Wrecked, But Not Totaled

And I Thought Cats Would Be Pro-SPCA

2010-05-16T14:59:00.002-04:00

Of Course It's Better

2010-04-25T15:10:00.002-04:00

Driving With Miss Theresa

2009-11-30T18:38:00.006-05:00

As you may or may not know, my driving records is, um, sketchy at best. (Two accidents in one week in 2001, the second leaving me in the hospital for 26 days, begging for pizza and coke. No pizza and no coke for me.)

A few weeks ago I was driving to see Ms. Hannon in Preble County, Ohio. I left Hamilton on SR 177 and just as I was coming into the "country," a mattress arose out of the bed of the oncoming pickup truck. I had just enough time and room to slow down and pull over a little, but, alas, the mattress got snagged on the side of the truck and was flying right towards my windshield. Disaster averted. The pickup truck pulled into the nearest driveway with the mattress hanging off the bed and I went on my merry way.

A little further down the road, I crest a small hill and see two cars, one on either side of the road. They were in a very dangerous position because coming from my way, you couldn't see them until you were right on top of them. The cars were bad enough, but the interesting thing was the six or so Asian people milling around them.

About a half mile further down the road, repeat above, but with three cars and ten or so Asian people.

Almost to Ms. Hannon's and a deer runs out in front of me; the most normal thing to happen on this 25-minute drive.

Today, I had my first eye exam in over a decade. (Healthy eyes with astigmatism. Woo hoo!) I wanted to stop by the store afterwards. As I'm driving down one-way Park Avenue and the car in front of me makes a left-hand turn from the right lane. Wha? A few seconds later, one of Hamilton's finest pulls me over.

Cop: You okay, ma'am?
Me: I just had an eye exam and my eyes are dialated.
Cop: You shouldn't be driving then.
Me: They said I could drive.
Cop: For the last block and a half you've been driving on the wrong side of the road.
Me: This is a one-way street.
Cop: Not this side of Eaton it's not. Never has been. Do you see those cars parked the opposite direction?
Me (thinking): Well, I do now.
Me: I'm sorry, I thought it was a one way street.
Cop: I don't like to write tickets. Do you think you can handle this?
Me (thinking): Probably not.
Me: Yes. Sorry. Thank you.

What I Did Today

2009-07-09T23:16:00.002-04:00

AM
5:45-6:00--Hit snooze button.
6:00-6:30--Unload dishwaher, scoop poop, feed cats, drink juice.
6:30-7:00--Shower, dress.
7:00-7:10--Pack backpack while wondering what fresh hell I may meet today.
7:10-7:30--Drive to bus stop.
7:30-8:10--Commute on bus.
8:10-12:15 p.m.--Work like a dog.
PM
12:15-1:15--Work out.
1:15-5:00--Work like a dog.
5:00-5:05--Get to bus stop.
5:05-5:50--Commute on bus.
5:50-6:20--Drive home.
6:20-6:30--Change clothes.
6:30-6:32--Feed cats. (Why did I get these cats, I wonder. Oh yeah, because they are the only things that give me joy in this life.)
6:32-7:15--Wash dishes, make dinner.
7:15-7:30--Eat dinner.
7:30-7:31--Get pissed off.
7:32-7:45--Go buy cigarettes, because that's what I do when I get pissed off; instead of doing something positive or enlightening, I harm myself.
7:45-8:00--Go into garage to get lawn mower, discover tank and gas can are empty and decide, "Fuck it."
8:00-10:00--Snip herbs, do more dishes, make pasta salad, make tzatziki, do laundry, water plants, water garden, load dishwasher, pack for camping trip.
10:00-11:00--Wax legs.
11:00-11:15--Smoke cigarettes and drink beer.
11:15-11:25--Write this post because I have so much fucking spare time I don't know what to do with it.
The End.

No Wonder We're Broke

2009-06-03T09:34:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, one of my bosses received a check from the United States Treasury in the amount of $100,600.00. That is the amount of tax he paid, not the amount of tax he OVER paid. How many people would have cashed that check? How many people are cashing their erroneous checks right now? See why we're broke?

After Five Years of Bitching and Moaning . . .

2009-05-10T08:23:00.002-04:00

I finally got my new deck!!!!

Happy Valentine's Day--Cincinnati Style

2009-02-06T12:00:00.002-05:00

First Christmas Tree Since 1992

2008-12-23T15:06:00.004-05:00

Isn't it pretty?

We were going to wait until next year to get a tree, but I decided that I could be dead next Christmas and I wanted a tree THIS year. I love it. It totally put me in the Christmas spirit and has actually inticed me to sit in my living room.

Merry Christmas!

A Dream (On So Many Levels)

2008-12-05T10:54:00.004-05:00

I was in high school and my brothers were little. We lived in a very nice apartment in NYC (I think). My mother had a job. She also had a partner, but it didn’t seem to be my father. She was happy.

Mom had bought something really nice for the apartment, possibly new furniture or a piece of art, and I thought to myself that maybe mom had a better job than I realized.

Mom ran an ad and began interviewing for nannies/tutors for my little brothers. A candidate came to our apartment to interview and as I was walking her out we had this conversation:

Me: My parents must be pretty wealthy if they’re interviewing for nannies.

Prospective Nanny: I think so.

Me: Well, my Christmas list just changed.

Facebook And My Ex

2008-11-25T10:18:00.077-05:00

Not long after graduating college--after quitting my $5-an-hour job as an insurance agent's assistant and having to tell some poor woman with breast cancer that her medical insurer had dropped her--I waited tables at Ozzie's, an uptown eatery. I was waiting around to go to graduate school and had to do something. What I ended up doing was learning how to drink, and meeting my future husband. (An inauspicious combination?)

Brian was my cute lunch-time bartender. He had all-American good looks, was sweet, and a little on the shy side. We began dating and shortly thereafter moved into a house with two other co-workers. We spent the summer working, cooking out and partying. All and all, it was a good summer.

I was scheduled to leave for Santa Fe at the end of the summer. Since he wasn't doing all that great anyway, Brian decided not to go back to school and go with me. I knew it was too soon in the relationship to be making such a leap, but I was young, and scared, and was happy to have someone to move across the country with.

We got to Santa Fe in late August, but I wasn't scheduled to start class until the Spring semester. Brian and I both worked two part-time jobs at restaurants and hotels. We were homesick, overworked, and poor. It was a tough time for two kids in a new relationship and 1300 miles from anyone they knew.

It didn't take long for me to decide that I did not really like Santa Fe, did not really want to live there and, hence, did not want to go to graduate school there. Moving to the capital of the state, I expected a city. It wasn't what I expected and it wasn’t what I wanted. (Great place to visit, wouldn't want to live there.) We left the following year.

It was October of 1990 when we arrived in San Francisco, almost one year to the day of the 1989 earthquake. The economy was in the toilet, our rent was $800 for a one-bedroom apartment, and we only knew two people. But, San Francisco was spectacular and I loved it.

We spent the next few years living, working, and learning. We got married. We landed good jobs, finally making decent money. We discussed our future. We talked about the family we would have. We talked of moving back home so the kids could be near their grandparents; so our parents could be near our children. We were young, we were happy, and life was good. Or so I thought.

After dinner one evening, this conversation took place:

Me: I'm going to the doctor soon. I'm going to talk to her about going off the pill.

Brian: I don't want to have kids.

Me: (sure he's just kidding around) Then I'll go to the sperm bank.

Brian: I don't want to be a father.

Me: (disbelieving) What do you mean you don't want to be a father?

Brian: I just don't want to do it. I don't want to have kids.

Me: WTF have we been talking about for the last few years?

I'm sure there was more to the conversation than this, but considering my state of shock and the intervening years, this is pretty much how I remember it.

The next day, feeling like I was in one of those dreams where you're trying to get somewhere but, for the love of God, just can't, I made an appointment with a marriage counselor.

We met with the counselor within the next week or so. He asked why we were there. I said because my husband had changed his mind about having children and I didn't want to get a divorce. What did Brian say? Good question. I have no idea. I was there and I'm sure I heard him, but today I couldn't tell you what his answer was.

The counselor wanted to meet with us separately. I went back the following week and Brian went a few days later. As I write this I realize I don't remember a lot of what happened or what was said during those stressful and confusing days, but I do remember what Brian said when he returned from his solo meeting with the counselor. He said, "I'm not going back." I understood this to mean "I don't care enough about this marriage to work on it, so, eh, whatever." He did not disabuse me of this understanding.

The next few months were some of the worst I've ever lived through. Brian got laid off, I began taking note of the cute attorney at work that had started flirting with me, I never wanted to go home, and I wanted to shoot myself. On the upside, I lost a lot of weight on the vodka/chocolate diet and was really skinny.

Brian left our apartment the morning of March 3, 1995. From the kitchen window, I watched him hurry across the street to catch a cab to the airport in the pouring rain. I haven't seen him since.

My friends and I have had many conversations wondering exactly how the demise of my marriage came about. We never came up with any answers, but we did come up with a few speculations. I speculated that Brian simply fell out of love with me. He didn't want to be married to me any more. He wanted out. He knew telling me he didn't want to have children would end our marriage. More than a few friends speculated he was gay. Well, that would explain it, wouldn't it.

For many years I didn't want to know what became of him. I was terrified to find out that he was married with children. But time went on and the prevalence of the internet made it so easy to peek into others' lives. It took me a long time, but eventually I Googled him. I didn't find anything except that he probably lived in Cleveland at one point.

Now I have a Facebook account and I've clicked the "Find Friends" button on more than one occasion. Did I ever type in my ex's name? You bet I did. I didn't find him. I did, however, find his sister. I contemplated the wisdom of sending her a message and, in the end, couldn't help myself.

It was a short message briefly filling her in on the last decade of my life. I told her I often wondered how her family was, wished them all the best, and asked for an update, if she was so inclined. That was over two weeks ago. Apparently, she is not so inclined.

So, here I sit--still wondering what happened to my marriage, if my ex has children, if he's gay. Allen says it's best to let sleeping dogs lie. But now, after so many years and finally feeling like I could hear the news no matter what it is; I really want to know.

Neener Neener Neener

2008-11-05T14:33:00.003-05:00

No Free Speech In Indian Hill

2008-10-31T09:18:00.004-04:00

Rock star Peter Frampton lives in Indian Hill, a wealthy suburb of Cincinnati. It seems his neighbors aren't happy about his Obama yard signs and keep stealing them. You can read the blurb here.

Allen and I saw Frampton in concert this past summer and the show was fantastic. During the encore, he proudly sported his Obama t-shirt.

Rock all over those Indian Hill facists, Peter.

Insomnia? Read This.

2008-10-30T09:43:00.004-04:00

What I don't want to do in the morning (or ever): Discuss politics with the IRS agent who sits his fat ass next to me on the bus and begins spewing about Obama bin Laden.

My continuing addiction: Sugar. I had candy corn for breakfast this morning. So, so good.

Conversation with my chiropractor a couple years ago:

Chiro babbling about how his son will not eat what's good for him . . .

Me: Let him eat what he wants. Eventually, his body will crave what it needs and he'll eat it.

Chiro: Unless your digestive tract is full of yeast; then all you crave is sugar and alcohol.

Me: I have that.

I still have that.

Is my current breakfast better than my previous, long-standing breakfast of coffee and cigarettes?

Allen's latest addiction: Fishing. He has recently bought many, many fishing poles, reels and tackle. Oh, and a fishing boat.

I am totally on board with this because, unless it's cold, I ALWAYS want to be outside. Fishing always takes place outside.

We finally rented the last unit and the tenant actually paid the rent. Woo hoo!! That goal accomplished, my next goal is our house. I want all the crap out of it and I want it cleaned up. I want it in shape so we can either rent it or sell it. I want this goal realized by spring.

I took my seven-year old niece roller skating for the first time last weekend. Too funny! Hopefully I will get the photos up soon.

I have spent the last two weekends shopping for clothes. I tried on over 40 pairs of pants and purchased three--not being happy with any of them. I'm right in between sizes and nothing fits. This is why I have no clothes. Very, very irritating.

I recently jointed Facebook. I only joined because I had to see Carolyn's page. Now, I'm completely sucked in. I got a message from a high school friend I haven't seen in years. (Hi, Rebecca!) There are tons of people I know, and I can't wait to post picutures. Just another thing I don't have time for.

This is a photo taken at Mr. S's 101st birthday party. I really need to start wearing some makeup.

Now, go to sleep.

Shitty Day--No Friends

2008-09-17T16:33:00.003-04:00

Since my cup runneth over of shitty days this year, I can't say this has been the shittiest--or even in the Top 5. But I'm definitely putting it in the Top 15 Shitties Days of 2008. And I don't have one fucking friend downtown that I can call on to meet me for a drink after work. How fucking sad is that?

Of course, I immediately thought of Didi, my happy hour partner in crime.

Maybe I'll just buy a 16 ouncer and drink it on the bus out of a paper bag like the guy in the morning does. That man knows what he needs to face the day. Cracks me right the fuck up. I haven't seen him for a while though. Maybe he found a more fun way to get to work. Maybe I can join him.

I sued that blind bitch of a tenant--because she wouldn't shut the fuck up--and I lost. Sort of. The judge ruled that I owed her a $75 refund of her security deposit and if the tenant wins, the damages are automatically doubled. Add the $32 court costs and I get to write a check for a cool $182.

The judge didn't think that color was neutral either.

New Do

2008-08-01T15:38:00.004-04:00

Since I haven't been happy with my hair in forever. I decided to go short. Here's a not-so-great photo, but you get the idea.

I'm glad I did it, but now I think I'll let it grow again.

In other news, we're still looking for a tenant. I can't even remember how many people I've shown it too, nor how many applications I've reviewed. But I can tell you that I'd rather leave it empty than have a bad tenant. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the latest applicant. Out of six accounts listed on her report, she is delinquent on five. This is one of the better credit reports I've seen. As soon as this crappy market turns, I'm putting the rentals up for sale and focusing on my own house. I don't want to wait until I retire to live in a house I want to live in, but that's how it's looking right now.

TGIF!

It's A Neuroma!

2008-07-22T20:15:00.004-04:00

I went to the podiatrist today to get the results of my MRI and found that a neuroma is causing the pain in my right foot. What is a neuroma, you ask? Hell if I know. It has something to do with nerves. If it doesn't respond to a series of three cortisone injections, it ain't gonna. What then, you ask? Apparently they get the nerve really drunk and KILL it. Yes, they can kill a nerve with alcohol. Don't you need that nerve, you ask? Apparently not. If I have to kill that nerve to wear heels and jog again--buh bye.

And wearing the $450 boot for a month? All for naught. So glad I tried to save that MRI money by going with the less expensive boot first.

What We're Eating

2008-07-20T08:41:00.005-04:00

The King Zucchini. Look at this thing. It's taking over the garden.

We've already eaten several zucchinis.

The cucumbers are prolific. I'm draining yogurt now to make Tzatziki. I love that stuff.

See those red tomatoes? Allen picked them all off and popped them in his mouth. Good thing there will be plenty more shortly.

This is a small head of broccoli. We ate the other three big ones. I hope they continue to produce the florettes. This is our first time growing broccoli so I don't know how it grows. I recently heard on the radio (so it must be true) that one can cut their risk of developing cancer by 50% by eating just one serving of broccoli a day. How's that for a health food?

Feel free to send me any good recipes you might have for my garden goodies.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2008-07-10T11:09:00.026-04:00

It's been a mixed bag lately at Chez Stress.

What's stressing me?

The boot I wore for the entire month of June did not have the desired result. Now, I get to spend $900 on an MRI.

About a year and a half ago, we "loaned" a good amount of money to an acquaintance for a new business venture--signed contract with terms and everything on the up and up. The loan was a year past due on May 1. For a year I have been calling and e-mailing this guy telling him to give me my money. We got some of it back, but not all of it. We told a few people the story and learned that the acquaintance "sits in his basement all day and scams people." After learning that, Allen paid him a visit. That seemed to do the trick and the loan has finally been paid in full.

I had two weeks off work, just so I could work on the rentals, fight with tenants, fight with Allen, smoke cigarettes, go to my friend Lisa's, get drunk, and fall down. It was awesome. Way to burn 10 days of hard-earned vacation time. On the upside, the weather those two weeks was spectacular.

This is Lisa. We have been friends since we were nine.

Here is what my know-my-neutral-colors tenant did when she was moving out.

Apparently, with three friends directing her, she drove a moving truck into the dormer and "didn't realize it." That's California redwood and broken slate you're looking at. First estimate of repair: $800. Amount of tenant deposit: $700. You may know your neutral colors, Miss Tenant, but apparently you cannot drive. Or maybe you are blind--just as I suspected.

This is our garden now:

It's growing. We've had a lot more rain this year and it shows. We are already using all the herbs and have eaten jalapenos, zucchini and cucumbers. We should be eating tomatoes in a week or so. Can you say salsa? Yummy!!

Here is Allen tending his garden.

See that huge plant on the far right? That is a zucchini plant that is taking up approximately 1/8 of our garden. Allen wanted me to take a photo so he will remember that zucchini and tomatoes grow into a jungle and plant accordingly next year.

In other news:

My dear friend Carolyn (right) turned 40-something and threw yet another fabulous party. Carolyn's sister, Theresa, (left) had knee surgery and is on the mend.

When I took this photo of Mary Ann and Ginger I said to Allen, "It looks like they almost like each other." Allen responded, "They're family. " Indeed.

Speaking of family . . .

My brother has been in the pokey since March for violating probation. We are hoping they release him to a drug-treatment program. Please, God, help my baby brother.

Mom was diagnosed with diabetes recently and she is very depressed. Another, in a long line of disappointments.

My sister just learned that, out of 30 allergens for which her daughter was tested, daughter is allergic to just one. That one being cats. My sister loves animals (especially cats) and now has to get rid of her gorgeous Persian and the stray mama cat with five babies that she recently rescued. My sister is also dealing with her grandmother being on death's door.

There is much more family drama, but I can't bring myself to write about it.

Work is busy, the commute and long days suck, I haven't smoked for six days and Allen is taking me to dinner tonight with Eric and Kelly.

All in all not much to bitch about but next summer we're taking a REAL vacation.

Two Funerals And A Party

2008-06-07T16:02:00.001-04:00

Allen has had a rough spring. His dear friend, Dan Brown, died in April of complications from diabetes. Allen has worked for Dan and his wife Barb for nearly a decade. He is more often than not in their house doing some sort of project. Over the years, they became very close. We've been to both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and many parties at the Browns' home. Allen has become a part of their family and he was there for them at the end of Dan's short life. Dan was one of a kind and his death is a huge loss.

Dan and Allen last Christmas

On Memorial Day, another of our friends, Ken Glidewell, was in a motorcycle accident. He died from his injuries on Tuesday morning. The loss of Ken, on the heels of Dan's death, has been very difficult. It is all so surreal.

Ken playing music

And to make things just a little better, I get to wear this for the entire month of June.

Unbeknown to Allen, I have been planning his 40th birthday party for months.

The Invitation

I wanted to throw him his first birthday party ever and wanted him to have a birthday that "didn't suck." To get him to his party, I told him we were meeting a few friends for dinner, Ken and his girlfriend being two of the friends. The night Ken died, Allen told me he didn't feel like celebrating his birthday. I had to fess up, and we decided to go ahead as planned. Ken's funeral and Allen's party were on the same day. It wasn't the party I envisioned, but it was nice for everyone to join the celebration.

Allen and his sister Natalie (right) and her best friend Natalie

Allen, Kim, Lisa and Doug

Devon, Jana, Kelly, Larry and Eric

Tom, Jackie, John, Chris, Heidi and Doc

Allen, me, Sabrina, Kirk and Laurie

The Crew from Oxford

Allen and John

The Cake

Allen opening gifts with Robin's and my help

The band that was setting up was really sweet. They sang happy birthday to Allen and then invited him to sing a song with them. Allen loves to sing.

Allen singing "Some Kind Of Wonderful"

Happy Birthday, my love. May the second half of the year be better than the first.

Apparently, I Don't Know My Neutral Colors

2008-06-07T15:00:00.000-04:00

The tenant living in the apartment I lived in for three years in the first house I have ever owned, after jerking me around for months about her moving date, or not moving at all, or maybe moving but not sure and don't know when if so, is moving out. Thank God. When she moved in she asked if she could paint. I told her she could paint neutral colors.

Is the wall with the fireplace painted a neutral color? Apparently so.

You can't really tell from the picture, but the paint color has a purple hue. That neutral color on the fireplace wall is the same color that covers the entire bathroom, making it look like a very small cave.

What follows is a summary of our e-mail exchange a few days ago:

Me: Hi Tenant. I hope the move is going smoothly. I would still like to have the bathroom paint returned to a neutral color. I can live with the other walls, so don't bother with them.

Tenant: i'm sorry your tenant didn't work out. however, i am going to stick with our agreement, and will not be painting the bathroom. the last time we spoke, you said on the phone and in email that the paint was fine.

Me: I said the paint was fine for the new tenant and not to worry about it since I had asked you to be out by June 2. Since that is not the case now and you disregarded my permission to paint neutral colors, I still want the bathroom returned to a neutral color.

Tenant: the bathroom is a neutral color (neutral colors are black, white, shades of gray, and brown).

Me: The bathroom looks purple to me.

Tenant: it isn't. it is the same shade of grey that is throughout the rest of the apartment.

Me--so very, very close to sending this but did not: I don't give a fuck what color it is I don't like it and want it repainted.

If she doesn't repaint it herself, she's paying whoever does.

The Joy Of Gardening

2008-05-13T11:05:00.012-04:00

This past weekend we planted the garden and by "we," I mean "Allen."

Here is Allen, tired and dirty, smiling at the fruits of his labor.

We planted several tomato plants--both red and yellow, zuccini, cucumber, red peppers, jalapeno, basil, sage, dill, rosemary, thyme and catnip.

This is the catnip shortly after planting, about 6:00 p.m. on Saturday evening.

And this is the catnip about 7:00 a.m. Monday morning.

And here are the cats that got no catnip.

Doh!

Sorry girls.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE Crazy Aunt Purl

2008-05-07T15:07:00.025-04:00

As you may have surmised from the title, I love Crazy Aunt Purl. I first found CAP through She Just Walks Around With It, whom I also love.

Anyhoo, after reading CAP's post today, I had to say that I wholeheartedly agree. And, CAP, you are funny. I really did LOL, sitting at my desk reading your post.

Basically CAP said everyone is batshit crazy right now, and I am definitely one of those crazies. (Talk about crazy--the Reds just beat the Cubs 9-0.)

Things that are driving me crazy right now:

1. My family. And that's all I have to say about that. Right now, anyway.

2. Another shitty hair cut. I haven't been happy with a haircut since I was visiting San Francisco in May, 2006. Before that, I can't even remember.

3. I need tenants. I have three rental units. One has been empty since September. One may be empty mid-June; we're still waiting on the tenant to decide what she is going to do. And, last night, I learned that my third unit will be empty the end of this month.

4. Gas prices. I know that we all pay for higher gas prices by paying higher prices for everything else we buy. However, I remember the many, many years when I did not have a car and never paid for gas from the pump. Lord, how I miss those days. Now, living in lovely Hamilton, Ohio which has ZERO public transportation, I have to pay A LOT of money for gas. And I DO take public transportation to commute to and from work. I just have to drive 40 minutes round trip to get to it.

5. My foot hurts. The ball of my right foot has been hurting for a while now and I can't jog. It really sucks. (Note to John and David: I hope you enjoyed looking at my legs in heels for seven years, because now I'm crippled.)

6. I need new clothes. The clothes I'm wearing are basically rags. Everyday I go to my closet and weep. Money for clothes? See Crazy Points #2 and #3.

7. Lying politicians and our government in general. I can't read or think too much about this so I really don't know what I'm talking about. I get all my political news from Rolling Stone and if any of it is to be believed at all, we're all getting fucked--and hard.

8. People who don't take care of their children and/or pets. You're disgusting and should be in jail.

9. The unneutered male cat that sprays on both my front and back porches. See Crazy Point #8.

10. My house.

Blessings:

Allen; Mary Ann; Ginger; friends; house; job; car to put gas in; not living in Myanmar; being able to bitch about lying politicians, even when I don't know what I'm talking about and not being thrown in jail or shot; having shoes, even though I can't walk.

So Much To Say But No Time

2008-04-30T15:50:00.005-04:00

So here are some photos.

The first flowers I've planted EVAR. Pretty!

Mary Ann being cute. Again.

The Vodka/Chocolate Diet

2008-04-17T14:39:00.011-04:00

I don't know what made me think of this the other morning upon awakening but it made me smile on a day that I didn't have much to smile about . . .

When my ex-husband and I were splitting up (but still living together) everything pretty much sucked. Most nights after work, I would go out drinking with my cohorts because a) everything sucked and b) I didn't want to go home and stare at my soon-to-be-ex husband.

(Me and cohorts Pamela and Didi celebrating Didi's 30th birthday in 1996.)

During this time, I was constantly nauseous and couldn't really eat. Sure, I felt like shit, but I was really skinny! (And, really, isn't that what matters most? No?)

What follows is a summation of a conversation on this subject:

Me: I feel like I could hurl on command. My stomach is in knots and I just can't eat anything. Except vodka and chocolate.

Didi: The vodka/chocolate diet. Well, it's working. All the chocolate you can eat and all the vodka you can drink. I bet if I sent that into Cosmo they'd publish it.

Mary Ann Loves Allen

2008-04-01T12:19:00.005-04:00

How cute is this? Cute!

This is Mary Ann in her favorite spot. She is so funny with Allen. When he comes in the door she meows as if to say, "Hi Papa! So nice to see you! Where have you been? Pick me up now! I love you!" If he doesn't pick her up directly, she jumps onto the surface closest to him and meows again. If that doesn't get his attention she jumps on the table and follows him from end to end. When he stops, she stands on her hind legs and puts her front paws on his chest until he picks her up. Then she snorgles his neck, bunts his chin and sometimes nibbles on his earlobe.

In the madness that has been our life for the past couple of weeks--what with hospitals, jails, nursing homes, letters, phone calls, arguments, meltdowns, exhaustion and more hospitals--this is something that puts a smile on my face.

Did I Mention

2008-03-16T01:11:00.001-04:00

This happened on the Ides of March?

Et tu, Brute?

Tip For Everyone: Don't Smoke

2008-03-15T23:46:00.007-04:00

Shitty childhood + knowing it all as a teenager x bad decisions in young adulthood = you do not have the luxury of a midlife crisis. You have nothing and will be lucky to survive without your mommy. People die. So will your mommy.

Earlier that same day . . .

I was so happy this morning at 5:00 a.m., while I was waking up from yet another horrible nightmare and realized that this imagined reality was only a dream and I did not have to go to work, because, praise be, it was Saturday.

Allen. Coffee. Kitty cats. So. Happy.

11:23 a.m. Phone rings.

Mom crying: Are you at home?

Me: (heart racing) Yes.

Mom: Do you want to take me to the hospital?

My thought bubble: There is nothing that I’d rather do on this, Praise Be, Saturday, than take you to the hospital.

Me: Is Brother there? Should I call an ambulance?

Mom: No. No ambulance. It’s been going on since last night.

Me: I’ll get dressed and be there.

Can someone shoot me now?

I get to her house and she’s leaning on the bathroom counter panting like a dog. Do you know why? Just like a dog, she does not sweat (another post), but she seriously needs some oxygen. However, she has smoked heavily for 45 years and her lungs are hard pressed to perform their function.

Sum: Her brain and organs HAVE NO OXYGEN.

I learned about oxygen deprivation today. Or, rather, I learned about carbon dioxide. WTF ever. Here’s what I learned: Your respiratory system exchanges carbon dioxide for oxygen. Or not. And, if not, you begin hallucinating. This was all news to me. I just thought my mother was crazy when she told me about her “sensations.” I was sure she was asleep and dreaming. Now I know that she is crazy, but yet, hallucinating because of carbon dioxide poisoning. Such fun. And, so enlightening.

Can I get that drink now?

No?

Watching my mother gasp for the breath that she can’t attain, and babbling about stupid e-mails while watching her blood pressure reach some god-awful number over 200 on the top over some god-awful number over 100 on the bottom. Um, yeah.

Then, there were a million people in the room with all kinds of equipment.

ER Doc to me: Does she seem confused?

Me: Yes.

Meanwhile, Mike, the respiratory therapist, is circling his index finger around his temple while looking at me.

Mom: I really need to go to the bathroom.

Nurse: You can’t move right now. We need to put a catheter in.

Doc to Mom: We really need to intubate.

Mom: NO!

Doc to me: I really don’t like to intubate because sometimes the lungs can’t take back over. She was confused but she was very clear about not wanting to be intubated. We will take another gas blood reading and then we’ll address the situation again.

Me: Is there anything else going on that I need to know about?

Doc: Intubation may need to happen. If her blood gas level does not improve, we’ll need to intubate. What brought her to the emergency room?

Me: What really makes her take action is her heart. She feels like it is in A-fib and not beating right and that’s what brought her here.

Doc: Well, her heart is in rhythm and is doing okay now, but I’m sure it was probably out of synch.

Meanwhile: My sister, the nursing student, arrives; I talk to all of my siblings and my mom’s only sibling, a sister. Of course they all call me when we’re in mid-hallucinatory crisis and there are five hospital personnel who appirated out of nowhere and who are all looking to me for guidance while my Mom is still bitching that she really has to go potty. And my cell phone is ringing—again. And I want to kill everyone who has ever thought about calling me. And Mom is still bitching that she has to pee; there’s going to be a wet bed if she doesn’t get to go. She doesn’t want a catheter. Ten eyes staring me down; tears streaming down my face.

Me: Do it.

Two nurses begin the catheterization process and I, in my infinite wisdom, tell Mom I have to go the bathroom. I just wanted to call my brother back and tell him that Mom was better and to quit fucking calling me. I really didn’t have to piss. But the nurses said she’s just torturing you, isn’t she? What an ass I am.

They give her some morphine, catheterize her and she seems to be doing a little better.

The blood gases have not improved. They are going to move her upstairs. I ask if "upstairs" means a regular room. The Doc tells me no, it does not; she's going into ICU. Apparently, people who cannot breathe and are hallucinating need special intensive care.

They get her into ICU and Mom is feeling so much better, because, now, she’s wasted on morphine. (Praise be.) They take the blood gasses again. Still—no good. The ICU doc says that the reading is worse and they will wait 15 more minutes and take them again—one hour from the last reading. If they are still bad, she needs to make a decision. Does she or does she not want to be intubated?

Q: How many non-smoking patients does the respiratory therapist have?

Answer: 0

Carbon dioxide blood number in normal person: 35 max.

Mom’s carbon dioxide number: 115.

115 is the maximum reading. The lab didn’t believe it, and retested. Again. And again. Really? Is this person still alive? No shit?!! Incredible. Is there an award for highest carbon dioxide reading? The Dioxy, per chance? No? Well, now there is and my Mom just won it.

This was also news to Mike, who, again, has zero non-smoking patients. He didn’t know that the maximum measurement was 115. It just doesn’t measure any higher. He’d never encountered it before. As he's telling me this he holds up three fingers meaning Mom hit it three times! She's a trooper.

ICU Doc: Your numbers are not improving. We need to get the air moving. You need to give us permission to intubate.

My sister and I look at each other across our mother.

Me: Mom, what they’re asking you is: Do you want to be intubated or would you rather them let you die?

Mom: I know what they’re asking.

Me: Then you need to make a decision and tell them.

Mom to Doc: Is it that bad?

Doc: Yes.

Mom: I don’t feel that bad.

Doc: If we don’t intubate, you will go to sleep and you won’t wake up.

Mom to me: Doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go.

I give her an honest look and a shrug.

Mom: Okay.

Mom to me: I’m so sleepy. I could just fall asleep.

My thought bubble: It’s because your brain is dying and it can’t stay awake because it has no oxygen. Want a smoke?

My sister (who has just taken a nursing exam on the respiratory system--the workhorse of the body as she called it--the day before): Mom, it’s just like being in a house fire. If you can’t get oxygen, you just fall asleep and your organs fail and you die.

Mom: I never thought that you could be dying and not feel it. I feel fine.

My thought bubble: That’s why people go into the garage and start their cars. So tie-tie. So nice. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ And FINAL.

Mom to Mike: In your opinion, if I don’t get intubated, I will die?

Mike: I don’t know how long it would take, but I would guess within the next two to three days.

Mom: Really?

Mike: Yes.

Mom: Okay.

Now, they can’t intubate fast enough. Now she’s scared.

I, however, am putting on the big brave face, asking her what she wants from home. Is there anything she needs? Is there anything I can do? I love you, Mom.

They begin the sedation drugs. They are not working. She is still awake. Mike calls for the Doc. We need to up the drugs. I tell him our family has a high drug tolerance. He tells the nurse to get the doctor in here—now. We need to up it. She should have been asleep by now. I get kicked out.

I go to her house and get what she asked for.

I get back to her room and she tries to regurgitate the tube. She can’t.

Her blood pressure is finally going down. So is her carbon dioxide.

I thank the staff.

I call Allen and tell him I really need a drink. What I don’t need is a cigarette. And neither do you.

Tip For Teens: Major In Business

2008-03-14T16:09:00.002-04:00

Because that's where all the money is. Have you checked out CEO salaries lately?

Have you checked out social worker salaries lately? Secretary salaries? Not like CEO salaries.

Praise be, someone actually applied to rent my apartment last night. So, I run the credit check. I'm pretty sure she can't afford the $625 monthly rent on her college-educated, social worker salary of $12.01 an hour. How is a single mother with a toddler paying rent, utilities, gas and daycare supposed to live on $12.01 an hour? How the fuck is ANYONE supposed to live on $12.01 an hour?

I try to stay away from deep thinking because if I thought about this any harder, I would be REALLY pissed off.

Coming Out

2008-03-13T15:55:00.004-04:00

I've wanted to do something different with this web log for a while and thanks to tmhcreations, I can now post photos. And post photos I will. So, without further ado . . .

This is me and the love of my life, Allen. This was taken at Mr. S's 100th birthday party last year.

This is Mary Ann. She is the brunette. She does not drive recklessley. She does not smoke marijuana. She is a good kitty cat.

This is Ginger. She, indeed, is the movie star.

We live in Hamilton, Ohio. If you check back here, I can bore you to tears with the antics of our life. Hope to see you soon.

Top 10 Favorite Things About Our Home

2008-03-09T16:24:00.020-04:00

Number 10: Cool Wall Hangings

Number 9: Well-Organized Closet

Number 8: Pretty Door Trim

Number 7: Lovely Side Porch

Number 6: Junk Pile #1

Number 5: Junk Pile #2

Number 4: Immaculate Shower

Number 3: Leaky Sink

Number 2: Relaxing Deck

And My Number 1 Favorite Thing About Our House:

The Mudroom

Testing

2008-02-20T09:22:00.004-05:00

My good friend at tmhcreations just told me how to post a photo.

Here are my grandparents on their wedding day circa 1936.

I miss you, Grandma and Grandpa.

Love,
Theresa

Still Here.

2008-01-08T14:19:00.001-05:00

I'm still here, but very busy. I have a lot of things I want to do with this web log but am just waiting for the time. (Not that anyone is reading this, but it's my web log and I'll write if I want to.)

Landlord Blues

2007-09-23T09:34:00.000-04:00

The tenants that lived in my duplex when I bought it have moved out. They were an older couple and lived in the apartment for nearly 10 years.

We went to look at it yesterday and it was so depressing. And filthy. And made me smoke and drink. Of course I already returned the security deposit and wish I hadn't. They were old and poor and I felt sorry for them. But, I still wish I had waited until I did a thorough look through. I should not have returned it. Live and learn, I guess.

What needs to be done:

Carpet removed
Wall paper removed
Ancient paneling removed
Plaster repair
Paint
New kitchen floor
Wood floors refinished
Ugly bathroom repair
Scrubbed to death

Boyfriend and I will probably do most of the work ourselves. Where will we find the time with both of us working full time? How much will it cost? Will our relationship survive it? How will I pay the mortgage with only half the rent coming in? This is causing me no end of worry. I'm trying to be optimistic, but it's hard.

Instead of writing this, I should be at the duplex working but Boyfriend had a rough night last night and is still sleeping.

On top of that, the tenant upstairs has done a little painting. When she moved in she asked if she could paint and I told her yes, if she used neutral colors. Is dark brown/gray/purple neutral? I didn't think so.

And there's more. I have been planning Mr. S's 100th birthday party which takes place this-coming week. To celebrate the festivities I will not be able to come home between work and events on both Monday and Tuesday, meaning I will leave my house at 7:00 a.m. and won't see my bed until about 11:00 p.m. both days. And I get to rise at 5:30 a.m. every morning! Then there is the office celebration and the old rich man celebration I have to attend. I love him, but this week is going to kill me.

Cooking 101

2007-08-29T11:51:00.000-04:00

When baking, turn the oven ON.

We've had a lovely garden this summer. We planted zucchini, tomatoes, jalapenos, (Our fresh salsa is da bomb!), basil, dill, mint and, for the first time, red peppers. For a week or so now, because I didn't know what to do with them, I have kept two ginormous red peppers on the plant even though they needed to be harvested.

I decided to stuff them and finally got the gumption to do it last night so we picked those huge, gorgeous red peppers. We spent about 1 1/2 hours preparing the stuffing, making a garden salad and cleaning as we went. Finally, the time had come to put the peppers in the oven. I set the timer for 35 minutes, put the dish in the oven and sat down a minute to relax. We passed the 35 minutes talking and playing cards. (I kicked serious butt in rummy. Actually I felt kind of bad for Boyfriend. He almost cried the lashing was so severe.)

At last! The oven beeped signaling that dinner was done. (At this point I will tell you that I was starving, and had been for quite some time.) I opened the oven and noticed a distinct absence of heat emanating from it. It turns out the timer is only a timer and does not cook food.

Me: I am sofa king we todd it.

BF: I know the feeling.

Weekend Warriors

2007-08-28T15:56:00.000-04:00

Boyfriend and I were invited to go camping and boating last weekend with a childhood friend of mine. My friend and her husband have a big, air conditioned camper with a television and another couple going on the trip had a pontoon boat. We would be camping in the lap of luxury.

I really wanted to go. Summer was coming to a quick close, I had only seen my friend a couple of times, boating, camping—I’m in. But, I knew Boyfriend had had a hard week. It had been blistering hot, he does manual labor, and he was exhausted. So, on Thursday night, I told him I did not want to go if he was going to be the least bit uncomfortable or did not want to go in ANY way. He said I could go without him and I told him I would rather stay home with him. I told him I would leave it up to him. He would be the decider. I completely expected to stay home, and that was fine with me.

On the phone Friday afternoon I asked him about the trip and he responded, "Let's go camping." Well, party on! I called my friend and told her we were coming. She could expect us around ten.

I got home from work a few hours later and Boyfriend was lying in the recliner. He hadn’t really packed anything, but he had gone to the store to get beer. Thank the good Lord. Because, as the minutes wore on, I would really, really, really need that beer. And a couple of shots. And a gun.

Boyfriend looking pitiful and like he would rather go to war than go camping:

Me: Do you want to stay home?

BF: I'm committed now.

Me: No, I could just make a phone call and tell them we're not coming.

BF: We're going.

Me: Why did you say "Let's go camping" when you didn't want to go?

BF: Why did you ask me?

Me:

The bitching, moaning, cursing and heavy sighing continued while getting ready.

Later in the car:

BF bitching about work and being tired and anything else he could think of:

Me: Why the hell did you say you wanted to go when you really did not want to go?

BF: To appease you. To make you happy.

Me: This is NOT making me happy.

BF: For future reference, I'm sick of traveling!

Me: Where have you traveled? You haven't been anywhere since June and it's almost September.

BF:

Me: Give me a fucking cigarette.

The two-hour ride was so special.

We were almost at our destination and called my friend to see if she was hungry. (We hadn't eaten dinner since we didn't want to interrupt the love fest that was going on.) She told us the only thing open was Burger King and to get her a Whopper Jr. meal. As we waited in the drive-thru to order, BF jumped out of the car to take a piss.

When we were readying to leave the next morning, BF couldn't find his wallet. We looked all over but no luck. I told him I was sure it was at home, since he regularly walks out the door sans wallet.

We had a great weekend. The weather, the lake, the boat, the food, the drink, the company--spectacular.

We got home Sunday evening but there was no wallet. Looking back, he thinks that drive-thru piss cost him about $250 in cash and a few hours of legwork canceling all of his plastic, putting a fraud alert on his credit, closing his checking account, etc.

I’ve told him over and over that the world is not his urinal. Maybe next time he’ll listen.

Six Years Ago

2007-07-27T14:11:00.000-04:00

Today, it has been six years since I lost my best pal, DD.

I can't say that I miss her any less with the passage of time. I've also come to the realization that I will never get over that loss. No one could ever take her place. God definitely broke the mold after making her.

I think she may have known, somewhere deep inside, that she would not get the opportunity to grow old. She loved living and never took it for granted. Even after all the heart-wrenching experiences she survived during her short life, she was never bitter. She still wanted to live every moment--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Her favorite toast was "L'chei-im!" To life!

Here's to you, my dearest friend.

I raise my glass in your honor.

L'chei-im!

Season of Change

2007-05-19T10:48:00.000-04:00

The Boyfriend and I have discussed moving in together for quite some time. We've been together almost four years but I've resisted for several reasons. I've lived alone for 12 years. I'm old and set in my ways. I like my space. I love my apartment and it is not big enough for the two of us. I live very close to work and his place is 45 minutes away. I don't like rising at 5:30 a.m. and I don't want to clean the house he has lived in, alone, for nearly a decade.

On the other hand, I thought I should try living with the Boyfriend. I like the location of where he lives better than where I live. We would save a lot of money running only one household instead of two. We should move our relationship forward.

So last month, I decided to advertise my apartment for rent on craigslist, just to "test the waters." I don't live in a great neighborhood and I put prospective tenants through a rigorous credit and background check. Anyone who actually wants to live in my neighborhood would, most likely, not be able to meet my minimum criteria. I really didn't expect it to rent from this advertisement alone.

I had two people from England, one from Africa and one from my town inquire about it. None of them worked out so I decided to let it go because, well, did I really want to move? Um, not really. A couple weeks later I got a straggler message from someone in San Francisco, moving here to go to graduate school, asking if the apartment was still available. I told her it was and gave her some more information.

Today, instead of doing what I should be doing which is packing, because we're renting a U-Haul tomorrow, I decided to bitch about it instead.

But, it gets even better. When I told my tenants downstairs that I was moving, they told me that they were moving too! Just great. Now, instead of preparing one apartment for rental, I get to prepare two. The advertising, the cleaning, the sweat, the repairs, the money, the joy of it all!

And, what if it doesn't rent?

I guess that's what I get for testing the waters. Fucking waters.

It Only Took Me Five Trys To Remember My Blogger Password

2007-04-16T19:37:00.000-04:00

Does that mean I’m a shitty web logger? Yes, yes it does.

I have so much going on. Then again I don’t have a damn thing going on.

I have so much to say, but don’t drink enough anymore to say it.

I’ve had a lot of health issues going on, and one of them has enlightened me to all the “fishy” pussy jokes. Not so funny.

To all my fans: I promise to drink more so I can write better.

The Birds And The Cats

2007-03-05T09:05:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, on a Wednesday night, BF picked me up from work and we went straight to dinner. We got home around 8:30. We walked into the kitchen to find the huge bowl of fruit on the floor, along with a lot of photos that used to hang on the refrigerator.

As I stood there trying to process what had gone awry, something near the ceiling fluttered. It was a bird. I completely freaked out and ran into the spare bedroom only to find another bird. At this point I was in hysterics. BF was trying to calm me down and Mary Ann and Ginger were doing what they had been doing all day--trying to catch those damn birds. My downstairs neighbors told me the festivities began shortly after I had left for work, so the natural enemies had been at it for about 12 hours—give or take.

BF finally got the birds into the spare bedroom and got them out the window.

There was bird poop everywhere.

I came home the following day to find more bird poop and a broken candy dish. I looked and looked, but could find no bird.

Sunday evening, as I was sweeping under my bed, I swept out a--sock??? Oh no, fuck me. A dead bird. I had been sleeping over a dead bird for three nights. I screamed. And I screamed. I could not stop screaming. I really wanted to stop screaming, but I could not. Thankfully, the downstairs neighbors were not home.

I now know why they cover dead bodies. No one really wants to look at a dead body. I covered the little thing up with a paper towel. I finally got the courage to sweep him up. I felt so sorry for that bird. I knew it had died a horrible, torturous death, shitting itself all the while. Poor fucking thing.

Fast forward to last Saturday as I'm cleaning the house for girls' night. BF was not feeling well and he was lying in bed. I was on the phone talking to one of the girls and went to pick up a--cat toy??? Oh no, fuck me, again. Another dead bird. I flipped out, screamed bloody murder, and nearly gave BF a fucking heart attack. The friend on the phone was also freaking out. It's a dead bird. I have to go. I'll tell you about it when you get here.

BF scooped up the poor murdered bird and closed the chimney flue.

Of all the chimneys to come down, those poor bastards definitely picked the wrong one.

Health Care

2007-03-04T18:24:00.000-05:00

I have laid out a lot of cash for health care lately, and it really sucks.

It started last March when I cracked a tooth. I put off taking care of it for a few months because it only hurt when I hit it just right, sending a shooting pain through my head.

The day I was supposed to have the tooth crowned, my dentist and his slutty assistant pissed me off so bad that I fired them, asked for my records and walked out the door. I was just short of telling them both to kiss my ass. It's for the best. I didn't have a lot of faith in that dentist. When I went in for my cleanings, he mostly liked to talk about drinking to excess and where to find the cheapest wine. Both fine things, but not what you really want to hear from your medical personnel.

So, I go to another dentist who refers me to an endodontist. I didn't even know WTF an endodontist was until now. Now, I know very well what an endodontist is, because he has all my money.

To make a very long and very sad story short, I have spent $895 out of pocket between the dentist and the endodontist and my fucking tooth still hurts. So, I go back to the dentist who tells me to go back to the endodontist. Now I get to see that mother fucker again and give him some more money, just to have him tell me it's the tooth behind the crown, and it also needs a root canal and crown. What a fucking racket.

I have also spent money going to my GP and my chiropractor. I always have my annual physical in January. When I went to see my GP I told her about a lump I had found in my right breast and she ordered a mammogram and an ultrasound. Everything is fine, thank God. I was sweating it and I know that everyone that was in the waiting room with me did not get the same results. God help them and their families. Today I got a bill for $177.

On to the crazy lump that has reappeared behind my left ear. Last month, as I was eating dinner with Boyfriend on a Friday night, I felt a pain behind my ear and touched it to find a huge and growing lump. I could actually feel the lump growing. By Saturday night I was reduced to a weeping mess and was thisclose to going to the emergency room. I toughed it out until Monday morning and got into see my dermatologist. I thought it was a cyst that he would either inject with a steroid or lance. No such luck. He did not think it was a cyst and prescribed antibiotics for an "infected gland." Great. Well, I woke up on Thursday morning with the same thing and am back on antibiotics with an upcoming appointment with yet another doctor. Of course by the time of the appointment the lump will be gone and God knows how much that appointment will cost.

I also just spent $80 on an intestinal cleanse (well, actually, $211—buy two get one half price) and here's why. I was talking with my chiropractor about his son's lack of appetite and said something to the effect that one's body would crave what it needs and his son would eat what he needed to when he needed to.

Chiro: Unless your digestive system is overrun by yeast, in which case all you will crave is alcohol and sugar.

Me: I totally have that.

Chiro: Do this test. When you wake up in the morning, before you put anything in your mouth or brush your teeth, spit into a clear glass of water. If your saliva dissipates over the surface of the water after a few minutes, you're good. If your saliva forms long strings which hang through the water, your system is yeast infected and you need to do a cleanse.

I’ve known that I need to do a digestive cleanse for quite a while now, but I don’t want to. But, I got the seven-day cleanse and plan on starting it this-coming Thursday. No alcohol, no sugar, no processed anything for seven days. How the fuck am I going to survive that?

I've spent a hell of a lot more money than I want to on health care as of late and there is no end in sight. And I'm healthy. How do people who are really sick afford it? What about all the old people who need medication? What about all the diabetics who will not make it without their insulin? What about all the cancer patients? How much radiation cost? How much does a mastectomy cost? How much for chemo? What about all the other horrible diseases plaguing people? How much does a month’s supply of blood pressure medicine cost? What about all the people (like my two brothers) walking around with their blood pressure through the roof because they don't have insurance nor money? What about these people?

I also have a script for physical therapy for my left leg that I've been ignoring and ever since we moved into our ergonomically correct workspaces, my right shoulder has been hurting to the point that I have limited my work-out routine.

I guess I should count my blessings, whip out the Visa, and shut the fuck up.

TGIEF

2007-02-28T20:58:00.000-05:00

That means Thank God it's the End of February. Because DD and I hate February with a vengence. No, really. We do. So, if you're reading this, Happy March To You. Erin Go Braugh, and all that Irish shit. (Which reminds me of another Irish story. Do they ever end?)

Anyhoo,

I thought of DD today and I toasted her with my Vitamin V. Just like every other day my heart aches for my dead best friend. I’m sure she would be proud that I was weeping into a glass of good vodka.

I think of her every day. But today, I thought of her because we would have had a fine celebration had she been alive. We would be celebrating the last day of February.

DD hated February. It was the worst month of the year.

She had more reasons to hate February than I’d want to know, and she turned me just the same. At least you were in the Midwest, she’d say; try it in Baltimore year after year, after the Yankees had beaten the Orioles, again.

It’s still February, no matter where you are.

DD, February has gotten much better since global warming. If you can PPV movies in Heaven, I highly recommend An Inconvenient Truth. It won the Oscar, which I know you love--the Oscars and everything, being a Californian and all; even if we are NORTHERN Californians (and, yes, we are better). And, I also know that you know that Al Gore won the Presidency in, what exactly was the year we got fucked? I know you know it. Are you still watching?

I still love and miss you no matter what.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Long Weekend

2007-02-15T09:25:00.000-05:00

So much has been going on at work and I'm so, so busy. I want to weep. And drink.

But I'm getting out of town for a few days. A friend and I are going to sunny Florida. Woo hoo!! I loathe getting ready to travel, but I can't wait to be there.

Memorandum to Mr. Rogers

2007-02-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

I’m so happy to have found myself in your neighborhood. You are a delight.

As I was dying my very gray hair this evening, I ruminated on our file conversation of this morning and I have to ask you to keep an open mind, or consider doing your own filing.

I ask you to remember your telling me, “The typed pages go on the left, and the handwritten pages and things like that go on the right. I don’t know why it’s that way, but it is, and after 20 years . . .”

Mr. Rogers, of the good neighborhood, I have indeed discovered “why it’s that way.”

As I was culling Mr. S's files of, well, 75 years, I found files circa 1947, and they DID NOT AFFORD CLASPS ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE FILE. Hence, just as I suspected, we’ve been doing it that way since 1885 and, by gum, that’s the way we do it.

So, in answer to your question of “I don’t know why it’s that way, but it just is,” my answer is simply: File technology has much advanced in the past 122 years and the very wrong filing situation of the Grand Law Firm should be reconsidered by your fine legal mind.

In my defense:

When you open a book, do you turn it upside down and open the back cover, as to read it from end to beginning?

When you go to your file cabinet, do you enjoy having to push all the files from the front to the back, because the left-sided filing has fallen forward, in order to read the label on the file?

Well, do you?

I know you are the Boss, and you have a very important J.D. from Emory University, and you are esteemed with “Order of the Coif” and you are a Partner. But I, too, graduated from Miami University, and that is where I learned to file Very Important Documents.

Please let me know if you simply cannot live with the correct way of filing.

Thank you for your consideration.

Your faithful secretary,
Miss F

A New Year

2007-01-10T17:06:00.000-05:00

Where to begin?

Today is my sister's 26th birthday and she is ready to have her third child any day now. Happy birthday, Sis!

We survived Christmas. Mom's house was fine. Everyone was nice to one another and it was good to see the nieces and nephew. Nephew got glasses and has had a growth spurt so he's a little less rotund than usual.

Boyfriend's sister's house made me drink and smoke. Apparently, BF's sister is a "breeder." (Did I mention she has nine--yes, nine--children. And one grandchild and another on the way. And she's about 44. What the fuck ever.) That ain't the only thing she's breeding. There are caged dogs all over the place and it made me, well, drink and smoke. And just to mix it up a bit, there was a pair of caged Sphinx cats, the female pregnant. Did it matter that one cage of puppies couldn't reach their water bottle or that the Irish Wolfhound looked like she would rather die than give birth, yet again? No, not really. This report barely scratches the surface of the atrocious living condition of these animals. It's a fucking puppy mill and it disgusts me. I got the impression that the mothers never get out of their tiny cages except to be inseminated. Once pregnant, they wait patiently to give birth, nurse their litter until they are old enough to be sold, and do it all again. Maybe I'm wrong; but I sincerely doubt it. Thinking of it now makes me want to hurl. Are all breeders like this? Is this where our precious animals come from? Should I call PETA?

I’ve renewed my vow not to smoke cigarettes so smoked a hit of pot last Friday night and blacked out. BF was not impressed. It seems I was "way mouthy," and "embarrassed him in front of his friends." But hey, at least I didn’t smoke a cigarette!

New Year's was a bust since the day before New Year's Eve I came down with a bad cold, possibly even the flu. I didn't have any big plans since I had just had a root canal on the 29th and was looking forward to my temporary crown on January 2. (In reality, I would rather go to work than have a root canal so I will cease and desist with that phrase.) BF went to a couple parties and was home shortly after midnight.

I found out DD's widower's new wife is pregnant and, while I am very happy for them, it made me cry when I thought of how happy DD was to be married and pregnant and looking forward to her son that she never got to raise.

We recently took my six-year-old niece to see "Night at the Museum." It was a good flick and we had a good time. We had lunch at the Olive Garden because Niece thought BF and I would like it because it is "romantic." She cried when we took her to her dad's house and wanted to stay with us. She's so adorable, I'd almost take her home with me forever.

BF and I are talking about moving in together, which I swore I would never do again. I lived with my ex-husband for three years before we got married and I don’t recommend it. But now I’m 40, not 21, and things are different. And BF just remodeled his downstairs bathroom, removing the graffiti that read “8/23/03 God Bless Us All,” and “Liz.” It’s a marked improvement.

I’m very busy at work and it really gets to me. All I want to do when I leave is drink, and weep.

I’m a shitty web logger, and I hate the word “blog.” I’d like to be better. Maybe someday I will. Not that anyone reads anything I write, but I’d still like to keep it somewhat up to date.

I'm going to my yoga class. There is a substitute teacher and I'm looking forward to seeing what she has to offer. It can’t be worse than the regular teacher.

If anyone’s out there, Happy New Year to you!

Change of Heart

2006-12-21T15:31:00.000-05:00

Well, I got the new job offer, and I turned it down. After much analyzing and number crunching and thought, it just wasn't worth making the change. I'm not sure if the accrual of one vacation day per year after the first year, or the manager's statement of "She's my whore," a while back about one of her loyal, work-my-ass-off-for-you-for-10-years-and-make-you-look-good subordinates, was the deal breaker. Whatever. I guess I'll just slave away at my present place of employment for a while longer.

And, Christmas! The love, the joy, the family dysfunction! I can't wait.

I wonder if we'll play "Pin the Blood on the Lamb" this year at Boyfriend's sister's house. I sure do hope so. It was so much fun last year.

Or maybe we can have another "Merry Fuckin' Christmas" at my mom's like we did a couple of years ago. That would be fun too.

Wine please.

No--more wine than that.

Just give me the bottle.

I Have To Work Now

2006-12-11T20:10:00.000-05:00

I am a legal secretary. I help very busy and very rich attorneys make a lot more money than they would without me. That's what I do. And I'm very good at it. That's what makes me valuable in the workplace.

Three weeks ago, on a Monday morning for the love of God, the HR director called me into her office. My first thought was "I'm going to be fired for spending so much time on the internet." Um, that was not the reason.

As it turned out, through a bunch of secret Firm machinations, they had eliminated a secretarial position in my department and I was the proud recipient of my first partner in this particular firm. I had just been handed a lot more responsibility and a lot more visibility. I smiled at the HR manager, accepted my new duties with finess, and swore all the way back to my desk.

Today, I got a new job offer. It is the first job offer I have had outside of a law firm in 15 years. It's an administrative position for the small, yet wealthy and very snobbish, city government of my hometown.

E.g. I am a VERY big fish in a VERY little pond and I am rich and you can kiss my ass--no kiss it harder--and, (smiling with capped teeth) if you don't, I will have you FIRED from your little job that you and your little family depend on to live and then I will laugh.

I have long been of the opinion that these folks REALLY need to get out more. Seriously--get the fuck out of town and go to another place on the planet. Any other place as long as it is not here.

In the interview, when asked why I moved from San Francisco, I noted that my maternal grandfather had retired from this city, and that's why my family lived here. Thankyouverymuch.

And I'm taking this job. It's a cut in pay and the job is going to be a lot more work and I'm going to have to deal with those big fish but . . .

There are several reasons I'm accepting this job. The first is, if I'm going to have to work my ass off, I may as well be compensated. With my new job, my employer contributes 13% of my salary to my retirment program annually. My rich lawyers average a 2% annual contribution, and they have a hell of a lot more money than the small pond.

Another reason I'm accepting this job is that my B.A. may mean something, at some point; possibly in the near future. Maybe someone will actually appreciate the fact that I spent four years of hell in school, and 10 years of poverty paying it off. I'd really like an employer to at least acknowledge that fact. With money.

Also, the lawyers are remodeling five floors of our huge building. And it's crap. I don't know who the fuck picked the shit out, but if they were going for early war, late ugly; they succeeded. And it's loud now. And I don't like it loud. And there's no privacy whatsoever. And, not only can everyone see your every move, they can also hear every word you say. My floor is the next to be remodeled and I'm really not thrilled with moving all my shit and all of my attorneys' shit down to another floor. Frankly, I'm not thrilled with any of it. I'm just sayin'.

The down side is I'll have to learn tons of NEW law, work with new people hanging right over my shoulder, and get paid even LESS for this privilege.

Old job, new job. WTF ever. Right now it all sucks. But, in the long run, I know I'm making the right decision.

All I have to do is tell the 99-year-old. And I'm not looking forward to it. But five grand in the will just ain't enough. What do you think my chances are of talking him into a mill?

I'd totally stay for that.

Quiet

2006-12-04T21:01:00.000-05:00

I like it quiet. I don't like background noise. I really don't like any noise. If I'm listening to music, I'm listening to music. But, most of the time, I like it quiet.

Unless I have the last song I heard on infinity reply in my head. Like Adam Sandler's Hanukkah song. I really like that song. I sing along to it and laugh at it like it's the first time I've heard it--every time.

But tonight, it was on replay in my head while I was making dinner and I had to put on another song. To kill the Hanukkah song in my brain. (It wouldn't go away quietly. I truly had to KILL it.)

So, I chose Beth Hart. Mostly because it was in the CD player, but also because it is one of the best CDs I have ever heard. (Hence, it's physical location.)

It's Beth Hart, Screamin' for my Supper, 1999. KILLER CD.

Won't sleep till I've had enough
Won't sip my wine from no paper cup
Won't sleep till I've had enough

Delicious Surprise, 1998

* * *

All I want is a brand new truck
With one-eyed jacks and beginner's luck
The doctor's script for the perfect drug
Get it all while I can

But I got no money and I got no man
I drive around in a beat up van
Ride on coffee and percodan
Get it all while I can

Is That Too Much To Ask, 1998

I am a musical moron. I have no idea what the fuck is going on in music. It often makes me feel inferior. Again. Like I don't have enough things to feel inferior about. But. Whatever.

I've been to more concerts than most people I know so when I feel like a complete retard, I play the "Did you ever see the WHO?" card, or the "How many times have you seen the Dead?" card, or, "Can you tell how old I am by all these shitty musical cards I'm playing?" card, or the "Have you seen U2?" card. (BTW--Best fucking concert I've ever seen. I think it was March, it was definitely 2001 in San Jose, California, the last "event" DD and I ever went to together, and I nearly peed my pants. And that's not because my allergies were acting up. WOW and O.M.G. I went into that concert liking U2, and I walked out a fan, and it was the first time that had ever happened to me. And, like I've said, I've been to more concerts than you. And, I don't fuck anyone (except myself) and I would have fucked any one of those U2 dudes given a chance, and I only knew one of their names. GREAT SHOW!!!!)

I don't listen to music often. Maybe it's because my stereo sucks. Maybe it's just because I just like it fucking quiet.

But, if I'm going to listen to a CD, it's definitely Beth's Hart's 1999 masterpiece, or Annie Lennox's Medusa or Tracy Walker's Naked. (Look that one up.) Or, a classical music radio station.

I'm missing something. Lots of things, I'm sure.

But my mind usually keeps me too busy to realize it.

99 Years

2006-12-03T00:12:00.000-05:00

I work for a 99-year-old man. His name is Mr. S.

He's sharp enough to come into the office every day.

I adore him.

This is a telephone conversation I recently overheard:

Mr S: I had a tooth filled there yesterday and the doctor recommended that I have two molars pulled. As you know, I'm 99 years old and I can't be around too many more years. They aren't giving me any problem and seem perfectly fine to me, so I think I'll just wait until I have some sort of symptom before I do anything.

Well played, Mr. S., well played, indeed.

Trip To The OC, Part II

2006-12-02T23:13:00.000-05:00

I threw some things into my backpack, including the Beck's that were in the fridge, and we got on the SuperShuttle.

It was still dark; I think it was an early fall trip. It was freakin' 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning people!! And I was drunk. And I think it's pretty safe to say that DD was drunk too.

If you've never taken a SuperShuttle to the airport, they stop and pick people up until the van is full and then, and only then, do they proceed to the airport. DD and I were picked up second. There was one man already in the van when we got in.

It was a continuation of the night before, with an hour or so nap, and DD and I were raring to go. We were just chatting away in the SuperShuttle. Laughing, talking, reeking. Whatever. DD loved to talk. Not only was she chatting me up, but she was also chatting up the driver and the other passenger.

It wasn't long before the passenger says to us, "Could you guys keep it down?!"

Well, of course we could.

NOT! We are drunk. And it is 5:00 a.m. And we have had barely any sleep. It is really still Friday Happy Hour to us. Hello!!!

But, we tried. We really did give it a valiant effort SuperShuttle passenger! So instead of BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. We lowered it to ssssp, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp. Ha haa haaa, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp. Like SuperShuttle guy passenger could no longer hear us. Because we were whispering. Nor smell us! It was awesome. But, he didn't say anything else to us. Maybe he was waking up. Or, maybe our smell was waking him up. Or, maybe he just didn't give a flying fuck anymore. Because we were unstoppable.

We get to the airport. Dawn has broken. We are waiting to board our flight. DD and I, chatty as ever, board the plane. A hottie is in front of me as we are walking down the aisle and I may have made a comment about his nice tooshie. I really can't rember EXACTLY what I said. But, what I do remember is that he told us to "Please Be Quiet Because I Have A Hangover."

Oh, Puh-leese. GMAFB. I told him that my hangover had not even BEGUN to set in, so it sucks to be you, hot tooshie guy.

We finally get to our seats. So. Happy.

The Flight Attendant asks for our drink orders.

DD: I'll have a bloody mary, please.

FA: I'm sorry, but we won't be serving you today.

DD: When will you be serving me?

FA:

Me:

DD: (You need a picture here of her face, that I cannot even begin to put into words. But, she was pissed. Indeed.)

FA to passenger across the aisle: And what would you like to drink?

I had the good fortune to sit next to an Indian oncologist. He had the window seat, I was in the middle, and DD was on the aisle, fuming. But I didn't notice. I was too engrossed in my conversation with the oncologist. And drunk.

I had a great flight, not being served alcohol, chatting up the oncologist, talking about SCIENCE! Really, I know some science. The oncologist wants to marry me, I'm sure. He almost proposed, but then the crew announces that we are landing in John Wayne Airport, please take your seats and fasten your seat belts.

DD hasn't said much during the flight. When she was denied her bloody mary, she put on her dark sunglasses and shut the fuck up.

Just as the plane hits the ground, DD looks at me and says, "Give me one of those Beck's." Of course, I give her one of those Beck's, and the bottle opener I always have with me (because I always drink good beer, and you can't twist that cap off). (This is pre 9/11 people!)

As we're walking off the plane, the FA who denied DD her bloody mary is saying, "Buh Bye," and DD toasts her with her opened Beck's and says, "Cheers."

I am so happy to be off that plane. I cannot even tell you. I hate flying. Not because it scares me, but because I cannot afford first class. And flying just sucks all around.

We walk into the terminal and there is a coffee shop directly in front of us. We go to get some coffee. Like it's going to help anything. But, of course it does. Coffee helps everything.

We have our coffee and we are standing at the table because there are no seats in this "coffee shop." DD is facing the terminal, and I am facing her with my back to the terminal.

DD: Uh oh. Federales.

Me: What?

DD: Federales.

Me: Huh?

Federale: Can I see some ID?

Me: (pulling out my driver's licence)

Federale: Are you driving?

Me: Bwaaa haa haa. We never drive. We live in San Francisco.

DD: Well, we are behind the Orange Curtain now.

Federale:

Federale: We had a complaint that you were distrupting a flight.

Me:

DD:

Federale: You smell like a brewery.

DD: Well, if your going to start arresting people for smelling bad, maybe you should start outside.

Federale (turning red):

O.M.G. This guy was so pissed that he couln't arrest us it was scary, or hilarious, or, I just don't know. When I think back on it, why the fuck couldn't he arrest us? I'm sure he could have, but, obviously, he felt that he could not or did not have the authority.

Again, this was pre-9/11. I am sure if this scene was repeated today, DD and I would have been hauled off to the pokey, tout de suite.

But, as luck would have it we were young, a little worn, and not driving! The Federale told us to get on our way. As we left, we laughed heartily at ourselves, and at him. And his big brown cowboy hat.

Trip To OC, Part I

2006-12-02T22:16:00.000-05:00

In or about 1996, after dating these loser attorneys who went to law school together, DD and I became single. We pretty much spent all of our spare time together. It was awesome. Much more awesome than hanging around the two drips we had recently been relieved of.

Betty told me that I should meet her in LA, when she and her husband would be visiting his father and step-mother. When I brought this up with DD, we agreed that we both should go for the weekend. DD and Betty were very excited to be meeting each other, since I had spoken so highly of both of them to the other. So, DD and I made arrangements to meet Betty and her husband in LA, and we would all stay at the husband's parents' house.

We scheduled our flight to leave SFO sometime around 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. That way, we would all get into John Wayne airport at the same time and we would be able to travel from there together.

It being the Friday night before a vacation weekend, DD and I had to meet for happy hour. The hours after work were very happy for us; especially on Friday. We got to indulge in two of our favorite things--alcohol and each other.

We began the evening at one of our favorite haunts, the Old Ship Saloon. DD's boyfriend (and future husband) was the bartender there (that's how they met. I was there to witness it.) and he made us many yummy, yummy drinks. (Best bartender I ever had, and I know my bartenders.) We chatted up all our friends and had a grand ol' time.

Armed with drunken wisdom, we decided we should go see Mark Sodini, our second favorite bartender, at Sodini's, in North Beach. So, we began the short trek up Broadway.

That's where we met SpiderMan.

When we first saw him, he was across Broadway with a Suit and we didn't yet know he was, indeed, SpiderMan. Drunken DD apparently had something so important to say to the Suit and Spidey, that she crossed the street to talk to them, dragging me along with her. As we were crossing Broadway, the Suit kind of, um, ran away. Fast. Very fast. When we came upon the recently deserted squat bald man wearing a leather jacket, we casually noticed that he had a SPIDERWEB TATTOOED ON HIS FACE AND HIS HEAD!, with the center of the web being the tip of his nose.

O.M.G.

We were drunk enough for this not to strike us as odd. We were, after all, seasoned San Franciscans. This was not the first freaky tattoo we had seen. It was the FREAKIEST tattoo we had ever seen. As DD was talking, (interrogating?) SpiderMan, his eyes were darting around looking for someone to save him, it seemed. But, no luck. That part of Broadway was desolate. Then, DD noticed the burns on Spidey's neck and she said, "Ahhhhh, cigarette burns I see." This made Spidey very uncomfortable and he ran away too.

Yes, we scared a man who had a spider web tattooed on his face and head and had cigarette burns on his neck. It was definitely going to be a good weekend.

Undeterred, we ventured on to North Beach where we moved on to doing shots, and completed the hat trick of Sodini's, Gino's and Carlo's, and New Pisa. We were drinking and swearing like sailors, I'm sure, even though I don't remember it all that clearly.

What I do remember is my incredibly loud, obnoxious buzzer going off at 5:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and I hadn't packed a thing. And, I was still very, very drunk.

Thanksgiving Day 1998

2006-11-23T08:16:00.000-05:00

This year I had decided to go to Costa Rica. I would spend Thanksgiving on the beach, thankyouverymuch. DD and her husband had plans to visit one of his sisters. They were supposed to drive from San Francisco on Wednesday and spend the holiday weekend in Los Angeles.

DD was pregnant with Bennett. He was due to arrive mid-January. Right before I left for Costa Rica, I threw DD a baby shower. I got Bennett the cutest little Giants outfit, complete with Giants booties. So. Cute!

DD was born with a heart problem and had open heart surgery when she was seven years old. Everything went along swimmingly until she was in her early 20s when she had to begin taking medication. Her friends didn’t realize the precariousness of her health. She never really talked about it and when it was brought up, acted like it was no big deal—she was fine. Really. Fine.

On Wednesday, DD just didn’t feel well and regrettably told her husband she didn’t think she could make the drive to L.A. Her husband called his sister and told her they would not be coming.

As the day progressed, DD kept feeling worse. It got to the point where she thought she should go to the hospital. Yes, she felt that bad.

Her husband took her to the emergency room. The emergency room doctor examined her and sent her home with flu symptoms.

Less than 12 hours later she was back in the hospital, Bennett was dead and DD was dying of toxemia.

DD and her husband were too devastated over the loss of their little boy to think about suing for medical malpractice. I bet they would have won that suit.

What follows is an undated journal entry from DD:

I feel like everything I look at—beautiful things that could fill me with happiness—now I only see them as fragments

As some pieces, shattered apart from the whole. Everything is incomplete, waiting for what is missing

I, too, am only some fragments now—some half-made thing with this part of me gone and I look and look but I can’t find it anywhere

I feel like I will never be whole again

I think of you all the time, DD, but especially on this day. I hope that, now, you are whole.

The Luxury Of Depression

2006-11-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

I am depressive. Right now, I'm doing pretty well. In the past, not so much. I have been suicidal, spent thousands of dollars on therapy, taken anti-depressants and stopped taking anti-depressants, told everyone to kiss my ass, hid in my cocoon, came out of my cocoon, and live to tell the tale. It's not a pretty picture. If you've never been there you can't understand it. If you have, it's all too real. And all very bad.

I am also a Deep Thinker. I'm sure my Deep Thinking has contributed to my depression. I do my best to avoid Deep Thinking now, like I try to avoid The News, because it all makes me want to shoot myself.

I used to think that everyone Thought Deeply like I did. When I shared my Deep Thoughts, people looked at me like I had three heads. I've learned that not everyone is a Deep Thinker like me. And when you say to someone, after you've done as much Deep Thinking as I have, "I just want to die," people freak out and want to either a) run away as fast as possible, or b) want to call the authorities or your mother, whomever is closer.

But when you have knowledge of things like this, and this, and this, it's just not that hard to be depressed. (I didn't even have to look that far to find this depressing News. And, it's just the tip of the iceberg.)

But then you realize, at least you're not like this , or this , or this, or, sadly, this.

The mere fact that I live in the United States makes me one of the richest people in the world.

Through all of my Deep Thinking, and reading and hearing of so much News, I've discovered that I am just a big fucking pussy who has the luxury of being depressed.

The Weight Of It All

2006-11-18T09:03:00.000-05:00

This is my normal workout routine:

Monday: Spin class and abs;
Tuesday: Upper body weights, yoga class, spin class and abs;
Wednesday: Lower body weights, Pilates class and yoga class;
Thursday: Spin class and abs;
Friday: Spin class, abs and 12-ounce curls.
Saturday: I might move. If forced.
Sunday: Day of rest.

As I'm sure you can tell by this rigorous schedule, I am incredibly svelte. My body is rock hard. It's just that you can't see the rock hardness of it because it's covered with a voluptuous layer of fat. My body is not bad for 40 years old, but with this schedule you'd think I'd be a size 4. Size 6? Size 8? Um, sometimes yes, and sometimes no. Most times no. Apparently I eat too much. And drink too much. And my metabolism ain’t what it used to be. Whatever.

But! I also have this genetic problem. Fat white trash runs in my family. I am forever fighting the urge to smoke my Reds while chugging Mountain Dew AND eating something swimming in gravy. Most times I win. Sometimes I don't.

I swear, if I only lost 10 pounds, I could wear everything in my closet. Maybe if the group exercise director changed the fucking group exercise schedule I'd lose those 10 pounds. I'm sure it's all her fault.

Click On This

2006-11-17T20:18:00.000-05:00

As a follow up to my last post, here's an easy way to help the planet and all its animals.

Animal Magnetism

2006-11-17T09:44:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, dogs really irritated me. Maybe it was E's two horribly-behaved dogs. They were constantly under foot, constantly barking, constantly in your way, and basically just a big fat pain in the ass. Dogs are needy. I didn't like needy. I didn't want anything needing me. Anyway, I've always been a cat person.

My feelings have changed about animals.

Now it doesn't matter what kind of animal it is. I feel for ALL of them. It makes me sad to see a dead animal on the road. A few months ago a squirrel jumped out in front of my car and I cried all morning over it. The boyfriend called it a "squirrelicide." Now, I pet all dogs. Even my friend's yellow lab who, up until now, I COULD NOT STAND. Talk about needy. Good lord.

I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm pre-menopausal. Maybe it was last year's adoption of my two adorable kitties--Mary Ann and Ginger. (Mary Ann is the brunette; Ginger is the movie star.) Maybe the boyfriend is right, and I'm actually starting to grow a heart. Whatever it is, over the past couple of years my sensitivity to animals has mushroomed. Stories like this one break my heart. Apparently China is now applying their "one only" policy to dogs as well as children. Authorities are going house to house, taking dogs and exterminating them. Where is PETA? Remember the hurricanes? I can't bear to think about all of the stranded animals. CuteOverload is now my favorite website.

Even though I've had a change of heart, I still love a good filet every now and again. Since my transformation, I figure I'm only partly horrible. And, I'll have a baked potato with that.

The Birthday Party

2006-11-07T16:36:00.000-05:00

My niece’s sixth birthday was at the end of September. I was a little apprehensive about going to the party because a) my family would be there and b) I would see Bro #1 and didn’t know what his response would be to the letter I had written him.

The party was in a park and I got there a little early so I could help my sister set up. I saw that there was only soda to drink--no water. I told Sis I would go to the store and asked if she needed anything else. Yes, she needed a baby bottle. She had forgotten one for her youngest.

As I was leaving, the family began to arrive; Mom, her loser boyfriend, Bro #1 with his wife and son, aunts, cousins, and friends. I said hello to everyone and asked if anyone wanted anything from the store before leaving.

I was was not gone 20 minutes. When I drove back into the park Bro #1 was walking out. He seemed upset and I asked him if he needed a ride. He said, “No, I’m only going to Speedway.” I wish I would have told him to get in the car with me, but I didn’t. I should have taken that opportunity to talk to him, but I let it slip by.

When I returned to the group, I sat down next to my mother. She immediately told me that she had upset both Bro #1 and Sis by opening her big mouth. I said, "Mom, how many times have I told you, (mom and I in unison) 'never miss an opportunity to keep your mouth shut'"? “That’s what you’ll all say about me when I’m gone--that I could never keep my mouth shut,” she said.

When I moved home in 2002, I went to a huge Labor Day party and saw a lot people that I hadn’t seen in years. One of them was my college boyfriend. I hadn’t seen him since 1989, when I left him for another man--again. I had thought about him several times over the years and when I did, I thought of how awful I had been to him. I was young. I didn't know how to have a relationship, nor did I know how to end one. Seeing him had an impact on me. I didn't speak to him at the party. I didn’t know what to say.

The next day I visited my mother. I told her that I had seen him and how badly I still felt about the way I had handled things. A little while later, I left Mom’s and went to KG's house nearby.

I hadn't been there long when I got a call from Mom telling me that she had called my ex and he was on his way over to her house. I was furious with her and she was completely taken aback by my reaction. "I didn't expect you to react like this," she said. "How did you expect me to react"?, I spat back. My mother had orchestrated someone else's real-life drama right in her own living room and she couldn't wait to watch it play out. But, I was not going to let her have that satisfaction.

What the fuck was I going to do? Should I call Mom back and tell her to cancel her little party? Should I call him myself and apologize for my completely insane mother? Should I get in my car and run away? Should I ignore it all and begin the heavy drinking immediately? Should I see him? If I saw him, what the fuck was I going to say? Oh. My. God.

KG finally suggested that he meet me there, at her house. She said we could have the place to ourselves for a while.

He came over and we had a good talk. I apologized for treating him so badly and told him that my Karma had indeed come around. "That was a long time ago," he said graciously.

Within a month’s time he was engaged, and married for the first time the following year. I was glad I had the opportunity to apologize, but I was not happy with how it happened.

A day or so after the birthday party I was on the phone with my sister and learned what my mother had said to piss everyone off.

Sis is pregnant and her baby is due in January. Sis had not yet told her grandmother (my mom’s second-loser-husband’s mother) that she was pregnant. Mom had been dying to tell Grandma, but Sis had asked her, please, just don’t. About an hour before the party Mom and Sis were on the phone and Mom brought the subject up again.

“I’m gonna tell your Grandma that you’re pregnant if you don’t.”

“Mom, please don’t. Grandma is spending the night with me tomorrow night and I will tell her then, in private. Please don’t say anything to her. I will tell her tomorrow night.”

Guess who told Grandma that she has a new great-grandbaby on the way.

Hypocrite

2006-11-03T14:00:00.000-05:00

I don't know which part of this story I like better. Is it that Ted is a rump ranger, or is it that Ted is a meth head? I just can't decide.

Apparently, taking (and/or giving) it up the ass is okay as long as you're not married to the person that is taking (and/or giving) it.

I hope one of these journalists asks the burning question in my mind: Ted, are you a top or a bottom?

Good Thing You Can Pick Your Friends

2006-09-28T12:25:00.000-04:00

My family is completely fucked up. And very poor. No one wonders why I drink. My friends often ask, “What happened to you? How did you turn out the way you did?”

A few days ago I called my oldest little brother to wish him a happy birthday. I called him at work because he doesn’t have a phone at home. He and his wife would rather spend money on pot than things like utilities. Or counseling. They never repaid me the month’s rent I lent them a few years ago, either. Not that I ever expected to see that money again.

Telephone conversation with Bro #1:

Me: Hi Sweetheart! Happy birthday!

Bro #1: Thanks. I wanted to call you on your birthday, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Me: That’s okay. I understand. Is there a better way for me to reach you?

Bro #1: Not really. I don’t have a home phone. I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t have shit.

Me: What’s your address?

Bro #1: xxx State Road, Midwest. That’s my address for the time being, anyway. Son is bigger than a house.

Me: I’m so sorry. You have to do something, Bro #1.

Bro #1: I can’t do anything or all hell breaks loose.

Me: You are his father.

Bro #1: I might have made him but I’m not raising him.

Me:

Me: Do you have all of my phone numbers?

Bro #1: Yeah, I think so.

Me: Why don’t you call me and we can get together sometime? Maybe we can meet after work. We could meet halfway.

Bro #1: Yeah.

Me: Will you be at Niece #1’s birthday party on Sunday?

Bro #1: Yeah, I think so.

Me: I’ll see you then.

Bro #1: (Through tears) I gotta go. I’m busy.

This was the first conversation I’ve had with Bro #1 since last Christmas. Our family is not close. It was fractured beyond repair long ago. I can’t say exactly when that happened; it was years in the making. I rarely talk to my siblings and, if I’m honest, I have to admit that I only talk to and see my mother out of a sense of guilt and obligation. I don’t like feeling this way, but that’s just the way it is. Both of my “fathers” are dead. Maybe some day I’ll tell you that glorious story.

Bro #1 has always been a large person and his wife is large too. Bro #1’s son is eight years old, and obscenely obese. His weight is somewhere around 130 pounds. My mother recently bought him size 16 husky pants and they did not fit. Don’t eight-year olds wear something like, um, size 8? Anyway, his size is his immediate problem. He also likes to wear women’s clothes and make up, and kill animals. I’m not so worried about the cross-dressing. I am seriously worried about the cat killing.

After our conversation, I sent Bro #1 a birthday card to his for-the-time-being address. In it was a hand-written four-page letter, begging him to get counseling. Bro #1 has very serious anger issues. Most of these issues are from childhood but his wife added to them. In 2001 while I was lying in the hospital, Bro #1's wife had an affair with a black man, God forbid, and got pregnant. As I heard the story months later, they were leaving for the abortion clinic and Wife started to have severe pains and ended up miscarrying the baby. Bro #1 has never forgiven her for this and never let her forget it. Now, his quietly-psychotic wife is threatening to leave him for the umpteenth time. This time, I think she’s actually going to do it. This has sent Bro #1 over the edge, again. In the meantime Nephew sits in front of the television, ever stuffing food into his mouth, ignoring his parents' dirty fighting.

I have a B.A. in psychology. Instead of majoring in something that would actually prepare me for a job that would make me some cash, the family dynamics worked their magic and sent me straight into classes of fucked-up students with fucked-up professors. I loved my classes. I was even asked to join Psi Chi, the national psychology honors fraternity, because I did so well in my psych classes. I didn’t have to work all that hard at it. All that shit made complete sense to me.

I am 40 years old and have never been pregnant. (Thank you, Planned Parenthood.) I used to want to have children. (That's why I’m divorced. After four years of talking about our future family, my husband changed his mind and decided he no longer wanted to be a father. He didn’t want to go to counseling either. Maybe I'll get around to telling that story sometime, too.) I wanted to make a family that was happy, or, at least not emotionally crippled. That ship has now sailed. I no longer want children.

I realize that my not being a parent makes it hard to hear advice from me regarding children, so I very, very rarely give it. But, since Bro #1 raised the issue of his son in our phone conversation, I gave him some unsolicited advice. In my letter to my brother I wrote, “I realize that I am not a parent. But, I am an expert on having a fucked-up life, and I know one when I see it.” I went on to say . . . well, I said a lot. It may not have been the best thing to do, but it needed to be said. This is the second such letter that I have written to Bro #1. The first was after the Attempted Murder Of A Kitten, which followed The Killing Of A Kitten.

What follows is a little background.

A couple of years ago I was visiting Bro #1 in his rented trailer and I learned that Nephew had recently sprayed his kitten with weed killer. You may be asking yourself, Why the hell could a child get his hands on weed killer? Um, yeah.

The kitten survived the first assault, but got very ill. Of course Nephew’s parents told him what he did was bad, weed killer would hurt the kitty, you don’t want to hurt your kitty; do you?

The kitten did not survive the second assault.

As if killing one kitten wasn’t enough, Nephew got a new kitten. You may be asking yourself, Why the hell would you give a kitten killer another kitten? Um, yeah.

One afternoon Bro #1 comes home to find his wife sleeping and his son unattended. He also finds the freezer duct-taped closed. When he untaped and opened the freezer, he found a very cold kitten. When he asked Nephew why he put the kitty in the freezer the answer was, “He was getting on my nerves.”

When I heard of this latest incident, I flipped right the fuck out. I spent hours on the phone finding no- and low-cost social service and counseling agencies in their county. I compiled an extensive list of the agencies complete with names, addresses and phone numbers. I printed out research on childhood animal cruelty and killing. Conventional wisdom on the issue is that most children who do this to animals are neglected and/or abused. They are helpless to control their abusive situation and act out by executing their learned abusive behavior on the only thing they can: the family pet. Shocker.

I called Bro #1 and asked him if we could get together. I wanted to talk to him alone, without his wife.

Both Bro #1 and his wife are fucked in the head. The difference is my brother knows he’s fucked up and is willing to try something, whereas his wife thinks everything is fine. She would never really admit to herself that her family has serious mental and emotional issues.

Bro #1 called me back and told me it was their anniversary and they were going to try to do something. We never got together and we never talked about it.

At the time all this happened my mother was in the hospital. (She has to go to the hospital about twice a year for bronchitis or pneumonia or a combination of the two because she likes to smoke, a lot, and she's been doing it with a vengeance for 4o years.) That night when I went to visit her, I left all the information with her and she gave it to my brother the following day. She told me that my brother read and was receptive to the information. However, I doubt one single number on that list was ever dialed.

After this I know my brother’s wife thought, Who the fuck is she?

Back to the present.

In the letter I said that Nephew is being neglected and he will end up hating both of his parents for not taking care of him. He is a child who is not capable of making adult decisions and needs to have good decisions made for him. He needs discipline. He needs structure. He needs counseling. The whole family needs counseling. Please get counseling. It is imperative. I know you love your son. I know you do not want him to grow up with shitty parenting like we did. I know we had lousy childhoods, but at some point you have to stop blaming the past and start changing the future. You can change your life. I love you. I am not judging you. Life is hard. Nothing is easy. I know how you feel. I have been in the depths of depression and despair. Please get help. Please call me. Let’s talk.

I hope he gets that letter before his wife does.

Like DD used to say, “We put the fun in dysfunctional.” I can’t wait until the birthday party this weekend.

It Can Always Get Worse

2006-08-31T16:55:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, my good friend, KG, had had an exceptionally trying year. As the new year began, she said, “It has to be better, because it can’t get any worse.” I had a sinking feeling when she said that. It seemed that she was tempting fate. I kept my mouth shut because, well, it was an opportunity not to be missed.

KG had indeed tempted fate. That year was worse than the year before. As yet another new year rolled around, she said, “I will never again say that it can’t get any worse.”

* * *

Summer 2001 was a huge suckfest.

In the weeks after my crash, friends came to see me from near and far. (I think everyone thought I was on my way out.) I had lots of flowers and cards and visitors. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring. I felt blessed to have so many people who cared about me and remember feeling somewhat surprised at how many people had reached out to me and my circle. Thanks, guys!!

I was finally released from the hospital on July 10. I was scared to leave. I was still so sick and I didn’t know how I would make it out in the world. Earlier, E had asked me where I wanted to stay; with her or my mother. Without hesitation, I said, "You." I did not want to stay with my mother because she lived in a very small two-bedroom apartment with my adult brother. (Thanks, but no thanks.) I didn’t want to be a burden to E, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go and I wasn’t in any position to actually do anything about it.

So, to E’s house I went.

I was still very, very sick. I had a feeding tube hanging out of my nose and a drainage tube coming out of my abdomen. My mom came and stayed with me a lot and took me to my weekly hospital visits. For once, my mom was a blessing. She didn’t leave my side for the last two weeks of my hospital stay and I was happy to have her there. I never thought I would have been happy to have my mother with me for two solid weeks, but I was.

On Saturday, July 28, E’s son was playing in a soccer tournament. They were going to be gone all day so E recruited my friend R to stay with me. R and I were just hanging out, doing nothing because, well, I couldn’t do a fucking thing. The phone rang and R answered it. She handed it to me. It was my dear friend and neighbor from San Francisco, BD.

BD: It’s DD.

Me: What happened?

BD: She passed away last night.

DD was my best friend in the whole wide world. And now she was dead.

It can always get worse.

June 15, 2001

2006-08-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

In May 2001, I began a drastic change in my life. I had lived in San Francisco for 10 years, but had wanted to move to New York for the past few years. Even though I loved SF I was, for the most part, miserably depressed and needed a change. After much thought and lots of therapy, I began planning my move.

Using craigslist, I arranged to swap apartments with a law student who lived in Brooklyn Heights. She was interning in SF for the summer, and I wanted to keep my rent-controlled apartment for a few months—just in case I wanted to come back. I got rid of most of my crap, left a few boxes of stuff with my best friend, DD, and packed my car full. I left SF on May 31 with no set timeline for my cross-country adventure.

First, I went to LA. I had only been to LA a couple of times and I had never done the tourist thing. I spent a couple days there taking tours, going to Graumin’s, the Hollywood Bowl and Sunset Strip. From there I traveled to Las Vegas and stayed with a friend from college for a night. From there it was up to Vail to see a high-school friend. Then, I made a push to the Midwest, my home turf.

On June 15, while traveling from one friend’s house to another, I crossed the center line of a 90-degree curve on an old country road and hit an SUV head on. The SUV driver was fine, thank God. I, on the other hand, was near death. (That curve, by the way, has been straightened out and no longer exists. I guess too many folks bit it there.)

My head crashed into the windshield and bounced back. There was a bunch of long dark hair hanging from the windshield. There was blood all over my clothes. I couldn’t see out of my left eye. I couldn’t breath. Two things came to me almost immediately: 1) this wasn’t going to kill me (much to my chagrin) and 2) I would walk again, eventually. Isn’t that strange; that I would have those two thoughts immediately after realizing what had just happened and that it was my hair hanging from my cracked windshield?

A man came up to the window. He told me “They're coming,” or something to that effect and I told him I couldn’t breath. Thankfully, he popped the clasp on my seat belt. That first breath was like mother’s milk to a baby. After that, I could breath a little better, but not much.

The first car on the scene was my friend’s girlfriend, K. I had just left their house and she was on her way home from work. As she was standing by the side of the car I said, “I really fucked up, K.” While I was sitting there dying, I realized I was not going to make it to my killer apartment in Brooklyn Heights and I was not going to spend my summer working in Manhattan.

Within minutes one of my oldest friends, E, whose house I had just left, was there. She and K were standing there with looks of horror and worry on their faces. I really didn’t want to die in front of them so I held it together and stayed conscious, just like the paramedic was begging me to.

It took quite a while for them to get me out of the car. When I finally got into the ambulance I tried to fight the medics off, told them to let me die, and then I passed out.

I spent 25 days in the hospital. I could not eat nor drink for six weeks. I would not be able to walk on my own until September.

Now, like my mind, my body was wrecked, but not totaled.