31 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: I don't recall June Cleaver dealing with this...
facebooking from the edge: I don't recall June Cleaver dealing with this...: "How To Give Your Hubby A Home-Haircut: 1. Look at the hair growing wildly and lushly on his head, that he's been promising to get cut f..."
I don't recall June Cleaver dealing with this...
How To Give Your Hubby A Home-Haircut:
1. Look at the hair growing wildly and lushly on his head, that he's been promising to get cut for three weeks but hasn't "had time" or "can't remember" to get done.
2. Get mildly irritated because really? He gets off of work at 4:30 and just had three days off.
3. Also? You remind him EVERY SINGLE DAY when he calls on his break at 3:00 that he needs to get his hair cut before he comes home. (Is it really that difficult to "remember" to get your hair cut? It's on your HEAD, for Christ's own sweet sake!)
4. Offer to cut it for him, because seriously, how hard can it be?
5. Set a chair up in the kitchen, grab the clippers and a sheet, and order him to sit down.
6. Wrap him up like a mummy, turn on clippers, and start mowing.
7. Feel a mild sense of shock that he really has THIS MUCH HAIR.
8. Realize, belatedly, that the fan in the livingroom is blowing right at you and billions and trillions and braZILLIONS of eensy, teeny shards, strands, crumbs, bits and pieces of HAIR are floating around your kitchen. (Old joke alert: A White House staff member informed George "Dubya" Bush that "Nine Brazillions died in a tragic accident yesterday." Replied Dubya, "That's HORRIBLE! How many are in a 'Brazillion'?" Bwaaaahahahahahahahahaaaaaa...)
9. Watch the clumps of hair glue themselves to your chest, your arms, your legs, your feet, the chair, the floor, and your husband.
10. Dear God how can someone have this much damn hair??
11. Shoo and yell at your sweet little pug, Maisy, because she got a big ol' slurpy drink and then came over to inspect your handiwork with water drizzling out of her droopy little mouth, creating puddles of wet hair all over the kitchen floor.
12. Hurt her feelings because you spoke harshly to her (instead of with the love and appreciation she is used to), causing her to hang her head and drag her wet muzzle through the puddles of hair on the floor, which will cling to her snout, paws, and chest, which she will then carry to the couch.
13. Find out, once and for all, that the ONE THING your fancy vacuum cleaner (which is designed SPECIFICALLY to deal with pet hair) CAN'T clean up is wet clumps of husband hair that is now attached to every surface in your house.
14. Blame it all on your husband, who couldn't find the dayum time to go to the barber shop.
15. $#@!%&*!!!
1. Look at the hair growing wildly and lushly on his head, that he's been promising to get cut for three weeks but hasn't "had time" or "can't remember" to get done.
2. Get mildly irritated because really? He gets off of work at 4:30 and just had three days off.
3. Also? You remind him EVERY SINGLE DAY when he calls on his break at 3:00 that he needs to get his hair cut before he comes home. (Is it really that difficult to "remember" to get your hair cut? It's on your HEAD, for Christ's own sweet sake!)
4. Offer to cut it for him, because seriously, how hard can it be?
5. Set a chair up in the kitchen, grab the clippers and a sheet, and order him to sit down.
6. Wrap him up like a mummy, turn on clippers, and start mowing.
7. Feel a mild sense of shock that he really has THIS MUCH HAIR.
8. Realize, belatedly, that the fan in the livingroom is blowing right at you and billions and trillions and braZILLIONS of eensy, teeny shards, strands, crumbs, bits and pieces of HAIR are floating around your kitchen. (Old joke alert: A White House staff member informed George "Dubya" Bush that "Nine Brazillions died in a tragic accident yesterday." Replied Dubya, "That's HORRIBLE! How many are in a 'Brazillion'?" Bwaaaahahahahahahahahaaaaaa...)
9. Watch the clumps of hair glue themselves to your chest, your arms, your legs, your feet, the chair, the floor, and your husband.
10. Dear God how can someone have this much damn hair??
11. Shoo and yell at your sweet little pug, Maisy, because she got a big ol' slurpy drink and then came over to inspect your handiwork with water drizzling out of her droopy little mouth, creating puddles of wet hair all over the kitchen floor.
12. Hurt her feelings because you spoke harshly to her (instead of with the love and appreciation she is used to), causing her to hang her head and drag her wet muzzle through the puddles of hair on the floor, which will cling to her snout, paws, and chest, which she will then carry to the couch.
13. Find out, once and for all, that the ONE THING your fancy vacuum cleaner (which is designed SPECIFICALLY to deal with pet hair) CAN'T clean up is wet clumps of husband hair that is now attached to every surface in your house.
14. Blame it all on your husband, who couldn't find the dayum time to go to the barber shop.
15. $#@!%&*!!!
30 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: Chopping down the family tree
facebooking from the edge: Chopping down the family tree: "I realize that there are a LOT of people who thrive on 'family.' To them, 'Family' doesn't just mean 'the people you happen to be related t..."
Chopping down the family tree
I realize that there are a LOT of people who thrive on "family." To them, "Family" doesn't just mean "the people you happen to be related to, either by blood, marriage, or other misfortune"... it means apple pie, Patriotism, Jesus, Mom, and spending every waking minute of your life up each other's butts.
Which is FINE, if that's what makes you happy.
To other people (like ME, for instance), family is more loosely interpreted as "people who kind of look like me and share similar DNA." I grew up with a total of 4 cousins, 2 aunts, 2 uncles, 1 grandmother, 1 grandfather, and a Madrinha. ("Madrinha," which translates to "godmother" in Portuguese, was a woman whose relationship to my grandmother I've never been quite sure of; what I DO know is they were both French, both obstinate, both opinionated, and she was at every family gathering and always brought those horrible chocolate and caramel See's suckers for us. I mean, really... if you're going to take the time to go to See's, please bring buttercreams. Am I right?) I thought Madrinha was her name for the first 5 years of my life, but eventually figured out that's just what we called her. To this day, I have no idea why.
Anyway, we saw the relatives on holidays and occasionally for Sunday dinner a few times a year. I adored my grandparents and aunts and uncles, tolerated my cousins, who were somewhat younger than me (and mostly boys), but never actually thought about their presence (or lack of) in my life. It was what it was; holidays meant relatives and the rest of the time we were perfectly content just knowing they were out there somewhere.
After I grew up and got married and moved away (which is what you're SUPPOSED TO DO when you grow up, right???) it was difficult to not see my sister and nieces as much as I wanted and I missed not being able to be a part of all of their milestones, but it didn't seem ODD to me. I mean, family doesn't have to live in your backyard in order to appreciate them and love them and stay close to them... or so I've alway believed. My kids spent summers at grandma's house getting to play with their cousins, we kept in touch and I love my nieces as much as I would if I had seen them every day.
And then I met Dan.
We have what you might call "A Mixed Marriage."
He grew up in a small, small, SMALL town in Northern New York with FIFTY-TWO first cousins, 98% of which lived within 10 miles of him, SIXTEEN aunts and uncles, various great aunts and uncles, second, third, fourth, fifth, seventy-fifth cousins, blah blah blah... and they all spent as much time as possible together and LOVED IT. Every summer they have Annual Reunions, on BOTH sides of the family, and hundreds (THOUSANDS) of relatives show up, bearing casserole dishes and beer, to celebrate the joy of being related and living in the same damn town their entire lives, forever and ever, amen.
This is Dan's perception of "family."
I don't get it.
I don't WANT to spend every waking minute with my relatives. Nothing against them, I think they're awesome and wonderful and interesting and intelligent and creative and I'm very proud of all of their accomplishments. I wish I could see them more often, or even at all, because I truly love being related to these people and miss being a part of their lives. But if I lived in the same town, I'm pretty sure I still wouldn't see them every week, or even every month... because we all have other things to do. Ya know? I mean, heck... I lived NEXT DOOR to my mother for a year with my three kids and my husband and literally saw her maybe once a month.
Dan, on the other hand, has a family who wants him living in their basement for the rest of his life. If we discuss going out to dinner, the FIRST THING HE DOES is pick up the phone and call his mom and invite his parents and their grandkids (who live with them) to come along, too.
One of my favorite things to say to him, when he claims I'm "exaggerating", is "Remember the time we went on our HONEYMOON and you invited your parents?" Because yeah... THAT HAPPENED.
And they came.
Nuff said.
My hesitation in including everyone he's related to in every single thing we do is often misconstrued as "You HATE my family!"
No, not at all. I love your family. I love MY family MORE. BUT I DON'T FEEL THE NEED TO BE WITH THEM 24/7 IN ORDER TO EXPRESS MY LOVE AND DEVOTION.
Hell, I don't want to be with my HUSBAND 24/7.
So yeah, now that we live in the same state in the same county, it's like we're all joined at the gd hip.
I want to sever it.
Now.
Dan doesn't get it.
Sometimes I think it would be easier if Dan just moved in with his parents and I went and visited once a month or so...
yes?
Which is FINE, if that's what makes you happy.
To other people (like ME, for instance), family is more loosely interpreted as "people who kind of look like me and share similar DNA." I grew up with a total of 4 cousins, 2 aunts, 2 uncles, 1 grandmother, 1 grandfather, and a Madrinha. ("Madrinha," which translates to "godmother" in Portuguese, was a woman whose relationship to my grandmother I've never been quite sure of; what I DO know is they were both French, both obstinate, both opinionated, and she was at every family gathering and always brought those horrible chocolate and caramel See's suckers for us. I mean, really... if you're going to take the time to go to See's, please bring buttercreams. Am I right?) I thought Madrinha was her name for the first 5 years of my life, but eventually figured out that's just what we called her. To this day, I have no idea why.
Anyway, we saw the relatives on holidays and occasionally for Sunday dinner a few times a year. I adored my grandparents and aunts and uncles, tolerated my cousins, who were somewhat younger than me (and mostly boys), but never actually thought about their presence (or lack of) in my life. It was what it was; holidays meant relatives and the rest of the time we were perfectly content just knowing they were out there somewhere.
After I grew up and got married and moved away (which is what you're SUPPOSED TO DO when you grow up, right???) it was difficult to not see my sister and nieces as much as I wanted and I missed not being able to be a part of all of their milestones, but it didn't seem ODD to me. I mean, family doesn't have to live in your backyard in order to appreciate them and love them and stay close to them... or so I've alway believed. My kids spent summers at grandma's house getting to play with their cousins, we kept in touch and I love my nieces as much as I would if I had seen them every day.
And then I met Dan.
We have what you might call "A Mixed Marriage."
He grew up in a small, small, SMALL town in Northern New York with FIFTY-TWO first cousins, 98% of which lived within 10 miles of him, SIXTEEN aunts and uncles, various great aunts and uncles, second, third, fourth, fifth, seventy-fifth cousins, blah blah blah... and they all spent as much time as possible together and LOVED IT. Every summer they have Annual Reunions, on BOTH sides of the family, and hundreds (THOUSANDS) of relatives show up, bearing casserole dishes and beer, to celebrate the joy of being related and living in the same damn town their entire lives, forever and ever, amen.
This is Dan's perception of "family."
I don't get it.
I don't WANT to spend every waking minute with my relatives. Nothing against them, I think they're awesome and wonderful and interesting and intelligent and creative and I'm very proud of all of their accomplishments. I wish I could see them more often, or even at all, because I truly love being related to these people and miss being a part of their lives. But if I lived in the same town, I'm pretty sure I still wouldn't see them every week, or even every month... because we all have other things to do. Ya know? I mean, heck... I lived NEXT DOOR to my mother for a year with my three kids and my husband and literally saw her maybe once a month.
Dan, on the other hand, has a family who wants him living in their basement for the rest of his life. If we discuss going out to dinner, the FIRST THING HE DOES is pick up the phone and call his mom and invite his parents and their grandkids (who live with them) to come along, too.
One of my favorite things to say to him, when he claims I'm "exaggerating", is "Remember the time we went on our HONEYMOON and you invited your parents?" Because yeah... THAT HAPPENED.
And they came.
Nuff said.
My hesitation in including everyone he's related to in every single thing we do is often misconstrued as "You HATE my family!"
No, not at all. I love your family. I love MY family MORE. BUT I DON'T FEEL THE NEED TO BE WITH THEM 24/7 IN ORDER TO EXPRESS MY LOVE AND DEVOTION.
Hell, I don't want to be with my HUSBAND 24/7.
So yeah, now that we live in the same state in the same county, it's like we're all joined at the gd hip.
I want to sever it.
Now.
Dan doesn't get it.
Sometimes I think it would be easier if Dan just moved in with his parents and I went and visited once a month or so...
yes?
29 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: Dear Ambien,
facebooking from the edge: Dear Ambien,: "It was love at first sight. I remember vividly (because there are pictures documenting it) the first time we met. It was after a night of ..."
Dear Ambien,
It was love at first sight. I remember vividly (because there are pictures documenting it) the first time we met. It was after a night of booze and shenanigans with Wendy, Tracy and Jessica. I won't go into graphic detail but after sucking down two fishbowls of 7 different kind of liquors and throwing dollah bills at the girls at The Office (Medford, Oregons, Number 1 all-girls-all-nude-all-the-time strip club). In our defense, we were there taking notes in preparation for the pole dancing class we were going to take the next day while guzzling vast quantities of Blue Hawaiians (there may or may not have been lap dancing involved), we headed on home to Wendy's house, drunker than drunk and ready to continue partay-ing.
Since we had to be up and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the following morning for our pole dancing class, which would be followed by a combination purse/jeans/Mary Kay/Tarot Reading party, Wendy decided we should all take an Ambien so that we would go right to sleep and wake up refreshed. (Drunken logic is rarely sound, y'all... but it always seems like rocket science to other drunks.)
Ambien was passed around and the next thing I remember was waking up at 7:30 in the morning, not feeling as hideously hungover as I thought I would but still not terrific. For some reason I had pink cupcake crumbs all over my shirt, I couldn't find my jammie bottoms, and I had frosting in my hair.
Hmmmm.
I toodled out to the kitchen and noticed five dozen mini pink frosted cupcakes THAT WERE NOT THERE THE NIGHT BEFORE gracing the counter top.
Ponder, ponder...
Eventually, we all checked our cameras and cellphones, which contained picture after picture of Tracy, Wendy and I wildly and raucously frosting cupcakes, eating cupcakes, and wearing cupcakes while Jessica was photographed slumped and passed out on the kitchen floor. Apparently, we neatly stepped over and around her while having ourselves a pre-dawn cupcake party.
Good times, good times.
Since I have been suffering from insomnia since I was a little girl (I was afraid to go to sleep because of the end of "Now I lay me down to sleep"... the "If I should die before I wake" part sent me into a nightly panic. Once my mother figured it out, after 4 or 5 years of me refusing to fall asleep, we switched it immediately over to The Lord's Prayer, but the damage was done... Dani Doesn't Sleep) the idea of a good night sleep, every single night, was intriguing. I slept so soundly after taking Ambien (alcohol may have played a part in that, but still... on the rare occasions that I drink myself stupid I'm usually wide awake and stupid, rather than passed out quietly like everyone else) that I really, really wanted to see if it would work for me.
I talked to my doctor and bless her heart, she wrote me my very own prescription and sent me home with it. YAY! I eagerly anticipated all the sleep I would be getting, finally, after 45 years of wakefulness.
It worked GREAT. I would take it around 9:00 and be sleeping soundly by 10. Perfection!
But then I started noticing little things, like popcorn spilled all over the couch, empty candy wrappers lying around the livingroom, shoes and purses that I didn't remember ordering coming in the mail, text messages and phone calls that I had absolutely ZERO recollection of...
Uh oh.
It got to the point where the first thing I would do in the morning is check my phone to make sure I hadn't called or texted anyone the night before.
When a particularly ugly pair of black Uggs arrived in the mail, I started recognizing that there might be a teensy little problem.
I started referring to these lapses as "Ambienesia." The worst part of Ambienesia was the munchies.
On one particularly horrible occasion, I CUT MY OWN HAIR BEFORE GOING TO BED. I got up in the morning and there were clippers, scissors, and clumps of hair all over the bathroom sink.
But most often, I would go through every food item in the kitchen, like a cartoon version of a swarm of termites eating a house. And not remember it.
Not good for a fat girl who's trying to watch her weight.
I tell myself every night right after taking my Ambien, "Do NOT eat anything!!" and I tell Dan, "Do NOT let me eat anything!!" He always half-way listens to me and says, "Okay..." but I'm pretty sure he's never yanked a candy bar out of my mouth while I'm rummaging through the kitchen EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before I go to bed.
Seriously, DUDE... !!!
So anyway, this morning I woke up and thought, "Whew... I didn't eat anything last night except a couple of plain Saltines." I got up, toodled into the kitchen, and...
What. The FUCK.
???
An empty container of Dole peaches was sitting on the end table next to the loveseat. The packaging for a microwavable brownie melt thingy that has been in the pantry in Crescent City and here for about a year was on the counter, with a spoon stuck to the side of the empty black bowl. Two American cheese wrappers were on the stove.
Shit.
Okay, message received: Ambien is making me fat. Ambien is making me stupid. I have no place to be in the morning, insomnia is not going to kill me.
I think.
So anyway, Dear Ambien, I think we need to call it quits. This has been the best, most well-rested three years of my life, but I think it's time to bid thee adieu.
I'm dying a little inside as I write these words...
The hideous shoe and purse orders and damage to my bank account I can live with; the nightly piggery and potential for a shaved head, I cannot.
I will miss you soooooo...
Love,
Dani
Since we had to be up and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the following morning for our pole dancing class, which would be followed by a combination purse/jeans/Mary Kay/Tarot Reading party, Wendy decided we should all take an Ambien so that we would go right to sleep and wake up refreshed. (Drunken logic is rarely sound, y'all... but it always seems like rocket science to other drunks.)
Ambien was passed around and the next thing I remember was waking up at 7:30 in the morning, not feeling as hideously hungover as I thought I would but still not terrific. For some reason I had pink cupcake crumbs all over my shirt, I couldn't find my jammie bottoms, and I had frosting in my hair.
Hmmmm.
I toodled out to the kitchen and noticed five dozen mini pink frosted cupcakes THAT WERE NOT THERE THE NIGHT BEFORE gracing the counter top.
Ponder, ponder...
Eventually, we all checked our cameras and cellphones, which contained picture after picture of Tracy, Wendy and I wildly and raucously frosting cupcakes, eating cupcakes, and wearing cupcakes while Jessica was photographed slumped and passed out on the kitchen floor. Apparently, we neatly stepped over and around her while having ourselves a pre-dawn cupcake party.
Good times, good times.
Since I have been suffering from insomnia since I was a little girl (I was afraid to go to sleep because of the end of "Now I lay me down to sleep"... the "If I should die before I wake" part sent me into a nightly panic. Once my mother figured it out, after 4 or 5 years of me refusing to fall asleep, we switched it immediately over to The Lord's Prayer, but the damage was done... Dani Doesn't Sleep) the idea of a good night sleep, every single night, was intriguing. I slept so soundly after taking Ambien (alcohol may have played a part in that, but still... on the rare occasions that I drink myself stupid I'm usually wide awake and stupid, rather than passed out quietly like everyone else) that I really, really wanted to see if it would work for me.
I talked to my doctor and bless her heart, she wrote me my very own prescription and sent me home with it. YAY! I eagerly anticipated all the sleep I would be getting, finally, after 45 years of wakefulness.
It worked GREAT. I would take it around 9:00 and be sleeping soundly by 10. Perfection!
But then I started noticing little things, like popcorn spilled all over the couch, empty candy wrappers lying around the livingroom, shoes and purses that I didn't remember ordering coming in the mail, text messages and phone calls that I had absolutely ZERO recollection of...
Uh oh.
It got to the point where the first thing I would do in the morning is check my phone to make sure I hadn't called or texted anyone the night before.
When a particularly ugly pair of black Uggs arrived in the mail, I started recognizing that there might be a teensy little problem.
I started referring to these lapses as "Ambienesia." The worst part of Ambienesia was the munchies.
On one particularly horrible occasion, I CUT MY OWN HAIR BEFORE GOING TO BED. I got up in the morning and there were clippers, scissors, and clumps of hair all over the bathroom sink.
But most often, I would go through every food item in the kitchen, like a cartoon version of a swarm of termites eating a house. And not remember it.
Not good for a fat girl who's trying to watch her weight.
I tell myself every night right after taking my Ambien, "Do NOT eat anything!!" and I tell Dan, "Do NOT let me eat anything!!" He always half-way listens to me and says, "Okay..." but I'm pretty sure he's never yanked a candy bar out of my mouth while I'm rummaging through the kitchen EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before I go to bed.
Seriously, DUDE... !!!
So anyway, this morning I woke up and thought, "Whew... I didn't eat anything last night except a couple of plain Saltines." I got up, toodled into the kitchen, and...
What. The FUCK.
???
An empty container of Dole peaches was sitting on the end table next to the loveseat. The packaging for a microwavable brownie melt thingy that has been in the pantry in Crescent City and here for about a year was on the counter, with a spoon stuck to the side of the empty black bowl. Two American cheese wrappers were on the stove.
Shit.
Okay, message received: Ambien is making me fat. Ambien is making me stupid. I have no place to be in the morning, insomnia is not going to kill me.
I think.
So anyway, Dear Ambien, I think we need to call it quits. This has been the best, most well-rested three years of my life, but I think it's time to bid thee adieu.
I'm dying a little inside as I write these words...
The hideous shoe and purse orders and damage to my bank account I can live with; the nightly piggery and potential for a shaved head, I cannot.
I will miss you soooooo...
Love,
Dani
28 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: A Day In The Shallow End
facebooking from the edge: A Day In The Shallow End: "Happiness is: finding out that the state of New York doesn't care how much I weigh. To those of you who've spent your lives with a dri..."
A Day In The Shallow End
Happiness is: finding out that the state of New York doesn't care how much I weigh.
To those of you who've spent your lives with a driver's license that only lists your name, age, hair and eye color, you have NO idea of the stress involved in filling out that little space on the California Driver's License Application that says Weight: ________.
It doesn't matter if your height to weight ratio is in perfect proportion or if you have such a low BMI that you eat chocolate cake washed down with a full fat mocha for breakfast (I don't even know what a full fat mocha tastes like... I don't think I've ever allowed myself to order full fat ANYTHING) and whine that you "just can't keep the weight on"; NO one wants to write the correct number in that spot. NO ONE.
(Remember how, when we were kids, we always had the threat of something going in to our "permanent record"? I've always had the vague notion that it's kept at the DMV and that's where they document your weight for all eternity. I do not want future archeologists to dig this shit up and put it in a history book next to my picture. "Wow, Millenium Woman was a bit of a chubbo...")
Even if you're one of those enviable obese people who has such a rockin' body image and amazing self-esteem (I can't tell you how much I envy those people) that you love yourself how you are and tell everybody that you are "Fat AND fabulous" while embracing your curves and workin' the room and have no problem getting dressed without first encasing yourself in Spanx from top to bottom, you do not want to write that number down. If you say you don't care, you are LYING... and I guarantee your number has been reduced by at least 20 lbs. (10 if you're not overweight; 5 if you're downright skinny.)
The first time I got my driver's license I weighed 110 lbs. At 5'1, this is not exactly a weight that would have put me in one of those motorized scooters at the Walmart, but it was enough to make me write "100 lbs" down instead. I mean, 110 wasn't bad but 100 was much better. I remember being more worried that they would question whether or not my weight was correct than I was about actually passing the test.
When I had to renew my license shortly after I gave birth to Kacey, I was still carrying around some baby fat (the kid weighed almost 10 lbs... cut me some slack here!) and probably weighed around 145. Naturally, this required writing "115" because, you know... I was dieting and would (yeah right) get back down to that weight soon. (Also? I was afraid that if I had left it saying "100 lbs" they would have laughed in my face and then said, "Okay, no really... how much do you weigh?" at which point I would have died on the spot.)
And so on and so forth. One of my biggest (pettiest) concerns has always been that one day I will walk into the DMV to renew my license and they will take one look at the LIE I told about how much I weigh and force me to step on a giant scale, which will flash the number overheard while they're taking my picture and it would appear in giant, glowing red numbers in my (no doubt already not great) driver's license photo.
Lord, I wish I were kidding when I say that but damned if it isn't true. I should be more concerned about starving children and global warming but alas, when faced with the prospect of weighing myself in public, I'd sell my mother to keep my ass off of that scale. (My Miss America acceptance speech would be a little less "end world hunger" and more "never allow a scale to be placed in the DMV." I would bring tears to my audience with my passioned plea, no doubt.)
New York just got a little bit better. One small step for moving here, one giant step towards getting my fanny down to the DMV and switching over my license,
Every cloud...
To those of you who've spent your lives with a driver's license that only lists your name, age, hair and eye color, you have NO idea of the stress involved in filling out that little space on the California Driver's License Application that says Weight: ________.
It doesn't matter if your height to weight ratio is in perfect proportion or if you have such a low BMI that you eat chocolate cake washed down with a full fat mocha for breakfast (I don't even know what a full fat mocha tastes like... I don't think I've ever allowed myself to order full fat ANYTHING) and whine that you "just can't keep the weight on"; NO one wants to write the correct number in that spot. NO ONE.
(Remember how, when we were kids, we always had the threat of something going in to our "permanent record"? I've always had the vague notion that it's kept at the DMV and that's where they document your weight for all eternity. I do not want future archeologists to dig this shit up and put it in a history book next to my picture. "Wow, Millenium Woman was a bit of a chubbo...")
Even if you're one of those enviable obese people who has such a rockin' body image and amazing self-esteem (I can't tell you how much I envy those people) that you love yourself how you are and tell everybody that you are "Fat AND fabulous" while embracing your curves and workin' the room and have no problem getting dressed without first encasing yourself in Spanx from top to bottom, you do not want to write that number down. If you say you don't care, you are LYING... and I guarantee your number has been reduced by at least 20 lbs. (10 if you're not overweight; 5 if you're downright skinny.)
The first time I got my driver's license I weighed 110 lbs. At 5'1, this is not exactly a weight that would have put me in one of those motorized scooters at the Walmart, but it was enough to make me write "100 lbs" down instead. I mean, 110 wasn't bad but 100 was much better. I remember being more worried that they would question whether or not my weight was correct than I was about actually passing the test.
When I had to renew my license shortly after I gave birth to Kacey, I was still carrying around some baby fat (the kid weighed almost 10 lbs... cut me some slack here!) and probably weighed around 145. Naturally, this required writing "115" because, you know... I was dieting and would (yeah right) get back down to that weight soon. (Also? I was afraid that if I had left it saying "100 lbs" they would have laughed in my face and then said, "Okay, no really... how much do you weigh?" at which point I would have died on the spot.)
And so on and so forth. One of my biggest (pettiest) concerns has always been that one day I will walk into the DMV to renew my license and they will take one look at the LIE I told about how much I weigh and force me to step on a giant scale, which will flash the number overheard while they're taking my picture and it would appear in giant, glowing red numbers in my (no doubt already not great) driver's license photo.
Lord, I wish I were kidding when I say that but damned if it isn't true. I should be more concerned about starving children and global warming but alas, when faced with the prospect of weighing myself in public, I'd sell my mother to keep my ass off of that scale. (My Miss America acceptance speech would be a little less "end world hunger" and more "never allow a scale to be placed in the DMV." I would bring tears to my audience with my passioned plea, no doubt.)
New York just got a little bit better. One small step for moving here, one giant step towards getting my fanny down to the DMV and switching over my license,
Every cloud...
27 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: California looooooove....
facebooking from the edge: California looooooove....: "Am I the only 48 year old white woman with ZERO street cred who cranks Tupac and occasionally tosses 'rap lingo' into my vocab? I'm thinkin..."
California looooooove....
Am I the only 48 year old white woman with ZERO street cred who cranks Tupac and occasionally tosses "rap lingo" into my vocab? I'm thinking no, but I am aware that we are few and far between, which is (most likely) a GOOD thing.
But I do love me some Tupac, yo.
Anyway, "California Love" has become my theme song since moving to the Nawth County (northern New York, for those of you who don't remember or haven't been paying attention to my relentless whining over the past 4 months). I will get into my smokin' HAWT shiny red HHR (which my children have dubbed "The Brave Little Toaster"... SUCH an uncool name for my fabulous little car!), click on my iPod, and crank up Tupac as I drive the .0006 miles to the Big M. For those 30 seconds (if you're wondering why I just don't WALK to the end of the block... BITE ME) I am large and in charge, California from the tips of my tri-colored hair to the bottoms of my Rocket Dog flip-flops, to the core of my being, to my Ed Hardy skullandrosesblingblingggg sunglasses and my I'llnevergettiredofcarryingit Ed Hardy bag. I may be a lone golden poppy in a sea of Empire State license plates and no-nonsense mom-jeans, but I'm blissfully content while doing it.
Then I wilt in the heat and humidity and watch my beloved Amish trot on by (which I still find as charming as a herd of newborn puppies) and it hits me, all over again, how far from my Motherland I actually am.
If you stay on one side of the country (right, left, up, down) it probably doesn't occur to you that the US of A is awash with cultural and locational diversity. California is as far removed from New York as New Hampshire is from Alabama, and while we may giggle at it while watching it on sitcoms, actually LIVING it is a whole different ball of wax.
I always thought I'd rock as a New Yorker. I mean, I'm cool, I'm hip, I'm artistic...
But my cool, hip, artisticness is more at home in San Francisco than it is in NYC. Or so it turns out.
The main differences that I've noticed between me and everyone else in this place are:
1. I'm WAY more friendly. It's not that they're UN-friendly, it's just that they're more... reserved. No one strikes up a conversation with a total stranger in the check-out line at the Price Chopper. No one waves and giggles and yucks it up with the Soccer Mom power-walking her baby to the park. No one's naughty pug is running down the street dragging her leash behind her because they accidentally dropped it while fumbling with their cellphone because a perfect Amish photo-op appeared out of nowhere on their street. No one gives a shit that you did your own weave with 5 different hair colors and has stopped to compliment you while you're trying to find a gd lime in the produce section.
2. I'm wayyyyyyyyy more touchy-feely. Note to self: New Yorkers do NOT appreciate it when a complete stranger grabs their hand and asks them who does their nails.
3. People who are employed do not tend to have visible tattoos. It even appears in the employment section of North Country News: "No smokers, piercings, or tattoos." That would eliminate about 70% of the state of California. I got my first tattoo 25 years ago in a tattoo parlor in Laguna Beach. Here in northern NY, there AREN'T any tattoo parlors. OR tattoos. The only person with a tattoo I've seen since I've been here is Mr. Awesome, who, while being something of an asshole, is also very well inked. And, it turns out, from Ohio. (And really buff. Lord have mercy. A well-built, good-looking asshole WILL turn my head every. Single. Time. But only for a moment, and only to appreciate. I will then promptly go back to hating him the second I climb into the shower and have no hot water.)
4. My rambling conversations and segues that seemingly have no connection are almost impossible for New Yorkers to follow. While Californians have no problem keeping up with non sequiters (in fact, we've turned them into an art form), New Yorkers seem to expect a conversation to flow smoothly from point A to point A and a half, with no stops in between to discuss your purse, your shoes, your hair, People Magazine, Cosmo, the weather, astrological signs, your dog, your children, Who's Who on your list of Celebs Who Have Had Cosmetic Surgery, which cosmetic procedures YOU'D like to have done, and your friend Wendy's daughter Venice. I'm starting to notice that when I'm in the middle of a monologue (which is what all of my conversations are turning into), the person I'm talking to will start to slowly back away, their eyes glazing over, a look of fear and confusion on their faces. It has the tendency to almost make me stop talking.
5. No one here shows off any cleavage, y'all. Seriously. The only boobs making an even partial appearance in the Nawth Country are mine. I've always considered cleavage an accessory to whatever look I'm trying to achieve. Boobs are good. Boobs make a statement. Boobs are there to lift, separate, decorate, tattoo, enhance, augment, and flaunt. Am I right? So why are all these northern New Yorkers so damn buttoned up??? I don't get it.
6. Even I'M starting to get that I'M the one here with an accent. The flat nasal tones of the locals clash decidedly with my slow-fast-shortened vowels and drawn out syllables. When I hear myself say, "Ohhhhh rillyyyyyyyyy?" or "Whaaaaaaatttt?" or, most recently, "What is UPPPP with this weatherrrrrrrrr? I mean, like, the heat? I'm totallyyyy good with it... but the humidityyyyy? Ummm...NO" I see a giant Paris Hilton hanging over my head saying, "You're one of us... that's HAWT."
And I die a little inside.
It's not like I want to talk like the locals. Oh, dear GOD, no. Sometimes listening to the locally made commercials is like sitting through a kazoo concert. Everything comes straight out their noses and sounds like a goose honking. (Which I may or may not imitate, for my own buck-snorting amusement, in the privacy of my own livingroom.) It's just that I do so adore talking, but I hate that when I do? I sound kind of like a snotty bitch, compared to everyone I'm talking to.
It's a small price to pay, I'm sure, for the glory and good fortune of being born a Native Californian.
But I'm not super thrilled with feeling like the Cheese Standing Alone every time I leave my house.
Ya know?
But I do love me some Tupac, yo.
Anyway, "California Love" has become my theme song since moving to the Nawth County (northern New York, for those of you who don't remember or haven't been paying attention to my relentless whining over the past 4 months). I will get into my smokin' HAWT shiny red HHR (which my children have dubbed "The Brave Little Toaster"... SUCH an uncool name for my fabulous little car!), click on my iPod, and crank up Tupac as I drive the .0006 miles to the Big M. For those 30 seconds (if you're wondering why I just don't WALK to the end of the block... BITE ME) I am large and in charge, California from the tips of my tri-colored hair to the bottoms of my Rocket Dog flip-flops, to the core of my being, to my Ed Hardy skullandrosesblingblingggg sunglasses and my I'llnevergettiredofcarryingit Ed Hardy bag. I may be a lone golden poppy in a sea of Empire State license plates and no-nonsense mom-jeans, but I'm blissfully content while doing it.
Then I wilt in the heat and humidity and watch my beloved Amish trot on by (which I still find as charming as a herd of newborn puppies) and it hits me, all over again, how far from my Motherland I actually am.
If you stay on one side of the country (right, left, up, down) it probably doesn't occur to you that the US of A is awash with cultural and locational diversity. California is as far removed from New York as New Hampshire is from Alabama, and while we may giggle at it while watching it on sitcoms, actually LIVING it is a whole different ball of wax.
I always thought I'd rock as a New Yorker. I mean, I'm cool, I'm hip, I'm artistic...
But my cool, hip, artisticness is more at home in San Francisco than it is in NYC. Or so it turns out.
The main differences that I've noticed between me and everyone else in this place are:
1. I'm WAY more friendly. It's not that they're UN-friendly, it's just that they're more... reserved. No one strikes up a conversation with a total stranger in the check-out line at the Price Chopper. No one waves and giggles and yucks it up with the Soccer Mom power-walking her baby to the park. No one's naughty pug is running down the street dragging her leash behind her because they accidentally dropped it while fumbling with their cellphone because a perfect Amish photo-op appeared out of nowhere on their street. No one gives a shit that you did your own weave with 5 different hair colors and has stopped to compliment you while you're trying to find a gd lime in the produce section.
2. I'm wayyyyyyyyy more touchy-feely. Note to self: New Yorkers do NOT appreciate it when a complete stranger grabs their hand and asks them who does their nails.
3. People who are employed do not tend to have visible tattoos. It even appears in the employment section of North Country News: "No smokers, piercings, or tattoos." That would eliminate about 70% of the state of California. I got my first tattoo 25 years ago in a tattoo parlor in Laguna Beach. Here in northern NY, there AREN'T any tattoo parlors. OR tattoos. The only person with a tattoo I've seen since I've been here is Mr. Awesome, who, while being something of an asshole, is also very well inked. And, it turns out, from Ohio. (And really buff. Lord have mercy. A well-built, good-looking asshole WILL turn my head every. Single. Time. But only for a moment, and only to appreciate. I will then promptly go back to hating him the second I climb into the shower and have no hot water.)
4. My rambling conversations and segues that seemingly have no connection are almost impossible for New Yorkers to follow. While Californians have no problem keeping up with non sequiters (in fact, we've turned them into an art form), New Yorkers seem to expect a conversation to flow smoothly from point A to point A and a half, with no stops in between to discuss your purse, your shoes, your hair, People Magazine, Cosmo, the weather, astrological signs, your dog, your children, Who's Who on your list of Celebs Who Have Had Cosmetic Surgery, which cosmetic procedures YOU'D like to have done, and your friend Wendy's daughter Venice. I'm starting to notice that when I'm in the middle of a monologue (which is what all of my conversations are turning into), the person I'm talking to will start to slowly back away, their eyes glazing over, a look of fear and confusion on their faces. It has the tendency to almost make me stop talking.
5. No one here shows off any cleavage, y'all. Seriously. The only boobs making an even partial appearance in the Nawth Country are mine. I've always considered cleavage an accessory to whatever look I'm trying to achieve. Boobs are good. Boobs make a statement. Boobs are there to lift, separate, decorate, tattoo, enhance, augment, and flaunt. Am I right? So why are all these northern New Yorkers so damn buttoned up??? I don't get it.
6. Even I'M starting to get that I'M the one here with an accent. The flat nasal tones of the locals clash decidedly with my slow-fast-shortened vowels and drawn out syllables. When I hear myself say, "Ohhhhh rillyyyyyyyyy?" or "Whaaaaaaatttt?" or, most recently, "What is UPPPP with this weatherrrrrrrrr? I mean, like, the heat? I'm totallyyyy good with it... but the humidityyyyy? Ummm...NO" I see a giant Paris Hilton hanging over my head saying, "You're one of us... that's HAWT."
And I die a little inside.
It's not like I want to talk like the locals. Oh, dear GOD, no. Sometimes listening to the locally made commercials is like sitting through a kazoo concert. Everything comes straight out their noses and sounds like a goose honking. (Which I may or may not imitate, for my own buck-snorting amusement, in the privacy of my own livingroom.) It's just that I do so adore talking, but I hate that when I do? I sound kind of like a snotty bitch, compared to everyone I'm talking to.
It's a small price to pay, I'm sure, for the glory and good fortune of being born a Native Californian.
But I'm not super thrilled with feeling like the Cheese Standing Alone every time I leave my house.
Ya know?
26 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: Rainy days and Mondays...
facebooking from the edge: Rain days and Mondays...: "always make me want to spend the day in bed. But truthfully? I never do. I know, I know... y'all are thinking, 'Girlfriend is une..."
Rainy days and Mondays...
always make me want to spend the day in bed.
But truthfully? I never do.
I know, I know... y'all are thinking, "Girlfriend is unemployed and spends the day whining and complaining on Facebook... what does she mean she never spends the day in bed?"
It may appear that I am lazy, unproductive, and unmotivated, but that's not so much true. (Mostly.)
I have been cursed with a little known condition called "Can't Relax-itis." I think I inherited it from my grandmother, who barely sat down long enough to decide she'd had enough of this Earthly Life and announce that she would be heading to Heaven soon. (I'm not kidding... My niece told her that she wanted Grammy to be in her wedding, which would be two months after her 90th birthday. Grammy said, "Well, that's nice, honey, but I won't be there." My sister chimed in with, "Of course you will be, Grammy! You aren't going anywhere!" And Grammy said, "Oh really? And where do you get YOUR information?" True and stubborn and beautifully French to the end, she passed away less than a month later.)
Anyway, I have a really, REALLY hard time sitting down and doing nothing. If I'm not multi-tasking, I'm wiggling my foot and going slightly crazy because if I'm not utilizing both sides of my brain at the same time, I'm bored.
This has led to many a ridiculous fight with Dan. He, on the other hand, can ONLY do one thing at a time. Which drives me crazy. On the rare occasions that he's had to make himself dinner, he cooks ONE THING AT A TIME (after asking me what he should eat). He will heat up his soup standing next to the microwave watching it spin in circles until it dings. THEN he gets out his sandwich fixins and takes 5 MINUTES to make his sandwich. (Footnote: According to spellcheck, I have been spelling "sandwich" wrong my entire life. Who knew there weren't two H's in it?? Not me!!)
Now that the soup is cold and the sandwich is finally freaking ready, he hunts down the Saltines (which for some reason he hasn't figured out are in the same cupboard as all the other crackers), pours himself a soda (after asking me what there is to drink), and finally sits down to eat it. This irritates me SO MUCH that 99% of the time even if I'm in the middle of doing something else, I will stop what I'm doing and fix lunch for him.
He gets all pouty and says things like, "Stop treating me like a little kid..." to which *I* reply...
Never mind. Needless to say, he gets glad in the same pants he got mad in and eats the lunch I prepare for him.
So movie night in our house is a Once in a Blue Moon thing because Dan can't stand watching movies with me. It's not because I tear the movie apart the entire time I'm watching it, making fun of the plot, rolling my eyes at the dialogue, and saying "Yeah... THAT could happen...." every 22 seconds. (Because THAT? NEVER gets old. Am I right?)
It's because I can't just sit and watch a movie.
(We NEVER go to the theater to see a film because I get so out of my mind BORED just sitting there I miss half of the movie because I get up and down so many times. They should leave the lights turned up so I can read.)
Our Movie Nights go like this:
Dan will finally pick out a movie that I am willing to watch. It has to be a) funny b) not starring Adam Sandler, Will Ferrel, or Jim Carrey c) contain NO parts about a potentially dying animal/baby/parent/sibling/friend (in other words? No dead people... not because they scare me but because I LOATHE movies that make me cry) and d) be less than 2 hours long.
(You'd be amazed at how few movies meet this criteria.)
"Sweeping epics," "beautiful films," action/adventure, war movies, sci-fi, animation, chick flicks and anything using the Disney-Pixar label are not allowed. (Damn you, Wendy, for making me watch that incredibly heart-wrenching, tragic documentary last summer about the guy and his baby who were killed by his ex-wife... I think it was called Dear Zachary and it was devastating to watch. I hate you forever for making me cry for 2 hours and never allow me to forget this story.)
Seriously, I don't want to think, I don't want to cry, I don't want to be glued to my seat or catch my breath or squeal in fear and delight. I just want to laugh while I do other things.
Meanwhile, back to movie night.
Dan will put the DVD in and sit on the couch, remote in hand, waiting breathlessly for me to stop scurrying around the house and sit down.
Dan: Are you ready?
Me: Just a minute.
*five minutes later*
Dan: Are you ready?
Me: Hang on, I need to pee.
*five minutes later*
Dan: WOULD YOU JUST SIT DOWN?
I sit, pick up a book, grab my knitting and my computer and prepare to watch the movie.
Dan: What are you doing?
Me: I need something to do while we watch the movie.
Dan: Can't you just watch the movie?
Me: I WILL watch the movie.
Dan: *looking pissed* I thought we were going to watch a movie together.
Me: We ARE! I'm sitting here, right?
He clicks play and I open my book.
Thus begins the Argument That Lasts Until The Movie Ends (and beyond).
He huffs and puffs and pouts; I ignore and keep reading my book.
He clicks pause and glares meaningfully at the television screen; I sigh and close my book.
He says, "Thank you..." in a soulful, puppy-dog way that implies I just saved his mother by pushing her out of the way of an oncoming train; I think "Whatever" but say "You're welcome" because seriously? I feel like I'm doing him a huge favor.
I get up to pee 15 times; he offers to hit pause but I say, "No, no... that's okay... I'll pee with the door open so I don't miss a SECOND of dialogue."
I sit next to him and wiggle my foot, knitting frantically, while my mind wanders down 200 different paths, and I try really, really hard to pay attention to what's happening on screen.
Dan laughs his ass off and claps his hands, I giggle unconvincingly and wonder what just happened.
Dan rewinds to hear the part that he laughed through while I think, "NOOoooo... I have to watch this damn movie for 10 extra seconds??!!"
When it finally (mercifully) ends, Dan will say, "Was it THAT HARD for you to sit there with me for TWO HOURS?"
I always say, "No, of course not! That was great!" while inside I'm thinking, "You have nooooo frickin clue."
Which is why the IDEA of spending a rainy day relaxing in bed is nice but will probably never happen.
I don't even stay in bed when I'm sick. I drag my tired, aching, germy body into the livingroom and miserably clean the house.
When I had surgery 5 years ago and almost died from MRSA, I was still up washing dishes and vacuuming with the IV hanging out of my boob (you read that right) while Dan slept half the day and watched sports (because he needed to take time off of work to "help me out." Yeah... he was indispensable.)
I bounce out of bed the second I wake up and feel my blood pressure rise while Dan hits snooze 1500 times.
I don't nap, I don't vege, I don't lay around eating bon-bons because I can't. Sit. Still.
When I'm deeply engrossed in my murder and mayhem DVR marathons, what you DON'T know is that I only pay attention to about half of it because I'm also vacuuming, reading, surfing the internet, knitting, crocheting, brushing up on my sign language, drawing, doing the dishes, dusting, and folding laundry at the same time.
Okay, and here's my biggest confession of the day: As much as I bitch about Dan's inability to do anything... ANYTHING... for himself (I seriously do everything except go to the bathroom for him) the REASON he doesn't do anything for himself is because I don't LET him... because watching him do it makes me crazy and kind of want to hurt him.
So the fact that I'm lying in my bed right now with Javi and Maisy, listening to the rain while blogging, is nothing short of miraculous. I actually had to FORCE myself to do this. But I WANTED to listen to it rain, have the window open, smell the fresh air and the lilac that gets so much stronger when it's storming and appreciate the coolness, the breeze, and newness (to me, anyway) of an electrical storm in May.
I know I'll pop up any second now and do something else, but it was nice while it lasted. Maybe I'll watch a movie with Dan tonight...
Yeah, probably not.
It's the thought that counts, yes?
25 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: The Return of the Mullet?
facebooking from the edge: The Return of the Mullet?: "PLEASE say no. I'm noticing a trend among hot young mid-20 to 30something men... business in the front and a VERY small party in the back..."
The Return of the Mullet?
PLEASE say no.
I'm noticing a trend among hot young mid-20 to 30something men... business in the front and a VERY small party in the back.
I was just getting around to watching the first episode of a show I hadn't seen before called 'Happy Endings' and the "hot, sensitive guy" character is DEFinitely sporting an infant mullet. (That would be a brand new mullet, one that is fresh and new and still slightly unformed.) A mullet zygote is forming on the gay guy character (nothing irritates me more than a straight guy portraying a gay guy. Nothing) and the only character seemingly escaping this is the bald black guy character. (Stereo-typing a Hollywood group dynamic much?)
(I wasn't super impressed with the show, in case you were wondering. Seriously, are there no original plot ideas left in Hollywood?)
(This show also features a hot blond, a hot brunette, and a hot Marian the Librarian library type. Need I say more?)
Anyhoo, while the mullet has died a relatively slow death (especially in parts south and most Walmarts) it needed to go. Put it out of it's misery and drag it out only for NASCAR events, am I right? (The "Git R Done" hat needs to go, too, FYI.) I'm pretty sure we all breathed a sigh of relief when David Beckham cut off his thankfully short-lived mullet-hawk a couple of years ago. (I know I did.)
While the mullet still makes appearances when it's least expected (and usually when I don't have my camera... kind of like Bigfoot) for the most part it is never considered a fashion statement.
So why... WHY, I ask you... is Hollywood dragging it out of the early 90s and trying to bring it back??
Leave it in the attic with acid wash jeans and men's belly shirts, please.
(Also, if you're going to bring back a look, could it be the chubby females of the Rubens era? Please thank you.)
I'm noticing a trend among hot young mid-20 to 30something men... business in the front and a VERY small party in the back.
I was just getting around to watching the first episode of a show I hadn't seen before called 'Happy Endings' and the "hot, sensitive guy" character is DEFinitely sporting an infant mullet. (That would be a brand new mullet, one that is fresh and new and still slightly unformed.) A mullet zygote is forming on the gay guy character (nothing irritates me more than a straight guy portraying a gay guy. Nothing) and the only character seemingly escaping this is the bald black guy character. (Stereo-typing a Hollywood group dynamic much?)
(I wasn't super impressed with the show, in case you were wondering. Seriously, are there no original plot ideas left in Hollywood?)
(This show also features a hot blond, a hot brunette, and a hot Marian the Librarian library type. Need I say more?)
Anyhoo, while the mullet has died a relatively slow death (especially in parts south and most Walmarts) it needed to go. Put it out of it's misery and drag it out only for NASCAR events, am I right? (The "Git R Done" hat needs to go, too, FYI.) I'm pretty sure we all breathed a sigh of relief when David Beckham cut off his thankfully short-lived mullet-hawk a couple of years ago. (I know I did.)
While the mullet still makes appearances when it's least expected (and usually when I don't have my camera... kind of like Bigfoot) for the most part it is never considered a fashion statement.
So why... WHY, I ask you... is Hollywood dragging it out of the early 90s and trying to bring it back??
Leave it in the attic with acid wash jeans and men's belly shirts, please.
(Also, if you're going to bring back a look, could it be the chubby females of the Rubens era? Please thank you.)
24 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: There's no place like home *click* There's no pla...
facebooking from the edge: There's no place like home *click* There's no pla...: "(Only instead of Ruby Slippers I'm rocking mismatched socks, yo.) Two weeks of this: Me: *whiiiiiine* I'm hottttttt! Oh my God this..."
There's no place like home *click* There's no place like home *click*
(Only instead of Ruby Slippers I'm rocking mismatched socks, yo.)
Two weeks of this:
Me: *whiiiiiine* I'm hottttttt! Oh my God this humidity is killinggggggg meeeeeeeeeee! *fanning face with Kindle, magazine, newspaper, whatever*
Dan: *unsympathetically* Turn on the fan.
Me: I diiiiiiiiiiid but it's just blowing damp, wet, hot air around the room. *hyperventilating slightly as there isn't enough air to BREATHE*
Dan: You'll get used to it.
Me: *dramatically* I'm hotttttttttttt! I can't sleeeeeeeep.... ughhhh, this humidity sucksssssssss!!! <insert long day of extreme bitchiness due to lack of sleep and hatred of all things humid>
Dan: *not looking up from the Mets game* Turn on the fan.
Me: I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiid but it's just blowing damp, wet, hot air around the room. I can't BREATHE. Ugh... gross! Humidity! I hate it! *flop pathetically on couch with fan cranked up so high it's blowing your small Pomeranian across the room*
Dan: *engrossed in Deadliest Catch* You'll get used to it.
Me: (in bed every single night) *toss* *turn* *toss* *turn* *kick* *flail* *sigh* *thump pillow* *kick covers down really really aggressively* *siiiiiiiiiigh* *accidentally kick Dan* *SIIIIIIGHHHHHHH*
Dan: *snooooooooooooore* *snooooooooooooooore*
(Rat bastard couldn't even wake up to appreciate my "I'm hot" performance.)
Meanwhile, I seriously have been miserable. I don't mind the heat so much but the fact that the air is thick and wet and literally DOESN'T MOVE is TORTURE. I break a sweat in the shower, for God's sake. I can't do anything or go anywhere without feeling like someone just waterboarded me with a steady blast of hot mist.
For the past week I've been kicking it up a notch and adding some fine, fine Scarlett O'Hara southern-style vapors when we go outside, come back in, or are just casually hanging around in the livingroom. I am giving "looking HOT" a whole new meaning. When I look "hot" I literally look sweaty, wilted, and uncomfortable. When you add Maisy the Panting Pug collapsed next to me, we present a pretty compelling portrait of chubby misery. (Have I mentioned she's my soul mate?)
Over the weekend, the rainy heat was stifling. We had an outside BBQ at Dan's parent's house and had to take a FAN out so that none of us would die from heat stroke or suffocate from the steam the rain + heat was creating while eating dinner. (Whoever heard of needing to take a fan OUTSIDE?) Dan was sweating bullets and I chose that moment to bring it on home.
Me: Seriously, a fan outside? Why not sit INSIDE AND BLAST AN AC?
Dan: Do you know how much it costs to run an AC all summer?
Me: Yes. Do YOU know what the odds are of getting another woman to come to this hell hole and put up with you?
So last night, when he got home from work, he installed a small AC unit. I immediately blasted it up to high, positioned two fans in the room to create optimum air flow, and prepared to cool off.
Oh my.... mmmmm hmmmmm... HEAVENLY. Dan went to bed and I stayed in the livingroom, sucking up the cool air and loving every minute of it. Eventually, when the room started to get REALLY cold, I made hot tea, covered up with an afghan, and smiled contentedly. Ahhhhhhh... *bliss*
Now, a rational person might say, "Ummm... why didn't you turn down the AC when you got cold?"
To that I reply, "Because some of my most contented moments back home in my little city on the northern coast of California were spent sitting on the couch covered in blankets sipping hot tea."
Also? Running the AC on high until the room is a cozy 57 degrees is cheaper than purchasing a plane ticket and staying in a hotel on the coast for the summer.
If you drag your wife from her cool and fabulous view and weather (not to mention friends and job) on the California coast to the sweaty armpit of upper New York state, it's going to cost you.
Word.
Two weeks of this:
Me: *whiiiiiine* I'm hottttttt! Oh my God this humidity is killinggggggg meeeeeeeeeee! *fanning face with Kindle, magazine, newspaper, whatever*
Dan: *unsympathetically* Turn on the fan.
Me: I diiiiiiiiiiid but it's just blowing damp, wet, hot air around the room. *hyperventilating slightly as there isn't enough air to BREATHE*
Dan: You'll get used to it.
Me: *dramatically* I'm hotttttttttttt! I can't sleeeeeeeep.... ughhhh, this humidity sucksssssssss!!! <insert long day of extreme bitchiness due to lack of sleep and hatred of all things humid>
Dan: *not looking up from the Mets game* Turn on the fan.
Me: I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiid but it's just blowing damp, wet, hot air around the room. I can't BREATHE. Ugh... gross! Humidity! I hate it! *flop pathetically on couch with fan cranked up so high it's blowing your small Pomeranian across the room*
Dan: *engrossed in Deadliest Catch* You'll get used to it.
Me: (in bed every single night) *toss* *turn* *toss* *turn* *kick* *flail* *sigh* *thump pillow* *kick covers down really really aggressively* *siiiiiiiiiigh* *accidentally kick Dan* *SIIIIIIGHHHHHHH*
Dan: *snooooooooooooore* *snooooooooooooooore*
(Rat bastard couldn't even wake up to appreciate my "I'm hot" performance.)
Meanwhile, I seriously have been miserable. I don't mind the heat so much but the fact that the air is thick and wet and literally DOESN'T MOVE is TORTURE. I break a sweat in the shower, for God's sake. I can't do anything or go anywhere without feeling like someone just waterboarded me with a steady blast of hot mist.
For the past week I've been kicking it up a notch and adding some fine, fine Scarlett O'Hara southern-style vapors when we go outside, come back in, or are just casually hanging around in the livingroom. I am giving "looking HOT" a whole new meaning. When I look "hot" I literally look sweaty, wilted, and uncomfortable. When you add Maisy the Panting Pug collapsed next to me, we present a pretty compelling portrait of chubby misery. (Have I mentioned she's my soul mate?)
Over the weekend, the rainy heat was stifling. We had an outside BBQ at Dan's parent's house and had to take a FAN out so that none of us would die from heat stroke or suffocate from the steam the rain + heat was creating while eating dinner. (Whoever heard of needing to take a fan OUTSIDE?) Dan was sweating bullets and I chose that moment to bring it on home.
Me: Seriously, a fan outside? Why not sit INSIDE AND BLAST AN AC?
Dan: Do you know how much it costs to run an AC all summer?
Me: Yes. Do YOU know what the odds are of getting another woman to come to this hell hole and put up with you?
So last night, when he got home from work, he installed a small AC unit. I immediately blasted it up to high, positioned two fans in the room to create optimum air flow, and prepared to cool off.
Oh my.... mmmmm hmmmmm... HEAVENLY. Dan went to bed and I stayed in the livingroom, sucking up the cool air and loving every minute of it. Eventually, when the room started to get REALLY cold, I made hot tea, covered up with an afghan, and smiled contentedly. Ahhhhhhh... *bliss*
Now, a rational person might say, "Ummm... why didn't you turn down the AC when you got cold?"
To that I reply, "Because some of my most contented moments back home in my little city on the northern coast of California were spent sitting on the couch covered in blankets sipping hot tea."
Also? Running the AC on high until the room is a cozy 57 degrees is cheaper than purchasing a plane ticket and staying in a hotel on the coast for the summer.
If you drag your wife from her cool and fabulous view and weather (not to mention friends and job) on the California coast to the sweaty armpit of upper New York state, it's going to cost you.
Word.
23 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: How to be FABULOUS...
facebooking from the edge: How to be FABULOUS...: "...when you SHOULD be doing something else (like, I dunno... looking for a job). 1. Discover a taped, unlabeled box full of STUFF in the..."
How to be FABULOUS...
...when you SHOULD be doing something else (like, I dunno... looking for a job).
1. Discover a taped, unlabeled box full of STUFF in the back of your closet.
2. Get really curious about what it could be (even though you obviously don't need it, since you've lived here for over a month and haven't noticed anything missing). It could be anything! (Christmas Story moment. High 5 if you caught it.)
3. Open it and discover tubes and bottles of salon brand hair color and neutralizer that your stylist friend, Wendy, has given you over the years (because she was really tired of you buying store brand color and fucking up you hair. We won't go in to the contract you had to sign swearing you would never, ever, EVER again touch your own hair with scissors or hair clippers. Yes, hair clippers).
4. Have a super bright idea. *ding!*
5. Pick out five shades of hair color ranging from almost black to light violet brown.
6. Mix up small amounts of each.
7. Find a highlighting cap and hook that you have left over from your X-Treme Highlights phase, when you were so addicted to highlighting your hair that you added highlights every other day for a week until the ends of your hair started breaking off. (Yes, I can be that fool-hardy and stupid.)
8. Put on cap and yank hair through Every. Single. Hole.
9. Put different shades of color on all the strands, in no particular order.
10. Realize, belatedly, that changing your shirt and putting on gloves would have been a good idea.
11. Wipe off splotches of hair color from shoulders, forehead, neck, chest and front of shirt.
12. Set timer.
13. Make sure you have enough hair color in one shade to mix up in case the end result is more "Rainbow Bright" than "Awesome."
14. Rinse, condition, blow-dry.
15. Be amazed at your bad self because seriously? It looks GREAT.
16. Get really cocky and add highlights.
17. Still fabulous!
18. Give all the local hair salons the mental finger because you're pretty sure, judging by the hair trends of the patrons of this fair village, YOU DON'T NEED THEM.
19. BOOOO-yah.
20. Wait for Karma to make you it's bitch again because this kind of cockiness rarely goes unpunished.
21. Meanwhile, you still rock because your hair? Is FABULOUS.
1. Discover a taped, unlabeled box full of STUFF in the back of your closet.
2. Get really curious about what it could be (even though you obviously don't need it, since you've lived here for over a month and haven't noticed anything missing). It could be anything! (Christmas Story moment. High 5 if you caught it.)
3. Open it and discover tubes and bottles of salon brand hair color and neutralizer that your stylist friend, Wendy, has given you over the years (because she was really tired of you buying store brand color and fucking up you hair. We won't go in to the contract you had to sign swearing you would never, ever, EVER again touch your own hair with scissors or hair clippers. Yes, hair clippers).
4. Have a super bright idea. *ding!*
5. Pick out five shades of hair color ranging from almost black to light violet brown.
6. Mix up small amounts of each.
7. Find a highlighting cap and hook that you have left over from your X-Treme Highlights phase, when you were so addicted to highlighting your hair that you added highlights every other day for a week until the ends of your hair started breaking off. (Yes, I can be that fool-hardy and stupid.)
8. Put on cap and yank hair through Every. Single. Hole.
9. Put different shades of color on all the strands, in no particular order.
10. Realize, belatedly, that changing your shirt and putting on gloves would have been a good idea.
11. Wipe off splotches of hair color from shoulders, forehead, neck, chest and front of shirt.
12. Set timer.
13. Make sure you have enough hair color in one shade to mix up in case the end result is more "Rainbow Bright" than "Awesome."
14. Rinse, condition, blow-dry.
15. Be amazed at your bad self because seriously? It looks GREAT.
16. Get really cocky and add highlights.
17. Still fabulous!
18. Give all the local hair salons the mental finger because you're pretty sure, judging by the hair trends of the patrons of this fair village, YOU DON'T NEED THEM.
19. BOOOO-yah.
20. Wait for Karma to make you it's bitch again because this kind of cockiness rarely goes unpunished.
21. Meanwhile, you still rock because your hair? Is FABULOUS.
facebooking from the edge: No booze for you!
facebooking from the edge: No booze for you!: "Dear New York, I take issue... EXTREME ISSUE... with the fact that you don't see fit to sell wine or liquor in your grocery stores. Ap..."
No booze for you!
Dear New York,
I take issue... EXTREME ISSUE... with the fact that you don't see fit to sell wine or liquor in your grocery stores. Apparently BEER is okay, but wine and liquor? No.
Please, PLEASE explain to me why hops and barley = no problem but grapes and potatoes? Absolutely not.
Brewing is A-OK but fermentation and distillery? Can't mix that with our groceries, yo!
I could ALMOST understand selling wine and beer in the grocery store and all other liquors at a liquor store... ALMOST (because that's how Oregon does it, not that I'd ever live there) but I'm having a hard time figuring out why wine is a grocery store no-no.
People cook with wine, no?
Which, by the way, is how I figured out that wine is only sold in liquor stores. (Okay, I didn't figure it out so much as I was informed, but still.)
I was wandering around Price Chopper, going up and down the beer aisle, the soda aisle, the imported foods aisle, trying to find a bottle of wine with which to marinate beef. Up and down, up and down... Okay, here's the beer so wine can't be far behind... Nope, nope... still beer...
Since I'm not a man, I have no problem asking for directions. I approached the checkout counter and politely inquired, "Excuse me, can you tell me where the wine aisle is?"
Checker looked at me blankly for a minute and then said, "In the liquor store."
I hate to admit the part where I looked around the store for a sign that said "Liquor Store", but there ya have it.
I've been bitching a LOT about this to Dan. Truthfully, I'm not much of a drinker and rarely have a glass of wine or make myself a cocktail, but I have to admit that KNOWING that if I want one, I have to drive 10 miles to the damn liquor store, makes me want one every single night.
If I had all the cocktails I talk about on a daily basis, I'd be quite the lush.
I'm starting to obsess about why I can't just go to the store and buy a bottle of wine or X Rated (favorite drink ever! Pink and fruity and mixed with club soda, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm).
Then Dan told me that you can't buy liquor before noon on Sundays, either. Even though I've yet to feel the need to buy liquor before noon on a Sunday, it sent me over the edge.
Me: Says WHO?
Dan: The state of New York.
Me: Who the hell is the state of New York to tell me when I can and cannot buy booze?
Dan: Ummmm... it's been a law as long as I can remember, Dani.
Me: Well, it hasn't been MY law. MY law says I can buy booze any damn time I want because I'm a grown ass woman and if I want to get hammered at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, I will do it.
Dan: Then you'll have to buy your booze Saturday night.
Me: That's bullshit.
Dan: Oh well.
Me: Seriously, that's BULLSHIT.
Dan: *with wayyyy more amusement than I generally appreciate* Why are you getting so pissed about it?
Me: *stew, fume, huff, puff, rant* BECAUSE IF I WANT TO BUY BOOZE AT 11:50 FREAKING 9 A.M. ON A SUNDAY, WHO ARE THEY TO TELL ME I CAN'T?
Dan:
Me:
Dan: Are you done?
Me: I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I'll feel the need to comment on this fact for a long, long time.
Dan: *doing his Dudley Do-Right impression* Oh, goody...
Anyway, I spent the majority of the hour Dan and I spent in the car last night driving home from his parent's house trying to get him to acknowledge that it was a stupid rule. You can get just as drunk and be just as much of a boozer with beer as you can with wine or anything else. (I don't drink beer, but I guarantee most of the beer drinkers that I know drink WAYYYYYYYYYYY more beer than I drink of anything else, NEW YORK.)
He eventually agreed with me (I think he only spent as much time disagreeing because of state pride and he didn't feel like admitting that California had one up on New York) but it was a hollow victory, as I still can't buy wine or booze at the grocery store and the liquor store is still ten miles away.
One down, the entire population of New York State to go.
I take issue... EXTREME ISSUE... with the fact that you don't see fit to sell wine or liquor in your grocery stores. Apparently BEER is okay, but wine and liquor? No.
Please, PLEASE explain to me why hops and barley = no problem but grapes and potatoes? Absolutely not.
Brewing is A-OK but fermentation and distillery? Can't mix that with our groceries, yo!
I could ALMOST understand selling wine and beer in the grocery store and all other liquors at a liquor store... ALMOST (because that's how Oregon does it, not that I'd ever live there) but I'm having a hard time figuring out why wine is a grocery store no-no.
People cook with wine, no?
Which, by the way, is how I figured out that wine is only sold in liquor stores. (Okay, I didn't figure it out so much as I was informed, but still.)
I was wandering around Price Chopper, going up and down the beer aisle, the soda aisle, the imported foods aisle, trying to find a bottle of wine with which to marinate beef. Up and down, up and down... Okay, here's the beer so wine can't be far behind... Nope, nope... still beer...
Since I'm not a man, I have no problem asking for directions. I approached the checkout counter and politely inquired, "Excuse me, can you tell me where the wine aisle is?"
Checker looked at me blankly for a minute and then said, "In the liquor store."
I hate to admit the part where I looked around the store for a sign that said "Liquor Store", but there ya have it.
I've been bitching a LOT about this to Dan. Truthfully, I'm not much of a drinker and rarely have a glass of wine or make myself a cocktail, but I have to admit that KNOWING that if I want one, I have to drive 10 miles to the damn liquor store, makes me want one every single night.
If I had all the cocktails I talk about on a daily basis, I'd be quite the lush.
I'm starting to obsess about why I can't just go to the store and buy a bottle of wine or X Rated (favorite drink ever! Pink and fruity and mixed with club soda, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm).
Then Dan told me that you can't buy liquor before noon on Sundays, either. Even though I've yet to feel the need to buy liquor before noon on a Sunday, it sent me over the edge.
Me: Says WHO?
Dan: The state of New York.
Me: Who the hell is the state of New York to tell me when I can and cannot buy booze?
Dan: Ummmm... it's been a law as long as I can remember, Dani.
Me: Well, it hasn't been MY law. MY law says I can buy booze any damn time I want because I'm a grown ass woman and if I want to get hammered at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, I will do it.
Dan: Then you'll have to buy your booze Saturday night.
Me: That's bullshit.
Dan: Oh well.
Me: Seriously, that's BULLSHIT.
Dan: *with wayyyy more amusement than I generally appreciate* Why are you getting so pissed about it?
Me: *stew, fume, huff, puff, rant* BECAUSE IF I WANT TO BUY BOOZE AT 11:50 FREAKING 9 A.M. ON A SUNDAY, WHO ARE THEY TO TELL ME I CAN'T?
Dan:
Me:
Dan: Are you done?
Me: I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I'll feel the need to comment on this fact for a long, long time.
Dan: *doing his Dudley Do-Right impression* Oh, goody...
Anyway, I spent the majority of the hour Dan and I spent in the car last night driving home from his parent's house trying to get him to acknowledge that it was a stupid rule. You can get just as drunk and be just as much of a boozer with beer as you can with wine or anything else. (I don't drink beer, but I guarantee most of the beer drinkers that I know drink WAYYYYYYYYYYY more beer than I drink of anything else, NEW YORK.)
He eventually agreed with me (I think he only spent as much time disagreeing because of state pride and he didn't feel like admitting that California had one up on New York) but it was a hollow victory, as I still can't buy wine or booze at the grocery store and the liquor store is still ten miles away.
One down, the entire population of New York State to go.
20 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: What with the end of the world coming and all...
facebooking from the edge: What with the end of the world coming and all...: "I should probably take some time for self-reflection. I mean, granted, the odds of me getting swept up in the rapture are fairly slim... bu..."
facebooking from the edge: facebooking from the edge: Doing the Time Warp aga...
facebooking from the edge: facebooking from the edge: Doing the Time Warp aga...: "facebooking from the edge: Doing the Time Warp again.... : 'It's just a JUMP to the left... (If you have never watched the Rocky Horror ..."
What with the end of the world coming and all...
I should probably take some time for self-reflection. I mean, granted, the odds of me getting swept up in the rapture are fairly slim... but still, just in case, I should probably spend less time being annoyed that thanks to stupid *Maisy, I missed the season finale of Big Bang Theory and spend more time counting my blessings and repenting, or whatever it is that one does the day before the True Believers are called before God. (Honoring my mother and my father? Not coveting my neighbors wife? Not committing adultery?)
(At least I HOPE it's only the True Believers... if the heathens get to go first I will TOTALLY not be prepared. I'll be sitting there in my sweat pants with half a candy bar hanging out of my mouth going, "What? Me?")
Anyway, going with the premise that life as we know it will cease to exist sometime tomorrow afternoon (PST), I feel like I should be doing something important, instead of sitting on the couch drinking coffee and watching Snapped!. Like, I dunno... go on a shopping spree. Eat every Good 'n Plenty in the tri state area. Take up smoking. Eat a cube of butter dipped in brown sugar. Stop wrinkling my nose at deep fried Snickers and actually try one.
Oooh... I know! Quit bitching about the fact that the grocery stores here don't stock liquor and actually drive the 10 miles to the liquor store and buy enough bottles of X Rated to keep me good and fuzzy until I find out if all my mocking of Harold Camping and his ministry is called for or actually will turn out to be my final sentence to hellfire and damnation.
(Should I be worried? Hmmmm.)
My mocking of brimstone has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember. My heated argument with my mother about the wimpiness of Adam (it was the woman! She tempted me!) after a particularly annoying Sunday school lesson in 5th grade got me sentenced to summer Bible school, a talk with the pastor, and stuck in confirmation classes for the next two years.
GOD that sucked. Also? The pastor hated me. I got sent home frequently and spent a majority of my 7th and 8th grade years being on constant threat of groundation if I didn't stop correcting and arguing with the pastor. (I didn't stop.)
Blind faith was never my strong point.
The logical little brain that I was born with made it impossible for me to take my mother's word for Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, the ToothFairy, and yes, even the Virgin Birth. My sister, even though she was older, was WAY more gullible (my words... my mother would call her devout) and would cry when I would hammer my mother with arguments about why certain things in the Bible could not possibly be true. (In retrospect, I was a really annoying little girl. I probably would have smacked me.) She would reach the point of needing to choose between beating me just to shut me up, or sending me to my room and threatening me with being shipped off to a convent until I was transformed into a God-fearing Christian.
(Every time my mother was late picking me up from somewhere... which was pretty much every time she was supposed to pick me up... I would get nervous wondering if this was the time she was going to ship me off.)
But I couldn't stop myself. If it didn't make sense to me and didn't follow a logical sequence of events, I couldn't quite believe it. I mean, why WOULDN'T Lot's wife look over her shoulder to see if her husband and children were behind her? I don't care how big the lightning bolt is in front of me, if my world is crashing to the ground in back of me, I'm going to TURN AROUND. Right? Turning her into a pillar of salt was unnecessary, in my opinion.
And don't get me started on Abraham and being willing to slaughter his son just because voices in his head told him to do it.
"Who did Adam and Eve's kids marry? Who did Noah's kids marry? Well, if they didn't marry eachOTHER, why didn't life on earth end? Hmmmmmm?"
"So how DID the Holy Ghost impregnate Mary, then? But how? But how?"
"Women on their PERIODS couldn't go to church? And if a man happened to brush by a woman while she was on her period and accidentally touch her sleeve or something, HE couldn't go to church? That's stupid. If God gave her a period, why couldn't she go to church? Wouldn't that be GOD'S fault? I mean, she didn't ASK to have a period..."
"If God told you to kill me, would you do it?"
My poor mother.
It got worse when I started reading books on the history of religion. (Which is totally my parents' fault... THEY'RE the ones who decided that "television is brainwashing the youth of America and turning them into a nation of illiterates" and turned off the tv and told me to read. Oh yeah... I read. How do you like me NOW? Wishing you'd let me watch The Brady Bunch now, aren't ya!)
Ah well... come the Rapture, I'll be the one arguing with the Lord about a badly executed End of the World event. I mean, only telling one batshit crazy peacher in Oakland was NOT a good plan. If you want to be taken seriously, GOD, you would have been better off going with Billy Graham. Or if you TRULY want the republicans on your side, why not whisper in George Dubya Bush's ear? I'm telling you, you did not think this through.
You could have hired a party planner, gotten the word out via Fox News... what were you THINKING?
And this, ladies and gentlemen? Is why you will find me in hell roasting marshmallows with Satan on May 22nd.
I bid you a Happy Rapture's Eve!
(At least I HOPE it's only the True Believers... if the heathens get to go first I will TOTALLY not be prepared. I'll be sitting there in my sweat pants with half a candy bar hanging out of my mouth going, "What? Me?")
Anyway, going with the premise that life as we know it will cease to exist sometime tomorrow afternoon (PST), I feel like I should be doing something important, instead of sitting on the couch drinking coffee and watching Snapped!. Like, I dunno... go on a shopping spree. Eat every Good 'n Plenty in the tri state area. Take up smoking. Eat a cube of butter dipped in brown sugar. Stop wrinkling my nose at deep fried Snickers and actually try one.
Oooh... I know! Quit bitching about the fact that the grocery stores here don't stock liquor and actually drive the 10 miles to the liquor store and buy enough bottles of X Rated to keep me good and fuzzy until I find out if all my mocking of Harold Camping and his ministry is called for or actually will turn out to be my final sentence to hellfire and damnation.
(Should I be worried? Hmmmm.)
My mocking of brimstone has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember. My heated argument with my mother about the wimpiness of Adam (it was the woman! She tempted me!) after a particularly annoying Sunday school lesson in 5th grade got me sentenced to summer Bible school, a talk with the pastor, and stuck in confirmation classes for the next two years.
GOD that sucked. Also? The pastor hated me. I got sent home frequently and spent a majority of my 7th and 8th grade years being on constant threat of groundation if I didn't stop correcting and arguing with the pastor. (I didn't stop.)
Blind faith was never my strong point.
The logical little brain that I was born with made it impossible for me to take my mother's word for Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, the ToothFairy, and yes, even the Virgin Birth. My sister, even though she was older, was WAY more gullible (my words... my mother would call her devout) and would cry when I would hammer my mother with arguments about why certain things in the Bible could not possibly be true. (In retrospect, I was a really annoying little girl. I probably would have smacked me.) She would reach the point of needing to choose between beating me just to shut me up, or sending me to my room and threatening me with being shipped off to a convent until I was transformed into a God-fearing Christian.
(Every time my mother was late picking me up from somewhere... which was pretty much every time she was supposed to pick me up... I would get nervous wondering if this was the time she was going to ship me off.)
But I couldn't stop myself. If it didn't make sense to me and didn't follow a logical sequence of events, I couldn't quite believe it. I mean, why WOULDN'T Lot's wife look over her shoulder to see if her husband and children were behind her? I don't care how big the lightning bolt is in front of me, if my world is crashing to the ground in back of me, I'm going to TURN AROUND. Right? Turning her into a pillar of salt was unnecessary, in my opinion.
And don't get me started on Abraham and being willing to slaughter his son just because voices in his head told him to do it.
"Who did Adam and Eve's kids marry? Who did Noah's kids marry? Well, if they didn't marry eachOTHER, why didn't life on earth end? Hmmmmmm?"
"So how DID the Holy Ghost impregnate Mary, then? But how? But how?"
"Women on their PERIODS couldn't go to church? And if a man happened to brush by a woman while she was on her period and accidentally touch her sleeve or something, HE couldn't go to church? That's stupid. If God gave her a period, why couldn't she go to church? Wouldn't that be GOD'S fault? I mean, she didn't ASK to have a period..."
"If God told you to kill me, would you do it?"
My poor mother.
It got worse when I started reading books on the history of religion. (Which is totally my parents' fault... THEY'RE the ones who decided that "television is brainwashing the youth of America and turning them into a nation of illiterates" and turned off the tv and told me to read. Oh yeah... I read. How do you like me NOW? Wishing you'd let me watch The Brady Bunch now, aren't ya!)
Ah well... come the Rapture, I'll be the one arguing with the Lord about a badly executed End of the World event. I mean, only telling one batshit crazy peacher in Oakland was NOT a good plan. If you want to be taken seriously, GOD, you would have been better off going with Billy Graham. Or if you TRULY want the republicans on your side, why not whisper in George Dubya Bush's ear? I'm telling you, you did not think this through.
You could have hired a party planner, gotten the word out via Fox News... what were you THINKING?
And this, ladies and gentlemen? Is why you will find me in hell roasting marshmallows with Satan on May 22nd.
I bid you a Happy Rapture's Eve!
19 May 2011
facebooking from the edge: Doing the Time Warp again....
facebooking from the edge: Doing the Time Warp again....: "It's just a JUMP to the left... (If you have never watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show and didn't get the reference, I suggest you hop..."
Doing the Time Warp again....
It's just a JUMP to the left...
(If you have never watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show and didn't get the reference, I suggest you hop on to Netflix RIGHT NOW and watch it. NO ONE should go through life without ever seeing Tim Curry in a corset and thigh highs. True story.)
Anyway.
25 years ago today, I was eleventy-thousand months pregnant with my first child. I had toxemia, pre-eclampia, was bloated and swollen like the gum-chewing blueberry girl in Charlie and the Choclolate Factory. My normally size 6 feet were crammed into a 7 1/2 and I didn't think it was possible to be more uncomfortable than I was on that day.
Turns out, I was wrong.
But more on that later.
I was lying like a bloated corpse on the doctor's table while he tried in vain to find my baby's heartbeat. Considering my blood pressure was frighteningly high and no heartbeat was to be found, I was shipped post-haste to the hospital to be induced immediately, without further notice.
I was terrified as I was checking in, but once they hooked me up to the fetal monitor and found the heartbeat, I was able to relax a little and look forward to meeting my baby.
My husband and I called everyone we knew and announced, "We're going to have a baby today!" We looked at each other lovingly, held hands, and kept saying, "I can't believe we're going to have a baby today..."
That was May 19th, 1986.
My family has a history of quick labors and easy births. My sister holds the record for 55 minutes of labor and delivery, with my mother coming in at a close second with 2 hours. My sister proclaimed labor to be the most excrutiatingly painful thing that could ever happen to anyone, ever, at anytime, while my mother rolled her eyes and described it as "No worse than menstrual cramps." (My mother lost all of her credibility when we found out she was knocked out during both births and didn't actually feel anything.) Either way, they were both sure that I would be in and out of there in no time flat, not unlike a hearty peasant woman who gives birth while working the fields then slings the baby onto her back and keeps working.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
I was strapped to machines, hooked up to IVs, and once the ball got rolling, my doctor informed me that he was off to a dinner party and would see me in a few.
I said things like, "That bastard... what if I give birth while he's off having dinner with friends and doesn't make it back in time?"
That turned out to not be so much of an issue.
Long story short, May 19th came and went and before I knew it, it was May 20th, I was still hooked to machines, still having painfully induced contractions, and still dilated to 1.
Yeah, you heard me right... 1.
Early that morning I uttered the fateful words, "It's my mother's birthday today... I don't want to have my baby on my mother's birthday! I want him to have his own birthday!"
Be careful what you wish for.
By May 21, I was exhausted, in pain and pissed off that I was still exhausted and in pain. I got cranky, I yelled a little, and yeah... I was still dilated to 1.
1 damn centimeter. ONE. I think everyone in the ROOM was dilated to one.
That day, the doctor decided a little pelvic x-raying was in order. We already knew that I have a narrow pelvis, so maybe it was time to see if the baby could actually fit through it.
If you've never had a pelvic x-ray, trust me... you don't want one. The highlight of this experience was when I had to get down on all fours with a ruler wedged between my buttcheeks and a camera aimed at my ass. It all kind of went downhill from there.
The results showed that it was a tight fit, but baby was small and would make it through.
Fabulous.
Meanwhile, everyone in my family was calling the hospital CONSTANTLY trying to figure out what the hold-out was. My mother was getting irritated with me, as in, "Why hasn't she had that baby yet? NO one in my family has long labors like this. Let me talk to her!" and so on. (As if a pep-talk from my mother was going to make me stop lolly-gagging and give birth already.)
On May 22nd, the doctor had had enough of me, so he came in, broke my water, and said, "If you haven't dilated beyond one centimeter by the time I come back, we're doing a C-section."
Yeah, threaten ME with a good time! Why the hell DIDN'T YOU DO A C-SECTION, ASSHOLE? (I'm all big talk 25 years later, but at the time I was scared, tired, and too well-bred to say anything other than, "Okay, thank you." As I write this, I'm a little annoyed with my 23 year old self for not having more gumption.)
The nurses were cheering me on, checking me frequently and giving me status updates, as in, "Go Danielle! You're dilated to 2! You can do it! Push, baby... PUSH!"
My husband was sleep-deprived and hungry and doing his best to keep me motivated, and I? I was crying, yelling, screaming, and begging them to GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME NOWWWWWWW!!!!!! At one memorable point, a nurse had leaned over me to tell me to keep it down because I was upsetting the other patients and I lifted my head up, opened my mouth, and screamed in her face as loud as I could.
I was not asked to keep it down again.
(Basically, after being in labor... HARD labor... for 4 days, the polite little Valley Girl had left the building and the spoiled, enraged brat that I usually kept hidden had finally come out to play.)
At 11:00 pm, the doctor decided he'd waited long enough for me to get on with it and give birth already, so I was hauled into the delivery room. An anesthesiologist was called in and it was decided at long last that enough was enough and it was time to do a C section.
By this time, I had pretty much decided that I was going to spend the rest of my life in labor and would be dragging this kid in utero to kindergarten because he wasn't coming. Ever.
As the anesthesiologist was getting ready to give me a spinal, I yelped, "I need to push!"
In about 20 minutes I had gone from 6 centimeters to 10 and finally, FINALLY, at 12:31 a.m. on May 23rd, my beautiful son Shea made his debut.
I forgot about the pain.
I forgot I was tired.
I forgot I was furious with the doctor for making me go through the agony of 5 days of labor.
When he was placed in my arms, this tiny little ray of golden sunshine, my world was complete and everything, every minute of pain, every hour I spent with my body being racked by contractions, was totally worth it.
They say the things you work the hardest to achieve are the most important...
how true is that?
Happy 25th birthday, my Shea, my Sunshine, my first born baby... Love you forever.
(If you have never watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show and didn't get the reference, I suggest you hop on to Netflix RIGHT NOW and watch it. NO ONE should go through life without ever seeing Tim Curry in a corset and thigh highs. True story.)
Anyway.
25 years ago today, I was eleventy-thousand months pregnant with my first child. I had toxemia, pre-eclampia, was bloated and swollen like the gum-chewing blueberry girl in Charlie and the Choclolate Factory. My normally size 6 feet were crammed into a 7 1/2 and I didn't think it was possible to be more uncomfortable than I was on that day.
Turns out, I was wrong.
But more on that later.
I was lying like a bloated corpse on the doctor's table while he tried in vain to find my baby's heartbeat. Considering my blood pressure was frighteningly high and no heartbeat was to be found, I was shipped post-haste to the hospital to be induced immediately, without further notice.
I was terrified as I was checking in, but once they hooked me up to the fetal monitor and found the heartbeat, I was able to relax a little and look forward to meeting my baby.
My husband and I called everyone we knew and announced, "We're going to have a baby today!" We looked at each other lovingly, held hands, and kept saying, "I can't believe we're going to have a baby today..."
That was May 19th, 1986.
My family has a history of quick labors and easy births. My sister holds the record for 55 minutes of labor and delivery, with my mother coming in at a close second with 2 hours. My sister proclaimed labor to be the most excrutiatingly painful thing that could ever happen to anyone, ever, at anytime, while my mother rolled her eyes and described it as "No worse than menstrual cramps." (My mother lost all of her credibility when we found out she was knocked out during both births and didn't actually feel anything.) Either way, they were both sure that I would be in and out of there in no time flat, not unlike a hearty peasant woman who gives birth while working the fields then slings the baby onto her back and keeps working.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
I was strapped to machines, hooked up to IVs, and once the ball got rolling, my doctor informed me that he was off to a dinner party and would see me in a few.
I said things like, "That bastard... what if I give birth while he's off having dinner with friends and doesn't make it back in time?"
That turned out to not be so much of an issue.
Long story short, May 19th came and went and before I knew it, it was May 20th, I was still hooked to machines, still having painfully induced contractions, and still dilated to 1.
Yeah, you heard me right... 1.
Early that morning I uttered the fateful words, "It's my mother's birthday today... I don't want to have my baby on my mother's birthday! I want him to have his own birthday!"
Be careful what you wish for.
By May 21, I was exhausted, in pain and pissed off that I was still exhausted and in pain. I got cranky, I yelled a little, and yeah... I was still dilated to 1.
1 damn centimeter. ONE. I think everyone in the ROOM was dilated to one.
That day, the doctor decided a little pelvic x-raying was in order. We already knew that I have a narrow pelvis, so maybe it was time to see if the baby could actually fit through it.
If you've never had a pelvic x-ray, trust me... you don't want one. The highlight of this experience was when I had to get down on all fours with a ruler wedged between my buttcheeks and a camera aimed at my ass. It all kind of went downhill from there.
The results showed that it was a tight fit, but baby was small and would make it through.
Fabulous.
Meanwhile, everyone in my family was calling the hospital CONSTANTLY trying to figure out what the hold-out was. My mother was getting irritated with me, as in, "Why hasn't she had that baby yet? NO one in my family has long labors like this. Let me talk to her!" and so on. (As if a pep-talk from my mother was going to make me stop lolly-gagging and give birth already.)
On May 22nd, the doctor had had enough of me, so he came in, broke my water, and said, "If you haven't dilated beyond one centimeter by the time I come back, we're doing a C-section."
Yeah, threaten ME with a good time! Why the hell DIDN'T YOU DO A C-SECTION, ASSHOLE? (I'm all big talk 25 years later, but at the time I was scared, tired, and too well-bred to say anything other than, "Okay, thank you." As I write this, I'm a little annoyed with my 23 year old self for not having more gumption.)
The nurses were cheering me on, checking me frequently and giving me status updates, as in, "Go Danielle! You're dilated to 2! You can do it! Push, baby... PUSH!"
My husband was sleep-deprived and hungry and doing his best to keep me motivated, and I? I was crying, yelling, screaming, and begging them to GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME NOWWWWWWW!!!!!! At one memorable point, a nurse had leaned over me to tell me to keep it down because I was upsetting the other patients and I lifted my head up, opened my mouth, and screamed in her face as loud as I could.
I was not asked to keep it down again.
(Basically, after being in labor... HARD labor... for 4 days, the polite little Valley Girl had left the building and the spoiled, enraged brat that I usually kept hidden had finally come out to play.)
At 11:00 pm, the doctor decided he'd waited long enough for me to get on with it and give birth already, so I was hauled into the delivery room. An anesthesiologist was called in and it was decided at long last that enough was enough and it was time to do a C section.
By this time, I had pretty much decided that I was going to spend the rest of my life in labor and would be dragging this kid in utero to kindergarten because he wasn't coming. Ever.
As the anesthesiologist was getting ready to give me a spinal, I yelped, "I need to push!"
In about 20 minutes I had gone from 6 centimeters to 10 and finally, FINALLY, at 12:31 a.m. on May 23rd, my beautiful son Shea made his debut.
I forgot about the pain.
I forgot I was tired.
I forgot I was furious with the doctor for making me go through the agony of 5 days of labor.
When he was placed in my arms, this tiny little ray of golden sunshine, my world was complete and everything, every minute of pain, every hour I spent with my body being racked by contractions, was totally worth it.
They say the things you work the hardest to achieve are the most important...
how true is that?
Happy 25th birthday, my Shea, my Sunshine, my first born baby... Love you forever.
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