Won't he make someone a lovely bride someday?
Notice how he stole the veil right off the bride's head? Yeah, he's klassy like that.
Get Boned.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Hey Ya'll
We made it back. Whew! There was a while there in northern Missouri yesterday when I wasn't sure if we were actually moving on the road, or if the road was moving under us, like a giant treadmill. Gray, he had a stomach bug. Made the drive o-so-fun, let me tell you. Poor guy.
Anyhow, this is the FINAL DAY OF NABLOPOMOTHERFUCKERS! Can you believe it? I know you're all so excited by the prospect that I might actually shut up for a day or two. In fact, I just might do that. I have stories from our trip, mostly very good stories from a mostly killer good trip. But today is not a good day to write those stories. I am too tired. My brain is apt to murder me if I push it too hard today. Gray's mom texted me to ask if I would go to a cousin's baby shower with her in a couple weeks, and my tired brain decided that TEARS was the answer, CRY CRY CRY you big, tired baby. So yeah, I'm not going to tell the stories about haunted beer or how the fag's made us miss our exit, causing us to get lost at 4:30 am.
What I will do is give you all big HUGS and say hello and man, it's good to be back and I can't wait to catch up on your posts (promise, I totally will get caught up) and read your comments. I had over 90 emails when I got home, and while I'll admit that most of them were "Your Balance Reminder" messages from the good people at AMEX (apparently they like when I made payments occasionally), a good lot of them were comments from you lovely cyber people. So I promise to get caught up as soon as I take another nap, do a little laundry, and watch a little tube.
Oh, yes and COFFEE. Right now, there is not enough COFFEE on earth. Why the hell don't they make coffee come out of the kitchen tap? THAT WOULD BE AWESOME. Except when you tried to make Jello. But whatever, then you use bottled water. It wouldn't be that bad! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Anyhow, this is the FINAL DAY OF NABLOPOMOTHERFUCKERS! Can you believe it? I know you're all so excited by the prospect that I might actually shut up for a day or two. In fact, I just might do that. I have stories from our trip, mostly very good stories from a mostly killer good trip. But today is not a good day to write those stories. I am too tired. My brain is apt to murder me if I push it too hard today. Gray's mom texted me to ask if I would go to a cousin's baby shower with her in a couple weeks, and my tired brain decided that TEARS was the answer, CRY CRY CRY you big, tired baby. So yeah, I'm not going to tell the stories about haunted beer or how the fag's made us miss our exit, causing us to get lost at 4:30 am.
What I will do is give you all big HUGS and say hello and man, it's good to be back and I can't wait to catch up on your posts (promise, I totally will get caught up) and read your comments. I had over 90 emails when I got home, and while I'll admit that most of them were "Your Balance Reminder" messages from the good people at AMEX (apparently they like when I made payments occasionally), a good lot of them were comments from you lovely cyber people. So I promise to get caught up as soon as I take another nap, do a little laundry, and watch a little tube.
Oh, yes and COFFEE. Right now, there is not enough COFFEE on earth. Why the hell don't they make coffee come out of the kitchen tap? THAT WOULD BE AWESOME. Except when you tried to make Jello. But whatever, then you use bottled water. It wouldn't be that bad! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, and Oh Cool
Okay, so don't go look at this photo if you're eating, just ate, or plan to eat again in your lifetime. Everybody else, go ahead and click on the link. But be forewarned: It is of a boobie, so there's nipple and booby and grossness. It's EEEEEEWWWWWYYYY!
I am a total freak, because I think it's awesome. It's awesome in the same kind of way that zits are fun to pop and sunburn is fun to peel and blisters are fun to drain. But it's definitely disturbing to look at. I get shivers all over when I see that picture. Snopes says it's fake, photo shopped, make up, completely untrue.
I saw this on Post Secret on Tuesday, and was kind of amused at the reactions many people had. (If you've never checked out Post Secret, you totally should!) I guess lots of people wrote in to say they couldn't read the blog any longer, and they can't eat sunflower seeds any more, and one woman puked from looking at the picture. Lady, if you puked from looking at that picture, then I would not recommend ever visiting a loved one in the hospital if they have a tracheotomy tube and pneumonia. Just don't do it. There's nothing like an infected wad of phlegm shooting out of a man's neck and hitting the television mounted in the corner of the hospital room. This picture? It's got nothing on brain injuries.
What do you think? I'm fascinated by it and keep going back to look at it again. Don't you want to just squeeze them out and then stick a Q-tip in there to see how deep the holes are? I DO I DO I DO! I'd like to troubleshoot options for plugging the holes back up. Possibly silly putty? Tile grout? Or, she could use them as storage, like for very small diamonds, and smuggle them across borders!
Man, am I ever messed up! I have GOT to get me some of that photo shop software. Imagine what I could do with a picture of my butt and some caterpillars!
I am a total freak, because I think it's awesome. It's awesome in the same kind of way that zits are fun to pop and sunburn is fun to peel and blisters are fun to drain. But it's definitely disturbing to look at. I get shivers all over when I see that picture. Snopes says it's fake, photo shopped, make up, completely untrue.
I saw this on Post Secret on Tuesday, and was kind of amused at the reactions many people had. (If you've never checked out Post Secret, you totally should!) I guess lots of people wrote in to say they couldn't read the blog any longer, and they can't eat sunflower seeds any more, and one woman puked from looking at the picture. Lady, if you puked from looking at that picture, then I would not recommend ever visiting a loved one in the hospital if they have a tracheotomy tube and pneumonia. Just don't do it. There's nothing like an infected wad of phlegm shooting out of a man's neck and hitting the television mounted in the corner of the hospital room. This picture? It's got nothing on brain injuries.
What do you think? I'm fascinated by it and keep going back to look at it again. Don't you want to just squeeze them out and then stick a Q-tip in there to see how deep the holes are? I DO I DO I DO! I'd like to troubleshoot options for plugging the holes back up. Possibly silly putty? Tile grout? Or, she could use them as storage, like for very small diamonds, and smuggle them across borders!
Man, am I ever messed up! I have GOT to get me some of that photo shop software. Imagine what I could do with a picture of my butt and some caterpillars!
Friday, November 28, 2008
Friday, With Stories
Morning everybody. Well, morning to those of you who broke free of the turkey coma long enough to check up on blogs. Probably not many of you. I am HOPELESSLY behind on my blog reading, and I feel really badly about that. Not enough to actually sit down and read them all, but badly just the same. I made the mistake of adding too many blogs to my daily reading list, and now you guys just keep posting and posting and posting and I feel like I'm running (a very funny) marathon just keeping current. I promise to catch up someday, probably in December when I'm too excited about Santa's arrival to get any actual work done. Or Monday, when I'm likely too tired to get any work done.
Today, my mother has planned a Half Birthday party for our little niece, who's about 18 months. We're going to Chuck E Cheese. I know, you're super jealous. That place gives me a giant case of the creeps. I don't know if it's because of the hoards of snotty noses, the germ pit AKA the ball pit, or the really bad pizza. If I had to guess, I'd say the main reason are those mechanical robot characters that play the little concerts, and then slide back behind the curtain and fall still. I made the mistake of peeking behind that curtain once, and I've never gotten over it. The robots, they just stand there, heads resting on their chests, wires poking out their asses, like some kind of spooky zombie army, waiting the allotted time before reappearing and trying to smile with their robot mouths, playing (badly) some creepy children's music. I know more kids who are petrified of that robot show than kids who enjoy it.
Do they come alive after dark, when the place closes and all the little kids are presumably gone? Do they stomp around searching for stray human spawn to snack on? I bet they'd find one or more stuck down beneath the plastic balls in the pit. I can see them pulling an unsuspecting toddler out by his ankle, eyeing him over for ripeness, and chomping him to death with their big robotic mouths. Then maybe they head next door to the mall and try on prom dresses at Macy's and watch R-rated movies in the deserted theatre, hoping for full-frontal nudity, or at least a boob shot.
I might have to investigate this theory while I'm there. My choices are to stay the night at Chuck E Cheese and prove or disprove the theory that those robots are alive and hungry for human flesh....or to stay the night at my mother's house. I think I'll take my chances with the robots. But don't worry, I'll keep my little brother with me to use as bait. You know, just in case they move faster than I imagine.
Today, my mother has planned a Half Birthday party for our little niece, who's about 18 months. We're going to Chuck E Cheese. I know, you're super jealous. That place gives me a giant case of the creeps. I don't know if it's because of the hoards of snotty noses, the germ pit AKA the ball pit, or the really bad pizza. If I had to guess, I'd say the main reason are those mechanical robot characters that play the little concerts, and then slide back behind the curtain and fall still. I made the mistake of peeking behind that curtain once, and I've never gotten over it. The robots, they just stand there, heads resting on their chests, wires poking out their asses, like some kind of spooky zombie army, waiting the allotted time before reappearing and trying to smile with their robot mouths, playing (badly) some creepy children's music. I know more kids who are petrified of that robot show than kids who enjoy it.
Do they come alive after dark, when the place closes and all the little kids are presumably gone? Do they stomp around searching for stray human spawn to snack on? I bet they'd find one or more stuck down beneath the plastic balls in the pit. I can see them pulling an unsuspecting toddler out by his ankle, eyeing him over for ripeness, and chomping him to death with their big robotic mouths. Then maybe they head next door to the mall and try on prom dresses at Macy's and watch R-rated movies in the deserted theatre, hoping for full-frontal nudity, or at least a boob shot.
I might have to investigate this theory while I'm there. My choices are to stay the night at Chuck E Cheese and prove or disprove the theory that those robots are alive and hungry for human flesh....or to stay the night at my mother's house. I think I'll take my chances with the robots. But don't worry, I'll keep my little brother with me to use as bait. You know, just in case they move faster than I imagine.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Thursday, Plus Gobbling
Thanksgiving! It is upon us! Go hug your partner, ya'll! Tell 'em thatcha love 'em! Maybe git yerself a chunk of that there stuffin' bread 'afore ya shove it up the bird? Can you hear my accent slowly creeping in now that I'm among my own people? I tried so very hard for so many years to avoid acquiring the traditional southern accent, or Arkansas' particular brand of southern anyhow. When I'm in Minnesota, sometimes people ask me where I'm from and I can say California, and they go, "Oooooh that's where your unusual accent comes from den der, doncha know?" I can pretend like I never said "ain't" and I never drank strawberry wine while wailing the song Strawberry Wine, and I never fished for crawdaddies in the crick. I can hide the real me behind my clodden feet and my hybrid northern accent.
In Arkansas...down here, I'm right back where I started, aren't I? I mean technically, I was born in California, and spent the formative years of my language development there in the land of eerily neutral accents. But if I'm being real with myself, I know the hillbilly blood courses through my veins. No sense in fighting it, might as well embrace it and then embrace my cousin and then possibly my brother.
Today, I am thankful for a lot of things, not the least of which is that I no longer live here. I love my family and my friends and I have a lot of fond memories (well, memories anyway) of my years here, but mostly I am thankful that in my stories of Arkansas, all the verbs are past tense. That is, if I'm speaking rightly like.
I am thankful for Gray, around whom the sun revolves and the stars appear as he shrugs and says he's merely in their flight path on his way to Guitar Center. Gray, who has taught me so much about justice and equality, offsetting the month of horror movies in October by insisting November be filled with chick flicks and bad reality television. He has held my hand through some of the worst moments of my life, even some before we were a couple, and didn't notice when I saw up his boxers as he lay moaning on a gurney, stricken with appendicitis years ago. He's self-less in a selfish kind of way, doing nice things for other people because it's what he wants to do. Ever calm, ever patient, ever empathetic, ever strong. I really don't think I have the ability to express how thankful I am to have him in my life. (Also, in my bed, but that's a whole other kind of post.) Oodles and oodles of noodles, my Lobsta.
I am thankful for my 3 mothers: my birth mother, from whom I've learned so much, both good and bad, and because she now accepts me as I am and doesn't try to change me. My aunt, who was there for me when nobody else truly was, and taught me many countless things about life and love, rum and cokes, and growing a spine. My step-mother, though I've never known her well, has always supported me, loved my father, and given me advice and encouragement when I've needed it most.
My Jill, who I won in the divorce, and who has helped me countless times and in countless ways. Irreplaceable, dependable, strong, funny. Tells me the truth when I need to hear it, tells me what I want to hear when I need it, always knows when to do both. I heart you.
I am thankful for my other friends and family members, a few near, but most of them far. Each has left their own mark on my life and in my heart, each for different reasons, but all because that's what family does. My baby brother, no longer a baby. My little niece, the joy she's brought us all. My sister, who heckled me into finally plucking my eyebrows. My cousins, uncles, grandparents, et al.
Most importantly, above and beyond everything else, on the highest tippy top of things I am thankful for, perches the mighty red wine. You have given me so much and taken so very little.
Be thankful everybody. Or, at the very least, eat a drumstick.
In Arkansas...down here, I'm right back where I started, aren't I? I mean technically, I was born in California, and spent the formative years of my language development there in the land of eerily neutral accents. But if I'm being real with myself, I know the hillbilly blood courses through my veins. No sense in fighting it, might as well embrace it and then embrace my cousin and then possibly my brother.
Today, I am thankful for a lot of things, not the least of which is that I no longer live here. I love my family and my friends and I have a lot of fond memories (well, memories anyway) of my years here, but mostly I am thankful that in my stories of Arkansas, all the verbs are past tense. That is, if I'm speaking rightly like.
I am thankful for Gray, around whom the sun revolves and the stars appear as he shrugs and says he's merely in their flight path on his way to Guitar Center. Gray, who has taught me so much about justice and equality, offsetting the month of horror movies in October by insisting November be filled with chick flicks and bad reality television. He has held my hand through some of the worst moments of my life, even some before we were a couple, and didn't notice when I saw up his boxers as he lay moaning on a gurney, stricken with appendicitis years ago. He's self-less in a selfish kind of way, doing nice things for other people because it's what he wants to do. Ever calm, ever patient, ever empathetic, ever strong. I really don't think I have the ability to express how thankful I am to have him in my life. (Also, in my bed, but that's a whole other kind of post.) Oodles and oodles of noodles, my Lobsta.
I am thankful for my 3 mothers: my birth mother, from whom I've learned so much, both good and bad, and because she now accepts me as I am and doesn't try to change me. My aunt, who was there for me when nobody else truly was, and taught me many countless things about life and love, rum and cokes, and growing a spine. My step-mother, though I've never known her well, has always supported me, loved my father, and given me advice and encouragement when I've needed it most.
My Jill, who I won in the divorce, and who has helped me countless times and in countless ways. Irreplaceable, dependable, strong, funny. Tells me the truth when I need to hear it, tells me what I want to hear when I need it, always knows when to do both. I heart you.
I am thankful for my other friends and family members, a few near, but most of them far. Each has left their own mark on my life and in my heart, each for different reasons, but all because that's what family does. My baby brother, no longer a baby. My little niece, the joy she's brought us all. My sister, who heckled me into finally plucking my eyebrows. My cousins, uncles, grandparents, et al.
Most importantly, above and beyond everything else, on the highest tippy top of things I am thankful for, perches the mighty red wine. You have given me so much and taken so very little.
Be thankful everybody. Or, at the very least, eat a drumstick.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Wednesday, Plus Frog Popping
Happy Wednesday, everybody. Or Hump Day, if you prefer (I prefer). Right about now we should be rolling into my mother's driveway, half dead with exhaustion and painfully sick of every CD in the car. I'm not entirely sure what we'll be walking into upon our arrival in the Mother Land, (feverish, early-morning prayer or everybody sound asleep, it could go either way), but one thing is for sure: We will be in Arkansas.
Ahhh, good 'old Arkansas, home of the fleas, the ticks and the chiggers. Fortunately, this time of year we shouldn't encounter many of those pests. Smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, or what I like to call Hypocrisity City. The state itself is rather beautiful, at least the portions in the Ozarks where I grew up. Lots of rivers for drunken canoeing, tree-covered bluffs for drunken lake jumping, and scenic vistas galore (mostly used for drunken golfing). Truly, it's beautiful. If you can overlook the dude living in the converted chicken shack over yonder. Seriously, I've seen it.
Located in the northwest corner of the state, and (in)famous for the Wal-Mart home office and the first Super Center in the country, this area boasts a much higher dollar to person ratio than much of the rest of the state. Dude in the chicken shack? He sends his kid to the same high school that the Wal-Mart executives' kids attend. Only difference between those kids? One walks ten miles uphill in each direction, shoeless of course, and the other drives a brand new Hummer and stops at Starbucks with daddy's credit card. It's a strange juxtaposition, the meeting of the very poor and the very wealthy. Of course, there are plenty of people in the middle of those two extremes, in the gap between $100 and $100,000,000. I fell somewhere in that gap.
I have photos of us as kids at the Sugar Creek Days parade on the Bentonville Square, playing with two of Sam Walton's grand kids (I want to say the boy was Tom and the girl was Sam, but who the hell knows if I'm remembering that right). I have no idea how my mother knew that family, or WHY IN GOD'S NAME she didn't sleep with one of Sam's sons, for christ sake. Seriously? How awesome would it be if I was writing this from space? Because with that kind of money, I'd totally buy myself a space ship. I'd be an astronaut right this minute, except not the kind that has to do math and science and stuff. I'd be more like the astronaut monkey that goes for the ride and looks cute and all, but doesn't have to contribute to the mission. That's what money will buy you! Guaranteed laziness at zero gravity baby!
I remember one of those Sugar Creek Day parades ending in tragedy at the frog races. Yes, they had big fat frogs and you could lay some money down on them. Mostly they just hopped around aimlessly, but the length of their legs kind of guaranteed a forward propulsion, and they were separated by lanes to keep them going in the right direction. It was like the most bass-ackwards version of horse racing I've ever seen. These frogs were huge, but that didn't stop people from accidentally stepping on them every so often. The guy running the frog races didn't seem to care if one of the frogs was injured. So long as the dollars were coming in, those frogs would keep on racing.
I confronted the frog racing man when I saw that one of the frogs was trailing some kind of innards along as he hopped. Yeah, he was pretty much split open right down the side and all his guts were starting to leak out. After a few moments of haggling, I don't remember exactly how it went ("Excuse me mister, but your frogs are leaking." "No, no...that's just their shoelaces, little lady. Wanna race one?"), I was able to take the big, leaky frog along with me. Now my mom and I had to figure out what to do with it. There was no rushing this frog to the vet for an emergency frog-ectomy, that much we knew. It was going to die. The only question was, how long would it have to suffer? We decided to put it out of it's misery. That's right, I committed frog-ocide at the tender age of 8 or so.
How would we kill it? Well, that got us thinking about how frogs normally die. Any guesses? Anyone? Bueller? Yeah, that's exactly right: we decided to run it over with the car. Fast, painless (??), natural as this racing frog was going to get at this point. Except he kept hopping away before my mom had time to run him over.
SO.SHE.HAD.ME.HOLD.HIM.BY.THE.FROG.LEG.WHILE.SHE.DROVE.OVER.HIM.
And then I think we went to Dairy Queen, so you know, it was a pretty standard day in Arkansas.
Cheers!
Ahhh, good 'old Arkansas, home of the fleas, the ticks and the chiggers. Fortunately, this time of year we shouldn't encounter many of those pests. Smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, or what I like to call Hypocrisity City. The state itself is rather beautiful, at least the portions in the Ozarks where I grew up. Lots of rivers for drunken canoeing, tree-covered bluffs for drunken lake jumping, and scenic vistas galore (mostly used for drunken golfing). Truly, it's beautiful. If you can overlook the dude living in the converted chicken shack over yonder. Seriously, I've seen it.
Located in the northwest corner of the state, and (in)famous for the Wal-Mart home office and the first Super Center in the country, this area boasts a much higher dollar to person ratio than much of the rest of the state. Dude in the chicken shack? He sends his kid to the same high school that the Wal-Mart executives' kids attend. Only difference between those kids? One walks ten miles uphill in each direction, shoeless of course, and the other drives a brand new Hummer and stops at Starbucks with daddy's credit card. It's a strange juxtaposition, the meeting of the very poor and the very wealthy. Of course, there are plenty of people in the middle of those two extremes, in the gap between $100 and $100,000,000. I fell somewhere in that gap.
I have photos of us as kids at the Sugar Creek Days parade on the Bentonville Square, playing with two of Sam Walton's grand kids (I want to say the boy was Tom and the girl was Sam, but who the hell knows if I'm remembering that right). I have no idea how my mother knew that family, or WHY IN GOD'S NAME she didn't sleep with one of Sam's sons, for christ sake. Seriously? How awesome would it be if I was writing this from space? Because with that kind of money, I'd totally buy myself a space ship. I'd be an astronaut right this minute, except not the kind that has to do math and science and stuff. I'd be more like the astronaut monkey that goes for the ride and looks cute and all, but doesn't have to contribute to the mission. That's what money will buy you! Guaranteed laziness at zero gravity baby!
I remember one of those Sugar Creek Day parades ending in tragedy at the frog races. Yes, they had big fat frogs and you could lay some money down on them. Mostly they just hopped around aimlessly, but the length of their legs kind of guaranteed a forward propulsion, and they were separated by lanes to keep them going in the right direction. It was like the most bass-ackwards version of horse racing I've ever seen. These frogs were huge, but that didn't stop people from accidentally stepping on them every so often. The guy running the frog races didn't seem to care if one of the frogs was injured. So long as the dollars were coming in, those frogs would keep on racing.
I confronted the frog racing man when I saw that one of the frogs was trailing some kind of innards along as he hopped. Yeah, he was pretty much split open right down the side and all his guts were starting to leak out. After a few moments of haggling, I don't remember exactly how it went ("Excuse me mister, but your frogs are leaking." "No, no...that's just their shoelaces, little lady. Wanna race one?"), I was able to take the big, leaky frog along with me. Now my mom and I had to figure out what to do with it. There was no rushing this frog to the vet for an emergency frog-ectomy, that much we knew. It was going to die. The only question was, how long would it have to suffer? We decided to put it out of it's misery. That's right, I committed frog-ocide at the tender age of 8 or so.
How would we kill it? Well, that got us thinking about how frogs normally die. Any guesses? Anyone? Bueller? Yeah, that's exactly right: we decided to run it over with the car. Fast, painless (??), natural as this racing frog was going to get at this point. Except he kept hopping away before my mom had time to run him over.
SO.SHE.HAD.ME.HOLD.HIM.BY.THE.FROG.LEG.WHILE.SHE.DROVE.OVER.HIM.
And then I think we went to Dairy Queen, so you know, it was a pretty standard day in Arkansas.
Cheers!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Ready or Not
Oh my god I am SO TIRED today, which sucks since we went to bed early in anticipation of driving all night long tonight. Wake up!! I need some coffee...
...please hold...
...ugh, work coffee sucks. But it warmed me up a bit, so there's that. Gray did get his hair cut last night, and it looks HOTT. I love the feeling of just-cut man hair, it's all fuzzy like a peach. He texted from the hair place to say that there was a guy stylist working and he was worried he'd end up having the guy cut his hair.
His exact words were, "There's a dude cutting hair here, too. Gawd I hope I don't get him! Blech!"
I wrote back to ask, "Why does that matter?" Oh no, he's a total homophobe. I never knew. What a jerk!
Next, "I got the guy! Fuck!" Clearly he was unhappy about the man stylist. I was curious to know more. I mean, Gray has gay friends, I have gay friends, it's never occurred to me before that he might have some kind of deeply rooted issue with rumpwranglers!
When he got home, I questioned him about it. Turns out he was worried about the head touching. He said that when a lady stylist does the job, they run their fingers through his hair over and over as the scissors or razor is lopping stuff off. He says it's relaxing (I'm guessing it's also a little stimulating, as in "totally acceptable infidelity" kind of stimulating).
I guess the thought of a man getting so up-close and intimate with his scalp made him concerned. He thinks he made the dude uncomfortable, possibly because of the shock/slash/revulsion on his face when he realized the dude was, in fact, cutting his hair. He said the stylist kept the chair turned at and angle to the mirror, so that he couldn't see what was going on, but had a direct line of sight to the TV. To me, that's excellent customer service - especially when working on a man, who would probably always prefer to be parked in front of the TV at any given moment.
The man stylist did not run his fingers through Gray's hair, but he did do a great job on the cut. Everybody wins! Unfortunately, it was not the normal, relaxing experience he was looking forward to. But if he truly liked it that much, he'd go more often. I'm just saying...
So I don't have any pictures of his new hair, but I do have some old ones, and they make a great (sexy) filler material. Behold:
Hope everyone has a great holiday! I know we will (read: hoping like hell we do).
...please hold...
...ugh, work coffee sucks. But it warmed me up a bit, so there's that. Gray did get his hair cut last night, and it looks HOTT. I love the feeling of just-cut man hair, it's all fuzzy like a peach. He texted from the hair place to say that there was a guy stylist working and he was worried he'd end up having the guy cut his hair.
His exact words were, "There's a dude cutting hair here, too. Gawd I hope I don't get him! Blech!"
I wrote back to ask, "Why does that matter?" Oh no, he's a total homophobe. I never knew. What a jerk!
Next, "I got the guy! Fuck!" Clearly he was unhappy about the man stylist. I was curious to know more. I mean, Gray has gay friends, I have gay friends, it's never occurred to me before that he might have some kind of deeply rooted issue with rumpwranglers!
When he got home, I questioned him about it. Turns out he was worried about the head touching. He said that when a lady stylist does the job, they run their fingers through his hair over and over as the scissors or razor is lopping stuff off. He says it's relaxing (I'm guessing it's also a little stimulating, as in "totally acceptable infidelity" kind of stimulating).
I guess the thought of a man getting so up-close and intimate with his scalp made him concerned. He thinks he made the dude uncomfortable, possibly because of the shock/slash/revulsion on his face when he realized the dude was, in fact, cutting his hair. He said the stylist kept the chair turned at and angle to the mirror, so that he couldn't see what was going on, but had a direct line of sight to the TV. To me, that's excellent customer service - especially when working on a man, who would probably always prefer to be parked in front of the TV at any given moment.
The man stylist did not run his fingers through Gray's hair, but he did do a great job on the cut. Everybody wins! Unfortunately, it was not the normal, relaxing experience he was looking forward to. But if he truly liked it that much, he'd go more often. I'm just saying...
So I don't have any pictures of his new hair, but I do have some old ones, and they make a great (sexy) filler material. Behold:
Just look at the magic hands. You know you're jealous.
Hope everyone has a great holiday! I know we will (read: hoping like hell we do).
Monday, November 24, 2008
Well, Here We Are Again
It's Monday. Under normal circumstances, that would be unfortunate, but this is a SPECIAL kind of Monday. This is a Monday before the Tuesday before I get three days off from work for the holiday. If you add those three days up with the standard weekend, that's five whole days off from work. With no working. And no going to work. I am...so thankful for that. Of course, this means that the following Monday will be a very bad kind of Monday. It will be the kind of Monday that commences the twenty-five day long week that is the Universe's way of punishing us for enjoying a long weekend. The work week following a short week is the longest week of all time, generally. But you know what? Fuck it. That's a whole Monday away from now! I'll worry about that when I get to it.
Well, we had folks over for the WWE pay per view last night, and by "folks" I mean big, nerdy guys (and one hot chick), and by "guys" I mean total nerds. Nerdy nerds. Have you ever observed a group of men playing a video game? It's really...quite entertaining, if you're not too disturbed to appreciate it's inherent entertainment value. Their faces are so intense, as if they are in the middle of performing a delicate surgical procedure instead of playing a pretend tag team match in my living room. Some of them squinch up their eyes, some of them poke the tip of their tongue out and bite it, some of them squirm around in their seat as if the movement of their body will actually have an impact on the animated wrestlers on the screen. They smack talk, as if any one of them is any less nerdy than any of the rest of them. Boys are weird.
I'm going to have to hurry up and write 4 posts and get them ready to post in my absence, because of the NowgoaheadandblowmePo situation. Then tonight, I am marching Gray down to the nearest Great Clips and holding him down while they shave his hairy neck. Trimming up the hair isn't a bad idea either. He's been putting off the haircut for a long time now, giving one excuse or another, until about 3 weeks ago when I thought I had convinced him to go ahead and DO something about it already. Unfortunately, that's when he pulled the "I want to get it cut right before we go to Arkansas" load of crap, and the "I might as well wait until right before that" bullshit. Today? It's the day. Death to the crazy hairy neck. It must be stopped. Because I just love a guy with a head that is distinguishable from his back. Kooky, I know.
So I offer you some photographic evidence to prove that Gray, in fact, should always get timely haircuts.
Well, we had folks over for the WWE pay per view last night, and by "folks" I mean big, nerdy guys (and one hot chick), and by "guys" I mean total nerds. Nerdy nerds. Have you ever observed a group of men playing a video game? It's really...quite entertaining, if you're not too disturbed to appreciate it's inherent entertainment value. Their faces are so intense, as if they are in the middle of performing a delicate surgical procedure instead of playing a pretend tag team match in my living room. Some of them squinch up their eyes, some of them poke the tip of their tongue out and bite it, some of them squirm around in their seat as if the movement of their body will actually have an impact on the animated wrestlers on the screen. They smack talk, as if any one of them is any less nerdy than any of the rest of them. Boys are weird.
I'm going to have to hurry up and write 4 posts and get them ready to post in my absence, because of the NowgoaheadandblowmePo situation. Then tonight, I am marching Gray down to the nearest Great Clips and holding him down while they shave his hairy neck. Trimming up the hair isn't a bad idea either. He's been putting off the haircut for a long time now, giving one excuse or another, until about 3 weeks ago when I thought I had convinced him to go ahead and DO something about it already. Unfortunately, that's when he pulled the "I want to get it cut right before we go to Arkansas" load of crap, and the "I might as well wait until right before that" bullshit. Today? It's the day. Death to the crazy hairy neck. It must be stopped. Because I just love a guy with a head that is distinguishable from his back. Kooky, I know.
So I offer you some photographic evidence to prove that Gray, in fact, should always get timely haircuts.
Here he is a couple years ago, all hairy and stuff.
I think he was going for the Badass Metal Guy look.
Here he is right after a hair cut. Infinitely more sponge worthy.
Here's what the situation is looking like now - note the hairy neck.
I am a big fan of the beard. The beard can (should) stay. (JMU if you shave that beard off I will buy fake fur and super glue it onto your face.) I'm also totally ok with him growing out the long hair again, if he wants to. Then I can put it into braids and tie it with pretty ribbons. And maybe make him go in public that way. So it's totally his choice, I'd never pressure him either way, especially since I have lots of ribbons!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
In Which Gray Charms the Pants off my Mother
Well, here we are at the conclusion of another weekend. This time, we were much too busy for me to lay around feeling sorry for myself. Over scheduling: definitely the key to a tear-free weekend. When I got home from work Friday, Wall*E and the final season of That 70's Show were both sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for me. Too bad nobody was home to hear me squeal with delight. Gray has Fridays off, and on many pay days, he buys me movies or books that I've been wanting but will never buy for myself. I keep telling him it's superfluous, him buying me gifts, since I'm already sleeping with him, but he always mumbles something about how he likes to make me happy, whatever that means.
Yesterday, we set off to go Christmas shopping for our 18 month-old niece, my 10-year-old brother, my 22-year-old sister, and my UNDISCLOSED mother. We're doing Christmas a little early, like next week, since we'll be in Arkansas and it's cheaper to bring the gifts than to send them later. Unfortunately, I had no clue what to get for any of them. The baby is pretty easy, I guess. I mean, I could just hand her a pair of my shoes and she'd be busy for at least 15 minutes, trying to put them on and stand up in them. (I have a picture of my baby brother at about the same age, walking around in leopard print slides. Blackmail!)
My brother? Let's see...I really should have been trying to focus on the last few conversations we had on the phone. He was all, "Bionical blabity blah, Transformers, wah wah wah" and I couldn't make out a thing he said because he talks to damn fast, and he assumes you have a fucking clue what he's talking about. How can ANYONE not know about the new Marvel comic book with ALL the major comics included? I mean, HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW? 10-year-old boys...man, are they ever weird. Fortunately, Gray is into a lot of the same stuff as my brother, albeit the "old school" versions, and by "fortunately", I mean that Gray's a giant nerd. However, it came in handy yesterday when we walked into the toy store.
First of all, holy shit! How on earth do you people with kids walk into a Toys R Us and make it out alive!?! I almost had an epileptic seizure from all the goddamn primary colors everywhere! It was overwhelming. The aisles, they were full of crap. Seriously, I cannot imagine going into that store with kids. They'd be running around and touching/breaking stuff. And how would they ever decide what they want? Gray and I almost walked out of there with a 200 piece Lincoln Logs set, an electronic 20 Questions game, a pink princess digital camera, and a giant robotic dinosaur. That's all stuff that WE wanted for US. Once we got into the store, we were all, "Screw the children! Look at that giant sidewalk chalk!"
I tried to ditch our shopping cart because there were too many people and you couldn't get down any aisles. I figured not having a cart would solve the problem. So I left it and started to walk away, and Gray was like, "Catherine, you're just freaking out a little bit. You have to just take a deep breath and calm down." And I was trying to explain that I only ditched the cart for ease of aisle maneuvering, but then my eyes popped out my damn head and I went running to look at the princess carriage. I guess, perhaps, a deep breath was in order. Turns out we needed the shopping cart, if for nothing else than to transport the miniature pink shopping cart we were considering for the baby. In the end, we decided that since all the fun food toys that go IN the shopping cart are for 3+ kids, she'd have the most boring grocery store ever. We went with something we though she'd like better (read: we liked better and hope to play with it before we leave Arkansas).
The best part of shopping with Gray was that when we encountered a question regarding my brother's preferences and whether or not he already had a specific toy, Gray would whip out his cell phone and call up my mother. And actually talk to her, like, willingly and stuff. It was kind of spooky, like we were in the Twilight Zone, and I kept waiting for him to grow a pig snout or for the nuclear holocaust or something. In fact, I believe the final call tally was 5 yesterday, not counting the times I spoke to her myself. I was worried she might have a stroke and die from all the unprompted child-contact she made. Normally it takes three phone calls and a concerned voice mail ("Honey, is everything ok? I haven't heard from you in a while and am starting to get worried...") before I feel guilty enough to call her back. This frequent contact bodes well for Gray. He is good at the "charming of the mother" stuff. There were at least three times when I could hear his end of the conversation about how wonderful I was and how I deserved to be taken care of, barf, barf, etc. My mother, she hearts him.
So we got all the gifts for my brother and the baby niece, and we only left the store with one thing for ourselves, an electronic version of Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader (no) for our upcoming car ride south. (ok fine, I also bought giant sidewalk chalk, but I swore I'd put it in the toys for tots bin. I will, tomorrow.) Then we headed to Target to spend a fortune on the tiny, travel sized items we'd need (god, they seem to cheap until you buy a million of them!) so we won't have to drag everything in our shower, possibly from my mother's house to my sister's and back. I told you my mom was hell-bent on having us stay with her? Yeah, she found a way to circumvent our plans to stay with my sister: She convinced my sister to stay at her house as well, so we'll all be together at my mom's. She's a sneaky bastard, my mother.
We also found gifts for my mother and sister. Gray handled the sister, I'm pretty sure he knows her better than I do. I struggled with my mom's gifts. I wanted to get her the book Catch-22, not because she'd like to have it, but because she made me read it in the 9th grade when she "home schooled" me, and I wrote a really disturbing paper about it, and I thought it'd be kind of sentimental, except for the part with the prostitute and the guy getting cut up by the helicopter. I went another direction in the end, one which involves violence that is more implied than explicit, and which we here in Minnesota are always more comfortable with.
Then Gray decided we need to buy a gift for my step-father, a man with whom I do not get along and have pretty much no relationship with. I was confused, thinking that my having stayed away so long was the gift that keeps on giving. But Gray insisted it would be rude to show up with stuff for everyone else, and nothing for him. See what I mean? He has no idea what he's walking into down there. Anyhow, so he called my mother up AGAIN and asked for ideas. I guess she had to go ask my step-dad himself, and she called back later to report a very specific kind of chainsaw blade would be great, thank you very much. So...ok, I guess we're going shopping for a chainsaw blade! Which we did, although the poor guy at Lowe's had to talk to my mother over the phone before we could determine whether it was an 18 inch paddle or a 20 inch paddle (huh?).
Now all our shopping is finished, at least until after Thanksgiving, and my only chore today is to do about 7 loads of laundry, clean the entire apartment, make snacks for the hoards of WWE nerdies who are coming over for the Survivor Series pay per view tonight, and try to get in some quality time with Mr. King. Oh, and for those of your keeping track...I am happy to report a very successful canoodle on Friday night. Isn't it awesome when you don't have to cry and take aspirin after? Awesome.
Yesterday, we set off to go Christmas shopping for our 18 month-old niece, my 10-year-old brother, my 22-year-old sister, and my UNDISCLOSED mother. We're doing Christmas a little early, like next week, since we'll be in Arkansas and it's cheaper to bring the gifts than to send them later. Unfortunately, I had no clue what to get for any of them. The baby is pretty easy, I guess. I mean, I could just hand her a pair of my shoes and she'd be busy for at least 15 minutes, trying to put them on and stand up in them. (I have a picture of my baby brother at about the same age, walking around in leopard print slides. Blackmail!)
My brother? Let's see...I really should have been trying to focus on the last few conversations we had on the phone. He was all, "Bionical blabity blah, Transformers, wah wah wah" and I couldn't make out a thing he said because he talks to damn fast, and he assumes you have a fucking clue what he's talking about. How can ANYONE not know about the new Marvel comic book with ALL the major comics included? I mean, HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW? 10-year-old boys...man, are they ever weird. Fortunately, Gray is into a lot of the same stuff as my brother, albeit the "old school" versions, and by "fortunately", I mean that Gray's a giant nerd. However, it came in handy yesterday when we walked into the toy store.
First of all, holy shit! How on earth do you people with kids walk into a Toys R Us and make it out alive!?! I almost had an epileptic seizure from all the goddamn primary colors everywhere! It was overwhelming. The aisles, they were full of crap. Seriously, I cannot imagine going into that store with kids. They'd be running around and touching/breaking stuff. And how would they ever decide what they want? Gray and I almost walked out of there with a 200 piece Lincoln Logs set, an electronic 20 Questions game, a pink princess digital camera, and a giant robotic dinosaur. That's all stuff that WE wanted for US. Once we got into the store, we were all, "Screw the children! Look at that giant sidewalk chalk!"
I tried to ditch our shopping cart because there were too many people and you couldn't get down any aisles. I figured not having a cart would solve the problem. So I left it and started to walk away, and Gray was like, "Catherine, you're just freaking out a little bit. You have to just take a deep breath and calm down." And I was trying to explain that I only ditched the cart for ease of aisle maneuvering, but then my eyes popped out my damn head and I went running to look at the princess carriage. I guess, perhaps, a deep breath was in order. Turns out we needed the shopping cart, if for nothing else than to transport the miniature pink shopping cart we were considering for the baby. In the end, we decided that since all the fun food toys that go IN the shopping cart are for 3+ kids, she'd have the most boring grocery store ever. We went with something we though she'd like better (read: we liked better and hope to play with it before we leave Arkansas).
The best part of shopping with Gray was that when we encountered a question regarding my brother's preferences and whether or not he already had a specific toy, Gray would whip out his cell phone and call up my mother. And actually talk to her, like, willingly and stuff. It was kind of spooky, like we were in the Twilight Zone, and I kept waiting for him to grow a pig snout or for the nuclear holocaust or something. In fact, I believe the final call tally was 5 yesterday, not counting the times I spoke to her myself. I was worried she might have a stroke and die from all the unprompted child-contact she made. Normally it takes three phone calls and a concerned voice mail ("Honey, is everything ok? I haven't heard from you in a while and am starting to get worried...") before I feel guilty enough to call her back. This frequent contact bodes well for Gray. He is good at the "charming of the mother" stuff. There were at least three times when I could hear his end of the conversation about how wonderful I was and how I deserved to be taken care of, barf, barf, etc. My mother, she hearts him.
So we got all the gifts for my brother and the baby niece, and we only left the store with one thing for ourselves, an electronic version of Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader (no) for our upcoming car ride south. (ok fine, I also bought giant sidewalk chalk, but I swore I'd put it in the toys for tots bin. I will, tomorrow.) Then we headed to Target to spend a fortune on the tiny, travel sized items we'd need (god, they seem to cheap until you buy a million of them!) so we won't have to drag everything in our shower, possibly from my mother's house to my sister's and back. I told you my mom was hell-bent on having us stay with her? Yeah, she found a way to circumvent our plans to stay with my sister: She convinced my sister to stay at her house as well, so we'll all be together at my mom's. She's a sneaky bastard, my mother.
We also found gifts for my mother and sister. Gray handled the sister, I'm pretty sure he knows her better than I do. I struggled with my mom's gifts. I wanted to get her the book Catch-22, not because she'd like to have it, but because she made me read it in the 9th grade when she "home schooled" me, and I wrote a really disturbing paper about it, and I thought it'd be kind of sentimental, except for the part with the prostitute and the guy getting cut up by the helicopter. I went another direction in the end, one which involves violence that is more implied than explicit, and which we here in Minnesota are always more comfortable with.
Then Gray decided we need to buy a gift for my step-father, a man with whom I do not get along and have pretty much no relationship with. I was confused, thinking that my having stayed away so long was the gift that keeps on giving. But Gray insisted it would be rude to show up with stuff for everyone else, and nothing for him. See what I mean? He has no idea what he's walking into down there. Anyhow, so he called my mother up AGAIN and asked for ideas. I guess she had to go ask my step-dad himself, and she called back later to report a very specific kind of chainsaw blade would be great, thank you very much. So...ok, I guess we're going shopping for a chainsaw blade! Which we did, although the poor guy at Lowe's had to talk to my mother over the phone before we could determine whether it was an 18 inch paddle or a 20 inch paddle (huh?).
Now all our shopping is finished, at least until after Thanksgiving, and my only chore today is to do about 7 loads of laundry, clean the entire apartment, make snacks for the hoards of WWE nerdies who are coming over for the Survivor Series pay per view tonight, and try to get in some quality time with Mr. King. Oh, and for those of your keeping track...I am happy to report a very successful canoodle on Friday night. Isn't it awesome when you don't have to cry and take aspirin after? Awesome.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
A Post to Let You Know I'm Not Posting Today
Yeah, this is what happens when I don't have any extra posts waiting in the wings. It's past dark on a Saturday night, and all I wanna do is take off my pants and watch Wall*E. But no, now I must update this blog because I am a stubborn son of a bitch, and I refuse to give up on my commitment to post every day this month. I'm more committed to this event than I was to my algebra class and my first marriage COMBINED. Is that funny, or just sad?
I was reading Bag of Bones again last night (Am I the only one who didn't know Stephen King has a new book out? Why did no one tell me? And it's my very favorite kind of his books: a compilation of short stories! Swooning!) and I read a line that was reminded me of a lot of the tone of my posts lately. Something along the lines of, "In almost every case, humor is just anger with make up on." Seems about right to me, but has nothing to do with this post. Still, I can see you're grateful that I included it. It was my pleasure.
We went over to some friends' house last night for a killer steak and potato dinner, lots of wine was imbibed, and many conversations were had (guys: wrestling, beer, drinking beer while watching wrestling. gals: marriage, life, children, marriage, how the guys were still talking about wrestling, marriage). It was lots of fun. I got to play a bit with their three little dogs, one of whom used to belong to me. Simon Klatt, neigh Frey, is much fatter now than when he lived with me. To be fair, my other two dogs at the time I owned Simon were in excess of 70 lbs each. Simon, at 9.5 lbs, was big (fat) for a yorkie, but no match for the big dogs come meal time. Now in his new home, all three dogs are under 10lbs. Kind of evens the playing field.
And that all my poor, dead brain can manage today. Tomorrow, I'll tell you all about our big shopping extravaganza. Because I know that your life will not be complete until you've read about when Gray told me to "take a deep breath and relax" in the middle of Toys R Us today.
I was reading Bag of Bones again last night (Am I the only one who didn't know Stephen King has a new book out? Why did no one tell me? And it's my very favorite kind of his books: a compilation of short stories! Swooning!) and I read a line that was reminded me of a lot of the tone of my posts lately. Something along the lines of, "In almost every case, humor is just anger with make up on." Seems about right to me, but has nothing to do with this post. Still, I can see you're grateful that I included it. It was my pleasure.
We went over to some friends' house last night for a killer steak and potato dinner, lots of wine was imbibed, and many conversations were had (guys: wrestling, beer, drinking beer while watching wrestling. gals: marriage, life, children, marriage, how the guys were still talking about wrestling, marriage). It was lots of fun. I got to play a bit with their three little dogs, one of whom used to belong to me. Simon Klatt, neigh Frey, is much fatter now than when he lived with me. To be fair, my other two dogs at the time I owned Simon were in excess of 70 lbs each. Simon, at 9.5 lbs, was big (fat) for a yorkie, but no match for the big dogs come meal time. Now in his new home, all three dogs are under 10lbs. Kind of evens the playing field.
And that all my poor, dead brain can manage today. Tomorrow, I'll tell you all about our big shopping extravaganza. Because I know that your life will not be complete until you've read about when Gray told me to "take a deep breath and relax" in the middle of Toys R Us today.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Trouble With Salons
I went last night to get my hair colored as closely back to my natural hair color as possible. I've been all bleached out with extremely offensive dark roots for, like, ever. Last time I had the color filled was back in April (yes, that's 7 months, you did the match right). As you can imagine, it wasn't pretty. I decided that in light of our upcoming trip to Arkansas, I'd better do something to make myself a little more camera-ready. It is the holidays, after all. Cameras will be tossed around like (hopefully) eggnog.
I called up the semi-swanky salon I went to last time, mostly because when dealing with color, I'm much more comfortable paying a bit more money to make sure they don't totally fuck up my head and force me to shave it all off (again). I don't have a regular stylist at this place - to call myself a "regular" there would be pretty funny. I just asked the nice appointment phone lady to please find an apprentice (cheaper) in the next week, and explained what I wanted done.
"So you want to go back to your natural color?"
"Yes, I would. I need the blond filled in an color added."
"Ok, let me see who I can find for you to do that...hold on just a sec..." She transferred me to a different appointment lady, who basically asked me the same questions all over again and then decided that I was coming in for a "color correction and full foil and haircut". Which? Um, no. Just a fill and a color will be all, thanks. But I figured I'd have an easier time explaining it to the stylist upon my arrival.
I actually got in my car last night and drove to the salon (I've been wont to back out at the last minute and not show up at all), a salon which is located no closer than three suburbs away from my apartment, and still made it a few minutes early. I checked in at the desk, and the woman told me to go ahead and wait in the lobby *pointed to the lobby*. Then she said something kind of odd: "I know it's a little bit scary, but it's totally safe." She was referring to the lobby, where I was to go park my ass and wait.
I kind of did a double take upon hearing the word "scary" and I was all like, OMG someone else finally noticed that the people in these salons are all kind of bitchy and perfect looking and I always get super uptight before I come to one because I know that even if I'm wearing the boyfriend jeans, someone else will be wearing the skinny jeans with the long t-shirt, and how can I possibly compete with that? Let alone my make up, dude I should have gone and had my make up professionally done before I came here to get my hair done, I mean do you SEE what these lights do to my complexion? Oh god so gross. You're right lady, that lobby IS TOTALLY SCARY!! But, if you say it's safe, I believe you. I can do it! I am JUST as good as these other women!
As I turned the corner into the waiting room, I had a little extra bounce in my step. It might be scary at the semi-swanky salon, but by golly, it was safe. Then I got a good look at the main area of the salon. There were no walls or ceiling, electrical wires hung every which way, and workers were coming out of the plastic sheeting wearing hard hats.
Hmmm. Perhaps I misinterpreted the receptionist's comment as common-folk camaraderie, when really, there was a tiny chance she might have been referring to the massive construction project underway. It's possible.
My stylist was super cute (all of them seem to be super cute there), a curvy woman with dark hair and kind eyes. We sat down and I successfully communicated what I wanted to have done. I wanted to return to my natural color, light brown. But to do that, I'd have to go a shade darker if I wanted to ensure the bleached out ends would take the color.
Down the row of workstations from us, a mother was getting her hair done. Her husband was toting two young boys around the salon, trying to keep them entertained while his wife finished up. He came around the corner with the baby in his arms, and when that baby saw his mother he started screaming, "MAMA! WANT MAMA!" She was trying to calm him from beneath her tin-foil shroud, and I commented to my stylist about how cute he was.
She got all dreamy eyed and said, "Oh, I know, isn't he? I notice all the little kids in here now that I'm pregnant." Took me a second to realize she hadn't just smacked me in the face, that she'd only just spoken to me.
Because OF COURSE SHE WAS PREGNANT! Why wouldn't I have been randomly assigned to the one pregnant chick at the salon? Of course mine was pregnant. I tried to be politely inquisitive and asked her how far along she was.
"I'm due in April." Of course she was. By this point I was having to make a pretty concentrated effort to remain calm. Not only was she pregnant, but she was exactly the same amount of pregnant that I would have been now. I bit my tongue to keep from telling her about my miscarriage, because really? Did she need to know? Not at all. Would it have freaked her out? Probably not, but still - no reason to go around upsetting pregnant chicks. You know, if possible.
"Is it your first?" I just had to ask, although I already knew. Yes, it was her first. When she walked away to mix the color, I just shook my head in amazement. It's totally my kind of luck. Another unexpected "neener neener boo boo" from the Universe.
Anyhow, so she did a great job on my color and I tipped her a ridiculously large amount of money, thinking she probably needs it what with the baby coming and all. So now I'm (sheepishly) able to present to you my new hair. I know most of you on the Interweb have no idea what my old hair looked like (picture orangy-bleached 3/4 and dark top 1/4), but I'm not sure when I'll be seeing my Jill again, and damn it all if my Jill doesn't need to see the new (old) hair.
I called up the semi-swanky salon I went to last time, mostly because when dealing with color, I'm much more comfortable paying a bit more money to make sure they don't totally fuck up my head and force me to shave it all off (again). I don't have a regular stylist at this place - to call myself a "regular" there would be pretty funny. I just asked the nice appointment phone lady to please find an apprentice (cheaper) in the next week, and explained what I wanted done.
"So you want to go back to your natural color?"
"Yes, I would. I need the blond filled in an color added."
"Ok, let me see who I can find for you to do that...hold on just a sec..." She transferred me to a different appointment lady, who basically asked me the same questions all over again and then decided that I was coming in for a "color correction and full foil and haircut". Which? Um, no. Just a fill and a color will be all, thanks. But I figured I'd have an easier time explaining it to the stylist upon my arrival.
I actually got in my car last night and drove to the salon (I've been wont to back out at the last minute and not show up at all), a salon which is located no closer than three suburbs away from my apartment, and still made it a few minutes early. I checked in at the desk, and the woman told me to go ahead and wait in the lobby *pointed to the lobby*. Then she said something kind of odd: "I know it's a little bit scary, but it's totally safe." She was referring to the lobby, where I was to go park my ass and wait.
I kind of did a double take upon hearing the word "scary" and I was all like, OMG someone else finally noticed that the people in these salons are all kind of bitchy and perfect looking and I always get super uptight before I come to one because I know that even if I'm wearing the boyfriend jeans, someone else will be wearing the skinny jeans with the long t-shirt, and how can I possibly compete with that? Let alone my make up, dude I should have gone and had my make up professionally done before I came here to get my hair done, I mean do you SEE what these lights do to my complexion? Oh god so gross. You're right lady, that lobby IS TOTALLY SCARY!! But, if you say it's safe, I believe you. I can do it! I am JUST as good as these other women!
As I turned the corner into the waiting room, I had a little extra bounce in my step. It might be scary at the semi-swanky salon, but by golly, it was safe. Then I got a good look at the main area of the salon. There were no walls or ceiling, electrical wires hung every which way, and workers were coming out of the plastic sheeting wearing hard hats.
Hmmm. Perhaps I misinterpreted the receptionist's comment as common-folk camaraderie, when really, there was a tiny chance she might have been referring to the massive construction project underway. It's possible.
My stylist was super cute (all of them seem to be super cute there), a curvy woman with dark hair and kind eyes. We sat down and I successfully communicated what I wanted to have done. I wanted to return to my natural color, light brown. But to do that, I'd have to go a shade darker if I wanted to ensure the bleached out ends would take the color.
Down the row of workstations from us, a mother was getting her hair done. Her husband was toting two young boys around the salon, trying to keep them entertained while his wife finished up. He came around the corner with the baby in his arms, and when that baby saw his mother he started screaming, "MAMA! WANT MAMA!" She was trying to calm him from beneath her tin-foil shroud, and I commented to my stylist about how cute he was.
She got all dreamy eyed and said, "Oh, I know, isn't he? I notice all the little kids in here now that I'm pregnant." Took me a second to realize she hadn't just smacked me in the face, that she'd only just spoken to me.
Because OF COURSE SHE WAS PREGNANT! Why wouldn't I have been randomly assigned to the one pregnant chick at the salon? Of course mine was pregnant. I tried to be politely inquisitive and asked her how far along she was.
"I'm due in April." Of course she was. By this point I was having to make a pretty concentrated effort to remain calm. Not only was she pregnant, but she was exactly the same amount of pregnant that I would have been now. I bit my tongue to keep from telling her about my miscarriage, because really? Did she need to know? Not at all. Would it have freaked her out? Probably not, but still - no reason to go around upsetting pregnant chicks. You know, if possible.
"Is it your first?" I just had to ask, although I already knew. Yes, it was her first. When she walked away to mix the color, I just shook my head in amazement. It's totally my kind of luck. Another unexpected "neener neener boo boo" from the Universe.
Anyhow, so she did a great job on my color and I tipped her a ridiculously large amount of money, thinking she probably needs it what with the baby coming and all. So now I'm (sheepishly) able to present to you my new hair. I know most of you on the Interweb have no idea what my old hair looked like (picture orangy-bleached 3/4 and dark top 1/4), but I'm not sure when I'll be seeing my Jill again, and damn it all if my Jill doesn't need to see the new (old) hair.
Excuse the expression on my face (and the nose, never look directly at it) - I'm terrible at taking my own picture, but Gray is worse. He tried 4 or 5 and all of them were blurry. So I'm afraid you're stuck with this gem!
HAPPY FRIDAY everyone. If you're pregnant, could you please wait to tell me until Monday? I need a break this weekend.
Big Motherfucking Fish
DISCLAIMER: If you are offended by footage of dying fish, please do not watch this video. We're talking a HUMAN sized fish will be slaughtered for our own amusement and eating pleasure. Not that I ate it personally. I made grand statements of my intention to eat it (on the video), but it turns out that there were more mouths than there was fish, believe it or not. I DID keep the squid beaks from it's belly, until my divorce.
Ok. If you're still reading, here's the deal: I watched this video again last night (for the first time in more than 2 years), and I decided you all might enjoy watching it after the photos I posted yesterday, at least the first few minutes of it. This video is more than 10 minutes long, and it was shot by a girl who had no intention of doing anything but taking casual photos of dudes holding up trout-sized fish. This big boy, it was not expected to arrive on our boat. Please do not anticipate expert filmography. Also, note the shot crotch I inexplicably took around minute three and a half. Nice.
This was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the air force guy on our charter was chumming over the side of the boat for HOURS (which, any time I am tougher than a military man, I TAKE FUCKING PRIDE YO), and we were over two hours boat ride from the harbor. It's not like we were 35 second from the dock. We had driven forever to get to this one spot our captain swore was good. Turns out, it was good. Now, whether this was due to the bags of bait or due to the continuous stream of vomit in the water, we'll never know.
We were content with each "little" halibut we pulled in, the mere 20-40 pounders, and the various species of rock fish. As you can imagine, when this big guy came overboard, we were a bit flabbergasted. Air Force guy was with his two buddies, Army guy and Navy guy. True story. It was their one last hoorah before they ALL shipped overseas to Iraq. I wonder how they are today, wish I had gotten their contact info. Anyhow, as a tribute to Mr. Chummy Mc'Airforce and his buddies, I present a video longer than you should probably watch. It's only interesting for about 3 minutes, so feel free to click away after that. I couldn't figure out how to edit it down. SORRY!
OH. And please ignore-slash-forgive me for the HORRIBLY ANNOYING semi-southern accent on the video, as well as the shaky camera work. I was freaking out, mind you, two hours from our port in the middle of the ocean on a little boat with a giant fish and a bunch of men who were clearly clueless. (If you make it almost to the end of the video, around minute eight and a half, please note the comment about how this fish was a "good omen for a wedding", and my "oh yeah, I forgot about that for a while" comment. Again, might have been another sign. A fish was enough to distract me from my impending nuptials.)
Enjoy!
(if the embeded video doesn't work, click here)Wednesday, November 19, 2008
OMFG
I am WAY more excited about this than I have any right to be!
Oh god, I'm a creepy Interweb lady, aren't I? The one who reads famous blogs, gets addicted to them, then decides they don't post often enough, so goes back and reads all of the archives, and once that's done kind of freak out because IT'S OVER WHAT DO I DO NOW, and then find 80 other replacement blogs, and then wonder in my spare time if they plan on trying again any time soon because I'm totally waiting for this news, and then I finally get the news and feel like it's a slap in the face because I had to read it on their blogs and they didn't even call me up like friends should, and then remember we're not friends, I'm just the creepy Interweb lady.
Eh, at least I haven't violated the protection order this month.
CONGRATULATIONS Heather and Jon and Chuck and Leta and Coco and Other Creepy Interweb Stalkers! This is a big day for us ALL!
Oh god, I'm a creepy Interweb lady, aren't I? The one who reads famous blogs, gets addicted to them, then decides they don't post often enough, so goes back and reads all of the archives, and once that's done kind of freak out because IT'S OVER WHAT DO I DO NOW, and then find 80 other replacement blogs, and then wonder in my spare time if they plan on trying again any time soon because I'm totally waiting for this news, and then I finally get the news and feel like it's a slap in the face because I had to read it on their blogs and they didn't even call me up like friends should, and then remember we're not friends, I'm just the creepy Interweb lady.
Eh, at least I haven't violated the protection order this month.
CONGRATULATIONS Heather and Jon and Chuck and Leta and Coco and Other Creepy Interweb Stalkers! This is a big day for us ALL!
Invasion of the Pouty Lip
Well, last weekend was largely uneventful. Generally, I appreciate uneventful weekends. They afford me the luxury of sleeping in past 6 a.m. and catching up on my DVR backlog of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Kath & Kim, and 30-Minute Meals (ok, fine. also Real Housewives of Atlanta, but I fast forward through the parts where they speak. no one needs that kind of volume, seriously, please speak English, and do so at a volume we can tolerate. thanks.)
However, I've recently begun to suspect that I need to have eventful weekends, to stay occupied, keep busy, avoid dwelling. Saturday, Gray left for a visit with some family and I declined to accompany him. What did I do in his absence? Well, I got out of bed, reheated some coffee, balanced my checkbook, and got back into bed. I pouted in bed. All day. I couldn't fall asleep, but instead lay and felt sorry for myself. For hours and hours. Gray arrived back around 4:00 to find me laying unshowered in a mess of sheets, staring up at the ceiling, and he had to pester me into getting up at all. Tickling was threatened. WTF?
Eventually, I was up and we killed some time (he playing guitar, me moping on the couch, which is SO totally more acceptable than moping in bed) before heading to some friends' for a UFC fight. Which, can I say, is the most homo-erotic activity I've ever witnessed, what with the half-naked grappling, slippery torsos, and what appear to be harmless ear punches (just enough to make it look like they don't want to rip off each other's silky shorts and do the deed right there on national television).
It was a huge relief to be out with other people who do not tolerate moping. The gals played games, Apples to Apples making it's grand re-emergence into my life for the first time since the infamous "Incubus sucks" ordeal. My team won a round of the game Cranium, a feat I thought only slightly more likely to occur in my lifetime than my getting a pie wedge playing Trivial Pursuit some day. I think my unlikely victory may have been due to the fact that my team mate was literally a Neuro-surgeon.
The Massive Cramps messed with me all weekend. These cramps, I'm not sure that I've ever experienced an equivalent sort of pain, not even post D&C. Wave after wave, the cramps made me hunch over and pant like a fucking dog until the ibuprofen kicked in. Been popping those puppies like candy. The only respite came from curling in a ball and refusing to move. Apparently movement makes them angry. I thought about calling the doctor to ask if this is normal, cramps that feel more like what I'd expect from early labor than from a run-of-the-mill period. But that would have meant talking on the phone, plus there hasn't been much going these last few months that I have expected, and my doctor might start to wonder if I'm stalking him, should I call his cell phone once more on the weekend.
I did get to go to a GIANT craft show with my Jill and her girls. That was a bright spot, and cheered me up enough to prevent a return to bed-moping on Sunday. Instead I did laundry and went food shopping. Which is so TOTALLY EXCITING, I know. I even squeezed a weird looking fruit, you know, for fun. I almost bought the thing, but it cost $10 and who has that kind of money to go around buying weird looking fruit? If you do, please send money.
So to recap my weekend: pouting, TV, pouting, cramps, winning Cranium, cramps, pouting. MONDAY. (I realize, of course, that today is now Wednesday, but I've been too busy pouting to tell you about my weekend. Keep tripping on my lip.)
However, I've recently begun to suspect that I need to have eventful weekends, to stay occupied, keep busy, avoid dwelling. Saturday, Gray left for a visit with some family and I declined to accompany him. What did I do in his absence? Well, I got out of bed, reheated some coffee, balanced my checkbook, and got back into bed. I pouted in bed. All day. I couldn't fall asleep, but instead lay and felt sorry for myself. For hours and hours. Gray arrived back around 4:00 to find me laying unshowered in a mess of sheets, staring up at the ceiling, and he had to pester me into getting up at all. Tickling was threatened. WTF?
Eventually, I was up and we killed some time (he playing guitar, me moping on the couch, which is SO totally more acceptable than moping in bed) before heading to some friends' for a UFC fight. Which, can I say, is the most homo-erotic activity I've ever witnessed, what with the half-naked grappling, slippery torsos, and what appear to be harmless ear punches (just enough to make it look like they don't want to rip off each other's silky shorts and do the deed right there on national television).
It was a huge relief to be out with other people who do not tolerate moping. The gals played games, Apples to Apples making it's grand re-emergence into my life for the first time since the infamous "Incubus sucks" ordeal. My team won a round of the game Cranium, a feat I thought only slightly more likely to occur in my lifetime than my getting a pie wedge playing Trivial Pursuit some day. I think my unlikely victory may have been due to the fact that my team mate was literally a Neuro-surgeon.
The Massive Cramps messed with me all weekend. These cramps, I'm not sure that I've ever experienced an equivalent sort of pain, not even post D&C. Wave after wave, the cramps made me hunch over and pant like a fucking dog until the ibuprofen kicked in. Been popping those puppies like candy. The only respite came from curling in a ball and refusing to move. Apparently movement makes them angry. I thought about calling the doctor to ask if this is normal, cramps that feel more like what I'd expect from early labor than from a run-of-the-mill period. But that would have meant talking on the phone, plus there hasn't been much going these last few months that I have expected, and my doctor might start to wonder if I'm stalking him, should I call his cell phone once more on the weekend.
I did get to go to a GIANT craft show with my Jill and her girls. That was a bright spot, and cheered me up enough to prevent a return to bed-moping on Sunday. Instead I did laundry and went food shopping. Which is so TOTALLY EXCITING, I know. I even squeezed a weird looking fruit, you know, for fun. I almost bought the thing, but it cost $10 and who has that kind of money to go around buying weird looking fruit? If you do, please send money.
So to recap my weekend: pouting, TV, pouting, cramps, winning Cranium, cramps, pouting. MONDAY. (I realize, of course, that today is now Wednesday, but I've been too busy pouting to tell you about my weekend. Keep tripping on my lip.)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
My Honeymoon (i.e., The Most Fun I've Ever Had With a Man I Hope Never to See Again)
My ex and I got married in Alaska. It was the most romantic and wonderful vacation I've ever taken (yes, even ahead of SD which is why I want to take you to AK, Gray, so don't get all huffy on me.) and would have been perfect, save for the whole "getting married when you know it's a really bad idea" thing. I like to forget about that part whenever possible. My wonderful family in Wasilla hosted us for three weeks, and my aunt performed our wedding ceremony by Campbell Creek in Anchorage. It was freezing cold but super beautiful.
This is me on my wedding day, post-ceremony. Pre mai tai.
This is the 272 pound halibut my ex caught on a chartered fishing excursion out of Seward. And by "caught", I mean "swore at while 5 other people helped him keep a hold of the fishing pole, and one guy batted the damn fish's head in while it flopped on the deck and almost knocked two people overboard". The fish, it did not fit in the fish box below deck. The tail stuck out by a good two feet. A crowd of gawkers followed us around as the fish was wheeled over for weighing, and watched as the fish promptly broke the weighing device. It cost over $5oo to filet and ship back to MN. It was...awesome. Oh, and it's belly contained 4 squid beaks. The guy in the photo is NOT my ex. I have no idea who he is. Guy in the photo, if you're reading this, can I please post your photo on my blog? Thanks.
The one in the middle is the ex's. One of the smaller ones (only weighed 40 lbs) was mine.
This is me standing WELL below the guard rail we hopped to get close to this rushing stream. I'm making the fart face. I don't remember why I'm making the fart face. Perhaps I was farting.
This is me on the deck of the cruise ship near one of the glaciers I was praying we didn't run into. It was cold. I was hung over. But isn't it lovely?
This is Juneau, somewhere I'd love to return very soon.
This may have been a warning to the newlyweds. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
The trip was amazing (and expensive). My family was amazing (least of which for forgiving me when I broke up our marriage less than 8 months into it, after explaining myself of course). The scenery was indescribably amazing. The only thing more amazing was that I'd actually gone through with the wedding after finding my ex's online personal ad. If I was looking for a sign, that may have been it. I'm smart like that sometimes.
Monday, November 17, 2008
My Dumb Ass, et al
All you peeps who comment on my posts and don't hear back from me? Yeah, that's because I'm a moron. I just realized that I've been replying to noreply[at]blogger[dot]com for, like, months. So, yeah. Whatever your comment was, imagine the most witty, intelligent response I could have sent you...and that's what I sent. I swear! I did not send you naked pictures of myself! (unless you both received, and enjoyed said pictures, in which case: you're welcome.)
And now I'm wondering...stay with me here...do those who log into blogger have real email addresses to reply to, and those who comment as guest users...automatically send the no reply email? Could that explain the discrepancy? Because some of your comments come equipped with actual, real, human email addresses and some come with the no reply address. No me understandy.
Obviously, I'm clueless. And not just on this subject. Ask me about the stock market if you'd like that point to be illustrated.
Another thing I don't quite understand...what's with the "I'm first!!!" comments? Is there some kind of competition that I am unaware of? OMG ARE THERE PRIZES? Someone please tell me if there are prizes, because I will SO jump on that gravy train. These fingers, they are speedy.
There's got to be some kind of motivation because people seem to stalk blogs (not mine, don't be fooled, this only happens on OTHER blogs), see a new post, and rush to say that they're first, even though they're not really first because they also say, "Ok, going to read the post now, BRB". So they stalk the blog, then they pounce to be first commenter, having not read the post at all, then they come back and comment on the post, after which they are no longer first.
Shouldn't the prize be awarded to the stalker who both reads the post and then comments first? Yes, I think I should head up some kind of Ethics in Commenting committee. We could meet once a year and eat Skittles. Open bar, of course. OOH! There could be MEMOS!
I guess I just don't understand. Is it like being the first to use a new roll of toilet paper? Because that sort of sucks, what with the whole glued down section you must grapple with. How about being first to try my home made stir fry? Because that guy died. Hmm. Maybe it's like being the first to walk on the moon? No, can't be due to the available gravity and oxygen and stuff.
Well, whatever. I'm going to start leaving the "I'm first" comments regardless of how many have beaten me. Just to see if anyone notices. I might confuse the blogger, causing them to send me the Grand Prize by mistake, in which case I'll have beaten the system.
Wait, would that disqualify me from chairing the Ethics in Commenting committee? Shit!
And now I'm wondering...stay with me here...do those who log into blogger have real email addresses to reply to, and those who comment as guest users...automatically send the no reply email? Could that explain the discrepancy? Because some of your comments come equipped with actual, real, human email addresses and some come with the no reply address. No me understandy.
Obviously, I'm clueless. And not just on this subject. Ask me about the stock market if you'd like that point to be illustrated.
Another thing I don't quite understand...what's with the "I'm first!!!" comments? Is there some kind of competition that I am unaware of? OMG ARE THERE PRIZES? Someone please tell me if there are prizes, because I will SO jump on that gravy train. These fingers, they are speedy.
There's got to be some kind of motivation because people seem to stalk blogs (not mine, don't be fooled, this only happens on OTHER blogs), see a new post, and rush to say that they're first, even though they're not really first because they also say, "Ok, going to read the post now, BRB". So they stalk the blog, then they pounce to be first commenter, having not read the post at all, then they come back and comment on the post, after which they are no longer first.
Shouldn't the prize be awarded to the stalker who both reads the post and then comments first? Yes, I think I should head up some kind of Ethics in Commenting committee. We could meet once a year and eat Skittles. Open bar, of course. OOH! There could be MEMOS!
I guess I just don't understand. Is it like being the first to use a new roll of toilet paper? Because that sort of sucks, what with the whole glued down section you must grapple with. How about being first to try my home made stir fry? Because that guy died. Hmm. Maybe it's like being the first to walk on the moon? No, can't be due to the available gravity and oxygen and stuff.
Well, whatever. I'm going to start leaving the "I'm first" comments regardless of how many have beaten me. Just to see if anyone notices. I might confuse the blogger, causing them to send me the Grand Prize by mistake, in which case I'll have beaten the system.
Wait, would that disqualify me from chairing the Ethics in Commenting committee? Shit!
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Quirky
Hey, you out there! Lurkers! Yeah, you. Dawne. Tolz. You know who you are. Hi. How are you? I like your shoes. Can I borrow them? Awesome thanks. Feel free to comment, really, I won't bite. It's the interweb. I can't bite, I tried.
I'm obsessed with checking my email right now. It's ridiculous. I sit there and click the "check mail" button over and over, just thinking maybe, in the last 3 seconds, someone might have sent me an email and I DON'T WANT TO MISS IT. Apparently I'm lonely. Or pathetic. Actually, those two go hand in hand, don't they? Hmm. Must consider over a bottle of wine or two whilst talking to myself and picking lint from my toes.
Am I the only who...?
...taps my toes when I go over a seam in the asphalt of the road, and when I pass telephone poles? You know, like either tap one foot just as I'm going past them, or one foot on just before and one foot just after, sort of like a straddle tap?
...has to sit lined up with things? Like on the bench where we smoke outside our building, we face the fence that surrounds the swimming pool, and I have to sit on the bench so I'm smack dab in between the main support posts of the fence. Otherwise I feel off kilter.
...has to straighten picture frames everywhere I go? Wish it were socially acceptable to carry a little level with me for this purpose?
...flosses my teeth obsessively, but not the bottom molars because I always bleed when I floss those? Offer tooth floss to guests after we've eaten?
...has to wash up in the shower in the exact same sequence every day, or I feel like I need to re-shower? Face, shampoo, conditioner, body (neck to feet direction), shave, rinse conditioner, re-rinse everything else, and flip my hair like a dog?
...hates talking on the phone more than anything else on earth? Hates checking my voice mail because it might result in having to talk on the phone?
...can't have wet hair touch my neck or back without getting skeeved out, and so must dress with a towel on my head?
ANYONE?
***
Anyhow, this is my Sunday post. I'm writing it Friday because, well, you never know what might happen to prevent me from posting. I could be swallowed by a whale, or kidnapped by the Russians. Or I could spend all day in bed watching the same episodes of Friends over and over, and pretending like they're talking to me when they say, "I'll be there for you."
I've come too far with this NaBlowMePo to give up now. I can leave nothing to chance. I NEED that badge for my sidebar, the one that says I Survived NaBloPoMo. Why? Eh, I take any validation I can get. You know those ribbons they give out to children, even the losers, because they want them all to feel like winners? Yeah, they always ran out of them before they got to me. I have the worst luck! Gawd.
I'm obsessed with checking my email right now. It's ridiculous. I sit there and click the "check mail" button over and over, just thinking maybe, in the last 3 seconds, someone might have sent me an email and I DON'T WANT TO MISS IT. Apparently I'm lonely. Or pathetic. Actually, those two go hand in hand, don't they? Hmm. Must consider over a bottle of wine or two whilst talking to myself and picking lint from my toes.
Am I the only who...?
...taps my toes when I go over a seam in the asphalt of the road, and when I pass telephone poles? You know, like either tap one foot just as I'm going past them, or one foot on just before and one foot just after, sort of like a straddle tap?
...has to sit lined up with things? Like on the bench where we smoke outside our building, we face the fence that surrounds the swimming pool, and I have to sit on the bench so I'm smack dab in between the main support posts of the fence. Otherwise I feel off kilter.
...has to straighten picture frames everywhere I go? Wish it were socially acceptable to carry a little level with me for this purpose?
...flosses my teeth obsessively, but not the bottom molars because I always bleed when I floss those? Offer tooth floss to guests after we've eaten?
...has to wash up in the shower in the exact same sequence every day, or I feel like I need to re-shower? Face, shampoo, conditioner, body (neck to feet direction), shave, rinse conditioner, re-rinse everything else, and flip my hair like a dog?
...hates talking on the phone more than anything else on earth? Hates checking my voice mail because it might result in having to talk on the phone?
...can't have wet hair touch my neck or back without getting skeeved out, and so must dress with a towel on my head?
ANYONE?
***
Anyhow, this is my Sunday post. I'm writing it Friday because, well, you never know what might happen to prevent me from posting. I could be swallowed by a whale, or kidnapped by the Russians. Or I could spend all day in bed watching the same episodes of Friends over and over, and pretending like they're talking to me when they say, "I'll be there for you."
I've come too far with this NaBlowMePo to give up now. I can leave nothing to chance. I NEED that badge for my sidebar, the one that says I Survived NaBloPoMo. Why? Eh, I take any validation I can get. You know those ribbons they give out to children, even the losers, because they want them all to feel like winners? Yeah, they always ran out of them before they got to me. I have the worst luck! Gawd.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Duds, Those Who Wish To Sniff Them
Well, there appears to be some kind of bizarre shirt-stealing conspiracy going down in our apartment. Gray has four or five work shirts which are part of a uniform and have our employer's logo stitched on them. They're ugly as hell, but everyone has to wear them (NOT ME! I WEAR JEANS! and sometimes, a bra).
Last week, Gray asked if I had seen any of his shirts. I had not. He said that all but two of them were missing. He'd been wearing the same one for multiple days, and had one more that was too small and missing buttons. We searched high and low for the missing shirts, but to no avail. I did laundry on Sunday (I KNOW! you can hardly believe it) but none of the missing shirts surfaced. Gray checked for them in his work locker, his truck, the floor of his closet...no missing shirts. So he went to work and got a couple new ones.
All of a sudden, two of the missing shirts were just hanging there in his closet, like "Hey, here we are. gotcha! Bet you thought we were on a plane to Aruba by now." WHAT. THE. HELL. I'm pretty sure Gray thinks I was messing with him, hiding them or something, but if he had smelled his own armpits last week, he'd know I played no hand in the creation of that stench. So where did those shirts come from? We have no idea.
Are closet trolls common? I know socks disappear all the time, but those trolls are contained in the dryer. THESE trolls are living in my closet. I wonder if I could convince them to take some of his god damned Metallica t-shirts? I would totally leave them a sock for their trouble.
Last week, Gray asked if I had seen any of his shirts. I had not. He said that all but two of them were missing. He'd been wearing the same one for multiple days, and had one more that was too small and missing buttons. We searched high and low for the missing shirts, but to no avail. I did laundry on Sunday (I KNOW! you can hardly believe it) but none of the missing shirts surfaced. Gray checked for them in his work locker, his truck, the floor of his closet...no missing shirts. So he went to work and got a couple new ones.
All of a sudden, two of the missing shirts were just hanging there in his closet, like "Hey, here we are. gotcha! Bet you thought we were on a plane to Aruba by now." WHAT. THE. HELL. I'm pretty sure Gray thinks I was messing with him, hiding them or something, but if he had smelled his own armpits last week, he'd know I played no hand in the creation of that stench. So where did those shirts come from? We have no idea.
Are closet trolls common? I know socks disappear all the time, but those trolls are contained in the dryer. THESE trolls are living in my closet. I wonder if I could convince them to take some of his god damned Metallica t-shirts? I would totally leave them a sock for their trouble.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Blast
So I'm in the computer lab at school, and I'm noticing that every visible computer is currently open to myspace. Thank heavens for tax-funded technological improvements! O the wisdomy wisdom students are gaining from their free access to social networking and blog sites!
It's another week night/school night/why am I doing this to myself night here in MN. I will spend my evening sitting in a classroom, listening to an aging woman talk about critical thinking, critically thinking about how to sleep with my eyes open, and wishing it were 8:20 already.
**MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. THIS IS THE SECURITY DEPARTMENT. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND EXIT THE BUILDINGS IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE LOCATE THE NEAREST STAIRWELL AND EXIT THE BUILDINGS IMMEDIATELY.**
Hmm. That can't be good. No fire alarms, so what's going on?
Now I'm standing outside amidst the milling, smoking students. We're all looking at each other, trying to figure out why we were evacuated. Wait, that guy just said there was a bomb threat. Well that's just great. Some dumbass had a test tonight, I bet. Did I mention that it's 25 degrees out here? It's fucking cold right now. That chick over there is wearing a goddamn t-shirt. We're all going to survive the blast, and then we'll all die from exposure. Wait, maybe the blast will warm us up.
Please blow up! Please blow up! I need to toast my ass on the flaming embers of this great institution.
Ok, now they're herding us across the street. What? It's not safe to stand immediately outside the building when it blows? How will I warm my fingers from way over there? Woah, they must mean business. Some dude with a walkie-talkie just came running by, yelling at us to GET ACROSS THE STREET! Ok, ok we're going. Geeze. Some people are so pushy.
So I'm standing across the street and I can't tell if my nose is running or if it's just frozen off and fallen on the ground. I hate it when people get that little drip of clear snot on the tip of their nose and they don't know it's there and I can't look away. I just stare at the drip wondering if it will freeze solid or if it will just fall to the ground and make way for a new snot drip.
Ok, now people are walking back towards the school. I didn't hear an announcement. Can we go inside now? I'll just wait to see if any of them get in the building before I make my move.
No, they're running back this way. Man, that guy with the walkie-talkie is not happy now. Alright, alright. We're staying here. Lighten up, it's not like we're going to die all the way over here. Unless the guy with the bomb knew we'd clear out, and so he's planning to light up the sidewalks with TNT. But I think he just wanted to get out of a test, and that kind of guy isn't going to have access to that much TNT. So we're all safe over here.
Oh, there's my professor. I'll walk over and see if I can't talk her into cancelling class. Shit, she's got the little clear snot drip going on. Look away, Catherine! Look away! Damn, I can't. She's got a conference in Philedelphia tomorrow and all her materials are inside the building. Don't worry, I tell her. Nothing is going to blow up in there. I know, because the Universe hates me too much to blow up the building so I can warm up. She says there were two fire alarms and one bomb threat last week. It's beginning to look like phoning in a false threat might get me out of my next algebra test...but could I pull it off? I doubt it. I don't have one of those voice mixer things. And I'd probably do something stupid, like call from my cell phone. Or wait on hold while they trace my call. I'm not cut out for bomb threats. Too violent. Maybe...anthrax scares? Hmm will have to look into that.
Ok, now a Minneapolis cop just drove through the crowd and announced, "You can go back to you class, guys." DAMN HIM! We all shuffle back inside.
Now I'm right back where I started. I didn't even miss a single minute of class! We got the all-clear about 10 minutes too soon. But I'm thinking that's probably good, since I can't feel my toes. Time to pretend to give a rat's ass about my 5 Strength Themes. Interestingly enough, my second highest strengh is "empathy". I think the test was broken.
It's another week night/school night/why am I doing this to myself night here in MN. I will spend my evening sitting in a classroom, listening to an aging woman talk about critical thinking, critically thinking about how to sleep with my eyes open, and wishing it were 8:20 already.
**MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. THIS IS THE SECURITY DEPARTMENT. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND EXIT THE BUILDINGS IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE LOCATE THE NEAREST STAIRWELL AND EXIT THE BUILDINGS IMMEDIATELY.**
Hmm. That can't be good. No fire alarms, so what's going on?
Now I'm standing outside amidst the milling, smoking students. We're all looking at each other, trying to figure out why we were evacuated. Wait, that guy just said there was a bomb threat. Well that's just great. Some dumbass had a test tonight, I bet. Did I mention that it's 25 degrees out here? It's fucking cold right now. That chick over there is wearing a goddamn t-shirt. We're all going to survive the blast, and then we'll all die from exposure. Wait, maybe the blast will warm us up.
Please blow up! Please blow up! I need to toast my ass on the flaming embers of this great institution.
Ok, now they're herding us across the street. What? It's not safe to stand immediately outside the building when it blows? How will I warm my fingers from way over there? Woah, they must mean business. Some dude with a walkie-talkie just came running by, yelling at us to GET ACROSS THE STREET! Ok, ok we're going. Geeze. Some people are so pushy.
So I'm standing across the street and I can't tell if my nose is running or if it's just frozen off and fallen on the ground. I hate it when people get that little drip of clear snot on the tip of their nose and they don't know it's there and I can't look away. I just stare at the drip wondering if it will freeze solid or if it will just fall to the ground and make way for a new snot drip.
Ok, now people are walking back towards the school. I didn't hear an announcement. Can we go inside now? I'll just wait to see if any of them get in the building before I make my move.
No, they're running back this way. Man, that guy with the walkie-talkie is not happy now. Alright, alright. We're staying here. Lighten up, it's not like we're going to die all the way over here. Unless the guy with the bomb knew we'd clear out, and so he's planning to light up the sidewalks with TNT. But I think he just wanted to get out of a test, and that kind of guy isn't going to have access to that much TNT. So we're all safe over here.
Oh, there's my professor. I'll walk over and see if I can't talk her into cancelling class. Shit, she's got the little clear snot drip going on. Look away, Catherine! Look away! Damn, I can't. She's got a conference in Philedelphia tomorrow and all her materials are inside the building. Don't worry, I tell her. Nothing is going to blow up in there. I know, because the Universe hates me too much to blow up the building so I can warm up. She says there were two fire alarms and one bomb threat last week. It's beginning to look like phoning in a false threat might get me out of my next algebra test...but could I pull it off? I doubt it. I don't have one of those voice mixer things. And I'd probably do something stupid, like call from my cell phone. Or wait on hold while they trace my call. I'm not cut out for bomb threats. Too violent. Maybe...anthrax scares? Hmm will have to look into that.
Ok, now a Minneapolis cop just drove through the crowd and announced, "You can go back to you class, guys." DAMN HIM! We all shuffle back inside.
Now I'm right back where I started. I didn't even miss a single minute of class! We got the all-clear about 10 minutes too soon. But I'm thinking that's probably good, since I can't feel my toes. Time to pretend to give a rat's ass about my 5 Strength Themes. Interestingly enough, my second highest strengh is "empathy". I think the test was broken.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
I've Never Had Unpaid Confidants
I've been talking as much as possible about my miscarriage. For some reason, the talking helps me process what I'm feeling. It doesn't allow me to bottle things up, which I hear is good. I've been even more actively seeking support this week because the condom fiasco really threw me for a loop, knocked me back into the sludge I thought I'd begun to shake off. I have a history, one which includes some unhealthy behaviors, all of which stemmed from Trying To Do It Myself and Pretending Like I Don't Need Help. So this time, I'm not going to let myself fall into that. It's not fair to Gray, and it's not fair to myself, and it's really not fair to my hair, which underwent some frightening styles during my dark times.
***
So, Interwebnet, you are my free therapy (something you may have already noticed). I am shamelessly using you to make myself feel less alone. So YAY for you! I know you're super excited! You're like pro bono shrinks! Congratulations.
***
I talked to my sister's doula today. She was getting back to me with some support group information, and she confided that she, too, lost her first pregnancy at 12 weeks. A remarkably similar situation, one I'm finding is way too fucking common. She told me what helped her the most was making a journal which listed all the feelings she had before the miscarriage, and all of those she had afterwards. She included photos of herself during her pregnancy. She named her unborn baby and put that in the book.
I like this idea for a few reasons. It makes the loss more tangible. I never saw my child and I will never see my child. But I can name and own the feelings and daydreams I had about my child. Also, I like to write: good, bad or indifferent, I like to blather on and on about...well, everything. So this seems like a good fit for me. Lastly, this will give me something to go back to when I'm missing my child. Something akin to a baby book, albeit the world's most depressing baby book. Perhaps I'll call it a Fetus Book?
I think by now you know where this is going.
***
May I present to you: Gage's Fetus Book
We never knew if you were a boy or a girl, and we had planned to wait until you were born to find out. I was worried that if I made a prediction, that I might become attached to the idea, and possibly be disappointed when you were born. Neither Gray or I had a preference, so this fear was pretty ridiculous. But I never wanted to look back on the memory of your birthday and feel even the tiniest twinge of guilt for having wished you had a wee-wee instead of a who-haw, or visa versa. So we declined to participate in the raging gender debate. We chose names for both: as a girl, you would have been Veta. As a boy, Gage. My Jill, she was certain you were a girl. My grandmother (your grand daddy's mother), she was convinced you were a boy. Us? We didn't know. But now that you've died, I've come to think of you as my little boy. I don't know why. If you were a girl, I am SO SORRY, please don't be mad at mommy.
Here's me at 9 weeks.
A little silly to photograph what was primarily a methane bubble at this point, but I was just that excited. Plus, I mean...what if I waited to take the first baby belly picture, and then all of a sudden, I was out to ::here:: and there wasn't a "before" shot? Oh lord, the motherly shame. So I opted to take the cautious approach and just photograph every two weeks, starting at week 7.
I've wanted children for a long, long time. But my ex, he wasn't father material. So I waited. And then I fell in love with your daddy. And he was A+ father material, and he didn't run away screaming when I got drunk and told him I wanted children, like, two hours ago. He just said whenever I was ready, he was ready. Hmmm. Now that the ball was in my court, it was quite a different story. Was it too soon? Were we too poor? Was I too young? Should I finish school first? Gray would need a different vehicle for transporting spawn. I would need to quit smoking. Suddenly, the green light was a little scary. And so I waited again.
And then, this summer I went off the pill because it made my Crazy show. I was so much happier off the pill. I was going to get an IUD, but it was SO expensive and semi-permanent (as in, you don't put it in for 6 months and then change your mind, woman are you cracked? but if I did, it was reversible). I kind of started to freak out about should we? Should we not? Should we? Should we not? And then Gray and my Jill got together and talked and decided I was over thinking things and that my heart knew what I really wanted. And I listened. And they were right.
So we tried. Your daddy, he would prop pillows under my ass, and he would lay there and talk to me about hypothetical babies for the required 20 minutes of Encouraging Sperm to Stay In There and Impregnate Me. Or, at the very least, he'd plug in a movie for me to watch while I waited. I started the pregnancy website lurking, and the OMG are we going to CIRCUMCISE our BABY BOY? internal debate (note: don't watch a video of said activity on YouTube. trust me.) The where will we live, this apartment is too small!! fretting. The expensive peeing on sticks just to freak myself out process. Jill went on her, Oh for Christ's sake could you at least wait until after Rock the Dock? tirade.
And then, on our first morning of Rock the Dock, the same day my period was due, I woke up at the crack of dawn, ran into the bathroom with a pregnancy test, and burst into hysterical tears when I saw that, indeed, we had spawned. Gray was seriously confused as to why I was jumping on the bed and waking him up. He was even more confused by the "Congratulations Daddy" card, thinking I'd maybe jumped the gun a bit, and wasn't I supposed to wait until after I was pregnant to give him that kind of thing. Then I showed him the test, and all I remember is crying and hugging and crying and OMGing.
After that, everything was just kind of a wonderful dream. Until, of course, it wasn't.
I fought The Tired and stayed up late, sketching what I imagined might be your nursery. I was going for gender neutral, but see how it kind of leaned towards "boy"? Yeah, I think I knew something, even then. We inquired about, and signed a lease for a bigger apartment in our building. One with room for a nursery. Since we can't paint the walls, I searched websites for wall decals and decided on these. They arrived in the mail the week after we lost you.
Gray and I texted each other baby names constantly. I quit smoking and gave up my wine, and we all know how hard that was for me. Except, it wasn't. Not even a little bit. We discussed whether we should tell everyone now, or wait the proper 3 months, until I was out of my first trimester. I decided that if something awful was to happen, if we were to lose you, I would want to talk about it, and that would be easier if everyone knew. How prophetic that was.
In an effort to increase my physical activity, I biked around town and ogled houses. I daydreamed about buying the homes I passed. I envisioned you walking in the yards, you daddy grilling dinner (aw, who am I kidding? I'm the griller round these parts.), your friends coming to ask if Gage could come out and play. I remember biking up a hill, by a school, and talking to you. I told you that you didn't have to worry. That never, in the history of parents and children, was a child more wanted than you. That you would never have to wonder if you were good enough or pretty enough or smart enough for us. We loved you so much already, more than I even thought possible.
We talked and laughed about the sleepless nights to come, the toddler antics, the projectile poops, your first smile, your first everything. One night, I paused the TV and said to Gray, "Just think: right now, everything about our child has already been decided - what color his hair will be, what his voice will sound like, his temperament, every physical characteristic. It's just...so amazing. I cannot WAIT to meet our child." And we marveled for a moment about how awesome our lives together would be, as a family. Gray said once, "Isn't it amazing how we, you and me, we made something...a whole person, with nothing but ourselves?"
Sure, there would be trials. There would be vomit and tears and "the talk". We discussed religion, and what we would teach our children about god. Gray believes, I don't. So we decided to teach our child a little about all kinds of faiths, and we would teach him to be tolerant of everyone's beliefs. When the day comes that he asks to go to church? We would take him. When he wants to visit his friends' churches? We would encourage him. When he asked about god and death? We would tell him all we could.
We discussed discipline, how each of us was raised and which practices we wanted to use with our own children. Gray talked about getting into shape so he could coach his kids' teams. He wanted to take FMLA leave so that he could stay home with you for a few months, just daddy and baby, and watch you grow (and probably call me frantically with poop situations).
I began blogging again because of my pregnancy. I say "again" with a chuckle, because my first attempt didn't last longer than 3 or 4 posts. But now, I wanted to record everything I was going through, so that I would remember, so that I could look back and marvel. I never expected that the things I wrote on this blog would include losing my first pregnancy. Nor, that my writing here would be like a salve on the wound, something that would let the pressure seep slowly out, something that would prevent an explosion.
When we lost you, I didn't know if I would ever blog again. But then I did, here and here and also here. I covered mostly everything that I needed to cover in those posts. Except to say that we love you and we miss you. Not a day will pass for the rest of our lives that we don't think about you, and the indescribable joy you brought us for those 11 weeks and 3 days.
I will never forget how I felt knowing I was your mommy.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
THERE IS A GOD
I just got word from the financial aid office that I can WITHDRAW FROM MY ALGEBRA class and not lose my student loans! It's like a Hump Day miracle!
Last Night I Dreamed I Went to Bentonville Again
I keep having all these weird dreams about the places I grew up and thereabouts.
Is this happening because I will be driving down in 16 days, and am dreading it? I haven't been back to Arkansas since, oh, I think it was 2004. So it's been a while. And that isn't an accident. Driving to Arkansas is like...driving to a pap smear appointment: I really don't want to go, but I feel like I have to, and my mom makes me feel guilty enough about not going that I finally blurt, "Ok fine. I'll go next year."
So here we are, next year is upon us, and I'm making Gray go with me. Ha ha! He has no idea what he's in for. I've tried to lull him into a false sense of security by telling him it won't be as bad as I'm expecting, that since the baby is no longer an issue my grandmother probably won't even use the word "bastard", and my step dad will be easy to ignore. No one will try to talk us into attending church, no one will discuss politics, no one will ask me when I'm moving "home", and no one will wonder aloud if we plan to get married or keep living in sin for all eternity.
My sister offered her couch to us, and I gladly accepted the invitation. At my sister's house, we can drink. And swear. And play with (plot to kidnap) her baby. And despite knowing we accepted my sister's offer, three months later my mother is still casually reminding me of all the room she has at her house. The bed, the bathroom, the bed, the bathroom. Did she mention the bed? Because she has a bed and a bathroom for us. I think she's choosing to ignore my, "Thanks anyways, but we're staying with W because she invited us first" statements. Selective hearing or something.
Oh, there are so many ways in which this trip could go terribly wrong. But, more on that later.
In my dreams, I'm doing all kinds of strange things like attending my high school reunion, which happens to be a naked roller skating reunion (KILLER IDEA). I get carded at the door, and in my head I'm wondering if my driver's license will say my real-life age or if it will say my age in high school. If it says my high school age, they won't let me into the naked roller skating reunion, and I REALLY want to get in there. You'd think since I'm attending a reunion, it's logical to assume I'm an adult. Alas, logic doesn't matter much in dreams, I find.
Later, I'm at some hillbilly version of a grocery store (like Wal-Mart) and I'm fascinated by the dollar aisle, which has dozens of types of brooms but no good kitchen utensils (damn hillbilly grocery store). I end up buying a puppy who speaks English and sounds like Al Sharpton.
Later, I'm a consulting realtor for a family I knew as a kid. They want to put their home on the market, but the basement is knee-deep with trash and debris, and looks like the inside of a dumpster. I have to control my disgust and tell them with a straight face that they may want to consider tidying up before they list their house. You know, pick all the animal shit up and stuff. I hear something rustling around in a corner, and that something appears to be moving inside of a clear plastic storage tub. Upon closer inspection, I find it's a very tiny, sick kitten. She's trying to claw her way out of the tub, so I take off the lid and scoop her up. She's got some kind of horrible growth on her face, like a mole times 1000, and so I decide I'm going to rescue this kitten and I put her in my pocket.
Wonder if the kitten's growth signifies that I'm uncomfortable with the mass of cold sores and zits all over me right now? Nah, that can't be it.
Anyhow, I'm really hoping these dreams stop. They freak me out, and really? Do I need to be more freaked out? No, I really don't. I'm anxious enough as it is. If you've ever driven through Iowa, Missouri and into Arkansas with the intent of stopping there...you understand.
Is this happening because I will be driving down in 16 days, and am dreading it? I haven't been back to Arkansas since, oh, I think it was 2004. So it's been a while. And that isn't an accident. Driving to Arkansas is like...driving to a pap smear appointment: I really don't want to go, but I feel like I have to, and my mom makes me feel guilty enough about not going that I finally blurt, "Ok fine. I'll go next year."
So here we are, next year is upon us, and I'm making Gray go with me. Ha ha! He has no idea what he's in for. I've tried to lull him into a false sense of security by telling him it won't be as bad as I'm expecting, that since the baby is no longer an issue my grandmother probably won't even use the word "bastard", and my step dad will be easy to ignore. No one will try to talk us into attending church, no one will discuss politics, no one will ask me when I'm moving "home", and no one will wonder aloud if we plan to get married or keep living in sin for all eternity.
My sister offered her couch to us, and I gladly accepted the invitation. At my sister's house, we can drink. And swear. And play with (plot to kidnap) her baby. And despite knowing we accepted my sister's offer, three months later my mother is still casually reminding me of all the room she has at her house. The bed, the bathroom, the bed, the bathroom. Did she mention the bed? Because she has a bed and a bathroom for us. I think she's choosing to ignore my, "Thanks anyways, but we're staying with W because she invited us first" statements. Selective hearing or something.
Oh, there are so many ways in which this trip could go terribly wrong. But, more on that later.
In my dreams, I'm doing all kinds of strange things like attending my high school reunion, which happens to be a naked roller skating reunion (KILLER IDEA). I get carded at the door, and in my head I'm wondering if my driver's license will say my real-life age or if it will say my age in high school. If it says my high school age, they won't let me into the naked roller skating reunion, and I REALLY want to get in there. You'd think since I'm attending a reunion, it's logical to assume I'm an adult. Alas, logic doesn't matter much in dreams, I find.
Later, I'm at some hillbilly version of a grocery store (like Wal-Mart) and I'm fascinated by the dollar aisle, which has dozens of types of brooms but no good kitchen utensils (damn hillbilly grocery store). I end up buying a puppy who speaks English and sounds like Al Sharpton.
Later, I'm a consulting realtor for a family I knew as a kid. They want to put their home on the market, but the basement is knee-deep with trash and debris, and looks like the inside of a dumpster. I have to control my disgust and tell them with a straight face that they may want to consider tidying up before they list their house. You know, pick all the animal shit up and stuff. I hear something rustling around in a corner, and that something appears to be moving inside of a clear plastic storage tub. Upon closer inspection, I find it's a very tiny, sick kitten. She's trying to claw her way out of the tub, so I take off the lid and scoop her up. She's got some kind of horrible growth on her face, like a mole times 1000, and so I decide I'm going to rescue this kitten and I put her in my pocket.
Wonder if the kitten's growth signifies that I'm uncomfortable with the mass of cold sores and zits all over me right now? Nah, that can't be it.
Anyhow, I'm really hoping these dreams stop. They freak me out, and really? Do I need to be more freaked out? No, I really don't. I'm anxious enough as it is. If you've ever driven through Iowa, Missouri and into Arkansas with the intent of stopping there...you understand.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
My Scarlet Letter
Sunday we wake up and Gray gets ready for work. Normally I would sleep in when he leaves, because I'm lazy like that and this time of year I can't ever seem to get enough sleep. My body thinks it should be hibernating or something. Anyway, I can't sleep in this time because I have to go to Walgreen's and buy the Plan B pill. That's right - our little condom fiasco resulted in my doctor recommending I go take an emergency contraceptive. Which is so odd, since this whole mess started with us WANTING to get pregnant. O the painful irony. (Wait, is that irony? I get confused by irony and call things ironic when really they're oxymorons or some shit.)
So I'm up, and we're puttering around drinking coffee. Gray leaves for work, his hands full with his lunch box, a bag of dishes to return to friends who were over for dinner Friday (they cooked for US at OUR house, trying to get them to move in here now), his guitar, his coffee. Not three minutes after he leaves, I find his work badge laying on the dresser in our bedroom. His badge is one of those computerized deals that he needs to be able to get around the building. I try calling him to report the AWOL badge, but get no answer. So I decide to hop in my car and drive two miles to our work, hand it over myself. Except my car is missing from the underground parking spot. WHO WOULD WANT TO STEAL MY CAR!? I freak out. I try calling him again. I race around to the outside parking lot. Nope, my car was definitely parked underground on Friday. God, now I have to call and report my car as stolen! What a clusterfuck!
Oh, wait. That's right. My car is still parked at work where I left it Friday because Gray picked me up for our doctor's appointment and we forgot to go back and get it.
WHEW ok, glad I remembered that before I filed a police report. Ok, so I'll hop on our bicycle and ride the two miles to work, drop off Gray's badge, leave the bike in his truck, and pick up my car. Perfect! I head outside in a sweatshirt (sweating, not realizing is 26 degrees and snowing out), unlock the bike, and begin to ride it. The chain slips. Fuck! I don't know how to fix the chain. I try to fix the chain. Nope, that didn't work. Ok, fine. So I walk the bike back to the apartment and I call a cab.
About this time, Gray calls to say he got my frantic messages and I don't need to pay for a cab to take his badge. He doesn't need it, it's ok.
But I need to get my car! I have to go buy the Plan B pill, I remind him.
Where is your car? he wants to know.
OH YEAH we left it at work Friday. (Glad we're finally both on the same page of reality now.)
So I pay a cab $10 to drive me two miles to my car, run inside and drop off his badge, and head out to Walgreen's.
I don't know if any of you have ever had to buy Plan B. I've never done it before and I wasn't looking forward to it. The pharmacy technician (of course it was a good looking guy. of course it was.) carded me, then gave me the "dirty whore" eye. Ok, maybe I imagined the dirty whore eye. But it felt like I had a giant red "A" on my sweatshirt. I resisted the urge to explain my situation to him, please don't think I'm a hoe, it's not what you think. I couldn't figure out a way to explain what happened without giving him way too much information, all unnecessary. So I bit my tongue and tried to look as non-whorey as possible.
And that is how I came to be depressed all over again. It's cold, it's dark, and the Universe is detemined to keep me down. In fact, I'm pretty sure the Universe is holding me down while Algebra pummels the ever-loving christ of my head every week. Oh, did I mention the endless post-D&C period, which ended last week, appears to have started again? Either that, or Gray broke me.
**UPDATED** Well, this appears to be the beginning of my November period. That's right: my October period lasted until two days before my November period started. Lovely. I'm sure you all needed that information. Good luck enjoying your strawberry jam now!
So I'm up, and we're puttering around drinking coffee. Gray leaves for work, his hands full with his lunch box, a bag of dishes to return to friends who were over for dinner Friday (they cooked for US at OUR house, trying to get them to move in here now), his guitar, his coffee. Not three minutes after he leaves, I find his work badge laying on the dresser in our bedroom. His badge is one of those computerized deals that he needs to be able to get around the building. I try calling him to report the AWOL badge, but get no answer. So I decide to hop in my car and drive two miles to our work, hand it over myself. Except my car is missing from the underground parking spot. WHO WOULD WANT TO STEAL MY CAR!? I freak out. I try calling him again. I race around to the outside parking lot. Nope, my car was definitely parked underground on Friday. God, now I have to call and report my car as stolen! What a clusterfuck!
Oh, wait. That's right. My car is still parked at work where I left it Friday because Gray picked me up for our doctor's appointment and we forgot to go back and get it.
WHEW ok, glad I remembered that before I filed a police report. Ok, so I'll hop on our bicycle and ride the two miles to work, drop off Gray's badge, leave the bike in his truck, and pick up my car. Perfect! I head outside in a sweatshirt (sweating, not realizing is 26 degrees and snowing out), unlock the bike, and begin to ride it. The chain slips. Fuck! I don't know how to fix the chain. I try to fix the chain. Nope, that didn't work. Ok, fine. So I walk the bike back to the apartment and I call a cab.
About this time, Gray calls to say he got my frantic messages and I don't need to pay for a cab to take his badge. He doesn't need it, it's ok.
But I need to get my car! I have to go buy the Plan B pill, I remind him.
Where is your car? he wants to know.
OH YEAH we left it at work Friday. (Glad we're finally both on the same page of reality now.)
So I pay a cab $10 to drive me two miles to my car, run inside and drop off his badge, and head out to Walgreen's.
I don't know if any of you have ever had to buy Plan B. I've never done it before and I wasn't looking forward to it. The pharmacy technician (of course it was a good looking guy. of course it was.) carded me, then gave me the "dirty whore" eye. Ok, maybe I imagined the dirty whore eye. But it felt like I had a giant red "A" on my sweatshirt. I resisted the urge to explain my situation to him, please don't think I'm a hoe, it's not what you think. I couldn't figure out a way to explain what happened without giving him way too much information, all unnecessary. So I bit my tongue and tried to look as non-whorey as possible.
And that is how I came to be depressed all over again. It's cold, it's dark, and the Universe is detemined to keep me down. In fact, I'm pretty sure the Universe is holding me down while Algebra pummels the ever-loving christ of my head every week. Oh, did I mention the endless post-D&C period, which ended last week, appears to have started again? Either that, or Gray broke me.
**UPDATED** Well, this appears to be the beginning of my November period. That's right: my October period lasted until two days before my November period started. Lovely. I'm sure you all needed that information. Good luck enjoying your strawberry jam now!
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