer service and professionalism is so complete that I caution ANYONE who has any dealing with them whatsoever to seriously consider finding someone else to give their money to.

Not dead, just hiding

Though I rapidly am at risk of becoming one of those one note blogs...like a MommyBlog, only with whining...I fear that since that is the mood I am in that's all y'all are going to be getting for awhile. Probably until my increased dose of Crazy meds kicks in. Which should be any day now, but in the mean time, I've got to tell y'all about the fucked up shit going on at my house.

My husband and I don't "do" things together. This is because A) I am not terribly fond of him B) he's an assface and C) we don't like to do the same things. One might argue that A & B are the same but then one would risk me crying and shouting things like I hate you for breathing and then I'd sulk and you wouldn't get to read my confessions tomorrow, so perhaps one should just keep ones mouth shut and let me finish my damn story.

ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yes. Doing things.

J likes manly-man things, like hunting and shooting things and things that go fast and are loud and people who talk loud and drink too much and tell jokes about why women have small feet* and I? I do not. I like to travel, I like to socialize in an environment where I can hear what people are saying and more than anything I DO NOT LIKE DEAD THINGS. Meat comes from Safeway nicely wrapped in cling film and presented on a Styrofoam tray, The End. Which means that when it comes time to do things, more often than not they're separate. I take M to the state fair, he goes hunting. I go on a cruise with BabyMama, he goes hunting. I go to book club, he goes to a long distance rifle match. You get the idea.

But on Sunday? He decided we were going to have some quality time.

What. The. Fuck.

Sundays are MY day. I don't drive anyone anywhere. I clean the house and then I watch everything on the DVR and then we eat take out for dinner. Chances are I do it all wearing yoga pants. I KNOW, RIGHT? But NO. Not this Sunday. This Sunday he plops himself down on the sofa (after moving the laundry I was folding to the coffee table) takes the remote from my lap and changes the channel and announces I may bring him a snack because we're going to have quality time. Then, he insults what I've got set to DVR for the week, informs me that I fold the socks incorrectly and that his drink needs more ice. Because we're having quality time. And when I ask WHY THE FUCK WE'RE HAVING FUCKING QUALITY TIME he tells me it's because he thinks I want it.

WHERE THE SHIT DID HE GET THAT IDEA?

Not from me.

AND THEN?

He stayed home again on Monday afternoon. For more quality time that involved more being an ass to me. Because I "needed attention". Apparently the sort of attention I need involves telling me the delicious quiche I made "sucks" and that I should dust more.

Do you see why we don't do things together?

Thank GOD all my whining and moaning the of phrase ain't you got somewheres you gots to be?! finally conveyed that for fucks sake if he spends one more fucking minute with in my sight I will take that remote and shove it so far up his ass that every time he blinks the channel changes and also that HE NEEDS TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE. For example, not here. Or perhaps NOT ANYWHERE NEAR HERE. A good idea would be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Far away.

This, people. THIS is why Baby Jesus invented Xanax. So that y'all didn't have to mail me bail money.


*So they can stand closer to the sink.

Straight to Hell

M: MOM.* Why do that Mormons have a statue of Mowgli on top the thingie on their temples?

Me: Because they're telling Jesus "You!I wanna be like you-oo-oo I wanna talk like you Walk like you, too! You'll see it's true! Someone like me can learn to be Like someone like me Can learn to be Like someone like you Can learn to be Like someone like me!"

(*aside - M starts EVERY sentence she says to me with MOM. Not a question, not an alert that she means to speak to me, just a single word demand. MOM.)

Miss Behaving

I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.

Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.

The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.

Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.

It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.

Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.

Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?

Go check it out.

(thanks to CK for the link)