Yeah, Well

Apparently I need to come up with more stories to tell y'all. OK, so here's one:

I had a best friend in high school; her name is Christina. I don't know where she is now, and I'd love to find her. Anyhoo..

Downtown Huntsville had a gorgeous park where everyone used to hang out. One night, Christina and I were just driving around, as everyone did in town back then. We got near the Fountain. This means that we were around the town square and had nothing to do. We decided to walk to the park. We went down the stairs - it was about 9pm - and saw that the fountain was still open. We looked at each other.

We took off our tops and pants, and then climbed into the fountain to dance and laugh and throw water on each other. We thought nothing of it; we were being silly and giggly and girls. There was nothing untoward in our evening.

Until some guy walked by, and cat-called and whistled at us. You know - at that moment we realized what we were doing. It's too bad, because for Christina and me, it was just silly fun. For this guy, it was sexual.

Maybe the end of our innocence.

Sometimes He Listens

About a week ago, my boy and I were talking about something, nothing, everything, as we do every day (on average five times a day, not that I pay close attention or anything - shut up!). We got to talking about a time when he was in elementary school or junior high and another boy was harassing and bothering him. He told me that his mom went to this kid and essentially told this kid to stay the hell away from my boy and leave my boy alone. I knew what he wanted - he wanted me to be just as horrified as he was about his mother's interference with his life.

Instead, I responded more or less with this. "Of course she did! Good on her for doing it, too! She was protecting her baby!"

He stopped short in the conversation. "Do you really think so?" he asked me, his voice incredulous. "Yes. She loves you, you're her son, and someone was messing with someone she loves!"

Tonight, he'd been talking with his folks, and he thanked them for raising him as they did. He told them that he knew that they did the very best they could. And without me asking what brought this on, he told me, "I remember what you said about what my mom did. It really gave me a new view on what parents do, and how they do it."

I didn't think I could love him more. And really, folks, I want to thank his folks for raising such an amazing man.

What I Got For My Birthday

If only because I knew y'all would want to know, I'll tell you what I got for my birthday. First, the bad news:

- a UTI
- a tension headache that had been building for days, and culminated in an inability to sleep and an unbelievably bad mood
- hives!
- acne the type of which I haven't seen since I was 14

Now, the good news:

From my sister - a set of 1000 threat count sheets for my new bed. (Go, sister!)
From my brother - cash. That man knows me well.
From my father - a check. Again, and considering everything, I never turn down money.
From my mother - permission to get my hair cut and colored as I want. What a fantastic present! She knows that I haven't been thrilled with the way my color turned out. I'm so glad she listened.
From my friend M. - a gift certificate for a restaurant, and the most recent book from Susan Jane Gilman. I'm so glad for this gift!
From my boy (yeah, this one warrants a list):
- outsider art
- the Thrill Kill Kult I asked for
- three books
- measuring cups and spoons
- a box of Twilight Sweethearts
- a CD of pictures of him and his life. Wow, I wish I could post for you my absolute favorite picture of him. I can't, so I'll describe it - it's him sitting before a show, looking at his reflection in the mirror, contemplative. It's almost the opposite of a Dorian-Gray image. Perfect.

And for the best news of all - I've finally gotten rid of this unbelievable headache. Thank goodness! And I was able to reconnect with an old friend, which was nice.

Wanna know something dorky? I told my boy last night that he's the most important man in my life. I meant, and mean, every single word. And he was so sweet and respectful about me saying that. We normally tease the hell out of each other, but this time, he heard me and understood what I meant.

How's that for a birthday?

Things I Don't Like

Well, darling people, we find ourselves together again, doing the dance around my bad mood. There's no reason for it; nothing bad happened today. In fact, it was a lovely day filled with parades and shopping and visiting. But on this eve, I find myself cranky. In an effort to simultaneously get this stuff off my chest and make myself laugh, I present this list of things I don't like (not in order or nuthin'. Can't be arsed to arrange this list):

1. Sharing my apartment
2. Bad grammar
3. Having to retype a document and repeat the bad grammar, word choices, and inconsistent stylings
4. Seeing how clever some people are on Twitter and then going back to another account to see how incredibly fucking moronic people are
5. Realizing that I still follow these fucking moronic people
6. Running out of hummus
7. People who decrease speed when merging onto the freeway. I'm looking at you, people on I-565
8. Knowing that my shows on TiVo are going to be deleted before I see them because Momma just had to watch a John Wayne movie on one of the THREE TVs in this place
9. That giant worm that came into my place and the fact that it could happen again
10. Having to be nice
11. That I can't afford anything right now
12. Worrying
13. Neverending earnestness
14. People who feel they have a right to know about my life and seem to think the best way to find out about it is to put me through the Inquisition
15. Missing my boy. How can I be so lonely for someone?
16. Mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, organ meats
17. Recognizing right now that I'm almost out of soda, and what else mixes with vodka?
18. Cleaning up after someone else
19. Being interrupted when I speak, except that one I have to live with because I do it to everyone else
20. Not getting my (non)designated parking space

You know what? That helped!

Personal Best

I have now perfected the ability to sleep past 11am. Heck, I've gotten even better, and today I didn't wake up until 12:30-ish. Yes, this is because the boy keeps me up until all hours, and yes, I take my fair share of the blame for that. But I like him, folks, so what else can I do? Things will change soon enough for the both of us and we won't get to have these rambling overnight conversations. So for now, I'm going to keep working on being the best late sleeper I can be.

I Can't Stop Looking At This

One of my neighbors lives with his girlfriend and a set of parents. I can't tell who belongs to whom, and honestly, I don't care that much. The neighbor and his girlfriend are young - I'd put them in their late teens or early twenties. But the best part of this story is this:



Really? He really did that to his car? One part of me laughs every time I see it. Another part of me thinks, "Awww...he wears his heart on his sleeve". Yet another part of me thinks it's kinda creepy to drive around with that on your car.

So what do you guys think? Would be it creepier if they weren't living together? I think it would be. Something like that can rapidly sink into stalker-dom.

So...Very...Tired

I don't know why I stay up so late on the weekends. Well, I do know why, but that's really none of your business, if you're not Wade or B. Or the object of my affection (Hi, Baby!).

So on nights like tonight, when I'm so tired that I can't formulate a complete sentence, when answering the phone feels Sisyphean (sweet Christ, readers, I can't believe I remembered that word! And used it correctly!), when having a conversation feels like a chore, when my first reaction to anyone not immediately agreeing with me is to take a sledgehammer to the phone, I indulge myself in musical therapy. To wit:

Britney Spears - Everytime
Concrete Blonde - Can Make Me Cry
Lionel Richie - Hello

Yeah. Overwhelmed, scared, feeling small and ineffectual, sentimental, dangerous me.

Lollie

Dear readers, I'd like to introduce you to my new reason for living. Her name is Lollie, for no discernible reason other than the name came to me:



Last week, my old vacuum - a hand-me-down from my grandmother! - died. I changed the vacuum bag, turned it back on, and it smelled like burnt rubber. Momma did some surgery on it today and declared it a lost cause. She then told me that I could either take it to a small engine repair place, where it could be fixed, but then one side would be stronger than the other, or I could go get a new one.

I think you already know what I decided - even without the photo. New? Shiny new vacuum? For me? This makes cleaning and cooking last week all worth it.

So I brought her home, this poor, returned darling who was living in a torn-up box, and put her back together to make her a real vacuum-girl. And wow, did she reward me. If you know me, you know how much I require vacuum lines in my carpet. And not lackadaisical ones, but clean-cut, precise lines. Look at what Lollie can do!

First, in the dining room - photo cropped so you don't see that I was too lazy to move the chair and vacuum under it:



Next, I took her into my office. Don't judge - I haven't gotten around to organizing this room yet:


(Why, yes, eagle-eyed reader, that is a Furby on the left side of the photo!)

And, finally, look at what she did to my bedroom:



This is why she has a special place not only in my heart, but in my utility closet.

R.I.P.

Cita called me earlier today to let me know that she and her husband had to have one of their dogs put to sleep. Mr. Coley is no longer with us:



He was a favorite of mine because of his story and his attitude. He was, from what we could tell, a feral dog who followed Cita's husband home. He allowed himself to be domesticated and he allowed himself to love and be loved in return. He was a tough guy, shy but dominate. He had the softest tail you ever wanted to touch. He looked a bit like a fox.

I can only imagine how hard this is for Cita and her husband. I loved Coley a lot, and I'm sure my love was just a tip of the iceberg. So, folks, send your condolences to my friends, and remember this lovely animal who taught us something about trust, love, and faithfulness.

At Least I Had To Lie About It

I was chattering at D. last night, and somehow we always manage to end up on the topic of music. This is generally better than the topic of the reality TV shows I watch, where he balefully exclaims his eternal horror and lack of respect for me. If I ever get him in a room with me and Rock of Love Bus, I can guarantee that he'll change his tune.

Anyhoo...

I was about 14 or so, and a fledgling dangerous goth girl, prone to listening to depressing music by say, Depeche Mode. Yeah, OK, I was diving into the deep end with some New Order, gasp Joy Division, and then treading water with Siouxsie and the Banshees. I was a cute little blonde thing with a perm back then. (I wish I could find the photos too. Priceless.) So my friends Amy and Serena, and their friend Andrew (my first gay! w00t!) hatched a plan to go see Siouxsie.

The other three didn't have to lie to their parents. Amy's folks were the ones who drove us. Serena's mom was pretty chill by then (that's a story for another time), and Andrew was so obsessed with Siouxsie that had his folks even said no, it wouldn't have made a difference. I, however, had to lie through my teeth to my mother to get to go. I told her it was Amy's birthday and she was having a slumber party.

In our eternal wisdom, the kind that comes from being a teenager, we decided to dye my hair black. Now, I was a blonde due to liberal application of Sun-In, and the perm didn't do a whole lot to make my hair stronger. I bought a bottle of the old-lady dye, the kind in the silver bottle conveniently located near the bluing. And Amy and I did it, we got my hair that gorgeous color of shoe polish, and straight. (Apparently no other chemical can withstand the power of the old-lady dye.)

The next day, we tried to wash the black out of my hair. I must've washed my hair twenty times, and it just turned a weird shade of green-grey. Can you imagine the look on Momma's face when she saw me? I told her we had gotten into a hair-dye fight, and bless her heart, she believed me. She took me off to Fantastic Sam's (YEAH!) to get my hair fixed. Many chemical applications and screams of pain later (I'm tender-headed, people!) I had hair that was dark, dark brown but glowed purple in sunlight.

I was the happiest lil' goth girl ever. Momma did not find this nearly as fabulous as I did. Moral of the story: I still have hair, lying was good 'cos I got to see Siouxsie and get a goth color, and I cannot keep to a point on a bet.

Top Chef

For the past few days, I've been dreaming of nothing other than sharp flavors and fresh ingredients. I guess my boy has finally sunk into my basic being, what with his endless conversations with me about his finds at the Pike Street Market. Combine his found treasures with my desire for, well, food, and I created the perfect (palate) storm inside me. I've been musing about roasted corn with clarified butter and cayenne pepper. I've dreamed of fresh, fresh, the freshest berries. I've been having conversations with K. about having a cooking date.

All signs pointed to nesting today, and I finally got off my ass and did something about these cravings. I found a recipe for a broccoli quiche and for snickerdoodles, which, by the way, are the most godlike of all the cookies. I got myself off the computer and into the store.

(Aside: Apologies for the change of voice, my boy called, and it threw off my writing game. I shouldn't have answered.)

People, I must have called Wade four times while I was there. I didn't know what kind of flour I needed. Bleached? Unbleached? I didn't know what kind of butter I needed. Salted? Unsalted? You can see where this is headed. I'm grateful she answered the phone every two minutes. (Thanks, honey.)

I got home and got to work on the quiche. I hand-grated a half pound of swiss and a quarter pound of marbled jack. Let me tell you, if you have the choice, hand-grate the swiss. The softer the cheese, the more miserable the grating is. (You'll be glad to know that no blood was lost in the making of this dinner.) I didn't even measure the cheese; I just added it to the mix. I chopped broccoli. I mixed spices (marjoram, basil, garlic, salt, pepper) with eggs. I did all this. ME.

Next, I started on the snickerdoodles. I'll admit that I again tried to call Wade to find out how many tablespoons of butter were in a half-cup. She (wisely) didn't answer, so I called my boy. He told me that eight tablespoons were needed. Doesn't that seem like an ass-load of butter? Turns out he was spot-on. It also turns out that snickerdoodle dough is very dry. (I am the girl who wonder when, exactly, dough becomes batter, and vice versa. Luckily for all of us, I was too busy mixing to let that thought linger.)

Hours later, I had created a fantastic quiche and snickerdoodles that are smack-your-Momma good. ME! I did this! I couldn't be more pleased with myself.

I just finished telling my boy all this, and he complimented me in the phrase I hate the most. "I'm so proud of you." This time, people, it meant something. It wasn't condescending. It was sweet and loving.

I'll be cooking again, and soon.

Because It Sounds Like 80s Music, That's Why

This is my most recent song addiction. And by addiction, I mean it's been in my head for the past five days straight. It's not a great video, but the song will make you move, and maybe I can pass this affliction off to you.

Metro Station - Shake It

(Let's drop!)

I'll take you home if you don't leave me at the front door (leave me at the front door)
Your body's cold, but girl we're getting so warm
And I was thinking of ways that I could get inside (get inside)
Tonight you're falling in love (let me go now)
This feeling's tearing me up (here we go now)

Now if she does it like this, will you do it like that?
Now if she touches like this, will you touch her right back?
Now if she moves like this, will you move her like that? (Come on)

Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake, uh shake it

Your lips tremble but your eyes are in a straight stare (straight stare)
We're on the bed but your clothes are laying right there
And I was thinking of places that I could hide (I could hide)
Tonight you're falling in love (let me go now)
This feelings tearing me up (here we go now)

Now if she does it like this, will you do it like that?
Now if she touches like this, will you touch her right back?
Now if she moves like this, will you move her like that? (Come on)

Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake, uh shake it

I saw you dancing and I couldn't get you off my mind
(I could tell that you could tell that I was takin' my time)
I was thinking of ways that you would stay and be mine
(Your body's shaking, turn me on, so I can turn off the lights)

Now if she does it like this, will you do it like that?
Now if she touches like this, will you touch her right back?
Now if she moves like this, will you move her like that? (Come on)

Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake, uh shake it

Birthday Wish List

It's about that time again, where friends and family ask me what I want for my birthday. Here goes!

1. George Michael - Faith (I'm pretty sure Wade has the lock on this one, so you might want to contact her or send mine with a gift receipt)

2. Ministry - With Sympathy.

3. Shiseido - Pureness Balancing Softener. Really, anything from the Pureness Oil Control line. It's the only product that works on my skin. If you want more bang for your buck, here's a good way to get a bunch of stuff.

4. St. John perfume. I know I got a bottle last year, but I use it every day.

5. Nintendo Wii game console. I know, pricey, but a girl can dream!

6. Yankee Candle in Honeysuckle.

7. Bedsheets for a queen-sized bed. Even better, one set of kick-ass sheets for the bed. (If you can't tell the search parameters, queen size, >1000 thread count.) Looks like I've been hooked up with these as well - yeah!

I can't think of anything else right now. I do love gift cards for music and books. I'll never turn down cash, especially as I save for my trip.

Just Passin' Through...

Here's what's on my mind today:

- Woke up cheerful. Rapidly got cranky. Am now thawing my hands over my laptop, laughing at this. Glad that my mood's improving.

- If you don't use Twitter or don't understand Twitter, start reading this, and you will quickly come to love the glory of the Twitter.

- I just finished yet another tub of hummus. I don't know why it's the only thing I want to eat lately. Hummus with multigrain chips. No, I'm not pregnant. Last night I told my boy about eating an entire tub of hummus in one sitting, and how amazed I was that I could pack away that much hummus. He said, "It's because you were sitting down to eat it when I called, and you circled it like a shark to chum before I let you go eat." It's true, you know.

- I had a great time at the Dog Ball. Many adorable puppies were seen, the irony of eating chicken at an animal welfare event was not lost on me, and I managed to stand in heels for over an hour before I started complaining. This is progress. (Oh, and I had the veggie option. Did you know it's possible to render ziti inedible? Neither did I. Neither did my now-chipped tooth.)

- The closing of Jazz Factory was sad but anticlimactic. Perhaps I'm more sentimental than most, but I was really hoping to see people with whom I used to go there.

- Last night I told my boy about a reign of terror I intended to inflict on some unsuspecting target. He stopped me and said, "Spell 'reign'." I replied, "R...ei...gn..." He sighed in relief. I'm guessing he'd had a long day with bad grammar. We spent the next fifteen minutes trying to speak only in correct sentences, until we decided that speaking is a much less formal form of communication and therefore the occasional slip-ups were OK.