Thursday, September 29, 2011

Hate mail makes me popular, right?

Definitely counts as hate mail, 
I'm sure you'll agree.  
Doubly so when it's left by "Anonymous" - 
you know, 
if Kim left it, 
it'd be another thing entirely.  


That's all I've got to say about that. 
I just wanted to make sure you all saw it.  :)  

Here's a picture I took with my new phone:

Happy Thursday!

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

My fingers threw up. All over the place. Sorry.

I got a new phone.  I haven't even gotten to play with it much yet, I've been so busy tonight.  Well.  Busy is a relative term, I guess.  I went to Melinda's to decorate our reception Crocs (more on that later), and then I came home for my hot date with Sookie and Eric and Bill and Niall.  I've finished book I wait until Rick's finished with 10 so I can put the entire series to rest.  And the raccoon is back in the attic.  No, we never did anything about it this summer, and now he's back.  Oh fucking boy.

I feel bad when I blog about religion - like I'm destined to offend someone.  It's like how I want to blog about how I feel about some personal shit, but I can't because maybe those people will read my blog and then they'll know what I'm too chickenshit to say to them and they'll be mad at me so I don't blog it at all.  Do I have to be that way with religion too?  Even though I'm trying to work it out for myself?

There's a lot I don't say; mostly because it'd be too many words and I'm lazy as all get out.  I get tired of trying to explain myself three paragraphs in...

I don't know where else to say the things I think sometimes.

My pee stinks.  I haven't had asparagus lately; I wonder if it was the wine?

Oh, and that personal shit I don't blog about?  It's not about you, Kim.  Swear.  Promise.  It's not about Jimi, either.  Or work.  It's just stuff I want to blog about desperately but can't because I'm afraid I'll hurt someone's feelings...

I fucking hate it when bloggers do that shit, don't you?  Gosh!  Alright, here's the thing - not in my household, but there's a baby on the way and there's no money and there's a lack of a lob involved and maybe not a lot of job hunting? and I'm just really frustrated and worried.  I can help some, but not enough, and I have reservations about some gestures...  (Do you offer to pay the electric bill, or do you just invite them over extra for dinner to spare them that expense?)

I work in an industrial park near a college campus.  There are street walkers, prostitutes, hookers (pick your moniker) that populate the area - lately I've come to notice a couple in particular.  One was a lady I saw last week, and today, for the first time, I saw the hooker with the walker - the one my boss refers to every time I mention the hookers on 4th street.  The hookers on 4th street are not attractive ladies; no no, rather, they're the picture in the dictionary next to "rode hard and put up wet".  Everything about their face looks tired, and it's heartbreaking.  They carry themselves with a certain manner - head down, eyes up, shoulders forced back, but you can tell they're faking the "I'm awesome" vibe they're trying to send.  Their faces are weathered and worn and craggy with lines that tell stories that would give us nightmares.  I can't see them without picturing, only for a moment, what they will be doing in an hour or two, what they've chosen as their craft, what they've been reduced to doing to make enough for a meal or two, or maybe the rent.

The woman with the walker, she's maybe 27 or 29, but she looks 50 from a distance.  Her coat is blue, U of K blue, and it hangs, too big for her, down to her knees, the sleeves past her hands.  Her pants are too big for her emaciated waist.  Her face is full of those lines of which I spoke earlier - her eyes have a sort of vacant far-off look to them, but then, I've only seen her as I've driven past, and that was just a moment, even though I turned my eyes from the road to watch her as I passed.  She doesn't use the walker in the traditional manner you've seen your grandpa use his; she shoves it ahead of her with her left hand, her right hand held out to her side to balance, and then pulls her feet forward, one at a time, slowly, very unsteadily, as if she's going to topple over at any moment.  I wonder when I watch "why doesn't she use it as it's intended?" and then I know that if she did, it would block "the view".

I don't know how we know they're hookers - the neighborhood, they way they carry themselves, stories that've made their way into the office from the workers in the plant; they all paint the picture and once you lay eyes on these women, you can see it as clearly as if they were wearing signs advertising blow jobs for five dollars and straight sex for twenty-five.  (I have no idea what their pricing structure is like; this is pure conjecture on my part.  Insulting, I know.  But maybe not.  If you saw them, you'd know what I mean.)

My heart breaks for them.  How did they end up there, on the corner of 4th and Central, stumbling along, willing to suck off any random dude with a stiff cock and a wrinkled bill?  What in the fuck must've happened in their lives to land them here, abandoned to the men who find their love on street corners and in dark alleys?  I almost hope it's drugs - if it's drugs, maybe they're still finding some joy at the end of their day.  It's almost too awful to imagine it any other way.

I didn't mean to go off on a tangent about the hookers, I just can't seem to stop thinking about them today.  One of my biggest fears in the world is being raped.  I can't even watch rape scenes in movies - if I've ever come close to knowing what my friends who suffer from severe anxiety feel during a panic attack, it's how I felt when I watched that movie where those kids break into those rich peoples' house and make the mom take off her clothes in front of her husband and her kid and they're about to rape her...I had to leave the room.  My heart felt like it'd blow up.  My whole body was tense, and I was shaking with the fear and awfulness of the idea of that happening in reality, knowing it happens all too often, though obviously not quite like that.  So yeah - what're the odds that those women have come to the point where they are without having suffered sexual trauma and abuse?  That's what I think of every time I see them.  And then my heart breaks all over again.

The Yellow Tail Riesling is really much better after you've had half a bottle.  That first sip is a little sharp, but the 25th or so goes down quite nicely.

It's so late.  It's getting easier to stay up later and harder to get up earlier - it has to be the season change.  Right?  Must force myself to get up early and walk the god.  Dog.  I know I fucked that up, but it made me lol, so I'm leafing it.  That one too.

Maybe it's time for bed.  OH!  And plan on seeing much more of me, because as I said, I totally got a new phone and it's got a badass camera on it so I can take like real pictures and stuff and I can totally get on the internet and like twitter and shit.  It's my first Android; I'm super excited.

Oh, and Dan, are you reading this?  If you are, say "I love blueberry muffins".

Mormon for President - but no thank you

I read nienie.  I like her a lot, when she's not talking about how awesome Mitt Romney is or how I need to buy more life insurance.

But her post today?  About how it's "against the constitution" for someone to say they won't vote for a Mormon for President?  Yeah.  

I wouldn't vote for a Mormon for President, but it's not because I hate Mormons.  I love Mormons.  I'm fascinated with Mormons.  I wouldn't put a Mormon in office because I know where they'd stand on political issues and it's absolutely contrary to my beliefs.  For starters, I believe that gay people are as equal as straight people, and Mitt and I ain't never gonna agree on that one basic fact.  

Remember with George W. talked about the conversations he has with God, and how God told him to go into Iraq and all that jazz?  Yeah, I get real nervous when people with access to nuclear warheads start talking about God's Will working through them.  

And have you ever truly examined the Mormon culture?  Good Mormons do what the Church tells them to, final answer.  Good Mormons are told by the Church how to live their lives: how to spend their money (offerings and tithing, mandatory); how to vote (conservatively, obviously); what to eat and drink (no tea or coffee); what to wear (from the type of underwear to the length of the skirts and shirt-sleeves); what to read and watch (only Church-approved literature, no R-rated movies).  You're telling me the Church would just chill and let one of its own be the POTUS without trying to exert some influence?  Yeah.  Uh huh.  

Have you heard of Prop 8?  Do you know how many "Good Mormons" dug into their savings to help fund that movement, because the Church told them it was expected of them?  And that was just for one ballot measure in California.  

No.  I wouldn't vote for a Mormon for President, but it's not because I'm a bigot; I wouldn't vote for a Mormon because I know too much about them and I don't trust their Church.  

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Sunday Morning play-by-play

Wake up at 9, stumble to the bathroom with bleary eyes and do my business, then stumble back to bed for another hour.

Wake up at 10, all snuggled up with our soft sheets and the down comforter that is almost always too hot but I insist on using year-round anyhow.  I'm very warm, and I'm in a great mood.  Throw my warm front over Jimi's cold back - the blankets are down around his waist, because they're almost always too hot for him - and just lie there for a minute, feeling the temperature differences and listening to that man I love as he sleeps through my attack.  He must've been really tired last night.

Roll over and scoot my back right up next to his, make sure the covers are straight and the bottom sheet is covered by the duvet, and call the dog up onto the bed.  Finn's always willing to snuggle, even if he is still mostly asleep and has to go through the whole stretch-and-wake-up routine before he hops up into the spot I'm patting; he lays the length of his body along the length of mine.  

Oh!  Here comes Q the Cat; he wants in on this morning petting action.  He sidles up next to Finn; not quite touching, their friendship isn't there unless we humans aren't around, but friendly enough that there's only a space of a couple inches between them.  Finn smells the cat's face, the cat sniffs Finn's nose and inclines his head, indicating he'd like Finn to rub his ears now, please.  I reach over and take care of the scratching Finn can't and Finn licks my face.

A few minutes of this - 5, 10.  Usually Jimi will wake up and join our little morning hello, making up silly songs or telling the fur kids what sort of things our day will bring.  He stays asleep this morning, though, so when I start to feel restless I tell the boys to hop down, throw back the covers, and my day has begun.

As soon as my feet hit the floor, the cat starts telling me that he's starving and NEEDS his breakfast NOW.  Yeah yeah yeah.  I let Finn out the back door - I can let him into our fenced back yard without having to worry about any neighbors noticing I'm naked when I open the doorway.  If he goes out front, I have to put on something to cover; I'm really happy we've got that fence in the back yard.

Back across the kitchen and dining room, down into the basement, Q two stairs ahead of me, turning back to check on me as he hops down every other step, making sure I'm following him to the food bowl.  He's very happy to have his kitty kibbles back; he hops up onto the old dryer that doesn't work and watches me intently as I reach the scoop into the bin that holds the food.  Some mornings he'll headbutt me as I bend down to scoop; he's always purring loudly with anticipation, and more than once I've been dripped on as he drools into the food bucket.  The cat likes to eat.

I grab a pair of house pants and a house shirt - that's how my clothes are distinguished; either they're house clothes, or they're outside clothes.  House clothes are generally pants with elastic waistbands and shirts that are either A) from high school, and therefore so threadbare they're nearly see-through; B) have a flaw of some sort (stain, hole) rendering it unsightly in public but it's too comfortable to throw away; or C) too tight but I swear it'll fit one day so meanwhile I'll just wear it around the house.

As I go back up the stairs, I realize it's Sunday and we've got to work tomorrow and most of our clothes are lying in our bedroom floor.  (Hamper?  What hamper?  Who needs a hamper?)  I go back downstairs and grab an empty laundry basket.  Back upstairs, I fill it to 150% capacity with all of the things we've worn since last Sunday and then it's back to the basement.  I sort the clothes into piles - pants, reds, whites, delicates, everything else.  Open the washer to start the first load - OH, hello whites that got left in there for a few days!  (When did Jimi wash these?  It had to have been Wednesday or Thursday.  Yay!)  Turn the water on, add detergent (homemade detergent, by the way), close the lid, shrug shoulders.

I woke up thinking fried apples sounded really good for breakfast.  Fried apples bring back happy memories from childhood involving Sunday morning biscuits and gravy breakfasts while watching Star Trek with Daddy, and Granny standing over her stove with her big cast iron skillet full of the fragrant fruit mixed with butter and cinnamon and brown sugar, turning crisp into melty sweetness.  I got out a bowl in which i could drop the fruit as it was, so many apples to cut up.  Hmm...

Oh!  We're supposed to have people for dinner.  I need to figure out a meal.  I open the freezer and there sits the big bag of frozen chicken noodle soup, just begging me to thaw it and heat it in the crock pot.  The dinner is done, man.

Now, about those apples...there's a lot of sugar in fried apples and I don't have any canned biscuits and I certainly don't want to make any biscuits this morning...maybe we can have some sort of apple dessert tonight.  I break out the Bisquick cookbook (I have other ones, I swear, but I was after a simple easy fix here, and Bisquick is where it's at.)  A few page flips and I've found a recipe for french apple pie; I've made it before and it's tasty, and it calls for one of my favorite things in the world, streusel topping.  And it will allow me to put off cutting up those apples for at least another 6 hours.

I'm on book eight of the Sookie Stackhouse series.  I decide coffee is what I need, that it would be perfect with the book and a smoke this morning.  We don't own a coffee pot.  Is that weird?  I've not had a coffee pot of my own since I moved from El Paso to Louisville, leaving the $100 Bunn behind for the ex.  I should've peed in it.  Current setup is sweeter, though - we've got a couple of French Press pots.  You boil your water (I didn't leave my tea kettle behind for the ex, because I'm not a complete fool), add your grounds to the press pot, then pour in the boiling water.  The lid of the pot has a fine mesh screen, and when you press the plunger, all the coffee grounds are held in the bottom of the pot while you're left with rich delicious coffee.  I filled the bottom third of my mug with Chai Latte creamer, then top off with coffee, and my morning was ready to begin.

And then I blogged about it.

Just your typical Sunday morning.  I love my life.  Every boring little detail.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Tell me, please...

Say you've just woken up.
You're ready (being forced) to start your day.
And then you open the shower curtain and see this:

What do you do?
Do you scream for the man in the next room?
Do you reach your bare hand and arm toward the beast to squish him, 
damned be the fear that he may jump and eat your face for breakfast.

Me?  I grabbed my camera so I could share with you guys.
And then I got one of the big manly shoes and I squished the sucker,
right there in the floor of my bathtub.
And then I flushed him down the toilet.

Happy Friday!
(Not for the spider...)

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Don't take my cat away.

I want to tell you what a bad cat mom I am, but I'm afraid you'll be mean and say that he needs a new home and that I'm a bad cat mom.

Q ran out of food on Sunday.  I was feeling hung over and exhausted and had declared that I wasn't going to put on a bra all day long, and so I did not go to get the cat food.

Monday and Tuesday, Q had canned chicken for breakfast.

Now, of course I put on a bra Monday and Tuesday.  I did not, however, remember to go to the fucking store to buy cat food.

Today is Wednesday.  Tuesday night, Jimi went to the fucking store, but he did not remember to buy cat food.

We do not have any more canned chicken or canned tuna in our home.  It is all gone.  We need to go to the fucking store to buy people food AND cat food.

So Q, today, is having dog food for breakfast.

I'd feel bad, except that the tubby bastard, regular-like, will scarf down all of his kitten food, then meander upstairs and chow down on the puppy food.  (Because there's always puppy food in the bowl.  Unless we're out of puppy food.  And then Finn gets shit like eggs and rice for breakfast.  Do cats eat eggs and rice?)

Q ate the dog food, but he did it with a look that says, "I can't believe you lazy bastards let me run out of food three days ago and haven't gone to the fucking store yet to get more."
Anyhow, I'm going to the fucking store today, okay?  I promise.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

What are you reading?

I've been reading those Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris.  (That's where True Blood came from.) Holy shitballs, what a great story-line!  My friend who loaned me the first 7 books described them as "quick, easy, interesting reads" and he hit the nail right on the head.  I've flown through the first 5 in the last 2 weeks, and somewhere in there I've managed to go to work and throw a surprise birthday party.

Conversely, Jimi, who is also reading the series (even if he's only on book 3 and I'm on number 6), has said, "Suck me, Sookie!" often enough that I hear it in my head automatically every time I hear, think, or read "Sookie Stackhouse".

I'm gonna go finish book six now.  If you've got the other books in the series, starting with number 8 and on up, and wanted to send them to me, that'd be totally cool.

Sunday, September 18, 2011


We threw Maggie a surprise party yesterday for her 50th birthday.  It went off without a hitch.  Oh, except that I didn't take a single effing picture during the entire day.  By the time the party kicked off, I was so relieved to be done cleaning and prepping and not ruining the surprise...I never even thought about my camera.  The party was wonderful; Maggie was surprised and happy, and I hope she felt the love we all have for her.

I did take some "after" pictures, though:

 Jimi smoked a beef brisket for 12 hours, then finished it off in the oven.  He used his meat slicer to make uniform slices perfect for sandwiches.  That was a 10 pound piece of meat, and this is all that's left of it.  

Cheesecake caramel apple dip.  Not much gone.  Lucky me!

We made a fire and sat around talking about religion and God...
and the people who'd already gone home.

Leftover beer in the fridge?  Okay.  Thanks!

Yes, that IS a table made from an old beer keg.  
We are the epitome of class up in here, y'all.  

My nuts got so many compliments.
I giggled a lot.

And, the cake:
There's a funny story about this delicious cake, which was supplied by our friends Jim and Sage.
Jim carried the cake outside.
Jim's daughter placed the candles.
I declared I'd light the candles.  
Har-d-har-hars went around the group - "are you sure that's a good idea?"
Yuk it up, Friends.

So I lit the candles as we sang Happy Birthday to our friend.
And then, at the very end, just as we finished the song...
the match, it was burning my fingers, you see?
So I blew it out.
I blew out the match.
And all of Maggie's candles too.

I didn't even make a wish.

So Maria re-lit the candles,
we re-sang Happy Birthday (fast),
and Maggie made a wish
and got to blow out her own candles.

And then later Steve ruined Christmas, but that's a story for another time.  Happy Sunday!  

Saturday, September 17, 2011

What ya eatin' today?

I've got, oh, I don't know - 4 dozen or so frozen banana bites dipped in either nutella or peanut butter and chocolate, coated with either toffee chips or nuts.

I'm making a delicious caramel cheesecake apple dip.

Jimi's got a beef brisket out on the smoker - it's been there since 6 a.m. and he already smells like smokey meat.

I've got a crockpot full of pecan and walnuts - I'm making German Roasted Nuts.

Now, if I could just work in a 3 hour nap and then wake up to find the litter box has been changed and the bathroom is clean, life would be perfect.  Oh, and I need someone to take care of my laundry for me, please.

Happy Saturday!

Friday, September 16, 2011

I ignore you all week, and then I come blather about a bunch of nothing.

I took the day off work - YAY!  I love days when I don't have to go to work.  Of course, I got my first work-related phone call at 9:15 a.m., while I was still curled up in a ball under my down comforter, all warm and almost back to sleep after kissing and hugging Jimi goodbye when he left for the day.  Of course, my replacement-for-the-day didn't actually need to ask me any questions, just wanted to let me know of the several problems that have come up already this morning.  Thanks, buddy.  I'm glad you pulled me from my happy place to share that with me.  Please don't do it again.  Now go handle that shit, because I'm not doing it today.

My sweet friend Maggie is coming to see us this weekend - I'm going to spend my day making my house presentable and making us some yummy healthy snacks.  Her birthday is Sunday, so I want to make sure I've got special treats on hand for her.  Jimi's going to smoke a beef brisket for our dinner tomorrow, assuming I'm able to locate one today within a 20-mile radius of my home - apparently, beef brisket isn't something that all grocers have on hand at all times.  Who knew?

It's freezing in my house - like 65 degrees.  I love it.  I'm wearing my footie pajamas, and I really need to order another 4 or 5 pair of these bad-daddies.

Jimi's truck died this week, then was resurrected by Stacy's husband and a new belt between the alternator and the water pump.  What a relief - when he came home saying the truck was overheating, and when a simple solution wasn't found immediately, we both sort of assumed the worse.  I just knew he was going to have to get a new-to-him vehicle, and I'm really glad it didn't play out that way.

Did I mention it's pretty cold in here?

So I have to go to the grocery, but I just realized I've got two sunday papers in there from which I've not clipped coupons yet.  Maybe i can save myself some money and avoid leaving the house for another hour!

Also?  Just notice Jimi replaced the garbage bag when he took the trash out this morning.  Bless his heart.  Now, if I thanked him, blew him, then thanked him again, would that provide the positive reinforcement necessary to insure this is not a one-time thing?

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to do things I go.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Random ramblings and thinga and stuffs and thingz

My cousin is having a girl.  YAY!  I get to play barbies again!

So many more thoughts than that in my head tonight.

A year ago, I was still pregnant.

No.  This isn't going to be one of those posts.

Though my fingers are sluggish and slow and I"m hitting the backspace key much more than normal, so i can't really promise what this will become.

Why is the screan so bright?

Jimi put two new-to-me tires on the back half of my car today.
A co-worker (who happened to be in my office when Jimi dropped my car back at work) said, "He's paying his bill."

This statement has caused me much consideration and contemplation this afternoon and evening.

I don't get it, I guess, the idea of women being with men to achieve some financial goal or another.

When my ex-husband and I split, I assumed half of our combined debt, nevermind that he'd come into our relationship with 2/3 of it.  Whatever.  Nevermind that I was entitled, according to State law, to receive spousal support for three years.  Whatever.  Better to sever those ties completely and walk away.

Jimi and I have completely separate finances.  We don't share a bank account, and we don't have joint credit accounts.  This house we live in belongs to him; I pay half the mortgage each month on the understanding that this is my home and I will live here until I'm old and gray and, well, it's a hell of a cheap rate for rent in this area for what I'm getting.  I have no illusions - if he so chose, he could kick me out on my ass tomorrow and I'd have no legal recourse.

But he won't.

My bill is higher than my co-worker's lady's.


Stacy's having a girl. We knew it'd be a boy or a girl, but somehow knowing makes it more real.  OMG, I can't wait to kiss that baby's little teeny tiny nose.  And her little fingers, and her little toes.  And I can't wait to teach her all about everything - oh, I love her so much already.  


Listening to Amy Winehouse makes me feel sexy.  Even if I'm in my car, by myself, belting out tunes to no one but the night air.  


I started a rant this morning that maybe I'll post one of these days eventually.  Maybe not.  Basically, don't be a dick.  It's important.  


There's a good chance I'm not sober.  All the better.  Maybe I'll sleep tonight.  Probably not.  

Sweet dreams.  

Fucking backpace.  


OH!  And did I mention my underwire in my next-to-last wearable bra broke tonight?  No?!  WELL IT DID!

Fuckin' A.  

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Tales from Ten Years Ago

The sky was clear and blue - the sort that makes you stop and take a good long look, a good deep breath.  I don't remember what I wore, whether it was short-sleeved or long, and I don't remember what the temperature was outside.  I remember that sky, though, and how beautiful it was.

I listened to Howard Stern on 100.5 The Fox on my drive to work, as I did every weekday morning.  I would get mad and have to turn it off sometimes, particularly when he was spanking naked women with dead fish, but 85% of the time, Howard amused me. I pulled into the strip mall where our office was located and parked in one of our designated spots just before my assigned start time of 8 a.m..  I was 21 years old, and this was my first office job; I was a "Legal Coordinator" for a company that gave high-interest car loans to people with bad credit.  My job was to skip trace the ones who didn't pay, then prepare the paperwork so we could sue them.  I also handled all communication between our office and the attorneys who worked for us.  I made $8 an hour and thought I was pretty awesome.  (Except sometimes I'd be skip-tracing and come across a debtor whose credit report was 5 pages long, all full of medical bills due and owing to oncologists and clinics - my heart broke a little and I moved on to the next name on my list.  Those people had enough to worry about without getting hassled by some loan shark.)

I'd been at my desk probably 30 minutes when our general manager came in with Starbuck's for everyone, and casually mentioned that an airplane had struck the World Trade Center.  I, of course, was an expert on flying, seeing as how I was sort of on a break with the pilot I'd been dating for the last 10 months, and quickly listed off things that could've gone wrong causing that pilot to make such a terrible error.  We didn't have a television in the office - we weren't aware that New York had the same clear-blue skies we were seeing in Kentucky that morning.  We talked of weather conditions and instrument failures - and then the GM's wife called his cell phone and told him a second plane had struck the second tower.

"There's no way that was an accident," I stated the obvious, still the flying expert.

We still had no television.  We all rushed to our computers, to, to whatever web page we could find, desperate for information.  Remember how slow the internet was ten years ago?  My phone has faster load speeds now, and I compare it to dial-up on the regular.  Not only was the internet slow on a good day, but on this day, with the world crashing to a halt, it was useless.  Pages wouldn't load, websites were frozen, and the ones you could access had nothing to share other than that same image of both towers with gashes in them and smoke pouring out.

I don't remember when I heard about the plane hitting the Pentagon, but my blood ran cold when the news reached me.  Kat.  Kat was in the Army, stationed near Washington, D.C.  Was my friend safe?  I typed out a hasty email - something to the effect of "I know you're probably busy, but please let me know you're okay as soon as you can."  I heard back from her pretty quickly; she was on base, which was on lockdown, and she was safe.  Sort of.  If you call being huddled in a windowless room with your co-workers, scared for your life every time you hear a fighter jet overhead, safe.  No one knew who was safe at that point.

I took a smoke break and went out to my car and turned on Howard.  He was in New York, after all.  There were dozens of reports of planes hijacked and missing; the world was in chaos.  There was an order to ground all planes.  The towers fell.

Bob.  My ex-husband, Bob.  He was my sort of on a break pilot boyfriend Bob, at the time.  He was in the air somewhere, flying from Michigan to Indiana to Michigan.  Was he safe?

Momma.  I want my Momma.  I called her, told her I needed a hug.  I left the office and went to the grocery up the street.  The driver of every car I passed looked shell-shocked.  The world felt silent.  The piped-in Musak in the grocery seemed to have been muffled somehow, as with a pillow.  The strangers I met in the aisles all looked at me with the same pleading gaze I had on my face - we wanted desperately for someone to tell us this wasn't real, this wasn't true, this wasn't happening.  Everyone was kind and gentle with one another - we were all very scared, we were all very vulnerable, and we were all very conscious that we all felt the same way.

I bought my lunch and went to Momma's office.  It was the first time I saw images of the devastation, the first time I saw the planes hit, the first time I saw those buildings fall in on themselves.  Momma's co-worker joined us for our meal, and we all held hands and prayed before we began eating.  My food had no taste, my body had no appetite.

I went back to work.  By now it was considered official that some assholes in the Middle East were responsible for this, and that meant gas prices were about to sky-rocket.  My boss sent us each one at a time to the gas station up the road, where we waited in line for 45 minutes to fill our tanks for whatever the price was that day - $1.35 or some other unbelievably low number.  We didn't work a full day.

The small suburb in which I grew up, Jeffersontown, hosts a festival every year called Gaslight.  The county-fair-like rides are set up the Saturday before, then there's a parade on Thursday, and the festival kicks off at noon on Friday and goes through Sunday evening.  On my drive home that afternoon, a sign on the edge of a ballfield announced that Thursday evening's parade was cancelled.  It struck me as odd at first, but then I understood, and the enormity of what was happening rolled over me again.

The gas stations I passed on my way home displayed prices as high as $5.35.  A year later, when the Gaslight Parade did happen, flyers were passed around, listing all of the stations that had raised their prices immediately after the attacks and publicly shaming them for gouging their fellow Americans.  Most of those stations were out of business or under new ownership before the next year's parade.

Eventually I talked to Bob.  He'd been forced to land in Ft. Wayne, IN and was staying at a motel across from the airport until the no-fly restrictions were lifted.  He'd finally gotten in touch with his mother, and she'd driven to his apartment to rescue Jack, the Jack Russell/Rat-Terrier mix Bob and I had adopted "together" 6 months before.  I later learned Bob, who had somehow managed to convince himself that he was really good at hiding from his parents the fact that he was a pack-a-day smoker, had left an ashtray out on his coffee table, and his mom had seen it.  She said to him, "I'd rather you smoke marijuana than smoke cigarettes."  Of course, that was convenient, seeing as how he was a pilot and all, and they are drug tested like every other week.  Bob was stuck in Ft. Wayne for 3 days, without a change of clothes or underwear, without cash, without the ability to cook a meal, without a toothbrush.  He washed his socks and boxers in the sink in his room; the hotel supplied missing toiletries; strangers made sure he ate.

I didn't watch much television coverage.  My Momma was glued to the TV.  I remember how proud I was of her when she called and donated $50 to the Red Cross.

I stood outside.  It was so quiet.  No planes.  Very few cars - everyone who was able huddled in their homes with their loved-ones.  I went to the bar.  Commiserated with my other drunk friends.  Tried to get a buzz, but couldn't.  It was just too horrible.

We wore red, white, and blue for the rest of the week.  I bought a magnetic American Flag and affixed it to my car trunk.

When the flying ban was lifted and Bob was able to get back to Michigan, he hopped in his truck and drove straight to my Mom & Dad's house.  He arrived Friday afternoon, right after I got home from work, and told me to pack a bag and we went to a hotel for the night.  The next day, he went through my phone and we fought because of a name he found there.  He got on his knees in front of me and, with tears in  his eyes, asked me to move to Michigan, to live with him, to share my life with him.  I told him I would, but only if we married within a year.  I moved to Michigan the next month, and married Bob at the beginning of the following summer.

I make rash decisions when I'm emotionally vulnerable.

It's hard to remember what the world was like before.  I didn't fly commercial back then, so nearly all of my airport experiences have involved taking off my shoes and being randomly selected for additional screening.  What were the major political talking points, if they haven't always been terrorists and wars?  Did I really only pay $0.98 a gallon for gasoline?

And that's just my sheltered little life.  When I try to imagine what this day must mean to women my age, living in a war-torn country on the other side of the their lives surely have changed, because of something they did not cause and could not control and cannot stop...
I don't.  I don't try to imagine it, because I'm terrified of it.

My TV is off today.  I can't immerse myself in the awfulness.

Today, I'm making crock pot potato soup and laundry detergent and homemade Febreeze and dishwasher detergent.  And I'm going to go visit my brother.  And then Stacy's coming over for soup and I'm going to try this sopapilla cheesecake recipe I found on Pinterest for dessert.

Today, I'm going to spend my time doing things I enjoy with people I love.  I'm not letting the terrorists win.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Dress Debacle 2011 - OVER. And poop.

In other news, the Dress Debacle of 2011 has resolved itself.

The shop where we purchased the dresses has apparently experienced chicks like me before - they've got this nifty little policy that says if you pay them an extra $10, you can return your too-small (or too-big, I guess) dress and they'll order the correct size.

A dress that fits me will be in next week.  Problem solved!

I'm not giving up, I'm being realistic.  I was nearly having a panic attack every time I thought about it - about how awful I was going to look with one of those zip-in panels, or worse, having to tell my friend that I can't do it because I can't wear the dress I bought for the occasion.  That's not really an option, you know?  It's kind of a big deal, a person's wedding.

I feel like a total quitter, but I don't care.  That dress will zip come mid-October, and I'm not going to starve, lose sleep, or have to get back liposuction.  And I can still work my butt off and get skinny again - but I won't have the lingering "I hate myself" guilt if I eat an extra 100 calories throughout the day.


Completely off subject, but can I mention how much I absolutely hate smelling other people's shit?  Some truck driver came into the office yesterday and asked to use the bathroom.  I didn't think anything of it - until he was gone for 10 minutes.  When he finally came out, a waft of stink followed him down the hall, into the vestibule, and out the door.  "Oh fuck," I thought.  I went searching for the air freshener, getting a quick tendril of stink every now and then, which helped keep me focused on my mission.  I finally found the spray in Kim's office and made my way back down the hall toward the source of the offensive odor.  

The bathroom door was ajar by about 6 inches, and the light and fan were on inside.  I held my breath and approached, Oust can held out directly in front of me.  I reached my arm only just inside the door and held down the nozzle - and then I had to take a breath in

I woke up on the floor of the hallway, gagging and with tears streaming down my cheeks.  Okay, I didn't really pass out, but I may as fucking well have.  Jesus Mary and Dominic, that man must've been full of pure unadulterated evil and it was escaping from his asshole.  

I really hate smelling other people's shit.  

And then Kim got to work.  "Before you even go into your office, I want you to walk down the hall and stick your head in the men's room and take a big whiff," I instructed, honestly believing she would do it without question.  

"What, did someone take a big shit?"  Why was she not walking down the hall?

"Yes.  OMG YES."  

"And you WANTED ME TO SMELL IT?!  Thanks a lot, Friend."  

"Only because you were hiding the air freshener in your office!  I nearly died searching for it!"


I'm so happy Friday is here.  This has been the longest 4-day workweek EVAR.  I'm over it, and I need to recharge.  If I could call in sick today, I'd do it.  Oh well.  I'm going to focus on the good.  It'll all be fine.  Every little thing gonna be alright.  

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Fucking work.

There was a time in my life where, if I'd had the sort of morning I've had today, I would've walked out of the office and never come back.  (Except maybe to pick up my last paycheck.) 

I've grown up since then, become an adult.  Responsible thoughts like "What about health insurance?" and "But you don't have a week's pay held back - if you leave today, there's no more money coming after your vacation pay" keep me from walking out and completely fucking up my financial peace. 

Oh, but in my heart - in my heart I'd love to make a grand exit complete with lots of yelling and "fuck you!"s. 

That's not completely true.  In my heart, I'd like for people to stop attacking me and treating me like I'm an asshole when I try to come up with solutions to the problems we face.  In my heart, I'd like to be able to ask a question and get a straight answer.  In my heart, I'd like to be able to discuss complicated situtations like professional adults, rather than listen to yelling or attitude or bitchiness. 

I'm losing hope that the things I want are possible.  I'm realizing that it is time to drum up a new resume and start to put some feelers out there.  I'm realizing that the perks of my job aren't necessarily worth the cost of my sanity. 

But I'll be a grown-up about it.  I'll do the right thing.  Not because it makes me feel better or because it's the right thing to do, but because I can't afford to go out any other way. 

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

A Hump Day Haiku

Big changes coming at work.  
Opportunity -
Yeah, yeah, I hear you knocking.  

Attitude is everything.
The good, bad, ugly - 
it can come back to haunt you.  

I hear a chirping.
Smoke detector dying;
brings back memories from Camp.

I could write all day,
tap out syllables
with fingers on the table.  

But I have to go to work,
make the drums and stuff,
So we can pay the mortgage.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Happy Labor Day

The hot, it is gone.  The air is crisp and cool and begs for long sleeves and pajama pants and hot tea and a good book on the front porch.

I believe I've just planned my day.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

I'd give up, but that's not going to make that dress fit, either.

Remember when I said something about how if I cheat I'm only cheating myself?  I was so bad this week, and it shows on the scale that hasn't moved in the right direction.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

It's okay though.  I'm regrouping.  I'm accepting my consequences and making new plans.  5 miles yesterday - yes, it was the hottest day of the year, at 106 or so.  Yes, 2.5 miles were very uphill.  Yes, it sucked balls.  Yes, I felt awesome after it was over.

And then I took a cold shower and Jimi got in with me and when I was finished I opened the shower curtain to get a towel and there stood Jimi's brother and his friend, hollering out "Who's in the shower?" as I flashed them full frontal.

Oh, and my soaking wet panties, shorts, and tank top were strewn throughout the hallway, just enough to make sure they'd have to step over each piece to get to the living room.

They were like an hour early showing up to the house, for the record.  I don't generally shower with my boyfriend with the bathroom door open and sweaty clothes all over the house when I'm expecting company imminently.

We all pretended like it didn't happen.

Two miles this morning, not uphill, and it's pretty cool and comfortable outside right now.  I'm going to have to do that at least every morning before work.  And I've gotta get serious about the upper-body toning - I don't know how else I'm going to melt away enough back-fat to get that fucking zipper closed.

My inches are moving, though, and in the right direction, even.  Just not as quickly as I'd like.  I wanted magic - two weeks in, I wanted that dress to fit perfectly and that scale to say beautiful things I've not seen since my (very) early twenties.

I want to eat cake and ice cream so bad.  And an entire chocolate Easter bunny covered in a quart of peanut butter.  Instead, I think I'm going to go to the grocery and stock up on a bunch of Paleo grub.

In other news, it's Sunday, but not just any Sunday - it's Sunday before a no-work Monday, which makes it like a Super Saturday.  No bellyache at 6 o'clock tonight when I realize work is again looming on the horizon.

Happy Sunday!

Friday, September 2, 2011

It's just a bottle of pills.

I bought a bottle of prenatal vitamins about a year ago, the day I peed on a stick and it showed two lines.  I was so excited.  I bought a pregnancy book, too, which promptly scared the shit out of me and was banished to my bookcase.  (Who knew ham was bad?  Holy crap!)

My surprise only stuck around for a week, and then a week after that it was all over; my life was back to "normal".

I banished the prenatals for a couple months, then my hormones went into overdrive and I could think of nothing but getting pregnant again; I dug them out of the closet and started taking them nightly, so I would be prepared, covered, all set when the next set of double lines appeared.  

It's been almost a year; the vitamin bottle is empty, the book has been passed to my pregnant sister/cousin, and if peed on a stick right now, there would only be one line.

I think I'm okay with it all, with the way everything has played out.  I'd say "no big deal", but then I'd have to ascribe another cause to these tears welling up.

I thought I'd be a mom by now.  I really did.  I thought for sure nothing would go wrong and everything would be perfect.  When things went wrong, I was shocked.  How cruel reality can be.

Then I was going to be pregnant by Christmas.  When that didn't happen, I thought, "Surely by summer."  It's September.

I'm accepting that maybe "parents" isn't a title we're destined to claim.  As I type those words, I'm thinking in the back of my mind, "but I'm only 31.  Lots of women have babies at 32, 33, 34..."

Getting pregnant is something I always thought I'd be able to do whenever I decided I was ready to do it.  Even now, I still hold this little thought that says, "If I bought some of those ovulation predictor things, or charted my temperature; if I really TRIED, I'd be successful."  Maybe it's true.  The fear that maybe it's not is what keeps me from taking those steps.

I thought we'd be parents by now.  I thought for sure it was our reality.

I believe things come to you when you're ready for them; that the universe has a way of putting people, places, things in your life at precisely the right moments, just when you need them, or maybe not until you're able to cope with them.  I hope it's just not our turn yet, not our time.  I fear it may never be our turn, but maybe there's something different, better out there for us.  The not knowing is the hardest part; I feel like I could accept the answer either way, if only I could just know what it is.


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