That's What I Get For Getting The Free One

I had a lovely evening with Cita, and there are pictures to go along with my stories. Unfortunately, my digital camera and my borrowed laptop are having a disagreement, so I can't pull the pictures down and share. This means that this post will have to wait until tomorrow.

Not that I expect them to be friends by tomorrow, but I will get them while I'm at work and then email them to myself then write for you a scintillating post, accesorized by said photos.

Don't ever say that I don't work hard for you.

Ugh!

So, no date for me tonight. I've got a lot of thoughts about this, but they're so jumbled that I don't want to write about them tonight. Well, by tonight, I mean, right now. Maybe later. Maybe never. Maybe it'll all be OK.

But this is what keeps circling my addled brain:

I am neither your Madonna nor your whore.
I am neither the cause of your problems nor the solution to them.

I'm just a girl-person, doing the best she can with her limited resources and capabilities, trying not to cause harm and hopefully spreading some cheer. Perhaps a little grin on occasion.

Because I'm A Complete Dork

This is my new favorite song: Collide, by Howie Day.

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

I'm quiet you know
You make a first impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

Don't stop here
I lost my place
I'm close behind

Even the best fall down sometime
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

You finally find
You and I collide
You finally find
You and I collide

And yes, I love my boy, endlessly, forever. And then over again.

I apologize to my friends who are dealing with break-ups.

The Usefulness Of Disagreements

I was thinking today about what could have been a pretty big blow-out between the boy and me last week. Luckily, it didn't become one, mostly because I needed to get to bed and it wasn't worth it. But still...while we agree on most topics, we pretty strongly disagree on the role of religion in people's lives and on the necessity of being right.

I'm sure I drive him crazy in my desire to see all sides to all stories, and my almost pathological need to avoid conflict. Yet he can get my cockles to stand on end, and finally did.

After he was going on about how he knew everything about the Bible and religion (he was raised pretty strictly) and how a friend of mine clearly didn't, I finally just snapped. "Jesus Christ, do you think I'd befriend an idiot?" I said. I know I completely missed the point, but still. I respect this friend's education and his knowledge and I don't appreciate the boy thinking he can denigrate that.

Which leads me to this: Like I said, I'll do almost anything to avoid conflict in my interpersonal life. I think this bothers the boy sometimes. He's alluded to that fact on occasion. Me snapping at him got him to calm down (and back down) and we were able to finish our conversation on a good note.

So, is there a role in relationships for disagreements and the occasional true argument? Does that make the other person realize that there could be an end to the relationship and work harder to stay close?

Maybe. Or maybe it's just true for the boy and me. This doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to pick fights, but it might mean that I don't back down so easily.

Tiptoeing Into The Top Chef Kitchen

In my efforts to save money and keep an eye on my waistline, I've been cooking as of late. While the recipes are all new to me, what I've been making are variations of foods I'm already comfortable with. Plus, they tend to taste better the next day and are readily portable to work. This week, I made jumbo stuffed shells with ricotta and spinach:



While the picture isn't great, it still looks pretty good, no? I'm going to enjoy that tomorrow for lunch.

Next, I decided to make homemade macaroni and cheese. This was my first attempt into making cheese sauce, and let me tell you, it's not as easy as it seems. I had to be super careful not to burn the milk-and-vegetable-broth mixture. And when finally all the ingredients were combined, it would have helped a lot to know that actually creating the sauce would take about three times as long as I anticipated.

Unfortunately, I am impatient, so the sauce isn't as good as it should be (and surprisingly sweeter than I would have imagined):



This picture is not at all good, but it is a decent representation of tonight's snack and Tuesday's lunch. Also, I used whole wheat penne, so it looks even browner than normal mac and cheese would.

Yes, I know that these are not the lowest-fat dishes I could have made, but they're still a whole lot better than what I'd have if I ate out.

Overall, I'm pretty proud of myself.

PS - Do NOT eat the sliders from Applebee's. Trust me on this one. It'll take at least two more days for my stomach to forgive me.

Late...Too Late...

And, of course, I cannot sleep. I was all set to settle in at about 10 or 10:30, but I couldn't keep my eyes closed and when the boy calls me, "Sweetie," I wonder, as this is only the second time he's done it, and the brain won't turn off...

Yes, I'm almost positive that that sentence had no predicate. Or point.

For some reason, I don't want to go to bed. I shouldn't worry. I was able to wake myself before the nightmare I began last night got into full swing. And the name of the "procedure" amused the boy very much. But the visual, and the almost visceral feeling, scared the bejeezus out of me.

I think I know why. One, because the winning designer on Project Runway All-Stars had a dress that looked like a suicide bomber's frock, and two, because I'm afraid that the conversation I need to have is going to sound more like the bomb and less like the dress.

Kisses, all.

My Coworkers Have Confirmation

Today, as I did my very important and serious work, I found another gem on those webs that we call Inter. You see, I follow a pretty nifty group of people on Twitter, and those nifty people have even niftier Tumblrs, and that's where I found this one.

Via, who got it via:

An anonymous customer, unhappy with his in-flight meals on a Virgin Airlines flight, has written a vivid letter of complaint, sending it directly to Virgin CEO and mega-kabillionaire playboy Richard Branson. Via.

Dear Mr Branson:

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:



I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:



I know it looks like a baaji, but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:



Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:



It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:



I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:



Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:



Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX

* Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”

I kept the misspellings and like. And really, folks, when I got to the part about the hamster, I laughed so hard my coworkers had to check on me. So now they've got proof of my crazy.

Writer's Block

The other morning, while I was lying abed and ruing the thought that I had to get out of it eventually, this terrifying thought came across my mind:

Somehow, your blog/tweets are going to be used against you.

Man, that'll shut down my ability to write big time. So now I'm afraid to write anything that might show some personality.

But there's hope. I'll eventually either forget that I had that thought, or I'll get so ticked that someone would use my words against me and get on such a First Amendment tear that nothing will stop me.

But I won't tell you which of the above two it was that got me writing again.

And On A Lighter Note...

I’m typing this bit of awesomeness out in its entirety because I don’t know how many of you follow through the links I post, and this is just Too. Fucking. Amazing. not to share with you.

Remember, it’s because I love each and every one of you who read this blog. Consider this a little gift to *you*.

Via:

Witnesses estimated the crowd of drunken Santas numbered about 50, and said that they rushed in through the front door of Hoyts Cinema in Christchurch, New Zealand, and began ripping down movie posters and smashing things.

"They were all dressed as Santa and shouting 'Ho f___ing ho'," said Kate Gorman, who was waiting to see the film "Enchanted" with her two young children when the Kringle onslaught began. Gorman said her children were confused by the event. "They asked me, 'Are they Santa's helpers gone crazy?' and I said 'No, they are just idiots.'"

Police were called to the scene but the Santas had already fled. Theater manager Derek Rive called the attackers "hooligans." "How often do a bunch of Santas just go and wreak havoc?" he asked.

More often than you might think. For example, in one incident that I reported on in 2005, another group of drunken Kiwi Santas went rampaging through Auckland. Some threw beer bottles, others reportedly robbed a convenience store, and one climbed the mooring line of a cruise ship. The New Zealand groups do not appear to be affiliated with the main Santarchy movement, which says that it is a peaceful organization that exists only to have fun and spread holiday cheer.

Link: Stuff.co.nz
Link: Santarchy.com

Now, if you are not reading Lowering The Bar, you have no-one to blame but your humorless, cold-hearted self.

It's Not You, It's Me

Free-flowing thoughts...

I feel scared. That's OK; I'm allowed to be scared. And the fear won't last as the mastery takes over. But until then, my fear will make me interact with you differently. I will ask for your attention. I will ask for reassurance, so much so that it may be overwhelming to you. It may seem that my well never fills, that I can't take enough of your belief in me into myself.

You know what? I can't. I can't get full. I don't listen to your positive reinforcement. I hear you, I absolutely hear you. But it never gets deeper than my epidermis. What I will listen to are your sighs when I ask you to tell me again that I can do this. That I will be good at it. That I am a good, smart, worthy person. I will listen to the impatience in your voice, and that will reinforce my absolute, pure knowledge that I am not good enough. That I will never be good enough. That the best I can hope for is to be needed. And if I can't find it in your words or actions, I will find a way for it to be there. It will be something little, something so insignificant, but it will speak truth to me.

I feel alone. I expect you to leave. I expect that I am overwhelming to you. I expect reinforcement that my needs are not worth addressing, that my fears are silly, that my worth is so vastly below yours that I am embarrassed to even write this down. I am embarrassed for myself. "How pathetic I am!" I think. "How worthless I am!" But it is my truth.

I will block this away, to chew on in quieter moments. For this incredible lack of self-esteem is not always apparent. Sometimes, I feel good. I feel powerful. I know that I can do whatever it is I need to do. Surely that's true; after all, I am still alive. I've lived through worse and I will again. And I will take that pain and block it away. It's the only way I can function. I will forgive even the cruelest words and actions aimed at me. I will do this because I need you. I need your friendship and support and love.

I know that when I do not place you above me or above another person who is important to me, you will be angry with me. I believe that you think, even on a subconscious level, "How dare she? After all I do for her, after all I put up with?" I do not know for certain that this is true, but it is how I imagine you regard me.

I cannot control how you react or feel or need. I am only now starting to work on myself. I have to. I have to face whatever it is that tells me of my lack of importance in this life. Ad I am afraid of this as well. I know there's a reason why my memory is bad and I'm not sure I want to know what I've experienced.

But I need the validation. I need to be heard, not just listened to, but heard. And heard. And heard again, until I absolutely believe that you understand. You can tell me that you understand, that you get it, that you sympathize with me or celebrate with me. But I do not believe this. This is me, these are my needs, and no amount of your love can fix it.

But please try. Or at least, try to understand.

The Scariest Words

Today at work, a lady came by me and said, "I hear congratulations are in order!" "What did I do?" I replied. "You're a lawyer, right?" "I am. I have been for a while."

"I have some questions for you."

Uh-oh. Folks, as much as I love what I do, I hate hearing that sentence. To me, it inevitably means that someone wants free legal advice. It also means that the asker assumes that I know everything about every aspect of the law. I wish I did, but were that true, I wouldn't be able to retain the knowledge of 80s music or the random trivia I can pull out of my ass. (Or make up. Get me to tell you my theory about the name Wayne, and all permutations thereof, sometime.) It almost always means that someone wants me to do research on his/her specific circumstance, without the benefit of being paid for it.

I'm betting that I'm going to be answering family law questions tomorrow. I also bet that by the end of the week, I'll be answering a whole lot more. And this means that I can't put my personal spin on what people tell me (not out loud, at least).

Still - I bet doctors get this all the time as well. And it's not that I mind answering, it's just that there are potential repercussions for even attempting to give advice, no matter how vague. But I will try, because although I don't know even a quarter of the law, I do know more than someone who hasn't gone to law school. Plus I want people to like me.

The Most Healing Conversation

This post concerns a conversation I had back in April, so if you already know the story, and especially if you're B. or Wade and had to hear it ad nauseum, feel free to skip this one. Also, I don't have permission to talk about this, so if it's even more vague than usual, that's why.*

During my first trip to Birmingham this year, I got to spend time with an ex, who I'd not seen since, oh, say, before the turn of the millennium. I was excited to see him, to see the man he's become, to see if we could be friends. We talked, the group of us, for a while, and yes, of course, there were cocktails involved. Social lubricant, people! Can you imagine how many conversations you'd've never had were it not for the help of a martini or so?

The ex and I finally got a chance to talk, just the two of us, and we ended up hashing out our relationship. It occurred to me, about ten minutes into this talk, that I was actually getting to have the fabled "closure" conversation. We talked about why we got along, why we didn't, and we talked about our favorites memories of each other and of the long-gone 'us'.

It was interesting to hear his memories of me, like how I wrap my hair in a giant turban after a shower. It was funnier to hear that all those times I thought he was annoyed with me when I'd distract him from studying, he actually was never annoyed but playing along. (Well done! I had no idea, and I had no idea you were that good of an actor.) It was bittersweet to talk about a Valentine's Day we had together, when he drove two-and-a-half hours to surprise me at work, and how he left a New Year's Eve party that he was hosting because I insisted on a kiss at midnight.

These are now good memories, and I feel really, forgive the turn of phrase, validated in having that conversation. It means a lot to me to know that I meant a lot to him. I never believe that I am, or ever was, as important to another person as s/he is/was to me.

I wish I could have this conversation with my other significant others.

This post courtesy of reading Cary Tennis for an extended time today. If you've not started reading his advice column, you really should start. There's a pure method to his rambling madness. And a sweetness and a forgiveness that I appreciate more than I could express.

* I got permission, which is why this post is still here. And I send thanks to the man who let me keep it online.

Snickers

Today I ran across Lowering the Bar. Now, to set this up, let me describe where I sit at work: It's a two-story building and I am upstairs. The reception area is outside the main work area, separated by a door and glass walls. Across from me is open; it's an open-aired entryway. This area is also covered in glass, all the way down to the entrance. Needless to say, this place is an echo chamber. I use this for both good and ill. For example, the other day, a customer came in, speaking too loudly on his cell phone. "Can you hear me?" he hollered into the phone. From above came a spooky voice that sounded strangely like mine, "Yes. Yes, I can." I don't think the guy ever figured it out.

So I get to reading this blog, and I cannot control my giggles. Seriously, this is a funny site, and you don't even have to be a lawyer or law student to appreciate it. So enjoy, folks, but know that you will laugh out loud and customers will look at you strangely.

Or maybe it's just me.

Goodbye, July

I really didn't intend for that to rhyme. But since I didn't invent the English language, I suppose I can be forgiven.

Sunday was nice - I visited with Momma. Usually we do these visits on the phone, but with Bubbles still on the fritz and dad out of the house, it was a good time to have a 2-for-1 date - good company and clean clothes. Two thoughts: Momma has mah jongg installed on her new computer and I almost wanted to knock her over so I could play. I restrained myself, but only barely. I was only over there for just over an hour and when I left, I smelled my hand, and it smelled like their place. Weird. You can decide whether smelling my hand was weird or the scent it had was weird. I'll accept your judgment.

When I got home with seventy-five dollars' worth of groceries and a basket of wet clothes, I got Fluffy going (at least I can rely on one appliance) and made myself a broccoli-and-cheese quiche and a vegetarian pot pie so I could have lunches for the week. Everyone at work was so jealous of my tasty-smelling quiche, and I know this because for just a brief instant, the aroma of reheated barbeque pork faded.

Let's hope this month I can get Bubbles fixed or replaced. If she's replaced, the new machine will be called Bubbles 2: Electric Bugaloo, or E.B. for short. Let's also hope that my campaign of strong-arming the boy to come visit me (yeah, and his folks and friends too) works. He's been talking about a visit here for a while, and since it's approximately 1000 degrees where he lives and all he has is a window unit, and although it's approximately 1000 degrees here (not including humidity) but I have central air, I think I might have the stronger argument.