Behind the times.

I've never seen "Lost" or "24". No joke.
The Mister and I do not have cable and therefore our choices are quite limited.
We have stumbled upon both of these shows and this is how it usually goes,

Mister: What's this? Those people look dirty.
Me: Is it scary? Maybe I shouldn't watch.
Mister: Oh, I know! It's that Lost show. [click]
or
Me: Is that the guy from 'Young Guns'?
Mister: Yes, it's that 24 show.
Me: Oh. Lots of people watch that; I've never seen it.
Mister: Me either. [click]

I've only ever been truly interested in two television programs: The Wonder Years and The West Wing. Both were quality entertainment. These shows hooked me from the beginning with great characters and wonderful plot lines. Who can forget when Kevin Arnold learned about the female reproductive system from his idiot gym teacher and came away from it only knowing something was shaped like a cow's head? That is special, my friend. And who has a heart so cold it didn't break when Mrs. Landingham was killed after picking up her first new car? Quality tear jerking ensued.
How about the time Kevin ran against Becky Slater for class president and used the slogan "Becky Slater = BS"? Or even the time Josh got wasted and had to wear fishing waders to a meeting? Too funny.
I just don't have anything like that anymore. The West Wing has 3 episodes left and I feel like our relationship isn't worth continuing. I know they're breaking up with me so why should I invest my time?
The best thing I've got is occasionally stumbling upon ancient Julia Child cooking shows on WETA or WHUT. There is very little that can tear me away from Julia and a joint. Seriously, it doesn't get much better than that.

Idealistic hot tempers.

I’ve been in a funk for about three days now. Part of the problem was having a headache since Sunday. It seems that although allergies did not give me much of a problem last year, they’re back with a vengeance this lovely spring. Last night, I scrounged around my nightstand and rooted-out a lone Zyrtec. It knocked me out, but damn did I wake up feeling fine. That is, when I finally woke up. That stuff really makes me sleepy even if it does calm the allergy beast.
Today is sunshine-y and pretty, albeit a little brisk. I called my doctor for another prescription of the almighty Zyrtec and my life seems back on track. A little yoga and a hot shower and I’m a brand-new woman.

However, I am currently a fired-up brand-new woman.

Each day I check the website of the newspaper from my father’s hometown. It’s fun for me to keep up on the town I hold so dear, and I love stumping my dad by leaving messages on his answering machine that go like this:
“Hi, daddy! I just wanted to know how you like that new Stop sign at the corner of Greene and Front streets. Call me; I love you!”

Today, however, I read something that just got me worked up worse than an alcoholic in a soda store. In the “Letters to the Editor” section, there were six letters published. Four of the letters were regarding the upcoming primary election. All four supported Republican candidates. The other two letters concerned a traffic accident and an amendment to the Ohio State Constitution. Four of six letters supporting Republicans and not one letter or article regarding a Democrat. Astounding.
I’m obviously a Democrat, but I’m also an Idealist. It would also upset me if it were the other way around. It’s just wrong. I worked in the media for seven years (four of those years were in this particular town!); small town reporting of politics makes me sad and angry. It’s blatant and biased.
I wouldn’t feel right about writing my own letter to the editor; I no longer live there. However, I did send my dad an email regarding the issue. He may be a Republican, but he is a good man with high ideals. He’ll call me tonight, and I’ll ask him to write a letter. Daddy has a hot temper and a big vocabulary. (The Mister doesn't wonder where I get it from; he knows I come by it honestly.)

It’s sunshine-y outside and I’m hopeful that tomorrow’s newspaper will run four letters for the other side.

To Party or Not to Party?

My sister is cool. Sis is nice, smart, funny and extremely artsy.
Somehow, I've managed to trick her into thinking that I am cool, as well. This could be attributed to the fact that although cool, she's a mere 15-years-old and has not wised up to the ways of the World.
I won't tell you what I did, because although no family member knows of this blog, somehow writing it will ensure that my mother will find out. As a twenty-eight year old married woman, I am still terrified of my mother’s wrath.
All I will say is that last fall I did something in front of Sis that surely will result in the demise of her future. It was not just me, though. The Mister and Aunt J were there to help me make sure my little sister will not make it in the World. –Hey, if I go down, I’m taking them with me; I’m taking all y’all with me. That’s just how I roll.
So, the thing is… do I never do this thing in front of her again (of course, I mean until after she’s eighteen), or do I continue to live my life normally while she’s around?
When she visits this summer (she’ll be 16 then), can I take her to parties at friend’s houses? I’d never let her get trashed or anything like that; but is watching 20 & 30-somethings wreck themselves on a weekend really going to harm her? Or will it prepare her for the real World?
Should I take her to these shindigs with the express explanation that this behavior is only acceptable when you are a productive member of society and that any other circumstance probably makes you a loser?
For the past three years (since Sis has been allowed to visit on her own), I’ve kept her far, far away from my somewhat morally corrupt friends. However, now that she’s a bit older, and summer gatherings are upon us, I’m at odds.
Any ideas?

I blame my mother.

Like millions -no, zillions- of women in this world, I have body issues. In fact, I hate my thighs, and for this self-loathing, hatred of my lower regions, I blame my mother. It's all her damn fault.
It's also sinking in, that perhaps, I drink too much. Not because I'm having problems with alcohol or an addiction, it's because I think I'm getting beer thighs. "Beer thighs?" you ask. Yes, I say, beer thighs. You see, I don't gain fat in my mid-section, it all goes to my ass and thighs; I have junk in my trunk. Honestly, my cute tummy is all that is keeping me from drinking a gallon of Clorox today. But that's a different kind of drinking problem.
I went shopping this afternoon. It did not go well.
I walk, yoga, and exercise but it seems that in my old age, beer wants to cling to my bottom half. And those pesky mirrors at the Old Navy couldn't possibly be lying to me. All I went in for was some new yoga pants. It should not have led to thoughts of liposuction with a vacuum cleaner.
It's been said to me that the jiggle in my wiggle is hereditary, and my proof is my little sister. Sis is a mere fifteen-years-old and already is getting her jiggle. And she's a thin runner. And she’s fucking 5'10" tall (compared to my 5'1", she's Amazonian). Guess I was wading at the shallow end of the gene pool.
Regardless, we blame our mom for the jiggle. It's Mom's fault that shimmy-ing out of my jeans in a dressing room at Old Navy led me to be a sobbing mess of a girl. It's her fault that I want liposuction before I'm thirty. IT'S ALL HER DAMN FAULT.
Two years ago I complained to a friend, "It doesn't make sense that no matter how skinny and fit I get, I still have cellulite." Friend's response, "Yeah, I never got that about you either."
Believe it or not, we're still friends.
Eh, I'm off to yoga. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Maybe I'll go buy on of those Dyson vacuums while I'm out...

Inherently tidy.

Last night brought me a bit of adventure. By ‘adventure’ I mean, I was on my own. The Mister is out of town for the weekend on a bachelor beach excursion. Apparently, his friends don’t have regular “Who’s gonna bring the shovel to bury the dead stripper?” bachelor parties. They pack up their surfboards, rent a beach house in April, and plan for rain by loading up with Xbox, poker chips and playing cards.
The Mister and I are buddies. He is my husband, my heart, my lover, my best friend and we have the best time together. This weekend I’m on my own, and last night I think I started out with a bang.
Of course, this also could indicate I shot my wad too early and am destined to watch DVD’s and cooking shows on PBS for the rest of my weekend. Fine by me, I’m not entirely sure how I’m up and writing at 10am on this rainy Saturday and not laying dead in a back alley somewhere. (Actually, I can attribute my safety to a great friend who walked me home. Thanks, J!)
There are a group of guys that grew up with The Mister who live down the street. After a few emails yesterday, we were invited to come over as there was a birthday shindig a-brewin’.
Since The Mister was gone, I decided to busy myself in the kitchen by making devilled eggs and hummus. I wanted to make stuff, and we had eggs and garbanzo beans. I work with what I’ve got. The sky was crazy ominous, so I called to see if I could tromp over a little early since I was on foot.
And then began my descent to a place I haven’t seen in awhile. Although I remember starting with beer, it’s all a bit vague, really. I partook of everything set in front of me and I hope, hope, hope I didn’t make an ass of myself.
There’s the optimist in me that calls herself “quirky”, but there’s also a realist who remembers telling somebody about my obsession with miniature wiener dogs, how I want -not one, but- two, so I can name them Super Elvis and Maximum Francis.

*Sidenote: There was a great story being told about the day before. The day before being 4/20, a few people had gathered for festivities and another birthday. A girl I will refer to as “MD” was carrying a cake and navigating through a door when a huge blue flame rolled up from her chest. MD’s shirt had caught fire and Mrs. Doubtfire was re-enacted. (Hence why she’s being called MD.) Apparently, pot has a calming effect, because she saw the flame, set the cake down, and then ran to the kitchen patting her chest as if, well, as if it were on fire. It burned a huge hole in the front of her shirt and blackened her bra. She was terribly concerned that everybody had seen her boobs, but she's been reassured that her boobs were covered by the blaze. MD is fine, but may be a little traumatized; we’ll see the next time she lights candles.*

It was a great time, one of those times where the mood is buoyant and palpable.
After a greenish blue rum drink was given to me and refilled, stuff was passed around; I realized it was time to get my ass home where I could shamefully hug my toilet.
Alone. In the dark. As it should be.
A friend walked me home, and that’s where my ‘descent’ became a ‘freefall’. I don’t remember much after checking the mailbox. However, I’ve been able to piece a bit together.
I hung up my coat, took the hummus and egg dishes to the sink, made a PBJ sandwich, hugged the toilet for awhile, washed my face, brushed my teeth, dusted the bedroom, made another PBJ, folded my clothes and went to bed.
It seems I arrived home and was the neatest drunk ever.

One Zen Bitch.

I have practiced yoga for about six years now. Every so often, I fall of the wagon but I’ve been back on for a while now.
For me, yoga is not a zen-inducing activity. This is why I no longer attend classes; quite frankly, I swear too much and it’s distracting to the other yogis.

“Motherfucker, you wrap your foot around your neck.”
“You said ‘last time’ two times ago, bitch.”
“Oh, shit, what?”
“Ooomph, damn.”

The swearing is a release for me; it helps me get to that special place where everything is nice. It’s a kind of liberation. (Not that I don’t swear outside of my yoga time. I do, frequently.)
Because of my lacking zen-state, I now have instructional books and videos. They do the trick and I avoid embarrassing myself or taking away from other yogis experience.
I think I’m going to get certified to teach yoga and have a class called “Yoga for Angry People: An alternative way to finding the calm within (for adults only).”

A typical class may sound like this:

Me the Instructor: …and on the inhale, raise your tail into downward dog…now exhale, assholes. Let it all out and don’t forget to swear. Release the tension, and bring your shoulders over your goddamn wrists. Look forward, bitches, this is plank position.

I think I’m on to something here.

Subject: Television, I think.

My parents gave me a television my freshman year of college. Towards the end of my junior year, a friend sitting on the couch in my dorm room lifted a tablecloth to reveal a makeshift end table.
“This is a box for a television. Is there actually a television in this box or is it just a box you use as a table?”
My response being that there was a brand-new television in that box, but I’d never taken it out was met with wide-eyes of disbelief. Some people have other priorities. He immediately set my lamp on the floor, tore open the box and asked me where I would like him to put the television.
A minor dispute over my wanting the t.v. back in the box ensued, but I finally gave in and settled on the empty desk.
A few minutes later, I discovered The Weather Channel. I love The Weather Channel, but I don’t particularly like television. At first TWC played great classic rock music during the local forecasts. Then they switched to some sort of Muzac and I would watch TWC on mute with my cd player going in the background.
Apparently there were other channels like MTV and FX that were geared more towards my demographic, but I wanted nothing to do with those channels. Give me Weather or give me death. TWC was not only full of crazy meteorologists, but full of information that would mostly be of no use to me. For me, the 10-day-forecast for South Africa would never be pertinent information. Still, you never know.
Currently, we don’t have cable. I haven’t had cable since college, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want it.
It should be noted, though, that our entire apartment building does not have cable. Apparently, the building is too old and the cable company told the landlady it would be too costly to outfit the building. I think she made it up, but this is fine by me; I just don’t care. I can live without all the crap on t.v now (and I write that as if I have any idea what kind of crap really is on television; I don't).
I still have PBS and NBC. What more could I need? Histories Mysteries and all the cooking shows my heart desires. I love Julia Child; I even wept a little when she died.
Sidenote: I gotta say, that lady was some serious entertainment! Just the way she talked and how quirky and fun she was kept me enamored. Her lobster episode was hysterical.
But I digress.
I’ve rambled on and not said anything to clue you in as to where I’m going with this.
My whole point is I think The Weather Channel is a service to the public and it should be made part of network television.

*I promise to avoid any further blogs this bad. I’m a bit hung-over and focus is not my strong point today.*

Just give me the damn quarters!!!

Today, I walked to the Safeway to get quarters. It's laundry time and our new washer/dryers take twice as many quarters as the old ones. These new machines also do smaller loads and the dryers never quite get everything dry. However, that is another story.
I had no cash on me, and at the Safeway in order to get cash to buy quarters, you must make a purchase. I bought a box of tea and a tin of mints and asked if I could get cash back. There was a little problem with the machine reading my card, so the cashier swiped it for me. He also pressed CREDIT which meant I couldn't get cash back. When I told him, "Sir, I asked if I could get cash because I need quarters" he responded, "Too late for that! Laundry time, huh? You'll have to go to the counter."
The line at the counter was a couple deep, and I joined in. With my bag in one hand and my card still in the other, I said, "I need to buy some quarters, please." She looked at me with disdain and told me I could not just buy quarters with my card; I would need cash or I could make a purchase. I explained that I had just bought tea and mints, but the cashier didn't give me the cash. She got huffy and told me I couldn't use a credit card to get cash back.
My frustration was building. Have I mentioned The Mister calls me "Loose Cannon"?
After explaining that my card was a DEBIT card, and the cashier had pressed CREDIT without listening to me, she snatched my bag outta my hand!
Snatched it! Out. Of. My. Hand.
I almost snatched her giant hoop earring outta her ear.
The lady (and I use the term as loosly as I use my cannon), took out my mints, did a 'return' on the register and had me make the purchase again, this time using the card as DEBIT.
I got my cash, tea, mints and quarters and left.
Those who know me should be proud. Those who don't should also be proud.
I kept my cool. I didn't flip my shit and ask for a manager; I didn't even get pissy. I explained my case, got my shit and moved on. Even if she thought I was some card-wielding moron, I left knowing the truth.
Her fly was down and her underroos were neon green with pink flowers.

Sprung.

An early Saturday morning attempt to get our car inspected, led The Mister and me to a glorious drive through a newly awakening city. All was quiet on the waterfront; it seems the district was sleeping in for the holiday weekend. We had the place to ourselves and with the windows down we rolled effortlessly through the streets feeling the sun on our faces, smelling the blooms in the wind; the freshness was palpable.
This is why I love DC in the springtime.
The inspection station was closed, but no matter. We took our time getting home, threw open the windows, showered and fixed a yummy lunch.
We decided to go for another drive and somewhere in there, decided Mount Vernon would be the place to go. Through Old Town and past the Fort, it was quite warm, almost hot. The water on the Potomac was picturesque and the sailboats were racing. It was as if we were running away from winter, shedding the layers behind us.

Russian Roulette

Today while sitting in a chair tying my shoes, The Mister bent over to tie his. His ass was up in the air right in front of my face, so I poked his right cheek.
“You’re playing Russian roulette, little girl. I’d be a bit more careful where you’re poking ‘cause I just ate a bran muffin… it’s a dangerous game.”
After yesterday's A.D.T.'s, I agree.

A.D.T.

Far from an unusual occurrence, last night I couldn’t sleep. Often I will get up and do something, anything, to keep me from getting frustrated and killing people. If I accomplish something, my lack-of-sleep-time has not been wasted.
While trying to decide what I could do, it became perfectly clear that I had plenty of entertainment right in my own bed. *Get your filthy mind out of the gutter.*
The Mister also seemed to be having difficulties with the Sandman. The Mister and I are not strangers to doing curious things while sleeping. My nocturnal unawares are usually productive; I’ll get dressed and ready to go (where is anybody’s guess), make lunch or straighten up. The Mister does not get out of bed, he stays in place and acts things out. My favorite so far was the night I awoke to find covert operations taking place right beside me.
His hands were going one over the other and his feet were following as if he were climbing a rope. Staccato bursts of “Dut-dut---dut-dut-dut-dut---dut-dut” were being spoken, as if he actually knew Morse code. The Mister of Mystery.
Last night was a little different in the type of entertainment.
For dinner I had made a vegetarian feast of hummus, gazpacho and a brussel sprout dish; all was quite tasty and The Mister went for seconds on the sprouts. Between the garbanzo beans in the hummus and the sprouts, I knew I was in for one stinky evening. If only I had fully understood.
As I lay awake, I’d hear a little sigh from The Mister then he’d roll over wafting the sheets as he turned, releasing the most awful smell ever. He’d toss and toot, toot and toss. And these were no ordinary toots, they were Atomic Death Toots.
It was hysterical and I actually woke The Mister with my giggling. When I told him what was going on he responded, “Well you chose what to make for dinner and this gas is killing me. I’m so uncomfortable, it has to go somewhere.”

It’s a gorgeous day outside and I’m off for a walk to the grocery store. It’s time to stock up on Beano.

Super Don

I went for a walk today. Nothing out of the ordinary; I'm trying to get myself unsoft. With no need to be 'harrrd', I just don't want to jiggle when I walk.
I love our neighborhood; it’s green, a little bit hilly, very walkable and friendly. There are often many people out walking their dogs and children. Today was no exception, and as I have only myself to walk, I enjoy people watching.
While out on my jaunt, I was struck by two unusual sites.
The first was of a woman, a teeny bit of a woman, pushing the monster of all strollers. It was a two-seater with happy twins enjoying the wind on their faces. What was so odd about this woman was how tiny she was and how fast she was pushing that damn stroller. She had to be 5’4” and maybe a buck-oh-five. The kids were chubby little fellas and I doubt I could have picked either up without an audible grunt.
I thought, “There’s no way that woman squeezed out those kids” until she stopped and talking to the little guys said, “Mommie’s just got five more blocks to go then it’s lunch time!”
Jeezuz. I hope she fixed an extra PBJ for herself!
After seeing the stroller-wielding mamma, I gazed up the hill and saw what only can be described as a mastodon. Stopping dead in my tracks, it was the largest, hairiest dog I’ve ever seen in my life. Honestly, I’m still assuming it was a dog.
The wooly mammoth must have outweighed the stoller-mamma by a good 60 pounds. I could have put a saddle on it and ridden it around.
Then it dawned on me, maybe I should get myself a mastodon. I could get a saddle made for it back home in West-by-god. I could park it out back by the Vespas; although I would have to check that out. The mammoth may be too large for those tiny parking spots. My mastodon would simply be named Super Don and I would never take the bus again.
While thinking this and standing dumbstruck still on the sidewalk, Super Don crapped. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen and I absolutely believe all cities should have a pooper-scooper law. If but only to see a man pick up his mastodon’s poop with two hands. It was the size of one of the aforementioned twins and the man should have had his own stroller to carry the load to the nearest doggy-poo receptacle.
The best part of my walk was realizing the man had the mastodon on a leash. As if the strap and harness would not have ripped off the man’s arm if Super Don had decided to chase a rhinoceros.
I am so going to walk more!

Easter Egg on My Face

I have a lot of Faith but not a lot of Religion. I know what beliefs I hold and feel it is a deeply personal decision for every person; including those people who choose to not believe in anything.
I respect all religions. Raised as a Baptist, I was active in my hometown church. My line of thinking does not agree with the formalities of Christianity, but that does not make me faith-less. Far from it. I have tried to find a church in the city but cannot seem to find one that feels comfortable.
My MIL (mother-in-law) is Catholic and is under the notion that because I am not Catholic, I have no beliefs. I have respect for Catholicism even though I do not agree with much of the interpretations or doctrine. The Mister has tried to explain to MIL that not being Catholic does not mean ‘not Christian’.
This weekend is Easter. MIL asked The Mister if he would like to go to church with her.

*A little back-story. MIL goes to church a lot. She is always late; you know, one of those people. If she misses her regular mass, she will attend the Spanish mass –even though she can’t speak a lick of Spanish. The Mister has all but denounced Catholicism; yes, he’s one of those people. He does not go to church and has expressed no desire to set foot into one.*

MIL told The Mister I was welcome to come too, even though “I don’t know what she is”. Five years. FIVE YEARS. The Mister and I have been together for five years. I’ve told her many times my religious history; it was a major reason she would not speak to The Mister for a few months before we got married. I am not Catholic; which apparently means a blood-sucking, night-dwelling heathen.

*More back story –actually not, it’s just something I’d like to point out. MIL also does not know how old I am. No joke.*

I guess what I’m getting at is I’ve tried so hard. It’s more than MIL not knowing, it’s that she’s never bothered. If you asked her, she would probably say I’m a terrible DIL. I’ve tried so hard but she did not like me right from the start. I’ve worn clothes she’s given me; things I would never wear –things with bows for Pete’s sake! I’m reserved around her, and I am not a reserved person. I’ve gone places with her and in general, just tried so hard.
I know she doesn’t like me. It’s not just Me, it would have been any girl who took her boy away. It doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s still a rejection. It’s hurtful that five years into it, she can’t tell you my religion or age.
Sunday is still up in the air and I don’t know if I’m going to go or stay home. I want The Mister to go no matter what; I’m just unsure of what I’m going to do.
Maybe I'll go and upon setting foot into the church, I'll burst into flames!
*Btw, MIL has enormous hair. She's a tiny woman with huge 1968 hair. She looks like a Q-tip. I just needed to put that out there. If I burst into flames and she's standing close, I bet her hair would (at the very least) singe.*

TAG.

When I was in the fourth grade, I was tested to see if I was "Talented And Gifted". Somehow, although just returning from a two week bout of pneumonia, I fooled the lady into submission (most likely I made a beyond-my-years sarcastic joke).
At first, I thought it was going to be great. Once a week, I would ride a bus to another school where, for a day, I got to play with other TAG kids. What they forgot to mention was a) the bus that would take us was a Short Bus; and b) the school was also home to the kids who had to wear helmets and really did lick the windows. Believe it or not, these two factors made the whole thing less enjoyable.
Until the day in seventh grade where I realized something was off. Every time we rode that bus to the Other School (kinda like The Other Sister), we would pass by a beauty parlor. It was the kind of place where old ladies went only to come out with blue meringue atop their heads.
The wooden sign read in block letters "Cut N Blow". It was a masculine looking sign, and as I had just learned what a blow-job was (not by experience, I was only in the seventh grade and as I had braces until I was fifteen, my exploits began a little late in the game), I began to guffaw while I imagined men going in for haircuts and blowjobs.
Here began a problem where I was too embarrassed to explain to the other TAG kids what I was laughing about.
Often times, my mind still gets me in troublesome spots like this. Mostly, though, I've gotten to a place where I just voice my inappropriate thoughts.
It lets me know who my real friends are or at least know who the fun people are; you know, the people who stick around to hear what I'll say next.

Past Blasters

Today I was going to write about my weekend. The Mister & I had a good time at a party on Saturday afternoon; then we ran into some good friends and found ourselves immersed in beer at the Birreria Paradiso in Georgetown.
As we get to know each other, dear reader, you will find the way to this gal’s heart is through her liver. I love good beer; the kind the monk’s make.
However, this morning’s developments have me reeling.
I received a reply to an email I sent to a ‘long lost friend’. Not so big a deal, had I not sent the original email over three years ago. Who responds to an email from three years ago?
I had written the guy to tell him I’d gotten married. We were college friends and it’s safe to say I’d considered him my best friend. Until he fell off the face of the earth; then I had to move on to people who I knew were alive.
We’ll call this guy, Te, for now. We went to a small college in Ohio and had a couple other really close friends. I’m still close with two of these people. Te’s last known whereabouts was somewhere in Texas with a girl he’d dated in college. None of my other friends from our group had heard from him either.
This is the message I got (mind you, I think it’s in response to an email I wrote telling him I’d gotten married to a wonderful man and I thought they’d make great friends):

Subject: just got your message
I know its been a LONG, LONG time, but even email is very slow in the virgin islands...please, PLEASE, give me a call at (340) ***-*** ANYTIME, day or night. glad things are going well, i absolutely want to catch up. You too still have that special place in my heart. CALL ME.
Lots of love from the VI,
te.

By the “You too still have…” I must have told him he had a special place in my heart. This is a fairly typical thing for me to say because I’m a bit on the sappy side. The rest of it, has taken me quite by surprise (including the email itself).
The Virgin Islands? Okay, I can go with that. But first of all, I must admit it’s hard for me to believe that email is slow there. Maybe you’re slow with your email, but don’t blame the islands. I think I’m happy to hear from Te; to at least know he’s not dead. However, I was a little hurt by the sudden disappearance, as were our other friends.
The Mister thought the whole thing was interesting and entertained the thought of a vacation for us. The Mister is an amazing husband.
I think I’m going to go for a walk. I put Te’s number in my phone in case I decided to call; we’ll just have to see.

Biscuit Snob

I grew up in West Virginia and the thing I miss the most (other than my family -Hi, Mom!) is the biscuits. Not any old biscuits, I miss Tudor's Biscuits. Tudor's Biscuit World was a creation straight from Heaven. Actually, I think that must be where the state moniker "Almost Heaven, West Virginia" comes from; it's aimed directly at Tudors.
I grew up on these biscuits. In high school (please note: my mother taught at the high school I attended), my mom and I could not speak to each other except to say, "Can we stop at Tudors on the way to school?" or "Do you mind if I stop by Tudors on the way to school?" Almost four years went by when all we had in common was Tudors.
When I first moved to DC, people would speak wonders of Popeye's biscuits. Being an open-minded person, I thought I'd give it a try. When that dried up, tiny "biscuit" was given to me, I thought "Maybe it tastes better than it looks -but man, that doesn't look like any biscuit-goodness I've known!" And it wasn't. I scoff at your "biscuit", Popeye. The only thing you know is spinach and maybe chicken (I'm not really sure, I don't eat chicken).
Shortly after that, I desperately called home begging for Tudor's Biscuits, "Please, I don't care how they get here, just send biscuits! You won't believe what they try to pass off as biscuits -they're not even that beautiful light golden color or fluffy and they're barely half the size! Mom, they don't leave sandy biscuit goodness on your fingers." My mother (saint that she is), same-day Fed-Exed me a baker's dozen the very next day. I've even perfected the freezing, thawing, and warming method.
The Mister-To-Be was shocked by my reaction and called me a 'Biscuit Snob'. It was then I explained that "No I'm not a Biscuit Snob; I am a Tudors Whore". He has since tried them many, many times and has become a Biscuit Snob in his own right.
It must be admitted, I have a freezer full of Tudor's Biscuits. My Aunt Jane brought back a dozen from her last trip home. There are 10 left; I ration them. A day must be deemed Biscuit-Worthy before I'll even tempt myself by opening the freezer. Sometimes The Mister will ask for one, and instead, I'll say "We'll split one; we can't go all crazy and end up with no biscuits!"
Writing about this doesn't just make my mouth water, it makes my heart ache. Today is not Biscuit-Worthy and if that makes me a Biscuit Snob, I'm okay with that.
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I don't think spell check is working. Either that, or I'm just perfect. My apologies for the mistakes.

Queen Weenie

A friend of mine recommended I read the book "Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs" by Chuck Klosterman. It's a great series of articles analysing pop culture.
Personally, the short on how Lloyd Dobbler ruined everything for men because all women truly want is "Lloyd" is wonderful and hilarious. No other man will ever match up to the guy from 'Say Anything' holding up a boom box outside your bedroom window.
Klosterman writes that we are a degenerate generation because of 'The Empire Strikes Back' --and seriously, as impressionable children, were we really expected to recover from the disappointment?
My favorite is his article about "Paradise City" -a Guns-N-Roses tribute band (not to be confused with a cover band, of course).
All in all, I loved this book.
Until Chapter 15: This Is Zodiac Speaking. The chapter is all about Klosterman's obsession with serial killers.
Any person who knows me would have not told me of this book based on that one chapter. I am a Weenie. I own that title. I am terrified of the dark, Law & Order, bathtub curtains pulled closed, and serial killers. That's just who I am.
For all my friends recommending books, movies or drugs that might lead to scary situations, just don't do it.
Some people know of my Weenie-ness... and they'll even censor things that probably don't need to be censored. "I don't know if you should borrow 'The Incredibles' -there's some violence." They're cartoons. I can live with that. Violence doesn't really scare me depending on how that violence happens. If somebody accidentally falls off an overpass and goes splat! on the pavement, I'm okay with that. If it wasn't an accident and the free-faller was pushed by -let's say... a maniacal killer with a great smile, I'm so very not okay with that.
That leads me to "Law & Order" -or as we know it in my apartment "The Show The Mister Won't Let Me Watch Anymore" (TSTMWLMWA). It's just too freakin' real!! That shit could happen and it could happen to me!! Therefore, after finding me curled up on the couch, unable to put my feet on the ground or go into the bathroom where the shower curtain was closed and hiding god only knows, The Mister has forbidden me from watching TSTMWLMWA. Especially after the time he found me and I'd had to pee for hours.
Back to the book. I thought we were friends; this person who suggested it. I think you need to be more sensitive to my Weenie-ness. I'll even help you: if there is ever a mention of serial freakin' killers, just don't mention it.
Please. I love you, and I'm just asking for a little sympathy. It would probably help The Mister get more sleep too.
I'm just sayin'...