If Wishes Were Boar's Hair Hairbrushes

So I awoke yesterday with a blistering head cold and though I know we're not supposed to bitch about minor illnesses, I'm going to do it anyway.  Because there is nothing more annoying than a head cold.  It doesn't hurt, doesn't cause a fever, doesn't do anything but slow me down in the rat race and speed up my sinus reactions.

I now own a new box of Puffs with Lotion.  They're not nearly as quality as they were a few years ago. So in case you've been fortunate enough to not be the bearer of post-nasal drip for a few years, save your money. Or invest in something more awesome from the facial tissue industry and then let me know what you got.

Oh, and about the bitching: I don't complain very much about bigger injuries or illnesses.  I harp on the small stuff.  Damn.  Put that on my headstone.

I went to lunch today with Date's sister, and we talked about law and children and sinuses.  She's the ultimate person to hang with when you have a head cold because she has a two-year-old and apparently can no longer be grossed out.  Yes, I do consider that a challenge.  But she mentioned that Date's wife has a wish list on Amazon and suggested I check it out when I got home.  So I did, and it's an interesting read, albeit not interesting enough to discuss.  What's more interesting is that I've spent the last few hours creating my own wish list.  For the time being, it's private, but I can tell you that it includes both a Wii, a Dance Party game, a boar's hair brush, and a new TV.  Oh, and red-depositing shampoo.

Here's what's stuck in my head:

One Well-Timed Taco

I woke up in a funk this morning. It was a special funk, the kind that gets outside of me and yells, "You suck!  Everyone you care about sucks! Christmas can't be over soon enough; in fact, why don't you go take down the tree now?"

Inner cranky me is such a Grinch.

So I dragged myself out of bed after watching, at the same time, the THS - Timbaland and My Cousin Vinny, got ready, and headed out for the shops.

Aside one: I'm trying a new look with red lipstick and winged black eyeshadow. In the daytime. I know, scandalous.
Aside two: Shopping on Christmas Eve is extra-Grinchy.

But the shopping helped, and the voice from the gas pump at Kroger turned out to be a real man who waved at me when I finally realized it was a person and not a recording, plus he looked like a hat-less Santa. Add to that a pre-meal snack from Taco Bell (first, not fourth, meal) and my mood has improved quite a bit.

Merry Christmas. Remember, as always, not to kill your family as I do not practice criminal law.

One-year anniversary of official engagement!

Playlist

These are the songs that I'm currently very into:

Arcade Fire - The Suburbs
Fleet Foxes - Mykonos
Band of Horses - Laredo
Bon Iver - Holocene
Civil Twilight - Letters From The Sky
Dawes - Fire Away
Memory Tapes - Yes I Know
M83 - Reunion
Beirut - Santa Fe
The Decemberists - I4U & U4ME
Purity Ring - Lofticries
Noel Gallagher - AKA What A Life!
Foster the People - Don't Stop (Color On The Walls)
Rock Mafia - The Big Bang

Selfishness

This morning I woke up to watch an episode of Law & Order intertwined with an episode of Dr. Phil.  (Yes, I really hate commercials.)  The L&O was about a family fighting over custody of a little girl and the Dr. Phil was about a family with generations of sexual abuse and the man who married into that family.

Yuck.

Anyway, the father and grandfather of the little girl on L&O conspired to poison the new husband of the mother of that child and put him in a coma.  The stepfather/husband of the woman who was not only sexually abused but had a son who was an abuser said, "I feel like I've been raped."

This got me thinking about selfishness, jealousy, ownership of another person.  I completely understand the ties that bind.  I love my Momma endlessly, I cannot imagine my life with GPOM in it, and I adore my friends.  But here's the thing:  No-one else loves them like I do, much like I do not love others like I love my nearest and dearest.  And I think that's OK.  No-one is supposed to have equal amounts of love for another.

(Bible aside:  I regard love your neighbors as regard and respect your neighbors, not love them in the modern sense.)

So how can dad and grandpa think that their love for their grand/daughter is more important than another man's life?  Particularly the life of a man who is loved by their ex-wife/daughter?  That to me is so selfish and cruel.  My love is not more important to yours in the grand scheme of things.

This being said, last night GPOM and I got to spend some time with Ward.  This is an annual treat (biannual if I'm lucky) and I was so excited to see him.  GPOM and Ward met last Christmas and got on pretty well, which makes me happy too.  But now...truth:  Ward and GPOM spent most of the evening discussing music that they both like (at GPOM's direction).  I felt ignored and it hurt my feelings.  I'm OK today, I think, but Ward's been my friend for years and I wanted the face-to-face time with MY friend.

So as always, it's a work in progress.  I want couple-friends.  But I want to keep my friends to myself sometimes.

December Will Be Magic Again

This morning I got a call from Momma asking for advice about a gift for one of my siblings, and more importantly, to tell me that Biggs wasn't doing too well.  He's been relentlessly sick overnight, and was throwing up blood.  Again.  She says he seems five pounds skinnier and that he goes to a boutique vet where you actually have to make an appointment if your cat is THROWING UP BLOOD.

Rest in peace, Dr. McCurdy.  I miss you.  You were an amazing vet who never made very sick pets wait so you could look good to others.  I, and my cats over the years, will continue to miss you.

So of course I got into the shower and cried and cried.  You might remember this, and that was almost two years ago.  I feel so badly for my almost-seventeen-year-old baby, who is supposed to be enjoying retirement and never getting older or sicker.

I cried so hard there were no tears - have you ever cried like that?  Like the wound is so deep and open that even your tearducts can't see it?  Like you can barely stay upright from the sheer force of pain?  I've not felt that kind of physical weight from the shear force of feelings in a long time.

But I'm trying to think on the more positive side, and I'm trying to accept help the way it's given and not the way I wish it were given.

But I will continue to worry about Biggs.

I Don't Want To Be In Charge

I must have been exhausted, because I went to bed around 11 last night and woke up at 10:30 this morning, with only a short layover for some diet Mt. Dew in the middle of the night.  I decided that I don't want to be an adult today.  I don't want to be in charge, I don't want to worry, and I don't want to think.

So I considered some New Year's resolutions.  So far, they are:

1.  Get a new car.
2.  Get a Wii and dance my ass off to silly songs on video games.  Maybe I can update my dance moves to approximately 2007.  Considering they're currently from 1999, that'd be a total upgrade.

I also thought about Christian Death, a goth band (deathmetal?) I liked when I was a teenager.  So I read its Wikipedia entry and listened to some songs on Youtube and remembered that I liked slower goth more than the psychobilly goth.

Then I looked at list of songs I remembered when reading GPOM's Encyclopedia of Punk, and looked up this song.  There is nothing punk about it, except maybe the male chanting.  Maybe.

Today's awesome phrase is: Irrepressibly untalented.  It was a descriptor for Sid Vicious.  Apt.

Political Malaise

For the past few days my Facebook, Twitter, and TV news feed have been full of the "atrocities" being committed all over the state, country, and world.  I gotta tell you, I am so exhausted of it.  I don't know what to believe, what it true, how much is slant, and I might be becoming a bit of a Republican.

I kinda tore into a few people last night, so much was my incredible disinterest in what's going on far outside my door.  This morning I felt guilty about being so direct in my attempts to just get people to stop already, but even the guilt didn't make me feel badly for my strong reactions.

I spent my early afternoon looking through an heirloom birthday book.  (It provides proof that my family really is Prussian!  Woot!)  I felt closer to my mother's family and got to add entries into my own family tree.  Still, I didn't quite put my finger on the problem.

GPOM just got a text from an acquaintance of his in Seattle, who wished him a happy Thanksgiving and who told GPOM that he's planning a holiday dinner for the homeless and the people who use the dog park outside of GPOM's former place.

That.  That.  THAT was what was missing.  I needed a reminder that what can be fixed nearby carries more weight than links from websites hosted in places I know nothing about.  I told GPOM that the world needs more Patricks.  Not more screamers about links.  Patricks.

We're sending a donation to Patrick's homeless and dog-park family.

Waiting For Bar Results

I don't think I've discussed this before, as I'm generally reticent to talk about my work or work history here.  But today I was read Carolyn Hax's weekly live advice chat, and I read a question from someone who is getting ready to sit for the bar again (best of luck to you!) and wondered how to answer the inevitable, "What do you do?" question. 

Here's what I did while I studied for the bar and waited for results:  I worked a series of contract jobs.  I worked for MDA on its fundraising campaign for a brief period of time.  Man, did I hate that job.  I fully support the cause, but I didn't like the efforts to get donations, and as I am a terrible salesperson, I hated cold-calling people for more support.  Took me about five weeks before I called the agency to beg for a new assignment.

(Psst - the MDA website has music.  Who does that anymore?)

After that I went to work for a mortgage broker at what was then Wachovia.  That was an interesting experience - this was summer 2008, and I could see her selling those Pic-A-Payment mortgages to customers and thinking what a terrible idea this all was.  Now, don't assume that all the buyers were dopes - many were engineers and scientists.  I think so many were taken it because of either naivete or extremely high self-esteem. 

The point of this is to remember that I've learned a lot about the nature of business and the nature of myself from contract jobs.  So, to that young person who's waiting, I say, learn as much as you can, because it will come in handy.  I can do real estate work much more readily because I've built mortgage application submission packets and I've reviewed the closings that returned from the brokers.  I can work with all kinds of people on both sides of the "cash register".  So study hard, don't freak out, and learn what you can.  You'll use it, I promise.

Post-Bake, Pre-Wash

The chaos I had anticipated for the rest of the week has turned into a different kind of chaos.  As you know, I am quite the creature of habit, so even subtle changes throw me off.  I intended to spend the end of the week at a conference in Montgomery with GPOM, because who doesn't love a legal conference?  And by that I mean, who doesn't want to get out of town?

GPOM, apparently, when he told me today that he might not want to go.  OK, you don't have to, I said, but I was disappointed.

Yet, we got home and I got a call from a potential client and also was reminded that my motion does not yet have a ruling, and I decided that I also would not attend the conference.  I wish I could - there's going to be some very interesting speakers, plus the governor and the attorney general, but these things can't be helped and I am reminded that an attorney's day can be difficult to schedule.

Yeah.  Like everyone else's day runs like clockwork.

So I baked (cookies!) and am about to start laundry and more than anything, I'm so very tired.

Back From The Midwest

The rest of the trip was really fast.  By that I mean that Momma and I stayed nowhere very long, but drove very long hours to at least get cursory glances of her cousins, graveyards, my great aunt, my aunt and cousin, and Momma's best friend.  We made it home three days early, and I am ever so grateful because I think Momma and I would have killed each other had we spent too much more time together.  We get along famously, but eight days in a car with anyone would drive you to distraction.

Pun.

So, instead of giving you the blow-by-blow of the trip, I'll instead let you look at pretty pictures.  I've got a true story of a sad crime to tell you in the days to come, but I have more research to do.  This story has fascinated me since my grandfather told me about it years ago, as he remembered the event, and I want to share it with you.  Later.

My grandfather retired from here.

Homage to Eminem.  No, I did not take this picture while driving eighty miles an hour in fairly heavy traffic outside of Detroit.  That's crazy talk!*

Waves breaking on the shore of Lake Huron.  If Alpena, Michigan needs a marketing person, it should really come to me.  I'm making the place look a lot better than it does in person.

Golden sunset on Lake Huron in Alpena.

I climbed out past the walkway onto the rocks to get closer to the water.  This is, of course, more of Lake Huron.  Walking on the rocks gave me a peaceful feeling; one I rarely have because it required all of my concentration not to fall.  Maybe I should climb rocks more often.

My grandmother's maiden name.  Her family owned a farm and apparently got street naming rights.  I've tried to track down more of the family history, but it gets tricky when the Wagners and the Wegners intermarried, and the spelling of Diemond changed.

See what I mean?  This is the original spelling, and if I can track down the story of Urs Joseph Diemand, I will and I will share it with you, because he was one scary motherfucker.  We're talkin' Original Gangsta here.

This lady is my namesake.  Not that I use that name, but she was my mother's grandmother. 

* I totally did that.

Pics from Day One

There aren't many, I promise, nothing like those late-seventies slide show horror-fest of your youth.

Kids, ask your parents.

This is proof that I was in Ohio.  You can tell I didn't steal this picture from the internet 'cos it's sideways:

And this is the juxtaposition of pretty trees at a rest stop on 271 just about fifteen miles from where we stayed.  Momma and I were both amazed by the colors.  We were even more stupified by the cleanliness of the bathroom at a rest stop.  We recommend this rest stop.

Midwest Extravaganza - Day 2

Most people would balk at spending an entire day in Cleveland.  I know I used to mock endlessly this town, and thought it even lower on the food chain than Birmingham, Alabama, which is still pretty low on my food chain in terms of aesthetics.

In terms of awesome martini bars built into the sides of mountains, well, Birmingham gets the prize.

We left this morning after a restless night for me which included watching Project Runway: Behind the Seams (clever!) three times and sleeping through all three viewings of Project Accessory.  I guess this is because I wanted to see Project Accessory.  Alas.

Anyhoo.. we went first to my old apartment building:

It was a nice place to live, and if you'd like to live there, here's the number:

But before you decide for sure, let me show you the driveway of doom.  Once you're headed in or out, you cannot exit the car until you either are in the garage or at the street.  This doesn't seem like a big deal until the driveway is covered with snow and ice and you're sliding and there's no escape and oh, SHIT, you forgot your phone:

That was about the time that Momma and I moved on to the law school.  Since my shower this morning, I'd been building up the law school into something bigger and bigger, a giant behemoth of a school designed solely to destroy my (pitiable) self-esteem.  My plan was to go in there and take a picture of the school's name, my bar card, and my middle finger.  Instead, I chose this shot:

Clearly, cooler heads prevailed.  So we walked around and I had my flashback moments and the school looked exactly the same and I didn't see any of my former professors so we just left.  But not after noticing that the ASTOUNDING tuition that I and my former cohorts paid allowed the school to replace the nasty, termite-ridden, wasp-attracting wooden benches with these:

Money well spent.

After all this we went to Nordstrom and bought me some essentials, like three pairs of pants and four shirts and a cashmere (cashmere!) sweater and four unmentionables that were so sorely needed that I actually lost fifteen pounds once I put on my new lady necessities and three new pairs of shoes.  We left only when Momma gently reminded me that we had just spent her monthly pension check on clothes for me.

Midwest Extravaganza - Day One

Momma and I left yesterday morning on our trip through the midwest.  Nashville wasn't too bad, traffic light, although I will never, ever figure out how to navigate the various interstate changes there.  I've must've driven through one hundred times and still end up flummoxed.  How did I ever survive without Mandy?

Mandy is my GPS.  She's named after an article in the Washington Post from 2007.  Go ahead, look it up.

We headed out toward Lexington, because my longtime internet friend JMT lives in Danville and after over ten years of online friendship, we'd never met in person.  It was time to fix that.  Mandy gives good directions, although she got confused in the areas where the cows outnumber the people.  Well, cows, horses, and llamas. 

(Trivia aside:  Apparently coyotes are scared of llamas.  Take that, natural selection!)

The bluegrass is very pretty and there are some astounding mansions which were probably built using horse money.  Danville is a personable town - reminded me a lot of Paducah.  JMT is even better!

OK.  I was walking back to my car to get my phone, when I fell off a curb and landed pretty much on my right elbow and my knees.  For I am a graceful ballerina.  It hurt like hell, and took me about two minutes to even consider lifting my body off the pavement.  During this time, Momma and JMT were kind to me and didn't laugh or anything.  Finally we made it into the restaurant where I wasn't sure that I wasn't going to be sick.  (Shock affects me that way.)  JMT was gracious about me clearly not feeling too hot, and instead of asking over and over whether I was OK, he just ignored it and talked with Momma.  I really appreciated that as I hate having any sort of weakness pointed out to me, even out of concern.

He got Momma an awesome antique book and bought us lunch, and off we headed to Cincinnati.

Cincinnati wasn't too exciting, but the pain pills, really, really good cable TV offerings, and clean bathroom were just what I needed.

Now we're in Cleveland and I'll tell you more about it tomorrow.

The Long Road Home

The other day in the local paper there was an article about the increase in carjackings in my area.  I read it over, looking for some kind of proof, but all that was there was information about how to avoid being car-mugged.  I kinda ignored it because I spoke with a cop a few weeks ago and he told me that the only real danger in my area is gang members who are targeting the local CVS.

Who tags a drug store?

But Tuesday night my parents return from their jaunt in Vegas and I had to pick them up quite late.  Like, almost the next morning late.  When GPOM sent me on my way, he told me to be careful, because, "It's been raining and no-one in this town knows how to drive."

How sweet, I thought, and went along my merry way.  Yet, when I was driving home from my folks' place, his words came into my mind, and I drove the freeways to get home, which takes longer, rather than taking the side streets, which are much more efficient.

Now I've got someone who cares about my safety.  I owe it to him to take better care of myself.

Sittin' At The Rents

So my folks are officially in Vegas, having a perfectly lovely time (I hope).  They're there with my siblings to celebrate a belated fiftieth wedding anniversary, since the two siblings couldn't be arsed to get out here by the folks to do something nice, less expensive, and closer to home.

But that's just my opinion.

For a while now I've been craving some alone time.  A block of time where no-one else is around, where I can hang out and watch TV and sit on the deck and not feel like I owe this time to someone else, or that I'm being watched.  I've been so looking forward to this time, and have in fact brought enough clean clothes and supplies so that I could conceivably stay here until Tuesday, when they return.

So why am I so lonely?  I can do what I want when I want, no-one's around to judge me, yet it's only been four hours and I've already texted GPOM to ask if I can come home tonight.

Maybe it's nostalgia for the old days, when I was alone a lot of the time, and I could sit and do whatever I wanted and could deliciously anticipate the sound of the phone when GPOM would call from Seattle.

I don't know what it is, and I don't know yet where I'll stay tonight (and the next few nights), but I guess what I'm figuring out is that I'm damn hard to please, even to myself.

Operation Get GPOM A Decent Job

Jobs are scarce these days.  Trust me, we know.  (Paying clients are as well, but that's a sob story for another time.)  While GPOM is working now, we need to find him something that has a salary, rather than an hourly, wage, benefits, and an unchanging schedule.  We need this because he needs it and he's a really good person to work with, and for the most important reason of all (to me):

I want an office.

This law-in-the-clouds thing is neat, occasionally really convenient, and not necessarily the best way for me to practice law as I function much better in a more structured environment.  An office would force me to work more efficiently, would create more work-life balance, and would make me feel better about myself.

So if you hear of anything good and/or interesting, do let us know.

Also, if you know of a reasonably-priced office space near the Square, preferably one stocked with attorneys already, let me know.  I'd really like to start researching space.

Chocolate

Today Wade and I were discussing friendships, discounts, and chocolate.  Let's get to the important part.

As a person with ovaries, I have a love/hate relationship with chocolate.  That being said, given the option, I prefer Nestle Milk Chocolate to Hershey's.  No offense to Hershey, and I do love its as well, but Nestle's is creamier and milkier and, well, better.  Even though I visited Hershey, PA, when I was a child.  Even though Hershey is more ubiquitous (can something be more ubiquitous?)

There was a sale on Halloween bags of candy at the store today.  I may or may not be the owner of two bags.  I might've only had two Twix bars yet.  So far.

Send on the Whatchamacallits!!!

Tadpole In Waiting

Now that I've taken one or two or twenty deep, comforting, in-with-the-blue-out-with-the-red restorative breaths, I can talk more about the antibaby.

Maybe at some point in the future there will be a probaby, but that's not what we're going to discuss here.  We're going to discuss my friends' and family's reaction to the potential tadpole.

Wade:  I'm supportive, really.  No.  Really.  I really am.  I think it'd be great. (For the love of christ, do you know how much a child costs?  Not just in money but in time?  Do you know that with my two children, I cannot be your sole source of support while you endlessly digest every tiny damn thing that you're thinking and feeling?  Also, husband.  Mine needs attention too.  Oh!  Also!  Health insurance.  Better look into that, sister.)

Cita:  Awww...baby!  I love having mine, although I considered briefly leaving him on the side of the road for a bit as payback for all the awful things pregnancy did to my body.  And mind.  But he's adorable and mostly sleeps and thank goodness for family and friend support because otherwise I'd go coockoo!!

Sister:  Think you are?  I always wanted one.  But if you get one, Momma won't move out here by me because she'll want to be around the baby and yeah, yeah, that's cool, except could you maybe consider not being so damn greedy with the Momma time?  I need her too!

Momma:  I'll kill you.
Me:  Kill me?  Why?
Momma:  'Cos you're not married yet.
Me:  I think we'd take care of that problem with a quickness.
Momma:  Yeah.  THE NEXT DAY.

This chat with Momma was had after I told her about how late I was and how much I wondered if I were with tadpole.  After that, we wandered around Target and cooed at the monkey baby clothes and toys.

So, we'll see what happens.

Not A Good Day

No Tadpole.  Probably for the best.  Feeling the loss.

Jesus Fucking Christ, how many pictures do I need to have of GPOM's kid?  I could put out a fucking FBI missing persons flyer (or seventy-five).

Like I said, not a good day.  Back to my book.

Tadpole

Remember that a few weeks ago I discussed symptoms?  Well, if not, scroll down a bit.  I can't be arsed to link to a post right now.

I still have no confirmation, but I can tell you that I reread It Sucked And I Cried by Heather Armstrong (Dooce) and now I cannot pee with anything that feels like satisfaction.  And I haven't started.

If this is too much for you, apologies.  Move along to something more interesting.

Nightly, I lie in the bed, pat my lower belly, and tell myself that I'm not pregnant.  This internal conversation goes something like this:

I know you're not there, Tadpole, because there's no way you could be.  But if you are, Hi!  I think you might want to consider a different womb.  Mine's messy and weird and full of gunk and goo and hopefully things that you can softly bump in to.  Of course you're not there, but maybe you will be in the future when I've got my head and finances more ready to have you.

Tadpole, my belly is warm and weird and I want to pee like a normal person and why am I feeling this mix of heartburn and nausea?  'Cos that's no fun at all.

(I've got to talk about this somewhere and where else than here?)

A Day Away

Yesterday, after a fascinating CLE lecture in which I believe we might have found Bernie Madoff's hidden money and a good client meeting, I returned home to a frenetic GPOM.  He had spent the afternoon "fixing" our place, and to me it looked like nothing that was mine.

I had a wooden planter in my front room where I stored my frequently-worn shoes, my purse, my basket with all my keys, and my phone books.  (Yes, I still use a phone book.  Ain't no-one else letting their fingers doin' the walkin'.)  I looked about, looked at him, muttered, "No," and went to change clothes and take off my face.  I was not pleased.

Plus he put my mission side table in the same place where whenever he puts anything, I complain that I will break a toe there.  Because I do.  Inevitably.  Break a toe.  It hurts, people.  It hurts a lot.  I have an S-shaped left pinkie toe.

A bit later, after a breath, I was sitting in my office waiting for the internet to offer solace, when I noticed that my special secret tiny hiding space was now sitting on the floor.  It was out in the open.  It had been violated by eyes that weren't mine.  What do I keep in said place?  Well, I'll tell you, since the secret's out:  The key to my safety deposit box.  Spare keys with computer chips in them.  My good jewelry.  My savings bonds and much-loved two-dollar bills.

People, I was beyond pissed.  I told GPOM he might as well read my journals now, since that's all I have left.  "Your blog?" he asked.  NO.  I still have hand-written journals, full of piss and vinegar, from my childhood through college years.

Today I am calmer.  And my special secret tiny hiding space has found a new home.  And I think GPOM will never open anything of mine again.

My 9/11 Memory

Why not?  Everyone else, and every television station show, thought, commercial...they're all talking about it.  I don't much talk about this because 1) everyone has their own story and 2) GPOM is a conspiracy theorist and I'm guessing hides his emotions more than he'll let me know.

It was a sunny Tuesday morning and for the first time in weeks, I was in no mood to listen to NPR, which I normally did.  I wanted music.  So I tossed a CD in Circe (m car - still is!) and car-danced all the way to Geeks-R-Us, which employed a large number of foreign nationals.

When I got to work, the receptionist said something about having heard weird news, and did I hear?  No.  Something about planes hitting a building in New York City?  No.  I went to my office and tried to pull up any news on the internet.  The data stream was completely clogged and I couldn't get anything but a strange picture on the Yahoo front page.

A bit later, others came to work and starting telling me about what was happening, and then an email circulated stating that we could go home if we were concerned.  I went to my boss and explained that one of my closest friends lived in the city and that my brother was (is) a pilot for United.  I was excused.

At home, I turned on the TV and started to see the real destruction.  I probably got home around 8:30am, and my desire to call everyone kicked in.  I don't remember a lot other than pure terror.  How?  Why?  WTF is wrong with Paula Zahn?  Even in the chaos, I knew that asking someone how it felt to know a family member just died was about the worst fucking thing to be asked in the midst of all of this.

I remember talking with Lucy's mother, and we were worried about a mutual friend and her husband.  They lived in Astoria, Queens, and I didn't know where that was in relation to Manhattan.  Finally we got our friend's mother on the phone and they were both fine, shaken, newsless, but fine.

My brother turned out to be just fine as well - he was across the country at the time.  But when I finally spoke to him, he told me that he was the pilot for United Flight 93 on September 10, 2001.

Guilt mixed with unbelievable gratitude that exists to this day.  I still don't know how to put that into words.

Symptoms

I am fully aware that I am thinking ahead and most likely exaggerating how I'm feeling.  The fact that GPOM and I spent a good chunk of the weekend debating middle names for a potential daughter in no way influences my feelings.

Never going to name her Hurricane, GPOM.  Never.  It's dumb and I don't like it.  I get ten months of no fun = I get total veto power.

To-wit (see how I went all contract there?):
1. My lower belly feels swollen.
2. All I want to do is hold it softly because it feels warmer and because I feel like protecting it.
3. We had pizza last night and it made me nauseous. (I ate pizza every night for about six months and never felt badly. Now, two slices of Papa Johns and I had to put the whole pizza away. Thank goodness GPOM ate the leftovers out of my sight.)
4. I'm craving light, healthy things like salads.
5. I really, really want this to be true.
6. We've been trying for a while and according to an episode of Rachel Zoe I watched last week, it takes between twelve and twenty-four months for a woman my age to get pregnant. I stopped taking birth control over a year ago.

So when again, when I start my cycle again, you'll understand when I feel a bit sad and wonder why I can't join the ranks of the sleep-deprived strangely proud women.

Random Monday Thoughts

I'm really starting to suck at solitaire.  And I'm really starting to resent it.
GPOM is addicted to streaming Netflix movies, which is great for him and terrible for my internet surfing.
I have a stray hair on my arm and I can't find it and it feels weird.
Maybe I'll go watch Teen Mom.
It's cold.  I'm cold-natured, and this cool front is getting to me.  I spend a lot of time on the deck with my feet wrapped around GPOM's legs because he's a lot warmer than I am.
I can't decide what to make for dinner but I'm getting very hungry.
I love Labor Day.  It's got to be the most ironic holiday - called Labor yet we pride ourselves on doing nothing.  Or maybe it's just me priding myself.  And I've done nothing of value today except showering.
Yay showers!

50

Tomorrow is Momma's and Dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary. 

Wow.  I mean, wow.

How do you manage to do that?  My running joke is fifty years without a single murder.

Still, they know each other, can tolerate each other's peccadilloes, and there is love in that house.

I don't know if I'll get fifty, but I'm damn sure going to try.

I Should Probably Warn Him About My Tendency to Hit Repeat

One of my clients owes money.  Hell, who doesn't owe money at this point?  My life is an endless weekly list of whom I owe and how much.

Each time a bill comes in, I write its due date on the calendar along with the amount and circle it.  Once I'm pretty sure of how a month will go, I write the total amount due that week to the left of the Sunday box.  I do this because I'm neurotic and because I want GPOM to be quite aware of where our money goes and when it goes.  And it's easier than reminding him of my super-duper special-secret tough password that attaches to the bank accounts.

Today, I learned that there is an outside chance that I will have to go to Memphis and appear on behalf of my client in federal court.  I haven't been to Memphis since I was eighteen and RisiMoore came to visit me and of course we had to go to Graceland.

Graceland is awesome, and Memphis is not nearly as close to Nashville as one might think.  Tennessee's all scrunchy.

Since I learned about this possibility, I've had this song in my head, and I've now played the youtube video three times, and the night's still young.

So. Vegas.

My parents are getting ready to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary here in a couple of weeks (September second - let me know if you need the address to send a card.  Send a card, people. Seriously. Even if you don't know my folks, you know me, and don't you think they deserve some sort of kindness from strangers for putting up with me?) and while I really wanted to throw a reunion party here, that plan was summarily dismissed some time ago.

Whatever.  It's only my sweet childhood memories of my grandparents' fiftieth that are being ruined by not being able to give my parents the same joy.

So my siblings decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Vegas.  Yes.  I still can't think of a better place for my older, seventy-ish-year-old folks to have a good time.  Momma, watch that hip!  No, I don't think the stripper pole revue is what's affecting your pacemaker.  Dad, stop it!  Seriously, STOP DROOLING.  This is not The Girls Next Door.

I'm sure you can see the appeal.  So, apparently the plan is to go the weekend of October 22, which is so close to the actual anniversary that it totally makes sense!

My siblings (and their respective families) both live in Southern California, which is essentially a light-beam away from Las Vegas, and the pulling tractor beam is because plane tickets are apparently $29, the drive itself is tolerable, and the discounts available online and in print papers (snicker) are even better than the plane tickets.

However, if you live substantially further east than Vegas, plane tickets about about add-a-four-to-the-front-the-California prices, the drive is unbelievable, and there are no coupons in the paper.  So, no, I believe that GPOM and I will have to sit this one out.

Unless I win the Suits contest sponsored by USA.  Then, maybe.  I'll check with my creditors.

I Knew It, You Knew It

I've been speaking, quite loudly, for years now about things that needed to change in our country and our economy.  I'm going to lay those thoughts out right now in short:

Hillary should've been President.

We should've had another WPA to get people to work.

In the last few days, I've seen articles about these topics, and it frustrates me that they came years later.  I'm not that smart or that quick.  Nor am I a talking head, so why did to take so damn long for the pundits to figure this out?

Really, Eliot Spitzer?  This is the article now?  Just ask Momma, Wade, or anyone who's been subjected to my politics for about three years now, and they'll say that you're preaching to my choir.

The glory of the its-not-Hillary is that there are thoughts about how nothing would be different were she president, and now articles that things would be.

(I can't find an article supporting her were she president now.  I can only find this article about Obama's lame duck presidency.)

Superwoman

Let's have a bit of a rant, k?  Thanks.

I'm still very used to doing everything on my own.  Before GPOM move in, my most common mantra as I did the thousands of chores required to leave the house was, "I don't see anyone else racing over to help me with this."  So I took out the trash.  Loaded the dishwasher.  Fed the cat and depooped the litter box.  Grabbed the dry cleaning.  Got together client files.  Made sure the electronics had their power cords.

Now, I still do the same thing, but there's someone here to help me.  Allegedly.  Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely know that I have big ol' control issues; to wit, I will not let anyone touch the laundry but me.

Now I resent laundry.  And cooking dinner.  And making the beds.  And noticing that the trash is taking over the kitchen.

I resent that I get an occasional, "Thanks, honeybunney!" when I do the bulk of the work.

A while back, I learned that I am a terrible liar and can hide nothing that I think, but that these cues are not enough notice to ask for what I need.

Might be time for a chat.

The New Office

We went shopping this weekend to check out new desks.  Momma and I have been talking about this for a while, and the need became even stronger when my niece and I moved my old desk to exchange the carpet protector for a new one, and managed to lift the top of the desk completely off its bones.

Niece:  Omigod, I'm sorry, did I do that?
Me:  This desk is older than I am.  And now easier to assemble!

Momma offered me the desk in her bedroom, and I really, really thought that that would be the way to go, until we went to Office Depot and I was met with this:

What could I do?  I fell in love immediately, ran over, sat in the big grown-up chair, and I think Momma knew that her checkbook was doomed.  The death knoll, however, was the fact that this desk has not one, not two, but THREE file drawers:

I know, only two are picture, but still!  How amazing is it to get that much storage in a place that's not an industrial-looking filing cabinet?

The piece de resistance, pardon my French, was that the chair was so amazing that once I gave it up and let Momma sit in it, she blocked a vital Office Depot artery on a busy Saturday and did not give a damn.  I don't have a picture of that, so you'll have to settle for the chair:

Price tag and all.  Put together, this is how it looks (not yet in my office, but on display):

When all is done in my office, I'll post more pictures, and maybe even my matching diplomas!

Taylor Swift Songs Make Me Cry

I was thinking about a conversation I had with my sister a while back.  We were discussing our (misguided) youth, and she said, "If I knew then what I know now..."

Hmmm....

I'd thought of this before, and finally it came to me:  I wouldn't want to share what I know now with the girl I was then.  Because I am a logistical thinker, it occurred to me that seventeen-year-old me with thirty-eight (!) year-old me knowledge would be quite possibly the biggest buzzkill outcast that ever existed.  Hell, I'm pretty sure I would've beaten up the current me, and I've never actually punched anyone in my entire life.

Think about it.  Can you imagine adult you in high school?  It wouldn't be pretty, despite what many bad movies, shows, and 21 Jump Street would tell you.

The Inlaws Are Here And I Don't Want To See Anyone Right Now

6. Wade. Cita. GPOM.
7. The list is on the side of this blog.  I do like The Help, but I don't want to see the movie.
8. Gum snapping. Cheapness. Bad breath. I could write for days about this, and if you've read this blog more than once, you know.
9. Gorgeous. Smart. Witty. Kinder than me. Driven. Patient. Brave.
10. CATS!!!!!!
11. Wade.
12. We fell in love with love and not with each other.
13. Talked with Momma, napped with GPOM, ate mini tacos, watched Family Guy and The Simpsons.
14. Passing the bar. Actually allowing someone who loves me inside. Showing up in court for the first time.
15. She's exactly like me, and that's why I dislike her.
16. Foster the Kids' Pumped Up Kicks and OneRepublic's Good Life.
17. I just kissed GPOM on the head while rubbing his shoulders.
18. What I find attractive in my preferred sex?  Really, you want me to answer that?
19. Cats, dog, parakeets, hamster, fish.
20. Mint chocolate chip.
21. Next to GPOM, watching Real Housewives.  He'd rather revoke his mancard than watch that show, though. (Psst...I make him watch Teen Mom.)
22. One of the deans at my law school mocked my very out-of-shape self when I went up two flights of stairs to tell her that my best friend was in the hospital and would be absent that day.
23. Illinois, Pennsylvania, Kansas, Florida, California, Alabama, Ohio, and Virginia.
24. You're kinder to me than I am to myself.

They're gone!!

Until I Get Bored

I love those silly question lists, and I found this one here, so I thought, "Why not?  It's been a while."  So I'll play until it's not entertaining anymore.

1. Mostly straight.
2. Patience. Sports. Finding Waldo.
3. Luckily, I've got that.  GPOM.  And on weak days, my Momma's.
4.
5. On good days, it feels like I could take on the world. Most days, not really.

OK, bored now.  I'm going to go watch GPOM play Fallout and/or watch the Evil Willow episodes from Buffy.

At Least There's No Tears

I thought I had told you fine people about my crying jags.  Apparently not, as a quick search through the archives of this little masterpiece assures me.

For years upon years upon years, I almost never cried.  Once, maybe twice a year would something strangely wet escape my eye.  I call these the over-medicated years.

Once the meds were gone and the feelings were back, I cried at every damn thing I laid eyes on.  Mark Greene dies on ER?  Hefty sobs.  Those Hallmark commercials at Christmas?  Weeping.  The end of just about any chick flick?  Almost inconsolable.

Finally, I've settled down to my routine, occasional wet eyes.  Except.  Every time I went to Seattle, I would spend at least the first two days in tears.  Not because of anything, but I think because I finally felt safe and free and able to express what I was feeling.  I hold a lot of what I think and feel inside of me, I guess.

(I know, what irony!  And here I write about myself all the time.)

Now that GPOM's been here for a week, and there's only been one time where I welled up unexpectedly, I think we're finally home.  But I'll let you in on one secret shame - I cannot get through a Taylor Swift song without crying.

An Early Morning Conversation

- Are you sure about us?
- Most of the time. Yes. Yes. Are you sure about us?
- Absolutely.
- You’re sure about me?
- Yes.
- You’re a brave man.

This Should've Ended Badly

Thursday morning I awoke to a strange phenomenon in my shower. No hot water! But because it’s approximately nine thousand degrees here (including humidity) the water wasn’t ice cold and more importantly, didn’t feel ice cold. So while I had to teach myself some new yoga poses to wash my hair without getting water on my back, it could’ve been a lot worse. When I left that morning, I asked GPOM to check the water to see if it was hot and to let me know so that I could call maintenance if it was not.


When I got home that night, I asked him about the status of the hot water. “Nope, still cold,” he told me, “but I think the pilot light is out. When it gets cooler, I’ll go relight it.” I didn’t think it was the pilot light – his reasoning was that a strong wind and the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID he used to kill the spider mafia in the HVAC room conspired to cut out the light. I told him that the water was cold in the morning, long before the ENTIRE CAN OF RAID was sprayed. But he was insistent, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight just yet. Later, he went outside with a flashlight and some short matches to try to relight the light. No dice – the matches were too short. So he went back outside with the flashlight and one of those kitchen blowtorches used to burn sugar on crème brulee.

A blowtorch. Yes. A BLOWTORCH.

I knew, with the surety that comes from seeing men with beer and barbeque grills and the ensuing lack of eyelashes, that this was the night I was going to die. GPOM was working off of more vodka than brains, a flashlight, and a blowtorch. And I was going to die a fiery death.

Since I’m writing this, you can be sure that I’m not dead, just as you can be sure I took another, colder, shower this morning. I haven’t decided yet what to name the yoga pose.

And maintenance is at my place right now, restoring the hot water.

D-Day

Barring, well, anything, GPOM should be here no later than Friday evening.  I'm spending today taking donations to the Humane Society (GPOM needs room), going to the post office (demand letters gotta mail), going to the courthouse (please let there be progress on my cases!  My clients are getting nervous), visiting Cita (only nine days left until the baby, assuming he doesn't have earlier plans), and going to Target (I can't afford to eat Steak-Out every night, no matter how much I love it).

I've been so nervous about GPOM's arrival, because my grand tradition is to overthink everything and plan for the worst.  Those must be the traits I have that made him fall in love with me in the first place.  I mean, who isn't attracted to rampant insecurity?

Now I'm feeling better, and stronger, and honestly, I'm going to be so grateful that he's here safely and that I can finally relax and let him carry some of the weight.  I'm a strong woman but I need to collapse the reins sometimes too.  And since he's offered to take care of me, forever, I'd be a damn fool not to take him up on it.

Safe travels, my love.  See you soon.

The Kind Of Wife I Want To Be

A couple of weeks ago, near Father's Day, Momma and I went out and did our thing.  By that I mean, we shopped and looked and bought and basically had a good time together.  On the way to take her home, after we got all the ingredients for a slumber party I was planning, she mentioned that she was hungry.  Which of course made me feel like a giant jerk, because I was buying ingredients for what turned out to be an amazingly light pesto lasagna.

Momma asked that I take her to Subway, which of course I did.  I figured we were getting her dinner, so I didn't think too much of it.  As I was checking where my slumber-party partner was on the road, I overheard her order dinner for my dad.  That made me check back in.  She listed everything he'd want on a sandwich.

Wow.  She knows him so well that she knows what he wants to eat.

A day or so later, I watched a Behind The Scenes of Oprah's final season, the one where she had Barack and Michelle Obama on the show.  The clip from the actual episode had to do with the (flamingly idiotic) birthers, and how the President had released his birth certificate.  He said something about how he thought it was funny, the whole situation about people thinking he wasn't American.

Michelle Obama said, "I don't."  The look of ferocious protectiveness was so very telling.

That's the kind of wife I want to be.

Fly Away Home

For the past few weeks, we've been trying to figure out the logistics for getting GPOM's cat to me.  Finally, it seemed that the cat would fly into Nashville, where I would get her at the ungodly hour of 8am.  On a Sunday.  You do know that I jealously guard my Sundays, right?  So today when GPOM called, he told me to expect a delivery tomorrow.  But then he dropped the bomb.

Hoops is flying into my town.  Oh, thank christ, into my town.  At a realistic hour.

Of course, this means that I had to buy litter and a box, food and treats.  I did the best I could, and when I texted pictures to GPOM, he replied with, "Meow".  I guess this means that she's be OK with it.

Here's the thing - up until I got that call and thought a bit, I kinda resented having to keep his cat.  But once I thought about the twelve-hour journey for a seventeen-year-old cat, my stomach started knotting up, and I thought about getting her here safely, and about how we'll get to know (and tolerate) each other.

Everything's ready, finally, including me.  So please get here safely and well, little Jupiter.  We'll take our time to fall in love.  And your boy will be here soon enough.

Lazy

I am a woman of routines.  If my keys don't go into the basket on top of the wicker planter that I use as a shoe tree, I'll never find them again.  If I don't TiVo Judge Judy at the right time, everything falls to pieces.  When I change from day to night clothes and don't set the alarm at the same time, I'll wake up late for work and the world will throw me curve balls the size of your head.

So I do laundry on Sundays.  All the loads that need to be done are done on Sundays.  Sunday is my day off, and I fight fight fight like hell to ensure that I do nothing on Sundays that would even mildly smell of anything. 

Most of my friends know this, and a few are afraid to call me on Sunday.  I'd apologize, except that I can't.  I love Sundays for the time I need to be an idiot.  (And talk to Momma.) (And do laundry.)

This weekend a very good friend came to visit, and we may or may not have drank a lot of delicious rum, combined with mint and club soda and no regret.  Sunday morning/afternoon was spent laying on my fold-out (sideways - thanks, Ikea!) couch watching Bravo.  Wondering when our heads would return, but delighting in my quippy comments (thanks for pretending I'm funny, my friend!) and thinking that maybe that last batch was the best/worst idea ever, and eating Fiber One bars.  What?

This long story is to tell you that I'm finishing up laundry tonight, I have more to do tomorrow, and I think I'm doing just fine.

I Can't Count The Days

GPOM leaves on the 30th of this month, and will probably arrive directly after the 4th of July.  His van is booked, and the next plan is to get his cat to me as quickly as possible.  They're travelling separately, you see.  I am very excited to have him here, and I want his trip to be as easy and safe and beautiful and interesting in possible.

So, shall I be honest?

I haven't lived with someone since 2004, and before that, I lived with Momma in a huge house, and before that, my college roommate who lived more with her boyfriends than me.  I have no idea how to do this, and I'm nervous and scared and afraid that my lifestyle, completely unobserved, is going to change in a way that I can't even fathom.

And I've been fathoming.

I want him here, I want him gone, I wonder how long it'll be before we resent each other and hopefully learn how to get over it.

It's getting real, people.  I'm getting equally scared and excited.  I hope you'll indulge me as I tell you all about it.

On the plus side - more "adult" interactions!  I would apologize for my PG-13(?) comment, but c'mon.

We Have A Date

GPOM leaves Seattle no later than 4pm on June 30.  Every planning part of me is dancing, because I've hated not knowing what was going to happen when.  Planning part of me now says that I should see him around the Fourth of July.

Yay!  My baby's coming home!

Crap!  So much for eating for the next month!

YAY!

Pretentious

A million years ago, before EPCOT even existed, I lived in Florida.  (Close enough to Disney that it was a daily event, but I don't want you to be jealous).  I loved Florida.  I loved the ability to ride bikes through orange groves, daily rain storms where I could read in the Florida room, and tangelos.  I even loved the accent, and adopted it immediately.

Yes, I loved the accent.

Two years later, the family, without consulting me, decided that California would be a better place to live, so off we went, with Disney even further away, no EPCOT, and my proudly-earned Southern accent intact.

The first days of school were torture, as ten-year-old me was ridiculed for the accent.  To the point where people would ask me to say certain words, just so they could laugh at me.  I was so desperate for friends then that I would do almost anything for attention and maybe a real friend.

We lived in California for six years, and that accent was gone.  Dead and gone.  And then the best news of all - We're Moving To Alabama! 

Imagine what goth, dangerous, sixteen-year-old me thought of that plan.  I couldn't find Alabama on a map back then.

So we moved, and I adjusted, and I learned new turns of phrase and new meanings for words:
Pictures "made"
Hair "rolled"
"Carry you" to the store
"Bless your heart"

But I took pride in not getting the accent, and being questioned about my lineage because of it.  Until I bought in, and I now have a mild accent.  The problem is that lately, all I've been hearing is that screeching abortion of a redneck Southern accent, and it burns my baby sensibilities.  The other problem is that I have a tendency to adopt the accent of the person closest to me.  (Imagine how my British ex-fiance loved that.  He thought I was mocking him.)

So please, please don't let me adopt this terrifying tone.  I like the little one I have/had.  I don't want it to get worse.

Addiction

I love candles.  Scented candles, especially.  I probably could have a much stronger 401(k) if I didn't have the endless desire to have my living room smell fantastic and be prettily lit.

Wanna see?

I particularly love candles scented like any sort of water, and more than all the else, I like honeysuckle.  (Thank you, niece, for my new honeysuckle-scented candle!)

There's one, though, that's the bain of my existence.  When I smelled it before purchase, it was fantastic.  It was other-wordly, clean, amazing...and then I lit it.  It's such a pungent odor.  It's not entirely bad, just very overwhelming.  So because I can't throw anything away that still serves a useful purpose, I've been burning it nightly to get rid of it. 

The problem is, I can't get rid of it!  Each night, when the wax is liquid, I think it's finally done, and I can throw it out.  Each morning when I get up, it's hardened into a form that insists that I burn it again.  Argh!  Will I sneeze from lotus blossoms forever?

Bridezilla

Let's just call it what it is - I am self-involved.  Clearly I am, or else I wouldn't post my thoughts on the internet.

Not that you're reading, but that's not the point.

Now that I am a bride-to-be (depending on the state of our relationship after an argument last night), I'm trying to figure out how to plan such an event without it becoming all-consuming.  At this point, I think it is all-consuming, and I need to apologize to all my friends who have had kids and have become enraptured with them.

To fix this, this is what I'm thinking.  My new friend is an event planner (I didn't choose her as a friend because of this, I promise!) and is ready, willing, and according to her, ADD-able to get this undertaking underway, no matter what sort of timeframe I give her.  Momma handed me a new list of venues and said we should look, and also mentioned a trunk sale.

So...shall I let them plan the whole thing and let me focus on my business?  I'm thinking yes.  And then I think more yes.  And then, when my moods swing, I think, why haven't they done it already?  Just tell me to stop eating for a few months and make my wedding special.

(PS - I'm making ovulationPMS a thing.  Just wait 'til it trends on Twitter, and remember where you heard it first.)

When I Have To Ask...

The moods have been all over the board today, and I think it's because I've entered protective mothering mode.  My new friend is trying to figure out how to solve a problem within her family, and I think she's being unfairly treated and more importantly, isn't standing up for herself.  GPOM's father ran his inventory the other night and he's still licking his fairly substantial wounds.

Unfortunately, protective mothering mode on me looks like a battle of words, a desire to dominate with my vocabulary, a veritable inability to handle others' peccadilloes (see?), and mood swings that run the entire gamut (now I'm just showing off).

So when I get home, take off my makeup, and put on comfy house clothes, and I find myself saying (out loud), "Are you going to be this bitchy all night?" I know that I need to take a step back, drink something cooling, and watch Judge Judy to feel superior.

Speaking of which...

A Little Bit Of Ecstasy...

There's so much going on here that it feels like nothing at all.  There've been dreams of evil babies, a ripped-off toenail, a mini-power crisis, folks with whom I work who are either gone/crazy, and a desire to spend far too much time in the bathroom with bleach.

To clean it!

I guess this is what happens when you lie back for a bit and just let life happen.  Let me tell you though, life is weird.  And I'm suddenly humming Fly On The Windscreen under my breath.  This is an upgrade for my neighbors, who want nothing more than to never hear me sing.

I'm dreaming of a new car.  But if I can't have that, how much is a new car CD player?  They still have those things, right?  Remember that I do not need an iPod deck, now or ever.

Best line I heard today:  You probe the crime, and then we fist it!

Bedazzled

A new friend has been handling all my wedding plans, because the first time I printed out a to-do list I had a panic attack and had to leave the room.  She witnessed this and just took over.  She presented me with a plastic purple organizer/divider the other day, and then promptly took it from me so she could embellish it.

The purple folder now has some version of college sorority calligraphy along with colored rhinestones.  It is awesome and I love it.

So how come I want to elope so badly?

The Story Of A Toe

So the power went out last Wednesday afternoon.  A lark, at first, until it was not, and it was pitch dark, and there were no external lights, and there were storms and storm clouds which meant there was nothing to see.  I decided to enjoy my landline and then take a sleeping pill, because there was nothing.

The next night, there was no power either.  Another pill put me to bed around 7:30.

Friday night I talked with GPOM, and surprisingly enough, took another pill.

At this point I felt like a pioneer and wished I could unlearn what I knew about technology so I wouldn't hate my life as much as I did by then.

And then comes Saturday night, where I made a MASSIVE error in judgment, and took the sleeping pill with some vodka.

Judge if you must, but imagine that your world is unknowable to you.  And the only thing you could do is try to pass the time.  So you do, in the most idiotic way possible.  Then you try to go to bed, walk into a door because you're a door-closing freak, and walk into that door with your right big toe.

Fortunately, I didn't recognize the damage until the morning.  I now have a teacup-sized lack of toenail.  It hurt like hell, and I bandaided-it, and am now gimping around like I lost a knee.

Today Momma and I went shopping.  Well, Momma, I, and the days-old band-aided toe went shopping.  I knew it needed attention, but I also knew that the band-aid was attaching to the RAW OPEN WOUND ON TOP OF MY TOE WHERE A NAIL SHOULD BE, so I was afraid of the interminable pain when I ripped the band-aid off to attach gauze.

It rained today.  Just what my town needs, more rain.  But when off-loading my groceries, I noticed that the band-aid had come off, and I could do my own doctoring without fear or pain.

Here's hoping the new nail grows in before the wedding.

PS - Momma pointed out that I now walk worse than she does.  NURSING HOME, WOMAN!

I Promise...

Being away from internet has been tricky.  Being away from power has been trickier.  Except the part where it didn't entirely suck, because I was able to never apologize because there was no-one to question me.

I think I might be overtired, and hurting, and sad, and needy.  No-one wants to deal with weak me, including me.

I have absolutely nothing to eat tonight, and I haven't eaten since about 8 this morning.  I'm hungry.

I promise to tell tales, as soon as I get my head back up into its rightful place.

Encouragement

Tomorrow GPOM has a tricky quiz in logic.  I'll admit, I don't remember what 'if and only if' is in a symbol.  I do know.  In case this ever occurs in your life, it's an equals sign with a third line over the top.

The point is, I trust that he is so much better at this work than he does.  I try to tell him how much of which he is capable, but he has a blind spot for anything mathematical.

Yet, he's quite good at math.  He just doesn't trust himself at it yet.  He should, and hopefully he will.

How did we end up with this mistrust in ourselves?  If I could give us (I mean you as well) one gift, it'd be that you must trust you.  Because you're awesome.  Because you've survived situations that many others could not.  Because you're still here, which means things CAN only get better.

Good luck tomorrow, my love.

Laundry

This trip involved a lot of figuring out the details.  Details such as, "You keep too much crap in my bathroom and it freaks me out."  Well, GPOM, it takes a lot to look as good as I do. 

Still, because I am a good person, I didn't overreact much.  (Too much.  OK, I grabbed everything out, threw it all into my suitcase, and screamed, "Fine!  Are you happy now?"  Because I never overpersonalize anything.)

I told GPOM while he was headed out the door that I would handle the laundry.  Some people hate doing laundry.  I kinda hate doing laundry.  OK, I don't hate it, but I'd much rather check in on Real Housewives than do anything that involves domestic violence work.

I have a special place for the handling of the laundry.  Let me explain...at some point when I was in college, I had a lovely lingerie set from Victoria's Secret.  The bra and front part of the panties (you probably should've stopped reading by now) were satin, and the behind-coverage was cotton.  Gorgeous.  Simply gorgeous.  I came home for a weekend to my parents' place, and placed my accouterments into the loving hands of my mother - she who can wash anything, and whom I think might have invented Mother Saliva as a stain remover.  Unfortunately, my dad decided to help.  By putting bleach into that load of laundry.

My dress-up gear was ruined, and needless to say, I was F.U.R.I.O.U.S.

I hollered at my dad, and pointed out that this was an expensive set.  His response was that I shouldn't have spent so much on undergarments.

NOT. THE. POINT.

So I told GPOM that no matter what else I was willing to sacrifice in our home, I would always be in control of the laundry.

"Cool," he said.

Things I Thought Pre-, During, And After O'Hare

It is 3:30am and I am awake.
It is 4am and I am building a legal argument for why the gate at my complex really is a security gate, and not a gate for "traffic control" as my landlords states.  (Seriously.  I thought that exact sentence.  I then determined that I am a complete dork.  Who thinks these things?)
It's 4:44am.  Where is my ride?
It's 5am.  I'm at the airport already.  Damn, my ride drives fast.  Bless him.
It's 5:45am.  Why has the plane not taken off?
It's 5:48am.  Who hired this seventeen-year-old hipster to be a flight attendant?
It's 5:49am.  Dear hipster flight attendant:  You are not funny.  You are far too loud because the speaker is directly above my head, but you are not funny.
It's 6:01am.  I just broke the overhead light above my seat and it's dark out and I can't read and Oh God Oh God Oh God what am I going to do for two hours?

We made it to O'Hare unscathed.  The sun rose quickly and I was able to read.  The Room is an excellent book.  I will read it again because I am a speed reader so I'm sure that I missed some emotional details that haven't yet ripped out my heart.

I looked for my brother, the United pilot, all through the terminal but never saw him.  I was disappointed because we had totally agreed to high-five while passing each other on the moving sidewalk.  C'mon, you know that level of badassery is almost impossible to top.

There was a Pizzeria Uno stand in the terminal, but because it was 7:40am, it was not yet open.  Another disappointment.  I would've totally eaten uber-deep dish pizza in the morning had it been available.

I had the last seat on the left on the flight from Chicago to Seattle.  I have never had that many asses (literal asses) rub my shoulder in a five-hour period.  I hated that part.  I finally nodded off, only to get knocked awake (not rubbed, not tapped, but KNOCKED) by a woman with an unfortunate body fat distribution system.

I've still not recovered from jet lag and being awake for twenty-four hours.  But I'm here, and so is GPOM, and there have been very pleasant exchanges between us thus far.

Tomorrow Will Suck Then Not

People, 3:30am is a terrible time to wake up.  You know I don't sleep well anyway, so taking away any rest time is bound to make my eyeliner look more raccoon-ish than usual. 

I've got three books in my backpack, five more in my suitcase, and four waiting for me in Seattle.  Here's hoping I don't find anything other than another bottle of St. John to buy, or I'll have to pay another luggage fee.

Think good thoughts for me from here to Chicago to Seattle.

'Cos I once I get to Seattle there will be KISSES!

Butterflies Rising

So soon, so soon I go!  I'm very excited.  I'm a bit nervous about the amount of nerves I'm going to have tomorrow while I pack and try to remember everything.

Yes, I worry about upcoming worries.  You're suprised by this?

I just want to enjoy my time with GPOM.  I want to work hard on my cases when I'm not wrapped in love bubble, so I can relax into said love bubble.

I know I'm not making much sense.  I'm cool with that.  I've got a suitcase and travel-sized toiletries and Tina Turner's Simply The Best to guide my way.  And whatever I forget - there's stores in Seattle!

I hope to have the chance to write to you while I'm gone.  Maybe something silly like this?

She Didn't Kill Me

If I've not mentioned it before, Momma tends to get quite ill when I head to Seattle.  She worries about me, about money, about whether I'm really going to marry this loser man.  For the record, Momma, I am going to marry this wonderful, funny, supportive, scary, intelligent equal.

Yay!

Anyhoo, I put off telling her as long as possible before I leave for vacation.  Because I'm brave that way.  This time she took it with a grain of salt, only asking when I'm leaving and returning and the motive behind this trip.  My answers were until and because I've saved up the money.

I do have my pound of flesh, however - I have to help her clean the third level of her house so her houseguest will be much more welcome.  I'm disappointed that I won't get to see her friend, but so glad that this didn't turn into WWIII.

Nothing left to do but clean, pack, move furniture, get my jewelry cleaned (I'm marrying a man who notices things like that) and arrange for airport transportation.  Keep your fingers crossed that I bring some sunshine with me to Seattle.  I get weird with sunshine after about three days.

I Am Not Special

A few weeks ago, before my personal national holiday, I was dreaming of getting an Android phone. Who doesn’t want one of those? (No comments from you Apple people, please. I am fully aware of the prior and ongoing superiority of Apple products.) I want one because I don’t have one and because it seems like everyone else I know has one and because they’re fun to play with and just because.

Currently Momma and I share a family plan, and we’ve found that the contract on it ends in April. So we went looking for what will work best for us. Of course I found a $250 phone (AFTER discount) and of course I could rationalize the $150 each month that this phone would cost not me. Momma was sitting down, letting me do my exploration, and when I went to talk about it with her, she kinda blew up.

“You know, I don’t even use this damn phone, and I’m paying for it!” Ouch. Not that a word of that isn’t true, but ouch. I asked her for a little time to explore my options, which she has granted.

GPOM and I have decided to get our own family plan, which will cut costs for both of us, and allow us to have unlimited minutes and texts. I really don’t need an Android, I don’t know how to use even the call feature on such a phone (I only recently found the ‘back’ button), and quite honestly, I can’t afford such a phone. GPOM and I will be content with calls and texts and picture messages for the time being.

To the point! I asked the sales lady at T-Mobile a quiet question about getting a new phone: There are, let’s say, ahem, uh…uh…uh…private photos on my phone that I don’t want to lose and I don’t want to be seen by the person transferring the data from the phone and SIM card to the new phone. She laughed and said, “Everyone asks that. EVERYONE. The transfer is done by computer and we never see a thing.”

I thought I was the only one!

At Least I'M Excited

Tomorrow's my birthday.  I like to think of it as a national holiday dedicated especially to me.  I really don't like people telling me that they know someone who shares my birthday.

There is no sharing on birthdays.  Because it's my national holiday, I get to make the rules.

I have cards and gifts on the mantle, and I'm excited to open them tomorrow.  Yes, I am one of those people who can get gifts and save them for my special day.  I don't understand those who have to open gifts immediately.  What's the fun in that?  What happens if nothing else comes on your national holiday and then you've got nothing new to open?  You've squandered a precious opportunity to be the master of your domain for just a few minutes.

Oh, and I got some new plug-ins today.  The place smells terrific!

Valentine's Day - In March?

You might remember that last year, I was sorely disappointed in GPOM's and my Valentine's Day.  This year, I told him well in advance that the day was coming.  What I finally received, LAST FRIDAY, was a package with a couple of novelties and the stuff I'd need to do his taxes.

ROMANCE.

GPOM got me a scarf and a bracelet.  I was terribly offended.  Really, can you imagine me in a scarf?  The bracelet I more understood, as it was hard plastic with dead bugs in it.  GPOM loves that sort of thing.  But, still, a scarf?  I fumed for the evening, and then talked with GPOM the next day.  He asked me if I liked the scarf, and I scattered around, trying to find a way to say NO NO NO while saying that yes, I did.

"Duly noted," was his reply and he sounded so disillusioned.

Later, he asked me if I sniffed the scarf.  As I had not, and it never occurred to me to do such, I told him so.  He told me then that he had scented it with his cologne.  Yeah, right, it came in plastic wrap, I thought, and went to bed.  The next morning I decided to test my theory and discovered that it smelled just as his Miracle does.  Not quite the same - let's be honest - because that scent meshes with his body chemistry and creates a different aroma.

But tonight I apologized, because I should never assume.  Nor should I add to those presumptions any sort of blame.  Tonight we're in a better place.  Honesty - scary.  Tough.  Sometimes too easy.  Lessons - good.  He loves me.

I might need your help to remind me to tread lightly, k?

Steal These, And I'll Be Quite Angry With You

GPOM and I spent the afternoon talking and dreaming and planning, and then we came to names for kids.  I don't know if I can have or want kids, but who doesn't want to dream?

My initial dream names:
Miranda Alexis
Robert Thomas

GPOM's opinion was that Miranda was from Miranda Sex Garden (the band) which is was, and that Alexis is a name from the 80s.  (It's not, it's from a good friend from high school.)  So OK, that's out.  After arguments about Greek and Italian names, we finally decided on a name for a girl: Catherine.  Called Cate, not at all Cathy.  I like it.  Middle name to be determined.  (Hell, it's better than Siobhan Hurricane, don't you think?  That's a stupid name.)

The boy's name I always dreamed of is Robert Thomas.  Robert from The Cure.  Thomas because my brother raised me.  Funnily enough, the argument was much easier here.  GPOM's first name is the name I've chosen, so we decided on Robert Thomas Henry.  That dignifies both our families.

Here's hoping!

Free Transvestite Dating

Glorious.  These are now the comments I get.  I mean, who doesn't love funny spam?

Me. Tonight.  Because I feel like I've been run through the wringer (hey, 1900, I'm talking to you) and apparently illness means that I have absolutely no sense of humor.

Napping helped.  Having to sign away my civil liberties to get some damn psuedoephedrine did not.  (Thanks lots, meth heads!  Enjoy gumming your food!)

I promise to come back with wit and cunning and more interesting stories.  Right now, I'm just hoping my head doesn't explode.

Quick Quiz Time!

I might have mentioned that GPOM is a foodie.  If I haven't, then clearly I need some sort of professional help, because not even one day goes by without some conversation about food he's had, is having, or is about to make.  And thank Christmas, because learning how to make a burrito in the oven rather than the microwave is stretching my culinary brains to places that involve...a whole lot of use of the trash can.

So is it any surprise that I asked him if he wanted to try out for Top Chef?  We talked of it briefly over the weekend, and I just remembered rightnow (thanks, Facebook!) so I looked up the application.  It's about ten pages of questions and fifteen of legalese, so clearly I felt comfortable.  But there were, let's say, Quickfire Questions, ones that I wrote down to ask him, but can't seem to stop myself from answering for myself here.

Ready?  Let's go!

1.  Create a culinary interpretation of the lyric of "Five Golden Rings" from the song "Twelve Days of Christmas".
     I'm thinking of something served on one of those paper plates that separates the foods so that incredibly picky eaters like myself can play with the grownups too.

2.  Create a dish inspired by the color blue.
     Yeah yeah seafood yeah yeah.  How about some Jell-O?  Everyone loves Jell-O!  Maybe some Knox Blox even?

3.  Recreate meatloaf into a gourmet dish.
     You should know that I initially typed "meatloaf" as "meatload".  I believe that question has been answered.

4.  Describe yourself in one word.
     Moody.

5.  How would someone else describe you in one word?
     Moody.

6.  What would someone close to you describe as your best and worst traits?
     Loyalty and neediness.

7.  Describe your most embarrassing moment.
     This question requires that I rank my many and varying humiliations, and I decline to do so.  I did have a tough day with a lady problem in junior high.  I think you know what I mean.

8.  Odd fact or talent?
     My ability to tell the internet my life story?  Sheesh, I don't know.  I can write in mirror writing; how's that?

9.  Favorite TV shows, movies, magazines, and books?
     TV show: The entire Bravo network family of programming.
     Movies:  Boring question.  I did like Quills.
     Magazines:  I currently subscribe to O and Glamour, so I guess they count.
     Books:  I read incessantly.  I read crap and literature and short stories and trade magazines when they're all I've got.  It's hard to pick favorites.

There you go!  A little more about your favorite _____________________.