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I Suck at Waiting + Mom for the Win!

Apr. 3rd, 2009 | 10:30 am
location: the backroom
mood: amusedamused

So I'm waiting--AND WAITING--for Mimi to get her new place. As much as the near constant 'hurry up and do nothing!' has been driving her through the wall, I've come to realize that I am also covered in anticipatory pins and needles as well.

A little back story for the kids playing at home:

I met her when I was 15. We became cemented one to another when I was 16. In all these times, all these years, and all these long days of struggle, tears, laughter, insanity and love we have never wavered in our faith for each other.

That being said, she's always had this obscure feeling that my mother never really liked her.

So yesterday, my mom calls, and after a cursory gathering of how I've been, she immediately jumps in with "Did Misty get her house? Tell her it took almost three weeks for them to let your dad and I close we we first bought our house. You've seen this place, right? There's enough room for the boys to play outside in the sunshine, maybe get a puppy or something? Remind her that your brother is available to help her move--I know Tom works all those ungodly hours."

And so on...

For almost twenty minutes.

You and my mom? I think we can safely say you're good.

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For Pete's Sake

Mar. 3rd, 2009 | 08:41 am
location: the backroom
mood: touchedtouched
music: Counting Crows -- Rain King

I'd like to preface this posting by pointing out that I am a 35 year old human who has been living pretty much on her own since she was 17.

It's 8:45 a.m., and my mother has already called me twice to remind/ask me to pack something.

I love my mother. I just wonder if she thinks she raised a defective or something. It's not annoying, I just wish she'd give herself the benefit of the doubt that she raised someone who *might* be able to remember her own damn toothbrush.

I love my mother.

But if we get there and she's forgotten ANYTHING, she's gonna hear about for a loooooong time.


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Feb. 24th, 2009 | 09:21 am
location: the backroom
mood: mellowmellow
music: dehydrator hummmm

The house smells like spicy jerky.

That's not entirely a bad thing, seeing as how I actually mixed up spices and lean ground meat, formed it into sticks, and am currently letting the dehydrator do what it do.

Will it be good? Dunno, I've never tried it before. If it is, there will be massive celebrations throughout the entire two of us living here--we are some jerky loving fools. I will most likely be tasked to pumping out more of it for Ken to take to Gulf Wars.

If it doesn't turn out so great, I'll be out that $1.69 I spent on a pound of ground turkey.

--Which reminds me--Jen, does Jack like fried apple pies? I have a metric butt-load of dehydrated apples in the freezer and was thinking about making some to send down. It'd be a good dessert/naturally sweet pick-me-up for the boys to have.--

In other news, Reno is fast approaching. My mom's really looking forward to it, and so am I. I plan on using the time away from home and temptation to quit smoking. If I can ever go 3-4 days without a butt, I am quit. The problem is being around others (looks slyly at Ken) who are smoking and remembering how much better it feels to have all that deadly garbage shooting through my bloodstream. We'll see how it goes but in the past, 3-4 days without usually leads me to being done for years at a time. Here's hoping.

I'm trying to get everything all cleaned out and sorted before I fly out. It's daunting, or rather--I'm lazy. Either way, the work is progressing slower than it should be. Need to light a fire under my own ass and get to it, I suppose.

Y'all take care!

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Feb. 4th, 2009 | 11:28 am
location: the backroom
mood: contentcontent

When I fall off the radar, I seriously fall HELLA off the radar, no?

The holidays kill me. Every year. So many to see, too much that needs to be done RIGHT NOW. Then there is the inevitable re-coup time after, when I tend to lock myself in the house and hide under a thick blankie if anyone knocks. Well, not literally (anymore), but you get the picture.

But the tree is down, and I seem to have come through relatively unscathed. There's always this year, I suppose.

I'd like to take a moment and be thankful to people like Edison--movers and shakers of the pre-industrial revolution. Thanks for the electricity--nice to know someone was on my side. I mention this at the same time that I am SO VERY THANKFUL I do not live further north, which would actually put me in Kentucky where some folks still do not have power over a week after the storm. Makes my scattered 35 hours without seem much like a hangnail in retrospect. I super dislike being cold but I have officially stopped bitching about the sluggish performance of the local BPU, as it's starting to smack of a CEO complaining that he's not going to get a go-zillion dollar bonus this year.

Much like a rice-cake, it's tasteless.

On the home front, the spouse and I keep on keeping on. He still *finger-crossing* has a job, and has actually scored some overtime as of late. Very helpful. He's going to war in March (No, not that war. Gulf War, an SCA event), so every little dime extra he can pull in means I'll have more cash when I go to Nevada with mom. She wants to go to Reno, got a super sweet deal, and I am going along just so she'll actually go.

Having asked several opinions, consensus seems to be that I can, in fact, shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die. You can imagine how psyched I was. Then some fact-prone realist pointed out that I didn't get to pick the man I really wanted to shoot and have him magically transported to Reno. Bummer.

I guess every silver lining really does have a cloud.

In the extended monkey-sphere, things abide for the most part. There are medical emergencies, straight A students who make me near burst from pride, lawyers who are subpoenaing transcripts from MySpace, folk who hitched across Kentucky during the storm, grandmothers who bitch at me for not seeking shelter at their place while the power was out, tree limbs all busted up and littering the landscape, and so on. My friends and family remain true and good, and all is well.

I hope things progress for all of you out there as well or better. Be well.

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Well Then...

Dec. 18th, 2008 | 09:44 pm
location: backroom
mood: nostalgicnostalgic

Looks like I made it through my 30 Days. There are highs, there are lows, there is one inescapable conclusion:

I seem to be neither more nor less screwed up than I imagined.

I've got more stories. Matter of fact, here's one now:

Mist told the epic tale of the Chicago trip for her ljidol contest. I've got one about a different trip we took.

Dave had a sweet Camaro. If one had boobies, Dave would often allow his car to be absconded with. Mist and I both had boobies, so really he had no choice but to hand over his keys--it was double the boobies! We were vague about things like destination, plans, and whatnot. He didn't seem to mind.

"Just make sure you get it back to me before I have to go to work Monday night."

Oh hell yeah. We picked up Billy, and off we went. Back in the day, this little town rolled up at ten pm. We wanted booze. (Let me now interject that drinking whilst operating a vehicle is BAD, don't do it. It's a miracle any of us are still alive) So we thought to head to nearby Camden, where they at least sold beer 24 hours. We get to Camden, only to remember that it was Sunday--no booze at all. Damnit.

At this point, tooling about in a sweet car, we decided that booze had moved from a want to a need. We would not be thwarted in our quest. Plus gas was practically free back then. So off we go.

We headed north. I dunno why--Kentucky has more blue laws than pretty much any other state I've ever been to. Kentucky is a Commonwealth, however. This means that there are huge stretches of highway and nary a law-enforcement officer to be seen. We discovered that Dave's car could FLY while on the Purchase Parkway.

That led us to Paducah, a fair sized city by our hometown's standards. Surely here there could be booze found after midnight. Alas, it was not to be. A helpful clerk mentioned that he thought we might have better luck 'across the river'.

Long story a tad bit shorter, we did eventually find a place that sold beer. In Carbondale, Illinois. At three in the morning.

We went to Carbondale, Illinois for a six-pack.

Did I forget to mention that two of us hate the taste of beer?

Sleep well, folks.

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Dec. 17th, 2008 | 11:04 pm
location: backroom
mood: melancholymelancholy

C'mere... Tell me your secrets, sweet. I promise to hold them dear and never let them go. Just tell me all the dirty little things you keep inside; all the fears, all the pain, everything. Tell me, and know I won't ever speak of it again.

Seriously. Do I have a fucking sign on back?

To my friends: I love you all and yes I will keep your secrets. The last secret I told was in 1985, and I still carry shame for doing so--even though I KNOW it was the right thing to do. I will package them up in their own little boxes and put them high upon a mental shelf. I won't even take them back down to dust, lol.

To strangers I meet in Wal-Mart on a freaking Wednesday afternoon: W. T. F.? How do you rationalize telling a complete stranger that you wish you didn't have any family at all, much less ungrateful children who don't seem to understand that because daddy lost his job Christmas is probably not going to be up to par this year? Confide in your mom, your husband, your siblings, your friends. Do not tell me this shit. Life around the holidays is oftentimes just like doing a stint in prison--you keep your head down and do your own time. Did I look like a priest? How can telling me that possibly fix this unenviable position you find yourself in? Now every time *I* have a pleasant moment this Yule, I'm going to find myself thinking about how desperate and ugly you were over near the Big Wheels.

And to the pharmacist who I asked a quick question of: Do not roll your eyes at the back of a leaving--PAYING--customer and tell me what a complete hypochondriac that person is. Jesus god, get some professional ethics. What kind of bizzaro universe do you live in that you think I will ever fill a prescription at your establishment again after hearing that? When I walked away, do you think I forgot that poor soul whom you've branded forever in my mind as a hypochondriac? I cannot forget this shit. Do not tell me.

I must have the face of a confessor. This is not an out-of-the-ordinary day for me. Random unknown people are always telling me things I'd be far happier not knowing.

So, in no particular time frame or order:
To the cop who said he thought about eating his gun: Please get professional help. Soon.
To the teacher who once said she hated kids for being smarter: They don't do that shit on purpose.
To the factory worker who has fantasies about hurting people: Get serious professional help, or draw down on the cop mentioned above.
To the woman who abandoned her kids: I hope they forgive you some day.
To the boy who couldn't remember if she said yes or not: Please tell me you wore a condom.
To the acquaintance who has anorexia: Eat a ham sandwich, then get some professional help, please.

The list could go on. It gets a little more depressing the further in. I'll spare you, so long as you get the gist of what I'm trying to impart here.

Maybe I should have studied to be a therapist. I've apparently got the visage for it.

So let me tell you all a secret: I'd be happier not knowing.

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Family and Other Curiosities

Dec. 16th, 2008 | 11:16 pm
location: backroom
mood: peacefulpeaceful

I've got to stop putting this off to the last minute. Makes all of my creative juices seem like they come from frozen concentrate.

Dunno where I got my procrastination from. My mother is usually half-way through with something by the time she decides to do it, and my dad wasn't one to let moss grow, either. Me? Well, I will get things done and mostly when I said I would; though please ignore the fact that I'm panting and wheezing like I just ran a marathon. I'm an under-the-wire kind of gal.

I know where my analytical nature comes from. All those times I would mention something to my dad and he'd say "Why?" helped me develop that skill. No kid was as good at research as I was back in the day (and keep in mind that this was pre-internet, meaning I had to make my way to a library to do my figuring).

My temper is genetic, from both immediate and extended family. Both the flash bang and smolder varieties. I'm better at controlling it that my relatives are.

My sense of humor is perverse and dry, and evolved from my father and maternal grandfather.

My ability to fake getting along in a social environment I got from my mom. What few social graces I managed to pick up are due to her and my maternal grandmother.

My independent nature is due to my brother, who was/is FAR more high maintenance that I.

My snark was honed by my cousin and the woman I think of as a sister. They've helped keep my wit on its toes for over twenty years now.

My capacity to forgive was directly inspired my my uncle Everett.

My capacity for holding a grudge I got from my paternal grandmother.

My aunt Chris taught me how to accept the mysterious without dwelling on the fact that I cannot explain everything I have encountered.

Aunt Martha taught me by example how to be strong, not hard.

I learned how to let it go and be my own person all on my own.

But I could have done nothing without them.

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Dec. 15th, 2008 | 11:11 pm
location: backroom
mood: gloomygloomy

I've got nothing today.

Which was almost the entirety of my post, but I decided at the last moment that wasn't enough.

I'm kinda in a down way today. It's not depression, just a general oogyness of the spirit. It's just shy of being down enough to have a good solid eye-leak and get it over with, but not quite. Cold weather always seems to bring me down.

It never helps when I get obligated into doing something that I have CLEARLY stated I dislike doing. Note for all of you out there: If you want to obligate me into doing something, please have the grace to do it on a sunny day, lol--I will most likely do it with little more than a slightly rueful smile.

I loathe winter. Stupid emotions.

Y'all stay warm.

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Chranksgiving Wrap-Up Report

Dec. 14th, 2008 | 01:21 pm
location: backroom
mood: peacefulpeaceful

Yesterday was our annual Cranksgiving Day feast. It's the yearly celebration of friendship and camaraderie we share between the more standard (but less interesting, IMO) holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas. A good time was had by all, as usual.

In attendance were all of the usual suspects: Billy, Jon, Marty, Jack & Jen, Adam, Ken & myself, our fabulous hostess Misty and her old man Tommy. There were games of Risk, a Diablo marathon, and lots of sometime hysterical but always thought-provoking conversation.

And oh the food! Misty and I went with a Mediterranean themed meal for this year. There was yummy turkey, beef kabobs, cilantro potatoes, yams cooked with mint and curry, tabuli, Jack's nummyfied hummus, pitas, smooth as silk onion and cucumber yogurt salad, balsamic roasted veggies with couscous, and a myriad of sticky, gooey delicious deserts. There was iced tea, hot tea, the mulled cranberry-apple cider that OWNS, and some bad-ass coffee. We ate, laughed, ate, and laughed some more.

It was made of awesome. It always is.

It was the kind of day that I wish everyone got to experience.

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The Differance

Dec. 13th, 2008 | 09:46 am
location: backroom
mood: chipperchipper

I've had a great morning. Ken made pancakes. There's little better than waking up, stretching out, and plodding into the kitchen to find your man slaving over the electric skillet to make you some home-made pancakes. He didn't even use Bisquick!

I like to cook. I enjoy the concept of mixing a variety of items in my usual haphazard fashion to create something tasty. A bit of this, a bit of that; and there's something new there in the pan. I don't really use recipes, being more of a fan of the eyeball technique. To dwell on details seems to take the joy out of the process for me.

Ken's the opposite. He likes to bake, which is nothing but absolutes--volume, measures, and precise applications. This amount, and this temperature, for this length of time. Very structured, very organized.

It's like the difference between science and alchemy when we're in the kitchen. My see what lands in the pot when I throw it vs. his down to the milliliter perfection. We're two different creatures, and that's just fine by me.

Especially when I get fresh hot pancakes out of it.

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