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.
Showing posts with label Stacy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stacy. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
She's here.
Adriana Rose Medley joined us tonight at 7:57 p.m., weighing in at 6 pounds 11 ounces, measuring at 19 1/2 inches long. Grandma Pam at first said her head measured 33 inches, and then my Momma offered that 33 inches is the size of her waist, so perhaps Pam meant centimeters? Oh yes, of course! :)
I've not seen the little Princess yet, so I have no pictures to offer at this time. Immediately after birth, Stacy and Jessie were given an hour of mommy/daddy/baby time before they were going to move rooms or some such thing. Near 9:30, I looked around and realized that there were way more immediate relations present than my humble little "first cousin of the mom" title - Jessie's parents and sisters and nieces and nephews, Stacy's Mom and Dad - and that my turn getting in to see the baby was going to be a long time coming. Stacy was awake since before 5 a.m., spent her day laboring, and birthed a child, all without food since 11 o'clock last night. I imagine she's not much interested in entertaining till midnight. I'll meet my niece-cousin tomorrow, and I promise pictures will follow.
I did get a glimpse of her, briefly. Pam snapped a picture of the new family with her small point-and-shoot: Stacy laughing and crying holding her newborn, her face radiant but pale; Jessie standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at his daughter with love written all over his tear-stained face; little Addy Rose with her mouth open in a scream, her little red face scrunched up, her dark wisps of hair just visible under a little pink cap. Pam queued up the photo and passed the camera to my mom, who shared with me, then Pam passed the camera to Stacy's dad, who couldn't make out the details well. Momma says, "Rick, zoom in on it", and he pushes the trash can button. "Rick," I say, "you're about to delete that, careful." He moves the cursor up and down - and deletes the picture. "You just deleted that, Rick." He was crestfallen. "Why did you ever give the engineer the camera?!" he exclaimed. And thus the first piece of folklore involving our sweet Adriana Rose was created - I assured the new grandpa that we'll be re-telling this story for the next thirty years, about how Rick deleted the first photo of his daughter holding his granddaughter.
Congratulations, Stacy and Jessie. Welcome to the world, Miss Adriana. I love you all so very, very much.
I've not seen the little Princess yet, so I have no pictures to offer at this time. Immediately after birth, Stacy and Jessie were given an hour of mommy/daddy/baby time before they were going to move rooms or some such thing. Near 9:30, I looked around and realized that there were way more immediate relations present than my humble little "first cousin of the mom" title - Jessie's parents and sisters and nieces and nephews, Stacy's Mom and Dad - and that my turn getting in to see the baby was going to be a long time coming. Stacy was awake since before 5 a.m., spent her day laboring, and birthed a child, all without food since 11 o'clock last night. I imagine she's not much interested in entertaining till midnight. I'll meet my niece-cousin tomorrow, and I promise pictures will follow.
I did get a glimpse of her, briefly. Pam snapped a picture of the new family with her small point-and-shoot: Stacy laughing and crying holding her newborn, her face radiant but pale; Jessie standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at his daughter with love written all over his tear-stained face; little Addy Rose with her mouth open in a scream, her little red face scrunched up, her dark wisps of hair just visible under a little pink cap. Pam queued up the photo and passed the camera to my mom, who shared with me, then Pam passed the camera to Stacy's dad, who couldn't make out the details well. Momma says, "Rick, zoom in on it", and he pushes the trash can button. "Rick," I say, "you're about to delete that, careful." He moves the cursor up and down - and deletes the picture. "You just deleted that, Rick." He was crestfallen. "Why did you ever give the engineer the camera?!" he exclaimed. And thus the first piece of folklore involving our sweet Adriana Rose was created - I assured the new grandpa that we'll be re-telling this story for the next thirty years, about how Rick deleted the first photo of his daughter holding his granddaughter.
Congratulations, Stacy and Jessie. Welcome to the world, Miss Adriana. I love you all so very, very much.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sundays are my favorite.
Sometimes I think about some of the things I've written about Mormon women and realize I've got it mostly wrong - they're much more than the box I put them into when I first started learning more than what the missionaries teach. If I've offended you, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be an asshole, but sometimes I am.
I made some amazing vegetable soup last night. Remember the brisket Jimi made for work and then wasn't going to share? He brought some home. It was delicious, and then it became soup, along with the last can of green beans and the last can of corn and some old potatoes that were starting to turn soft and a jar of tomato juice someone gave us back in the summer. There were other things too, of course, but you don't want all the details, do you? I was particularly proud of this batch, because I though I needed to make a trip to the grocery to make it happen, then just pulled together what we had and made it work instead. Very frugal and smart of me, if I do say so myself. Jimi made pretzel bread rolls and they are delicious, but they were finished too late to marry up with the soup - they'll meet tonight! I guess we're on a baking kick, because I also made a pumpkin german chocolate cake, but we've only shared one piece of that.
This morning I got up and started on laundry, only to find we were out of detergent. So I made some more, at 7:30 a.m.. Like a boss. I've said it before, but I'll say it again - that shit feels like making money. Putting together a batch of laundry detergent that is as good or better than something I'd pay nearly $20 for at the store - it feels awesome. I wish I could be more go-get-'em when it comes to other aspects of my life.
For example: Bossman's birthday was yesterday. I decided a week or so ago that part of my gift to him was going to be some awesome fudge. I made the fudge today, because I'm all on the ball and shit. So I start making the fudge, add the evaporated milk and butter and sugar to the pot, bring to a boil, then reduce heat and wait for it to get to soft boil. It nearly boiled over. It was in a 3-quart saucepan, as required per the recipe. Something didn't look right. I thought. I pondered. I calculated in my head. And I realized, FUCK, I have WAY too much evaporated milk in there. I checked the label on the can - sure as shit, my recipe called for (2) 5-oz cans and I'd added (2) 12-oz cans. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. I considered dumping it all out the back door, but then calculated some more and figured there was already too much invested to give up. I hollered for Jimi and set him to task buttering more foil in another 9X13 while I found another two and a half sticks of butter and 5+ cups of sugar. By chance, my habit of over-buying paid off this time - I had exactly enough chocolate on-hand to make this thing work.
I'm really glad I caught my mistake when I did - if not, and chocolate and such had been added, disaster would've ensued. As it stands, the fudge has firmed up beautifully, and the worst sin may be that I failed to add enough nuts. I'll take it.
Other noteworthy items: I purchased 2 lbs. of whole, in-the-shell nuts, along with a cracker and some picks. Do you know what I'm talking about? Part of Christmas memories from my childhood will always include my Papaw, sitting at the dining room table, shelling nuts and shoving them in his mouth as quickly as they could be freed from their hulls. He taught me how to do it. I think Bob and I tried to recreate this tradition once-upon-a-time, but what may have happened to that set of crackers and picks is anyone's guess - I'm glad to have a new set for my new life, to remind me of another time when I was as happy as I am now.
Granny and Papaw were part of the definition of Christmas when I was learning the meaning of the season. Every Christmas Eve was spent at their home, opening presents, feasting gluttonously, singing joyfully. It seemed that the heart of the entire world must have grown three sizes each year simply from the good tidings radiating from their home. I miss them so much. Christmas lost part of its magic when we lost them.
But it's still mostly happy and joyful. The circle of life, and all that. Stacy was over last night - she's got five weeks till her due date. Five weeks! We'll blink and that brand new little girl will be here. I can't wait to meet her. I was able to feel a knee or a foot or something last night as it pressed out the side of Stacy's belly; there's a whole another person inside of her - it's mind-blowing. Stacy was wearing a much-too-big for her ICP t-shirt left over from her college days and a pair of baggy gray sweats. She looked super comfortable, and not even a little pregnant, unless you know she's normally the size of a twig.
We've rearranged more furniture and I've finally repotted the aloe plant and the bromeliad - there's a good chance neither will survive the transfer, but we'll see. Fingers crossed.
I asked my cousins via Facebook if our grandmother, Mamaw (my Daddy's Momma), had a good singing voice - if anyone remembered. No one remembers her singing. I asked Daddy, too - he doesn't remember either. For some reason, that strikes me as tragically sad. Was she sad? Is that why she didn't sing? Or was she shy, or did she just not carry a tune? Her life was hard and fraught with loss, but beyond that, I don't know much. I know she made great fried chicken, according to Daddy, and amazing banana pudding. What did she love, though? What made her happy? My most vivid memory of her involves her tears of frustration as she tried to communicate with me; I was 9 or so, Brother was a new baby, and she had already suffered a stroke or two and her verbal skills were very much affected. I remember at her funeral, Daddy hugged me and told me that my Mamaw had loved me very much - I remember wishing she'd not been such a stranger to me, though it was obviously through no fault of her own.
Christmas cheer, eh?
Sorry.
The weekends go by so quickly - it's already 6 o'clock on Sunday night, which means I'll be awake and starting my workday in 12 hours or so. Fuck.
It's fine, though. Monday through Thursday this week, they can have me. After that, I'm gone - off for 11 days. 11 DAYS!!! OMG, I cannot wait! I don't know how I'll spend the time, but it'll not be answering phone calls in the middle of the night or putting out fires before my first cup of coffee. I fully intend to at least finish reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and these two new-to-me classic anti-Mormon autobiographies (Deborah Laake and Sonia Johnson) drunk-me bought me for Christmas last week.
Happy Week-Before-Christmas! May the Force be with you this week as you navigate the malls and shops. (And remember, Buy Local!)
I made some amazing vegetable soup last night. Remember the brisket Jimi made for work and then wasn't going to share? He brought some home. It was delicious, and then it became soup, along with the last can of green beans and the last can of corn and some old potatoes that were starting to turn soft and a jar of tomato juice someone gave us back in the summer. There were other things too, of course, but you don't want all the details, do you? I was particularly proud of this batch, because I though I needed to make a trip to the grocery to make it happen, then just pulled together what we had and made it work instead. Very frugal and smart of me, if I do say so myself. Jimi made pretzel bread rolls and they are delicious, but they were finished too late to marry up with the soup - they'll meet tonight! I guess we're on a baking kick, because I also made a pumpkin german chocolate cake, but we've only shared one piece of that.
This morning I got up and started on laundry, only to find we were out of detergent. So I made some more, at 7:30 a.m.. Like a boss. I've said it before, but I'll say it again - that shit feels like making money. Putting together a batch of laundry detergent that is as good or better than something I'd pay nearly $20 for at the store - it feels awesome. I wish I could be more go-get-'em when it comes to other aspects of my life.
For example: Bossman's birthday was yesterday. I decided a week or so ago that part of my gift to him was going to be some awesome fudge. I made the fudge today, because I'm all on the ball and shit. So I start making the fudge, add the evaporated milk and butter and sugar to the pot, bring to a boil, then reduce heat and wait for it to get to soft boil. It nearly boiled over. It was in a 3-quart saucepan, as required per the recipe. Something didn't look right. I thought. I pondered. I calculated in my head. And I realized, FUCK, I have WAY too much evaporated milk in there. I checked the label on the can - sure as shit, my recipe called for (2) 5-oz cans and I'd added (2) 12-oz cans. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. I considered dumping it all out the back door, but then calculated some more and figured there was already too much invested to give up. I hollered for Jimi and set him to task buttering more foil in another 9X13 while I found another two and a half sticks of butter and 5+ cups of sugar. By chance, my habit of over-buying paid off this time - I had exactly enough chocolate on-hand to make this thing work.
I'm really glad I caught my mistake when I did - if not, and chocolate and such had been added, disaster would've ensued. As it stands, the fudge has firmed up beautifully, and the worst sin may be that I failed to add enough nuts. I'll take it.
Other noteworthy items: I purchased 2 lbs. of whole, in-the-shell nuts, along with a cracker and some picks. Do you know what I'm talking about? Part of Christmas memories from my childhood will always include my Papaw, sitting at the dining room table, shelling nuts and shoving them in his mouth as quickly as they could be freed from their hulls. He taught me how to do it. I think Bob and I tried to recreate this tradition once-upon-a-time, but what may have happened to that set of crackers and picks is anyone's guess - I'm glad to have a new set for my new life, to remind me of another time when I was as happy as I am now.
Granny and Papaw were part of the definition of Christmas when I was learning the meaning of the season. Every Christmas Eve was spent at their home, opening presents, feasting gluttonously, singing joyfully. It seemed that the heart of the entire world must have grown three sizes each year simply from the good tidings radiating from their home. I miss them so much. Christmas lost part of its magic when we lost them.
But it's still mostly happy and joyful. The circle of life, and all that. Stacy was over last night - she's got five weeks till her due date. Five weeks! We'll blink and that brand new little girl will be here. I can't wait to meet her. I was able to feel a knee or a foot or something last night as it pressed out the side of Stacy's belly; there's a whole another person inside of her - it's mind-blowing. Stacy was wearing a much-too-big for her ICP t-shirt left over from her college days and a pair of baggy gray sweats. She looked super comfortable, and not even a little pregnant, unless you know she's normally the size of a twig.
We've rearranged more furniture and I've finally repotted the aloe plant and the bromeliad - there's a good chance neither will survive the transfer, but we'll see. Fingers crossed.
I asked my cousins via Facebook if our grandmother, Mamaw (my Daddy's Momma), had a good singing voice - if anyone remembered. No one remembers her singing. I asked Daddy, too - he doesn't remember either. For some reason, that strikes me as tragically sad. Was she sad? Is that why she didn't sing? Or was she shy, or did she just not carry a tune? Her life was hard and fraught with loss, but beyond that, I don't know much. I know she made great fried chicken, according to Daddy, and amazing banana pudding. What did she love, though? What made her happy? My most vivid memory of her involves her tears of frustration as she tried to communicate with me; I was 9 or so, Brother was a new baby, and she had already suffered a stroke or two and her verbal skills were very much affected. I remember at her funeral, Daddy hugged me and told me that my Mamaw had loved me very much - I remember wishing she'd not been such a stranger to me, though it was obviously through no fault of her own.
Christmas cheer, eh?
Sorry.
The weekends go by so quickly - it's already 6 o'clock on Sunday night, which means I'll be awake and starting my workday in 12 hours or so. Fuck.
It's fine, though. Monday through Thursday this week, they can have me. After that, I'm gone - off for 11 days. 11 DAYS!!! OMG, I cannot wait! I don't know how I'll spend the time, but it'll not be answering phone calls in the middle of the night or putting out fires before my first cup of coffee. I fully intend to at least finish reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and these two new-to-me classic anti-Mormon autobiographies (Deborah Laake and Sonia Johnson) drunk-me bought me for Christmas last week.
Happy Week-Before-Christmas! May the Force be with you this week as you navigate the malls and shops. (And remember, Buy Local!)
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Baby Shower Success
 |
| I love that there's a bottle of scotch and some moisturizer in this picture, next to the baby shit. |
 |
| We gave the extra baby stuff to her in that little bag. When she opened it, there was no card, a couple of unwrapped blankets and socks, and one diaper. |
 |
| Trader Joe's finds, and beans for the chili. |
 |
| We bought a new game. And Anjay came over! |
 |
| Jimi roasted fresh pepper, then seeded them and pureed them with garlic and onion and tomato. He says his fingers still burn a little. |
 |
| Baby got a new Paula Deen stock pot. |
 |
| The view from my rear-view window on my way to the shower. |
 |
| Chili, with cheese and crackers and sour cream, because that's how I roll. |
 |
| Part of Stacy's haul... |
 |
| Grandma, Mommy, and Baby |
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday/Fridays are my favorite.
Yesterday was Monday and today was Monday again, even though it was Friday. (Of course, it's REALLY Tuesday, but not for me, not this week!)
Are you following me?
(If not, you should. I'm pretty awesome.)
Oh! About that - today my name is Princess Awesomesauce. Just so you know.
No one called me by my proper name today. They just don't get it.
The new name thing, that is - they totally get that I'm awesome.
Do you hate it when bloggers blog a series of tweets that aren't meaty enough to be statuses?
I bought a new plant light to help my sad outdoor plants this winter - and Jimi, brilliant man that he is, suggested perhaps I could make my orchids very very happy, too. (They usually just live in the window-sills.) I'm enjoying watching my plants so much, I'm seriously considering buying another couple of lights and turning a large section of my basement into an indoor greenhouse. I could grow lettuces and herbs and tomatoes and all sorts of awesomesauce things - and I really, really enjoy watching my plants grow. It takes so little effort, but it's so rewarding to see a little sprout become a big, hearty, happy plant. Sometimes I fantasize about going back to school and getting some sort of plant degree - how badass would it be to get paid to grow plants?
Have I mentioned how excited I am about the facial and massage and haircut tomorrow? OMG, I can hardly wait. Am I a selfish bitch? I'm sure Stacy is going to love this just as much as I will, and that's why I want to do it for her - but I totally needed an excuse to do it for myself, too. Just like when we were kids, and someone always made sure I got at least one present on her birthday, so I wouldn't feel left out of the excitement...but it's not like I'm going to take her to the day spa and sit in the waiting area for her. Gift certificate smishertificate - I want some good touch too!!!
This 5-day weekend couldn't have arrived sooner - I'm so ready for some time off. I love the holidays for that reason, if no other (though there are many more). 5 days in November, 9 days in December - recharging time. Much needed, just in time.
TGIF, and all that jazz.
Are you following me?
(If not, you should. I'm pretty awesome.)
Oh! About that - today my name is Princess Awesomesauce. Just so you know.
No one called me by my proper name today. They just don't get it.
The new name thing, that is - they totally get that I'm awesome.
Do you hate it when bloggers blog a series of tweets that aren't meaty enough to be statuses?
I bought a new plant light to help my sad outdoor plants this winter - and Jimi, brilliant man that he is, suggested perhaps I could make my orchids very very happy, too. (They usually just live in the window-sills.) I'm enjoying watching my plants so much, I'm seriously considering buying another couple of lights and turning a large section of my basement into an indoor greenhouse. I could grow lettuces and herbs and tomatoes and all sorts of awesomesauce things - and I really, really enjoy watching my plants grow. It takes so little effort, but it's so rewarding to see a little sprout become a big, hearty, happy plant. Sometimes I fantasize about going back to school and getting some sort of plant degree - how badass would it be to get paid to grow plants?
Have I mentioned how excited I am about the facial and massage and haircut tomorrow? OMG, I can hardly wait. Am I a selfish bitch? I'm sure Stacy is going to love this just as much as I will, and that's why I want to do it for her - but I totally needed an excuse to do it for myself, too. Just like when we were kids, and someone always made sure I got at least one present on her birthday, so I wouldn't feel left out of the excitement...but it's not like I'm going to take her to the day spa and sit in the waiting area for her. Gift certificate smishertificate - I want some good touch too!!!
This 5-day weekend couldn't have arrived sooner - I'm so ready for some time off. I love the holidays for that reason, if no other (though there are many more). 5 days in November, 9 days in December - recharging time. Much needed, just in time.
TGIF, and all that jazz.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Here, have some words.
I think I need to have another party so I'll be forced to get my house presentable. Why is it so hard to get motivated to clean? Ugh.
Stacy went to the hospital twice this weekend with contractions. Doctors say she's showing no signs of labor, so by all appearances, these seem to be those notorious Braxton Hicks. Thank goodness.
I've got a face pain problem. I burned the roof of my mouth the other night on one of those bullshit french bread pizza things, and it's been tender ever since. This morning, though, it hurt when I brushed my teeth in a way it didn't when I went to bed last night. And I've had this bruised feeling in my face all day that I thought was sinus pain until I came home for lunch and realized it hurt to chew on the left side. Fuck. Of course, with all the awesome health insurance I've got, I have no dental coverage. And I've got like $100 in the bank because Jimi was kind enough to give me a break on my part of the mortgage payment this month because I overextended myself last week and I was going to be completely broke till this coming Friday. (In other words, I don't have the cash on hand to visit a dentist.) And I don't have a credit card, so that's not a quick-pay option.
How long do you wait to figure out if weird shit like this is "see a dentist" serious or if it'll go away on its own? My gut tells me I've got an infection of some sort in my gumline because of that burn Friday night. I don't think this is a rotten tooth thing, and nothing feels loose. Then again, gumline infections can cause some serious fucking damage - I've got an uncle that had a hip replacement at 50 because of an infection that traveled from his gums (during a teeth cleaning) and went to his hip, dissolving the entire structure within 6 months; he required ridiculous rounds of antibiotics, and at least 2 exploratory surgeries before they had to completely replace his hip. Because he got his teeth cleaned!!! So, I don't want to be all nonchalant and shit.
If I have to see a dentist, I will. I'll borrow the money from Jimi or my boss or my Momma or someone till I get paid Friday, and I'll see someone tomorrow if I have to. I'd just rather not.
I've really not been interested in blogging lately. Well, I have, I just haven't had a thing to say. No Words. My constant complaint. I never have the words.
I'm a little worried about my hermit-ness. I joke about it all the time, but between you and me? I'm a little concerned. Even the idea of going to my Momma's makes me get jittery, forget a trip to Wal-Mart or Burlington or Kroger, even. Contemplating stopping by the grocery on the way home from work makes my heart feel heavy and my stomach flutter. It's all in my head, though - it's all the IDEA of doing things that is so hard - once I'm out in the world, doing things, it's not so bad. That's what Jimi says all the time, "That wasn't so bad, was it?" And it never was as bad as I'd feared it would be, I almost always end up having a good time, but still...I dread having to leave the sanctuary of my home. I resent having things planned to do on weekends when I feel I should be able to sit in my chair and do nothing at all if that's what I want to do...and OH, that is SO what I want to do! I don't look forward to anything. Not if it takes me away ... and I don't even know what I fear being taken away from. My house? My dog and cat? Not Jimi, certainly - he's almost always with me if it's not work or an errand before he's home from work. There's nothing that I do here that is special or unique; there's nothing I'm missing out on by leaving here - I'm missing out on life by staying, though. I realize that. And it scares the fuck out of me.
I wasn't always like this. And I won't always be. I'm working on it. One step, one drive, one visit, one party, one shopping trip, one day at a time.
Doing things when I'm here is hard too, though. I said that once already, didn't I? About the cleaning? Yeah. Cleaning, and re-potting that hibiscus, and that Wandering Jew, and folding all that laundry and finishing the ones that need to be washed...
Ugh. I'd rather read my book, read the internet, play the Sims Pets, watch Judge Judy - I think I'm a perpetual 17 year old, hoping Momma's gonna clean up after me. (And Jimi does, a lot. Bless his heart.)
I felt better when I was watching my calories closely and exercising every day. Imagine that. I wonder if my sudden stop has anything to do with the funk I've fallen into? Wow. I may have just worked that shit out myself, yo.
So, how's your Monday night?
I missed "The Walking Dead" last night. I went to bed at 8:30. I figure they'll show it again before the next episode. I'll see it eventually.
About your Monday night...
Stacy went to the hospital twice this weekend with contractions. Doctors say she's showing no signs of labor, so by all appearances, these seem to be those notorious Braxton Hicks. Thank goodness.
I've got a face pain problem. I burned the roof of my mouth the other night on one of those bullshit french bread pizza things, and it's been tender ever since. This morning, though, it hurt when I brushed my teeth in a way it didn't when I went to bed last night. And I've had this bruised feeling in my face all day that I thought was sinus pain until I came home for lunch and realized it hurt to chew on the left side. Fuck. Of course, with all the awesome health insurance I've got, I have no dental coverage. And I've got like $100 in the bank because Jimi was kind enough to give me a break on my part of the mortgage payment this month because I overextended myself last week and I was going to be completely broke till this coming Friday. (In other words, I don't have the cash on hand to visit a dentist.) And I don't have a credit card, so that's not a quick-pay option.
How long do you wait to figure out if weird shit like this is "see a dentist" serious or if it'll go away on its own? My gut tells me I've got an infection of some sort in my gumline because of that burn Friday night. I don't think this is a rotten tooth thing, and nothing feels loose. Then again, gumline infections can cause some serious fucking damage - I've got an uncle that had a hip replacement at 50 because of an infection that traveled from his gums (during a teeth cleaning) and went to his hip, dissolving the entire structure within 6 months; he required ridiculous rounds of antibiotics, and at least 2 exploratory surgeries before they had to completely replace his hip. Because he got his teeth cleaned!!! So, I don't want to be all nonchalant and shit.
If I have to see a dentist, I will. I'll borrow the money from Jimi or my boss or my Momma or someone till I get paid Friday, and I'll see someone tomorrow if I have to. I'd just rather not.
I've really not been interested in blogging lately. Well, I have, I just haven't had a thing to say. No Words. My constant complaint. I never have the words.
I'm a little worried about my hermit-ness. I joke about it all the time, but between you and me? I'm a little concerned. Even the idea of going to my Momma's makes me get jittery, forget a trip to Wal-Mart or Burlington or Kroger, even. Contemplating stopping by the grocery on the way home from work makes my heart feel heavy and my stomach flutter. It's all in my head, though - it's all the IDEA of doing things that is so hard - once I'm out in the world, doing things, it's not so bad. That's what Jimi says all the time, "That wasn't so bad, was it?" And it never was as bad as I'd feared it would be, I almost always end up having a good time, but still...I dread having to leave the sanctuary of my home. I resent having things planned to do on weekends when I feel I should be able to sit in my chair and do nothing at all if that's what I want to do...and OH, that is SO what I want to do! I don't look forward to anything. Not if it takes me away ... and I don't even know what I fear being taken away from. My house? My dog and cat? Not Jimi, certainly - he's almost always with me if it's not work or an errand before he's home from work. There's nothing that I do here that is special or unique; there's nothing I'm missing out on by leaving here - I'm missing out on life by staying, though. I realize that. And it scares the fuck out of me.
I wasn't always like this. And I won't always be. I'm working on it. One step, one drive, one visit, one party, one shopping trip, one day at a time.
Doing things when I'm here is hard too, though. I said that once already, didn't I? About the cleaning? Yeah. Cleaning, and re-potting that hibiscus, and that Wandering Jew, and folding all that laundry and finishing the ones that need to be washed...
Ugh. I'd rather read my book, read the internet, play the Sims Pets, watch Judge Judy - I think I'm a perpetual 17 year old, hoping Momma's gonna clean up after me. (And Jimi does, a lot. Bless his heart.)
I felt better when I was watching my calories closely and exercising every day. Imagine that. I wonder if my sudden stop has anything to do with the funk I've fallen into? Wow. I may have just worked that shit out myself, yo.
So, how's your Monday night?
I missed "The Walking Dead" last night. I went to bed at 8:30. I figure they'll show it again before the next episode. I'll see it eventually.
About your Monday night...
Friday, August 19, 2011
Holy crap the sun's not even up yet!
It's twenty till six on Friday morning. WTF? In case you were wondering, if you need to start your period, GUARANTEED, tell the internet you're feeling yourself up because you can't tell if your boobs are sore or not. Or take a pregnancy test. Works. Every fucking time.
So I'm going to go to work early. Or I'm going to sit here and write some bullshit till it's time to go to work, and then I'll kick my own ass for not taking advantage of the fact that I was up at five till five this morning. Well, if we're being honest, I was up at 4 - I just didn't get out of bed till almost five, when I'd finally gave up on getting back to that dream about ... I can't remember anymore what that dream was about. It was weird, though, and I wanted to see what happened.
I remember what I dreamed about before I woke yesterday morning, though. Heather Donovan. She was this geeky (before geeky was cool) chick who went to middle school with me - The Girls and I were tortuously mean to her. We were in the sixth grade - as I remember it, sixth grade was pretty fucking awful. (Except that I learned the word "fuck" in the sixth grade, so that's kinda cool.) Sixth grade was full of awkwardness and not fitting it - a bunch of hormone-laden kids bouncing off one another and trying to figure out where they fit. We all fell into our individual roles quickly enough - my role was outcast-wannabecoolkid. Heather was like three rungs below me on the social hierarchy scale. She wore blue eye shadow smeared up to her eyebrows. Her hair was thin and she pouffed her bangs into this see-through bird's-nest thing and lacquered it with hairspray so it moved in one giant piece in the wind. (Okay, we all did that, but hers was really bad.) She wore button-up flower-printed blouses, buttoned all the way to the top, that wreaked of her mother's particular sense of (old-lady) style. (Let's not discuss the fact that I discovered jeans for the first time in this same year. For the first half of the school year, my favorite pants were a pair of stirrup pants in some pattern that involved big yellow flowers and purple something- I don't remember what was purple in the pants, but something was, because I always wore them with a long purple shirt that I thought made me look awesome, and I never would've worn a purple shirt with those pants unless there was purple in them somewhere.)
Anyhow, back to Heather. She showed up in my dream yesterday morning. We were maybe at a party or something? There was a big open room, people mingling, and then she walked through the door. I was startled by her presence - she looked, in her face, exactly the same as the last time I saw her, but without the crunchy bangs and coke-bottle glasses. Her hair was sleek and smooth, and her skin was clear. Her eyes were free of the magnification of the glasses that always made her look a little googly-eyed...and they weren't held down by a gram of blue powder, either. She was pretty.
We didn't talk beyond a "hey, good to see you" because my alarm sounded. But in the shower, I thought of things I'd say to her if I saw her now:
"I'm sorry we were so mean to you."
"I'm sorry we put Ex-lax in that caramel cookie bar and then let you eat it."
"I'm sorry we made fun of you."
"I'm sorry we thought we were better than you." I mean, there was a reason she was sitting at our lunch table, people; it's not like there were assigned seats.
"I hope we didn't cause any lasting damage."
Kids are mean. We were mean. Brutal. I hope she's doing alright.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the sins I committed as a child." I said that to Stacy not too long ago; I told her if I ever write a book, it'll be the first line. Today, right now, I feel like I'm a pretty good person. I try to leave a good impact wherever I go, even if it's just a smile or a few coins. I've been a bitch, though; I've been a mean asshole, I've been cruel and vindictive. For fuck's sake, I once convinced my 2-year old brother that he was adopted and mom and dad were going to take him back because they decided they didn't like him anymore. When I say convinced, I mean, I only retracted my story when he started crying.
God, that brought tears to my eyes. See what I mean? I hate myself for that memory. I hope Brother doesn't remember it. Of course, is that better or worse? That it could be seared into his psyche that he's unloved because his sister was an evil 11 year old? Maybe it's all my fault he was all fucked up.
Stacy, too. She and I are only 18 months apart; I treated her as if she were my minion, there for my personal enjoyment and entertainment. About 10 years ago, she told me she'd always admired me and looked up to me; I've never been so ashamed or felt so low in my life. I don't deserve her kindness, and sometimes, even now, I'm surprised that she wants to hang out with me or listens to my advice.
But people change. We grow up and we figure out that our actions have consequences and we learn what empathy is and we start to not be assholes all the time. I think Stacy and Brother have forgiven me; I imagine Heather Donovan thinks nothing of me at all.
I am my own worst critic, because I remember.
So I'm going to go to work early. Or I'm going to sit here and write some bullshit till it's time to go to work, and then I'll kick my own ass for not taking advantage of the fact that I was up at five till five this morning. Well, if we're being honest, I was up at 4 - I just didn't get out of bed till almost five, when I'd finally gave up on getting back to that dream about ... I can't remember anymore what that dream was about. It was weird, though, and I wanted to see what happened.
I remember what I dreamed about before I woke yesterday morning, though. Heather Donovan. She was this geeky (before geeky was cool) chick who went to middle school with me - The Girls and I were tortuously mean to her. We were in the sixth grade - as I remember it, sixth grade was pretty fucking awful. (Except that I learned the word "fuck" in the sixth grade, so that's kinda cool.) Sixth grade was full of awkwardness and not fitting it - a bunch of hormone-laden kids bouncing off one another and trying to figure out where they fit. We all fell into our individual roles quickly enough - my role was outcast-wannabecoolkid. Heather was like three rungs below me on the social hierarchy scale. She wore blue eye shadow smeared up to her eyebrows. Her hair was thin and she pouffed her bangs into this see-through bird's-nest thing and lacquered it with hairspray so it moved in one giant piece in the wind. (Okay, we all did that, but hers was really bad.) She wore button-up flower-printed blouses, buttoned all the way to the top, that wreaked of her mother's particular sense of (old-lady) style. (Let's not discuss the fact that I discovered jeans for the first time in this same year. For the first half of the school year, my favorite pants were a pair of stirrup pants in some pattern that involved big yellow flowers and purple something- I don't remember what was purple in the pants, but something was, because I always wore them with a long purple shirt that I thought made me look awesome, and I never would've worn a purple shirt with those pants unless there was purple in them somewhere.)
Anyhow, back to Heather. She showed up in my dream yesterday morning. We were maybe at a party or something? There was a big open room, people mingling, and then she walked through the door. I was startled by her presence - she looked, in her face, exactly the same as the last time I saw her, but without the crunchy bangs and coke-bottle glasses. Her hair was sleek and smooth, and her skin was clear. Her eyes were free of the magnification of the glasses that always made her look a little googly-eyed...and they weren't held down by a gram of blue powder, either. She was pretty.
We didn't talk beyond a "hey, good to see you" because my alarm sounded. But in the shower, I thought of things I'd say to her if I saw her now:
"I'm sorry we were so mean to you."
"I'm sorry we put Ex-lax in that caramel cookie bar and then let you eat it."
"I'm sorry we made fun of you."
"I'm sorry we thought we were better than you." I mean, there was a reason she was sitting at our lunch table, people; it's not like there were assigned seats.
"I hope we didn't cause any lasting damage."
Kids are mean. We were mean. Brutal. I hope she's doing alright.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the sins I committed as a child." I said that to Stacy not too long ago; I told her if I ever write a book, it'll be the first line. Today, right now, I feel like I'm a pretty good person. I try to leave a good impact wherever I go, even if it's just a smile or a few coins. I've been a bitch, though; I've been a mean asshole, I've been cruel and vindictive. For fuck's sake, I once convinced my 2-year old brother that he was adopted and mom and dad were going to take him back because they decided they didn't like him anymore. When I say convinced, I mean, I only retracted my story when he started crying.
God, that brought tears to my eyes. See what I mean? I hate myself for that memory. I hope Brother doesn't remember it. Of course, is that better or worse? That it could be seared into his psyche that he's unloved because his sister was an evil 11 year old? Maybe it's all my fault he was all fucked up.
Stacy, too. She and I are only 18 months apart; I treated her as if she were my minion, there for my personal enjoyment and entertainment. About 10 years ago, she told me she'd always admired me and looked up to me; I've never been so ashamed or felt so low in my life. I don't deserve her kindness, and sometimes, even now, I'm surprised that she wants to hang out with me or listens to my advice.
But people change. We grow up and we figure out that our actions have consequences and we learn what empathy is and we start to not be assholes all the time. I think Stacy and Brother have forgiven me; I imagine Heather Donovan thinks nothing of me at all.
I am my own worst critic, because I remember.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Yo!
I'm all drowsy from the phenergan I took before bed last night - I tried to wake up and get out of bed three times this morning, but it was so much easier to just go back to sleep, so that's what I did till nearly 11. I took the phenergan because my belly was upset, but in retrospect I think it's because I drank that bottle of Exotic Fruits Arbor Mist - or it could've been the grapefruit-flavored beer I chased the wine with. I should stick to Busch Light.
We visited Brother yesterday afternoon, and took him a lunch of PB&J, kosher dill pickles, chocolate milk, and no-bake cookies. I'd intended to grab a bag of chips on our way to him, but I forgot and so there were no chips. I don't think he liked the no-bakes (pretty sure I should've gone with only 2.5 cups of oats rather than 3), but he politely ate one and declared them delicious before claiming to be too full to eat the other. He looks good, he speaks well, and seems to have his eye on the prize, despite various situational frustrations (like when they had no water or AC for 48 hours last week - in a dorm of 60 men. Can you fucking imagine the smell?). He's taking classes to get his GED, and should be finished by the end of August. He's scheduled to be home by Thanksgiving, and I've got my fingers crossed that there won't be any setbacks or delays - it would be nice to have our family whole and together for the holidays.
I was furious with him when he screwed up back in March - I just couldn't believe his ignorance. But now I'm grateful for that back-slide; if he'd gotten away with it, he would've been back on the shit and back to the same old games within a week of being home. He would've further destroyed himself and my family. Now, though - now, I think for the first time in his life he fully understands that there really are consequences for his actions. I think he gets it - I think he knows that he's an addict and that things that roll off of other people take over his mind and control him. He wouldn't be in this wiser state had he not been so fucking stupid back then. Funny how life works that way, isn't it?
We finished our visit and rode out to the Mall - Stacy and I had a date so I could buy her a knock-off BellaBand (I ended up getting her a black one and a white one, plus a super-cute maternity shirt). I don't go to the Mall - to me, it represents everything wrong with the world - something about the combination of the shallow desperate need for things, the stink of too much perfume and greasy food-court food and chlorine-treated wishing-well water, and the teenage girls in bra tops and short-shorts and the boys with their Justin Bieber hair - it makes me feel anxious. But that's where they sell BellaBand knock-offs, so that's where we went. Jimi was content wandering around Dick's, looking at shoes and camping equipment, and I must admit I enjoyed window-shopping at Teavana (a new store they're opening that sells teas and teapots and tea accessories).
After shopping, we scooped up our friend Ashley and came back to the house to hang out and be social for a few hours. She broke up with her boyfriend Friday night and needed to not sit alone in her apartment, poor girl. (For the record, her boyfriend was a complete and total bag of roosters (cockbag) and I'd happily punch him in the dick if I had the opportunity.) While she caught us up on the story, I drank aforementioned bottle of wine and beer, and by the time we were driving her home, I was on a total sugar-high and had a good buzz going, so I cranked up the 80's tunes on my mixed CD and we drove through town singing to "King of Wishful Thinking" and "It Must've Been Love" and "Eternal Flame". And then we dropped her off and it's like she was my energy source; I suddenly was tired and my belly was feeling funny and I just wanted to go to sleep.
Jimi and I had plans to see the last Potter movie today, but my slow start led me to ask if we can do it after work tomorrow instead - I do this crap to him all the time but he's forgiving and kind and hardly ever bitches about it. He's going to see Captain America with Steve - I think I'm going to take a shower and spend my day making homemade tomato sauce for a lasagna tonight and watching documentaries on Netflix. And reading blogs. Because I'm just that fucking talented at multitasking.
I hope you have had a lovely weekend, and that the coming week brings you sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. Happy Sunday!
ETA: I can't believe I forgot to mention the random penis sighting yesterday! We were leaving from visiting my brother and Jimi says, "That's man's peeing over there." I turned quickly and sure enough, there was an old man peeing on the concrete pylon that holds up the train overpass. I kept watching him pee, and Jimi says, "Natalie, quit watching that man pee!" "But I NEVER see random penis!" I mean, it's true - how often do you see random penises? Not very often, right?
ETA: I can't believe I forgot to mention the random penis sighting yesterday! We were leaving from visiting my brother and Jimi says, "That's man's peeing over there." I turned quickly and sure enough, there was an old man peeing on the concrete pylon that holds up the train overpass. I kept watching him pee, and Jimi says, "Natalie, quit watching that man pee!" "But I NEVER see random penis!" I mean, it's true - how often do you see random penises? Not very often, right?
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Thursday, Thursday, gotta get down on Thursday.
Rebecca Black had it all wrong - my understanding is that THURSDAY, not Friday, is THE day to party. In our first year, Jimi and I referred to Thursday as High Friday - we'd fill our house with friends and laughter and junk food and watch TV or play games and drink booze and pass the peace pipe and all was right with the world. We don't do that anymore - four years later he's got the 'betes and nights of diving face-first into cartons of ice cream had to be cut way back.
See? I start typing and then I hit a brick wall and everything that comes into my head sounds stupid and ridiculous and I don't want to write any of it. So I write nothing instead, which I know probably isn't the right answer, so fine, here, i'll just write it all and if it sucks it sucks.
(Usually, you'd hope an outburst like that would lead up to some awesome drama, like maybe I found out Jimi's having an affair or my boy dog used to be a girl dog, but sorry to disappoint, that was just a random outburst directed completely at myself and there's no good dirt to follow the build-up - I'm such a disappointment.)
I'm taking Stacy shopping this weekend to buy her a BellaBand - she's something like 14 weeks now (15?), and none of her pants fit anymore. Hopefully this will get her through the next few weeks and give her a chance to collect a new wardrobe with room for her growing belly.
When we were little (4 and 5? 5 and 6? 3 and 4?), Papaw hunted squirrel and rabbit and deer on the Property. I hated that he hunted - oh, it just seemed so cruel and horrible and awful. Had he not seen Bambi?! Did he not see how adorable and sweet and cuddly those little animals were?! There wasn't even that much meat on them, and McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't have any squirrel/rabbit/deer nuggets to offer, so obviously it wasn't even REAL food. The hunting and killing of such innocence was wholly wrong, and I wasted no opportunity to inform my loving, impressionable, younger cousin of my deep thoughts on the subject. I indoctrinated her with the utter injustice of the entire situation - I secured a promise from her that she would never again eat the flesh of those innocent little creatures.
But one morning, she found herself at Granny and Papaw's breakfast table, and in front of her was set a plate piled high with piping hot fried rabbit - her personal favorite before my "Save the Woodland Creatures" campaign. She looked longingly at the plate of meat, then at me. "Stace, go on and have some," says Granny, getting up to lift a piece onto her plate. "I can't," Stacy says, loyally, "Natalie says those are God's creatures and we shouldn't kill God's creatures." Granny launched into the reasons why my logic was right and wrong, and then told Stacy if she didn't want to eat any rabbit, she didn't have to. Stacy again stared at the plate of hot battered rabbit - legs that had once hopped along the prairie. Finally, her restraint broke - she reached for a leg, "They may be God's creatures, but they sure do taste good."
Rebecca Black had it all wrong - my understanding is that THURSDAY, not Friday, is THE day to party. In our first year, Jimi and I referred to Thursday as High Friday - we'd fill our house with friends and laughter and junk food and watch TV or play games and drink booze and pass the peace pipe and all was right with the world. We don't do that anymore - four years later he's got the 'betes and nights of diving face-first into cartons of ice cream had to be cut way back.
See? I start typing and then I hit a brick wall and everything that comes into my head sounds stupid and ridiculous and I don't want to write any of it. So I write nothing instead, which I know probably isn't the right answer, so fine, here, i'll just write it all and if it sucks it sucks.
(Usually, you'd hope an outburst like that would lead up to some awesome drama, like maybe I found out Jimi's having an affair or my boy dog used to be a girl dog, but sorry to disappoint, that was just a random outburst directed completely at myself and there's no good dirt to follow the build-up - I'm such a disappointment.)
I'm taking Stacy shopping this weekend to buy her a BellaBand - she's something like 14 weeks now (15?), and none of her pants fit anymore. Hopefully this will get her through the next few weeks and give her a chance to collect a new wardrobe with room for her growing belly.
When we were little (4 and 5? 5 and 6? 3 and 4?), Papaw hunted squirrel and rabbit and deer on the Property. I hated that he hunted - oh, it just seemed so cruel and horrible and awful. Had he not seen Bambi?! Did he not see how adorable and sweet and cuddly those little animals were?! There wasn't even that much meat on them, and McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't have any squirrel/rabbit/deer nuggets to offer, so obviously it wasn't even REAL food. The hunting and killing of such innocence was wholly wrong, and I wasted no opportunity to inform my loving, impressionable, younger cousin of my deep thoughts on the subject. I indoctrinated her with the utter injustice of the entire situation - I secured a promise from her that she would never again eat the flesh of those innocent little creatures.
But one morning, she found herself at Granny and Papaw's breakfast table, and in front of her was set a plate piled high with piping hot fried rabbit - her personal favorite before my "Save the Woodland Creatures" campaign. She looked longingly at the plate of meat, then at me. "Stace, go on and have some," says Granny, getting up to lift a piece onto her plate. "I can't," Stacy says, loyally, "Natalie says those are God's creatures and we shouldn't kill God's creatures." Granny launched into the reasons why my logic was right and wrong, and then told Stacy if she didn't want to eat any rabbit, she didn't have to. Stacy again stared at the plate of hot battered rabbit - legs that had once hopped along the prairie. Finally, her restraint broke - she reached for a leg, "They may be God's creatures, but they sure do taste good."
****************
I've been at work for an hour (I started that part up there at home), and already I've apologized twice today for being a bitch. Maybe today isn't going to be my day. Maybe I need to chill the fuck out.
Okay. Starting over - do-over!
It's Thursday. It'll be a good day - I mean, it has to be, right? It's practically Friday.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Behold the Power of the INTARWEBZ
I woke up with Metallica in my head. Thanks to the power of the interwebs, it was easily available for my listening pleasure with the stroke of a few keys. What an amazing time we live in! I remember being small and thinking how cool it would be if I could conjure from the air my favorite television programs or songs - my version involved a million katrillion TV and radio stations, though - for example, if I wanted to watch "Golden Girls", I'd go to channel 96548, where they show All Golden Girls, All The Time. The internet is so much better than my idea - not so many channels to surf through and you can even pull up specific episodes, not just watch the whole series on a loop.
I can't imagine having this power as a child; I can't imagine the ways my world would've changed if we'd had this stuff when I was growing up. I can't imagine what sort of deviant I would've become had I discovered online pornography at 11, instead of just my friend's mom's boyfriend's stash of Playboys in the top of the bathroom closet. Oh, the plagiarized pages I surely would've turned in as my own creative works! And the forums and chat rooms - the meanness and snarkiness I would've dealt out, the rumors I would've started, the gossip I would've spread...and then it all would've turned on me and maybe I would've ended up being one of those kids you read about who commit suicide because of horrible bullying. This awesome tool certainly must create some new challenges for parents and educators.
I got on the internet for the first time ever the night I graduated from high school; it was late May, 1998, and I was 18 years old. My cousin Stacy had come to my graduation, and I was so glad to see her! I decided to skip the graduation parties in favor of spending the night at her house - we didn't see each other all that often and it sounded like more fun than getting drunk and having to sneak into the house by curfew.
Stacy had a computer.
In her bedroom.
And it was connected to the internet.
Now, today, in July 2011, the fact of having a computer connected to the internet is sort of assumed - my phone has more computing power than Stacy's old desktop did - but in 1998, it was sort of a big deal, and I was mad jealous that Stacy had something so awesome. (Stacy always had all the hot shit - the Michael Jackson doll and the Joey from the New Kids On The Block doll are the top two examples that stick out in my memory right now.) Stacy is a generous soul, though, and after we'd eaten pizza she logged on and showed me how to navigate around AOL.
Holy crap, it was magical. The whirring and dinging and hissing of the modem as it dialed up and connected in - I didn't even know it was taking forever! The opening and closing door sounds of the chat rooms as people came and left, the blip of sound when a new message appeared. And there was a whole new language - A/S/L? F, 18, Louisville, KY was enough information to determine if it was worth your time to bother chatting with the person on the other end of the connection.
I ended up in a chat room in Utah. Someone made some snotty comment about Mormons and polygamy and, feeling like I had some authority on the subject (seeing as how my best friend was the Bishop's son and all), I jumped right in, defending the innocent Mormons and telling the attacker to check his facts. Almost instantly, a private chat box popped up - "Are you LDS?" "What's LDS?" "I guess that's my answer - Latter Day Saints (Mormon)" "Ohhh..."
He was in his late 20s, married with children, and very LDS. We chatted until the sun came up. It was surreal and informative and fascinating. Here I was, in my cousin's bedroom in Louisville, Kentucky, and I was having a discussion about religion with a man on the other side of the country, living a life so different from mine - it was the neatest thing I'd ever seen. (Did Google exist back then? If it did, I didn't know about it - perhaps our conversation would've gotten more interesting had I known then what I know now.)
I was hooked - the internet was definitely for me and I needed to have it at my disposal as often as possible. A few weeks later, Daddy came home with a big hulking state-of-the-art desktop, complete with AOL free trial start-up disk, and I was on cloud 9. I met my ex-husband the same way I met that Mormon stranger from Utah, via AOL Chat. When I was married and living away from my friends and family, the internet allowed me to connect with people back home and try to keep up on local events. When I divorced and moved back to Kentucky, I had a ready-made group of friends waiting for me - all "strangers" I'd met on the internet via a local social networking site, all awesome and fun and unique and brilliant and real and not serial killers. (Except that one guy, but we're not talking about him today.)
Today, I get my news from the internet. My reading material that doesn't come from the local used book store comes from the internet. I'm subscribed to, and read nearly all of, over 200 blogs - and most of them are written by complete and total strangers; strangers who make me laugh and cry and feel warm and fuzzy all over. I keep up with my friends not through phone calls or letters or visits, but through their Facebook pages. If I get an urge to hear a song or watch a particular show or movie, my desire is only a keystroke away. Any ailments that befall our household can be cured with any number of home remedies shared by experienced moms and health professionals from around the world - or they'll let me know if we need to seek immediate medical assistance. Any recipe can be found, any mindless entertainment is there to be enjoyed, any historical fact can be confirmed or denied. It's an amazing thing.
How did the internet become a part of your world? How do you keep your kids from watching porn online? Or cheating on their homework? Do you use the internet for everything, or are you still a fan of newspapers, magazines, and television?
I can't imagine having this power as a child; I can't imagine the ways my world would've changed if we'd had this stuff when I was growing up. I can't imagine what sort of deviant I would've become had I discovered online pornography at 11, instead of just my friend's mom's boyfriend's stash of Playboys in the top of the bathroom closet. Oh, the plagiarized pages I surely would've turned in as my own creative works! And the forums and chat rooms - the meanness and snarkiness I would've dealt out, the rumors I would've started, the gossip I would've spread...and then it all would've turned on me and maybe I would've ended up being one of those kids you read about who commit suicide because of horrible bullying. This awesome tool certainly must create some new challenges for parents and educators.
I got on the internet for the first time ever the night I graduated from high school; it was late May, 1998, and I was 18 years old. My cousin Stacy had come to my graduation, and I was so glad to see her! I decided to skip the graduation parties in favor of spending the night at her house - we didn't see each other all that often and it sounded like more fun than getting drunk and having to sneak into the house by curfew.
Stacy had a computer.
In her bedroom.
And it was connected to the internet.
Now, today, in July 2011, the fact of having a computer connected to the internet is sort of assumed - my phone has more computing power than Stacy's old desktop did - but in 1998, it was sort of a big deal, and I was mad jealous that Stacy had something so awesome. (Stacy always had all the hot shit - the Michael Jackson doll and the Joey from the New Kids On The Block doll are the top two examples that stick out in my memory right now.) Stacy is a generous soul, though, and after we'd eaten pizza she logged on and showed me how to navigate around AOL.
Holy crap, it was magical. The whirring and dinging and hissing of the modem as it dialed up and connected in - I didn't even know it was taking forever! The opening and closing door sounds of the chat rooms as people came and left, the blip of sound when a new message appeared. And there was a whole new language - A/S/L? F, 18, Louisville, KY was enough information to determine if it was worth your time to bother chatting with the person on the other end of the connection.
I ended up in a chat room in Utah. Someone made some snotty comment about Mormons and polygamy and, feeling like I had some authority on the subject (seeing as how my best friend was the Bishop's son and all), I jumped right in, defending the innocent Mormons and telling the attacker to check his facts. Almost instantly, a private chat box popped up - "Are you LDS?" "What's LDS?" "I guess that's my answer - Latter Day Saints (Mormon)" "Ohhh..."
He was in his late 20s, married with children, and very LDS. We chatted until the sun came up. It was surreal and informative and fascinating. Here I was, in my cousin's bedroom in Louisville, Kentucky, and I was having a discussion about religion with a man on the other side of the country, living a life so different from mine - it was the neatest thing I'd ever seen. (Did Google exist back then? If it did, I didn't know about it - perhaps our conversation would've gotten more interesting had I known then what I know now.)
I was hooked - the internet was definitely for me and I needed to have it at my disposal as often as possible. A few weeks later, Daddy came home with a big hulking state-of-the-art desktop, complete with AOL free trial start-up disk, and I was on cloud 9. I met my ex-husband the same way I met that Mormon stranger from Utah, via AOL Chat. When I was married and living away from my friends and family, the internet allowed me to connect with people back home and try to keep up on local events. When I divorced and moved back to Kentucky, I had a ready-made group of friends waiting for me - all "strangers" I'd met on the internet via a local social networking site, all awesome and fun and unique and brilliant and real and not serial killers. (Except that one guy, but we're not talking about him today.)
Today, I get my news from the internet. My reading material that doesn't come from the local used book store comes from the internet. I'm subscribed to, and read nearly all of, over 200 blogs - and most of them are written by complete and total strangers; strangers who make me laugh and cry and feel warm and fuzzy all over. I keep up with my friends not through phone calls or letters or visits, but through their Facebook pages. If I get an urge to hear a song or watch a particular show or movie, my desire is only a keystroke away. Any ailments that befall our household can be cured with any number of home remedies shared by experienced moms and health professionals from around the world - or they'll let me know if we need to seek immediate medical assistance. Any recipe can be found, any mindless entertainment is there to be enjoyed, any historical fact can be confirmed or denied. It's an amazing thing.
How did the internet become a part of your world? How do you keep your kids from watching porn online? Or cheating on their homework? Do you use the internet for everything, or are you still a fan of newspapers, magazines, and television?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
No cohesive thoughts, just random blah blah blahs...
1. Reese's peanut butter ice cream bars - do it. Don't ask questions, just trust me - go to the store and buy some and revel in the glory that is chocolatey peanut-buttery cold deliciousness.
2. Finn's got a hurt leg. I think he and his dog-friend, Cujo, played a little too rough last night and my boy pulled a muscle. I hope. He's not limping or anything, but he yelped when I was feeling around on him after I noticed he had a real hard time getting up in the bed last night. Poor puppy. I'm going to go google and find out what sort of people pain meds I can give him and massage his little leg a bit. If he still seems off tomorrow, we'll go see the doggy doctor.
3. I've got so much to do, and I have very little motivation to get any of it done. I saw a Craigslist ad the other day titled "I need a Wife!" - basically he was looking for someone to manage his household (grocery shopping, laundry, bill payments, etc.). I need that. Pretty sure that's supposed to be my job, sorta, but it'd sure be nice if someone else would just do it for me.
4. Okay, so I don't have that much to do. I need to do laundry, make a meal plan for the week, go to the grocery, and visit my brother. None of it is all that time-consuming or horrible; it's just not the same as sitting on my butt playing on the interwebs, so it seems like a lot. Yes, I am lazy. Hello. Nice to meet you.
5. Do you guys pay your electric bills on time? For some reason, we can't make that happen in our house. The bill comes in, we say "oh, we should pay that", and then the bill gets lost and we forget about it until we get the FINAL NOTICE brown bill in the mail. Then we're all "oh, we forgot to pay that" and so we pay it and everyone lives happily ever after. I'm not the only one, right? Right?
6. My cousin (sister) Stacy is 13 weeks pregnant. She came over last night with her first ultrasound pictures. She talked about how she can't wait to read books with her baby. Holy crap, she's having a baby! It's going to be here before we know it - January 21st is the due date. I can't wait to meet this child; I already love him/her so much.
7. Jimi found us a 15 passenger van that's been converted into a camper. It would also make a lovely zombie-escape-mobile. Now we just need an extra $24K to throw at it and we're all set.
8. I dreamed about zombies again last night. What's up with the zombie dreams, brain?
9. I need to de-clutter. I want to have fewer things. I'm going to work on that.
10. Jimi really wants to make some homemade pasta. Today might be the day. I'm hungry and it sounds good.
Happy Sunday!
2. Finn's got a hurt leg. I think he and his dog-friend, Cujo, played a little too rough last night and my boy pulled a muscle. I hope. He's not limping or anything, but he yelped when I was feeling around on him after I noticed he had a real hard time getting up in the bed last night. Poor puppy. I'm going to go google and find out what sort of people pain meds I can give him and massage his little leg a bit. If he still seems off tomorrow, we'll go see the doggy doctor.
3. I've got so much to do, and I have very little motivation to get any of it done. I saw a Craigslist ad the other day titled "I need a Wife!" - basically he was looking for someone to manage his household (grocery shopping, laundry, bill payments, etc.). I need that. Pretty sure that's supposed to be my job, sorta, but it'd sure be nice if someone else would just do it for me.
4. Okay, so I don't have that much to do. I need to do laundry, make a meal plan for the week, go to the grocery, and visit my brother. None of it is all that time-consuming or horrible; it's just not the same as sitting on my butt playing on the interwebs, so it seems like a lot. Yes, I am lazy. Hello. Nice to meet you.
5. Do you guys pay your electric bills on time? For some reason, we can't make that happen in our house. The bill comes in, we say "oh, we should pay that", and then the bill gets lost and we forget about it until we get the FINAL NOTICE brown bill in the mail. Then we're all "oh, we forgot to pay that" and so we pay it and everyone lives happily ever after. I'm not the only one, right? Right?
6. My cousin (sister) Stacy is 13 weeks pregnant. She came over last night with her first ultrasound pictures. She talked about how she can't wait to read books with her baby. Holy crap, she's having a baby! It's going to be here before we know it - January 21st is the due date. I can't wait to meet this child; I already love him/her so much.
7. Jimi found us a 15 passenger van that's been converted into a camper. It would also make a lovely zombie-escape-mobile. Now we just need an extra $24K to throw at it and we're all set.
8. I dreamed about zombies again last night. What's up with the zombie dreams, brain?
9. I need to de-clutter. I want to have fewer things. I'm going to work on that.
10. Jimi really wants to make some homemade pasta. Today might be the day. I'm hungry and it sounds good.
Happy Sunday!
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?
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
