seriously, it's no wonder i feel like a mushroom cap in my clothes these days. we are deep into the time of year, i affectionately refer to as the 12 days of potato.
my 12 days of potato may be very similar to your 12 days of christmas cookies, or 12 days of office party lunches but is in no way to be confused with 12 days of sobriety. 12 days of sobriety would enable me to fit in my pants without first crying a little bit and secondly, dodging buttons that burst off like little rockets these days. (someone at work was nice enough to find one of my buttons that took flight this week and oh-so-anonymously left it in the bathroom stall for its owner to claim. thank you kind soul, now mam can stitch the sucker back on for me.)
one of my friends left me a voicemail the other day while i was out of the office over christmas: "hey, just calling to bitch that my pants are so tight today, i can't breathe. oh well, just thought you would understand." this is my same friend who had a meltdown in the bread aisle at trader joe's when she undertook a serious 10-day fast to fit in bridesmaid's dress.
but the 12 days of potato is partially all my fault. the official start of the 12 days of potato begins on PMD (pierogie-making-day) and officially ends when i can no longer fit into anything that resembles clothing in my closet. my friends, that day is here.
for 12 days, no one holds a butterknife to my throat to demand i eat pierogies until i start to resemble the fat little doughy pillows myself. for 12 days, no italian mafia forces me to order bruschetta and gnocci (more potato) at not one, but two holiday dinners back-to-back. of course, gluttony is to blame for a lot of my squishiness around my belly. the other part i blame on a fcukin' microscopic blood clot that tried to take me out this summer and now forces my vegetarian-self to eschew green leafy vegetables.
(oh, the irony, my cholesterol levels were fine before the bloodclot. now, i'm afraid to have them checked to see how much damage my cheese-and-bread restricted diet has done.)
that's okay, with less than 36 hours left in the fcukin' horrible year known as 2006, i'm ready now to go all double-0-seven on my fat cells in the new year. cheers, baby.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
hang the gnomie
sometimes i think i give the impression that i teeter on the edge of being a half-crazed, angry lunatic bitch in my posts. this is only half-true. i can manage to get my shit together some of the time. but to truly understand how i came to be this angry, you gotta understand the genetics and nurturing behind what has created me -- you need to meet my family.
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
new traditions
i am finished. last night around 12:30 am i wrapped the last present that i could, as some gifts were stashed at remote locations. shopping was wrapped up on friday, with only a small trip to the grocery store needed today.
the car needs gas but otherwise, we are all systems go for christmas.
our filet o'dinner starts at 4:30 today, requiring us to leave chez mc-clot-sky around 3pm to get there in time to have a drink before dinner. and possible clear the dining room table off enough to eat.
no one knows exactly what we are walking into today. it's been months since i set foot in my mother-in-law's house. normally my sister-in-law has in the inside scoop on what abnormalities exist there on a more intimate level than i could due to the fact that her belief in family is stronger than mine. i have often said where she reaches for hugs, i reach for drugs. this is not an overexaggeration.
but since her falling from grace as the golden daughter-in-law status (she being the one to bear grandchildren), my m-i-l has been left alone to dwell in her own fantasy world. it's not that we haven't seen her, we have seen her at least once a month since the summer ended, but we have not set foot in her house and all of us, are totally unprepared for what we may find there.
last year, i cleaned her house two days before christmas. it wasn't for her mind you, it was for my father-in-law, sick with cancer who after battling infection after infection from chemo, did not need to be living in a house so filled with germs. before you chastise me for pushing cleanliness over caring for an ill spouse, let me say this, her house can only be described as a frat house but without the beer. there is still a profound stickiness that pervades everything only it is not from beer, but from other fluids spilt and left behind to fester. she does not believe in trashcans, so trash overflows from brown paper bags strewn on the kitchen floor. the bathrooms reek of mildew and mustiness, born of the stained showerstall and nasty toilet. towels used and unused mingled together to lend even further proof of how little care was put into where they were living. this is where my husband and his brothers grew up, it was always like this. my father-in-law's illness was not the cause.
still, the house reeked of desolation, of illness and mold. it did not inspire a return to health and the living, in fact, the house, i feared hampered his health and that of those around him, with windows shut tightly to not let in any more grief and despair. of course, these same shut windows never let any of the desolation or illness out, either.
pierogie-making-day (PMD) was uneventful this year. held at my s-i-l's house which did not need to be cleaned beforehand, supplies were ready at the fingertips, there were none of the raised voices and flaring tempers that can only signal the agitation between a father and son. instead, our day was one of simple conversations and laughter in between stuffing 600 pillows of dough. my m-i-l quietly stood at the stove, speaking only when spoken to and even then, soliciting one word answers to our attempts at conversation.
"this year will be hard for her," my goddess girls and flugilicious tell me. common sense tells me that 7 months after losing your husband is not a long enough time to grieve the loss of your partner of 35 years.
in some ways, none of us are ready for today and what this means -- with its new challenges and new traditions that begin with it -- as mam dresses as santa for the first time for our young niece and nephew. my f-i-l would have been proud.
the car needs gas but otherwise, we are all systems go for christmas.
our filet o'dinner starts at 4:30 today, requiring us to leave chez mc-clot-sky around 3pm to get there in time to have a drink before dinner. and possible clear the dining room table off enough to eat.
no one knows exactly what we are walking into today. it's been months since i set foot in my mother-in-law's house. normally my sister-in-law has in the inside scoop on what abnormalities exist there on a more intimate level than i could due to the fact that her belief in family is stronger than mine. i have often said where she reaches for hugs, i reach for drugs. this is not an overexaggeration.
but since her falling from grace as the golden daughter-in-law status (she being the one to bear grandchildren), my m-i-l has been left alone to dwell in her own fantasy world. it's not that we haven't seen her, we have seen her at least once a month since the summer ended, but we have not set foot in her house and all of us, are totally unprepared for what we may find there.
last year, i cleaned her house two days before christmas. it wasn't for her mind you, it was for my father-in-law, sick with cancer who after battling infection after infection from chemo, did not need to be living in a house so filled with germs. before you chastise me for pushing cleanliness over caring for an ill spouse, let me say this, her house can only be described as a frat house but without the beer. there is still a profound stickiness that pervades everything only it is not from beer, but from other fluids spilt and left behind to fester. she does not believe in trashcans, so trash overflows from brown paper bags strewn on the kitchen floor. the bathrooms reek of mildew and mustiness, born of the stained showerstall and nasty toilet. towels used and unused mingled together to lend even further proof of how little care was put into where they were living. this is where my husband and his brothers grew up, it was always like this. my father-in-law's illness was not the cause.
still, the house reeked of desolation, of illness and mold. it did not inspire a return to health and the living, in fact, the house, i feared hampered his health and that of those around him, with windows shut tightly to not let in any more grief and despair. of course, these same shut windows never let any of the desolation or illness out, either.
pierogie-making-day (PMD) was uneventful this year. held at my s-i-l's house which did not need to be cleaned beforehand, supplies were ready at the fingertips, there were none of the raised voices and flaring tempers that can only signal the agitation between a father and son. instead, our day was one of simple conversations and laughter in between stuffing 600 pillows of dough. my m-i-l quietly stood at the stove, speaking only when spoken to and even then, soliciting one word answers to our attempts at conversation.
"this year will be hard for her," my goddess girls and flugilicious tell me. common sense tells me that 7 months after losing your husband is not a long enough time to grieve the loss of your partner of 35 years.
in some ways, none of us are ready for today and what this means -- with its new challenges and new traditions that begin with it -- as mam dresses as santa for the first time for our young niece and nephew. my f-i-l would have been proud.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
breathe, just breathe
it’s 10 am on the week before christmas and i just want to scream out loud. i don’t belong here right now, my to-do list is sitting here mocking me with things yet to buy, pick-up or complete by days end. instead i sit here and attempt to complete some insane, inane things at work and i am wondering why i am here and not there, and how i got this far behind?
my frustration is growing -- growing pissed at the season, at work, at my family – grrrr. and i still don’t understand why i am so grrrr lately.
breathe, just breathe.
the simplest things are setting me off – a coworkers glib “you’ll get it on friday” comment when he knows i won’t be in on friday caused me to seriously contemplate standing up, grabbing his neck in my hands and twisting it loose from his shoulders. allie mcbeal would have been proud of my dream sequence, it would have ranked with the best of hers on her television show. and the fact that he was referring to my christmas present, well, that just made me want to cry.
breathe, just breathe.
in fact, everything makes me want to cry this week. the charities that keep hitting me up for money, the abused animals in need, the families without heat or food or gifts. the world is a sad sad place and the fact charities play sucker bets with busy souls like myself who may not be totally insensitive, but are removed from knowing what is going on in the world, well, that just makes me want to cry to. here, just take my money, alright. you’re worse than a pick-pocket. i would slug a pick-pocket who attempts to mug me and take my money. a charity hits me up and i’m reaching for kleenex and my wallet.
breathe, just breathe.
i’m not a crier. grrr-like riot girl, yes. bitchy? hell ya. crier? not on your life. except when i’m pms-ing. oh sweet plastic jesus tucked in a dog-house manger left out on the front lawn! i’m pms-ing at christmas. family-togetherness has never been so frightening a concept except when i’m getting ready to rag as mam calls it.
breathe, just breathe.
now, another all-spirited-up-for-the-holiday-coworker approaches me with a tin of home-made baked cookies, peanut butter chip snickerdoodles with a hershey’s kiss on top. oh, wait, is that a peanut butter-filled hershey’s kiss? how the hell can i say no to a pms-blessing in disguise? chocolate and peanut-butter makes everything better. the bigger question is how can i keep my face out of the tin and save any for my other coworkers who pass and say they’ll wait until after lunch to take one. lunch is hours away right now. “gimme chocolate now!” screams the pms-bitch lurking inside me. “there may not be any left after lunch for you sniveling, i’ll-get-it-to-you-on-friday coworker. mwah-hah-ha-ha!” yes, sometimes pms-bitch scares me, too.
breathe, just breathe.
which is why this christmas season is killing me. i’m a scrooge under the best of circumstances, a fault i believe acquired while working in a mall in the christmas season. any addition of a hormonal imbalance and family dysfunction just adds more fuel to my growing fire.
i just gotta make it through the next few days alive. a thought i’m sure mam is praying for these days too. as long as i just breathe and only threatento jack anyone with chocolate and peanut butter in a 5-mile radius, i'll be alright.
drop the cookie, beeyatch.
my frustration is growing -- growing pissed at the season, at work, at my family – grrrr. and i still don’t understand why i am so grrrr lately.
breathe, just breathe.
the simplest things are setting me off – a coworkers glib “you’ll get it on friday” comment when he knows i won’t be in on friday caused me to seriously contemplate standing up, grabbing his neck in my hands and twisting it loose from his shoulders. allie mcbeal would have been proud of my dream sequence, it would have ranked with the best of hers on her television show. and the fact that he was referring to my christmas present, well, that just made me want to cry.
breathe, just breathe.
in fact, everything makes me want to cry this week. the charities that keep hitting me up for money, the abused animals in need, the families without heat or food or gifts. the world is a sad sad place and the fact charities play sucker bets with busy souls like myself who may not be totally insensitive, but are removed from knowing what is going on in the world, well, that just makes me want to cry to. here, just take my money, alright. you’re worse than a pick-pocket. i would slug a pick-pocket who attempts to mug me and take my money. a charity hits me up and i’m reaching for kleenex and my wallet.
breathe, just breathe.
i’m not a crier. grrr-like riot girl, yes. bitchy? hell ya. crier? not on your life. except when i’m pms-ing. oh sweet plastic jesus tucked in a dog-house manger left out on the front lawn! i’m pms-ing at christmas. family-togetherness has never been so frightening a concept except when i’m getting ready to rag as mam calls it.
breathe, just breathe.
now, another all-spirited-up-for-the-holiday-coworker approaches me with a tin of home-made baked cookies, peanut butter chip snickerdoodles with a hershey’s kiss on top. oh, wait, is that a peanut butter-filled hershey’s kiss? how the hell can i say no to a pms-blessing in disguise? chocolate and peanut-butter makes everything better. the bigger question is how can i keep my face out of the tin and save any for my other coworkers who pass and say they’ll wait until after lunch to take one. lunch is hours away right now. “gimme chocolate now!” screams the pms-bitch lurking inside me. “there may not be any left after lunch for you sniveling, i’ll-get-it-to-you-on-friday coworker. mwah-hah-ha-ha!” yes, sometimes pms-bitch scares me, too.
breathe, just breathe.
which is why this christmas season is killing me. i’m a scrooge under the best of circumstances, a fault i believe acquired while working in a mall in the christmas season. any addition of a hormonal imbalance and family dysfunction just adds more fuel to my growing fire.
i just gotta make it through the next few days alive. a thought i’m sure mam is praying for these days too. as long as i just breathe and only threatento jack anyone with chocolate and peanut butter in a 5-mile radius, i'll be alright.
drop the cookie, beeyatch.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
faster, pussycat -- kill, kill
my apologies to russ myers on this title but i hope you find it a suitable one as you keep reading.
and no, this is not a tale about 3 strippers gone wild in the desert. this is a tail (pun intended) of another sort. the scritch, you see, is back.
the last few weeks, in the rest of my scuttle to wrap up a project at work and end a school semester, i had the lovely displeasure of waking up to poop. lots of little pellet poops, of the mousiest kind. argggh.
i do what any animal rights person in her right mind would do... i brought out the "mouse house" and humane traps to set around the kitchen where our newest boarder had taken to dining each evening.
"g'day, sir. may i seat you in the smoking or nonsmoking section?" i inquire as host.
"any seat by the fruitbowl would be suitable, thank you, miss. those apples you served last night, they're marvelous, simply marvelous."
"wonderful to hear, sir. our chef picked those apples especially to bake a pie but by you helping yourself to them, well, you really saved a lot of innocent folks from having to eat that apple pie. my compliments to you."
but if the mouse was as grateful and appreciative as that i wouldn't be asking him to leave, then, now would i? my goddess, he ate my cooking -- he should be worshipped! with nearly 200 lbs of wild monkeys dogs bumbling about the house, one would think something weighing only a few ounces would think twice about moving in. rightfully so, any person stupid enough to break into my house would be greeted by the drooling smile of my rottweiler -- why shouldn't a mouse feel the same the threat of impending doom?
because dogs are not cats. amazingly, this is a new discovery for me, too. the extreme difference in size sadly wasn't an earlier clue...
so when a mouse has settled in a "chez mc-clot-sky", the dogs i discovered will do no good as a deterrent. but a "mouse house" will. fittingly enough, the mouse also chose to move in when mam is away. for business -- that is -- not play, even if he is in vegas.
bleery-eyed that morning, i stumbled into the kitchen at 6:00 am looking to do just 3 simple things: make coffee, feed those 200 lbs of puppies, and pack my work bag for the day. that's it. so when i see the door on the "mouse house" closed with a no vacancy sign lit, well, i knew it was a monday. and i hate mondays.
the only thing that tops my hatred of mondays is my mother's hatred of mice. and guess who was coming over to feed those 200 lbs of puppies dinner while i was in class that evening? yup, the mouse-hater, my mother ... the chuckinator.
i struggled with full disclosure -- to mouse or not to mouse, that is the question. 'tis better to suffer the slings of punches as my chuckie fights her way out of the little tiny mouse's range of sight, or to lie, to lie perchance to deny, deny, deny the little mouse ever lived in the "mouse house" on the counter near the stove? aye, there's the rub.
i disclosed in true political fashion: i believed, there may or may not be a mouse in the house on the counter. potential for but no promise there was one, past performance is no guarantee, that sort of thing. i left this long-winded message on her voicemail at work. and then heard nothing.
the chuckinator had agreed to feed the puppies for me since mam was away for business and i had class. she had not agreed to come to my house when there was a possibility of a 3 ounce mouse trapped in my kitchen. her silence, i assumed, meant my puppies bladders would be just shy of erupting by the time i got home. or i'd be shampooing the carpets again.
what i didn't know is she called the next best thing to me -- my brother. in tears. i believe the conversation went something like:
my brother: "hello, company abc. oh, hey there chuckie. what's up w---"
chuckinator butts in before he can finish: "EEEKKWHATISYOURSISTERTRYINGTODOTOME? [gasp for air] SHECALLEDMEANDTOLDMESHEHASAMOUSEINHERHOUSE [gasp.] ANDSHEKNOWSIHATEMICE. [gasp for air one more time.] WAAAHHHH! [gasp.] WHATAMIGOINGTODO?IHATETHEMIHATETHEM. [another deep breath in. now release.] I'LLHAVEAHEARTACHEIFISEEIT,YOUHAVETOHELPMEPLEEEEAAASE!EEEK!" [the shrieking dies out to a sad, soft whimpering sound.]
needless to say, my brother wanted to bash my skull in for having to talk our mother down from crying in the middle of a workday for something i had caused. as if the mouse made reservations to stay at my place in advance.
she's a trooper though. she did arrive at my house, as she said she would but our normally, mild-manner mother turned a side i have never witnessed nor even would have thought she would have been capable of. there was bloodlust in heart when she walked through my door.
she wanted mickey dead in the worst way. when my brother arrived to escort mickey to his new home in the woods outback of chez mc-clot-sky, she shrieked in the background, "kill it, kill it". she stood fearlessly and chanted as he took the "mouse house" outdoors to release him and yelled through the doorway, "just kill it already for crissakes."
that is, until he unlocked the latch on the "mouse house" and tried to evict the tenant. only to have the tenant dart back towards the very door where she stood screaming for his head, that managed to shut her up real quickly.
and no, this is not a tale about 3 strippers gone wild in the desert. this is a tail (pun intended) of another sort. the scritch, you see, is back.
the last few weeks, in the rest of my scuttle to wrap up a project at work and end a school semester, i had the lovely displeasure of waking up to poop. lots of little pellet poops, of the mousiest kind. argggh.
i do what any animal rights person in her right mind would do... i brought out the "mouse house" and humane traps to set around the kitchen where our newest boarder had taken to dining each evening.
"g'day, sir. may i seat you in the smoking or nonsmoking section?" i inquire as host.
"any seat by the fruitbowl would be suitable, thank you, miss. those apples you served last night, they're marvelous, simply marvelous."
"wonderful to hear, sir. our chef picked those apples especially to bake a pie but by you helping yourself to them, well, you really saved a lot of innocent folks from having to eat that apple pie. my compliments to you."
but if the mouse was as grateful and appreciative as that i wouldn't be asking him to leave, then, now would i? my goddess, he ate my cooking -- he should be worshipped! with nearly 200 lbs of wild monkeys dogs bumbling about the house, one would think something weighing only a few ounces would think twice about moving in. rightfully so, any person stupid enough to break into my house would be greeted by the drooling smile of my rottweiler -- why shouldn't a mouse feel the same the threat of impending doom?
because dogs are not cats. amazingly, this is a new discovery for me, too. the extreme difference in size sadly wasn't an earlier clue...
so when a mouse has settled in a "chez mc-clot-sky", the dogs i discovered will do no good as a deterrent. but a "mouse house" will. fittingly enough, the mouse also chose to move in when mam is away. for business -- that is -- not play, even if he is in vegas.
bleery-eyed that morning, i stumbled into the kitchen at 6:00 am looking to do just 3 simple things: make coffee, feed those 200 lbs of puppies, and pack my work bag for the day. that's it. so when i see the door on the "mouse house" closed with a no vacancy sign lit, well, i knew it was a monday. and i hate mondays.
the only thing that tops my hatred of mondays is my mother's hatred of mice. and guess who was coming over to feed those 200 lbs of puppies dinner while i was in class that evening? yup, the mouse-hater, my mother ... the chuckinator.
i struggled with full disclosure -- to mouse or not to mouse, that is the question. 'tis better to suffer the slings of punches as my chuckie fights her way out of the little tiny mouse's range of sight, or to lie, to lie perchance to deny, deny, deny the little mouse ever lived in the "mouse house" on the counter near the stove? aye, there's the rub.
i disclosed in true political fashion: i believed, there may or may not be a mouse in the house on the counter. potential for but no promise there was one, past performance is no guarantee, that sort of thing. i left this long-winded message on her voicemail at work. and then heard nothing.
the chuckinator had agreed to feed the puppies for me since mam was away for business and i had class. she had not agreed to come to my house when there was a possibility of a 3 ounce mouse trapped in my kitchen. her silence, i assumed, meant my puppies bladders would be just shy of erupting by the time i got home. or i'd be shampooing the carpets again.
what i didn't know is she called the next best thing to me -- my brother. in tears. i believe the conversation went something like:
my brother: "hello, company abc. oh, hey there chuckie. what's up w---"
chuckinator butts in before he can finish: "EEEKKWHATISYOURSISTERTRYINGTODOTOME? [gasp for air] SHECALLEDMEANDTOLDMESHEHASAMOUSEINHERHOUSE [gasp.] ANDSHEKNOWSIHATEMICE. [gasp for air one more time.] WAAAHHHH! [gasp.] WHATAMIGOINGTODO?IHATETHEMIHATETHEM. [another deep breath in. now release.] I'LLHAVEAHEARTACHEIFISEEIT,YOUHAVETOHELPMEPLEEEEAAASE!EEEK!" [the shrieking dies out to a sad, soft whimpering sound.]
needless to say, my brother wanted to bash my skull in for having to talk our mother down from crying in the middle of a workday for something i had caused. as if the mouse made reservations to stay at my place in advance.
she's a trooper though. she did arrive at my house, as she said she would but our normally, mild-manner mother turned a side i have never witnessed nor even would have thought she would have been capable of. there was bloodlust in heart when she walked through my door.
she wanted mickey dead in the worst way. when my brother arrived to escort mickey to his new home in the woods outback of chez mc-clot-sky, she shrieked in the background, "kill it, kill it". she stood fearlessly and chanted as he took the "mouse house" outdoors to release him and yelled through the doorway, "just kill it already for crissakes."
that is, until he unlocked the latch on the "mouse house" and tried to evict the tenant. only to have the tenant dart back towards the very door where she stood screaming for his head, that managed to shut her up real quickly.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
coasting into PMD
the agitation that i feel right now is growing. with exactly one week until it arrives, my throat feels like closing up.
my final paper for class is due in less than 48 hours but i'm sitting writing posts here instead of writing about blah-ddey blah-blah in my research paper. the queen of procrastination, i am. flug-a-licious might also say the "queen of fellatio" but that's an entirely different post.
is my paper causing me stress? slightly, but not to the degree that others may face.
is it my work? to some degree everyone's workload is stretched but again, i can't relegate my current state of affliction to it.
no, my anxiety-stricken, panic attacks are coming -- signed, sealed and delivered with the same intended level of shock and awe g.w. promised to the iraqis way back in 2003. my bunker-buster bomb is my husband's family on pierogie-making-day (PMD).
welcome to my nightmare. seriously, i can't make this stuff up or else i would probably be writing episode guides for doctor phil if i could imagine the type of family dysfunction without first witnessing it in action.
this year will be different, perhaps even more fcuked up if possible. the ghost of christmas (and PMD) past will be joining us. this year the table will be set for nine but only eight will be there. an empty chair will be set out for my father-in-law who passed away this spring after a valiant fight with cancer.
i know that nothing we say or do this PMD or filet o'dinner will be the same. with arms holding tight to the past, i know this year will be the most difficult. so many changes have happened since last year's PMD -- the births, the deaths -- and the world in its own insulated and heartless way, decided to keep pushing forward, keep spinning, no matter how much we might have wanted the world to stop.
one of my favorite sayings come from tony kushner's angels in america play: "the world only spins forward. let the great work begin." and the only way to do that is to stop chewing on and finally swallow, the events of past.
my final paper for class is due in less than 48 hours but i'm sitting writing posts here instead of writing about blah-ddey blah-blah in my research paper. the queen of procrastination, i am. flug-a-licious might also say the "queen of fellatio" but that's an entirely different post.
is my paper causing me stress? slightly, but not to the degree that others may face.
is it my work? to some degree everyone's workload is stretched but again, i can't relegate my current state of affliction to it.
no, my anxiety-stricken, panic attacks are coming -- signed, sealed and delivered with the same intended level of shock and awe g.w. promised to the iraqis way back in 2003. my bunker-buster bomb is my husband's family on pierogie-making-day (PMD).
welcome to my nightmare. seriously, i can't make this stuff up or else i would probably be writing episode guides for doctor phil if i could imagine the type of family dysfunction without first witnessing it in action.
this year will be different, perhaps even more fcuked up if possible. the ghost of christmas (and PMD) past will be joining us. this year the table will be set for nine but only eight will be there. an empty chair will be set out for my father-in-law who passed away this spring after a valiant fight with cancer.
i know that nothing we say or do this PMD or filet o'dinner will be the same. with arms holding tight to the past, i know this year will be the most difficult. so many changes have happened since last year's PMD -- the births, the deaths -- and the world in its own insulated and heartless way, decided to keep pushing forward, keep spinning, no matter how much we might have wanted the world to stop.
one of my favorite sayings come from tony kushner's angels in america play: "the world only spins forward. let the great work begin." and the only way to do that is to stop chewing on and finally swallow, the events of past.
stun, stun
my self-esteem is slightly less than healthy. whether this is something symptomatic of just my own slightly neurotic self or a symbol of a larger defect among women in that we do not "see" that which others see in us is debatable. the goddess girls understand this.
the night after my company's holiday party (for those politically correct, non-exclusionary types), one of my brother's coworkers approached him the next morning. my brother and i do work for the same company though in very different roles. the fact that i use my husband's name and the fact my brother and i look nothing alike throws some people off when they find out we are related. still, the coworker who happens to be russian and had approached my brother knew we were related.
the russian coworker: "mischka(not his real name), i spoke with your sister last night. she is stun, stun."
my brother replied, quite quizzically to his statement: "she is what?" after all, this is the same guy who will tell you his knee is hurting when he has a headache. english-as-a-second-language instructors really should brush up on their anatomy lessons.
the russian answers: "she is, how you say -- pretty, pretty?" while waving a big bear-like paw in front of his face.
"you mean stunning?" at this point, i'm sure my brother is getting either a little skeeved out or getting angry. although whatever brotherly-exemption he would take at this other guy's interest in his sister would be waved considering his coworker could kill him with only his pinkie finger.
"yes, she is stunning, your sister," with wide eyes and a goofy grin spreading across his face, a look that belies his strength and size, and manages to reduce this bear-like man to an oversized version of one of the seven dwarfs fantasizing about snow white.
as the russian continued to stand there and grin as if in a daze, my brother grew increasingly aggitated. "keep it rated PG, mister," he said with a poke of his finger into the russian's chest. "that's my sister, you're thinking about."
when all of this was retold to me later that evening, i had to laugh. the same brother who let his friend get off licking the side of my face. . . err, maybe i should rephrase that last part. . . the same brother who did nothing to step in when his friend licked the side of my face [much better], this sudden act of big-brother protectionism was too much to take.
while my ego did force a little backflip and a giggle at the thought that someone thought i was "stun, stun", the fact that my brother still tries to protect me years after i spent our childhood protecting him was the best part of all.
the night after my company's holiday party (for those politically correct, non-exclusionary types), one of my brother's coworkers approached him the next morning. my brother and i do work for the same company though in very different roles. the fact that i use my husband's name and the fact my brother and i look nothing alike throws some people off when they find out we are related. still, the coworker who happens to be russian and had approached my brother knew we were related.
the russian coworker: "mischka(not his real name), i spoke with your sister last night. she is stun, stun."
my brother replied, quite quizzically to his statement: "she is what?" after all, this is the same guy who will tell you his knee is hurting when he has a headache. english-as-a-second-language instructors really should brush up on their anatomy lessons.
the russian answers: "she is, how you say -- pretty, pretty?" while waving a big bear-like paw in front of his face.
"you mean stunning?" at this point, i'm sure my brother is getting either a little skeeved out or getting angry. although whatever brotherly-exemption he would take at this other guy's interest in his sister would be waved considering his coworker could kill him with only his pinkie finger.
"yes, she is stunning, your sister," with wide eyes and a goofy grin spreading across his face, a look that belies his strength and size, and manages to reduce this bear-like man to an oversized version of one of the seven dwarfs fantasizing about snow white.
as the russian continued to stand there and grin as if in a daze, my brother grew increasingly aggitated. "keep it rated PG, mister," he said with a poke of his finger into the russian's chest. "that's my sister, you're thinking about."
when all of this was retold to me later that evening, i had to laugh. the same brother who let his friend get off licking the side of my face. . . err, maybe i should rephrase that last part. . . the same brother who did nothing to step in when his friend licked the side of my face [much better], this sudden act of big-brother protectionism was too much to take.
while my ego did force a little backflip and a giggle at the thought that someone thought i was "stun, stun", the fact that my brother still tries to protect me years after i spent our childhood protecting him was the best part of all.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
hair devil
i went in looking for a trim and to have my roots touched up.
i walked out looking like a friggin' soccer mom in a minivan. (no offense, wendy, i know you are considering a minivan to transport your growing brood these days.)
seriously, it was a miscommunication of the highest degree. salman rushdie had a fatwa, "a hit" put on him in soprano-speak, for lesser crimes that what this stylist did to me.
i think i said something like: "i like the length, just trim up my layers in the front."
she said: "you should probably take a little bit off the length to trim up the edges there, too."
i said: "okay."
now what she heard was something like: "yes, you can trim a half-inch from the back of my hair. but you must also cut back in all of those layers that i have diligently grown out the last four-months, suffering from bad roots and missed highlight appointments in order to put some distance between me and your scissors. because really, i have obviously not suffered enough for my decision to do something drastic to my hair last winter. yes, almighty hair dresser, you have fixed my color addiction to dying my blonde hair a deep red by helping me settle on a more natural shade that does not look like i dipped my head in kool-aid. and yes, i listened when you told me it would take months before i would grow my hair back to an acceptable length, but each hair cut is like taking two steps forward and three steps back, so yes, please cut off all of the growth i have managed to scrounge up. and do it RIGHT NOW!"
true, i do believe in taking chances with my hair which is miraculously healthy considering the hell i have put it through over the years. fuschia, purple, deep red, light red, blonde, blonder and blondest highlights and let's not forget last year's red highlights over blonde. in my defense, it looked cool until it begins to grow out and then there goes my new look because as much fun as it is do actually take on a new style, i have the worst track record for maintaining it once i get it.
last year's attempt at a quarter life crisis arrived 5 years too late. on the eve of my third decade i tried to tell myself that i was still cool. i was hip. i went to a trendy salon in the city, told the stylist and colorist i wanted a change and they had free rein. what i hadn't noticed was the sucker stamped on my forehead in the mirror. the cut and color looked fabulous - angled, assymetrical and red, just the amount of edginess that my ego needed.
until i walked into work the next day and realized how that is not entirely who i am any more. sure, i still think like a counterrevolutionary at times but in reality, my harder edges have or are in the process of being honed to an acceptable level.
which is why this latest hair snafu is so discouraging. in 12 months, my hair has done a 180 degree flip from hipster to this mom-ster. this whole easing into adulthood is rough enough on its own, it doesn't need any acceleration at the hands of edward scissor-stylist-hands.
i walked out looking like a friggin' soccer mom in a minivan. (no offense, wendy, i know you are considering a minivan to transport your growing brood these days.)
seriously, it was a miscommunication of the highest degree. salman rushdie had a fatwa, "a hit" put on him in soprano-speak, for lesser crimes that what this stylist did to me.
i think i said something like: "i like the length, just trim up my layers in the front."
she said: "you should probably take a little bit off the length to trim up the edges there, too."
i said: "okay."
now what she heard was something like: "yes, you can trim a half-inch from the back of my hair. but you must also cut back in all of those layers that i have diligently grown out the last four-months, suffering from bad roots and missed highlight appointments in order to put some distance between me and your scissors. because really, i have obviously not suffered enough for my decision to do something drastic to my hair last winter. yes, almighty hair dresser, you have fixed my color addiction to dying my blonde hair a deep red by helping me settle on a more natural shade that does not look like i dipped my head in kool-aid. and yes, i listened when you told me it would take months before i would grow my hair back to an acceptable length, but each hair cut is like taking two steps forward and three steps back, so yes, please cut off all of the growth i have managed to scrounge up. and do it RIGHT NOW!"
true, i do believe in taking chances with my hair which is miraculously healthy considering the hell i have put it through over the years. fuschia, purple, deep red, light red, blonde, blonder and blondest highlights and let's not forget last year's red highlights over blonde. in my defense, it looked cool until it begins to grow out and then there goes my new look because as much fun as it is do actually take on a new style, i have the worst track record for maintaining it once i get it.
last year's attempt at a quarter life crisis arrived 5 years too late. on the eve of my third decade i tried to tell myself that i was still cool. i was hip. i went to a trendy salon in the city, told the stylist and colorist i wanted a change and they had free rein. what i hadn't noticed was the sucker stamped on my forehead in the mirror. the cut and color looked fabulous - angled, assymetrical and red, just the amount of edginess that my ego needed.
until i walked into work the next day and realized how that is not entirely who i am any more. sure, i still think like a counterrevolutionary at times but in reality, my harder edges have or are in the process of being honed to an acceptable level.
which is why this latest hair snafu is so discouraging. in 12 months, my hair has done a 180 degree flip from hipster to this mom-ster. this whole easing into adulthood is rough enough on its own, it doesn't need any acceleration at the hands of edward scissor-stylist-hands.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
on santa's naughty list
while researching some things for my final project for class (i am beginning to think i will be in grad school forever) i needed the url for a website i tracked down the night before. being the tech-savvy girl that i am, i decided to check my browser's history file. which is why i am now convinced i am on santa's naughty list.
christmas time each year is a crap shoot for me as to which list i wind up on. some years i manage to keep my anti-social urges in check. (sometimes, people even say i can be... ahem, nice.) admittedly though, there are far fewer of those folks than the ones who call me a bitch, but que sera sera.
so what does this have to do with my research project? well, lemme tell ya. it involves a little thing called curiousity and something about how it killed a cat, which just so happened to be right after the cat swallowed poor tweety bird who flapped about in a frenzy, yelling "i deed, i deed see a puddy tat!"
at christmas time, no one should ever use the view history option on their web browser. mam and i are both pretty big online shoppers so it's no surprise that either of us would choose to do our holiday shopping for one another online.
sooo, do i think of this before i go digging through our recent web travels? nope.
any sane, rationale person would think of this immediately after they realize "wow, we've been on a lot of websites recently". then that person would promptly close the window after getting what they had intended to find in the first place.
i am not that sane, rational person. nope. not even close.
in my defense, the site that i decided to visit was one of his snowboarding/skiing websites. you know the kind, where the skater folks look all hip, with great hair and hip bones jutted just so. not at all like reality where one's lips are horribly chapped, one's nose is red and helplessly weeping snot while wearing windblown hair that's not at all like sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair but just knotted and tangled like a homeless person.
what my snooping self did was try to snoop on something that was not on his impossible-to-extract-from-him xmas wish list. instead, i get a preview of my christmas morning feigning excitement and choking down fear of careening down an icy hill wearing his present. looking like a newborn gazelle (wow, i've never compared myself to a gazelle before) learning to walk (okay, maybe it should be a foal that i am comparing myself to) on brand new legs, or in this case -- a snowboard.
after three mouse clicks, i realized all of his web searching was for snowboard jackets and paraphenalia for those of the female gender. for one moment there, i did find myself wishing he was into wearing women's clothes. but i'm not that lucky to be married to a cross-dressing, snowboarding afficiando.
no, the son-of-a-bitch was trying to outfit ME in his little snowbunny outfits! obviously he's forgetting that i am neither of the size to be considered a bunny (more like a "snow walrus" these days) nor have the inclination to spend my time outside in the cold on my ass blowing snot rockets like there's no tomorrow. with tangled, nasty hair to boot, thank you very much.
no way is this mamacita into playing those reindeer games!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
just another manic martha
now that the holiday season is in full swing, i feel the urges. i have lust in my heart -- for all things martha.
it's these nesting urges that cause me to forget the simple things, like -- i really can't cook. it's these damn urges that force me to try anyway. sure, i can bake a pie! hell, i can even make an appetizer, too.
before i know it, i am knee-deep in recipe denial. and shortly thereafter, i am faced with the crushing reality of defeat as my appetizer flops and i discover the omission of an integral step in the recipe. (and no, i will not share what i fcuked up this time. my amnesia-based cooking frenzy will surely mount its ugly head again someday and next time -- next time i will be prepared! booyah, baby.)
during this time i also feel the need to clean, too. any other time of the year i am referred to as the clean nazi, but at this time of year when confronted with what i affectionately call the muddy season, those urges gain even more strength. october and november are some of the hardest months of the year -- until the ground freezes, each trip to the yard invites the princess (chloe) and piglet (sadie) to take a mudbath.
this might be a stock tip, people: invest in the makers of swiffer wetjet products right before the muddy season begins -- i know loads of other mother of furkids out there who live by their wetjets, too.
so another day means another trip out of the closet for my vacuum cleaner which gets more action than a prostitute these days. goddess only knows, the prostitute probably sucks more and costs less than my bagless vac does.
ahh, and while on the subject of crackwhores, with the return of the holiday season comes the onslaught of a new enemy -- the army of inflatables infiltrating front lawns everywhere. i wanna decorate for the holidays with the best of them but save me from the snow globes, would ya?
it's these nesting urges that cause me to forget the simple things, like -- i really can't cook. it's these damn urges that force me to try anyway. sure, i can bake a pie! hell, i can even make an appetizer, too.
before i know it, i am knee-deep in recipe denial. and shortly thereafter, i am faced with the crushing reality of defeat as my appetizer flops and i discover the omission of an integral step in the recipe. (and no, i will not share what i fcuked up this time. my amnesia-based cooking frenzy will surely mount its ugly head again someday and next time -- next time i will be prepared! booyah, baby.)
during this time i also feel the need to clean, too. any other time of the year i am referred to as the clean nazi, but at this time of year when confronted with what i affectionately call the muddy season, those urges gain even more strength. october and november are some of the hardest months of the year -- until the ground freezes, each trip to the yard invites the princess (chloe) and piglet (sadie) to take a mudbath.
this might be a stock tip, people: invest in the makers of swiffer wetjet products right before the muddy season begins -- i know loads of other mother of furkids out there who live by their wetjets, too.
so another day means another trip out of the closet for my vacuum cleaner which gets more action than a prostitute these days. goddess only knows, the prostitute probably sucks more and costs less than my bagless vac does.
ahh, and while on the subject of crackwhores, with the return of the holiday season comes the onslaught of a new enemy -- the army of inflatables infiltrating front lawns everywhere. i wanna decorate for the holidays with the best of them but save me from the snow globes, would ya?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
death of a pocket rocket
as women, there is usually some reluctance to talk openly about all aspects of our lives. nowhere is this more apparent than in our sex lives. i'll tell a perfect stranger on the elevator that my ass looks huge upon catching my reflection but won't share intimate details with the goddess girls.
so when i tell you i just had to throw away my third vibrator, i am not quite sure if i am ahead of the curve or not. just as i am equally sure that it is three more than most women have ever had.
i don't think i am some sort of amazon-sex goddess who rides her vibrators until the motor wears out, or whose vagina dentata tears the shit out of the plastic sheathing but i guess if you look at my track record it seems that way. and it's not like i am buying cracker jack versions to begin with that come with an expiration date like, good for 100 uses before self-destructing.
this one in particular has me very sad to see it disintegrate. the other ones were okay, but this is the first one whose heart -- the motor -- gave out. i tried rescuscitating it, replacing its batteries but nothing stopped its slow fade into the deep beyond. maybe the fact it glowed bright pink was too much for it. like a homing device, you were always sure where it rolled to on the bed in the dark.
another ex-vibrator bit the dust after putting holes in the molded plastic sheathing that would frighten me if i came across a real penis that veiny. what would start out as a little tiny hole in the plastic would soon enlarge and begin to take in all sorts of goo it wasn't meant to -- soap from cleaning it, lube, my goo. one day as i cleaned it, i noticed i could squirt out the trapped contents that now formed a bubble under its surface. i realized as that steady stream of possibly bateria-laden fluid released into the sink, i had lost another friend.
i caste out my first vibrator in favor of the holy one. why, oh why, did i get rid of you? it was a starter vibrator, like your first car, it may not have been pretty or had all the upgrades, but it managed to get you to your destination each time. steady and reliably, but not at all flashy or anything to write home about. damn! now i have none.
now, my nightstand sits empty. mam was surprised when i said "pinky" (okay if men nickname their penises, i can damn well nickname my vibrator) had gone to the great big sex shop in the sky.
"why would you do that," he said as if there was a slim chance he could run out to the garbage to retrieve it. "did you hear the sounds it was making the last time we used it?" i shot back. "i get a little worried putting anything near my vajayjay that sounds like a broken weed wacker." you could use all the plastic silicone in pamela anderson's breasts to protect me from that broken weed wacker and i'd still be afraid.
how depressing! everyone in my family is buzzing about gathering christmas lists of wants this year and all i want for christmas is a new vibrator that i can't ask santa for it.
oh well, it's not like i was a good girl this year anyway.
what i am thankful for
right now, i am most thankful that thanksgiving only happens once a year.
don't get me wrong, the fall is my favorite season and thanksgiving is it's penultimate holiday. but in reality, i am not sure i know of too many people who look forward to that much family togetherness.
and anyone who does is a liar. and possibly already drunk.
how did what was meant to be a celebration turn into such a melting pot of family hostility? a night of pass-me-a-plate-of-passive-aggression with a side of cranberry sauce, please.
don't get me wrong, my family loves each other. we just can't stand being around each other. add in a dash of food sensitivities, a large splash of alcohol and it's amazing that we manage to survive any of our family dinners together. corrupting the occasion even more is the "my house vs. your house" location argument and "who's picking up grandma from the hood" that gets more heated and dangerous each year.
not the 'hood per se, that's always been a disaster. it's the stakes in who gets the 45 minute ride down and back listening to my nan bitch about why she is still alive. doesn't god know she wants to die? she's wanted to die since 1986 and it is now her greatest failure that she hasn't yet.
somehow this year i think i sold my soul to the devil, my brother. i am pretty sure that by agreeing to his terms to both pick her up and drive her home i need to find a goat, a virgin and an altar somewhere by sunset tomorrow.
after all, we are talking about the woman who brings her own beer to social gatherings. not too many people still drink pabst blue ribbon over a certain age. how many grandmothers do you know that can hang at the bar with 20-something bike messengers drinking shots of pbr all night?
my cousins and fellow she-devils and i do the silent conversations pleading with each other for help. as in "please make her shut up" and "no, you sit there" that can make or break dinner for all of us. my uncle pokes fun at what he calls the "weak", because in his mind, what else is there to do at family gatherings?
we try to talk about what is going on in each of our lives. my cousins in college, my brother and i are now cube dwellers, our parents are already well-versed in each other's happenings to begin with. why then do we suffer?
because underneath it all, we all understand where each other is coming from. and as much as we can drive each other batty, we do feel some small trickle of love and compassion for each other.
even if we have to slice each other open to get to it.
don't get me wrong, the fall is my favorite season and thanksgiving is it's penultimate holiday. but in reality, i am not sure i know of too many people who look forward to that much family togetherness.
and anyone who does is a liar. and possibly already drunk.
how did what was meant to be a celebration turn into such a melting pot of family hostility? a night of pass-me-a-plate-of-passive-aggression with a side of cranberry sauce, please.
don't get me wrong, my family loves each other. we just can't stand being around each other. add in a dash of food sensitivities, a large splash of alcohol and it's amazing that we manage to survive any of our family dinners together. corrupting the occasion even more is the "my house vs. your house" location argument and "who's picking up grandma from the hood" that gets more heated and dangerous each year.
not the 'hood per se, that's always been a disaster. it's the stakes in who gets the 45 minute ride down and back listening to my nan bitch about why she is still alive. doesn't god know she wants to die? she's wanted to die since 1986 and it is now her greatest failure that she hasn't yet.
somehow this year i think i sold my soul to the devil, my brother. i am pretty sure that by agreeing to his terms to both pick her up and drive her home i need to find a goat, a virgin and an altar somewhere by sunset tomorrow.
after all, we are talking about the woman who brings her own beer to social gatherings. not too many people still drink pabst blue ribbon over a certain age. how many grandmothers do you know that can hang at the bar with 20-something bike messengers drinking shots of pbr all night?
my cousins and fellow she-devils and i do the silent conversations pleading with each other for help. as in "please make her shut up" and "no, you sit there" that can make or break dinner for all of us. my uncle pokes fun at what he calls the "weak", because in his mind, what else is there to do at family gatherings?
we try to talk about what is going on in each of our lives. my cousins in college, my brother and i are now cube dwellers, our parents are already well-versed in each other's happenings to begin with. why then do we suffer?
because underneath it all, we all understand where each other is coming from. and as much as we can drive each other batty, we do feel some small trickle of love and compassion for each other.
even if we have to slice each other open to get to it.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
21st century metrosexual man
in every fairy tale that's ever been told, there's a simple balance to maintain. for every heroine, there must be a villain. and for every villain, there must be something he does to royally piss off the heroine to warrant to fairy tale in the first place.
this fairy tale, children, tells a very scary lesson. gather round as we tell the story of the metrosexual man and his ever expanding closet.
... once upon a time, a metrosexual man lived with his wife in their humble suburban abode. one with small closets and an even smaller kitchen, but my friend, that is a different story, indeed. no, our metrosexual man cut a fine cloth. with impeccable outfits that fit his figure just so, the metrosexual man had an outfit for every occasion and more. his closets were jammed with dress shirts from every designer macy's carried. dress and casual corduroys, cargos and jeans of all fits filled his hangers. sweaters and vests, hats and tees.
the problem, my friends, is the metrosexual man's addiction to shopping. not only must he feed this addiction by continually adding new pieces to his collection, he shares one scary connection to the one person his wife loathes, his mother. just like his mother, our metrosexual man never throws anything out -- ever.
his poor wife, our heroine, must deal with this growing mountain of clothing. the metrosexual man does share in the responsibility of keeping house, he does do the laundry, but fails to ever put it away. our heroine believes it may lead to him confront the issue of where to put all of his shit. so our heroine is faced with this dilemma.
like a bulemic, our heroine is accustomed to the "binge and purge" shopping routine -- buy new things, purge the old (or ill-fitting) but our metrosexual man is not. and no matter how many times she tries to explain it to him, he does not or cares not to understand. again, giving credence to the genetic condition known as "pack-us rat-us" to be passed down through his mother's line because they never, ever throw anything away.
twenty-two black t-shirts. 15 polos. hockey jerseys that span multiple teams and multiple styles. shiny shirts that no longer fit his growing man boobs but are distinctive in their appearance so if they were to disappear, their presence would be missed.
woah, what is our heroine to do? throw up her hands and wail? kick and scream, throw up a fight?
no, our heroine is smarter than that. the very heroine that thought the shoe monster into existence is smarter than the average bear. she has undertaken a slow and hopefully successful mission to cull the closet of the metrosexual man.
one t-shirt at a time if she must.
mwah-ha-ha-ha.
this fairy tale, children, tells a very scary lesson. gather round as we tell the story of the metrosexual man and his ever expanding closet.
... once upon a time, a metrosexual man lived with his wife in their humble suburban abode. one with small closets and an even smaller kitchen, but my friend, that is a different story, indeed. no, our metrosexual man cut a fine cloth. with impeccable outfits that fit his figure just so, the metrosexual man had an outfit for every occasion and more. his closets were jammed with dress shirts from every designer macy's carried. dress and casual corduroys, cargos and jeans of all fits filled his hangers. sweaters and vests, hats and tees.
the problem, my friends, is the metrosexual man's addiction to shopping. not only must he feed this addiction by continually adding new pieces to his collection, he shares one scary connection to the one person his wife loathes, his mother. just like his mother, our metrosexual man never throws anything out -- ever.
his poor wife, our heroine, must deal with this growing mountain of clothing. the metrosexual man does share in the responsibility of keeping house, he does do the laundry, but fails to ever put it away. our heroine believes it may lead to him confront the issue of where to put all of his shit. so our heroine is faced with this dilemma.
like a bulemic, our heroine is accustomed to the "binge and purge" shopping routine -- buy new things, purge the old (or ill-fitting) but our metrosexual man is not. and no matter how many times she tries to explain it to him, he does not or cares not to understand. again, giving credence to the genetic condition known as "pack-us rat-us" to be passed down through his mother's line because they never, ever throw anything away.
twenty-two black t-shirts. 15 polos. hockey jerseys that span multiple teams and multiple styles. shiny shirts that no longer fit his growing man boobs but are distinctive in their appearance so if they were to disappear, their presence would be missed.
woah, what is our heroine to do? throw up her hands and wail? kick and scream, throw up a fight?
no, our heroine is smarter than that. the very heroine that thought the shoe monster into existence is smarter than the average bear. she has undertaken a slow and hopefully successful mission to cull the closet of the metrosexual man.
one t-shirt at a time if she must.
mwah-ha-ha-ha.
Friday, November 10, 2006
gnooks!
gazooks, i found gnooks!
this funky website uses artificial intelligence to match reader with author based on an author you enjoy. after playing with its maps for a bit, i have determined it is pretty accurate with some of the authors i've enjoyed popping up on the map. it's even given me some new names to authors to look up.
this funky website uses artificial intelligence to match reader with author based on an author you enjoy. after playing with its maps for a bit, i have determined it is pretty accurate with some of the authors i've enjoyed popping up on the map. it's even given me some new names to authors to look up.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
look in the mirror
at some point, it happens to everyone. the day jumps out in front of you like a mosquito as if to say, "hah! you didn't think this would happen, but it did. i'm here to make a liar out of you." and before you could swat the nasty little bugger, it screams those word you loathe to hear: "you have become your mother!" splat! you squish the little son-of-a-bitch but not before its words have a chance to really sink in. you look over at your mother and realize, wow, you're both sitting with your arms crossed, leaning into the table. hmmm, that's scary. and the more you become aware of it, the scarier it gets, and the more connections you notice and before it's too late, you're suddenly well too aware of what's coming next.
the four o'clock pink my mom suffers with rosacia has already started with me. by the end of the workday, my face takes on the appearance of a healthy 2-martini lunch even if the hardest thing i have imbibed all day is a diet coke.
the other little mannerisms become apparent too, leading me to wonder if looking at my grandmother is just looking into a crystal ball set 50 years into the future, just like looking at my mother's gives me a sneak peak into my future.
either way, goddess help us all.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
naked
this past weekend i celebrated my 6th wedding anniversary with mam. wow, what an old fart we've become!
anyway, we decided early in the year to go away for our anniversary. in years past, we've been haunted by the killing season that is grandparentus interruptus. so even in this even-numbered year, we tempted fate by leaving our cocoon and the princess and piglet puppies home.
we drove 2 hours to get away from our lives here and for me at least, all the worries that accompany it. driving up to lake wallen-ppp-pauck (i can't pronounce the sucker, let's just leave it at that) in the cold hard rain that friday night, i worried that my suburban assault vehicle would go crashing off the road into a tree. i worried that a deer or whole friggin' flock of 'em would come dashing out in front of me and land on my windshield. i worried i would hit a slick patch of leaves and slide off the road into a ditch or worse, into the lake that i can't even pronounce.
somehow i am not sure this exchange would make the next onstar commercial:
these are the thoughts that run through my head as i am driving on a highway that's not really a highway in upstate pennsyl-tucky. i worry like some people breathe, much too heavy and annoying for everyone in close enough proximity.
but i told myself i was not paying oodles of money to go away and worry in a foreign location. i even picked this location based on how well it was decorated. no, there would be no worrying and i planned to drink and be naked all weekend.
yum. naked. naked and drunk.
it's been a while since i had been either, mostly due to the bloodthinners and my insane body issues. but it's something i have desperately wanted to be for a long time.
after finally arriving at our destination -- in one piece -- it was time to start on the naked and drunk part of our weekend. a nice glass of riesling for me and a godiva martini for mam we were all set to start our weekend of decadence. lots of dirty sex before falling asleep on our wonderfully soft, king-sized bed.
sometime in the middle of the night, i remembered something as i sat up in the bed and gasped for air, i'm allergic to goose down. and right then i discovered i was trapped in a goose down sandwich -- feather bed atop our mattress, comforter and pillows. i hit the allergy trifecta on this one.
realizing that being able to breathe was vitally important to making to morning, i gathered the only non-goose down blanket on the bed and headed over to the sofa by the fireplace. shivering because a leather sofa is fcukin' cold when you're naked and only wrapped in a cotton coverlet, fireplace or no fireplace.
what a way to start an anniversary weekend. but at least i was still a little tipsy.
anyway, we decided early in the year to go away for our anniversary. in years past, we've been haunted by the killing season that is grandparentus interruptus. so even in this even-numbered year, we tempted fate by leaving our cocoon and the princess and piglet puppies home.
we drove 2 hours to get away from our lives here and for me at least, all the worries that accompany it. driving up to lake wallen-ppp-pauck (i can't pronounce the sucker, let's just leave it at that) in the cold hard rain that friday night, i worried that my suburban assault vehicle would go crashing off the road into a tree. i worried that a deer or whole friggin' flock of 'em would come dashing out in front of me and land on my windshield. i worried i would hit a slick patch of leaves and slide off the road into a ditch or worse, into the lake that i can't even pronounce.
somehow i am not sure this exchange would make the next onstar commercial:
onstar: "ma'am, we've detected that your airbags have deployed. is everyone alright?"
me: "no! fcuckin' help me. my mutha-fcukin' car is in water. i think i'm in lake www-all-n-pppp-uck."
onstar: "ma'am, are you alright? have your hit your head? you're not making any sense. i am sending an ambulance to you. can you tell me where you are?"
me: "i told you, i didn't hit my friggin' head! i'm in mutha fcukin' lake www-all-n-pppp-puck. and i can't swim!"
onstar: "ma'am, everything is going to be alright. help is on its way to you. try to keep your neck in one position until help arrives. they can help you with your head injury."
these are the thoughts that run through my head as i am driving on a highway that's not really a highway in upstate pennsyl-tucky. i worry like some people breathe, much too heavy and annoying for everyone in close enough proximity.
but i told myself i was not paying oodles of money to go away and worry in a foreign location. i even picked this location based on how well it was decorated. no, there would be no worrying and i planned to drink and be naked all weekend.
yum. naked. naked and drunk.
it's been a while since i had been either, mostly due to the bloodthinners and my insane body issues. but it's something i have desperately wanted to be for a long time.
after finally arriving at our destination -- in one piece -- it was time to start on the naked and drunk part of our weekend. a nice glass of riesling for me and a godiva martini for mam we were all set to start our weekend of decadence. lots of dirty sex before falling asleep on our wonderfully soft, king-sized bed.
sometime in the middle of the night, i remembered something as i sat up in the bed and gasped for air, i'm allergic to goose down. and right then i discovered i was trapped in a goose down sandwich -- feather bed atop our mattress, comforter and pillows. i hit the allergy trifecta on this one.
realizing that being able to breathe was vitally important to making to morning, i gathered the only non-goose down blanket on the bed and headed over to the sofa by the fireplace. shivering because a leather sofa is fcukin' cold when you're naked and only wrapped in a cotton coverlet, fireplace or no fireplace.
what a way to start an anniversary weekend. but at least i was still a little tipsy.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
a letter from a shelter dog
see my face, i am not disposable. look into my eyes, and then look into your heart and you tell me that my life is not worth your effort. your decision to adopt me and make me a member of your family is a life-long, my life-long commitment.
when you decided to move away from our home, did you ever stop to think of me? tell me, did the other two-legged children suffer a similar fate? in this chain-linked exposure where you left me behind, there are many others, who like me, face abandonment by the very ones we loved and trusted the most. it’s sad that you moved too far away to hear my cries at night. i cry at night because all i want is our life back. you remember the one, you would sit at your table and i would lie at your feet. or together, in front of the television, i would snuggle against you hoping that your hand dangling by the sofa would just scratch my belly or that spot behind my ear. you remember, i know you do!
god, what i wouldn’t give to go home with you again! you say you don’t have time for me anymore, i heard you tell the woman at the desk when you left me here. it’s a lie, i know it’s a lie! you don’t mean that, do you? sure, you went away for a long time each day but i understood. you told me you had to earn the dog biscuits. i understood why you left me alone at home. i can’t understand why you are leaving me here alone now.
you may not have been perfect master, but you were perfect to me. i forgave you for those times when you were angry with me that i couldn’t understand what i did wrong. if you told me i was bad, then i probably was, right? you wouldn’t hurt me. i know you wouldn’t hurt me.
this is why i don’t understand why you left me here - scared, alone and without you. i miss you and our life together. sure i know we had a good life. i hear the stories told by the others who surround me in this place. they cry over beatings and neglect, of being hungry and tortured by cruel ones. they lived on the streets and tell scary stories of the world outside of here. no, this is not like you and me at all.
no, outside of here, we took walks together. sometimes, it was just you and i sniffing at the world together. we had food and from time to time, you’d slip me a treat under the table. the comfort of your face meant everything to me.
and now it’s gone. you took your face and your comfort away from me. i sit here alone in this cold place and wonder what happens next. i wonder patiently who will look into my eyes and tell me my life is worth the effort.
when you decided to move away from our home, did you ever stop to think of me? tell me, did the other two-legged children suffer a similar fate? in this chain-linked exposure where you left me behind, there are many others, who like me, face abandonment by the very ones we loved and trusted the most. it’s sad that you moved too far away to hear my cries at night. i cry at night because all i want is our life back. you remember the one, you would sit at your table and i would lie at your feet. or together, in front of the television, i would snuggle against you hoping that your hand dangling by the sofa would just scratch my belly or that spot behind my ear. you remember, i know you do!
god, what i wouldn’t give to go home with you again! you say you don’t have time for me anymore, i heard you tell the woman at the desk when you left me here. it’s a lie, i know it’s a lie! you don’t mean that, do you? sure, you went away for a long time each day but i understood. you told me you had to earn the dog biscuits. i understood why you left me alone at home. i can’t understand why you are leaving me here alone now.
you may not have been perfect master, but you were perfect to me. i forgave you for those times when you were angry with me that i couldn’t understand what i did wrong. if you told me i was bad, then i probably was, right? you wouldn’t hurt me. i know you wouldn’t hurt me.
this is why i don’t understand why you left me here - scared, alone and without you. i miss you and our life together. sure i know we had a good life. i hear the stories told by the others who surround me in this place. they cry over beatings and neglect, of being hungry and tortured by cruel ones. they lived on the streets and tell scary stories of the world outside of here. no, this is not like you and me at all.
no, outside of here, we took walks together. sometimes, it was just you and i sniffing at the world together. we had food and from time to time, you’d slip me a treat under the table. the comfort of your face meant everything to me.
and now it’s gone. you took your face and your comfort away from me. i sit here alone in this cold place and wonder what happens next. i wonder patiently who will look into my eyes and tell me my life is worth the effort.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
design challenged
what to do on a saturday night? if i were my younger self, i would try to round up the goddess girls and we would head out somewhere to raise mayhem. considering we just spent our afternoon together -- with flugilicious, mam and ljam in tow -- that wasn't going to happen. for those in the know, ljam and mam are NOT to be mistaken for lisa's left and right chicken cutlets. her breasts prefer - "dirk" and "chesty".
instead, mam and i spent out rockin' saturday night like we spent our friday night -- on the sofa, under a blanket, yelling at the television set. to see the many levels of geekdom that resides in our house, just take a look at this picture:
nestled under blankets on the sofa on friday night, we yelled at the tv. we watched as the philadelphia flyers broke mam's heart one more time this season. yes, folks, another ugly loss and an even uglier 1-and-6 start to the season.
of course, mam had high hopes for this season -- "mr. hands-of-lead" (keith primeau) is gone from the team. we were even spared of having the "esche-hole" in goal that night. but it didn't matter. we still yelled at each bonehead move, missed pass and moment of temporary blindness suffered by the refs.
but yelling at the tv doesn't make someone a geek. and although you would think the frequent commercial break flips to see episodes of the new doctor would raise the bar on geekdom, it doesn't come close to saturday night. to any child of the 70s and early 80s who remembers the original dr. who -- bad british sci-fi with corny, tin-foil and cardboard box attempts at robotics -- this new dr. who will knock your socks off. it's classic 1999, straight-to-video cheese.
but i digress. the true level of our geek stature is measured by the fact that on saturday night, we spent a better portion of our night watching home improvement shows and yelling at the tv.
we yelled at the designer who attempt to make over a room on the show. we screamed "no" as the idiot owner attempted to put lipstick-on-a-pig and call it his new girlfriend. we cursed the color pink, all of its hues and vowed to banish from the world of paint stores. we remained hopeful, when a designer showed bold choices to soften the masculinity that abounded in this room, we bemoaned paint colors, fabric choices, overall design schemes. we shook our hands at our rustic, wide-paneled oak ceiling wondering aloud as to "why, why, why, any one would paint over decades old mahoghany panelling in good condition?"
with make-up gun set to whore, these designer and idiot owners try to make the room into something that its not. frilly pastels and chinese florals in a room deserving of leather club chairs and velvet curtains.
you just can't shake who you are. you need to accept your geekiness for what its worth. and you certainly shouldn't be putting lipstick on a pig.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
my chickadee
some of my earliest memories take me back to visiting with my grandparents -- my nan and pop-pop's house. during the afternoons, my brother and cousins and i would quietly play for fear of waking my pop-pop from his nap or sleep when he was working the nightshift.
we would know instantly when we would cross the threshold and wake him. we would hear him stir upstairs and occassionally, his booming voice would bellow to us kids playing downstairs "whad-darrrr-ya doin' down there?"
quickly, we'd join my grandmother, chainsmoking in the kitchen watching her soaps on the small "tellervision". taking our assigned seats around the kitchen table, my grandmother would scramble to put away her "mess" - shoving her coupons and unread national inquirer-type magazines with one hand under her placemat, the one with the brown cigarette burns melted into the plastic left behind from the dropped hot ash. the other hand would meticulously scrape up imaginary crumbs from the table to throw out.
not moving, us kids would sit, waiting for him to join us at the table. i would sit at the seat under the window on the backside of the table, the chosen seat -- the one closest to him and i think the only one without fear of his arrival. slowly, he'd make his descent from the front air-conditioned bedroom, smelling freshly showered and full of old spice aftershave. each step he took coming down the stairs was exaggerated, deliberate and full of warning. my brother and cousins would fidget in their seats as he drew closer wanting him to end their agony with his full presence.
steady and rhythmic, he drew closer, coming around the turned wooden staircase at the bottom of the stairs, over the brown-and-orange carved carpeting, through painted white wood paneled walls yellowed from the many cigarettes smoked in there.
and then he would stop. voices hushed in the kitchen, the drama playing out on television hushed along with us, waiting to hear what came next. in a slow, deliberate way, the bear would bend towards the carpet, one-leg extended outward, bending like an overweight ballerina, as the top half lowered itself to the ground to capture what has caught its eye.
to us, it was minuscule. it was a fuzzy. a speck of dirt. to him, it was as if we had left behind pounds of dirt in a carpet that could conceal much if it ever was allowed. after grunting in disgust, he would finish cutting his path through the dining room into the kitchen, stopping under its doorway for emphasis making his arrival known as if we hadn't already sought shelter from him. he showed the speck or fuzzy to my grandmother accusingly. she would wave him away with one arm and towards the trash can tucked in corner with an "ehh, go fug yourself" way that sized up their relationship. the other hand would be grasping a cigarette.
a big man, he imposed himself in our worlds an unshifting, unwielding force to not reckon with but to obey. to this day, i know his legacy lives greater and is strongest in my memory than in real life. i miss what used to come next.
his bear of a man standing in the doorway, harsh and foreboding. lines cut in his forehead, scowl across his face. we'd say "hello pop-pop" and watch the transformation take shape in this man compared to whom mountains seemed more easily moved.
he'd smile this big engaging smile. he slide into his chair at the head of the table and slide in closer. then he's sing - shrill, is more like it - "my chickadee" and smile in my direction. i would just beam, feeling so high that i was his chosen one. he lean in close to ask me about my day, how was school, sports, whatever. it didn't matter.
to my brother, he was the enforcer, reprimanding him as he sat across from him at the table viewing his reflection in the shiny new black microwave.
"are you makin' faces at yourself again?" he'd ask and my brother would sheepishly say yeah under his breath. "sorry, pop" would be the audible response to follow. "don't say you're sorry. just don't do it again."
to me, he was what a father should be.
we would know instantly when we would cross the threshold and wake him. we would hear him stir upstairs and occassionally, his booming voice would bellow to us kids playing downstairs "whad-darrrr-ya doin' down there?"
quickly, we'd join my grandmother, chainsmoking in the kitchen watching her soaps on the small "tellervision". taking our assigned seats around the kitchen table, my grandmother would scramble to put away her "mess" - shoving her coupons and unread national inquirer-type magazines with one hand under her placemat, the one with the brown cigarette burns melted into the plastic left behind from the dropped hot ash. the other hand would meticulously scrape up imaginary crumbs from the table to throw out.
not moving, us kids would sit, waiting for him to join us at the table. i would sit at the seat under the window on the backside of the table, the chosen seat -- the one closest to him and i think the only one without fear of his arrival. slowly, he'd make his descent from the front air-conditioned bedroom, smelling freshly showered and full of old spice aftershave. each step he took coming down the stairs was exaggerated, deliberate and full of warning. my brother and cousins would fidget in their seats as he drew closer wanting him to end their agony with his full presence.
steady and rhythmic, he drew closer, coming around the turned wooden staircase at the bottom of the stairs, over the brown-and-orange carved carpeting, through painted white wood paneled walls yellowed from the many cigarettes smoked in there.
and then he would stop. voices hushed in the kitchen, the drama playing out on television hushed along with us, waiting to hear what came next. in a slow, deliberate way, the bear would bend towards the carpet, one-leg extended outward, bending like an overweight ballerina, as the top half lowered itself to the ground to capture what has caught its eye.
to us, it was minuscule. it was a fuzzy. a speck of dirt. to him, it was as if we had left behind pounds of dirt in a carpet that could conceal much if it ever was allowed. after grunting in disgust, he would finish cutting his path through the dining room into the kitchen, stopping under its doorway for emphasis making his arrival known as if we hadn't already sought shelter from him. he showed the speck or fuzzy to my grandmother accusingly. she would wave him away with one arm and towards the trash can tucked in corner with an "ehh, go fug yourself" way that sized up their relationship. the other hand would be grasping a cigarette.
a big man, he imposed himself in our worlds an unshifting, unwielding force to not reckon with but to obey. to this day, i know his legacy lives greater and is strongest in my memory than in real life. i miss what used to come next.
his bear of a man standing in the doorway, harsh and foreboding. lines cut in his forehead, scowl across his face. we'd say "hello pop-pop" and watch the transformation take shape in this man compared to whom mountains seemed more easily moved.
he'd smile this big engaging smile. he slide into his chair at the head of the table and slide in closer. then he's sing - shrill, is more like it - "my chickadee" and smile in my direction. i would just beam, feeling so high that i was his chosen one. he lean in close to ask me about my day, how was school, sports, whatever. it didn't matter.
to my brother, he was the enforcer, reprimanding him as he sat across from him at the table viewing his reflection in the shiny new black microwave.
"are you makin' faces at yourself again?" he'd ask and my brother would sheepishly say yeah under his breath. "sorry, pop" would be the audible response to follow. "don't say you're sorry. just don't do it again."
to me, he was what a father should be.
Friday, October 06, 2006
10-6-12-8-14.... hike!
the range of clothing sizes in my closet is growing at roughly the same rate as the size of my ass.
each article of clothing found in that closet represents a dream, a stage of my past life or present tense. i can pick up a sweater and remember when i last wore it and how it felt or made me feel. i can pick up a pair of pants and remember wistfully when my thighs were that slim and gaze in wonder why at that point in my life did i think i looked fat? i can remember the male friend who remarked that yes, i did indeed have a shelf-ass and the ensuing laughter that following at my posterior's expense.
even with my many sizes, no matter how awful it may look now if i can even get it over the rolls, i have trouble parting with a garment. to rehome that pair of pants signals defeat in any future attempts to wedge my shelf ass into them. what a sad day!
the day i decided to throw away my only pair of size 6 jeans - ever - i died a little on the inside as i cried a bit more on the outside. the pain never quite goes away after that, although the next time it happens, the healing time shrinks a little like throwing cotton pants in the drying for too long.
the process to decide to part with those pants or sweaters is a lengthy one. by the time i've developed the kutzpah to admit defeat and rehome the close, they are often hopelessly out of fashion. admittedly, i am not a fashion-plate to begin with, add the measure of time and well, we're going old school. my poor skinny friends (da bitches!) who inherit them can only finish what i halfheartedly start by giving them their final nudge to good will.
in the good ol' days when i used to shop at goodwill and salvation army (salvo to those in the know), i used to wonder who got rid of all these wonderful clothes. now i know -- some other radically shrinking or expanding folks.
each article of clothing found in that closet represents a dream, a stage of my past life or present tense. i can pick up a sweater and remember when i last wore it and how it felt or made me feel. i can pick up a pair of pants and remember wistfully when my thighs were that slim and gaze in wonder why at that point in my life did i think i looked fat? i can remember the male friend who remarked that yes, i did indeed have a shelf-ass and the ensuing laughter that following at my posterior's expense.
even with my many sizes, no matter how awful it may look now if i can even get it over the rolls, i have trouble parting with a garment. to rehome that pair of pants signals defeat in any future attempts to wedge my shelf ass into them. what a sad day!
the day i decided to throw away my only pair of size 6 jeans - ever - i died a little on the inside as i cried a bit more on the outside. the pain never quite goes away after that, although the next time it happens, the healing time shrinks a little like throwing cotton pants in the drying for too long.
the process to decide to part with those pants or sweaters is a lengthy one. by the time i've developed the kutzpah to admit defeat and rehome the close, they are often hopelessly out of fashion. admittedly, i am not a fashion-plate to begin with, add the measure of time and well, we're going old school. my poor skinny friends (da bitches!) who inherit them can only finish what i halfheartedly start by giving them their final nudge to good will.
in the good ol' days when i used to shop at goodwill and salvation army (salvo to those in the know), i used to wonder who got rid of all these wonderful clothes. now i know -- some other radically shrinking or expanding folks.
Monday, October 02, 2006
beauty in the breakdown
i knew it, i knew it, i knew it!
even though i knew before the end of the show we would get to see mcsteamy again, he still took my breath away when he stepped out from the bathroom with a very well-placed towel.
yum! once again, addison sheppard montgomery is a very lucky girl even as she has a drunken meltdown over the end of her marriage. she's almost as lucky as meredith who is once again doing the elevator thing with mcdreamy, but now she has mcvet throwing his hand in the ring for her affection.
so we now we see what happens when you are all dark and twisty -- you get the hottest mchunks out there, looking at you lustily while you get to leave your panties behind for someone's ex-wife to find.
i wanna be dark and twisty, too! even though my husband suggests i already am plenty dark and twisty, i am obviously not seeing any of the fringe benefits. for one, i now have a viewing partner since they moved the show slot to thursday. and one who will most certainly will lose his voicebox if he continues to offer commentary or suggest plausibility of a particular scene.
when grey was on sundays, it was just me and my bitches (sadie and chloe) who laughed, cried and screamed with the tv. now, my dic-husband (he's sooo not a "mc") watches with me and claims to understand what's going on but really with his questions, he's just jammering away at my last frayed nerves, edging dangerously close to losing that voicebox.
and poor izzie! looking frumpled and deflated, i love that katharine heigl is woman enough, no -- goddess enough -- to have her character go without makeup, looking like most women would, when her heart has been ripped out and put through a shredder. if i could have crawled into my tv to lay next to her on the bathroom floor to comfort her, i would have.
so there's definitely beauty in the breakdown, especially if mcsteamy comes to comfort you. and if not, then, maybe mcvet will bring you a sandwich.
photo credit: Vivian Zink/ABC file
even though i knew before the end of the show we would get to see mcsteamy again, he still took my breath away when he stepped out from the bathroom with a very well-placed towel.
yum! once again, addison sheppard montgomery is a very lucky girl even as she has a drunken meltdown over the end of her marriage. she's almost as lucky as meredith who is once again doing the elevator thing with mcdreamy, but now she has mcvet throwing his hand in the ring for her affection.
so we now we see what happens when you are all dark and twisty -- you get the hottest mchunks out there, looking at you lustily while you get to leave your panties behind for someone's ex-wife to find.
i wanna be dark and twisty, too! even though my husband suggests i already am plenty dark and twisty, i am obviously not seeing any of the fringe benefits. for one, i now have a viewing partner since they moved the show slot to thursday. and one who will most certainly will lose his voicebox if he continues to offer commentary or suggest plausibility of a particular scene.
when grey was on sundays, it was just me and my bitches (sadie and chloe) who laughed, cried and screamed with the tv. now, my dic-husband (he's sooo not a "mc") watches with me and claims to understand what's going on but really with his questions, he's just jammering away at my last frayed nerves, edging dangerously close to losing that voicebox.
and poor izzie! looking frumpled and deflated, i love that katharine heigl is woman enough, no -- goddess enough -- to have her character go without makeup, looking like most women would, when her heart has been ripped out and put through a shredder. if i could have crawled into my tv to lay next to her on the bathroom floor to comfort her, i would have.
so there's definitely beauty in the breakdown, especially if mcsteamy comes to comfort you. and if not, then, maybe mcvet will bring you a sandwich.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
nice day for a white-trash wedding
with all apologies to billy idol, it really was a white-trash wedding.
how do i know it was a white-trash wedding? for starters, the happy couple included their love child in ceremony as the older child from a first marriage go-round pushed the love child down the aisle in his stroller.
the junior bridesmaid, who couldn't be more than 10 years old, had bleached blonde hair and thick 1-inch roots. my amazement subsided after another guest pointed out who the poor child's mother was ... the maid-of-honor with the tattoos who prefers an all-over, bottle blond two shades lighter than what she used on her daughter.
the best man needed to be reminded to put his tux jacket on repeatedly through out the day. ditto for the rental shoes of another usher.
the wine was served from a carafe and not a bottle, a sure sign that it originated from a box. and judging from the taste, a very likely conclusion. but since my taste in beer runs a bit deeper than bottled miller lite, i decided to stick to the wine-in-a-box instead.
(yes, i wholeheartedly admit to being a beer-snob. i just believe that as soon as a person can afford a better beer than "beast ice" or pabst blue ribbon that you should refrain from drinking them. ordering one after a certain age doesn't imply "young, broke and cool", it only screams "aging-wannabe-hipster".)
hmmm, what else?
oh, yes! the cake. the cake had more plastic than actual food in its presentation. i'm still not sure what those black dots were supposed to be on the many plastic pillars that separated the thin layers of cake. honestly, i don't think i want to know, either.
but those dots may have been the only black things at this wedding. we had the worst dj. this dj was so bad, even the bridal party wasn't out there dancing. as any bridesmaid knows, it is an unspoken part of the assignment is to get out there on the dance floor. your presence out there encourages other guests to shake their booty. but not at this party. those girls weren't having it as they sucked down their miller lite in a bottle.
but who could blame them? when the dj's music selections are country, country and more fcuking country, it's hard to get your groove thing on. seated at my table for the entire night, i did meet a new bitching partner, who at one point exclaimed, "i have fiddy-cent on my ipod in the car, please let me get it for the dj!" alas, there was to be no black music at this shin-dig. no rump-shakin', either.
only boot-skootin' boogie and the old macarena. for crissakes, who still plays the old macarena? dear goddess, make it stop.
sorry, it gets worse. did i forget to mention i was seated next to my nemesis, my mother-in-law for most of the night? who didn't say one friggin' word to me? my sister-in-law happens to be on her current shit-list and she gets more interaction than i did, but then again, the conversations between them were directed towards my one-month-old niece.
the only time she stopped sitting next to me sullenly was to play chaperone to my niece as she was handed off from one-baby-hungry woman to the next. literally, the sight of my niece created a frenzy among the women of childbearing years. you could expect less activity after dropping chum in shark-filled waters.
let's summarize: no dancing, no good music, no good alcohol and high-levels of estrogen circling the room. what a waste of a great dress! i wore a fantastic chocolate brown silk halter dress and feeling very marilyn-monroe-ish in it with my plumped out curves. but the piece de resistance? brand new, steve madden FMS (fcuk-me-shoes) in matching brown silk with a very high heel.
well, at least the shoes didn't go to waste.
how do i know it was a white-trash wedding? for starters, the happy couple included their love child in ceremony as the older child from a first marriage go-round pushed the love child down the aisle in his stroller.
the junior bridesmaid, who couldn't be more than 10 years old, had bleached blonde hair and thick 1-inch roots. my amazement subsided after another guest pointed out who the poor child's mother was ... the maid-of-honor with the tattoos who prefers an all-over, bottle blond two shades lighter than what she used on her daughter.
the best man needed to be reminded to put his tux jacket on repeatedly through out the day. ditto for the rental shoes of another usher.
the wine was served from a carafe and not a bottle, a sure sign that it originated from a box. and judging from the taste, a very likely conclusion. but since my taste in beer runs a bit deeper than bottled miller lite, i decided to stick to the wine-in-a-box instead.
(yes, i wholeheartedly admit to being a beer-snob. i just believe that as soon as a person can afford a better beer than "beast ice" or pabst blue ribbon that you should refrain from drinking them. ordering one after a certain age doesn't imply "young, broke and cool", it only screams "aging-wannabe-hipster".)
hmmm, what else?
oh, yes! the cake. the cake had more plastic than actual food in its presentation. i'm still not sure what those black dots were supposed to be on the many plastic pillars that separated the thin layers of cake. honestly, i don't think i want to know, either.
but those dots may have been the only black things at this wedding. we had the worst dj. this dj was so bad, even the bridal party wasn't out there dancing. as any bridesmaid knows, it is an unspoken part of the assignment is to get out there on the dance floor. your presence out there encourages other guests to shake their booty. but not at this party. those girls weren't having it as they sucked down their miller lite in a bottle.
but who could blame them? when the dj's music selections are country, country and more fcuking country, it's hard to get your groove thing on. seated at my table for the entire night, i did meet a new bitching partner, who at one point exclaimed, "i have fiddy-cent on my ipod in the car, please let me get it for the dj!" alas, there was to be no black music at this shin-dig. no rump-shakin', either.
only boot-skootin' boogie and the old macarena. for crissakes, who still plays the old macarena? dear goddess, make it stop.
sorry, it gets worse. did i forget to mention i was seated next to my nemesis, my mother-in-law for most of the night? who didn't say one friggin' word to me? my sister-in-law happens to be on her current shit-list and she gets more interaction than i did, but then again, the conversations between them were directed towards my one-month-old niece.
the only time she stopped sitting next to me sullenly was to play chaperone to my niece as she was handed off from one-baby-hungry woman to the next. literally, the sight of my niece created a frenzy among the women of childbearing years. you could expect less activity after dropping chum in shark-filled waters.
let's summarize: no dancing, no good music, no good alcohol and high-levels of estrogen circling the room. what a waste of a great dress! i wore a fantastic chocolate brown silk halter dress and feeling very marilyn-monroe-ish in it with my plumped out curves. but the piece de resistance? brand new, steve madden FMS (fcuk-me-shoes) in matching brown silk with a very high heel.
well, at least the shoes didn't go to waste.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
this much i know is true
this much i know is true -- i will never win the daughter-in-law of the year award.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
digesting the skinny person within
there is no greater foe to a chubby chick than a mutherfcuking camera.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
weathervein
you can never really imagine how much time you actually spend sitting on your ass until you need to be aware of such things.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours.
that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours. that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
insta-friends
one of the best female bonding experiences can often be expressed in one word - bridesmaid.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
bread and cheese for the soul
how often does the saying "be careful what you wish for" actually friggin come true?
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
Monday, September 11, 2006
as visions of patios danced in my head
everyone has those family members that they see maybe once a year and think of even less. sure, admittedly, they can sometimes be the scarier swim club members of your gene pool but deep down, you know they are still family. no matter how much chlorine you try to dump in the pool.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
princess in the time before piglet
once upon a time, in a kingdom nestled deep into suburbia, lived a princess of extraordinary beauty. with doe-like eyes and silky golden hair, the princess was worshipped and adored by all who met her.
only her parents were witness to her some of her more private habits the princess had -- like anxiety attacks and insatiable beaver-like need to consume any rough edges of furniture made of wood.
but the princess inspired the queen to do more for the others in the kingdom. the queen had decided to take the princess with her on visits to meet with prospective puppy parents in the village. to see how worthy they may be of having an adorable princess-like addition to their family.
so the queen and princess,escorted by the king, travelled to a home in a neighboring village. the princess was quite excited by the prospect, as was the king, although he deliberately attempted to tone down his excitement of their journey. the queen, who had been on similar journeys alone was the only one not bouncing with excitement as she knew the severity of this visit.
those villagers who called upon the queen were desperate. they had lost their own princess a few months back to a horrible disease and greatly missed the care and comfort of having a princess in their midst iin which to serve and cater to. their hopes of welcoming such a lass lay in the decision of the queen. and as we all know, the queen makes her decision based on the will of the princess.
so the villagers threw open their doors at once the queen's aging chariot drew near. with much fanfare, the villagers drew down to worship at the princess's feet, as people are wont to do in her presence. the princess smiled upon their welcome reception as the queen silently took note.
the king followed the villagers as they welcomed the princess on a tour of their not-so-humble abode. the queen slowly trapsed behind to look for split fences, gates that don't lock and anything that might not be fitting of a princess's home. but she found nothing that offended her.
inside, the villagers spoke of their love in which they hoped to share with a princess of their own. long walks, luxurious foods, spa-like trips in which to cleanse both body and soul of a princess. these villagers obviously knew the love of another, as the princess shook with joy as the villager seemed to know her favorite spot! (a good scritch behind the ears, if you must know.) my princess did a happy circle through my legs in which to share, unmistakeningly that these villagers had her approval.
after duly noting, the princess's approval, the queen and king found themselves drawn into conversation with the villagers as the test seemingly drew to a close. in those moments, the villagers and the king and queen, were reminded exactly who was in charge.
after sniffing her away around the villagers lovely white-carpetted home, the princess eyed up her spot. behind the coffee table and almost out of sight, the little princess began her dance.
spin once in a wide round circle.
spin twice for good measure, twisting round tighter this time.
spin the golden circle, even tighter this time, as her little white rabbit fluffy butt perches high over her intended target --
and drop two perfect, princess-like turds upon the carpet.
only her parents were witness to her some of her more private habits the princess had -- like anxiety attacks and insatiable beaver-like need to consume any rough edges of furniture made of wood.
but the princess inspired the queen to do more for the others in the kingdom. the queen had decided to take the princess with her on visits to meet with prospective puppy parents in the village. to see how worthy they may be of having an adorable princess-like addition to their family.
so the queen and princess,escorted by the king, travelled to a home in a neighboring village. the princess was quite excited by the prospect, as was the king, although he deliberately attempted to tone down his excitement of their journey. the queen, who had been on similar journeys alone was the only one not bouncing with excitement as she knew the severity of this visit.
those villagers who called upon the queen were desperate. they had lost their own princess a few months back to a horrible disease and greatly missed the care and comfort of having a princess in their midst iin which to serve and cater to. their hopes of welcoming such a lass lay in the decision of the queen. and as we all know, the queen makes her decision based on the will of the princess.
so the villagers threw open their doors at once the queen's aging chariot drew near. with much fanfare, the villagers drew down to worship at the princess's feet, as people are wont to do in her presence. the princess smiled upon their welcome reception as the queen silently took note.
the king followed the villagers as they welcomed the princess on a tour of their not-so-humble abode. the queen slowly trapsed behind to look for split fences, gates that don't lock and anything that might not be fitting of a princess's home. but she found nothing that offended her.
inside, the villagers spoke of their love in which they hoped to share with a princess of their own. long walks, luxurious foods, spa-like trips in which to cleanse both body and soul of a princess. these villagers obviously knew the love of another, as the princess shook with joy as the villager seemed to know her favorite spot! (a good scritch behind the ears, if you must know.) my princess did a happy circle through my legs in which to share, unmistakeningly that these villagers had her approval.
after duly noting, the princess's approval, the queen and king found themselves drawn into conversation with the villagers as the test seemingly drew to a close. in those moments, the villagers and the king and queen, were reminded exactly who was in charge.
after sniffing her away around the villagers lovely white-carpetted home, the princess eyed up her spot. behind the coffee table and almost out of sight, the little princess began her dance.
spin once in a wide round circle.
spin twice for good measure, twisting round tighter this time.
spin the golden circle, even tighter this time, as her little white rabbit fluffy butt perches high over her intended target --
and drop two perfect, princess-like turds upon the carpet.
Monday, August 21, 2006
salty salad tears
crying at weddings is usually reserved for a select few -- the mothers of the bride and groom, bridesmaids, grandmothers, the little old ladies who wander in off the street to see a bit of romantic love in action. these tears are most often to occur during the actual ceremony or during a speech.
who you will usually NOT find crying at a wedding is an usher or other male friends of the groom. and you really wouldn't expect it to happen over the second course at dinner.
but at the most recent wedding i attended and served in, that's exactly what happened. i'm not sure what served as the catalyst as his salad was being served to him. it could have been the red wine, it could have been the song ("over the rainbow" by israel something-hawaiian-that-i-never-remember) or my incessant bleating on about how cool the bride's dad is and how i wished he was my own. it could have been an aggregate of all of these things as much as it could have been nothing at all.
my husband broke down over his salad.
it's been only a few months since his dad had passed away. i thought he was handling the loss fairly well, adjusting to how his life and those of his mother and siblings had changed. he seemed to be "normalizing" from the events of this spring.
he maintained his composure until he could no longer do so. tears welling up so far as to finally allow the dam to break at his best friend's wedding, over salad, in a crowded room full of people. this burst of emotion scared me. i have only witnessed this type of instant-meltdown once before -- when his mother did the same thing to me. from out of the blue, a gut-wrenching sob shakes from them. i do the only thing i know how to do -- get him up and out of there. before his mother who was in attendance catches on as to what is happening... before i have TWO instant-meltdowns happening at once.
into the long hallway that connects the banquet room and the hotel we walked. glass doors along both sides make this a fishbowl of human emotion. a kind waitress walks up behind me and hands off a box of tissues and a bottle of water. a simple gesture.
i should have recognized some of the signs. at the rehearsal dinner when he spoke from the heart about his status as honorary step-child of the groom's family. his many fond memories of growing up together with the groom, of friendship and love.
all of this speaking to those who understand his unspoken language of his fractured relationship with his own father. how much of his formative years were spent under the shadow of his younger brother's accomplishments.
all of which didn't matter now. nothing could underscore how much he missed his father. how in this room, filled with happiness and family and love -- a concept not linked often enough in reality -- he felt his loss most severely.
who you will usually NOT find crying at a wedding is an usher or other male friends of the groom. and you really wouldn't expect it to happen over the second course at dinner.
but at the most recent wedding i attended and served in, that's exactly what happened. i'm not sure what served as the catalyst as his salad was being served to him. it could have been the red wine, it could have been the song ("over the rainbow" by israel something-hawaiian-that-i-never-remember) or my incessant bleating on about how cool the bride's dad is and how i wished he was my own. it could have been an aggregate of all of these things as much as it could have been nothing at all.
my husband broke down over his salad.
it's been only a few months since his dad had passed away. i thought he was handling the loss fairly well, adjusting to how his life and those of his mother and siblings had changed. he seemed to be "normalizing" from the events of this spring.
he maintained his composure until he could no longer do so. tears welling up so far as to finally allow the dam to break at his best friend's wedding, over salad, in a crowded room full of people. this burst of emotion scared me. i have only witnessed this type of instant-meltdown once before -- when his mother did the same thing to me. from out of the blue, a gut-wrenching sob shakes from them. i do the only thing i know how to do -- get him up and out of there. before his mother who was in attendance catches on as to what is happening... before i have TWO instant-meltdowns happening at once.
into the long hallway that connects the banquet room and the hotel we walked. glass doors along both sides make this a fishbowl of human emotion. a kind waitress walks up behind me and hands off a box of tissues and a bottle of water. a simple gesture.
i should have recognized some of the signs. at the rehearsal dinner when he spoke from the heart about his status as honorary step-child of the groom's family. his many fond memories of growing up together with the groom, of friendship and love.
all of this speaking to those who understand his unspoken language of his fractured relationship with his own father. how much of his formative years were spent under the shadow of his younger brother's accomplishments.
all of which didn't matter now. nothing could underscore how much he missed his father. how in this room, filled with happiness and family and love -- a concept not linked often enough in reality -- he felt his loss most severely.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
call me
when i got married 5 years ago, it was very important to my husband that i take his last name. me, being the feminazi that i am, didn't want to just take his name -- so i decided to hyphenate.
the problem was my maiden name was very ethnic, easy to spell but definitely left no imagination as to my parental ancestry. my husband's name was even more ethnic, a bijillion letters in odd combinations that often leaves strangers garbling over the pronunciation.
so my decision to hyphenate his and my last names, well, it was the united-nations-on-a-business card. the little sign at my office door? barely fit in all the letters. at last count, it had somewhere in the realm of 25 letters to fit. professionally and personally, after about a year and a half, i switched to take only his name. it really meant a lot to him and honestly, as long as people don't call me a nasty cnut, i don't quite care what they call me.
besides, after hearing just about every botched attempt to pronounce my married last name, it's quite fun in a warped twisted way to watch people's panicked expressions as the "omigod, how do i pronounce this without choking?" look appears on his or her face. yes, i let them struggle a bit before rescuing them. any time i need to do a public speaking gig, i just laugh because that moment is coming my way.
my point in all this -- do what you want and if neither last name is normal, change 'em both to smith or something equally boring.
the problem was my maiden name was very ethnic, easy to spell but definitely left no imagination as to my parental ancestry. my husband's name was even more ethnic, a bijillion letters in odd combinations that often leaves strangers garbling over the pronunciation.
so my decision to hyphenate his and my last names, well, it was the united-nations-on-a-business card. the little sign at my office door? barely fit in all the letters. at last count, it had somewhere in the realm of 25 letters to fit. professionally and personally, after about a year and a half, i switched to take only his name. it really meant a lot to him and honestly, as long as people don't call me a nasty cnut, i don't quite care what they call me.
besides, after hearing just about every botched attempt to pronounce my married last name, it's quite fun in a warped twisted way to watch people's panicked expressions as the "omigod, how do i pronounce this without choking?" look appears on his or her face. yes, i let them struggle a bit before rescuing them. any time i need to do a public speaking gig, i just laugh because that moment is coming my way.
my point in all this -- do what you want and if neither last name is normal, change 'em both to smith or something equally boring.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
goodsearch
if you're anything like me, you probably go to google a few, okay, many times through out the day. mainly, it's because you're too lazy to bookmark sites (like me) or you're doing new searches.
now your lazy ass will do something good for a change.
goodsearch.com is a new search engine that will donate $0.01 per search towards the charity you register with. that means any time you want to look for a new and exciting site on the internet, your charity gets cash.
so go to
.com and in the bottom box that asks what you are supporting, type in majesty rottweiler rescue and hit verify. it will then show up in the box as majesty rottweiler rescue (darlington, md). from there, my search engine lovers, each search will donate money to help rotties in need. sadie thanks you for it.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
5 things
5 things to be thankful for (despite crappy news from the doctor today)....
i am feeling okay today. my leg is definitely much better but the pharmaceutical industry is killing me. the blood thinners i am on aren't stabilized yet, so if i am not swallowing a bunch of pills, then i am injecting the crap into me. my future career as an iv drug user is that much closer now that my fear of needles is gone! and thankfully, all of my bruises are located in only places that only my husband and the plastic surgeon who will one day do my tummy tuck will see.
i work indoors, in a blissful, air-conditioned office 'cause the heat in philly is disgusting. on my walk to the train today, i opened my mouth to say something to the person i was walking with and i swear i swallowed a big rush of foul, humid air when i did. i gotta tell ya, i nearly gagged, it was so gross.
i am thankful i didn't hit send on the email that i was directing to the wrong person. i thought a brother of one of the goddess girls was emailing me in response to a note i had left for him while he's on this super road trip. turns out the email from "jb" was actually from my other friend with the same initials. not that anything bad was being discussed, but "jim" -- who was just saying hello -- would have thought i was completely nuts.
i am thankful for friends who threaten my body with the wrath of O.B.P. if it doesn't quit being a freak and play nicely with the drugs i am ingesting.
i am thankful for a wonderful puppies who decided that mamma needs some extra love and take turns giving me lots of doggy kisses when i got home. of course, it could also be the fact that they were trying to hide the fact that one of them ate another fcuking doggie bed while in the crate today.
in a nice close to this post, i believe that would be the 5th bed they have shredded into cabbage-like consistency.
in a nice close to this post, i believe that would be the 5th bed they have shredded into cabbage-like consistency.
the mysteries of the universe revealed
in my desperate need for a mindfcuk today, i came across this site for myers-briggs assessment. my results...
intj
You are:
introverted +33 moderately expressed introvert
intuitive+12 slightly expressed intuitive personality
thinking +25 moderately expressed thinking personality
judging +78 very expressed judging personality
my rating didn't shock me so much as how dead-on the analysis was of me.
now my struggle to understand how my left-brain and right-brain passions can coexist in one body makes sense. my independent-streak evident as a small child when i would wear a purple corduroy jumper over teal corduroy pants and a turtleneck because - in my mind - they looked good together (and this was BEFORE the 80s adopted my color scheme. my abiility to piss people off because i "push the envelope" too far and ask too many questions. need to know the hows and whys.
once again, anyone who knows when i have my head wrapped around an idea, get the fcuk out of my way. 100% that last paragraph is me. i get myself into trouble because people rely on me to be the problem-solver, organizer and still get things done on deadline. at times i sit there and think, why am i doing this? if i do a good job, they are just going to ask me to do it again -- like a show-pony called in to work a miracle on a project. why do i do it? because dammit, i like to wear my gold-star sticker on my forehead the day i complete the task. for all of my confidence, i need the validation that i am good enough, smart enough and people like me. (thank you stewart smalley)
me and small talk -- not fun. i just don't get the hang of it. before you think i'm stuck under a rock, i can talk to people if i am familiar with them or if it takes place in a small group or one-on-one situation when i can feel out the person. i am worried that i will have a "blond moment" with someone who doesn't know that i am not naturally an idiot. i am worried that my passion for certain topics will offend b/c it's not proper to talk about religion (against) or politics (as liberal as i wanna be). feminism, animal rights, gay rights? nope. nope. and nope.
if i know you and you know me? shit, we can talk for hours. until that point, i am guarded in my emotions and conversation, and unfortunately people pick up on it.
the great empathisizer i AM NOT. my friends, all social animals and into touchy-feely emotions, called me out on not being more sympathetic to their needs. ask more questions about them and their goings on. i guess i was marsha to their jan in a "marsha, marsha, marsha" type of way.
i have a hard time asking questions, not because i am uncaring, but because i am clueless. if you don't share it, i may not pick up on your need for me to probe for your hidden needs (sounds dirty, no?). my supposed intuitiveness i think only works for dangerous people to stay away from -- a well-honed gut instinct. but in matters of good it falls silent.
i also want to things and people to make sense. do what you say you will. don't make excuses. take responsibility for your actions. if i were queen of the universe, these would be my laws. and no matter how much i love you, i am not the person to turn to when you need a should to cry on. tears ick me out. i feel helpless and can't understand why you wouldn't rather cry by yourself somewhere to let out the emotion instead of sharing it with me?
i guess that's when the very expressed judgemental side of me comes out.
intj
You are:
introverted +33 moderately expressed introvert
intuitive+12 slightly expressed intuitive personality
thinking +25 moderately expressed thinking personality
judging +78 very expressed judging personality
my rating didn't shock me so much as how dead-on the analysis was of me.
To outsiders, INTJs may appear to project an aura of "definiteness", of self-confidence. This self-confidence, sometimes mistaken for simple arrogance by the less decisive, is actually of a very specific rather than a general nature; its source lies in the specialized knowledge systems that most INTJs start building at an early age. When it comes to their own areas of expertise -- and INTJs can have several -- they will be able to tell you almost immediately whether or not they can help you, and if so, how. INTJs know what they know, and perhaps still more importantly, they know what they don't know.
INTJs are perfectionists, with a seemingly endless capacity for improving upon anything that takes their interest. What prevents them from becoming chronically bogged down in this pursuit of perfection is the pragmatism so characteristic of the type: INTJs apply (often ruthlessly) the criterion "Does it work?" to everything from their own research efforts to the prevailing social norms. This in turn produces an unusual independence of mind, freeing the INTJ from the constraints of authority, convention, or sentiment for its own sake.
now my struggle to understand how my left-brain and right-brain passions can coexist in one body makes sense. my independent-streak evident as a small child when i would wear a purple corduroy jumper over teal corduroy pants and a turtleneck because - in my mind - they looked good together (and this was BEFORE the 80s adopted my color scheme. my abiility to piss people off because i "push the envelope" too far and ask too many questions. need to know the hows and whys.
INTJs are known as the "Systems Builders" of the types, perhaps in part because they possess the unusual trait combination of imagination and reliability. Whatever system an INTJ happens to be working on is for them the equivalent of a moral cause to an INFJ; both perfectionism and disregard for authority may come into play, as INTJs can be unsparing of both themselves and the others on the project. Anyone considered to be "slacking," including superiors, will lose their respect -- and will generally be made aware of this; INTJs have also been known to take it upon themselves to implement critical decisions without consulting their supervisors or co-workers.
once again, anyone who knows when i have my head wrapped around an idea, get the fcuk out of my way. 100% that last paragraph is me. i get myself into trouble because people rely on me to be the problem-solver, organizer and still get things done on deadline. at times i sit there and think, why am i doing this? if i do a good job, they are just going to ask me to do it again -- like a show-pony called in to work a miracle on a project. why do i do it? because dammit, i like to wear my gold-star sticker on my forehead the day i complete the task. for all of my confidence, i need the validation that i am good enough, smart enough and people like me. (thank you stewart smalley)
Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can be the INTJ's Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others (usually a select few), and are willing to spend a great deal of time and effort on a relationship, the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal situations.
This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types consider half the fun of a relationship). To complicate matters, INTJs are usually extremely private people, and can often be naturally impassive as well, which makes them easy to misread and misunderstand. Perhaps the most fundamental problem, however, is that INTJs really want people to make sense. :-) This sometimes results in a peculiar naivete', paralleling that of many Fs -- only instead of expecting inexhaustible affection and empathy from a romantic relationship, the INTJ will expect inexhaustible reasonability and directness.
me and small talk -- not fun. i just don't get the hang of it. before you think i'm stuck under a rock, i can talk to people if i am familiar with them or if it takes place in a small group or one-on-one situation when i can feel out the person. i am worried that i will have a "blond moment" with someone who doesn't know that i am not naturally an idiot. i am worried that my passion for certain topics will offend b/c it's not proper to talk about religion (against) or politics (as liberal as i wanna be). feminism, animal rights, gay rights? nope. nope. and nope.
if i know you and you know me? shit, we can talk for hours. until that point, i am guarded in my emotions and conversation, and unfortunately people pick up on it.
Probably the strongest INTJ assets in the interpersonal area are their intuitive abilities and their willingness to "work at" a relationship. Although as Ts they do not always have the kind of natural empathy that many Fs do, the Intuitive function can often act as a good substitute by synthesizing the probable meanings behind such things as tone of voice, turn of phrase, and facial expression. This ability can then be honed and directed by consistent, repeated efforts to understand and support those they care about, and those relationships which ultimately do become established with an INTJ tend to be characterized by their robustness, stability, and good communications.
the great empathisizer i AM NOT. my friends, all social animals and into touchy-feely emotions, called me out on not being more sympathetic to their needs. ask more questions about them and their goings on. i guess i was marsha to their jan in a "marsha, marsha, marsha" type of way.
i have a hard time asking questions, not because i am uncaring, but because i am clueless. if you don't share it, i may not pick up on your need for me to probe for your hidden needs (sounds dirty, no?). my supposed intuitiveness i think only works for dangerous people to stay away from -- a well-honed gut instinct. but in matters of good it falls silent.
i also want to things and people to make sense. do what you say you will. don't make excuses. take responsibility for your actions. if i were queen of the universe, these would be my laws. and no matter how much i love you, i am not the person to turn to when you need a should to cry on. tears ick me out. i feel helpless and can't understand why you wouldn't rather cry by yourself somewhere to let out the emotion instead of sharing it with me?
i guess that's when the very expressed judgemental side of me comes out.
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