Against better judgement, Super hits 'Publish'

Although somewhat 'high-strung', there are few things that make me insane with enthusiasm. We all know how much I appreciate the Tomato, but I thought a list of things about which I am truly obsessive might help you understand a bit more of all that is Super* about me.
*You can probably replace the word "Super" with Fanatical, Zealous, Strange, Excitable, etc.

These are a few of the things to which I am addicted like crack.

1. Hand-me-ups from my younger sister. Sis is 16 and super-artsy-hip. She wears cool clothes that aren't wacky but in no way boring. She's just funky and as she grows, her clothes become mine. Funk me up, little sis.

2. Drinking in the afternoon. It's not everyday, but usually, around 4:00 I like to have a bit of a nip before The Mister gets home. And quite frankly, Momma likes to take her medicine after lunch.

3. People who make me laugh. I laugh a lot. Maybe too much. However, it's usually me who makes me laugh. Not because I am funny to anybody else; I just make myself laugh. If a person can make me laugh, they're gold in my book. And then I obsess. I LOVE TO LAUGH. MAKE ME LAUGH, MEATBALL. I try to finagle myself into the presence of whomever makes me laugh. Often I set myself up for disappointment, but that makes me laugh in hindsight.

4. Brushing my teeth. I brush my teeth too much and too hard. My receding gums are proof, but so is the fact I've never had a cavity.

5. And finally, I like to have my butt rubbed. In the morning when I'm all snugly in bed, The Mister has stopped to rub the under-the-covers-bump that is my derriere. I think this is the best thing in the world and can only liken it to scratching a dog behind its ears.

Naps make me cranky. I hate naps.

Usually I'm pretty great at entertaining myself. This particular Tuesday evening finds me so bored I actually dozed off around 5:45 until The Mister called at 6:20. Naps always make me feel worse than before. As far as I'm concerned, naps suck.
Have you ever felt so stagnant nothing sounds interesting?
I've got a tinge of a headache, am a little depressed about the day's events (thoughts of my friends, remembering Katrina, etc.), and top that off with crazy hormonal tendencies pushing me towards "I'm a big fat blob of human". *
It's one of those twice a year urges where I actually might like to watch television and my most appealing option is 'Celebrity Duets'.
How 'bout, "No."?
I think I'm on the brink of a bender. Momma wants her medicine.

*Telling me to "Go do some yoga or take a walk" will get you a size 5 foot squarely in your ass. I'm hormonal. Leave me to cry about my big fat ass in peace. Let me wallow in my irrational thoughts of enormity.

Reeling

This Sunday a couple of our friends are getting married. They are an awesome pair and we could not be happier for them.
But, and this is a big BUT, we couldn't feel more sad for them either. The Groom's mom has been sick as long as I've known him which is not quite five years. We first met through The Mister long ago when The Mister was The Soon To Be.
It doesn't look like The Groom's mom is going to make it through the day and it's just devastating. I can't imagine the helplessness they are feeling. The roller-coaster of emotions must be staggering. I saw The Bride on Saturday and she was holding up nicely; everything was prepared for the wedding. It's unsure if they will have the wedding or postpone -they were crossing that bridge as it came to them.
The scenario itself could break your heart, but to actually know and love these people... And not know how or what -if anything- you can do for them. All anybody can do is be there when they need you.
That's what being a friend is all about. Just being there.

Wonky.

Wonky is one of my favorite words. It's a general term meaning "not quite right" or "curl don't quite make it all the way around" or "a couple bolts shy of a bicycle".
You know...wonky.

That's how I feel today. I'd been on this big kick to head out to Ohio this week for a couple of days. I had a few things on my agenda: hair cut and some color; discuss planning a Scotland trip with Capitall & Wino; do some research for said Scotland trip; and I wanted to pick The Dranks brains about The Mister's & my quickly approaching New Orleans vacation.

(We're going to NOLA for four days around our anniversary in September. It was a tough decision, but in the end, we wanted to put our money into a local economy that could really use it.)

Back to my Ohio jaunt. I've been waffling for 3 days and this morning I dropped The Mister off while saying goodbye as if I were leaving him for a week. A half hour later, I called to tell him I wasn't going anywhere. And I'm still not sure. HA!
Think you can force me into a decision? You don't have a chance. Or maybe you do.

How do you mend a broken heart? Part II

I have continued reading the letters and journal entries I wrote while off in tolerant Ohio and found a bit of foreshadowing in the first letter I posted.
It wasn't something I realized until reading the letter I had sent that a mere week later, I would actually have an altercation regarding my Kerry/Edwards button.
Believe it or not, wearing a tiny little campaign button was a bit nerve-wracking during my time in Ohio. I never wore a shirt or anything obtrusive professing my ideals; I simply attached a small Kerry/Edwards button to my shoulder bag. It was the most I was comfortable with considering the vandalism going on in the typically uneventful town. People would periodically stroll into our makeshift downtown office, red-in-the-face, to let us know how very wrong we were.

In the letter dated October 14th, I wrote:
Sometimes people are so hostile I'm almost afraid to wear my Kerry/Edwards button out in town. But I tell myself, "Those meanies are all talk and nobody would ever do anything to my face."

It struck a memory chord while I was typing, but I'd forgotten (probably on purpose) the incident that occurred a week later. That is, forgotten until I read my journal entry... This wasn't something I openly shared with The Mister because I didn't want him to worry. I was having dinner with Capitall when out of the blue... A very nasty man began having an argument, for the most part, with himself (it should be noted, neither Capitall or I wanted any part of this man's aggression).
It made my heart pound with fear, anger and confusion. By the time he left, I was shaking and yes, even a few tears may have slipped through the cracks.
Since the incident, I have forgiven the offender and the town, but, as you will read, I was VERY angry and hurt by the events that conspired.
Here is my immediate reaction upon leaving the restaurant:

10.21.2004
And so it seems that we are not out of the woods. Perhaps the forest is even more dense than I thought. Surely, but naively, I believed I was immune to prejudice. Surely, but naively, I was wrong.
It isn't clear to me how wearing a button would invite hostility, but I apparently don't think these things through when I get dressed in the morning. Jeans, t-shirt, warm sweater and a small button to support my presidential candidate. After all, the reason I'm in Ohio in the first place is because I want to support the campaign. I just never expected such a nice, sweet, charming town to be so cruel.
My opinion of Marietta, Ohio has always been good - wonderful, even. My husband and I even came back here to get married. He'd only visited twice, but he too was charmed by its beauty and people. I never expected a button to bring out the worst in people.
The "Kerry/Edwards" button has brought me more than just dirty looks. I've now actually had people approach me to challenge me for daring to wear such a statement.
Tonight the worst came when, while dining in a restaurant with [Capitall], a man invited himself to our dinner table to ask me "a few friendly questions."
I tried to politely decline, as did [Capitall]. Buying us a round of drinks does not make you an ally, nor does it give you leeway to badger somebody about their beliefs. My wearing a button did NOT give this person any right to challenge me or yell at me while trying to have dinner.
Thankfully, the manager (a friend, no doubt), came to run interference which settled the offender a bit. However, it was not until [Capitall's] husband, [Wino], and his imposing voice and form arrived the man would leave us alone.
Discrimination comes in all forms. I am ashamed to have been born in Marietta. Never did I expect to be treated so poorly or cruelly based on my beliefs. This town has made me understand 'politics' and 'discrimination' more than I ever expected. I've always loved Marietta; that is why I came back. Now I realize we all make mistakes and mine was coming here.
--end of entry--

It is almost embarrassing that I wrote that about a place I -obviously, from other posts- love so dearly. Hell, The Mister and I would love to live there. At the time of that journal entry, I was so mad my handwriting was a bit hard to decipher.
And honestly...? Honestly, I've never really said or written this, somewhere in my heart -call it woman's intuition, if you must- I knew we wouldn't win.
It did not change how hard I worked or the hope and desperation I had to make a difference in my country.
In reality, it feels like the break-up of a relationship you tried everything to save, but in the end, it was the end.

Super Stoked. Black Crowes @ the 9:30!

WAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Today I called The Mister at work. I was all frenzied and could only say, "Mister, Mister, Mister, Black Crowes. 9:30. September 18th not sold out."

His reply? "Buy 'em now."

I love this man. AND I LOVE THIS BAND!!! I first saw the Crowes along with Jimmy Page back in 2000. That'll make you feel old... It seems like yesterday but was actually six freaking years ago. Regardless, I've been a super fan since I was in middle school and "Shake Your Money Maker" came out. I adored the remake of Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle". It came at a blossoming time when hearing it made me feel a little bit dirty, but in a good way*. I was hooked and have been ever since. My tummy just did a little flip flop because I am so excited for a show that is 24 days away! Woohoo!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
*Side note: The next song to really drive this feeling home for me was a few years later, the first time I heard Stone Temple Pilot's "Plush" on MTV, long after my bedtime. Oh. My. God. tingles

The Emperor's New Clothes

Do you like my new outfit?
I'm still ironing out the wrinkles, but it shouldn't be long.

Idiot! (ala Napoleon Dynamite)

Excuse me for being a total idiot today. My lack of sleep has caused me to do a few seriously stupid things.

1. Rubbing hands vigorously with soap under the faucet IN WHICH I'D FORGOTTEN TO TURN ON THE WATER.

2. Putting the kettle on for a cup of tea and mistaking the whistle for a fire truck. I must have been looking out the window for a burning building for a good 60 seconds before it dawned on me. Thank goodness I didn't actually have to call the fire department for starting a real fire with my tea kettle.

3. Replying to Washington Cube's comment about my accent and asking "How did you find my blog?" Cube is a contributor to DCBlogs and politely responded: I found you via the DC Blogs Live Feed that renews every half hour with a list of participants and their blogs, of which you are one. I can only hope she doesn't read this; surely it will make me seem all the more idiotic.


I feel like I've been up for twenty minutes, but really it's been more like twenty hours. Whether it be the paddy-wagon or Calgon, somebody take me away. Protect me from myself.

Question of the day at 4AM.

Obviously, I have trouble sleeping; it's 4am and I'm blogging. As far back as memory allows, I've never been a good sleeper and envied those who could sleep at all, let alone, sleep late.
Last night, I told Miss B I would go to yoga class with her tomorrow (heh, today). It's going to be rough seeing as how I haven't slept at all. Maybe she'll understand if I'm all dead. The thing is, when I get this bad with the insomnia I like to work out. However, it must be done early... y'know... before the 4PM death rattle begins.
We shall see how it goes, but in the meantime I'd like to pose a question prompted by the lovely, Mrs. Doubtfire (you may remember her, she's a frequent flyer).

Question of the day for those with whom I've engaged in conversation:

DO I HAVE AN ACCENT?

Or worse... an accent that would indicate I'm -sweet baby jesus forbid- of a hick background? [gasp!]
Last night, The Mister and I attended J's birthday get-together at The Four Green Fields (formerly 4 Provinces and forever known as the 4P's). It was a great turn out for J's twenty-eleventh birthday and that makes me happy. J is a Good Guy and deserves a good turn out.
Mrs. Doubtfire and Miss B were in attendance. They must think I'm a hick-job nut. The lovely, Mrs. Doubtfire shares a blog with B. Their blog (Livin' On the Red Line) is almost as funny as they are in real person. Yesterday, I got a shout out. HOWEVER, it should be noted it was in regards to how I talk and definitely mentioned my growing up in West Virginia. I inquired what she meant. Mrs. Doubtfire said something about being soft-spoken, but my attention was grabbed, shaken and stirred by the word "accent".
I spent four fucking years of college trying to lose my accent; I even took classes! Damn it to hell, give me a little too much sauce and it all comes rushing back with a crazy twang and too many syllables. It makes sense Mrs. Doubtfire would think I have an accent; I'm not sure I've ever been around either of them sober. Which speaks nothing but good things about me, right?

Call me an Early-Morning-Masochist, I need to know. Seriously.
Do I have an accent?

How do you mend a broken heart?

I haven't written about it, barely speak of it, and occasionally a tear or two will slip through the cracks at just the thought. The last presidential election still has me shaking my head in wonder, hurt and confusion.
It may not have been cool, but I grew up a patriot; hell, I still am a patriot for the America I think we should be.
You would think after two years, I could forgive America for letting me down. Still, I feel like I don't know her anymore. My hope that she and her people will find the right path -like a twelve step program of some sort- holds true. But can I ever forgive her?
It's as if I broke it off with a lover I'd found cheating, and then, years later, ran into on the street; homeless, haggard, a shell of what I once loved.
I volunteered in Ohio for the Kerry/Edwards campaign; moved there away from my sweetly supportive husband and into my childhood bedroom at my father's house. Same wallpaper, different person.
Last night, The Mister pulled a stack of letters out of his nightstand. Letters I'd written him while away. He gave me permission to share parts if it would help. So much has changed, and I am ready in hopes it will release me from the bitterness I've clung to.

Thursday, October 14, 2004 -4am
My darling The Mister,
Well, here I am -finally- with a little time on my hands because I can't sleep. It makes sense to use this time wisely and write to the one I love. Damn, do I miss you!! ...
It hadn't occurred to me how tough it was going to be coming to Ohio -Southeastern Ohio specifically-. Our Regional Coordinator was telling us they joke in the Ohio Dems HQ in Columbus that if we can win Washington County for Kerry then they can all stop working. We've had so many people come in to our office asking for "another sign" because theirs was stolen. One woman said her husband caught two guys in their front yard slashing their sign. The newspapers are ever so Republican that I have a hard time reading them. They print one letter with a Dem slant to every 2-3 Republican. Sometimes people are so hostile I'm almost afraid to wear my Kerry/Edwards button out in town. But I tell myself, "Those meanies are all talk and nobody would ever do anything to my face."
I guess the really frustrating thing is even the Kerry supporters are often so negative about winning. Marietta, overall, is quite depressed over the state of the economy & jobs and the recent flood has really been devastating. You are lucky to have seen Marietta a few years ago when the town was doing well. This area is just not the same. I do hope and pray that we can get Kerry into office and that with God's help, he can turn this country around.
It's so easy to be in DC where we're surrounded by open-minded, tolerant people. When I've had to make calls to registered Independents, I'm often struck by some of the responses. One man began yelling that he --gosh, he was yelling about everything from "take away my gun...killing babies...won't be protected from terror..." I thought, "Holy cow, this guy IS terror." I've gotten quite a few responses like that -and those are the Independents!
Every once in awhile you get a gem, though. I've had a couple of people tell me, "I'm still undecided and this is why..." One woman said she just couldn't see herself voting for somebody who believed in killing babies which led me to read her Kerry's wonderful response in the 2nd debate. The woman listened and sounded almost relieved and happy. Morals mean so much here.
Which leads me to the tv ads. Every commercial break on every station has AT LEAST two political ads. Some are so absurd they don't even make sense! It's no wonder people here are confused about the candidates (and hell, I'm speaking on both sides).
...Keep in mind, I have only seen the tv in the mornings when I check for the weather. --It's funny, my dad doesn't believe me when I tell him I haven't seen any of these political ads in DC...
So, I guess I just wanted to fill you in a little on what it is I'm doing here. I'm just trying to keep my chin up for now. Between being away from home and missing you, and the frustration of an uphill battle, I think I'm doing okay. Even if I can't sleep, it's almost 5am and I have to get up soon. I know that I am loved. You are amazing, The Mister. Thank you for supporting me.
Always,
Super

H-A-P-P-Y! Boy am I enthusiastic!!

In the meantime, I had the BEST tomato salad today. Whole Foods had a nice display of heirloom tomatoes. Yes, they are ripe and supposed to be those wondrous colors.
Does anybody need a reminder of how much tomatoes mean to this Super? If you've forgotten, read here.
I've spent a bundle of time with Hunglish since returning from sun & beach. Sunday we went to the studio to work a bit, then a good time was had cooking out that evening at The Boys' Abode (refresher on the boys: Hunglish, J, and Ooter). Somehow I always end up smokin' and drinkin' too much. Sunday was no exception and I -on occasion- get enthusiastic. Tomatoes are my true love, and The Mister calls me a Tomato Snob. I think this is a little unfair and have decided Tomato Enthusiast is better.
Today, I went to BestBuy with Hunglish, and I apologized for trying to enlighten everybody about the Amazing World Of Tomatoes. I'd taken a salad made with a couple of heirloom tomatoes and a dressing I'd made. In the meantime, I must have come off as some crazy tomato freak. "Try this! Now this one! Isn't it amazing the difference?!"
Such. A. Freak. Ha! Guess that makes me a Super Freak.
Hunglish and I make quite the interesting shopping pair: he's a 6'6" behemoth and I'm just scootin' in at a petite 5'1". My purchase of OK GO's Oh No is taunting me ...just...out...of...reach... on the ottoman. It must stay out of reach, because in all actuality, I bought it for The Mister.
How nice of me to buy him the album I've been dying for. He's been wanting it, too, and it looks better if I exercise self-restraint by not tearing into the damn thing. Actually, with all the crap they wrap those things with, if I start now, maybe I'll have it opened by the time he gets home.
I do it all for him.

Broaden my horizons or something.

I signed up for a class today. It's a six week course, complete with a final exam and a certificate if you pass. The course is the first class I've taken since drinking my way to a B.A. six years ago. Hopefully the "drinking my way" part will help me with the course I've signed up for.
The class comes with all sorts of connotations... And for some strange reason, I'm almost embarrassed to tell people. There's no way in a snowflake laden hell I'll tell The Mister's family about my expansion of skills. (And no, it's not poledancing; although, I have seriously considered it.)

Ahem, ladies and gentlemen, I'm taking the course "Wine & Spirit Education Trust". I'm nervous, excited and can not stop thinking, "Dude, I'm sooo not a snob; I just want to learn more about wine."

Considering I majored in drinking gin, beer and wine while in college, I'm not sure what my nervousness is all about. Eh, it begins in September; wish me luck!

Jammin' Chicken.

What a long, strange trip it's been, and boy-howdy am I glad to be back.

The road-trip to South Carolina with The Mister was quite the way to set the tone for weirdness.

I am fully aware there are a few strange quirks that make me Super. One of these quirks has to do with taking care of business while on the road. Sometimes you just need a Safe Place. A Safe Place is deemed by meeting 3 specific requirements: 1) the restroom must be located INSIDE (not outside and around the back corner of a gas station; as I have alluded, I was once locked inside a gas station bathroom WITH NO LIGHTS at the impressionable age of 14 -and people wonder why I can't watch Law & Order); 2) the facilities must be clean; and 3) it must afford a least a little privacy lest somebody hear something unseemly.

Never in a million years did I expect searching for a Safe Place a bit North of Richmond, Virginia would lead me to a Chick-fil-A at 10:30am on a Saturday. I gotta hand it to them, this particular establishment met all requirements AND exceeded all hopes for Safe Place Requirement #3. There was no way in the world any person could have heard any noise coming from their restroom.
"Why?", you may ask.
The answer is simple. There was a Bluegrass band playing in the dining area.
I tapped my toes, gave a little "woo-hoo" and snapped a picture on my way out just as the banjo player motioned to a little blue-haired lady and said, "C'mon Momma, make us proud." She stepped up to the mic and I made my exit.

Chick-fil-A should have the new motto: We may be closed on Sunday but come Saturday, we jam.

WTF, all around.

It seems there's some crazy stuff afoot in my usually quiet hometown.
In yesterday's Marietta Times, I read about two men charged in Marietta, Ohio with aiding terrorism. I also saw the story this morning on The Today Show.
Here's what I gather:
Radio Shack employees called the cops when two men bought nine pre-paid phones, "acted funny" and "refused to give their names" during the purchase. (Apparently, these are the types of phones that are often sent overseas and used to detonate roadside bombs and a Radio Shack spokeswoman said it is their policy to only sell three disposable phones to one customer at any time.)
When the men were pulled over for a traffic violation, airport security information and flight manifests were among the items found in their vehicle.
HOWEVER, today's Marietta Times has a different headline: Racial Profiling?
I don't even know what to think. I hope this is not an example of racial profiling and I also hope this is not a situation where a small town is assumed to be racist. Either way, it's prejudiced.
This is from yesterday's Washington Post as picked up from the AP.

We'll just have to wait and see how this unfolds.

*******
Now I'm going to start packing for the beach. I want to be ready to go because tomorrow The Mister and I leave way too early. Early enough that anything more than brushing my teeth is asking too much.
FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. My dad just called and as I stated yesterday, he is going to drive me insane. Hell, he already is. Dads wanted to make sure he had my cell phone number and to give me the address of the beach house. (He also took it upon himself to berate me with how he's bringing salad dressing because it will be too expensive at the beach stores. Uhm, okay.) First, he had my cell number wrong (btw, it was the number HE FREAKIN' CALLED ME ON- WTF?), then he gave me the wrong address. I found out it was the wrong address when my phone rang immediately after I hung up with Dads. The new caller was my brother telling me Dads had the address all backwards.
Hmmmm, on second thought, maybe Dads won't drive me batty because unless luck is on his side, I can't imagine he's going to make it there on his own.
This is a man who has master's degrees in Chemistry AND Math, not to mention his masters in Academic Administration. I think my dad is Rain Man. And as The Mister said, "I'm sure your dad is brilliant, I just haven't witnessed it yet."

The dinosaur book.

Call me callous, heartless, unfeeling or cold; I simply can't ignore it any longer.

C'mon people, let's get out the dusty Roget's Thesaurus and USE IT.

Every time I hear about the "foiled terrorist plot", I cringe. It's just so trite.
The word FOILED, although used correctly, brings to mind comic books and/or cartoons, ala "Drat! Foiled again."

How about mixing it up a little? Here are a few suggestions:
Thwarted
Prevented
Stymied
Averted

*HOWEVER, because George Bush is an idiot and images of cartoons are already in place, he can feel free to use the word "foiled" at will. It just cements my feelings of contempt even more.
(Let's not even go into how safe we should all feel with him at the helm.)

Filled with HATE HATE HATE.

Yesterday was a bust. My "To Do" list included but was no limited to:
1. Pick up allergy prescription
2. Get the chariot's oil changed
3. Get a pedicure b/c one's toes must look SUPER-cute for the beach, no?
It wasn't much and it seemed the list was destined to be shot to hell. I got as far as the prescription and was stopped dead in my tracks.
Here's the deal and yes, I'm about to get bitchy and sound like an old blue-hair, to boot.
I'm a sicky-sickingston full of allergies. That kid in middle school with the snotty nose year round? That was me. Claritin is JOKE, people. A fucking cruel "is this a sugar pill?" joke.
In 2001, Claritin was made over-the-counter thus making all other allergy medicines somewhat null & void as far as the insurance companies were concerned. For me, it meant that my Zyrtec became ineligible for insurance coverage. It meant that instead of paying 5 bucks for a generic drug, or 10 for a brand name, I had to pay 30 smackers because Claritin went OTC.
My big problem is that (as I stated before) CLARITIN IS A FUCKING JOKE. It is only for outdoor/seasonal allergies and does nothing to help INDOOR allergies (mold, dust, pets). I have both outdoor and indoor allergies, and Zyrtec (like mana from heaven) treats both.
It's so true... Lots of Allergies, Just one Zyrtec! I should be a spokesperson.
Yesterday, I found out my coverage for Zyrtec went from 30 bills to FIFTY. With no warning. BITCHES WANT A NIFTY FOR 30 FREAKIN' PILLS THAT I NEED TO PREVENT MIDDLE SCHOOL FLASHBACKS?
I'm about to take a bus trip to Canada with a bunch of senior citizens hopped up on Viagra and pissed off about the new Medicare plan. I'm sure to be a hit with the grandpa's and maybe a granny will take me under her wing and teach me to darn socks.
I didn't pay for the Zyrtec, instead the chariot drove me homeward where I spent no less than one and a half hours on the phone with my insurance company who in short, told me to jump off a bridge.
So, after The Mister told me to suck it up and "pay for the damned snot-prevention, we can't have you miserable and mean", I'm back out to the Rite-Aid where at least they are nice (the pharmacist even called my insurance company for me; but found I would have to call myself anyhow -SUPER props to Rite Aid -LOVE THEM).
But today I am focusing on HATE, and therefore will mention the dreaded CVS. Don't even ask about the Medicine Commies at the CVS. Those CVS pharmacists can kiss my ass because I would rather bleed out from my eyes than get a prescription filled there.

Enough hate for now, I'm off to the lovely Rite Aid to sell my soul in the name of Allergies.

Cocky much?

While walking about the neighborhood:

The Mister: Are you humming AC/DC?
Super (Me): Yeah.
The Mister: Is that "You shook me all night long"?
Super (Me): Yeah.
The Mister: Well, then. You're welcome.

Family tree full of nuts.

A rollercoaster of a weekend: some parts awesome; some parts awful. It started off a little rough, got really good, then when I got home on Sunday night my mom called. She delivered some very sad family news. I'm okay; what really hurts is not being there for my family. That's all I really want to put out there. I'm done talking/thinking about it.
And I make no excuses for the picture to the right... I stumbled upon it while searching for rollercoaster pictures and HAD HAD HAD to use it. Beavis & Butthead ALWAYS funny.

************************
Onward to other things... This coming Saturday, The Mister and I are headed to the beach. We will be meeting up with my brother (Bub), his two kids and my sister (Talent). Well... That's how it started out. Somehow, my dad, other sister and her boyfriend decided to come along as well. Good thing it's a big house!
It all started when my brother got our uncle's beach house for a week and then his wife couldn't get that week of vacation. Talent offered to go along and help out with the 2 kids. Then they asked me and The Mister. No problem; seems simple enough.
However, Dads decided to join in the fun and my OTHER sister thought, "Me, too!"
**BTW, yes, I have ANOTHER sister. She's 20, goes to college in Charleston, SC, and I didn't know she existed until two years ago. We'll call her BRIGHT, because she's smart and is studying theatre. But that's another blog, or three.**
Sooo, we will start out on Saturday with --ahem, let me get this straight: Me, The Mister, Bub, Talent, Dads, Bright, Bright's BF, and two lovely children. Whoosh! Then on Tuesday, The Mister, Bright, and Bright's BF all leave.
Dads can not be counted on to make plans. He was actually going to ride down with Bub, but decided he "can't be tied down like that" and is driving by himself. Dads wants to leave "sometime midweek; see which way the wind blows". Damn hippies. Even in their old age they're all over the place. It's no wonder I've got siblings popping up all over the country. He's going to drive me up the fucking wall. I love my dad to pieces, but he's a strange one.
Politics, golf, Ohio State Buckeye's and the Cleveland Browns -otherwise, don't bother. Once while I was working on a campaign and riding in his car we started fighting about something political. I finally shouted, "Why the hell do you keep saying THAT? I know you don't believe it!" He answered with a chuckle and "Well, you debate so well; nobody else will argue with me." For the love of baby jesus, this is a man who disagrees for the debate-factor. Dads is defensive, crotchety, stubborn and argumentative. Nuts falling out of trees everywhere. (Nobody wonders where I get it; everybody knows.)
That's when I will have to take a long walk alone with a piece of pizza.

Forecast

According to weather.com today's predictions are for a high of 94 with possible isolated thunderstorms.
"Odd." I thought upon reading, "That's exactly how I feel; hot and capricious."
I'm still a teensy bit under the weather (clever, no?), but it's nothing advil won't help out. Upon waking, though, it was clear I had no determined mood; let's see how that pendulum swings.

In the meantime, Ben Folds Five albums have been permeating my life recently. For the past three weeks or so, I've heard/read/made no less than six references. (The most recent is in today's blog by OxyMoron) These references have prompted me to give my own shoutout.
I adore Ben Folds Five. After the breakup, I still enjoy the music of it's members. My love began in highschool with their debut self-titled album. It was ripe for the pickin' by this seventeen-year-old band-geek percussion girl with pink hair, baggy clothes and too little self-esteem. Aside from the in-your-face piano, bass and drums mix (Who knew the piano could sound this way?), the music and lyrics compliment and speak to each other, blending amazingly; it's a privilege to listen in because soon you realize, the music is speaking to you, too. "Philosophy" changed me for the better with it's angry hope "I see that there is evil, and I know that there is good, but the in-betweens I never understood...Go ahead you can laugh all you want". The song "Underground" became an anthem and told my heart, "Don't look down no more..." and justified my awkward weirdness. "The Best Imitation of Myself" broke my heart.When the album Whatever and Ever Amen was released, I was first in line. I'd read a rumor and SWEET JEHOSEPHAT -it was true. A song entitled "Kate". After listening, I looked around my room for the camera like any paranoid smoker would. It was too real, how I could play Wipeout on the drums, always wore the same thing, loved to make mix tapes; and there may not be daisies in my footsteps but there's definately one tattooed on my chest. WHERE'S THE FUCKING CAMERA? I like to think it's my theme song.
It's true that every person who was ever in a shitty-for-any-reason relationship should listen to "Song for the Dumped". The resentment is palpable and honest. The line, "And don't forget to give me back my black t-shirt" is so wonderfully spiteful, it fills you up with a big dose of validation.
The music is beautifully true to BFF's style and all these years later it still makes me smile and want to yell, "Fuck you!" laughing from the rooftops.

And this is where I stop. You see, Ben Fold Five has been playing in the background and my earlier predicted forecast has changed like the wind. Sunshine; not a storm cloud in sight.
Have a wonderful weekend, my friends. Just enjoy it.

Playing doctor.

Occasionally, I do dumb stuff. That is not to say I'm a dumb girl, but last night I put myself to the test. For most of yesterday I felt a little short of rotten. My head hurt; my tummy was wobbly and I just felt spent.
Thinking it was just the heat of our roasting apartment, I said, "Sure!" when The Mister called about a last minute happy hour at a co-worker's house. You see, the co-worker and her family are moving and they wanted to empty their house of food and liquor. Always ready to help, I jumped at the chance.
The Mister snagged me at 6:30 and -like the tools we are- we arrived before everybody else. A top-shelf margarita was made and passed straight to me.
Headache? Tummyache? Neither has stopped me before...
Around 9pm, I strolled over to The Mister and said, "Really, I think we should go."
I was not drunk, MAYBE a shade tipsy, but not drunk. With one margarita tied on, I was not even close.
By the time our chariot hit Georgetown I was sweating, moaning and begging to have the car pulled over. The curb was found, and I was out of the car in a flash.
ON MY KNEES IN GEORGETOWN. And not in the money-making way. As we were quite close to the hospital, I hoped a medical professional would happen upon me. The Mister is great, but a doctor he is not.
A lady did walk past and exclaimed, "Oh! Are you alright?"
She chuckled at my, "No, but it's okay..." as I gave her a thumbs up.
The Mister helped me up and back into the car's refreshing air-conditioning. The cold blast set me off, and thank goodness I had a couple of plastic bags handy.
Home and straight to bed. I think I might have a little bug. Or maybe the heat has gotten to me.
I still feel a bit cruddy as I didn't sleep well. And all of this keeps reminding me of my favorite line from "The Devil Wears Prada":
"I'm just a stomach flu away from my goal weight."
Not so much, but it makes me smile anyhow.

**Thanks and mad props to the boys for being such great friends on Tuesday night.**

Super Speak

I'm pretty sure I talk too much.

A heavy heart.

Now, dear readers, let me bring things down a bit. I'm going to get heavy here, and honestly, this is probably something I shouldn't write about. But, I don't really have anybody I feel comfortable discussing this with, and it helps to just get it out. So don't read this if you don't want to know too much... if that makes any sense at all...

The Mister and I were talking on Sunday night about his mother (MIL).
Excuse me; I'm having a hard time discussing the matter at hand... Thirty-one years ago, The Mister was adopted. Just before we met, he received a letter; his birth-mother had found him. He was curious, excited and scared. All his life he had been told all the 'right things', "A woman gave you up so you could come live with us; God brought you to us; The brave woman who gave you up made a sacrifice so we could raise you..." etc. The Mister told his mother about the letter and she lost her mind in a very bad way.
MIL screamed and cried "How could you do this to me?" "She's supposed to be dead!" "This is not supposed to happen. You are mine!" And other awful things about a 'night of sin' in which he was created.
MIL asked for her keys back and told The Mister SHE would call HIM. He was devastated. This was not how he was raised, and The Mister has never really gotten over this. How could he? He is not allowed to talk about it ever again with his mother; not if he wants to have a relationship with her. He has since met his birth-mother; a lovely woman who lives not 45 minutes from us.
It breaks my heart. He is such a wonderful man who deserves to be loved unconditionally. I do not doubt his mother loves him, but I do doubt her willingness to have a relationship that is anything outside of her own terms.
It hurts to hear him say, "I would sometimes rather drive all the way to WV or Ohio to see your family than to go to Potomac to see my own." I just want to take away his pain. I want to make it all better and I just don't know how.
I thought making friends with his family would help, but it never made any difference; and they never got any nicer or accepting of me. I've pushed him to call and visit more, but that just seems to make him feel sad and guilt-ridden.
He's just too good for this. He really is. There isn't a mean or malicious atom in his body; he is the nicest, sweetest man I have ever met. Sometimes I feel I don't deserve him because a better woman could make his hurt go away.
I don't know... I just don't know.

Pics o' hair.

YAY! It works and here is my new hair. From the side: Please excuse the crazy angry look on my face; I'm not even sure about that... And a funky backfield in motion! It's not THAT short.
And TA-DA! From the front. Spanktastical. LOVE they cocked eyebrow, don't you? Not too bad in my attempt to funktify myself just a little bit.