Movies

This weekend, mr b got the kids’ closets done. I was thrilled, thinking that it was the best weekend ever, since I could finally get the seven bajillion loads of laundry put away. That is, until about the 3rd load, at which time “the best weekend ever” involved having finished closets, plus some sort of laundry elves or gnomes or fairies who would actually do it for me. So, it didn’t all get done, but I am making steady progress.

In between making 12 billion trips up and down the stairs and calling my washing machine a bitch, I watched movies.

I took the kids to see Horton Hears a Who. It was pretty cute. I love Dr. Seuss, so I was hoping to love the movie. Not quite loved, but I liked it. It just seemed like there was something missing for me – that special quality you see in a Dinsey or Pixar movie that makes you want to see it again. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Seuss is more charming in book form. I don’t know. But at least it wasn’t the flaming ass that is the live action Seuss films, so I’ll still give a B. It was cute. And speaking of cute – after the movie was over, the girl told me that she thought Jojo Who was “handsome”:


Great – that kid looks like trouble. I’m sure her dad will be thrilled when she brings home some moody little emo punk. Oh, and also – between admission, lunch, drinks and popcorn, I spent approximately 17 thousand dollars


We also watched August Rush, which the boy has been wanting to see. Meh. I know I was supposed to find it heartwarming, but to be honest I thought that kid was creepy. Actually, for the first 30 minutes, I was sure he was mentally challenged. After I figured out that he was not, I found him creepy, what with the weird-ass “conducting” of buses and garbage and subway exhaust. And while I can buy musical genius and being able to immediately play instruments by ear, I was totally not buying the 45 seconds from “these are notes” to the Rain Man symphony writing. The preposterousness of the forged adoption papers thing was just too much. And the whole thing with his mother and the “I hear him” crap – bleh. Maybe it would have been a little more believable if they had shown a little of it, but of course then it would have been nine hours long and I already want at least 30 minutes of it back, so no. The only really good part was that it had some cool music and that Jonathan Rhys Meyers is sexy. Mmm.

By far, the best movie I watched this weekend was on cable – Can’t Stop the Music. Disco with a side of cheese, topped with gay sauce. Who wouldn’t love that?

And I’ve decided - I’m totally going to live out this movie. I plan on writing songs about the Days Inn in Asheville, Coke Zero and my dog’s ass and I will head out into the streets to throw together a “band”. But since a) the construction worker and cop are cliché, b) I just can’t abuse a soldier in that fashion, c) peta wouldn’t approve of the leather guy, d) Trace Adkins and Kix Brooks are already taken, so the cowboy is out, and e) you just don’t see too many full headdress-wearing Native Americans on Forbes Avenue these days, I’m thinking:

- UPS delivery man
- Priest
- Former dotcom bigwig now working as administrative assistant
- Homeless guy
- Podiatrist
- Fidel Castro (since he’s free and all)

What do you think? Is this not the perfect plan?

Because seriously. Who wouldn’t want to recreate the genius that gave us this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

Hey – what do you expect from a girl who wore velvet knickers and headbands...

The Reason No One Asks Me for Fashion Tips...

For a while now, I have been planning on humiliating myself once I drag my old photos out of storage. And there are so many options: The plaid taffeta, the tuxedo, the neon bandanna, the backwards collar dress, the femullet. It's really hard to narrow down, so I will most likely embarrass myself again and again once I have the chance. But digging through a drawer this morning, I found something to give you a little taste of what will (eventually) come. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sadly proud to present....

Junior High Christmas Dance, circa 1980

(click on the photo to see it in it's full glory)

Thursday Thirteen

I’m jumping on the Thursday Thirteen train, since I can barely think of anything to say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday…you get the picture. Anyway:

Thirteen Things I was thinking about my senior year of high school

1. Acid Rain. Remember that? I mean, I know it still exists and all, but back in the 70s and 80s, it was a hot topic. It was my teenaged generation’s global warming. And since I was all about the environment (you know, like, as long as I didn’t have to like stop driving my ‘vette [it was of the “che-“ variety], or eating Quarter Pounders in their Styrofoam containers, or stop burning a giant hole in the ozone layer with my daily half-can of Aqua-net) and wanted to save the Earth, my senior chemistry project was on acid rain. My partner and I got three plants and three goldfish and used distilled water, tap water and rain water for each. It was pretty cool, but I started feeling bad for acidfish and saved him. And “extrapolated” his condition for the last two weeks.

2. How awesome my rack looked. Except for in my swim team bathing suit. NOT flattering. Also not flattering? A diver being made to swim and almost drowning.

3. How unique (and not at all pretentious) I was by singing Papa Can You Hear Me in the spring concert, and Gesu Bambino in the Christmas concert. Entirely in Italian.

4. I can drink in Europe. Legally!! When do we leave?

5. What toiletries can I replace with booze and go unnoticed on the band Disney trip.

6. I am not in the band. I’m a majorette. Big difference. And my uniform is so gay.

7. Sex!!

8. Steve Perry is a genius.

9. Getting the best prom gown, ever. Because if I have to sing that crap, Ice Castles, I’m damned well going to look good. Of course, if my jackass boyfriend would listen to me and realize that white tuxes are what jackasses wear, I’d look even better.

10. Tom Selleck is a FOX. See – I haven’t changed that much.

11. I wonder what Old Grandad tastes like mixed with kool-aid. Hedge?

12. I’m so glad I can eat anything I want and not get fat.

13. College is gonna be a breeze!

How To...

How to feel old:

Watch American Idol on “Songs from the Year You Were Born” Night. Nothing makes you feel like an old geezer quite like being reminded that some of these people (All but one of whom are chronological adults. And several of whom are married) were just being born while you were out drinking and smoking and having sex. Well, expect for that one guy. You may have only been ten when he was born. You know, if you were telling your age (which everybody knows anyway).



How to be a diva. Or perhaps, Mrs. Howell:





How to be the next Mickey Hart*:

*OK, clearly, I don’t know many drummers and I narrowed it down from Phil Collins (who makes me want to stab myself), Rick Allen (who only has one arm and who wants to wish that on their kid?) and Tommy Lee (and speaking of things one doesn’t want to wish on their kid: Pam Anderson, Hepatitis and crabs)




How to crack you mother up (and simultaneously make her feel guilty for her vocabulary):

“Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”

“OK, Mom. Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass


How to put your foot in your mouth while watching a commercial for Moment of Truth:

“Asking a question like ‘have you ever regretted marring your spouse is unfair.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a rock/hard place question. No one wants to admit it, but everyone has thought that at some point in their marriage”

“I haven’t”

Jeez – next you’ll be telling me that not everyone has plotted their spouse’s death. And set up their BFF as an alibi (Hi, Hedge!)

(For the record, I think he’s lying. I know I’m a bitch.)



How to be the world’s worst photographer:
Take Easter photo with “Cops” on in the background…

Because nothing says, “Jesus Lives” quite like a televised drunk driving arrest.



How to look insane:

Chocolate Bunnies Everywhere Fear for Their Lives

Today is my first day back in the office after a busy and somewhat stressful weekend. I can always gauge how stressful my weekend was by the feeling I get when I walk through the office door. Most Mondays are the “ewwww, work” variety – that means it was a pretty normal weekend – some fun, some relaxing, with a touch of sibling annoyance and husband pain mixed in. but after weekend like this one, I walk through the office door and my blood pressure actually goes down. Because even though I have to work and even though I have to deal with a pain in the ass coworker and even though I have my fat ass crammed into pantyhose, by God, I will not hear, “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” SO, yay, work!

Plus, when I got in this morning, I saw a package on the front counter for me and who doesn’t like a surprise mystery package, assuming it’s not filed with dog shit and snakes? And it was most certainly not filled with dog shit and snakes, but with two cool cds and some delicious-smelling chocolate soap. YAY!! But I have to say:

Dear Stacy,
You rock. Especially the part where you put the note in telling me not to eat the soap. Because I read it at the last minute and was very near shoving it all into my big, gaping piehole. Love and kisses,
Gina

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Friday I worked from home and we had an extra child in the house – our nephew, Dil (great nephew actually, but I didn’t say that since it makes me sound as old as dirt, when in actuality, though I am as old as dirt, it’s mr b who is three days older than turpentine and can say he has a great nephew. Also – did anyone get the turpentine reference? If so, I will love you forever)

Anyway, having an extra child in the house can be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it keeps the kids busy having someone else to play with. A curse because – hello – it’s an extra kid in the house. The girl was thrilled to have him there, since they are close in age and she adores him. The boy, I figured would ignore the presence of another rugrat and play wii or something. But no, even though he won’t play with his sister and probably wouldn’t play with Dil if were actually his brother, he thought it was great fun playing with him on Friday, much to the dismay of the girl, who wanted Dil to herself. I suspect this added to the boy’s enjoyment. At one point, they were playing light sabers and she was pissed off at being left out and she kept telling them “it’s time for another game now”. When that didn’t work, she came over tot where I was working asked me for a pencil. I gave it to her and went on working. Then she asked for some paper. Again, I gave it to her and went back to working. Then she asked if I could write something for her. I was distracted since I was working, but I took the paper and pencil and asked her what she needed me to write. The answer? "This game is over. Mom said."

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Saturday and Easter were pretty uneventful, but busy. There was shopping and cooking and ironing and cleaning and visiting and chocolate and wine. And I made this salad, which you should go home and make right now because it is fantastic.

Then yesterday, I had to work from home again, since school and daycare were closed. And as with Friday, there was lots of “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” So, by the time the girl started screaming bloody murder, I pretty much was all boy who cried wolf-ed out and I responded with a frustrated, “What?!? What is it now?” And then I saw her clutching her face and staggering around the room. Turns out she had sprayed perfume in her face and eyes. I grabbed her and threw her I the tub and started spraying and rinsing her eyes as best as I could, with he fighting and kicking and screaming. And you know how hard it is to open your eyes when they are burning, so I’m not sure how effective it was. I also tried to wash the perfume off her face since she reeked. I had her in the tub, rinsing her eyes for about 15 minutes, then got her out and called the doctor. They said she would probably be fine, but to call poison control. They also thought she would be fine, but damn did she give me scare. Herself too. The poor thing was in pain and crying and she couldn’t open her eyes for a good while. And her face got red and blotchy from the perfume, with her left eye, especially swelled up and looked like a red plum. Good times.

I intend to heal myself psychologically by gnawing the head off a chocolate bunny and celebrating my few hours of quiet and data management.

Not Your Sweetie

Mr b and the kids and I recently went out to Eat n Park for dinner and the waitress kept calling me sweetie and honey and babe. This is something that has always pissed me off. I’m not a particularly formal person, but I don’t care for terms f endearment from someone not sear to me. I find it patronizing and insulting. But I generally keep my mouth shut, because I don’t want to come off as a pompous bitch. Instead, I usually come off as a juvenile, since I tend to answer questions like “how’s your salad, Honey?” with a big smile and a cheery, “It’s great, Sweetcheeks!” or, “Awesome, Lovemuffin” (I’m saving up Sugartits for when I really need it). Anyway, this usually does the trick.

On this particular night, though, I was planning my “Can I get some ketchup, Schmoopy?”, but never got a chance, since the next time she came by, she spoke with mr b – “Do you need more iced tea, Sir?”

Cue needle on record sound…

Excuse me, but Sir? Sir??

I’m Sweetie, Honey and Babe and he is Sir?

You know, if she had been an elderly man, I may be a little less bothered by it. I almost expect it – the concept of “the little woman”, but I have been finding that women are often just as, if not more, sexist than men. I’m tired of giving the check pointedly handed to him. I’m tired of salespeople speaking more to him than me. I’m tired of arguing with customer service people to no avail while he can get results in minutes. I can order my own tires, thank you very much. I can pick out the paint colors all by myself. Don’t tell me about how my husband “has a wife and kids to take care of”, because it’s I who does most of the taking care. Don’t try to sell me credit card insurance so we’re covered if “my husband should lose his job”. I don’t need a pink hammer or (god help me) a pink Steelers jersey. If I’m going to be driving it, tell me about the gas mileage in that model of car, and not the makeup mirrors. No – I don’t want a white zinfandel, I’ll have a Guiness, please. Hard as it may be to believe, I make more money, I have more education and I deserve the same respect, regardless of what parts I have. And if you aren’t married to me, and you’re not my grandma, then goddamit, I am not your Sweetie, Honey or Babe.

I’m not sure why I still find myself amazed at some of the comments I hear from people who are not voting for Hillary Clinton. Don’t get me wrong – many people have legitimate, intelligent opinions on the candidates’ policies and ideas. But I’m talking about the other ones. The ones who – no matter how vehemently deny it – will not be voting for Hillary simply because she has a vagina. The “I don’t think the country is ready for a female president (translation: I don’t want a woman in office) or the “She’s not nurturing enough” (translation: she’s hard and manly, and should be more feminine, like a real woman who should be at home and not in office), or the “She couldn’t even control her husband, how can she run a country (translation: I don’t even know how to translate this one, but it sure has a whiff of honor killing, doesn’t it? I mean – it surely is her fault he cheated, right? So let’s keep her out of office for being so ugly and sucky) and the “we can’t have a woman president because Middle Eastern countries wouldn’t deal with it well (translation: I am a fucking idiot. I mean, good-ole boy petroleum lobby much? Because first off – way to endorse a way of life that not only oppresses women, but completely dismisses them and often enslaves and harms them in ways both physically and psychologically. And as for them not liking it? Fuck them. They can either deal with it or not, but the last time I checked, citizens of the middle eat do not get to vote in our elections. Besides, maybe having a leader that they “won’t deal with” will give us the push we need to get the hell out from under the suffocating control of all things oil. If having a woman in office will leads to some serious thinking and action regarding alternative energy, count me the fuck in.)

And this ? Is this how low we are sinking? Are we so afraid of having a woman in a position of power that we are willing to ignore her viewpoints and ideas and instead focus on humiliating her over her husband’s inability to keep his dick in his pant while he balanced the budget, raised employment rates, reduced poverty and signed the Family and Medical Leave Act?

Look – I’m not saying that you should vote for Hillary because she is a woman – that’s as bad as saying you won’t vote for her because she is a woman. I’m not even saying you should vote for Hillary at all. What I’m saying is that you should vote for a candidate and not their gentials. We’re too good for that.

Hilarious

I hope you all saw the original crazypants Tom Cruise vidoe, because it makes this one even funnier:

Three Trillion Dollars, Four Thousand Dead, Five Years, One Man

3,000,000,000,000 = Projected dollars we will have spent on the war by the time we get out of Iraq.

20,000,000,000 = Dollars paid to KBR, a former Halliburton division, to supply U.S. military in Iraq with food, fuel, housing and other items.

9,000,000,000 = Dollars lost and unaccounted for in Iraq.

3,200,000,000 = Dollars of the $20 billion paid to KBR that were deemed “questionable or supportable."

1,000,000,000 = Dollars in missing tractor trailers, tank recovery vehicles, machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades and other equipment and services provided to the Iraqi security forces.

303,664,728 = People in the US who are affected directly and indirectly by the Iraq war.

270,000,000 = Dollars the U.S. spends each day in Iraq ($12 billion in 2008).

5,000,000 = Iraqi children orphaned since the US invasion.

2,630,880 = Minutes that mothers of soldiers have spent worrying and praying about their children’s safety.

1,189,173 = Iraqis killed since the US invasion.

190,000 = US guns in Iraq, including 110,000 AK-47 rifles.

180,000+ = Private contractors currently in Iraq, working in support of US army troops.

166,895 = Troops in Iraq.

157,000 = US troops in Iraq.

70,000 = Single parents deployed between June 06 and March 07, leaving their children without them.

43,848 = Hours that soldiers have been at risk in Iraq.

29,395 = US soldiers seriously wounded in the Iraq War (many more with less serious injuries).

20,000+ = Number of soldiers with traumatic brain injuries who were not classified as wounded during combat.

3990 = US soldiers killed in the Iraq War.

1,827 = Days that husbands and wives have been alone while their spouses have served in the Iraq war.

1783 = Days since Bush stood on the deck of an aircraft carrier and declared "Mission Accomplished."

1600 = US children who have lost a parent in the war, as of 2006.

1,150 = Active-duty troops that were deployed at the same time as a spouse in December 2006 only.

308 = US non-troop casualties.

202.7 = Cents that the average cost of a gallon of gas has increased since before the Iraq War began.

127 = Journalists killed (84 by murder and 43 by acts of war).

68 = US military helicopters downed in Iraq.

64 = Percentage of Americans who oppose the war in Iraq.

57 = Percentage of Iraqis who think it is acceptable to attack American soldiers.

30 = Percentage of US soldiers who develop serious mental health problems within 3 to 4 months of returning home.

28 = Percent of Iraqi children suffering from chronic malnutrition.

14 = Journalists killed by US forces.

5 = Years since we invaded Iraq on the word of our current administration – one with ties to the oil community.

1 = Man that put us there, claiming the need to protect the US from Iraq’s Weapons of Mass Destruction.

0 = Number of WMDs found in Iraq.







*If you have any stats that I missed, let me know (with citations) and I’ll add them to the list

"Stand Up Like a Man!"

Mother’s Day is coming up and in case you’re fretting about what to get mom, I found the answer. Are you ready? OK, then. This year for Mother’s Day, forget the boring flowers and stupid photo frames. Instead, get mom and grandma the ability to pee standing up. That’s right, folks – the P-Mate is in the house!

Now we women – once a fair, clean and considerate gender – can now defile public buildings, parks and alleys with our urine. Just like men!!! Because if there’s anything I had ever hoped for in this life, it was to be more like a man. Next, I’ll be spitting on sidewalks and leaving my underwear on the bathroom floor. I CAN'T WAIT!!!



And speaking of men, here’s what getting ready is like in my house:

Say we have an event to go to – a scout banquet for instance. About four hours before we have to leave (and after getting home from hours of preparation at the hall), I have clothes picked out for myself and the kids.

Next - make sure everyone is fed and ready to start getting themselves prepared.

Clean the tub and get the girl’s bath ready.

Ten minutes later - drain the tub and refill it, since mr b was asked to check the water and somehow he failed to notice that the hose came loose and water was spraying into the un-caulked edge (the one from 9 years ago that is still waiting for attention) and knocking wall-insides debris into the water.

Get the girl bathed and get her set up on the couch, all cozy, and then go rinse out the tub.

Next up – get the boy’s shower going. Coerce the boy into getting his shower. Now. Now. NowNowNOW!

Back to the girl – get her hair combed and dried.

Oh look - a patch I forgot to sew on the boy’s short.

Find needle and matching thread. There’s got to be some matching thread. Does this match? Close enough.

Look at clock. AAAGH – we only have two hours left.

Hear mr b say we have plenty of time.

Laugh knowingly (and bitterly).

Get sewing, hoping that four stitches will holds the patch through the banquet.

The boy’s out of the shower – comb your hair. Comb your hair. COMB! YOUR! HAIR!

Next up – ironing!

Did you both brush your teeth? With toothpaste?

Who left this mess in the bathroom?

Ironing…ironing…ironing…

Alright – time for my shower. Whoever left these clothes in the bathroom better come get them right now and put them where they belong!

Jump in and out of shower.

Look at clock.

Commence panicking.

Slap on makeup.

Barely fix hair.

Get the kids dressed.

Fight with the girl about which shoes to wear.

Fight with the boy about tucking in his shirt.

Oh My God, DID YOU NOT comb your hair when I asked you to????

You clearly DID NOT!

Try to fix the boy’s hair.

Gather purses, bags, cameras, banners, cards and gifts.

Sigh in relief – everyone’s ready.

Except…

30 minutes before it’s time to go, mr b waltzes into the bathroom and finally starts getting ready.

10 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s looking for something to wear.

5 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s changing his clothes. Again.

Time to go. Mr b is now fretting about his hair.

2 minutes late. He’s asking about his clothes again.

4 minutes late – checking the hair one more time.

Finally 10 minutes after we were supposed to leave, he’s ready.

On the way, he turns to look at me, sitting stone-faced in my seat, running late, exhausted form getting three people ready to go, with 2 feet of stuff piled on my lap and says, “What’s wrong with you?”

Only an Idiot Would Neglect to Check the Camera Battery...

Yep – that would be me. The idiot who went to see Hillary Clinton, had a great seat, got to shake hands and get an autograph, and did not have a working camera!! And since my phone’s camera is a dick, the only photos I got looked like this:

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I could have kicked myself. I was excited to go and hear her speak, but I was most excited to come back here and show you the photos. So since I don’t want to disappoint, I give you:
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It was a pretty cool experience. I found her to be engaging and intelligent. The camera do NOT do her justice (and also – I suspect that often times those in charge don’t use the most flattering photos), because she is far more attractive and even thinner in person than how she looks on TV and in photos. Nor do the media give her enough credit for her personality and sense of humor. I’m really glad I decided to go.

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This weekend was the boy’s scout banquet. We had a nice time and I (of course) cried when he pinned the mother’s pin on me. I’m such a weenie.

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Sunday, the girl had a birthday party to go to. She was very excited, since it was her first birthday party for a daycare friend, and her best pal to boot. In honor of the momentous occasion, she wore her best tiara.

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Also this weekend was the taping shut of the dog's snout, because he could not keep his stupid ball-licker shut during the Pitt game (Yeah Pitt!).

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And don't go all peta on me - it was painter's tape and didn't hurt him one bit (same goes for the cat who was pelted with my sock, a stuffed dog, and my pillow when he would not SHUT HIS DAMNED MOUSEHOLE AT 3:00 am). And we felt bad for him the next day, so we played a rousing game of balloon with him.

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In between all this activity, I shopped for a birthday present, bought gifts for the scout leader, went to get cards, did the grocery shopping, cooked several meals, and did 5 loads of laundry. And yet Sunday night, I still found myself saying, “Damn, I didn’t get anything done this weekend.” Why do we women do that to ourselves?

How NOT to Get the Job

Hedge sent me an email yesterday telling me that she was sitting at her desk, looking at a man who was waiting for an interview with her company. Sitting beside him was his wife. On her lap was their dog. Who does that?? What on earth would have made this guy think that bringing his wife and dog on an interview would be a good thing.

You know, I can almost forgive the dog. Because although bringing your dog on the interview is clearly a sign of batshittery, there’s always the possibility of you actually being able to function in the job. But bringing your wife? This says to me that you may or may not be batshit crazy, but your wife is most definitely batshit crazy and the only thing worse than a batshit crazy employee is an employee with a batshit crazy wife. And a wife who feels it’s appropriate to accompany her husband right into the office on a job interview, dog in tow, is the poster child for the Batshit Crazy Wives Association of America.

I can tell you from experience (not that I have or have been a batshit crazy wife, but I have witnessed it), that a batshit crazy wife will result in the employee getting 238 calls a day, 197 of which will be dire emergencies like “I can’t find the coffee filters” or “How do you work the DVD player?” The other 41 will just be plain old batshit crazy conversation. Also – batshit crazy wives will result in the employee being late or absent often, because of emergencies such as the one I mentioned, as well as rampant hypochondria, paranoia, and the inability to function as an adult.

Needless to say, this man will not be getting the job. So, just in case you were on your way out the door for an interview and your wife or husband or dog thinks it’s a good idea to come along – it’s not.

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In other news, the boy has his crossover ceremony from cub scouts to boy scouts on Saturday and I know that I am going to cry and look like a blubbering fool in all the photos. I had a hard time deciding to let him join scouts because their policy on gays makes me want to vomit. But he really wanted to join, plus the fact that he’s not a huge athlete and the fact that there’s not a whole lot of options in a small town made me rethink it. The biggest deciding factor was a conversation I had with an openly gay woman who was a scout leader, who encouraged me to let him join.

I decided that the benefits of joining scouts were many, in that he would be learning outdoor skills, leadership and citizenship. I figured that I could teach him about acceptance and you never know – maybe someday he would be involved in helping to make a change in an offensive and ridiculous policy. In the meantime, he’s participated on activities that have honored and helped veterans, the mentally challenged, the hungry, the elderly and the environment. And that is always a good thing. In a few years, he’ll have to do his Eagle Scout project and since his won personal “cause” has always seemed to be homelessness and hunger, maybe he’ll have a chance to make a real impact. So while I still feel a little like a hypocrite for participating in an organization that has some views that I can’t get behind, I am also very proud of my son for sticking with it for five years and achieving what he has.

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And in super good happy news, Weenie came down this weekend and we worked like working dogs who work for 34,926 hours (OK, we actually drank lots of rum for some of thse hours, but still), and I am happy to announce that my kids finally have rooms. There are still a few odds and ends to be tied up, but thank Jeebus, we finally, finally, can all get a little space. It feel as good as you would expect it to feel when three people, a dog and a cat and crawl out of each your ass.
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I Miss My Friend

I had a dream about an old friend last night, and I can’t get it out of my mind. I’m not generally much on dreams and their interpretation, but I can’t figure out why this one is so vivid in my mind and why I jus can’t seem to shake the feeling that it means something. I know that reading about other people dreams is boooooorrrrring, so I’ll keep it short (the dream part anyway).

I dreamt that I was at a Dead show (I remember when I only had to say “a show” and everyone around knew what I was talking about – I’m old). Anyway, I was there alone and I wanted to find my friend, Dave (I started to use a pseudonym, but why bother). I knew he’d be there because – duh – it was “a show”. I decided that the best way to find him would just be to walk around in the parking lot’s carnival-like atmosphere calling his name. And lo and behold, it worked (this is not that far-fetched – it’s actually worked in the past). He was sitting at a picnic table with a group pf people that seemed awfully surprised that some strange person was yelling their friend’s name and he jumped up and hugged me. We ended up hanging out together and doing various bizarre things (like when you’re in a dream and one minute you’re at a concert and the next, you’re on a roller coaster and then suddenly, you’re climbing a porch). And then – just like that - he was gone.

I woke up then and felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I don’t know if it was just “seeing” him again or what. But I felt like I needed to drop everything and find him. I have searched for him many times in the past unsuccessfully. Once, I found an email for someone with his name and I sent them a couple emails over a period of time, but never received a reply. I tell myself that the email was outdated because I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t reply to me, but there’s always that chance. I guess I could probably find some phone listings to try I tried really hard, but I am not sure what I want out of it. Finding an email address is one thing. I could write and if it’s him, he could write back and we could start up a nice, no pressure friendship again. But finding a phone number is a little daunting. The idea of calling him up and talking after all these years. What if it’s not him? What if it is? What do I say? What if he’s married and his wife answers? What if he doesn’t want to hear from me?

It might sound weird, but the phone thing is threatening to me for some reason. Maybe its because I called him once at his apartment and his roommate gave me some very vague deal about him not being there anymore. So I called his parents and they brushed me off as well. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the basic just of it was that he was in some trouble and that he needed to cut off ties with his past. I cried for days after that, wondering if he hated me, wondering if he was OK. A few years later, I ran into a mutual acquaintance who told me he heard that Dave had some serious drug problems and ended up in rehab. This could very well be true – he had a history and it would fit with his roommate’s and parents’ odd reactions.

A little background on Dave. I met him my freshman year of college. He was a philosophy major. I met him during a class - at my 1st college, we had a month long semester where you took one intensive, all day, non-traditional class. I took physics classes both times (I know – huge geek), but they were cool classes - in one, I learned to fly a plane! That’s cool physics. Anyway, Dave was in my class and he was always trying to talk to me about “deep” shit. And I didn’t care about deep shit. He used to give me all these deep philosophy/science/math theory books to read and then want to discuss them. It drove me crazy for a while, but eventually, he started to grow on me.

He was rumpled and messy and crazy and fun. He introduced me to a lot of thing (some good, some bad) that I wouldn’t have found on my own. He was a great guy. We spent all our time together and he ended up being one of the best friends I have ever had. We were always out hiking and talking and reading and learning (just not the stuff we were supposed to be learning). It sounds corny, but at a time when I was really searching for something, he helped me find out who I was. I truly loved him.

But I could see it in his eyes. He liked me. He was a good friend and I wanted to keep it that way, so I ignored it and he ignored it and we went on for a long time like that. My roomie and I even moved into his suite (in the boy’s dorm) for a while, because he was the only one in a 4-person and there was no shared bathroom and lots of fun. He knew my deepest secrets, my favorite songs and what I liked on my pizza.

One night, when he was walking me back to my dorm, he brought it up. He stated his case very logically about how it made sense for us to be a couple (it did) and how we had the perfect relationship (we did) and how we had everything except the intimacy (true). But he just couldn’t understand that for me, the physical attraction wasn’t there. I explained it the best I could, and to his credit he accepted it. We agreed to remain friends and we really did. But he asked for just one kiss and I agreed. I guess I thought it wouldn’t hurt and hell, you never know which sparks might fly. Well, none did. It was a chaste kiss and then it was over. We stayed friends and had a lot of fun together in the years to come. (Although I found out later from a guy that went to the very small school with us that someone saw us kiss and everyone thought we were and item and that there were several non-asshole guys who would have asked me out if not for that. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. It didn’t stop the fucking assholes from wining and dining and treating me like shit, though.)

Anyway, Dave and I stayed friend for a few years, calling and writing after we both left college and visiting each when we could (we lived about 4 hours apart – me in Pittsburgh and him in Gaithersburg). We sent each other care packages – he would send bootleg tapes and other “goodies” my way. I sent him care packages for his Grateful Dead touring trips, filled with munchies and visine and trippy toys, and one year on his birthday I sent him scarlet begonias and signed the card with only “you knew right away I was not like other girls.” Of course, he knew who they were from immediately. This long-distance, yet still rewarding friendship went on for a few years – right up until the time I finally couldn’t reach him anymore. I’m not sure what I want out of finding him now, but since last night, every few minutes I think about him. I think about the loss of a friend. And suddenly after 18 years, I am feeling that loss as if it were yesterday and it takes my breath away.

He was a part of the most bittersweet time of my life. A time when I found myself and then lost myself. When I laughed more than I ever had and cried harder than ever before. A time when I really lived out loud. Maybe it’s my impending 40th birthday and the feelings of mortality setting in. Maybe I want to feel a little of that freedom and joy again. All I know is in that dream when he hugged me, I felt so good and safe and like I had found my way home. At that – though imaginary – moment, I couldn’t think of anywhere I would rather be.

I don’t know if I will ever see or speak to him again, but wherever he is, I hope he is happy.

More Wastefulness and Some Creepy Thrown in for Fun

Once again, I watched Big Brother and once again I was sickened by the wastefulness. This time, they had at least 600 pounds of asparagus that they used for a stupid game. I thought that maybe, since it was still fresh that they could donate it, but noooooo. After the game was over, those fucking morons started throwing it at each other. God, I hate those people. Just once, I’d like to hear someone express concern over the terrible waste. They’d be my new reality TV hero. Oh - and making this competition even more vomit inducing? The fact that the women had to be weighed and the comment was made about the one being a “whopping” 130 pounds. Dear god, we are an obscenely fucked up country.

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And speaking of things obscene, it’s only been one day and I am already sick to death of hearing about Ben Rothlesberger’s new deal. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a huge fan of all the Pittsburgh sports teams (though the Pirates are seriously testing my ability to give a shit). That said, it absolutely sickens me to hear about the money that athletes make. 102 million dollars? Even after the agent gets a cut and taxes come out, he’ll still pull in over $100,000 a week. A week! And yet, I had a conversation with someone the other day who is living with an injury because she can’t afford to get the surgery to fix it. And driving into work, I see an elderly man in a wheelchair getting soaked in the rain. And on the way to mr b’s office, I pass a little camp of cardboard boxes, with sad, lonely hungry people inside.

You know who should make 102 million dollars? She should. And the other people who do what she does every day. And you know what they would do with all that money? They’d most likely start feeding people. And building houses. Not running immediately to the luxury car dealership and driving away in a planet-destroying Hummer or penis-waving Maserati (that mr b saw Ben driving away from the dealer at just about the same time they made the announcement of his deal).

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In other news, this renovation is killing me. It’s almost done. We’re thisclose (of you don’t count the entire “old side” of the house that will have to be updated next). Unfortunately, I have experiences years of thisclose before. Neither mr b nor I are particular go-getters. It’s hard – you work, you have kids and their schedules to deal with, family, housework, dinners, etc. The last thing you feel like doing is working some more when that’s all done. Add to it that the house is in such disarray all the time and it sucks what little motivation we have right down the drain. It’s a vicious cycle – you can’t do A because B isn’t done, and B can’t be done until C is done, but C can’t be done until the giant mess gets cleaned and you make room for D, but the giant mess doesn’t have anywhere to go unless A gets done and so on and so one and sofuckingon.

Two bits of good progress are that mr b and his nephew got the wood floor installed this weekend and the carpet for the kid’s bedrooms was installed yesterday. The girl’s furniture is coming on Saturday and I have my SIL Weenie coming that day to help me get the boy’s room moved. So there IS progress. Of course, I am stressing about Weenie’s help, since I feel like I need to do some pre-cleaning prep work beforehand and there is just no time to do it. Also – there are things that need to be done in those rooms (like installing lights and some trim painting) and I am afraid that they will never get done. Because I have met my husband before. I have lived in a half finished place for so long and I am nervous about it going on forever. My biggest fears when I signed on to do this were 1) not finishing things, and 2) finishing the “new” part and not the “old”, and living in a half nice/half crappy house. Sigh.

Anyway, the guy that installed my carpet yesterday freaked me out a little. On one hand, I felt a little bad for him – he was talking a bit about his health problems and lack of health insurance (hear that, GW?), but on the other hand? I think he was batshit crazy. In the short time I spent talking with him, he asked me how we were paying for the addition (did you hit the lottery? Um, no, we lived in squalor for 10n years and saved) and made two “jokes” that were a little uncomfortable – calling me selfish and spoiled (comments that from your friends would be funny, but not from a stranger). He expressed concern over his money problems (which I sympathized with, but was uncomfortable given the fact that I was paying him). He then mentioned his bad temper and problems controlling it (I wondered if perhaps I should don my bat mask*). And finally, the dog was thoroughly suspicious of him. He usually loves everyone - at least after he barks his fool head off for a while. I have to say, I was glad when he was gone and I locked the door before he was even off the porch.

* For those of you who didn’t read me at the old place and don’t know what I mean about the “bat mask”, here’s a link to the weird, yet somewhat hilarious, crackhead hooker-punching story.

I love my floor. And my carpet. And even my stupid dog that hid behind me when the creepy carpet guy was there: