It's MY party! And you can't make me cry.

This post is not being written for pity. I honestly don't want to talk about it, but still feel the need to get this off my chest. This has been weighing on me and writing about it seems the best way to acknowledge it without having to acknowledge it.

I suppose it's true that I did NOT in fact have The Worst Christmas Ever. After all, I am alive unlike Gerald Ford or James Brown.

However, my holiday was spent in its entirety at work. Alone on a sad, dreary Christmas day. An even more lonely Christmas Eve had me crying in the dark hoping for a call, text or IM from family or friends. And me, being a silly Super, feigning sentiments of enjoying the time alone.

Never before have I had a problem being alone. Hell, it still does not bother me. And for the record, I have never enjoyed the Christmas holiday. I have proudly been called a grinch. However, there is something about being alone on Christmas that emphasizes the feeling: an empty, desolate, sinking feeling deep in my chest. Being alone on Christmas places a giant exclamation mark right after the word. ALONE!

I did not call anybody for fear of bringing others down. Why should I ruin somebody else's day?

As I said, my day was spent at work from 2pm until 10pm. A fat, sweaty kid who rubs scoal (obviously this kid is single, right?) cancelled his shift at the last minute and it came down to me or a woman who has a one-year-old baby. What monster would make a mommy work on Christmas? I was originally scheduled to work from 6am-2pm, thus allowing me an entire afternoon and evening with The Mister's family. Not the greatest prospect, and yet, a festive gathering nonetheless.

The Mister had stayed over Christmas Eve at his mother's (EMIL) house to help her prepare. I stayed home alone knowing if I had been at EMIL's house, I would not have slept and been a disaster for work. The Mister's mother is horrible when it comes to Christmas Procrastination and on Christmas day, while I was at work, he must have called me no less than thirty times not including texts. Each time he would tell me he was 'fed up' or 'over this crap'. Each time I would think, "At least you aren't alone" and then I would talk him back from the edge by urging him to have another eggnog (a vile concoction at that, but with enough bourbon...I still think it's awful).

Every time The Mister called he never asked if I was doing okay. It never occurred to him the day might be a little rough on me as well. He kept telling me about his mother's self-absorption.

Frankly, I don't care about gifts but somehow, I wonder if a new tote -a fancy new tote- might make me feel a little cheerier. A gift for myself, if you will. It would be nice, but I don't have the leeway for frivolity. Maybe I should wrap something for myself. Ah, hell. This feeling will surely pass along with the need for a fancy new tote bag.

Post Script:
I wrote this post three days ago. Although my feelings of sadness have gone -POOF!- I still think I would like a fancy new tote bag!

Life Lessons: Ode to Computers and Coffee.

Eventually, I will be 'staying elsewhere' as part of The Separation of The Mister and The Super. Neither of us is sure when this will happen, or -truth be told- if it actually will happen. If we really take a close looksie, I've nowhere else to go at the moment!

However, we have both been trying to prepare me a little for being on my own. First, we purchased a cute little macbook to help me along with my portability as I will be traveling. The Mister has been trying to talk me into one for quite some time now, and I've finally given in. I'm quite happy with the purchase as I, an audio person, am a long time mac user. The portability thing is certainly helpful and frankly, I hold the opinion all things should be as travel-friendly as myself. Lest we forget, I'm a pretty darn teeny person: Portable, if you will.

I am 'Actual Size'.

The next bit of preparation was extremely necessary and I am embarrassed to admit my ignorance in the subject. The Mister has taught me how to make coffee. I know! How on earth did I make it this far without that nugget of information?

I have always been a hot tea drinker, not just because I enjoy it more, but because I had no idea how dried up beans became a steamy, delicious, hot beverage.

Last Saturday he dragged a sleepy Super into the kitchen and showed me all about everything that is coffee. We began with beans, a nifty little grinder and a fabulously cute coffee press. God help us all if I ever have to use one of those fancy machines. On Monday, rather than making coffee for himself (or me, for that matter), he left a little cheat sheet. The Mister knows full well that Monday means "COFFEE, NOW!" upon waking.

I must admit, my first pot was a little on the light side and frankly this Super likes her coffee black and strong. After four days of practice, I have made the coffee press my bitch and receive it's contents with satisfaction. YUMMY. (And to be totally honest...I like the coffee I make far better than what The Mister produces!)

Wednesday. Another Super Quirk.

I fucking hate Wednesdays and the only thing good about them is Thursday comes next.

Thursday has always been my favorite day of the week. This could partially be due to the fact I have no problem dealing with a hangover on a Friday. Seriously, I don't mind being tired or hung over on a Friday because the end of the week is in sight. For me, Thursday is really the beginning of the weekend. Thursday is my own personal Friday. Thursday says, "C'mon Super, let's rock!".

Thursday is also (in my humble opinion) the best sounding day of the week. Say them all aloud and tell me it doesn't sound the nicest! I'm an audio girl and to me, these things matter.

In the meantime, I hate Wednesday. It's not even easy to spell.

Wednesday, you suck!

Workin' Girl. Yearning for regular hours and a cocktail.

Most of you know, I work part-time at a radio station. It's the same radio station that brought me from the MidWest to the land of Taxation Without Representation seven years ago. As a part-timer going through rough times at home, I begged and pleaded for any and all hours to possibly be thrown my way.

Nobody wants to work at holiday time and boy-howdy have I picked up hours! This week I'll be working 2:00pm to 10:00pm every day, and though I love the work, the schedule has me a little wonky... You see, around 4 o'clock every afternoon, I get a hankering for a cocktail. Just one, but a necessary cocktail nonetheless.

I'm pretty sure that a singular daily cocktail does not constitute a Problem, but knowing at 4:30, that mama won't have her medicine until 10:30 (maybe even -gasp!- 11:00pm) makes my heart weary. Don't get me wrong, I've always dreamed of having drinks with Jim Vance, but not while watching him on the news. He would, however, still be dressed as dashing and dapper as I have come to expect; we would simply be in a lounge somewhere with a jazz trio playing sweetly in the background.

Aahhh... I got lost there for a moment. Oh yes! My cocktail. I miss my cocktail. Alas, I need the money more and getting out of the house is a minor miracle as well. Therefore, the cocktails will have to wait. I'm pretty sure they miss me, too.

In honor of strange hours, please have a properly timed cocktail for me tonight. Cheers!

Coming clean... It's "Stop the Lies" Monday!

As you have probably noticed my blogging has been sporadic at best. I've alluded to things not being so great on the western front. And finally the time has come for me to spill it all. Beans everywhere!

The Mister and I are separating. I hadn't told any friends because The Mister had not come to terms with telling his mother. My family has known for almost a month now, but understandably, The Mister's family is not as easy to talk to. However, I must give props to all of them for rising up and supporting us as shocked as they may have been. My dad went as far as to go on a tirade about how much he loves The Mister and even if I have a problem with it, he still wants to be his friend.

Oh, Daddy! It seems to be a bit difficult for my family to understand that The Mister and I do not fight, argue and have no animosity towards one another. My parents divorced when I was about one-year-old; it was bitter and nasty. The Mister and I are the best of friends and in many ways I can not figure out if this is the smartest or stupidest thing we have ever done. We are still living together, but apart. We are helping each other however we can and still hanging out as friends do. Honestly, our therapist called us "a breath of fresh air". Still, it is very sad. And for me, I feel very embarrassed. What if this is just dumb? What if The Mister is the best thing that will ever happen to me? What if we are both being selfish?

"What if?" is my nemesis.

We still love and adore each other, but it seems we may be better friends than anything else. Working this out is our goal, of course. Some time apart may lend the perspective needed to really take a look.

The Mister has a big snowboarding trip in Canada planned and I will be going to Europe to check out a couple of schools. (Frankly, I must note: The Mister has never gone snowboarding before. He is going to Whistler, BC and I am convinced he is going to die. This is the place the 2010 Winter Olympics are to be held. Truth be told, I think he is a little convinced his death is imminent, as well. He's working out a lot... maybe that will help...?)

Wish us luck and keep us in your thoughts. I will try to blog more, now that I don't feel like I'm hiding a big ol' secret.

Don't get your tits in the zipper.

A couple of friends from West Virginia dropped by today. By "dropped by" I mean to say, they went to the Redskins game, got fed up, left at halftime and decided to knock on the doors of any and all they knew in the neighborhood.
It just so happened The Mister was going to drop me off at our apartment and continue -bravely- on to Target. As the chariot pulled up I said, "Hey that looks like..." and together we both exclaimed, "Romney!"
A quick glance at The Mister and he said, "I'm already parking."
Romney is a good friend through Aunt Jane and he always brings a great attitude and even better schwag from the lovely land of all that is West-by-God-Virginia.
He also had a friend in tow who turned out to be just as much fun and today, I heard something I must permanently add to my vocabulary:
"Don't get your tits in the zipper." Meaning, don't get worked up over something. It's very close to "don't get your dick in the zipper" but with a slight twang, it is far better!

I also must note that Romney's friend was a handful and told a lovely story about deer hunting. Apparently, the Department of Natural Resources is testing deer shot in a certain area of West Virginia for signs of pollution. In order to do this, they must remove the lymph glands of the killed deer, but before doing so the officer asked, "Will you be mounting this deer?"
Romney's friend shouted, "Hell no! I already fucked in the woods. Want a beer?"

Slip of the tongue.

Again the inspiration from fellow bloggers. Today I was reading MappyB's Confessions of a Cartographer blog about sticking your foot in your mouth.
We know this is quite the regular occurrence for me and although, not so much the super thing to do, often it leads to a damn super belly laugh.
I remember the summer before The Mister and I got married. The Mister and his housemate, Jersey, decided to make dinner for me and The Mister's Mother, EMIL (evil-mother-in-law).
The Mister and Jersey had always joked about their three houseboys: Patio, Lettuce and Fallujo. They were common words, but the boys pronounced them: "pay' shee oh", "luh too' chay", and "fuh loo' joh". Say those out loud and you'll understand how the mortification ensued.
Dinner was lovely but please do remember this woman, EMIL, hated me from the get-go and to say the least I was nervous. The boys had outdone themselves and topped it off with a made-from-scratch pumpkin pie. They roasted a freakin' pumpkin, people. Damn shame they didn't throw that witch of woman in the oven, too. But I digress...
There may have been wine involved, but I had limited myself to one, lonesome, glass in order to keep my wits about me, Captain. Try as I might to keep myself from actually giving this woman an actual reason for her misplaced hatred, I tripped, stumbled and fell on my face in a blaze of glory.
As the boys began to clear the plates, I joked, "Oh, just leave those! The houseboy, Fellatio, will be around to collect them."

The end? Ah, hell, I don't know...

Dear Readers,
I must apologize for a couple of things. First, my sporadic postings are inexcusable and I understand that. Second, I have not exactly been honest with you.
Things have not been so Super for awhile and currently the State of the Union is up in the air.
Although I do not want to go into details, this is a very sad and unsure time. With a determined uncertainty, I will face what comes my way. (Check out that oxymoron! "Determined uncertainty"! Still, it makes sense for what my life has become as of late.)
The frequency of which I continue to blog is also uncertain. I just do not know what I can share and as I have generally tried to publish entertaining pieces, well... Smokey Robinson told us even clowns cry.
For now, I am wondering if I need to turn in my cape or simply adjust it. Will I ever fly again? I just do not have the answers.
Take care of Your Selves.
~Super

Rise over Run, mofo!

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and must have forgotten to publish the fucker!
Have at it, dear readers...

I have little feet. That's not to say there is a semi-known classic rock band hanging out in my backyard; the statement illustrates the tiny-ness of my tootsies.
I wear a women's size five shoe or a kids size four. The children's section is a cheap girl's haven and the downward spiral of little girls dressing like hookers has opened up my options even more.
Today, my feet are in shambles. I went in for my jury duty wearing 2 1/2 inch heels. Of course, my outfit said "Super hot!", but after traipsing around downtown, my feet look like remnants of war. Truth be told, I don't know what they look like because I am afraid to take off my socks.
If we really want to break down the issue at hand, it is simply to say manufactures should think first before making size 5 shoes with 2 1/2 inch heels. Have they never taken Algebra? It is ridiculous to think I (or any other tiny-footed woman, or tiny-footed-free-thinking man, I suppose) could actually walk in anything bigger.
Of course, I take full responsibility for wearing heels to jury duty, HOWEVER, in my defense, yesterday was spent firmly on my ass in the juror's lounge. Today we were given 1 hour and 45 minutes for lunch so I decided to take the metro to Union Station and do a little shopping. Shopping is not my forte' but I have a wedding in a couple of weeks for which I would like to look -excuse me- fucking hot as all get out.
So I tromped all over Union Station (for those who don't know, it's not just an Amtrak Station and a Metro Station, it is also a mall) looking for hotness.
My poor little feet are so mad at me. They are still socked and asking, "Why, why, why? You've never treated us this way before, do you hate us?" And I can look at them lovingly, "I'm so sorry my little trotters! I had no idea those bad shoes were capable of such atrocities. Please, forgive me!!"
Mama needs champagne to dull the pain. "Cham" must mean "dull"... strange the instructor never mentioned that in my wine class...