It Finally Came Home to Roost

I am so proud. Brighid told me the other day, "I only want to wear black clothes." Now to dig through old pictures and find one of myself, back in the "good old days", at some place like Bauhaus, dressed all in black, brooding, angst-riddled, confident of the enormity of my depression or the importance of my sorrow. ROTFLMAO

I took Brighid shopping, bought her a couple pairs of black pants, a couple of black shirts, and two new bras. 34C, almost a D, and only 12 years old. Oh my god. Logan will need to install bars on her bedroom window soon. Terrifying, absolutely terrifying.

Logan was rather depressed yesterday. After finally getting his little "john boat" repaired and in the water and having spent the previous weekend fishing, he returned to the boat where it left it docked while on the errands of picking the kids up from school and me from work to find someone swiped all his fishing equipment. I guesstimate it to be a few hundred bucks worth, at least. He just missed catching the thieves by about 5 minutes. Someone gave a description of the people and the car to the cops, but I doubt anything will come of it. Not real high on the priority list. I'm just really surprised Logan didn't have sense to put everything back in the van before leaving the boat anchored. Hell, I'm surprised he left the boat even. He's smarter than that, usually.

So now Logan is in a pissy mood (Who wouldn't be?), and has been snapping at me and the kids. Going fishing on the weekends was supposed to be his chance to blow off steam, but now it's the source of it. I'd tell him to go hunting or something this weekend, but it's Gals' Night Out to celebrate Herbie's birthday (which was March 15th), and to christen Shellie's new house by spilling margaritas on the rug or some such. Eric is going to join us, as he's an honorary member of The Gals (formerly Barbarous Brazos Broads, Bitches, or Bimbos as the case may be). I'm sure a fun time will be had by all. Details tomorrow at ten. No, wait, maybe Sunday at 6. P.M., that is.

Heil Ratzinger!

Dateline: 04/19/05

fizziecoffee (12:59:47 PM): well, I just got off the phone with my cousin Marc in LA.
fizziecoffee (1:00:02 PM): He's going to be here a week from Friday and we're going out
fizziecoffee (1:00:03 PM): lol
lymadelina (1:00:13 PM): to where?
fizziecoffee (1:00:19 PM): He's going to be ready for some "bonding" HAHAHHA
fizziecoffee (1:00:35 PM): anything gay.
fizziecoffee (1:00:48 PM): or otherwise. hahaha. I'm just certain that he's going to want to be entertained
lymadelina (1:00:49 PM): where are you flying out to?
fizziecoffee (1:01:09 PM): Oh, no, I'm not flying out to anywhere. He and his aunt are flying IN
fizziecoffee (1:01:24 PM): and he's going to want to escape. Apparently she never shuts up
lymadelina (1:01:54 PM): oh
fizziecoffee (1:04:04 PM): So, anyway, he's a hoot
lymadelina (1:04:18 PM): sounds fun
lymadelina (1:04:30 PM): you'll have to introduce me to him
fizziecoffee (1:04:43 PM): We'll pick a night
fizziecoffee (1:07:37 PM): I am so fucking hungry
fizziecoffee (1:08:07 PM): I shouldn't be hungry at all. I've eaten enough for 6 people in the last 3 days. You'd think I was either pregnant or a friggin weight lifter
lymadelina (1:16:34 PM): or maybe you have a tape worm
fizziecoffee (1:17:10 PM): doubtful. I'd look emaciate. I'm FAR from it
lymadelina (1:17:38 PM): just a thought
lymadelina (1:17:50 PM): it could be recent, not enough time to look emaciated.
fizziecoffee (1:17:55 PM): HAHA
fizziecoffee (1:18:06 PM): and just where the hell would i have gotten a tapeworm from?
fizziecoffee (1:18:57 PM): Oh my goodness. This resume is awful and it's going to take more than an hour to fix
fizziecoffee (1:18:59 PM): Lordy
lymadelina (1:20:00 PM): um... the gettin' place??
fizziecoffee (1:20:32 PM): I'm not sure what that means
fizziecoffee (1:20:54 PM): what DO you mean?
fizziecoffee (1:21:03 PM): what is "the gettin' place"?
fizziecoffee (1:21:23 PM): I'm just a little black raincloud...hovering over...your honey tree
lymadelina (1:21:26 PM): that's what Pappy used to say if you asked him where he got something
fizziecoffee (1:21:34 PM): LOL
fizziecoffee (1:21:35 PM): HAHAHAH
lymadelina (1:21:37 PM): hey, even honeytress need rain
fizziecoffee (1:21:43 PM): Sorry, I'm not up on my Pappyisms
lymadelina (1:21:44 PM): honey trees
lymadelina (1:21:48 PM): LOL
fizziecoffee (1:21:49 PM): buahhahahahaha
fizziecoffee (1:22:01 PM): THAT will be my new intro line on my yahoo personals
lymadelina (1:24:02 PM): you remember chicken butt
lymadelina (1:24:05 PM): turkey trot
fizziecoffee (1:24:10 PM): sure
lymadelina (1:24:15 PM): baby elephant walk is Logan's addition to that line
fizziecoffee (1:24:19 PM): but not "from the gettin' place"
fizziecoffee (1:24:30 PM): hahaha
fizziecoffee (1:24:43 PM): PINK ELEPHANTS ON PARADE!
lymadelina (1:24:55 PM): one of my favorite things is how on Valentine's Day, he'd go around all day making poems
fizziecoffee (1:25:08 PM): who, Logan? or Pappy?
fizziecoffee (1:25:56 PM): NO, but I seen a housefly!!!
lymadelina (1:26:25 PM): Pappy
fizziecoffee (1:26:46 PM): I'm having Disney flashbacks
lymadelina (1:26:46 PM): "Roses are red and sometimes yellow... I'd like to be your Valentine's fellow."
fizziecoffee (1:26:54 PM): back when it was witty, not broadway
fizziecoffee (1:27:27 PM): We now would like to induct the following persons into the St. Valentine's fellowship
lymadelina (1:31:14 PM): apples are red and sometimes green... you're the best Valentine I've ever seen
lymadelina (1:31:21 PM): :)
fizziecoffee (1:33:28 PM): Chicken soup smells so good, I like the broth, You, on the other hand, smell like a Visigoth
fizziecoffee (1:34:53 PM): Valentine's is over, This much is true, So wait 'til next year, For your poetry brew
fizziecoffee (1:36:09 PM): it's the BAD POETRY AWARD
fizziecoffee (1:37:28 PM): Roses start out red then warp to speckles of pink, Those little bee geneticists, I wonder what they must think!
fizziecoffee (1:38:46 PM): I'm crummy at this game, for 'tis been a while since I've played,
lymadelina (1:38:52 PM): :)
fizziecoffee (1:39:02 PM): If I blunder once again, in bed I should have stayed.
lymadelina (1:39:14 PM): but there's a new Pope, so your soul is saved!!
fizziecoffee (1:39:19 PM): OH?
fizziecoffee (1:39:23 PM): no more black smog?
fizziecoffee (1:40:17 PM): do tell
lymadelina (1:43:43 PM): http://story.news.yahoo.com/fc?cid=34&tmpl=fc&in=World&cat=Papacy_and_the_Vatican
lymadelina (1:44:03 PM): or go to http://www.lookitthehellupyourself.com
fizziecoffee (1:44:42 PM): FIRST GERMAN POPE IN CENTURIES
fizziecoffee (1:44:46 PM): LOL
fizziecoffee (1:44:53 PM): yeah, I WONDER WHY
lymadelina (1:45:58 PM): He was a Hitler Youth
lymadelina (1:46:08 PM): has "atoned" wtf ever that means
lymadelina (1:46:43 PM): I think all Germans during that time period were involved, or under suspicion themselves
fizziecoffee (1:48:00 PM): I would think it was a form of patriotism. That, and the fear of not belonging to the group meant that you would be executed
fizziecoffee (1:51:34 PM): Where did you find that factual tidbit?
fizziecoffee (1:51:41 PM): I only read through the main story
lymadelina (1:54:39 PM): Heard it on the evening news a couple of nights ago.
fizziecoffee (1:56:49 PM): NICE
fizziecoffee (1:56:50 PM): lol
fizziecoffee (1:57:24 PM): Hitler Youth takes Rome. Reinstates curfew for all non-catholics
lymadelina (1:57:28 PM): http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=514&e=12&u=/ap/pope_ratzinger_profile
fizziecoffee (1:57:47 PM): "CIRCUMCISION IS A SIN AGAINST GOD"
fizziecoffee (1:57:51 PM): News at Eleven
lymadelina (1:58:13 PM): lol
fizziecoffee (2:01:25 PM): "Angry homosexuals firebomb Sistine chapel. Carabiniere are baffled and cannot stop the looting. Red velvet shredded throughout the streets of Roma, people screaming 'Non gridi per me, Argentina!'"
fizziecoffee (2:01:28 PM): News at Five
lymadelina (2:03:06 PM): ROTFLMAO
fizziecoffee (2:03:39 PM): "Italian buddhists have begun immolating themselves on the steps of the Vatican. Mayhem ensues as the local firefighters cannot put them out. Investigators believe they have been wearing POLYESTER robes."
fizziecoffee (2:03:44 PM): News at Eleven
fizziecoffee (2:04:08 PM): Pope declares WAR on all non-catholics
lymadelina (2:05:33 PM): Swiss Guard attacks? In THOSE clothes??
fizziecoffee (2:05:46 PM): lol
fizziecoffee (2:06:49 PM): "Jewish Drag Queens Storm Vatican Doors. Oy! I Broke A Nail!"
fizziecoffee (2:10:18 PM): "I'll gefilte your fish, you dirty old HAG!" was heard being shouted by one particularly statuesque Golda Meir impersonator.
fizziecoffee (2:11:47 PM): "Turkey Makes Surprise Move and Changes National Religion From Islam To Catholicism. Italy Fears International Buggery."
lymadelina (2:13:38 PM): OMG, stop it. I'm running of of Kleenex.
lymadelina (2:13:43 PM): ROTFLMAO
fizziecoffee (2:13:49 PM): LMAO
fizziecoffee (2:13:52 PM): you're joking
fizziecoffee (2:13:53 PM): hahahah
lymadelina (2:14:11 PM): just glad I'm not wearing mascara
fizziecoffee (2:14:18 PM): hahahhahaha
lymadelina (2:15:20 PM): I just retrieved my Coke from the freezer. mmmm slushy
fizziecoffee (2:15:30 PM): "Pope Benedict Keeps It On The DL. Turkey Opens Doors To Kurdish Minorities. Shah Comments 'WHOOPS'"
fizziecoffee (2:15:45 PM): Yummy, Coke slushy
fizziecoffee (2:15:57 PM): I am having plain ol' vanilla diet coke on ice
fizziecoffee (2:16:14 PM): it's SO synthetic. I'd almost swear I was drinking vinyl
lymadelina (2:16:59 PM): just drink water if you don't want calories
lymadelina (2:17:03 PM): why bother?
fizziecoffee (2:18:05 PM): oh, it's not the calories, it's the sugar I'm avoiding. I don't enjoy the hypoglycemic crash afterwards
fizziecoffee (2:18:34 PM): Makes me nauseous, gives me the shakes, headache, and shortness of breath
fizziecoffee (2:19:00 PM): it's not just an "ooh, I'm really tired now" thing
lymadelina (2:19:30 PM): hmm
fizziecoffee (2:19:33 PM): it's more of an "ooh, I really fucked up and shouldn't have had that much sugar all at once
lymadelina (2:19:34 PM): too bad
fizziecoffee (2:22:20 PM): Pope Declares All Non-Catholics Unclean. Shocking International Handshake with China...No Washie, No Savie! Millions Flock To Yangtzee River Baptize-Fest.
fizziecoffee (2:28:41 PM): I'm having visions of middle-aged men wearing plaid short shorts, knee-high white socks and white button-down shirts and blue ties, goose-stepping down the streets
fizziecoffee (2:28:59 PM): OMG, it's the Benedict Youth!
fizziecoffee (2:29:00 PM): RUN!
lymadelina (2:37:55 PM): don't forget the sandals

It's not a too-mah!

Well, turns out it's "just" a boil, a "follicular" boil. But a boil on one's privates is no ordinary boil. Add to the annoyance is an external yeast infection. So I'm taking antibiotics, which will aggravate the yeast infection. So once I'm finished with the antibiotics (in TEN days), I start on another medication to kill the yeast infection. I just hope the antibiotics work, and I don't end up having to have the boil LANCED. On the off chance that there's some staph around the house causing me these skin afflictions, I'm going to wash all the bedding with bleach. I just washed my blankets a week ago, but you can't be too careful if it's staph. At least it's not flesh-eating bacteria. Oy, vey.

It's a too-mah!

More skin afflictions. I'm starting to feel like Job. Maybe I have leprosy. Or the plague. Most likely, it's just irritation caused by the lovely stress incontinence, but it could be Bartholin's gland cysts, a tumor, or (very unlikely) cancer. The indignity is worse than with the butt crack rash, especially since I haven't shaved my legs in, oh, a year maybe. Why bother? I can't reach the backs of them, so I end up looking like some weird skunk, with a hairy stripe down the backs of my legs. I was surprised to actually get an appointment today. I figured it would be a week, at least. So today, at 2:45, I get to cross the parking lot to the Patient Care Center here at the medical school and have my nether region investigated. Oh, the joy!

Walkies & Boiling for Dollars!

I've had lots of fun since I last wrote a week ago or so. Eric and I went out for his birthday. We met up at our new favorite bar, the Shamrock, which is owned by Logan's friend Matt McEntire, an honest-to-goodness Irishman. (It's not new; It just replaced JJ's Hideaway as our favorite is all.) He was running late, having gotten some last minute work he had to finish before beginning the weekend. So I walked from work to the Shamrock, thinking it was only about 6 or 7 blocks. Turns out, it was closer to 9 or 10. I was tired when I got there, and glad for the glass of cold water I had before ordering a vodka & 7. By the time Eric arrived, I had had three fuzzy navels as well - doubles, all of them, so my tired legs were no longer a bother. He generously closed out my tab and returned my debit card to me. Matt showed up, bought Eric a shot, and impressed me by remembering when I brought newborn Brighid in to see him at his old bar, a tiny hole-in-the-wall across from the Federal Building, years ago.

Chris, our favorite bartender, raved about the creme brule when Eric mentioned we were headed to Pappadeaux. So when we were ready to leave (after having divine seafood fondue, jumbo shrimp, seafood kibobs with lovely, meaty mahi-mahi, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus), Eric ordered a creme brule with raspberries to take back to Chris. It must have been good because our bar tab was only $28, and I KNOW we drank more than that.

Again, I had to drive home since Eric overdid it a bit on the birthday celebrating. We crashed into my bed to be attacked by vampire kitties. Or so it seems. Any time anyone gets still for a minute, a kitten (well, okay, the kittens are teenagers by now) will jump on him, go for the neck, and nurse on whatever clothing is handy, usually a tee-shirt. It just looks like the kittens are attacking, poor orphan kitties. Well, not really orphans, but plucked from their mother as soon as possible, the kitties have grown up thinking humans are their parents.

Saturday, we ran all over town with the kids in tow, first to the Dollar Store or is it Family Dollar? so Eric could by a gimmie cap to hide his hair, then to Mrs. Baird's for day old bread to feed the ducks. We then hit Golden Corral for the breakfast brunch, then Dollar Tree for "Cheap Chinese Stuff" as Brighid calls it, then to the duck pond on Trail Lake Drive. After feeding the ducks, we went to the Friends of the Fort Worth Library book sale, then to Y2 Komics so the kids could spend the money Uncle Eric gave them for no good reason. Okay, Brighid did clean Eric's car, but $40 to do so?!? Weyland made $40 for fetching a huge plate of bacon and ham from the buffet and for flagging down the "coffee boy". Eric was just feeling flush and overly generous, I suppose. We ended the spree by lunching at Charley's where Eric had an avacado burger, and I had a chicken mushroom sandwich, some really good homestyle fries, and a chocolate malt. I hadn't had one in years, so it was extra tasty. The kids, of course, had the usual: Weyland, cheeseburger, dry bread, lettuce, and Brighid, cheeseburger, dry bread. It was a wonderful weekend.

Monday when I got home from work, I was feeling particularly good, so Weyland and I took Bashful for a walk. Brighid was too engrossed by the internet and chatting IM with her "buds" to be bothered by taking her own dog for a walk. Weyland was all gung ho for it, though, so we walked. We started out behind the house, surveying the new construction that will eventually ruin the view from the kitchen window. We walked down the new dirt road all the construction vehicles have created. Lots of trees have been knocked down in the name of progress. We continued down the path 'til we got to the creek.

It was a LONG walk. Since we were so "far from civilization", in Weyland's estimation at least, I let Bashful off the leash. He ran, lept, sniffed, dug, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. He was so cute, bounding through the grass, very rabbit-like, his ears straight up, his tail wagging the whole time. But like I said, we walked a long way, so much so, that I had to sit down to rest about five times. I think the walk did all three of us good, though. Bashful had a blast, Weyland ran around collecting wildflowers, most of which we were able to identify using the excellent Wildflowers of Texas by the oddly named Geyata Ajilvsgi, and when we stopped, I felt muscles twitching which I had forgotten I had. Weyland looked much better with a little sun, his cheeks looking rosy, rather than their regular mayonnaise color, and his nose had cinnamon sugar sprinkles of freckles. (My freckles are pretty much limited to my arms, and in time, I suppose, be mistaken for liver spots.) All in all, a good time was had by all.

Gross out warning: Tuesday, I felt a sore spot on my back, so I had Logan look at it. Turns out, it was a nasty boil. Logan squeezed it, and gobs of gook came out. It still hurt the next day, so Logan squeezed it again. More sebaceous oil, pus, and blood this time. So every morning and evening, we got into the habit of pumping crud from the boil on my back. A couple of times, there was so much stuff under such pressure (which explains why it hurt so god awful much) that when Logan squeezed it, it spewed out on to his shirt, the wall, the couch, etc. Yesterday, Monday the 11th, was the first day it actually didn't hurt, and only a tiny bit of plasma emitted. It's itching now, a sign, I suppose, that it's actually healing. I've come to the conclusion that the increase in skin problems I've been suffering (rashes, discoloration, yeast, boils, & etc.) are due to morbid obesity.

Last night, (It's taken me a blasted week to write all this!), I felt like something the cat buried and the dog dug up. I've got a bad cold, complete with coughing, nasal congestion, and hawking up huge green loogies. My nose is getting sore from blowing it, even though Logan bought Puffs with lotion. I went straight to bed after work yesterday. Logan had taken off to Richard's house for a while, probably to fiddle with the sailboat. I called to tell him I needed chocolate. He was such a sweetie! I guess I don't give him enough credit. He came home with Hershey's Nuggets, my favorite of which are milk chocolate with toffee and almonds, Hershey's Kisses, Reeses' Peanut Butter Cup Miniatures, and milk chocolate Dove bars. I guess I'm not sophisticated enough to prefer dark chocolate. Give me sweet, creamy, luscious milk chocolate every time. Logan also fixed homemade chicken noodle soup with olive oil added and plenty of garlic. Olive oil and garlic will cure most ailments, as far as I'm concerned. That, and Tylenol #3 and half a Darvocet. My cramps were so bad yesterday, I almost took a muscle relaxer as well, but the combination of chocolate, soup, and pain pills had me floating. It was only my desire to watch Letterman that kept me awake past 9 p.m.

I'm still fighting the cold today, so I hope to have a hot toddy or maybe some mulled wine after work, and maybe tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. The only drawback to having a cold and being cossetted is that I can't breathe through my nose, so I can't use my CPAP machine at night, which means sleep apnea rears its ugly head again. But Gilmore Girls is a rerun tonight, so I might catch up on some sleep by going to bed at 7 p.m. I'm sure I can fall asleep that early. It's just a question of the kids letting me stay asleep. It makes me happy, just thinking about my soft bed, clean sheets, and a kitten or two cuddled up on the covers. The only thing that would make it better would be if Logan would snuggle with me, but since he doesn't want the plague, he's keeping his distance. At least he will cook for me when I'm sick. For all I say, I do love him. And I know he loves me. The drugs must be making me sappy. :)

My second favorite poem

if up's the word; and a world grows greener
minute by second and most by more ---
if death is the winner and life is the winner
(and beggars are rich but misers are poor)
--- let's touch the sky:
with a to and a fro
(and a here there where) and away we go

in even the laziest creature among us
a wisdom no knowledge can kill is astir ---
now dull eyes are keen and keen eyes are keener
(for young is the year, for young is the year)
--- let's touch the sky:
with a great (and a gay
and a steep) deep rush through amazing day

it's brains without hearts have set saints against sinner;
put gain over gladness and joy under care ---
let's do as an earth which can never do wrong does
(minute by second and most by more)
--- let's touch the sky:
with a strange (and a true)
and a climbing fall into far near blue

if beggars are rich (and a robin will sing his
robin a song) but misers are poor ---
let's love until noone could quite be (and young is
the year, dear) as living as i'm and you're
--- let's touch the sky:
with a you and a me
and an every (who's any who's some) one who's we

look ma no punctuation or capitalization 

Ducky

My favorite poem, at least today, is "Ducks' Ditty" from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame:

Ducks' Ditty

All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!

Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight,
Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim --
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.

Everyone for what he likes!
WE like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!

High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call --
WE are down a-dabbling

Up tails all!

I was feeling so down when I started writing this evening, that I knew the only thing for it was to contemplate something like "Ducks' Ditty". Funny, how a simple, rhythmic cadance can drive the blues away, at least temporarily.

The weather turned springlike again today, after shocking the new buds with snow Easter morning. Of course, the snow didn't last long. If you slept in, you missed it, which I did. I only got to see it on the news. Luckily, our yard is acting like it never happened. I will ask Logan to take some pictures of the daffodils, tulips, and roses, before they fade with the heat that is surely on the heels of this glorious weather. I thought I might take myself a nosegay to work tomorrow to cheer me the rest of the week, but I wonder if daffodils, tulips, and roses make a small enough bouquet to be considered a nosegay. Funny word, that.

Well, dinner is ready (chicken pot pie), so I need to go feed everyone. For tomorrow, I may consider the poetry of e e cummings.

Somerset Maugham was right

I don't feel the angst of youth anymore, at least not in regards to love. I accept what is for now, hope for a better relationship in the future, but don't cry over it (at least not very often). What does cause me worry, though, almost all the time like a persistant ditty stuck in my head, is money troubles.

I think I finally convinced Weyland to turn in his homework (which he claims is too easy and boring) and get good grades by explaining that the only way for him to avoid having crappy, clunker cars like his parents is to get good enough grades to be able to go to a good college so he can get a good job. I'm sick to death of all the clutter in my life, and that includes the beaters sitting out in the driveway.

I worry that I've stuck my head in the sand about my taxes for the past three years. I worry that I can't find all the damned receipts to send in to the TexFlex service and that I'll be charged back -- my own money, mind you -- for OTC purchases.

I worry that I can't afford to fix all the cavity riddled teeth my family has. So far, just Brighid and I are having just a fraction the almost $5000 worth of dental work done that the dentist recommends.

I worry that our house is in dire need of repair.

Sometimes the worry about everything coalesces into a mass of doubt and a horrible sense of helplessness.

Few people kill themselves for love (really, the lack thereof). Most do it over the worry caused by poverty. I don't feel suicidal, but I do feel the helpless feeling coming on. How do you stop emotions from barrelling full force into your brain? The dread is overwhelming.

He is risen?

Fairly subdued day, today. The kids hunted Easter eggs in the very wet grass, ate tons of Peeps, Jelly Belly jelly beans, and candy eggs. I didn't really buy any chocolate this year except for the chocolate bunny awarded to Brighid for finding the most eggs. Weyland selected the peanut butter bunny as his reward for finding the prize egg. We didn't have anything special for breakfast, but might cook the ham or the lasagne currently in the freezer for dinner. For lunch, Logan made me a baked potato.

I'm just not in the mood to do much of anything. My ideal Easter breakfast is Eggs Benedict made with shirred eggs rather than poached eggs (The sight of cooked egg white makes me ill.), strawberry shortcake with fresh strawberries and homemade whipped cream, and Lady Grey tea with cream. Dinner should be ham baked with pineapples and maraschino cherries, roasted new potatoes, and asparagus with real butter melted on top. Homemade wheat rolls and sweet tea or a nice Riesling or Pinot Grigio, maybe even a Pinot Noir round out the meal.

Since we didn't have a sit down meal (at least not yet, anyway), the typical prayer didn't get said. I've been reflecting on how my mother would always try to make it to the sunrise Easter service, yet her whole life, she was so conflicted about religion. She was a Baptist, converted to Catholicism at the age of 9 on her own (Her parents remained Baptists.), entered a convent as a postulant at the age of 11, came home around 14 or so because, as she always said, she "could do the poverty and the chasity, but not the obedience." Later, she dabbled in Eastern religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism, Hare Krishna-ism (What do they call themselves, Krishnaites? Krishners? I dunno....), and later even Wiccan beliefs. But she ended up back in the Catholic church, which is the first church she consciously attended.

It's days like this that I feel a mournful sort of loss for my mother. In many regards, I looked to her for my spiritual bearings in that I believe one should continue to strive throughout one's life, the way she did, for truth and understanding. I certainly don't believe in the literal translation of the bible, nor do I think the Pope is infallible. But I do believe Jesus was a real person, a teacher, a prophet perhaps, and definitely a person worthy of study.

That Jesus can be an inspiration to many is compelling. Even though the jury is still out, in my estimation, as to whether or not he was truly a miraculous figure, I do find inspiration in some passages of the New Testament. Unschooled that I am in the more scholarly aspects of religion, I still think it's worth the effort to learn what I can about the religion in which I have been raised. I read things like the Book of Thomas the Contender from the Nag Hammadi texts, and have to wonder if perhaps Jesus was married and having troubles with his wife (most likely Mary Magdalene).

But this discussion tires me, and makes me sad, as it makes me think about Mommy. Maybe that's the problem I have with any organized religion, it makes me think of her. I was taught that no matter what, God loves us, and that Christ is the expression of that love. I can only hope it's true.

Happy Bunny Day

God is a mountain, and everyone in the world stands on the mountain - yet no two people can see exactly the same view. Or so my mother taught me. She learned this from Father Hoover, of all the Catholic priests she knew, the man with which she had the fiercest love/hate relationship. I always suspected they had had an affair, yet years after she was killed, I read in the paper that he had been accused of a homosexual relationship with a young adult. Vickie, my mom's best friend, contends that in a past life, Father Hoover was the captain of a ship, my mother was the Chanteyman, and she was on board to witness the captain have the chanteyman keelhauled, not port to starboard, as is the usual manner, but bow to stern.

Logan claims to be an unreconstructed Celt, whatever the hell that means. I'm ambivalent about God, as I've always believed a truly loving god/God would step in and alleviate pain and suffering, rather than allow it to exist. Also, my scientifc mind can find no evidence of life after death. But being the child of two highly spiritual (albeit in highly diverse ways) people, I'm just superstitous enough to recognize some holidays just in case.

We rarely do little more than fix a nice meal, say a prayer, and have an Easter egg hunt for the kids. So should I bother dying eggs tonight and hiding them tomorrow, when:
1. It's almost 7 p.m., and I haven't started yet.
2. It's supposed to be rainy and cold tomorrow, which makes for crappy Easter egg hunts.
3. Logan is sick as a dog and doesn't give a damn if tomorrow even comes.
4. My children suspect I'm the Easter bunny.
5. I'd rather play online spades than make a mess in the kitchen.
6. I'm trying to think up a bunch of excuses rather than go get the damned stuff to dye eggs.

Oh, hell, I guess I'll dye eggs tonight, even though I LOATHE boiled eggs.

After all, aren't the children entitled to their chocolate and marshmallow secularized (if that's even a word) holiday? Our country (Madison Avenue?) seems to be doing the same thing to Easter as what has been done to Christmas. I mean, isn't it really a supplanted pagan holiday anyway? Eggs = fertility, Easter = Eostre, and Easter sunrise services seem to have replaced the Pagan custom of welcoming the sun God at the vernal equinox.

So Happy Bunny Day, everyone!

My new CPAP machine. Isn't it pretty? 

Clearing the Air

Went out with Eric night before last for a mini-pub crawl again. Ducked into the Flying Saucer to learn it really is just a draught bar, so we then went up a block to the 8.0. Eric had three martinis, well dirrrrrty vodka martinis, but anyway, I had three glasses of red merlot, and sampled the fried calamari aka rubber bands that Eric ordered without consulting me to learn I'd just as soon eat fried rubber bands. After we left there, it was back to The Shamrock to see our favorite bartender, Chris, and teach him how to make Box Office Poison (dark chocolate truffle liqueur, vodka, and Grand Marnier) after having two or three (I was getting kind looped at this point.) Bailey's on the rocks and two double mandarin vodka twists (Eric) and another tall clear drink, of which I never learned the name. I had to drive home, so I showed Eric some lovely sites in Near South Side (a neighborhood near downtown Fort Worth) which would be wonderfully suited to being turned into a studio/apartment/office. Eric gushed about the idea. I wonder if he even remembered it the next day.

Nearing home, we detoured to the Whataburger for french fries and a vanilla shake (me) and a hamburger all the way, fries, and a Diet (!) Coke (Eric). We were dancing in the car to 70's funk, which was pretty funny to witness if you were the black guy at the drive-through window. Eric grabbed my shake, took a big sip, then tried to kiss me and in doing so, got shake all over my face, up my nose, on my shirt, etc. I was drunk enough that I thought it was funny. If I had been sober, I might have been mad. Eric was in a surprisingly affectionate mood. He was somewhat self-conscious, though, as he kept asking me if he looked good. I finally told him, "yeah, I'd do you," so he shut up.

I emailed Sara a joke, and she replied back asking how things were, so she and I have been talking a little. I feel sort of in the middle, in that I can sympathize with both her and Eric. I don't like the feeling one little bit. I'd still like to be Sara's friend, but I have to figure out how to do it without incurring Eric's ire. I'm grownup enough that I won't hate someone just because a friend asks me to. I just need to figure out how to tell him that it's really none of his business. I mean, unless she had done something truly harmful to Eric rather than just get pissed off over their living & money arrangements and ask him to leave, then I'd certainly take bad behavior into consideration.

In other news, later today a lady from a "durable medical equipment supplier" will come to work to bring me a CPAP machine and show me how to set it up. I'll report back later as to whether or not I can breath tonight. It's supposed to help my sleep apnea. If I'm able to sleep without waking up over 200 times per night, I might actually feel worth a damn and feel like getting a bit of exercise. Who knows?

The Cat Will Play

I wrote almost nothing last week. I was too busy at work since Jeanine took the week off to have spring break with her kids and I did the job of two people. Also, went to the dentist (I have three million cavities.) and the pulmonary doctor to get set up to have a CPAP machine brought to the house (I'm sure the technician will be scarred for life or at least severely traumatized by the squalor.) sometime in the next two weeks. I had to battle the stupid insurance company in order to be seen.

I swear, life was in many ways easier when we were totally broke and on welfare. Medicaid paid for everything, no co-pay, no battles with insurance. My previous battle with Weyland's dental insurance company really made me feel life was easier being dirt poor and letting Uncle Sam pay everything. Aetna DMO feels Weyland, at 9 years old, is not a child, and so will not approve having a pediatric dentist. So Weyland can't be sedated, which means no dental care whatsoever because the fraidy cat won't sit still for a shot of novacaine. I'm switching carriers in September, that's for sure.

Saturday night, Eric picked me up and we went on a mini-pub crawl - first to the Shamrock, then to JJ's, then to Ol' South Pancake House for breakfast (biscuits & gravy and home fries), then the Oui Lounge for a nightcap. At the Oui Lounge, there was a girl crashed out in a chair. She was so drunk she had to be carried to a cab by her boyfriend. Eric actually took a picture of her, head all flopped over to one side, slumped in her chair. I am so glad that part of my life is over.

Then we had a sleep-over of sorts. He crashed in the bed next to me and slept til around 10 or 11. His cat, Missy, got on the bed and sniffed of him, then took off to be with Logan. How quickly they forget. She thinks she's Logan's cat now. She follows him from room to room. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Missy had to sit on the counter and supervise. When he went back into the front room, she followed him. She didn't do anything except watch him at the sink. Odd cat.

Speaking of odd cats, the whole reason Eric came to get me for the evening is because he and Sara tore the blanket, so to speak, and he needed to vent. I don't know what the catalyst was, but he moved home with his parents. Sara's had some catty remarks on her blog recently, but doesn't come out and say anything specific. I know it is sometimes like a soap opera, being around Eric. There can be high drama. But Sara seems to have some sort of complex. Everyone in her life seems to have it in for her. I told Eric that when everyone you know is crazy and evil, then perhaps it's really you. But then again, maybe some people just attract nuts. I know I do.

What's really sad is that I thought Sara and I were going to be good friends. She's certainly intelligent, which I greatly admire in a person. But I've known Eric much longer, and have a history with him that I can't put aside in order to remain her friend. Eric is fiercely loyal, and demands the same from his friends. Besides, I have a real problem letting down my guard with Sara in regards to the whole money issue. I seriously don't like the kind of people that like to live where they have to join a home owners' association. I would pay NOT to live with their ilk. I've been too poor too long that I'm almost a snob about being white-trash, if that is even possible.

Back at work today, I get a quote from my dentist. $3300 just to fix my rotten teeth. Another $900 for Brighid. Logan hasn't even been to the dentist yet, and Weyland won't let them look at his mouth. I've half a mind to just yank them all and get dentures. It might be cheaper.

And still no decision on a vehicle. Logan wants me to get an electric motorcycle, sort of like a Vespa. It doesn't require registration or insurance, and only goes 18 mph. Not no. HELL no. I'd be dead within a week. The first redneck that saw my fat ass hanging off the seat would have it in for me. The traffic is too heavy on the route to work, even if I go the back way, through the rich neighborhood near Colonial Country Club. You know, the old saw has it that money won't buy you happiness. But I've never heard anyone complain about having too much money. It can certainly buy some terrific substitutes for happiness. If money was no object, I'd go see the dentist who does all the work in one day, buy a new car, and take all the cats to the vet to get their shots rather than have to wait for hours at the low-cost clinic. 7 cats times $4 each = $28.00, more than I have in the bank today.

Should I play the lotto tonight? The jackpot is something like 35 million. That would buy a lot of cat food....

not much worth writing about, eh?

Well, we just thought it was spring. Really, it doesn't start until what, the 20th? 21st? And with tomorrow being St. Patrick's day & all, it's time to plant potatoes. The past weekend threatened rain, but it pretty much held off, with only a few sprinkles on the windshield. We tried to go to the Easter Bash held out at Lockheed RA, but the door lock jammed, and I couldn't get the door closed. I drove the van home hanging on to the door to keep it from flying open. Logan got home shortly after I did, managed to fix the door, and get us out to the picnic just as it was winding up, despite another 2 hours scheduled. The kids didn't even get to enter their Easter bonnets in the contest which was supposed to happen 1 1/2 hours after we had arrived, but had already been held. I was very disappointed and somewhat pissed. We went ahead and left, and made it home in time to round up the dog and take him to the low cost rabies clinic. We had to wait in line over THREE hours, but we managed to get Bashful vaccinated and microchipped for a total of $14.00. The day was redeemed by Weyland having a blast playing on the playground equipment and Brighid meeting a girl who like anime as much as she does. Brighid got the little girl's IM screen name, so that's another anime nut added to her buddy list.

I went to the dentist today to find out that I have three million cavities. The "treatment specialist" was out today, so it will be tomorrow before I find out just how much it's going to cost, getting all my cavities filled as well as a crown and perhaps a root canal. Joy. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy. It's a good thing I don't fear the dentist. I just resent the fact that the dentist never seems able to do everything in just one or two visits.

Like I said, tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, and people at work are going to wear green and bring snacks. It's an excuse to have a party. They love parties, my co-workers. I'm going to attempt to make cookies tonight. If they get burnt or end up tasting like crap, I'm going to take cold cuts and cheese. I guess green beer is out of the question.

I'm going to run to Big Lots! to see if they have any shamrock shaped cookie cutters. Also, I need green food color to make green sugar. I may buy a lottery ticket as well. Can't win if you don't play.

Castles in the Air

Haven't felt like writing much the last couple of days. Saturday was busy, shopping for Allison's wedding gift, and Sunday was the wedding shower. I had a pronounced feeling that I didn't fit in with the assembled company. The women were so polished and posh, with manicured finger and toe nails, coifed hair, fashionable clothes, shoes too high and pointy for my taste, and handbags too small to hold anything but a cell phone, a set of keys, and a credit card. Maybe a lipstick too, but nothing more.

I used to love wearing tight shirts, short skirts, stiletto heels, stockings with garters, pushup bras, & etc. I would spend hours getting my eyelashes just right. I spent loads of money on "being seen", going to concerts, clubs, etc., so I could meet guys and get laid in the hopes of meeting "the one". Well, I finally gave all that up and dressed preppy for work when I worked at Bookstop and Herbie got married (and no longer partied with me), and I met Logan. I don't think he's "the one", but he is the one for now. He and I have some things in common, but not as much as I'd like. I want a guy who will lay in bed with me of a Sunday morning, working the New York Times crossword puzzle. I want a guy who will kiss the backs of my knees. I want a guy who actually enjoys cunnilingus rather than once in a blue moon consenting to performing it.

I think my weight has aged me, though. I won't wear heels even if I have to go barefooted. My purse is full of crap I might need "just in case", which includes medicine and a Swiss Army knife Logan gave me as a birthday present one year. Occasionally, I even find things like crayolas and Legos, which have help making their way into my bag. I find that I'm less tolerant of loud noise, what passes for music nowadays, and being shacked up with a guy who doesn't seem to think I'm very smart.

I know my life didn't get where it is overnight. I can make changes. I didn't start off feeling depressed, but this sure sounds down. I really don't mean it that way. I guess I just feel old, and am wondering how to go about making things better.

I need to improve my environment, my health, and my prospects. I'm working on my environment by beginning to get the house de-cluttered and cleaned, planting flowers, hanging curtains, and painting, and at work, I'm putting up pictures, cards, and drawings the kids have done. I'm going to the dentist and the pulmonary doctor next week. I need to get set up to get a CPAP machine so I can feel better and deal with my sleep apnea that keeps me sleepy and exhausted most of the time. Once I'm sleeping better, I hope to have more energy to workout, clean house, and do things like archery and fencing. With more energy, I hope, will come weight loss. With weight loss, I hope to look better. Also, I'm trying to get my bills paid off so I can look for a small apartment close to work.

Eventually, I hope to live on my own, or perhaps with the kids so that I can find "the one." It's not that I don't love Logan -- I do, deeply -- it's just that I think I would be happier being treated better, being appreciated. Of course, all these plans are just that, plans. But I think it helps make things real to get them written down, if not on paper, at least somewhere.

More Fun With Fonts

• Last night, I went to Kroger and bought the store brand of Rose's lime juice, Bluebell vanilla ice cream, fixin's for s'mores, and (because I went through the self service aisle) Boones' farm melon wine. Woo hoo! When I got home, the kids made s'mores in the microwave, and I made a vanilla ice cream and melon (honeydew, not cantaloupe or watermelon) wine smoothie.
• Today, I made a limeade slush.
• Brighid also used the smoothie machine and made chocolate milkshakes.

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I like THIS color best on my blogpage, I think.

What color do you like?

Is orange verdana prettier than pink trebuchet? What about red trebuchet? I like verdana, but I think trebuchet is easier to read.

What about Lucida Grande? Courier is newsprint type. And everyone uses Times Roman, only this is just called Times. The Visigoths must have gotten to it.

This font size is for the nearly blind, but it is not as large as DOOMSDAY, which takes up most of the page when you type

WAR!

Webdings

Webdings

webdings

Funny, that type doesn't look like webdings. Once, when I went to Cisco for a few days, I visited my Uncle Bruce at his print shop. He gave me a dingbat, and said, "here, a dingbat for a dingbat." I still have that little piece of moveable type. I wonder what happened to his old linotype machine. I'd love to learn how to use it. Pappy set hot type for years, running a linotype machine for first The Press and then The Star-Telegram (aka the Startle-Gram).

Well, enough of this for now.

--30--

How do it work??

Just experimenting, nothing to say except I want a limeade slush.

I want a limeade slush.

I want a limeade slush.

I want a limeade slush.

I want a limeade slush.

Which color looks more like limeade? limeade? limeade? limeade?

• I am going to Sonic to get myself a limeade slush.

Does gray look good on this background?

Object Lesson

Note to self: sometimes it's worthwhile to stay awake during an object lesson. (See Galatians 5:22-23.)

I am galled that my insensate, inconsiderate behavior is the source of ire.

The thing which caused the ire is no longer present, but to even broach the topic is to rekindle the ire, which, I'm sure, still has embers glowing at the moment.

I will say but this, then no more: self-censorship may be a good thing at times, yet even still I wonder if it contradicts the purpose and spirit of writing for oneself and allowing others to read one's musings.

--30--

Find the amusing usage....

Gay and lesbian youths have a threefold increased risk of suicide because of increased societal pressures and stigmata (Ref: Step Up for USMLE Step 1, 2nd Edition, p. 208). Come out and learn more about the health needs of LGBT Youth and why there is higher suicide rate among LGBT teens. Thursday, March 3rd at noon in Everett Hall. Lunch will be Chipotle. Included in our discussion will be two out teenagers from our community. Everyone is welcome.

cool, daddy-o

I know, I look older than 40. It's not the years, it's not the miles, it's the bumps in the road. 

Fun!

http://www4.vc-net.ne.jp/~klivo/soft/mondrian.htm

Ye Olde Shoppe

Hmm... chain mail, chain maile, chain maille, chaine mail, chaine maille. Why the fascination with archaic spelling? Standardized spelling was a damned fine thing. My father, though, used to advocate spelling reform. He even wrote a letter to the editor about it. If I ever have time to scour the Star-Telegram ("Startle-Gram" in our family, due to errors both grammatical and spelling) archives held at the University of Texas at Arlington (my almost alma mater), I will find every last letter Pappy ever wrote to those numbskulls throughout the years, including his promotion of the idea that the United States of America should annex Mexico (whether they want to be annexed or not?), thus solving the illegal immigration problem and supplying a new source of oil all in one (not to mention putting lots of translators and sign painters to work).

Yesterday, I sent an email to my sisters, Bible-Thumper and Money-Grubber, requesting that they return Pappy's journals to me. I think I am finally serious about writing -- writing, and getting paid for it. The impetus for this is my recent contact with the son I put up for adoption 20 years ago, Wesley Louis Franklin Bridges (or was it Wesley Franklin Louis?), who was renamed Paul Michael Mueller by his adoptive family. Paul wants to know genealogy information. I thought having copies of Pappy's journals would be edifying. (Why did my brain want to say "edificacious"?) Bible-Thumper (who has maybe two of the journals) retorts that I could work from copies, and that it would be better to put the originals in a safe deposit box. (My brain: ok, MY safe deposit box.) Money-Grubber hasn't responded yet. I anticipate a vitriolic reply. But I stated my case simply, logically, and without resorting to pathos. I even offered to pay for the copying and have the copies bound, one for each child (natural or otherwise) of my father, plus the two grandchildren (Paul and Lindsay, daughter of my deceased sister, Inge) who do not have ready access to a parent with a copy of the journals. We'll see if my request is honored or not. I don't know if I really believe MG will comply or not. BT will, but perhaps grudgingly.

Reading back through the previous paragraph, it struck me that if BT and MG ever find out I refer to them as such (okay, I'm in a pissy mood, otherwise I get along okay with them), it will be absolute zero before I see the journals again. So if you know me and know my sisters, DO NOT let them have the URL to this blog. My future as a writer depends upon it. Yes, I know I can self-censor. But is that really writing my thoughts, hopes, ideas, and musings then? I dunno.

Maybe I should go down to Ye Olde Shoppe and buy myself une clef. (I looked up "clue" in French, got indice, which doesn't seem to make sense - index? - so I used key instead.)

Gotta love babelfish.

Once Upon a Time

I now know why Mommy never read fairy tales to us. Prince Charming isn't real. He's a fat, bald guy with degenerative arthritis who snores.

Pappy used to read the Brothers Grimm, which I like better than the Disney spin on things. The stories always have a moral of a sort, and in a way, they don't really seem like they're for children. I love the Frog Prince best, where the Princess promises to take him home and be his friend if he retrieves her golden ball out of the well. She lies, and runs off, only to find him at her door the following evening. The King makes her fulfill her promise.

Everything may turn out okay in the end, but you have to kiss a frog first, right?

Well, I want my Prince Charming, riding on a shining white stallion, to come rescue me. I've had it with this crap. The funk is so blue around here, the ice in my cup looks like a coconut snowcone.

Calgon's a lie, there is no Prince Charming, and even "the one that got away", Tom Urquhart IV, is now fat and bald, and his wife is expecting. No, Dorothy, you can't go home. You're stuck here in Emerald City, only it's just weird, there are no viable guys your size, and the green dye gets on everything.

Oreo Cookie

Seen at the Evil Empire (Wal-Mart): Black woman checking out with the following items: three loaves of white bread, vanilla ice cream, chicken breasts (white meat, eh?), toothpaste, tampons. Everything going into her body is white. Odd sight.

The Silent Treatment

Logan is giving me the silent treatment. I called him earlier to discuss Weyland's dental problems (mainly that my cheap-assed insurance won't cover but 25% of a pediodontist). I wasn't finished talking, but Logan hung up on me. That irritates the ever-loving crap out of me. I get furious when he doesn't let me finish what I was saying. So I tried calling him back. He hung up on me without even saying hello. So I called the house phone. He hung up on me again, without even saying hello. Sometimes caller ID is a pain in the ass. I alternated between his cell, which he eventually turned off, and the home phone. What a childish ass he's being! It is important to take care of dental problems. Our friend, William Wurm, aka "Wormy", damn near died from an infected tooth. The infection, which started in a cracked tooth, entered his blood stream and caused damage to his heart valves. He had to move back up to Chicago to be near his parents. He is in rehab, and will be there for a very long time.

I get very pissed when I'm thwarted by childish men, unreasonable dentists, and worthless insurance. Today, they can all go to hell. I'll sit on Weyland and pull his damned tooth out, and that will be the end of this annoyance. PISS OFF, EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Money Envy

I'm out of touch with the universe. Eric called earlier to say he was thinking about staying in the DFWMetromess for a while, rather than hiling back to San Diego soon because he can make money here. He went house browsing. I don't think he's exactly in a position to buy a house just yet, but I'm not his financial advisor, so wtf do I know? I do remember him saying something about not having a credit card he could use to run a tab, which is why I offered mine the other night. Whether he doesn't have one available because it's maxed, or his time spent nearly jobless in SD caused him to have account(s) closed, I don't know. It's really none of my business. He was looking at a house in Sara's neighborhood, Lantana, Texas, which is near Flower Mound. He opined as that a house payment in that area would be $3000 a month. HOLY CRAP!! He mentioned Sara's monthly neighborhood association fees are $300 a month. Mein Gott in himmel!! Okay, sue me. I don't speak, write, or read German. Why would someone pay good money for a neighborhood association? So one can voluntarily live near the neatness nuts and busybodies??

I'm obviously out of touch with the universe. I'd have to be a freaking multimillionaire to buy a house that cost that much. That, or I'm cheap. And I definitely couldn't afford it. I make $1500 a month, before taxes, insurance, & assorted deductions. My bi-monthly paycheck is closer to $600. I guess it's a damned good thing that our house is paid for and that I have Logan to pay the utilities and buy the food. I'm busy paying off my credit cards and stuffing money in my retirement fund. I definitely need to finish my degree before I can live like the rest of the "real" world.

Last night, my real world friends and I took Susan to dinner for her birthday, which was back on the 9th. I can't believe I spent $25 for my own entree. I'm going to be broke for the rest of the month, considering the fact that I chipped in $50 to cover my dinner, one drink, and my portion of the appetizer and Susan's meal. I was happy to be with them, but in a way, it always makes me depressed. How do people afford to live the way they do?

We got to Herbie's house, and I was happily telling them Logan gave me a dozen red roses for Valentines, which I know cost him all of $25, including the lovely red vase. Dave sent Herbie a bouquet which probably cost $50 - $75, AND he bought her a pair of 1/2 carat diamond earrings, which (to my way of thinking, at least), she sort of groused about, since they weren't full carats. Oh, to live in that world.

My friends all have new cars, new houses, all the latest toys (PDAs, iPods, new cell phones that take pictures, etc., ad infinitum). Why am I both jealous and repulsed by the conspicuous consummerism? I want to feel like I belong, I guess, and I am appalled by how much everything costs.

I guess I'm just tired of working and feeling like I'm getting nowhere fast. I love my new job, for what it is, but it's still not what I want to do when I grow up. I want to be able to stay home and write, and I don't know how to get to that point. I'm thinking myself into a blue funk, so I should stop now. Besides, it's way past bedtime on a school night, and I'm sure the kids are still up, despite the fact that they are being quiet. I should know, that's a warning sign. So I'll go put them to bed, and then myself, and hope I can dream myself into a better mood.

Eric channels the dead, speaks in tongues, and makes eyes at a bartender, and not necessarily in that order

Last night, I called Eric to see what was on his plate. He was tired from a week of Tonybeest, a prior evening of fencing, and a general infection of ennui, I believe. He wanted to party. So he said he was coming to get me, and we were going to JJ's Hideaway, henceforth known as The Hideaway since everytime he tells someone he's going to JJ's, they think it's a person's house. While I was waiting for him to arrive, I got online and was pleasantly surprised by Faggotman sending me an IM. Faggotman (henceforth known by his real name, Michael) and I must have talked two hours and change on IM. He's a funny guy, and joined the Mutual Admiration Society (patent pending) that I have going with Sara, Eric, and anybody else who is funny, writes funny stuff, and also thinks I'm funny.

I called Eric around 8:30 or so since he wasn't here yet, and he had fallen asleep. I was willing to call off the idea of going out, but he said hell no, he'd be here in a flash. So around 10 or 10:30, he arrived, and whisked me off to the Hideaway. Inside, the place was packed. No where to sit, even. So we got back in the car, and drove a couple of blocks uptown to The Shamrock, a bar owned by Logan's Irish friend, Matt. Matt wasn't there, but there were two bartenders named Chris. Eric kept oogling the one who was serving us. He just knew Chris 1 was gay because, Eric said, Chris 1 waxed his eyebrows. ??? I guess I don't have "gaydar".

We drank lots. I had about five or six rum & cokes, lost count, and Eric had at least five or six glasses of Guiness stout, with a couple shots of Jaegermeister and a shot of Tuaca thrown in for fun. Bleaaggggggghhhhhkkkkk!!!!!!!!! Seventy bucks later, I managed to convince Eric that we needed food. So off to Benito's, where we had quesadillas, papas y huevos, y huevos con charizo. To top that off, Eric had three shots of tequilla, and a chaser of sangrita or sangrilita or some such.

What made the evening memorable was that #1: Eric kept oogling the bartender. I even offered to ask Chris 1 for his number, but Eric wouldn't have that. #2: At Benito's, Eric ordered everything in Spanish, impressing the waitress, and also talking in Eye-talian. In fact, he was getting Spanish and Italian confused after a while. I guess the tequilla was kicking in. What made all this interesting was the fact that shortly after we were seated, a hippy looking guy came in, sat down near us, and ate in silence, looking over our way a lot. Well, I admit, there was no one else there that time of night, and Eric was being a bit flambouyant (and loud, which will piss him off when he reads this), and there was the incident of him telling me, in Spanish or Italian or a mixture of both, I don't know or know why for that matter, "fuck you and all your dead relatives", THEN translating that to English for me, loudly. Then the loud comment about needing music, whereby (I'm sure GLADLY) the waiter turned up the radio. When we got ready to leave, Eric "made first contact" with hippy guy (I didn't catch his name.). Eric guessed he was a bass player. Hippy guy said sometimes, but that he usually played keyboards. Eric offered him a job, then found out the guy had a day job as a graphic designer, whereby Eric offered Hippy guy a better job, more money, etc., and gave him his number. Hippy guy seemed a bit wary, but interested. I'm curious to see if Hippy guy follows through Monday or not. Fifty dollars later, we were out the door.

But what to me was the most memorable thing was #3: Eric channeling the dead. I admit we were drunk. I admit I get a bit maudlin and weepy sometimes when I'm drunk. But Eric isn't the sentimental type. Out of the blue, he started a conversation about Mommy and Pappy and the afterlife. He told me all sorts of typical cold reading type things, like "they're at a better place", "they're busy with what they are doing now and don't worry about the little day to day stuff", and "that in three to five years, a big, life-changing event will happen" to me. But then he said that Martha knows about all my little disappointments, and that I can be so much more, if only I stop settling and get off my ass and accomplish something. He said Pappy thinks I should have big plans, plans for the future, rather than just plans for next week or tomorrow. Okay, I admit, that sounds like gypsy fortune telling, too. I guess I was just feeling weepy and wanted to hear something good. Eric knew Mommy and Pappy, so of course, he would know their mind set. Eric seems to think he can feel the presence of their spirits. He said he even talks to them.

I don't have any definite beliefs about the afterlife, except that the jury is still out as to whether or not there is one. The scientist part of my brain scoffs, yet the spiritual part of my brain can't dismiss it out of hand. And then there's the sniveling, weepy, childish part of my brain that is terrified by the thought of nothingness when our bodies give out, give up, give up the ghost. Is it that nature loathes a vacuum?

All I know for certain is that I always believed I would be able to sense my mother's spirit. I never really thought that Pappy would hang around afterwards because he always seemed so at peace, so settled, when he was alive. Mommy's spirit seemed agitated in some ways, excited in others, reminding me perhaps of a boiling pot of water, always in motion. Restless. So I have never been able to accept that she could really just move on once she died. I always thought she would make contact with me, especially since we often talked about what the afterlife could be like, if it existed. She believed in it a whole lot more than I did at the time. I suppose the fact that she has always been a whole lot more spiritual than me is the reason. She was a questing soul, always seeking the unity with God which, in her mind, was really the purpose of life. We spend our earthly existance wanting to be reunited with our maker. I've never had what I would consider a religious experience, one where I truly felt some sort of omniscient presence, except when holding my newborn children, alone, with no doctor, no nurse, nor even the baby's father present. When I was alone in the hospital, holding my baby, I felt a power not of this plane. This happened with each child, Beth, Wesley (named Paul when he was adopted), Brighid, and Weyland, but particularly with Brighid. The reason for that, I suppose, is yet to be revealed to me.

Shakespeare got it right in Hamlet. "There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Of course, this begs the question about heaven. But that is for another blog. How this post turned from a discourse on "Fun With Eric" into a rant about spirituality, I dunno. I thought it funny this morning when I woke up that when in our cups, we wax all metaphysical, see spirits, and wet our pants with laughter, but in the bleary-eyed light of day, with my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth and my urine the color of lime Gatorade, indicating a powerful need for fluids other than the alcohol-laced varieties, my mind perceives the evening, rather, as sad in a funny sort of way, and that all drunks have this in common: a heightened imporatance of self.

All this aside, Eric has changed a lot from the Eric of partying twenty years ago. Last night, he gave me $80 to cover his part of the cost of our evening. I hated asking him to reimburse me after he paid to have my car towed a couple of weeks ago, but I would have been almost broke if he had been unable to repay me. So tonight, when I go out with The Gals (Herbie, Heather, Susan, and Shellie), at least I won't go into hock for my dinner. We're going to go eat lobster, check out Shellie's new house, then adjourn Chez Wilbanks for dessert, perhaps a movie, and - get this - SOBER knitting. Yeah. Right. We'll see about that. A couple of Bailey's laced hot chocolates later, the cats are stringing the yarn all over the house, Herbie's calling us all drunk bitches, Heather's shaking her head in despair over us drunk bitches, and Susan, Shellie, and I are showing our tits. Oh, wait -- that was last time we got together, drank a whole bottle of vodka AND several appletinis, some red wine, and ate lots of chocolate. Susan promised Steve she wouldn't drink this time. We can still have fun together without booze, right??? Honestly, yes we can.

I've enjoyed playing the train of thought game with you this afternoon. Next time, on "Melodrama Theatre", we'll talk about... boyfriends! Every single one of them!! Oh, short list. Make that lovers then, past, present, and future. Should keep me busy for several weeks, then.
-30-

CONGRATULATION!!!!

Just got off IM with Sara, after two & a half hours of witty repartee, to find the latest incarnation of the Nigerian letter in my spambox:

From: claimsagent7080@netscape.net

(Somebody good with computers help me here... what's the REAL email address so I can spam the spammer right back?)

To: claimsagent7080@netscape.net
Subject: CONGRATULATION!!!!

(I don't trust anyone who doesn't know it's "congratulations".)

Date: Feb 12, 2005 12:52 AM

(Huh? What is a business doing, writing me at 12:52 AM on a Saturday (their time, I'm assuming).)

GLOBAL FREE LOTTO COMPANY INTERNATIONAL PROMOTIONS/PRIZE AWARD DEPARTMENT.
WINNING NUMBERS:37-13-43-85-67-11.BV

(These are not my numbers! My numbers are 12-46-18-pi-square root of 47!!)

REF:S6376527711
BATCH:S7151085135

(Like I'd really remember those??)

Attn:Winner

(Do they send out Attn:Loser letters as well?)

We are pleased to inform you of the result of the Lottery Winners International
programs held on the 27TH/01/2004. Your e-mail address attached to ticket number
653164251591-6011 with serial number 7321410,batch number\ S7151085135,lottery ref
number S6376527711 and drew lucky numbers 37-13-43-85-67-11.BV which consequently
won in the 1st category, you have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out
of $1.800,000.00 (One Million, Eight Hundred Thousand Dollars)

(US? Sterling? Canadian??)

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

(Ok, they got it right here.)

Due to mix up of some numbers and names,

[(Imagine the sound of screeching brakes) Wait a minute! Do I really trust these guys now???]

we ask that you keep your winning information confidential until your claims has been processed and your money Remitted to you.
This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse
of this program by some participants. All participants were selected through a computer ballot system drawn from over 40,000 company and 20,000,000 individual email addresses and names from all over the world.
This promotional program takes place every year. This lottery was promoted and sponsored by Association of software producers. We hope with part of your winning,you

(They give out some much in this lottery, they can't afford spaces between words.)

will take part in our next year US$20 million international lottery.For security reasons, you are advised to keep your winning information confidential till your claims is processed and your money remitted to you in whatever manner you deem fit to claim your prize. This is a part of our precautionary measure to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse of this program by some unscrupulous elements.

Please be warned.
To file for your claim, please contact our fiduciary agent with the below details
for processing of your claims:
Mr. Rook Van Nas
Chief financial Director

(Can't afford a capital F?)

The Free lotto Company
TEL:+447040114110
FAX:+447040114112
Email:info_freegloballotto@yahoo.co.uk

Remember, all winning must be claimed not later than 2ND MARCH,2005.After this date
all unclaimed funds will be included in the next stake.

Please note in order to avoid unnecessary delays and complications please remember
to quote your reference number and batch numbers in all correspondence.

Furthermore, should there be any change of address do inform our agent as soon as
possible.

Congratulations once more from our members of staff and thank you for being part
of our promotional program.

Note:
Anybody under the age of 18 is automatically disqualified.

Yours faithfully,
Mrs Laura Anderson.
AFRO-ASIAN Zonal Coordinator

(Ah. Used the capital F here. AFRO-ASIAN?? Odd combination, if you ask me.)

Promotions Manager.

(Yeah, okay, so this isn't really funny. But when you've just spent two & a half hours talking with a very erudite person, it can strike you as odd to get CONGRATULATION!!!! in your mailbox.)

In other news, I have found my son's adoptive mother, and made contact. She was misplaced (well, to me, anyway) for a number of years, having moved to Pennsylvania from Texas when Paul was somewhere around 11 years old. He's now almost 20, and a sophomore at LaSalle University, studying Latin. I was interesting in hearing from her, since Brighid was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome last year, and Paul was diagnosed with AS at the age of 6 or 7. It can by trying, at times, dealing with my youngest daughter, so I thought I'd look up the mother of my son to see if she had any tips.

Well, I'd write more, but I've got to spend a penny, then lay down for a while. My shoulder is hurting (don't know why), and I'm tired.

put down your drink and swallow first

That's the funniest damn thing I've read all week. I can't wait to get the t-shirt!!

train derailment

I'm sitting here, staring at the blank blog box (say that three times fast), not knowing what to write. So I'll just play the train of thought game, going from topic to topic, going off on tangents, going to hell in a handbasket, going for broke, going crazy (oops! too late!), going to hell if I don't change my ways (Should h(H)ell be capitalized? Is it a proper noun? Why do questions of proper punctuation and grammar plague me?), going to bed in a few minutes if I can't think of anything to write.

My favorite color used to be blue, when I was younger. Now that I'm a "ma'am", it's green, emerald green. I like the jewel tones of colors now, and don't like bright colors. They hurt my eyes. Time for new glasses?

My favorite comfort food is mashed potatoes with brown gravy that has sauteed mushrooms in it. I only like cream gravy on chicken fried steak, and it has to have enough pepper in it, or it tastes like library paste. I ought to know. Eric (fizziecoffee) is fond of regaling people with my attempt to make biscuits and gravy in the dorm (Brazos House) at UTA. He said the gravy was like library paste.

I keep wondering where this train of thought is taking me, and for unknown reasons, my mind goes back to listening to my mother play guitar and sing "The Hobo's Lullaby": http://www.arlo.net/lyrics/hobos-lullaby.shtml

My mother was such a talented person. At times, I feel like... I don't know how to explain it. Somehow, through "Fun With Recombinant DNA"™, my mother's genius has been watered down. I may try, but I just can't seem to be as brilliant or as interesting as she was. I don't think any of my siblings measure up, either. That's not to say that I think that the addition of my father's DNA to the mix was the cause of the diminish... (ing? ment? Yeah, I know, go to lookitthehellupyourselfgoddammit.com) My father was brilliant in his own quiet way. (Who else makes a play with "xenogamy" and "xu" in Scrabble®, play out, two triple word scores, making everyone cry?) He had endearing quirks, like wearing only boxer shorts unless he was going outside, eating broccoli stems with peanut butter, and reusing junk mail as stationary for personal correspondence. Every door knob in my parents' house had five thousand rubberbands saved on it. Tiny balls of twine were in the "junk" drawer in the kitchen. And the pantry had a box, I kid you not, 3'x3'x4' packed SOLID with plastic grocery sacks. Herbie saw it and said Pappy was ready for plastic bag warfare. I miss him so much.

Gawd, I'm feeling maudlin. Nothing for it but to plunge in and get it out of my system. I need red wine, chocolate ice cream, and George Jones music. Well, maybe I'll crank up the smoothie machine and make margaritas. Country music always puts me in the mood for margaritas.

I guess I should try to think happy thoughts. Okay, kittens purring on my neck (except when...), Weyland laughing at his own knock-knock jokes which don't make sense, Brighid's face lighting up when I gave her a Chinese style robe I found for less than $5 at the thrift store, Logan trying to tickle me, Nona's (aka Eric) cooking, especially if he makes me the perfect hash browns, with onions, garlic, cheese, and ketchup, lots of salt & pepper for sure, and getting a box of 64 crayolas with a sharpener for Christmas one year, wrapped in the most beautiful ice blue jacquard paper, which I actually liked better than the big box of colors.

Okay, I'm no longer depressed. But it's 8:16 p.m., and I'm hungry, so I'm off to go scrounge something for supper, since Nona won't answer my IM offer to go for chicken fried steak....

two out of three ain't bad

Found a great website: http://www.badgerbadgerbadger.com/

Blue moon Sunday morning.

Car died.

Two out of three ain't bad.

The Pursuit of Happiness, or Girl Interrupted

The butt crack rash cleared up pretty quickly, but then I was laid low by the flu AND strep throat for a week. I managed to miss three days of work (without pay, since I don't have any sick time left, and can't take my vacation until I'm off probationary status in May) and miss my oldest daughter's 26th birthday. Damn, I feel old.

I've been so tired and worn out, that I haven't yet gone to work out in the gym after work. I always think of some excuse. I've been having trouble breathing, probably a residual of the flu, and my back has been such a misery of pain that all I want to do after work is go home and go to sleep.

So this morning, I woke up with so much pain in my back that I figured the only thing for it was a pain pill or, just perhaps, well, a bit of relaxation in the form of the pursuit of happiness. (Sounds better than self-abuse to me.) Hey, if one can't find pleasure in oneself, in whom can one find pleasure?

To this end, first, let me say that anyone who doesn't self-medicate in this manner is either a liar or in dire need of psychiatric help.

And to the other end, well, the fait was not accompli. First, one of the kittens hopped on the bed, jumped in my face, and proceeded to try to nurse on my shirt, purring loud enough to wake the dead. I tossed him/her on the floor, and tried to pick up where I had left off. Then, Logan barrelled his way down the hall with the garbage, as it was trash day. (Am I too late for the trash? No, lady, hop right on!) Then Logan came back in the house, turned on the hall light, which shines into the bedroom, and my mood was killed entirely. Then, of course, die rousing of die kinder began, and any thought of resuming my ministrations was completely annihilated.

So whether or not this evening will prove more successful is yet to be seen. I hope to lure Logan into my boudoir with promises of a picnic in bed, a back rub, maybe even a little something for his troubles. Our love life has pretty much come to a screeching halt since he decided last August that it was just too painful, considering my weight and his decrepitude. But that shouldn't put a halt to EVERYTHING, dammit! If we were married, I'd divorce him for failing to perform his husbandly duties. I think it shows a lack of imagination on his part. Hell, I've managed to do a variety of sensual things in a variety of locations, positions, and degrees of drunkenness. Is it too much to ask him for a hand with my... pursuit of happiness once in a while?!?

the indignity!

Last night, I noticed a slight burning in my, ahem, well, ...butt crack area. So I had Logan look at it, which was hilarity itself, having to put up with his -yes- wisecracks. He opined as it looked like diaper rash, and I should clean it with some Listerine (ouch!) and put some zinc oxide (baby butt rash medicine) on it. So I adjourned to fait ma toilette.

I got a baby wipe (We keep an ample supply chez nous, n'est-ce pas?) and liberally doused it with Listerine, which I proceeded to apply to mon fissure du cul (I hesitate to use "fente de bout", which is what I got for English to French at babelfish when I put in butt crack, but translates back into "slit of end" when I ask for French to English. I know, I know, it loses something in translation. I'll have to ask Fred, my weird French pen pal, how one says butt crack in French.)

And yes, it did sting. It smarted. My eyes watered. So I had a great idea -- I put a dab of Orajel® and some Campho-Phenique® along the "great divide" as well. Then, I slathered the zinc oxide on, for good measure. That ought to do the trick, I thought.

It does feel better today, but since I can't see it, I'll have to suffer through having Logan inspect the area again. I considered having him take a picture and posting that as well as this little story, but the indignity of it is just a bit much.

back to work

Well, I've been back to work now since the 3rd, and I must say that having a job where I get a winter break is remarkable. I got almost nothing accomplished, though on New Year's Eve, I did spend the whole day completing the Herculean task of cleaning out the 'fridge (which had not been attempted in six months or more, perhaps as long as a year, GAG ME!!!). Instead of doing all the piddly tasks I had assigned myself, I laid up in bed, ate bon-bons, petted cats, watched lots of t.v., and drank up most of the booze in the house, save for the Biohazard (tm), which is similar in color and taste to gasoline, and is hotter than the law allows. Among its many uses are tool cleaner, wormer, and a rub for sore joints.

Christmas was fairly uneventful in that there were no fires and no blood. In my book, that's a good thing (to steal a phrase from Martha Stewart).

Weyland had his faith in Santa Claus renewed, though, by receiving a "crabitat" complete with four hermit crabs. (Unfortunately, three have already died, so I'll have to go to the pet store this weekend and replace them.) My best friend, Herbie (aka Esther), generously donated the aquarium tank and most of the supplies after hearing that Weyland was "going to give Santa one more chance". So I ended up spending a lot of time surfing the internet, learning about hermit crabs. I ran across one pretty funny website. Scroll 2/3 down the page at: http://x-entertainment.com/articles/0815/ to see info on a parade held for a hermit crab.

Brighid was thrilled by receiving a Yu-Gi-Oh! "duel disk" from her brother. She is fairly obsessed with anime' in general, and with Yu-Gi-Oh! in particular. Personally, I don't care if I never hear another word about the whole subject, but at least, it is piquing in her a desire to learn Japanese.

I got Logan an old fart gift for Christmas, a device I called a "pecan picker upper", but which is listed as a "nut gatherer" on this website:

http://www.4thebestpecans/NUTGATHERER.HTM

Logan's was red, btw. Also, the kids and I had found The World's Largest Coffe Cup (tm, patent pending), which we gave him, filled with espresso flavored cookies and candy. Earlier in the season, I gave him a pre-Christmas gift of a red & white "fargo" type hat with "bah humbug" embroidered on the flap above the forehead. LOL

He surprised me with a smoothie machine which makes great margaritas. The kids have even amused themselves making odd creations in the device. Weyland took the cake with chocolate ice cream, strawberries, and rootbeer blended together. It tasted terrible to me, but he loved it.

So Christmas was pretty good, and then we got together with my siblings and the cousins on the 1st at Golden Corral for a gift exchange, where I received two CD's, a Robert Earl Keen, and a Lyle Lovett, from my brother-in-law, Jack. Logan got a good cigar and a gift certificate to Starbuck's (Starbucks'? Starbucks?), which seemed to please him. The kids got various gift certificates which they used to buy toys & DVD's to their liking, along with some clothes from their Aunt Louise, and some books & toys as well. So not everyone has resorted to "just giving gift certificates". I mean, it's kind of pointless, isn't it, when my kids get $10 Target gift certificates from their uncle, and I give his kids $10 Target gift certificates. LOL, great minds think alike, eh?

Well, lunch is now over, so like I said, back to work!