Saturday, August 23, 2008

We're mostly back

We miss vacation already.

Twelve hours ago, we were all barefoot and sandy. The reality of being back here has hit us all pretty hard, especially since where we were was so much more like HOME than where we live.

We're all a bit glum right now. The dog and I are having the hardest time, I think. I've never visited such a wonderfully friendly and free place in my life. Mayberry surrounded by sea.

I didn't miss reality in the smallest amount. I worried about work, of course, but I can't say that I really missed anything. I didn't miss blogging at all. For even a tiny second.

I think I'm done here, folks. Those of you that know my email from the previous blog, feel free to contact me there. I'll also have the email for this one up for a while longer:

I hope you all had a wonderful week. I KNOW I did.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

I need a geeky hero!

I can NOT find a *free* photoblog template for Blogger that actually works. Does anyone know where I can get one?

Frankly, I'm lazy and an hour of Googling is a bit much for me. I've got bags to pack, y'know!

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Farts is funny

Sigh. Have nothing going on but kid stuff and preparations for vacation. I'm not a mommy blogger and detailing what I'm packing is boring. I got nothing.

Unless you wanted to hear about the old woman who peeked under my bathroom stall today and then cut some of the nastiest farts I've ever heard in my life. After each one she said, "Whoopsies!"

I might have told everyone on the 7th floor of my building, so I may as well tell the internet. I just wish I knew which old lady it was, so I could giggle every time I see her from now on.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Fishes and wishes

In less than 5 days, I will be tooling down the interstate towards relaxation. Sand. Sun. Air that does not reek of sewage treatment plants and humanity...just salt and fish and the diesel moving the fishing boats. That's perfume as far as I'm concerned.

We opted for a seaside vacation away from the tourist traps, this year. Two miles of island, inhabited by mostly year-round residents. A post office, marina, and a grocery/bait shop/convenience store/diner, surrounded by homes and water. No souvenir shops and no mini-golf. No overpriced pizza parlors that use ass for ingredients. Quiet. Bliss.

No telephone in the house that is less than five joyful leaps from the water that meets our front yard. A view of both a distant lighthouse and another island inhabited by wild ponies, through my bedroom window. The porch faces west and I will no doubt spend every evening in the hammock, snapping pictures of the sunset show. I will drink many frozen alcoholic drinks and cook many meals over charcoal.

Now if I could only convince the other seven people on the trip roster to stay would be damn near perfect.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Wuv, twue wuv*

I think the John Edwards Humpgate** has been on everyone's minds lately, bringing with it the feeling of insecurity about people in general. He was revered by scores as a family man, bravely and devotedly standing by his poor, ailing wife, while pursuing a seemingly straightforward political career.

Wicked bad fail.

Far be it from me to trust ANYONE who works in politics, but he flew low on my bullshit radar and was I truly surprised to hear about his affair. Mostly because I thought he was smarter, not necessary good. How could someone who had millions of eyes on him and thousands of noses in his business believe that he could get away with such a thing? This is not the 1950's, and these are not your father's reporters. They WILL find the dirt.

On a much wider level, though, it brought me back to pondering the point of devoting your life to someone who will most likely fuck you over. AKA: Marriage.

As I've aged matured, I've come to appreciate longevity in relationships. Not that I know anything about them. To be honest, it's hard to find non-fiction examples of such things.

My best friend and his wife have been married for seven years - together for twelve. They honestly enjoy and adore each other. However, he had an affair four years ago that lasted for six months. It didn't change how he felt about his wife or where their lives were headed, but it happened. How? There was no strife at home...he's honestly one of the kindest people I've ever just doesn't compute.

That's what's so damn scary to someone like me, who has a hard time turning it all over to another person in the first place.

Another long-time friend of mine has been with her husband for ten years now, and they have three children. Before their first child was born, she had an affair with an old boyfriend and spent the next year doubting her marriage because of it. Again, no love lost and no problems in the marriage.

In my mind, it's very hard to accept 'commitment' and 'vow' as tangible words when I know very few married couples have practiced them according to their definitions. I have a hard time committing to a cell phone contract and I have never seen the same hair dresser more than twice, so you might say that I'm not a steady-as-a-rock type of chick...unless it comes to what or who I love. Therefore, it may come as no surprise to some of you that I have been single for quite a while, with all of this fear tucked into my hatband.

I'm fairly certain that I won't marry again, but I don't rule it out. I'm just honestly terrified, because in order for me to commit to another person again, I will have to trust, respect, and love that person 100%. But there are two people in that equation, and one person giving 100% does not mean that the other person doesn't phone it in with 20% sometimes. The examples I gave above prove (to me, at least) that even a good person can break a bond. Even a person totally in love with their spouse can forget their vows.

So, is marriage something that can even exist as it was intended anymore? Has it become a negotiable contract instead of a beautiful testament to love and family? What do you think?

*Best. Movie. Ever.

**Copyright, bitches

Friday, August 8, 2008

Arguing with myself in the dark

In the darkened theater, I was very aware that I was the only female over the age of 18 in the place. The giggles, cell phone glows, and over-sprayed pungent perfume were a dead giveaway. Beside me, my 13 year old daughter was staring at the screen and trying to keep her elbow from touching mine, which rested on the armrest between us.

Stay cool, I told myself. Do not do anything remotely embarrassing. This may very well be one of the last times she allows you to accompany her to a teen flick in public. Just watch the movie.


Oh HELL. A PG-13 love scene. Look away. Do NOT look at her.


If those little shits behind us don't shut, I have to just pretend I'm not a mean old lady who wants to pull them out by their ears. Stay calm.


Look at her, completely caught up in the story. I'm so lucky that she still wants to hang out with me at all. She looks so happy and beautiful. How the heck did I make a human that gorgeous? Oh shit!...she caught me looking at her. Abort abort!


Great, a sad scene. I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry...well, crap. Now I'm crying. Can't let her see. My eye itches...but I can't scratch it because then she'll think I'm wiping a tear away, and she'll never want to see another movie with me ever. My eye does not itch My eye does not itch My eye does not itch. Why did I think that would work?


Roll credits. I made it out alive, without making my daughter pretend she didn't know me. I think I might just have a shot and not sucking all of the time. Score.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

I'm not wearing the friggin' nose

I found out a few days ago that my co-workers and I are much closer to being "outsourced" than we initially thought. It sucks, yes, but it's also sort of exciting for a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants chick, like myself. I know I should be freaked out and cultivating a killer ulcer, but I can't help looking forward to a new chapter. I've spent six miserable, hellish, rotten years with my employer, and I am ready to not work there anymore.

I know, I'm not 19 anymore and I should be more responsible. Shutty.

So anyway, my work-husband and I were discussing what I would do if the inevitable happens sooner rather than later, and we were trying to decide what my talents are, via work email (take that corporate shit heads!). Hilarity ensues:

Taco: I think I'd be a very good clown. Except, without the make up and unicycling.

WH: Well duh, you don't own make up and you can't even walk a straight line, much less ride a unicycle. I think you're better suited for singing telegrams....for deaf people.

Taco: Bite me. I am EXTREMELY talented and you're just jealous. You jealous fart face, you.

WH: You should be a preschooler. You're really good at acting four. Oh, and by the way....BURN.

Taco: I know you are but what am I?

WH: I'm rubber - you're glue.

Taco: No fair...

WH: You're really good with the comebacks, too. Maybe you should be a comedy writer...or a smart ass consultant. You would excel in the field of smart assyness.

Taco: I think you should take a job as a STINKY BUTT HEAD!!

WH: See, you're a natural.

Taco: ....I'm also very good at shooting rubber bands. I almost always hit my target.

WH: That's it!!! You are the world's first Smartass Rubber Band Clown Assassin!

Taco: ....

WH: Tah dah.

Monday, August 4, 2008

The day Garfield warned me about

It almost never fails.

You manage to get through the morning smoothly, arrive to work on time and in good spirits, and proceed to kick the crap out of the stacks of work waiting on your desk. Before you know it, it's midday and your mood has actually improved ,thanks to good music and background blocking ear buds. It is going to be a good day, indeed.


It's always on Mondays when a child gets ill; When your bosses assume you're nursing a hangover or just don't want to be there. Out the door you fly to rescue your poopy-feeling offspring, noting that you'll have to go in to the office on Saturday to make up the hours missed. (Side note: American corporations needs to get a frikken clue about sick days. A parent can not possibly handle all doctor/dentists appointments plus days that a child has to stay home sick or when school is closed, on THREE measly sick days.)

After picking up the sick child, you realize that he's not sick and only had a bit of yucky belly after breakfast. However, you're required to sign something about the "incident" (aka: el poopoo rapido) and told not to bring him back for at least 24 hours. No fever, no lethargic behavior, no more ick. But those are the rules. You have no more sick time at work. And the "ill" child is trying to do back flips by running up the side of your body.

In desperation, you contact the child's father to beg him to take care of his spawn the next day; The same man who has not taken a day off for anything in almost five years. He is, of course, too busy at work to help. But, he's really bummed that he can't help. Then you mentally curse him with scabies and male pattern baldness as you slam the cell phone shut. Guilt about being worried about work when your child needs you sets in and clamps down on your heart like an industrial vice.

Hey, since you're having such a great day, why don't you start cooking dinner in 95 degree heat while four dogs compete for first position UP YOUR BUTT, and then serve said dinner to invisible people? Because the only ones eating it will be you and your non-sick child. The other adults in the house will forget to tell you that they're not getting home until well past dinner, even though you're expected to cook for their fat rumps every day at the same time.

Take a breath. Have half a beer in an icy mug. Relax. It's almost over and it could most definitely be worse.

Just when you find your Zen buried under the fury, you realize that your not really sick child is looking a little puny. You stick a thermometer in his mouth and lo, it reads 100 degrees in the shade. You kick yourself for being such a whiner and administer orange juice, Tylenol, and favorite stuffed animals.

Then you collapse into a heap in front of the computer to do a few hours of work after the poor tot has faded off to sleep, and mentally prepare yourself for the dead of night awakenings that are sure to occur because of fever nightmares. Then you feel guilty for dreading them.

Sigh. Monday.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Everyone has a enviable talent

On the way to work today, I saw a hooker do a cartwheel on the sidewalk in front of a Chinese-American-Seafood-Fried Chicken eatery. She was wearing a blue and silver sequined mini-dress and black high-top sneakers, and she (no pun intended) nailed it.

I don't want to be a hooker or anything, but I found myself a little jealous and thinking, "Damn. I wish I could still do cartwheel."

My mind worries me sometimes.