We started off straightening and cleaning the house, rearranging living room furniture, making the house liveable again. Then his brother came over, followed shortly by Momma and Daddy. The men-folk headed off for an afternoon showing of "Lincoln", leaving Momma and I behind to make a couple of batches of peanut brittle and a few hours of conversation. It was wonderful to spend the afternoon with her - I don't spend nearly enough time with my Momma, and lately I have a nagging sense of guilt over that fact. She lives so close, I have no excuse for not making time with her more of a priority. Lately I feel a sense of urgency, like I NEED to be in her presence more often. Impending motherhood is to blame, I imagine, and the realization that she's not going to be here forever and I sure as hell better appreciate her while she is.
After the candy-making, we sorted through a couple boxes of baby clothes passed down to me from Stacy - we oohed and aahed over the tiny pastel outfits, sorting by size and saying over and over again how no one needs to buy us any more, we've got plenty to get us through at least the first six months.
In between the candy-making and clothes-sorting, I picked apart the beef roast I'd been simmering in the crock-pot all day and turned it into veggie beef soup - it's finishing its cooking on the stove now while I'm lying back on the new chaise and Jimi watches the latest Batman flick.
It's been a perfect day; I'm happy and content. Life is good.
Showing posts with label Momma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Momma. Show all posts
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
A sign.
I spent the day in Evansville, IN with my Momma and my Aunt Pam at a cousin's wedding. Mom's told Pam the news, and we talked a lot of baby talk. Pam said she feels good about this one and she'll say lots of prayers for us. Good. We'll take them all.
When I decided I was ready to head home, my front tire was flat.
I wanted to cry.
I was tired and hungry and hot and I just wanted to go home.
But. I had a can of Fix-A-Flat in my trunk, and that inflated the tire enough for me to get down the road to a Pep Boys, which was still open at 6:30 on a Saturday night and had a tire to sell me for just under $100. It was just under an hour from the time I discovered the flat until we were pulling out of the Pep Boys parking lot.
Mom stayed with me the whole time. She kept me from losing my shit. I love my Momma so much.
It felt lucky, that flat tire. At least in retrospect. It didn't blow in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, on a desolate stretch of I-64, when Momma and I would've had to sit in the sweltering heat on the side of the road probably for over an hour waiting for AAA to show up. It didn't blow on my way home, when I was alone in the dark on that same empty stretch of highway. Instead, it was flat, outside the church. And I had Fix-A-Flat. And Pep Boys was open. And I had enough money in the bank to pay for a new tire without blinking. (All that beer and cigarette money I've saved over the last few weeks, perhaps?) A lucky girl, I am.
I decided to go back to the reception for a while longer, danced (poorly) with my cousins and my aunt, then hit the road for home around 10 o'clock.
I spent most of the drive in silence, watching the white lines lead the way. I thought about the latest Momastery article I'd read while waiting for my tire to be replaced. I thought about how scared I am for our first appointment in less than 2 weeks. I imagined what it could be like - lying in a dark room and hearing that sound I dream of, the sound of a heartbeat that Jimi and I made together. I thought about Jimi, and his concern that his age could negatively impact our ability to have a healthy "normal" child. How would we react if something was wrong? What if our baby has an extra chromosome?
I think we're going to be okay. I started to let myself think that maybe we're going to be just fine.
And then a car drove by, an SUV, with a vanity plate that read OK PUSH.
I'm taking it as a sign. A doctor's gonna say that to me next February, and everything's going to be just fine.
Every little thing, gonna be alright.
When I decided I was ready to head home, my front tire was flat.
I wanted to cry.
I was tired and hungry and hot and I just wanted to go home.
But. I had a can of Fix-A-Flat in my trunk, and that inflated the tire enough for me to get down the road to a Pep Boys, which was still open at 6:30 on a Saturday night and had a tire to sell me for just under $100. It was just under an hour from the time I discovered the flat until we were pulling out of the Pep Boys parking lot.
Mom stayed with me the whole time. She kept me from losing my shit. I love my Momma so much.
It felt lucky, that flat tire. At least in retrospect. It didn't blow in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, on a desolate stretch of I-64, when Momma and I would've had to sit in the sweltering heat on the side of the road probably for over an hour waiting for AAA to show up. It didn't blow on my way home, when I was alone in the dark on that same empty stretch of highway. Instead, it was flat, outside the church. And I had Fix-A-Flat. And Pep Boys was open. And I had enough money in the bank to pay for a new tire without blinking. (All that beer and cigarette money I've saved over the last few weeks, perhaps?) A lucky girl, I am.
I decided to go back to the reception for a while longer, danced (poorly) with my cousins and my aunt, then hit the road for home around 10 o'clock.
I spent most of the drive in silence, watching the white lines lead the way. I thought about the latest Momastery article I'd read while waiting for my tire to be replaced. I thought about how scared I am for our first appointment in less than 2 weeks. I imagined what it could be like - lying in a dark room and hearing that sound I dream of, the sound of a heartbeat that Jimi and I made together. I thought about Jimi, and his concern that his age could negatively impact our ability to have a healthy "normal" child. How would we react if something was wrong? What if our baby has an extra chromosome?
I think we're going to be okay. I started to let myself think that maybe we're going to be just fine.
And then a car drove by, an SUV, with a vanity plate that read OK PUSH.
I'm taking it as a sign. A doctor's gonna say that to me next February, and everything's going to be just fine.
Every little thing, gonna be alright.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Don't read this. The sirens just went off.
Dinner was at Momma's tonight. Every time I'm with her, I want to be closer to her. When I'm in her presence, I'd agree to almost anything, so long as it put me closer to her.
I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs. Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going. I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going. I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought. All of it. I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all. Especially the parts she doesn't want to share. Which is most of it, I fear.
She knows Zanzibar. Z-bar, she called it. She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies. Do I even know this woman? She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots. My mother. "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk." "Me too, Nat. You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch." WTF? Are we really having this conversation?
The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember. Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first? My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people. She wouldn't really burn them, would she?
My great-grandmother is 99 years old. She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia. For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry? What did she do when she had her period? What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years? What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?
It's too late for my questions now. I've missed my window. My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry." I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula. What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression? Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s? Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease? Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing? Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him? Granny said her peace, I suppose; I wish I would've listened more closely. The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk." I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny."
These women in my life. These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface. Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.
My Momma's still here. She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize. She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days. I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face. And I love it when she talks to me. I love her voice. I love holding her hands. I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders. I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes. I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive. She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal.
Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers. I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan. I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.
I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby? Will there be no switch? Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...
And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch.
And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.
Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?
And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...
Um. 'night.
I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs. Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going. I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going. I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought. All of it. I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all. Especially the parts she doesn't want to share. Which is most of it, I fear.
She knows Zanzibar. Z-bar, she called it. She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies. Do I even know this woman? She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots. My mother. "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk." "Me too, Nat. You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch." WTF? Are we really having this conversation?
The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember. Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first? My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people. She wouldn't really burn them, would she?
My great-grandmother is 99 years old. She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia. For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry? What did she do when she had her period? What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years? What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?
It's too late for my questions now. I've missed my window. My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry." I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula. What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression? Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s? Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease? Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing? Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him? Granny said her peace, I suppose; I wish I would've listened more closely. The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk." I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny."
These women in my life. These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface. Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.
My Momma's still here. She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize. She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days. I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face. And I love it when she talks to me. I love her voice. I love holding her hands. I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders. I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes. I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive. She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal.
Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers. I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan. I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.
I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby? Will there be no switch? Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...
And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch.
And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.
Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?
And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...
Um. 'night.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
What's in a number?
This will be my 700th blog post. Not really. Well, kinda. Blogger says it's number 700, but that includes drafts, so it probably more like number 678. Details.
It's going to be 87 degrees today, according to the robot that lives in my phone. It's March 20th. I live in Kentucky, not Argentina. My legs are shamefully not shaven, my summer clothes are clean but full of wrinkles from where they've been folded and piled in a corner for 5 months. And our dryer is broken - I think it's the heater coil again. Oh, how will I ever get the wrinkles out of my clothes without a dryer?
I cleaned the long wall in the shower this morning. I've never cleaned a part of the bathroom before work. That feels like weekend sort of work, so doing it before work, before 7 a.m., that was a little different. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the two short walls. Gettin' crazy up in here, yo.
We've rearranged the living room again; added a table, subtracted a table, moved in a chair from upstairs. Steve says our living room is different every time he comes over. I tell him, obviously, that means he should come over more often. I do like rearranging furniture, though. I get all stuffy and uncomfortable when things are in one place too long. I've always been like this - I should ask my Momma how many times she remembers coming into my room in the middle of the night, in just her sleepshirt and panties, blinking in the bright light, her short blonde hair sticking straight up on her head, "What in the hell are you doing, Natalie? It's 2 A. M.," in a hushed angry whisper, trying to show her displeasure, but not loudly enough to wake up Dad or Brother. "Did I wake you, Momma? I'm sorry, I'm trying to be quiet." My desk with its huge book hutch would be in the middle of the room, cutting off my full view of her and throwing odd shadows across the walls; my bed at an angle, the contents of my dresser drawers piled up on it. You have to make a mess to clean a mess, I always say. Momma would always tell me that no, I hadn't woken her, she was getting up to pee and saw the light under my door. "Don't stay up too late," and then, eyeing my bed, "Where are you going to sleep?" "Oh, I'll get it all cleaned up before I go to bed. It's cool, I'm almost done." Sometimes you just need a change, you know? And if you can't afford to throw out what you've got and start all over, you've got to find new ways to jazz up what you have. Rearranging is much easier that reupholstering. Anyhow, yeah, I like the living room's new look.
People ask me what's new, and I tell them, "Oh, nothing, same stuff, different day." It feels like that a lot of the time. Mostly, though, even if there is something, I find I don't want to talk about it, so I say my line and let them tell me about their lives and the cool things going on within. I feel awkward trying to make conversation. Stacy was over last week, and as we sat here together, she who is my first and oldest friend, she told me all sorts of wonderful stories about her new life as a Mommy and I thought, "She's so good at making conversation." She's that way on the phone too. I feel sometimes like I don't know how to say words anymore, not even to someone who knows and loves me so well and doesn't care if the words I say are dumb.
That pretty much explains my silence around here. I'm trying to find my voice again. I don't know where or why I lost it. Maybe it's another temporary casualty of the crazyblahsads. I imagine that's it, and as such, I expect a full return any day now.
It's going to be 87 degrees today, according to the robot that lives in my phone. It's March 20th. I live in Kentucky, not Argentina. My legs are shamefully not shaven, my summer clothes are clean but full of wrinkles from where they've been folded and piled in a corner for 5 months. And our dryer is broken - I think it's the heater coil again. Oh, how will I ever get the wrinkles out of my clothes without a dryer?
I cleaned the long wall in the shower this morning. I've never cleaned a part of the bathroom before work. That feels like weekend sort of work, so doing it before work, before 7 a.m., that was a little different. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the two short walls. Gettin' crazy up in here, yo.
We've rearranged the living room again; added a table, subtracted a table, moved in a chair from upstairs. Steve says our living room is different every time he comes over. I tell him, obviously, that means he should come over more often. I do like rearranging furniture, though. I get all stuffy and uncomfortable when things are in one place too long. I've always been like this - I should ask my Momma how many times she remembers coming into my room in the middle of the night, in just her sleepshirt and panties, blinking in the bright light, her short blonde hair sticking straight up on her head, "What in the hell are you doing, Natalie? It's 2 A. M.," in a hushed angry whisper, trying to show her displeasure, but not loudly enough to wake up Dad or Brother. "Did I wake you, Momma? I'm sorry, I'm trying to be quiet." My desk with its huge book hutch would be in the middle of the room, cutting off my full view of her and throwing odd shadows across the walls; my bed at an angle, the contents of my dresser drawers piled up on it. You have to make a mess to clean a mess, I always say. Momma would always tell me that no, I hadn't woken her, she was getting up to pee and saw the light under my door. "Don't stay up too late," and then, eyeing my bed, "Where are you going to sleep?" "Oh, I'll get it all cleaned up before I go to bed. It's cool, I'm almost done." Sometimes you just need a change, you know? And if you can't afford to throw out what you've got and start all over, you've got to find new ways to jazz up what you have. Rearranging is much easier that reupholstering. Anyhow, yeah, I like the living room's new look.
People ask me what's new, and I tell them, "Oh, nothing, same stuff, different day." It feels like that a lot of the time. Mostly, though, even if there is something, I find I don't want to talk about it, so I say my line and let them tell me about their lives and the cool things going on within. I feel awkward trying to make conversation. Stacy was over last week, and as we sat here together, she who is my first and oldest friend, she told me all sorts of wonderful stories about her new life as a Mommy and I thought, "She's so good at making conversation." She's that way on the phone too. I feel sometimes like I don't know how to say words anymore, not even to someone who knows and loves me so well and doesn't care if the words I say are dumb.
That pretty much explains my silence around here. I'm trying to find my voice again. I don't know where or why I lost it. Maybe it's another temporary casualty of the crazyblahsads. I imagine that's it, and as such, I expect a full return any day now.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
I'm not getting on a soapbox today. Promise.
Saturday morning. It's pouring rain outside. We're attending a wedding at 2 p.m.; a Catholic wedding - only my second ever Catholic wedding. At least I won't be quite so lost this time; I've attended two Catholic services so far this year, I'm becoming an old pro. I have nothing to wear, so I'm going shopping this morning to find something. Cross your fingers and say a little prayer that no one gets killed in this process, will you? I'm not a good clothes shopper. I hate clothes shopping, and I usually come home hating myself.
I'm pretty excited about this wedding, strangely enough; I haven't cared much for weddings since my divorce, sort of the way baby showers are off limits since my miscarriage. But this wedding, this is a wedding I'm looking forward to because the party is going to be kick-rockin'-awesome. The bride is the daughter of a man and woman my Daddy's known since the late seventies; he was roommates with both of them when he got out of the Army and came back to Kentucky. (That's the part of the story that always made me go "huh? why was a girl living with you?" I hope you're there with me, because I'm going to tell you...)
Daddy was living in a house in Taylorsville with several other guys, three or four, and one of them, Gary, was dating a girl named Tina. Tina lived in an apartment upstairs from a funeral home. She was smart and spunky and skinny and completely belonged in the seventies, with her flipped back hair and itty bitty bikini. One sunny afternoon, Tina decided she was going to sunbathe. On the front lawn. Of the funeral home. During a wake. (There's a chance I made that "during a wake" part up, but it makes the story funnier, doesn't it?) Tina was asked to vacate her apartment, which she came to understand when her belongings were thrown out on the front lawn. When she showed up on their doorstep with all her things and a sob story about no place to go, the guys couldn't send her away. That's how she came to live with a bunch of dudes.
Tina and Gary eventually married and moved to the Highlands in Louisville. (That's where the hippies live.) They had a house that was, in my childhood eyes, huge and open and eccentric and colorful and awesome; I think it was the first house I was ever in that had 10-foot ceilings, and I'm sure that detail influenced my opinion greatly. There was one big living room downstairs full of bookshelves and knick-knacks (I've mentioned my love of all things clutter, I believe?) The kitchen was off to the left, with white cabinets and white appliances and a white tile floor. The stairs were on the far right of the living room, and there was no handrail; I remember clinging to the far wall on my way upstairs, knowing if I got too close to the right I'd fall onto the bookcases below. At the top of the stairs was Caitlin's bedroom, and then Tina & Gary's room beyond that; I remember thinking I wouldn't want my parents to traipse through my bedroom every morning and night.
I loved going to Tina & Gary's house. Tina talked to me like I was a grown-up and I liked that. I remember when Caitlin was born - I remember holding her when she was teeny and new and bundled in a blanket; it's my first memory of holding a baby. Caitlin and I became friends, even though we didn't see each other often; they were zoo members and would often invite Momma and I to join them for the day. I spent the night at their house, and from one of those visits comes my most vivid memory of Tina, the one that defines her in my mind as being a free spirit:
It was morning. Caitlin and I were eating cereal or waffles or something at the little table in the kitchen; Tina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her...mostly. I diverted my eyes; nakedness wasn't something you frequently saw in my household. I mean, there was that one time when I had that awful nightmare and woke up screaming and Momma came running into my bedroom in her panties and nothing else, and there was Daddy right behind her in his tighty-whities; but that was a pretty isolated event. We weren't prudes, we just kept ourselves clothed most of the time. Anyhow, Tina noticed my embarrassment, and she called me on it:
"What's wrong, Nat?" She flung open her towel and shook it from side to side, as if she were trying to dry off her back, her large breasts swaying from side to side, her belly jiggling - "They're just BOOBIES!!!" Caitlin jumped up and yelled "Boobies!!!" and ran over and grabbed Tina's right breast and bounced it up and down a couple times. They were laughing hysterically. I was too, in a nervous 'what the fuck just happened' sort of way. Tina closed up her towel and went on to explain how nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, we're all made of the same parts.
A few years later, Tina decided she wanted to be a doctor, so, at 35, she went back to school and did just that. She thrilled me with stories of Gross Anatomy and disgusted me with tales from her residency (like the one about the lady who had a horrible smell coming from her girl parts and couldn't figure out why, for weeks, until she saw Tina and Tina discovered a three-week-old forgotten tampon that was mouldering in the lady's vag. I understand if you need a moment to puke now. I'm sorry.) She promised to deliver my first-born child free of charge, so long as I was married and a college graduate.
They moved to Ohio, and our visits stopped for years. We went to see them once; they owned a farm and horses. Gary let me ride, but put me bareback on a horse that hadn't been ridden in weeks, and I was immediately thrown. It was my first time on a horse. I got back on, with a saddle, but my opinion of horses was forever changed. I was 13. Caitlin was away at school.
I tried to find Tina a few times over the years, but I never knew where she was living. I'd heard she was working at Bellevue in New York, after deciding medicine wasn't for her and psychiatry was where it was at; I heard she had a private practice down near Mammoth Cave, KY. She popped up again a few years back, showing up on Momma & Daddy's doorstep unannounced, like a surprise party wrapped up in one person. We connected a few months later and had dinner and shared a joint, talking of our lives and how they're nothing like we'd pictured 20 years ago, but I've not seen her since.
Today will be good. I've not seen Caitlin since before we hit puberty. Many of Momma & Daddy's friends will be there, and that guarantees a good time will be had by all. And if I don't leave right now to go shopping, I'm not going to have anything to wear and there will be a major clothing-crisis-meltdown, so I'd better go.
Happy Saturday, Friends! I hope it's sunny where you are, even if only in your heart. :)
I'm pretty excited about this wedding, strangely enough; I haven't cared much for weddings since my divorce, sort of the way baby showers are off limits since my miscarriage. But this wedding, this is a wedding I'm looking forward to because the party is going to be kick-rockin'-awesome. The bride is the daughter of a man and woman my Daddy's known since the late seventies; he was roommates with both of them when he got out of the Army and came back to Kentucky. (That's the part of the story that always made me go "huh? why was a girl living with you?" I hope you're there with me, because I'm going to tell you...)
Daddy was living in a house in Taylorsville with several other guys, three or four, and one of them, Gary, was dating a girl named Tina. Tina lived in an apartment upstairs from a funeral home. She was smart and spunky and skinny and completely belonged in the seventies, with her flipped back hair and itty bitty bikini. One sunny afternoon, Tina decided she was going to sunbathe. On the front lawn. Of the funeral home. During a wake. (There's a chance I made that "during a wake" part up, but it makes the story funnier, doesn't it?) Tina was asked to vacate her apartment, which she came to understand when her belongings were thrown out on the front lawn. When she showed up on their doorstep with all her things and a sob story about no place to go, the guys couldn't send her away. That's how she came to live with a bunch of dudes.
Tina and Gary eventually married and moved to the Highlands in Louisville. (That's where the hippies live.) They had a house that was, in my childhood eyes, huge and open and eccentric and colorful and awesome; I think it was the first house I was ever in that had 10-foot ceilings, and I'm sure that detail influenced my opinion greatly. There was one big living room downstairs full of bookshelves and knick-knacks (I've mentioned my love of all things clutter, I believe?) The kitchen was off to the left, with white cabinets and white appliances and a white tile floor. The stairs were on the far right of the living room, and there was no handrail; I remember clinging to the far wall on my way upstairs, knowing if I got too close to the right I'd fall onto the bookcases below. At the top of the stairs was Caitlin's bedroom, and then Tina & Gary's room beyond that; I remember thinking I wouldn't want my parents to traipse through my bedroom every morning and night.
I loved going to Tina & Gary's house. Tina talked to me like I was a grown-up and I liked that. I remember when Caitlin was born - I remember holding her when she was teeny and new and bundled in a blanket; it's my first memory of holding a baby. Caitlin and I became friends, even though we didn't see each other often; they were zoo members and would often invite Momma and I to join them for the day. I spent the night at their house, and from one of those visits comes my most vivid memory of Tina, the one that defines her in my mind as being a free spirit:
It was morning. Caitlin and I were eating cereal or waffles or something at the little table in the kitchen; Tina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her...mostly. I diverted my eyes; nakedness wasn't something you frequently saw in my household. I mean, there was that one time when I had that awful nightmare and woke up screaming and Momma came running into my bedroom in her panties and nothing else, and there was Daddy right behind her in his tighty-whities; but that was a pretty isolated event. We weren't prudes, we just kept ourselves clothed most of the time. Anyhow, Tina noticed my embarrassment, and she called me on it:
"What's wrong, Nat?" She flung open her towel and shook it from side to side, as if she were trying to dry off her back, her large breasts swaying from side to side, her belly jiggling - "They're just BOOBIES!!!" Caitlin jumped up and yelled "Boobies!!!" and ran over and grabbed Tina's right breast and bounced it up and down a couple times. They were laughing hysterically. I was too, in a nervous 'what the fuck just happened' sort of way. Tina closed up her towel and went on to explain how nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, we're all made of the same parts.
A few years later, Tina decided she wanted to be a doctor, so, at 35, she went back to school and did just that. She thrilled me with stories of Gross Anatomy and disgusted me with tales from her residency (like the one about the lady who had a horrible smell coming from her girl parts and couldn't figure out why, for weeks, until she saw Tina and Tina discovered a three-week-old forgotten tampon that was mouldering in the lady's vag. I understand if you need a moment to puke now. I'm sorry.) She promised to deliver my first-born child free of charge, so long as I was married and a college graduate.
They moved to Ohio, and our visits stopped for years. We went to see them once; they owned a farm and horses. Gary let me ride, but put me bareback on a horse that hadn't been ridden in weeks, and I was immediately thrown. It was my first time on a horse. I got back on, with a saddle, but my opinion of horses was forever changed. I was 13. Caitlin was away at school.
I tried to find Tina a few times over the years, but I never knew where she was living. I'd heard she was working at Bellevue in New York, after deciding medicine wasn't for her and psychiatry was where it was at; I heard she had a private practice down near Mammoth Cave, KY. She popped up again a few years back, showing up on Momma & Daddy's doorstep unannounced, like a surprise party wrapped up in one person. We connected a few months later and had dinner and shared a joint, talking of our lives and how they're nothing like we'd pictured 20 years ago, but I've not seen her since.
Today will be good. I've not seen Caitlin since before we hit puberty. Many of Momma & Daddy's friends will be there, and that guarantees a good time will be had by all. And if I don't leave right now to go shopping, I'm not going to have anything to wear and there will be a major clothing-crisis-meltdown, so I'd better go.
Happy Saturday, Friends! I hope it's sunny where you are, even if only in your heart. :)
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Things I remember better than what I did yesterday...
...The time my Momma's Oldsmobile was hit by that lady who ran the stop sign. It was 1983; I was three and seat belt laws didn't exist yet. I think car seats were optional for toddlers. I was in my car seat, with its brown padded bar that came down over my head to form a sort of tray in front of me - I loved to beat my hands on that, I still remember the way it felt and sounded - but the bar wasn't there that day. We weren't going far, so Momma had put me in the car seat, but I wasn't buckled or fastened in any way. I was just hangin' out. And then the car lurched and I somersaulted from my car seat in the back over the middle console and came to rest with my back to the dash and my legs over my head. I was confused - what just happened? - and I looked up and over at my Momma. Her forehead was full of blood; the windshield was cracked. I have fuzzy memories of an ambulance arriving to take Momma to the hospital, and Granny staying behind with me; I wasn't hurt, just confused.
...Running down the short hallway of our apartment to greet Daddy at the door when he came home from work. Many days, he was carrying a 40 oz. beer, usually a Budweiser. I'd beg for a sip and he'd give in - it was the nastiest taste ever, but Daddy liked it so I wanted some. I was 4.
...Wearing my Momma's bowling shoes and trying to imagine a day when I'd be able to lift that big heavy ball.
...The feeling of terror and incompetence that came over me the first time I walked into my 3rd grade classroom and saw a cursive alphabet circling the room. My Daddy was holding my hand, and I looked up at him and whispered, "Daddy, I don't think I can do this." "Yes you can," he whispered back. He was right.
...That time in 4th grade when we were saving cans to recycle to earn money for our class trip - we poured out bags and bags full of cans on the concrete basketball courts outside the school and had a can-crushing party. I'd worn sandals that day - cheap one made of white fake-leather laces - and a can I was trying to crush cut my instep deeply. I didn't tell anyone because the other kids made fun of me enough as it was, and I worried for days about the possibility of infection.
...That time in 5th grade when Wendy Wilson pushed me into a table while Ms. Dixon was out of the room. I was the class tattle-tale, and Wendy didn't care that I'd been left in charge as room monitor. I remember her pushing me, I remember falling into the table, I remember knocking things over with my flailing arms, I remember feeling embarrassed and wanting to cry but not quite daring to - but I can't remember if I told on her. I don't think I did.
(In response to RemembeRED - because I read Ixy's and Katie's and they're brilliant and they inspired me to remember.)
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Sweet baby squirrel!
Oh Emm Gee!!!
This cracked me the fuck up this morning. I literally LOL'd. I did it again just now, watching the video for a second time. Everyone should watch this video - that little girl is so freakin' adorable. (And I really like the part where the Mom says "fuck".)
Stacy reminded me of the lucky squirrel tails our Papaw gave us when we were kids - they came from a couple of the animals he'd hunted and killed down on the Property. I have a hard time figuring out how we came to actually get to play with those squirrel tails - my Granny and my Momma and my Aunt Pam, they weren't germophobes or anything, but they weren't the sort to let us girls play with dead animal parts, either. I've convinced myself that Papaw must've somehow sanitized those tails before they became mine and Stacy's; to believe otherwise just confuses me.
That story reminds me of the time he gave us rabbits feet, also fresh killed off the family farm. Remember those dyed rabbits feet people used to carry around on their keychains (or, if you're living in certain parts of the South, the dyed rabbits feet your friends still carry around on their keychains)? I thought those were pretty hot shit, and I really wanted one. (I went through a phase where I collected keychains, specifically ones that said "Natalie" and the name of whatever tourist place someone who loved me had visited - even though I now realize most were likely purchased at Pilot truck stops.) Anyhow, the rabbit foot. I wanted one, and Papaw was always good about making sure I got just about everything I wanted, so he killed a rabbit, and before he skinned and butchered it, he cut off it's leg and gave it to me. Now, I know that he somehow cured that leg before it came to be mine, because even if my Momma let me play with a squirrel tail, there's no fucking way she let Papaw give me a bleeding rabbit's foot. (Also, I don't have nightmares about it, so I know it didn't go down that way.) But I remember that rabbit's foot wasn't pink or green or purple, and it wasn't little, either - it was a big brown hind leg that once belonged to a living creature, and frankly, it freaked me the fuck out, but probably not for reasons you're thinking. See, I wanted a cute dyed rabbit's foot that I could hang from my key-less keychain and dangle from the side of my little empty purse to show off to all my friends. This hideous brown thing had a fucking bone sticking out the top of it! There was no shiny silver cap to cover that reality or through which to thread a chain. Of course I was grateful to Papaw for his efforts, and I thanked him profusely, but I never tried to show that shit to my friends in a "Look at the awesome rabbit's foot my Papaw got me!" sort of way.
Did you play with dead things when you were a kid?
This cracked me the fuck up this morning. I literally LOL'd. I did it again just now, watching the video for a second time. Everyone should watch this video - that little girl is so freakin' adorable. (And I really like the part where the Mom says "fuck".)
Stacy reminded me of the lucky squirrel tails our Papaw gave us when we were kids - they came from a couple of the animals he'd hunted and killed down on the Property. I have a hard time figuring out how we came to actually get to play with those squirrel tails - my Granny and my Momma and my Aunt Pam, they weren't germophobes or anything, but they weren't the sort to let us girls play with dead animal parts, either. I've convinced myself that Papaw must've somehow sanitized those tails before they became mine and Stacy's; to believe otherwise just confuses me.
That story reminds me of the time he gave us rabbits feet, also fresh killed off the family farm. Remember those dyed rabbits feet people used to carry around on their keychains (or, if you're living in certain parts of the South, the dyed rabbits feet your friends still carry around on their keychains)? I thought those were pretty hot shit, and I really wanted one. (I went through a phase where I collected keychains, specifically ones that said "Natalie" and the name of whatever tourist place someone who loved me had visited - even though I now realize most were likely purchased at Pilot truck stops.) Anyhow, the rabbit foot. I wanted one, and Papaw was always good about making sure I got just about everything I wanted, so he killed a rabbit, and before he skinned and butchered it, he cut off it's leg and gave it to me. Now, I know that he somehow cured that leg before it came to be mine, because even if my Momma let me play with a squirrel tail, there's no fucking way she let Papaw give me a bleeding rabbit's foot. (Also, I don't have nightmares about it, so I know it didn't go down that way.) But I remember that rabbit's foot wasn't pink or green or purple, and it wasn't little, either - it was a big brown hind leg that once belonged to a living creature, and frankly, it freaked me the fuck out, but probably not for reasons you're thinking. See, I wanted a cute dyed rabbit's foot that I could hang from my key-less keychain and dangle from the side of my little empty purse to show off to all my friends. This hideous brown thing had a fucking bone sticking out the top of it! There was no shiny silver cap to cover that reality or through which to thread a chain. Of course I was grateful to Papaw for his efforts, and I thanked him profusely, but I never tried to show that shit to my friends in a "Look at the awesome rabbit's foot my Papaw got me!" sort of way.
Did you play with dead things when you were a kid?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Happy Mother's Day!
I posted a picture of my backyard yesterday and Kari was all,
"Uhhh your yard is ridiculously gianormous. Seriously. Gianormous."
Girl, you've got no idea.
I really didn't think it through when I told Jimi the house with the big yard was the best one.
Of course, he hadn't yet told me of his "grass allergy", either, so how was I to know?
Happy Mothers Day to all of the Mommas out there! My Momma spent the weekend with her sisters; she'll be back home this afternoon and the plan is for Jimi and I to go over and make dinner and plant the lilies we got to replace the ones that were accidentally mowed over last year (Dad). Daddy's birthday is tomorrow, so I've gotta figure out something for that - nothing like waiting till the last minute. It'll all be fine.
I've been reading the things you've all written about your moms and how much they mean to you, and I want to do that for my Momma, too, but I feel like I'd probably do it wrong. I don't know; I don't feel like I'm a very good daughter sometimes. I love my Momma more than just about anything else in the world, but I take her for granted; I don't spend time with her the way I should, I don't invite her over for dinner or to bake, we don't meet out for lunch and shopping once a week or even once a month. I'm pretty sure I went three months without seeing her after New Year's and she only lives 20 minutes up the road. It's shameful. I know I won't have her around forever, but it feels like she'll always be there because I can't imagine an alternative; she couldn't possibly grow old and die because she's my Mommy and she still has so much to teach me!
Sometimes I feel like I've let her down by not having a grandchild or two for her yet; like there was a way things were supposed to work out and giving her grandbabies was on the agenda and I've not done my part. She doesn't make me feel that way - she doesn't pressure or nag - I just feel like I've let her down. And I fear that if I wait too long I won't have her wealth of knowledge and advice at my disposal.
Jimi asked me last night what Momma's favorite meal is, and I don't know the answer. I could only come up with "chicken livers" - I know she loves them, but I don't think they're her favorite. She likes eggs but can't eat many of them because they make her belly hurt. Her favorite color is green. She's left-handed and she plays the piano beautifully - she can open up a piece of music for the first time and play it like she's practiced for days. She goes to the grocery probably 5 times a week. She cooks dinner almost every night even if there won't be anyone but her to eat while it's hot. She's a worrier - all the women from that line are, me included. She's brilliant with money - Daddy says it's all because of her that the banks would be happy to lend them more money than they could ever hope to pay back. She makes delicious healthy foods and says they're not worth eating because she forgot to add this or she put in too much of that - Granny did that too, and apparently, so do I.
She says she's not my friend - she's my Mother. There's a difference. At 31, I'm still working to get her to revise her stance on this topic - I get why it was important 10 or 15 years ago, but these days? Not so much.
I love holding her hand or hugging her close to me; she's my Momma, and it feels like coming home to touch her. I know I'm always safe and loved when she's in the room. Her smell is Aromatics Elixir from Clinique - if I get a whiff on another woman in a store, I have to call Momma to tell her I love her because she suddenly feels close.
She always has the right words. When an ex-boyfriend hurt me and I had to leave the apartment we shared, I thought I'd have to suck up my pride and beg to go back home - Momma's words were "Natalie, you get what you have to bring and you come home. And for God's sake, don't let your father find out what he did." I don't remember the exact words either of us used when I called her from El Paso to tell her my husband wanted a divorce, but I remember the fear I felt dialing the phone, and the relief that washed over for me when she said she was just so sad for me, but that I was strong and she admired my strength and that she'd get my bedroom ready for me again - and then she sent me a check to pay for my moving expenses. And last year, when I was pregnant and then I wasn't, she loved me and cried for me and with me and told me everything was going to be okay and I believed her because she's my Momma and she'd never lie to me.
She's my Momma and everything I have, everything I am, is because of and thanks to her. She's taught me everything I know, but I still have so much to learn. I'll try harder, Momma, I promise. I'll do better.
Happy Mother's Day to all of my friends out there in blogland, also. You've all taught me a lot - about life, family, friendship, womanhood. Like a community of motherly knowledge I can draw from - thank you.
In other news, this:
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Happy Derby Day!
I saw sunshine when I woke this morning, but it looks like clouds are already moving in. I hope the rain hold off - for selfish reasons, mostly (I'm sick of the rain and my sump pump has been running nonstop for weeks), but also because Derby is always better when the sun's shining. A sloppy track is rough on everyone, horses included. My Daddy says he loves going to the Derby and seeing all the beautiful women, and that makes him sound like something he's not, but I get what he means; I like to watch on TV (or, these days, check out the pics on Facebook) and see the beautiful women - Derby wear is serious bidness, and I'm always curious to see what everyone's wearing. I love oohing and ahhing over the gorgeous dresses and wayoutofmypricerange hats. To see all that get ruined by rain and mud, well, that's lame.
My friend Harmony posted this: A Derby Day blessing- If it rains, may it rain briefly. If you bet, may you win gratefully... or may you lose gracefully. Let the drinks be cold, the tips be hot, let us honor the animals that make this day great and enjoy good times with the people that make it special. Amen.
My friend Harmony posted this: A Derby Day blessing- If it rains, may it rain briefly. If you bet, may you win gratefully... or may you lose gracefully. Let the drinks be cold, the tips be hot, let us honor the animals that make this day great and enjoy good times with the people that make it special. Amen.
Beer brewing has been cancelled for the day, but there will still be chicken smoking and well, I don't know what else. Steve's coming over and I'm going to have to clean, that's all I know.
My Momma is visiting her sister this weekend, so I won't see her until tomorrow afternoon. Just as well, I've only got part of her gift together. Daddy's birthday is Monday, so I'd better figure out something for him, too.
I might go back to bed for a few hours.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Okay, now that I've found 100 things...
Today, a week and a day after my 31st birthday, I'm finally getting my cake and ice cream. I've requested my favorite, strawberry cake with fun-fetti icing and vanilla ice cream. (Very grown up, Momma says.) For my 13th birthday, my Momma made me a strawberry cake and decorated it to look like a pink boom box. My friend James made me a strawberry cake and decorated it with tiaras and princess castles last year. Strawberry cake really is my favorite.
Momma asked me if I had any input on what I'd like for dinner. The only thing I could come up with was grilled asparagus.
31 feels like a turning point, a crossroads. Like I'm going through some sort of awkward phase, a growth spurt. Maybe I am. Maybe I'll come out on the other side, 32 and a full-fledged adult. One who does a load of laundry every night instead of letting it pile up for two and a half weeks and then only breaking down and sorting and washing because clean panties are nowhere to be found. One who immediately does the dinner dishes when the meal is finished. One who vacuums and dusts every Sunday.
I'm not saying it's likely, just that it COULD happen. You know, miracles happen every day.
31 does feel weird, though. Not old, I'd never dare use that word in relation to that number. Wiser? More aware? More appreciative? Something.
So far, though, aside from feeling a little odd, 31 is pretty cool. I'm happy, healthy, loved. I've got a job and a home and a car that just rolled over 70K miles Friday night.
That's pretty cool, actually. My little Honda Civic, the one I bought all by myself with my very own credit in September of 2004, the one I didn't need my (ex)husband's income to qualify for, the one I drove from Nebraska to El Paso and then back home to good ol' Kentucky, has just rolled over 70,000 miles. I can probably get 70,000 miles out of this car three more times before it shits the bed and has to be replaced. Of all the decisions I've made in my life, buying that car was probably the most sound financial one. (Well, as long as you don't take into consideration the fact that my OLD Civic was paid off and in good shape and had only 145,000 miles on it and probably could've been driven (for free) for another 150,000 without much more than basic preventative maintenance. But whatever.)
I'm so glad the sun is out today - the weekend's been kind of a bust and the sun makes everything seem happier, doesn't it? Yesterday was Thunder Over Louisville - a huge air show and fireworks display that kicks off the official Kentucky Derby Festival festivities. Every year, my boss gets us tickets to the Bats (local AAA baseball team) game, and we hang out together all day and watch the game, watch the air show, watch the rednecks, watch the fireworks. And drink beer and booze we smuggled in and eat fried foods and complain about the heat or the cold or the sun or the clouds. Yesterday, though, the weather sucked. It was cold and windy and drizzling and gray. Everyone backed out, and then I did too. I think the only tickets that were used belonged to C and her family - so 5 out of 20? That sucks. I'm going to have to offer to reimburse the company for the four I requested and didn't use. Suck.
Did you know Haagen Dazs makes Sweet Chai Latte ice cream? Holy shit, it's to die for. Go get some now. I'll wait. Delicious, right? I told you. Haagen Dazs just has it like that, though. They make everything delicious. I'll never forget the night Kat and I got that banana split from their store in the Crystal City Mall in D.C. - cherry vanilla ice cream, a banana, strawberry sauce, whipped cream, nuts. God, my mouth is watering just remembering it. We drove around the Ft. Belvoir area for much longer than we should've, running in and out of Targets and Food Lions, darting to their frozen foods sections in search of that never-before-heard-of-but-now-must-have-it flavor - Cherry Vanilla. No one carried it. No one had it. We gave up and hung our heads and stopped at the gas station to fill up her car and get some snacks. Guess who had Haagen Dazs Cherry Vanilla ice cream? That's right, the gas station did. Grocery stores didn't, but the gas station did. For years after that, I felt as if I had to buy 2 pints every time I found the flavor in stores - it was like a rare gem! I'm kinda over it now, though. Maybe it's guilt by association. But this sweet chai latte is delish.
Jimi's going to take me to "breakfast" (it's noon already), and then we'll go find some fun until it's time to head to Momma & Daddy's for my birthday dinner. It's kinda like "Natalie's 31st Birthday, take 2". That's what I'm doing today. What are your plans? May I make some suggestions? First, go enter my giveaway. I'll mail you some shit from my house. Fun, right? Then, go join in on the Comment Love Day over at FTLOB. Everyone loves comments.
Momma asked me if I had any input on what I'd like for dinner. The only thing I could come up with was grilled asparagus.
31 feels like a turning point, a crossroads. Like I'm going through some sort of awkward phase, a growth spurt. Maybe I am. Maybe I'll come out on the other side, 32 and a full-fledged adult. One who does a load of laundry every night instead of letting it pile up for two and a half weeks and then only breaking down and sorting and washing because clean panties are nowhere to be found. One who immediately does the dinner dishes when the meal is finished. One who vacuums and dusts every Sunday.
I'm not saying it's likely, just that it COULD happen. You know, miracles happen every day.
31 does feel weird, though. Not old, I'd never dare use that word in relation to that number. Wiser? More aware? More appreciative? Something.
So far, though, aside from feeling a little odd, 31 is pretty cool. I'm happy, healthy, loved. I've got a job and a home and a car that just rolled over 70K miles Friday night.
That's pretty cool, actually. My little Honda Civic, the one I bought all by myself with my very own credit in September of 2004, the one I didn't need my (ex)husband's income to qualify for, the one I drove from Nebraska to El Paso and then back home to good ol' Kentucky, has just rolled over 70,000 miles. I can probably get 70,000 miles out of this car three more times before it shits the bed and has to be replaced. Of all the decisions I've made in my life, buying that car was probably the most sound financial one. (Well, as long as you don't take into consideration the fact that my OLD Civic was paid off and in good shape and had only 145,000 miles on it and probably could've been driven (for free) for another 150,000 without much more than basic preventative maintenance. But whatever.)
I'm so glad the sun is out today - the weekend's been kind of a bust and the sun makes everything seem happier, doesn't it? Yesterday was Thunder Over Louisville - a huge air show and fireworks display that kicks off the official Kentucky Derby Festival festivities. Every year, my boss gets us tickets to the Bats (local AAA baseball team) game, and we hang out together all day and watch the game, watch the air show, watch the rednecks, watch the fireworks. And drink beer and booze we smuggled in and eat fried foods and complain about the heat or the cold or the sun or the clouds. Yesterday, though, the weather sucked. It was cold and windy and drizzling and gray. Everyone backed out, and then I did too. I think the only tickets that were used belonged to C and her family - so 5 out of 20? That sucks. I'm going to have to offer to reimburse the company for the four I requested and didn't use. Suck.
Did you know Haagen Dazs makes Sweet Chai Latte ice cream? Holy shit, it's to die for. Go get some now. I'll wait. Delicious, right? I told you. Haagen Dazs just has it like that, though. They make everything delicious. I'll never forget the night Kat and I got that banana split from their store in the Crystal City Mall in D.C. - cherry vanilla ice cream, a banana, strawberry sauce, whipped cream, nuts. God, my mouth is watering just remembering it. We drove around the Ft. Belvoir area for much longer than we should've, running in and out of Targets and Food Lions, darting to their frozen foods sections in search of that never-before-heard-of-but-now-must-have-it flavor - Cherry Vanilla. No one carried it. No one had it. We gave up and hung our heads and stopped at the gas station to fill up her car and get some snacks. Guess who had Haagen Dazs Cherry Vanilla ice cream? That's right, the gas station did. Grocery stores didn't, but the gas station did. For years after that, I felt as if I had to buy 2 pints every time I found the flavor in stores - it was like a rare gem! I'm kinda over it now, though. Maybe it's guilt by association. But this sweet chai latte is delish.
Jimi's going to take me to "breakfast" (it's noon already), and then we'll go find some fun until it's time to head to Momma & Daddy's for my birthday dinner. It's kinda like "Natalie's 31st Birthday, take 2". That's what I'm doing today. What are your plans? May I make some suggestions? First, go enter my giveaway. I'll mail you some shit from my house. Fun, right? Then, go join in on the Comment Love Day over at FTLOB. Everyone loves comments.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Stuff about things.
I'm going shopping with Momma this morning and I'm going to be late because I'm doing this instead of putting on clothes or drying my hair.
ICLW is awesome. Despite my trepidation that I'd waded into someone else's swimming hole, I've been welcomed to the party with open arms, kind words, and well-wishes. There are some pretty amazing women out there in the bloggy world.
And what's up with the full moon this month? Did it get like the whole world knocked up, or what? Seriously - I think I've found eleventy hundred new blogs this week, and every other one is (tentatively) celebrating a BFP. (Big fat positive - as in, on a pregnancy test - for those of you not in the know.) Six months ago, I would've been tempted to chuck the laptop out the second floor window, but today? It's super exciting and gives me hope that it'll be my turn one day too.
Jimi moved our hanging-out area to the upstairs this week because if he didn't our house was going to burn down and kill us all. No, really. The outlets in the front bedroom where we'd previously housed the TV and such were all old-school, with no third hole for the big plugs. (I don't know what any of this shit is called - do you know what I'm talking about anyhow?) We'd been using an adapter - it plugs into the two-hole plug and then has a 3-hole outlet on the side facing out of the wall. Into that, we'd plugged our surge protector (I realize, in retrospect, that this was a horrible idea), and into the surge protector, we'd plugged everything else; TV, Blu-ray player, stereo, humidifier, space heater. (The space heater scared the fuck out of me regularly, because the cord gets so hot the plastic on the plug becomes pliable, so for the last few weeks, I'd unplug the heater when it wasn't being used.)
Our internet was out on Tuesday (and not because I forgot to pay the bill this time - it was an actual, legitimate outage in our area. And the bill wasn't even due yet - I know, I called and paid it just in case.). I'd left - I had a date with Kimmie to shampoo her bedroom carpet for her; her pup, Casey, hadn't been able to control her bowels or bladder for her last few months, and Kimmie's carpet had suffered for it. Anyhow, so I was at Kim's, and Jimi decided to reset the modem and the router to see if the issues had been resolved. When he was reaching back behind the television, he bumped the cord to the surge protector and something crackled. "That doesn't sound good," he thought, and his eyes fell on the outlet where it was plugged in. The misshapen, brown, burned outlet. The outlet that had been slowly melting and charring for who knows how long. Immediately, he pulled the surge protector plug from the adapter, then the adapter from the wall. Both were hot, and one of the two prongs on the adapter stayed in the wall - Jimi used a pair of pliers to pull it out. (I'm as shocked as you are that he wasn't electrocuted.)
Obviously, we couldn't keep the television, and blu-ray player, and stereo, and all of our other gadgets plugged into this outlet, or any other old-school outlet in the room. Obviously, shit had to be moved. By the time I got home at 9, he'd put away our messes and cleaned the carpets upstairs, moved the television, reconnected the modem and router - he had us set up and ready to go. Now we've got our chairs and the Jaxx Sac up here, I've moved a plant and a Buddha into the room, and we're all set. And the plugs up here? Three-prong. That's a mistake we won't make twice.
I'm going to be so late meeting my Momma. Oh, but I'll be back. Yes I will.
Happy Saturday Friends!
ICLW is awesome. Despite my trepidation that I'd waded into someone else's swimming hole, I've been welcomed to the party with open arms, kind words, and well-wishes. There are some pretty amazing women out there in the bloggy world.
And what's up with the full moon this month? Did it get like the whole world knocked up, or what? Seriously - I think I've found eleventy hundred new blogs this week, and every other one is (tentatively) celebrating a BFP. (Big fat positive - as in, on a pregnancy test - for those of you not in the know.) Six months ago, I would've been tempted to chuck the laptop out the second floor window, but today? It's super exciting and gives me hope that it'll be my turn one day too.
Jimi moved our hanging-out area to the upstairs this week because if he didn't our house was going to burn down and kill us all. No, really. The outlets in the front bedroom where we'd previously housed the TV and such were all old-school, with no third hole for the big plugs. (I don't know what any of this shit is called - do you know what I'm talking about anyhow?) We'd been using an adapter - it plugs into the two-hole plug and then has a 3-hole outlet on the side facing out of the wall. Into that, we'd plugged our surge protector (I realize, in retrospect, that this was a horrible idea), and into the surge protector, we'd plugged everything else; TV, Blu-ray player, stereo, humidifier, space heater. (The space heater scared the fuck out of me regularly, because the cord gets so hot the plastic on the plug becomes pliable, so for the last few weeks, I'd unplug the heater when it wasn't being used.)
Our internet was out on Tuesday (and not because I forgot to pay the bill this time - it was an actual, legitimate outage in our area. And the bill wasn't even due yet - I know, I called and paid it just in case.). I'd left - I had a date with Kimmie to shampoo her bedroom carpet for her; her pup, Casey, hadn't been able to control her bowels or bladder for her last few months, and Kimmie's carpet had suffered for it. Anyhow, so I was at Kim's, and Jimi decided to reset the modem and the router to see if the issues had been resolved. When he was reaching back behind the television, he bumped the cord to the surge protector and something crackled. "That doesn't sound good," he thought, and his eyes fell on the outlet where it was plugged in. The misshapen, brown, burned outlet. The outlet that had been slowly melting and charring for who knows how long. Immediately, he pulled the surge protector plug from the adapter, then the adapter from the wall. Both were hot, and one of the two prongs on the adapter stayed in the wall - Jimi used a pair of pliers to pull it out. (I'm as shocked as you are that he wasn't electrocuted.)
Our house was going to catch on fire and burn to the ground and kill us all any minute.
I'm justified in being scared shitless by this, right?
Obviously, we couldn't keep the television, and blu-ray player, and stereo, and all of our other gadgets plugged into this outlet, or any other old-school outlet in the room. Obviously, shit had to be moved. By the time I got home at 9, he'd put away our messes and cleaned the carpets upstairs, moved the television, reconnected the modem and router - he had us set up and ready to go. Now we've got our chairs and the Jaxx Sac up here, I've moved a plant and a Buddha into the room, and we're all set. And the plugs up here? Three-prong. That's a mistake we won't make twice.
I'm going to be so late meeting my Momma. Oh, but I'll be back. Yes I will.
Happy Saturday Friends!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Tonight.
Momma and Daddy have letters they wrote to each other over the course of four years while he was in Germany. My Momma wants them destroyed; my Daddy swears they'll be kept safe for me to find eventually.
There's a lot about my Momma that I don't know. I hope one day she'll tell me her stories. I want to know about her. I think she's afraid she'll lose face, like she'll be somehow less authoritative or respectable if I know that she's human, more like me than she's willing to admit.
My Daddy? He's like me; he was ready tonight to spill some tales I've never heard before, but Momma stopped him with a look and mouthed words I couldn't read from my position next to her. He'll tell me anything; and while I know how much he loves me, I think he also really likes me, too. There's a difference. I know I sure really like him.
Jimi and I went over tonight and took Momma to dinner; Daddy was working then, but was home by the time we were back to their house. We hung out downstairs and talked and remembered and laughed, and it was full of that coming home feeling - that happy, I-belong-here, I'm-part-of-this feeling. That I recognize this is proof that I don't spend enough time with my parents.
And this is how the rest of my night went, after we returned home and Jimi had begged off to bed:
This is Squirrel.
He's Finn's baby.
He's after the wrist-strap on my camera.
It's fascinating
Oh no! What's that?
It's the puppy!!!
For some reason, I really love these pictures. They're so jacked up - the epitome of my life.
I'm watching Hustle and Flow on MTV2. Have you ever seen it? Whoop That Trick! - it's a motto in our house. Actually, the movie is almost painful to watch, and the lyrics aren't much better. But I love it.
There are 427 blog entries in my Google Reader right now. I'll never get through them all.
I didn't know about the Blogger's Day of Silence until I found my Notie Kari's post - and then I couldn't figure out how to participate so I just waited until after midnight to start blogging again. Actually, I was really busy at work and then we went out with Momma and hung out at their house and didn't get home till after midnight, but I swear I was somewhat actively participating sorta.
My brain is tired and I cannot word anymore. G'night and I love you.
No really. I mean it. I love you. If you read all of those dumb words, I love you. True story.
There's a lot about my Momma that I don't know. I hope one day she'll tell me her stories. I want to know about her. I think she's afraid she'll lose face, like she'll be somehow less authoritative or respectable if I know that she's human, more like me than she's willing to admit.
My Daddy? He's like me; he was ready tonight to spill some tales I've never heard before, but Momma stopped him with a look and mouthed words I couldn't read from my position next to her. He'll tell me anything; and while I know how much he loves me, I think he also really likes me, too. There's a difference. I know I sure really like him.
Jimi and I went over tonight and took Momma to dinner; Daddy was working then, but was home by the time we were back to their house. We hung out downstairs and talked and remembered and laughed, and it was full of that coming home feeling - that happy, I-belong-here, I'm-part-of-this feeling. That I recognize this is proof that I don't spend enough time with my parents.
And this is how the rest of my night went, after we returned home and Jimi had begged off to bed:
This is Squirrel.
He's Finn's baby.
Here comes Kitten!
(A.K.A.
Q the Cat.)
He's after the wrist-strap on my camera. 
It's fascinating and delicious.
Oh no! What's that?
It's the puppy!!! And he will Kill the Squirrel!!
That's Kitten there on the right.
For some reason, I really love these pictures. They're so jacked up - the epitome of my life.
I'm watching Hustle and Flow on MTV2. Have you ever seen it? Whoop That Trick! - it's a motto in our house. Actually, the movie is almost painful to watch, and the lyrics aren't much better. But I love it.
There are 427 blog entries in my Google Reader right now. I'll never get through them all.
I didn't know about the Blogger's Day of Silence until I found my Notie Kari's post - and then I couldn't figure out how to participate so I just waited until after midnight to start blogging again. Actually, I was really busy at work and then we went out with Momma and hung out at their house and didn't get home till after midnight, but I swear I was somewhat actively participating sorta.
My brain is tired and I cannot word anymore. G'night and I love you.
No really. I mean it. I love you. If you read all of those dumb words, I love you. True story.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
I hate talking on the phone...but
I just spent two hours on the phone, first with my sister-cousin Stacy, then with my Momma.
Here's what we talked about (I'll let you try to figure out which conversation was had with which loved-one):
~ Infertility, and what a bad word it is, and how getting pregnant and having babies will happen when it happens
~ I should run for public office. We need an elected official that openly smokes weed and uses 4-letter words. I'll change the world, dammit. Plus, I think it'd be sweet to work for 2 years and then get a retirement and free healthcare for the rest of my life. You know that's the deal we've got going with our House Representatives, right?
~ Gardening and canning and living off the land
~ Starting a commune, and how Momma will be the Princess of Agriculture
~ My brother, and all the good things we want for him
~ Sex, and the realistic frequency of it. Stacy's doctor said a woman is basically only fertile for 13 days a year. Which, to me, means if you manage to get knocked up, CONGRATS!!! You've hit a moving target!!! When they say if you have unprotected sex for a year and don't get pregnant you're infertile, are they only talking about couples who do it five days a week or is their logic inclusive of everyone?
~ Boobs, and how we wish ours were bigger, how big they'll get when we have babies, and how then they'll look like deflated balloons. Oh, and we debated breast implants and I told Stacy that if she got them it meant I would have an open invitation to grope her any time we were in the same room.
~ My dad's claim (before Momma turned up pregnant with me) that he was sterile.
Our conversations were much more interesting before I wrote them down, I fear.
Here's what we talked about (I'll let you try to figure out which conversation was had with which loved-one):
~ Infertility, and what a bad word it is, and how getting pregnant and having babies will happen when it happens
~ I should run for public office. We need an elected official that openly smokes weed and uses 4-letter words. I'll change the world, dammit. Plus, I think it'd be sweet to work for 2 years and then get a retirement and free healthcare for the rest of my life. You know that's the deal we've got going with our House Representatives, right?
~ Gardening and canning and living off the land
~ Starting a commune, and how Momma will be the Princess of Agriculture
~ My brother, and all the good things we want for him
~ Sex, and the realistic frequency of it. Stacy's doctor said a woman is basically only fertile for 13 days a year. Which, to me, means if you manage to get knocked up, CONGRATS!!! You've hit a moving target!!! When they say if you have unprotected sex for a year and don't get pregnant you're infertile, are they only talking about couples who do it five days a week or is their logic inclusive of everyone?
~ Boobs, and how we wish ours were bigger, how big they'll get when we have babies, and how then they'll look like deflated balloons. Oh, and we debated breast implants and I told Stacy that if she got them it meant I would have an open invitation to grope her any time we were in the same room.
~ My dad's claim (before Momma turned up pregnant with me) that he was sterile.
Our conversations were much more interesting before I wrote them down, I fear.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Pamper me, please. I'll pay you.
I met Momma at Le Bliss tonight for facials and haircuts and it was awesome.
Sarah cut my hair, and she was funny and talkative - in that "they told me to avoid awkward silences" sort of way. She was genuine, though, so it was easy to follow her lead and play along. What in the hell are you supposed to talk about when you're getting your hair cut, anyhow? It's always so weird to me to try to have a conversation with a person I've never met before - with whom I've entrusted a major feature and all I can think is "please don't mess up". I'm so freakin' bad at small talk. I'm more of a "Let's get this done!" sort of gal. I guess the problem could be solved by going to a stylist more than once, and then more than once every two years - get to see the person semi-regularly, develop a relationship - that probably makes it easier to come up with topics of discussion that aren't too personal or too deep or too political. I don't know - I imagine other women have solved this problem long before the age of 30; perhaps I'm a slow developer. I don't think I'll ever be an every-six-weeks sort of gal, but I can aim for every three months, maybe. I'll try it this year and see how it goes.
Toward the end of my haircut, the power went out. Sarah had a swath of hair pulled away from the back of my head, held between the fingers of one hand while the other moved in with the open shears. When the lights suddenly blinked out, we all froze - the human version of that old "deer in headlights" adage - and I could only think one thing, so I said it out loud:
"Don't. Cut."
The salon burst out in laughter. Ever notice how your voice is louder when everything else is silent? No? Just me huh? Awesome.
The electricity was back within minutes - a blown breaker or something - and Sarah finished my cut and style without incident or bloodshed. I liked her a lot, and when I go back, I'll book my appointment with her.
Then it was time for the facial! YAY! I want my world to smell like the facial room. Eucalyptus and spearmint and lemon and awesome. And I need a hot towel machine. And a heated bed. And someone to rub my shoulders and temples and throat like that.
Okay, but as awesome as the facial was, my crazy, of course, had to crop up. During the exfoliation, she used these little brushes - I didn't see them, but I figured out what they were after a few seconds - to rub the cream off my face, and I rationally understand that the point was to remove dead skin cells. But it felt like she was trying to brush the little hairs on my face. And I imagined myself a dog or cat, lying there on the table, being brushed. And I had to fight SO HARD not to laugh out loud. And then I pictured this slim young woman looking at my fat 30 year old face and two chins and fat arms, brushing my face hair, and it was easy not to LOL. And then I started thinking about all the dozens (hundreds?) of other women who'd had their face hairs brushed with the face brushes, and suddenly I KNEW I was covered in dead face skin cells from all those other women and suddenly I was totally skeeved out and itching and had to take a deep breath and talk myself out of jumping off the table and demanding a warm towel to wipe all the other people off of me. But then the brushing was over and (Rationally) I understand that she saw a little spot of cream left on my cheek and was removing it with her dry finger - in my head, though, she had licked her finger and was trying to smooth a face hair cowlick. And then it was hard not to laugh again. This shit was supposed to be relaxing, dammit!!!
Then came the eye and lip cream (which I imagined to be blood red - in my head she was giving me a clown face) and the painting-on of the mask. I like things to be put on my face with a paintbrush. But then I saw myself with blue or purple or tie-dye colors to accent the blood red lips and eyes, and I waited for the click of the camera that would lead to "Look what I did at work today" pictures on Facebook. And then there was steam and an awesome sigh-inducing shoulder massage that made me not care, and then it was time for another hot towel. Too soon, my face was being wiped off and she was unpinning the towel from around my hair.
"I need more hot towel time, please" I croaked. "And an hour or so to nap."
They think I'm a real riot up in there.
Abbey did my facial and she was wonderful and professional and made me feel relaxed and at ease when I wasn't being crazy. It's not her fault I'm crazy.
I met Momma back in the lobby, paid our bill, and we walked over to the Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen. We decided against dinner - Momma was tired - but she bought us each a cupcake and then we hugged and kissed and parted ways.
Next time, we're getting massages. Momma's treat.
Consider this my mental note to not wait two years before I treat myself again. I waste ridiculous amounts of money eating out and buying things I don't need - I need to make myself, my physical self, a priority more often. There's no drug that could make me feel as relaxed and at peace as I feel when I raise up from that table after a relatively short stretch of pampering. And the ego boost that comes from a new haircut? We all need to feel pretty every now and then.
So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to try, at least three times this year, to get my hair cut, my face pampered, and my back massaged. I deserve it. I'm worth it.
And I'll forget about all of this in 6 weeks. :)
Sarah cut my hair, and she was funny and talkative - in that "they told me to avoid awkward silences" sort of way. She was genuine, though, so it was easy to follow her lead and play along. What in the hell are you supposed to talk about when you're getting your hair cut, anyhow? It's always so weird to me to try to have a conversation with a person I've never met before - with whom I've entrusted a major feature and all I can think is "please don't mess up". I'm so freakin' bad at small talk. I'm more of a "Let's get this done!" sort of gal. I guess the problem could be solved by going to a stylist more than once, and then more than once every two years - get to see the person semi-regularly, develop a relationship - that probably makes it easier to come up with topics of discussion that aren't too personal or too deep or too political. I don't know - I imagine other women have solved this problem long before the age of 30; perhaps I'm a slow developer. I don't think I'll ever be an every-six-weeks sort of gal, but I can aim for every three months, maybe. I'll try it this year and see how it goes.
Toward the end of my haircut, the power went out. Sarah had a swath of hair pulled away from the back of my head, held between the fingers of one hand while the other moved in with the open shears. When the lights suddenly blinked out, we all froze - the human version of that old "deer in headlights" adage - and I could only think one thing, so I said it out loud:
"Don't. Cut."
The salon burst out in laughter. Ever notice how your voice is louder when everything else is silent? No? Just me huh? Awesome.
The electricity was back within minutes - a blown breaker or something - and Sarah finished my cut and style without incident or bloodshed. I liked her a lot, and when I go back, I'll book my appointment with her.
Then it was time for the facial! YAY! I want my world to smell like the facial room. Eucalyptus and spearmint and lemon and awesome. And I need a hot towel machine. And a heated bed. And someone to rub my shoulders and temples and throat like that.
Okay, but as awesome as the facial was, my crazy, of course, had to crop up. During the exfoliation, she used these little brushes - I didn't see them, but I figured out what they were after a few seconds - to rub the cream off my face, and I rationally understand that the point was to remove dead skin cells. But it felt like she was trying to brush the little hairs on my face. And I imagined myself a dog or cat, lying there on the table, being brushed. And I had to fight SO HARD not to laugh out loud. And then I pictured this slim young woman looking at my fat 30 year old face and two chins and fat arms, brushing my face hair, and it was easy not to LOL. And then I started thinking about all the dozens (hundreds?) of other women who'd had their face hairs brushed with the face brushes, and suddenly I KNEW I was covered in dead face skin cells from all those other women and suddenly I was totally skeeved out and itching and had to take a deep breath and talk myself out of jumping off the table and demanding a warm towel to wipe all the other people off of me. But then the brushing was over and (Rationally) I understand that she saw a little spot of cream left on my cheek and was removing it with her dry finger - in my head, though, she had licked her finger and was trying to smooth a face hair cowlick. And then it was hard not to laugh again. This shit was supposed to be relaxing, dammit!!!
Then came the eye and lip cream (which I imagined to be blood red - in my head she was giving me a clown face) and the painting-on of the mask. I like things to be put on my face with a paintbrush. But then I saw myself with blue or purple or tie-dye colors to accent the blood red lips and eyes, and I waited for the click of the camera that would lead to "Look what I did at work today" pictures on Facebook. And then there was steam and an awesome sigh-inducing shoulder massage that made me not care, and then it was time for another hot towel. Too soon, my face was being wiped off and she was unpinning the towel from around my hair.
"I need more hot towel time, please" I croaked. "And an hour or so to nap."
They think I'm a real riot up in there.
Abbey did my facial and she was wonderful and professional and made me feel relaxed and at ease when I wasn't being crazy. It's not her fault I'm crazy.
I met Momma back in the lobby, paid our bill, and we walked over to the Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen. We decided against dinner - Momma was tired - but she bought us each a cupcake and then we hugged and kissed and parted ways.
Next time, we're getting massages. Momma's treat.
Consider this my mental note to not wait two years before I treat myself again. I waste ridiculous amounts of money eating out and buying things I don't need - I need to make myself, my physical self, a priority more often. There's no drug that could make me feel as relaxed and at peace as I feel when I raise up from that table after a relatively short stretch of pampering. And the ego boost that comes from a new haircut? We all need to feel pretty every now and then.
So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to try, at least three times this year, to get my hair cut, my face pampered, and my back massaged. I deserve it. I'm worth it.
And I'll forget about all of this in 6 weeks. :)
Friday, November 26, 2010
We had two dinners yesterday, one with Jimi's family and one with mine, but I only ate at the first. I drank wine when we got to Momma's. :) And then vodka when we got home. I'm pretty sure last night's depressing post about Granny was alcohol-induced melancholy. My bad.
We're hosting a meal for our BFFs tomorrow - a brined and smoked turkey, my Momma's cornbread dressing, roasted potatoes, fresh green beans, cranberry-orange gelatin, pumpkin and pecan pies, Hawaiian rolls. I love having people over. I love having a house full of good smells and laughter and happiness and our favorite people. I'm not crazy about the clean-up before/after any gathering, but that's why God made dishwashers and boyfriends, right?
I missed Brother yesterday. I kept thinking about him, wondering what he'd had to eat, knowing he wasn't having seconds or thirds or watching The Godfather with Daddy or playing LRC with Momma and Pam and Sheila and the kids. Kristin asked about him a few times. Momma told Sheila the truth about where he was spending his holiday. She found out that if he's not able to get shock probation next month, he's not eligible for parole until April 2011. Mom handled it well not having her baby home on Thanksgiving; I don't think she'd manage Christmas quite as easily, certainly not without tears. I'm torn between wanting him to come home (for Momma, for his comfort) and wanting them to make sure to keep him long enough to convince him that he never wants to go back there again. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but I want it to sink in with him that the shit he's been doing is no way to live, and that prison or death are very real options if he doesn't make some serious changes in his life.
Meanwhile, Jimi's preparing the brine, Jason's on his way over, I'm doing laundry. Life goes on.
Jimi and I shopped earlier; Kroger was the only plan, and it was easy. Black Friday apparently doesn't apply to grocery stores. Well, at least not at noon. As we were loading our foods into the trunk, Jimi said we needed to go to Wal-Mart so he could get some hardwood for the smoker tomorrow. Wal-Mart, he said. On Black Friday. Of course, my reaction was O FUCK NO. But we went anyhow, and it wasn't really bad, either. There were not-too-far parking spaces, and the aisles weren't as full as I'd expected. It wasn't as bad as a typical shopping trip there on a Saturday afternoon, in fact. The huge gaylord boxes full of holiday special sale items created more of a traffic hassle than the shoppers. I was surprised and pleased.
I was chatting with my internet British friend, and he was bitching about all the hullabaloo surrounding the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Apparently it's all royal wedding all the time on his side of the pond and he's sick of it. Guess he wouldn't be interested in knowing that my parents also married on April 29th, eh? :)
Happy Weekend!
We're hosting a meal for our BFFs tomorrow - a brined and smoked turkey, my Momma's cornbread dressing, roasted potatoes, fresh green beans, cranberry-orange gelatin, pumpkin and pecan pies, Hawaiian rolls. I love having people over. I love having a house full of good smells and laughter and happiness and our favorite people. I'm not crazy about the clean-up before/after any gathering, but that's why God made dishwashers and boyfriends, right?
I missed Brother yesterday. I kept thinking about him, wondering what he'd had to eat, knowing he wasn't having seconds or thirds or watching The Godfather with Daddy or playing LRC with Momma and Pam and Sheila and the kids. Kristin asked about him a few times. Momma told Sheila the truth about where he was spending his holiday. She found out that if he's not able to get shock probation next month, he's not eligible for parole until April 2011. Mom handled it well not having her baby home on Thanksgiving; I don't think she'd manage Christmas quite as easily, certainly not without tears. I'm torn between wanting him to come home (for Momma, for his comfort) and wanting them to make sure to keep him long enough to convince him that he never wants to go back there again. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but I want it to sink in with him that the shit he's been doing is no way to live, and that prison or death are very real options if he doesn't make some serious changes in his life.
Meanwhile, Jimi's preparing the brine, Jason's on his way over, I'm doing laundry. Life goes on.
Jimi and I shopped earlier; Kroger was the only plan, and it was easy. Black Friday apparently doesn't apply to grocery stores. Well, at least not at noon. As we were loading our foods into the trunk, Jimi said we needed to go to Wal-Mart so he could get some hardwood for the smoker tomorrow. Wal-Mart, he said. On Black Friday. Of course, my reaction was O FUCK NO. But we went anyhow, and it wasn't really bad, either. There were not-too-far parking spaces, and the aisles weren't as full as I'd expected. It wasn't as bad as a typical shopping trip there on a Saturday afternoon, in fact. The huge gaylord boxes full of holiday special sale items created more of a traffic hassle than the shoppers. I was surprised and pleased.
I was chatting with my internet British friend, and he was bitching about all the hullabaloo surrounding the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Apparently it's all royal wedding all the time on his side of the pond and he's sick of it. Guess he wouldn't be interested in knowing that my parents also married on April 29th, eh? :)
Happy Weekend!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Quickly now...
A few highlights:
1. PUPPIES!!!
There's a little brown one that you can't see in this pic. I think she's going to come live with us.
2. Sarah and I spent the evening catching up and eating Friday night, and took a little trip down memory lane that led us to Jock's. It's still the same, but now with live music. The same people, the same drinks, the same shitty pool tables, the same awesome friend enjoying it all with me. :)
3. Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy grocery shopping? I love it.
4. Jimi's brother came over last night and joined us for a sort of Mojo Reunion at the AmVets Post where Danny Mac's Pizza has taken up residence. The drinks were stupid cheap and ridiculously strong, the karaoke was bad and awesome, the people watching was off the hook. And the friends; well, there aren't enough words.
5. I fell asleep listening to Jimi and Jason playing their guitars in the basement, singing along with the tunes they were strumming. That was pretty fantastic.
6. Breakfast is bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls and coffee with peppermint mocha creamer.
7. I love life. I have so much good fortune and so many blessing. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
8. I want to write about that one thing, but Momma asked me not to, and so I won't because I'm unsure of my audience at this point. Bittersweet frustration.
1. PUPPIES!!!
2. Sarah and I spent the evening catching up and eating Friday night, and took a little trip down memory lane that led us to Jock's. It's still the same, but now with live music. The same people, the same drinks, the same shitty pool tables, the same awesome friend enjoying it all with me. :)
3. Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy grocery shopping? I love it.
4. Jimi's brother came over last night and joined us for a sort of Mojo Reunion at the AmVets Post where Danny Mac's Pizza has taken up residence. The drinks were stupid cheap and ridiculously strong, the karaoke was bad and awesome, the people watching was off the hook. And the friends; well, there aren't enough words.
5. I fell asleep listening to Jimi and Jason playing their guitars in the basement, singing along with the tunes they were strumming. That was pretty fantastic.
6. Breakfast is bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls and coffee with peppermint mocha creamer.
7. I love life. I have so much good fortune and so many blessing. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
8. I want to write about that one thing, but Momma asked me not to, and so I won't because I'm unsure of my audience at this point. Bittersweet frustration.
Friday, October 29, 2010
My Momma came over and carved pumpkins with me tonight. My Momma is so amazing and wonderful and awesome. We laughed and talked and toasted pumpkin seeds and smoked cigarettes and laughed and got near tears when we started talking about the brother, but we moved away from the topic quickly and continued to talk and laugh and smoke our smokes.
I made a LOVE pumpkin:
I made a LOVE pumpkin:
Momma made a Lady Liberty that turned out awesome and I'm mad I didn't get a picture of it.
Then she put on Jimi's mask and danced in the dining room a bit, and I took pictures of that, but it was with her camera, which means those pics will never see the light of the internet.
I love my Momma.
OH! Jimi's costume won the company costume contest. He's currently putting on the finishing touches before our GAY BAR DEBUT tomorrow night. There will be many pictures to follow, some how, some way.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
This is what I did today
We went shopping again today. I bought candles and a tablecloth and books. And 100% fruit juice. And a new eye pencil.
At least I'm happy with the little things. Finding 100% fruit juice on sale for $2 a bottle? Totally made my day. AND THEN I found out the books at Book & Music Exchange were buy one, get one free. I mean, who could be sad with shit like this going down at every turn? AND Jimi was right there with me, all kissy kissy lovey dovey and super sexy strong manly looking. Could it even get better than this? I think not.
So then we drove out to J-town to go to the Gaslight Festival with my Momma. I'm this >-< close to instituting a "You can't tell Momma No" rule in my life. Because, really, who am I to be all "No, Mom, I don't want to spend time with you even though you birthed me and raised me and gave me money every time i needed it and still buy me awesome birthday and Christmas gifts."? I can't say no to my mom without a good reason, I've decided. Because that would make me a jerk. And I don't want to be a jerk. And it's not like my Momma's needy. She just wants to see me every now and then.
So we went to Gaslight. Jimi, sweet Jimi, he even went along, knowing there would be much walking to get there, and then much shuffling (the non-walk of festival/fair/car-show goers - the sort of half-step shuffle people do when there's too much of a crowd to enable actual full-stride steps), and probably a large amount of "Oh! Look at this..." as Momma and I ogled some random piece of homemade crap that someone was hawking for $5 at an overpriced "Official Gaslight Festival Vendor" booth, before culminating in the ever unpopular long walk home at the end of the night, half drunk and completely exhausted from fighting the crowds and the cheap boozy atmosphere.
Needless to say, we had a fabulous time. A member of Momma's chorus was singing with a band that was playing in front of the old Ferd Grisanti's. We listened to most of a set, and Momma and I even danced. Poorly, but still. It was fun.
Dylan was home when we got back to the house, and there was a lingering smell of pot smoke outside. Imagine that. He and Jimi watched an episode of Boondocks while me and Momma went out front to smoke cigarettes and talk about women stuff.
Jimi crashed almost as soon as we got home. I hopped on the computer, intending to check my Facebook while the dog ate his dinner. (The dog doesn't eat when we're not home. And since he usually eats his dinner in the early evening, when we leave around that time, he'll leave his dinner sitting in his bowl until we get home.) So I was trying to stay up just long enough for Finn to eat his dinner, and maybe go outside for a poo, but I got distracted by a Facebook conversation and then I started writing this and now here we are. Jimi's snoring in the next room and Finn is keeping my side of the bed warm until I come along and rudely banish him to "YOUR bed, Finn. Go to YOUR bed."
And now I'd like some pizza. But it's one a.m. Should I go to bed hungry, or stay up another hour to heat up and eat some pizza? Gosh, life is full of hard choices.
At least I'm happy with the little things. Finding 100% fruit juice on sale for $2 a bottle? Totally made my day. AND THEN I found out the books at Book & Music Exchange were buy one, get one free. I mean, who could be sad with shit like this going down at every turn? AND Jimi was right there with me, all kissy kissy lovey dovey and super sexy strong manly looking. Could it even get better than this? I think not.
So then we drove out to J-town to go to the Gaslight Festival with my Momma. I'm this >-< close to instituting a "You can't tell Momma No" rule in my life. Because, really, who am I to be all "No, Mom, I don't want to spend time with you even though you birthed me and raised me and gave me money every time i needed it and still buy me awesome birthday and Christmas gifts."? I can't say no to my mom without a good reason, I've decided. Because that would make me a jerk. And I don't want to be a jerk. And it's not like my Momma's needy. She just wants to see me every now and then.
So we went to Gaslight. Jimi, sweet Jimi, he even went along, knowing there would be much walking to get there, and then much shuffling (the non-walk of festival/fair/car-show goers - the sort of half-step shuffle people do when there's too much of a crowd to enable actual full-stride steps), and probably a large amount of "Oh! Look at this..." as Momma and I ogled some random piece of homemade crap that someone was hawking for $5 at an overpriced "Official Gaslight Festival Vendor" booth, before culminating in the ever unpopular long walk home at the end of the night, half drunk and completely exhausted from fighting the crowds and the cheap boozy atmosphere.
Needless to say, we had a fabulous time. A member of Momma's chorus was singing with a band that was playing in front of the old Ferd Grisanti's. We listened to most of a set, and Momma and I even danced. Poorly, but still. It was fun.
Dylan was home when we got back to the house, and there was a lingering smell of pot smoke outside. Imagine that. He and Jimi watched an episode of Boondocks while me and Momma went out front to smoke cigarettes and talk about women stuff.
Jimi crashed almost as soon as we got home. I hopped on the computer, intending to check my Facebook while the dog ate his dinner. (The dog doesn't eat when we're not home. And since he usually eats his dinner in the early evening, when we leave around that time, he'll leave his dinner sitting in his bowl until we get home.) So I was trying to stay up just long enough for Finn to eat his dinner, and maybe go outside for a poo, but I got distracted by a Facebook conversation and then I started writing this and now here we are. Jimi's snoring in the next room and Finn is keeping my side of the bed warm until I come along and rudely banish him to "YOUR bed, Finn. Go to YOUR bed."
And now I'd like some pizza. But it's one a.m. Should I go to bed hungry, or stay up another hour to heat up and eat some pizza? Gosh, life is full of hard choices.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Note to self...
Jimi and I went to the movies with my Momma tonight.
I love spending time with my Momma. She's funny and smart and pretty and just an all around good person. She's classy. (Everyone (Jimi) says i'm just like her, but I didn't inherit that particular trait, sadly.)
The movie we saw had lots of "Fuck You!"s and boobs and people having sex. OH! And some no-nudity scenes from a couple of gay porn videos.
Basically, it was everything you'd NOT want to see in a movie you're watching with your mom.
She did not enjoy it. I was "eh". Jimi liked it. (This is especially funny because he originally was going to splinter off and see his own selection, something about some kid fighting his new girlfriend's evil ex-boyfriends? because he was convince that our chick-flick selection would be lame. Whatever.)
There were a lot of middle-aged couples in the theater tonight. I think it must have been Silver-Anniversaries-and-above date night in Louisville this evening. Which is cool. Date nights are important.
After the movie, we walked up a short stretch of Bardstown Road and back, passing a 20-something street preacher twice. He really loves Jesus. That's cool. We all need something to be passionate about. No one else wanted to stop and listen, though, so we just kept on walking. Then we went to the Valu and Momma bought some mangoes and tomatoes. Jimi bought a beer and some cube steak, thinking he'll use it to trick me into eating hamburgers. I ate the cube-steak burgers once. It takes weeks to work myself up to the idea of it. And then he goes and springs it on me? I'll get through this somehow. (Did I mention I'm a little fucked up when it comes to food? No hamburgers...well, NO pressed meat of any kind, really; i.e. hamburgers, meatloaf, large chunks in the spaghetti sauce or taco meat, meatballs. That's only the first rule.)
But back to the title of the blog, Note to self...always say "Yes" when Momma invites you out somewhere. Momma is great company and I should jump at every opportunity to share her company and learn a little more about this awesome woman who made me.
A 20 minute drive is not the end of the world, you lazy heifer.
I love spending time with my Momma. She's funny and smart and pretty and just an all around good person. She's classy. (Everyone (Jimi) says i'm just like her, but I didn't inherit that particular trait, sadly.)
The movie we saw had lots of "Fuck You!"s and boobs and people having sex. OH! And some no-nudity scenes from a couple of gay porn videos.
Basically, it was everything you'd NOT want to see in a movie you're watching with your mom.
She did not enjoy it. I was "eh". Jimi liked it. (This is especially funny because he originally was going to splinter off and see his own selection, something about some kid fighting his new girlfriend's evil ex-boyfriends? because he was convince that our chick-flick selection would be lame. Whatever.)
There were a lot of middle-aged couples in the theater tonight. I think it must have been Silver-Anniversaries-and-above date night in Louisville this evening. Which is cool. Date nights are important.
After the movie, we walked up a short stretch of Bardstown Road and back, passing a 20-something street preacher twice. He really loves Jesus. That's cool. We all need something to be passionate about. No one else wanted to stop and listen, though, so we just kept on walking. Then we went to the Valu and Momma bought some mangoes and tomatoes. Jimi bought a beer and some cube steak, thinking he'll use it to trick me into eating hamburgers. I ate the cube-steak burgers once. It takes weeks to work myself up to the idea of it. And then he goes and springs it on me? I'll get through this somehow. (Did I mention I'm a little fucked up when it comes to food? No hamburgers...well, NO pressed meat of any kind, really; i.e. hamburgers, meatloaf, large chunks in the spaghetti sauce or taco meat, meatballs. That's only the first rule.)
But back to the title of the blog, Note to self...always say "Yes" when Momma invites you out somewhere. Momma is great company and I should jump at every opportunity to share her company and learn a little more about this awesome woman who made me.
A 20 minute drive is not the end of the world, you lazy heifer.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Sunday Morning
I went to Valu Market this morning to pick up Juice, Milk, and English muffins.
They don't have English muffins at Valu Market. Not one package. Not even an off brand. No English Muffins.
And their milk? It's priced a dollar higher than milk at Kroger. Every day. All the time.
So, my lesson of the day is to go to Kroger on Sunday mornings for my Milk, Juice, and English muffins, not Valu Market. Even if Valu is closer.
We went to the Edwards Family Reunion yesterday, in Acton, KY. This is my maternal grandmother's family, and we've held the even at the same Church Retreat compound for the last...lord, I don't know...20 years? When I was a child, we'd show up on Saturday morning, and there would already be a crowd of folks from the country. (If you didn't live in Louisville, like my family, you were from "the country".) This always included my Great-Grandmother, Mae Edwards, the matriarch of the family. She wasn't in attendance yesterday. She's 98 years old, and she's not been in the best of health for probably the last year. She still has good days, just not as often as she used to. I'm disappointed we didn't see her, and I wish we'd left early enough to visit her at home.
Granny and Papaw weren't there this year, of course. They've been gone for years now. I miss them every day, but our loss is more pronounced at gatherings such as these, where Granny used to be the life of the kitchen, chopping and stirring and baking, and where Papaw would be over on the couch in the corner with his guitar, pickin' and a grinnin'. I miss the music they made together, after dinner or supper, when we'd all crowd around and listen to them harmonize to old gospel songs.
Aunt Cill wasn't there this year, either. She didn't want to get her feelings hurt.
There was good, though, and plenty of fun. Spending the day with my Momma and my aunts and my cousins - a good time was had by all.
Jimi and Steve are moving their beer into the second fermentation rack today. I think that means they're basically transferring it from one carboy to another and then letting it hang out for another few weeks while it gets delicious.
I'm going to be doing some gardening.
And then we're supposed to mow the yard. We'll see about that.
They don't have English muffins at Valu Market. Not one package. Not even an off brand. No English Muffins.
And their milk? It's priced a dollar higher than milk at Kroger. Every day. All the time.
So, my lesson of the day is to go to Kroger on Sunday mornings for my Milk, Juice, and English muffins, not Valu Market. Even if Valu is closer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We went to the Edwards Family Reunion yesterday, in Acton, KY. This is my maternal grandmother's family, and we've held the even at the same Church Retreat compound for the last...lord, I don't know...20 years? When I was a child, we'd show up on Saturday morning, and there would already be a crowd of folks from the country. (If you didn't live in Louisville, like my family, you were from "the country".) This always included my Great-Grandmother, Mae Edwards, the matriarch of the family. She wasn't in attendance yesterday. She's 98 years old, and she's not been in the best of health for probably the last year. She still has good days, just not as often as she used to. I'm disappointed we didn't see her, and I wish we'd left early enough to visit her at home.
Granny and Papaw weren't there this year, of course. They've been gone for years now. I miss them every day, but our loss is more pronounced at gatherings such as these, where Granny used to be the life of the kitchen, chopping and stirring and baking, and where Papaw would be over on the couch in the corner with his guitar, pickin' and a grinnin'. I miss the music they made together, after dinner or supper, when we'd all crowd around and listen to them harmonize to old gospel songs.
Aunt Cill wasn't there this year, either. She didn't want to get her feelings hurt.
There was good, though, and plenty of fun. Spending the day with my Momma and my aunts and my cousins - a good time was had by all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jimi and Steve are moving their beer into the second fermentation rack today. I think that means they're basically transferring it from one carboy to another and then letting it hang out for another few weeks while it gets delicious.
I'm going to be doing some gardening.
And then we're supposed to mow the yard. We'll see about that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And then we came to the end...
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