It's surreal. I just found out about a tragedy involving a couple I know socially. They're neighbors and friends of my very good friends. I've spent several Friday evening happy hours with them at our mutual friends' home. They're so sweet. Funny. Smart. Accomplished professionals. Without going into details, I'll tell you that their 22 year old son murdered his mother in a senseless act of violence. It's so very strange and unsettling that in the last few months, five families I know personally have lost sons in their 20s. I'm including two young men who are likely facing long prison terms.
My heart is breaking.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
O...M...G...
I just ran into The Daddler in the kitchen. He was peeling a banana. Since it was after 3:00 p.m., I asked him what Dr. Oz was talking about today. Bananas? They have potassium.
"Sex." Whoa. I was speechless. It reminded me of the time I was with Mother in hospital admissions. We laughed about some of the questions. "Tattoos? Sex with a prostitute? In an abusive relationship? Sexually active?" I laughed after each answer. Until the last one. "No. No. No. Well, yes." Ewww.
As much as I hate the idea of that, I'm going to post this picture. It's worth a thousand words...
"Sex." Whoa. I was speechless. It reminded me of the time I was with Mother in hospital admissions. We laughed about some of the questions. "Tattoos? Sex with a prostitute? In an abusive relationship? Sexually active?" I laughed after each answer. Until the last one. "No. No. No. Well, yes." Ewww.
As much as I hate the idea of that, I'm going to post this picture. It's worth a thousand words...
Monday, April 23, 2012
Cut and Run
Wish I could. Sometimes. I've felt that way a million times, but somehow, my sense of duty stops me from acting on that impulse. That, and the fact that I'm an incontrovertible pragmatist. Why in the world would I get an accounting degree, otherwise?
The thing is, my circumstances have changed. I've tucked away a few bucks for retirement. That, added to my conviction that I'm going to die young (ok, middle-aged), and the fact that Kiddo is about to finish his sophomore year at a good school, with good grades, and ambition in spades, and that he has a responsible/conservative dad, and my life insurance would more than pay for a PhD and a respectable car, plus keep him in D&G Light Blue for life. But that's another blog post.
Even though Kiddo detests me, I take great satisfaction in knowing that I was a good mom. At least until 7th grade. I read to him every night. I was laissez-faire about potty training. Gave him whole milk until he was two years old, because I was informed enough to know that cholesteral is a good thing when it comes to a developing brain. I ate fruit and took vitamins and walked an hour a day when he was in utero. I stressed over a stupid irish coffee I had before I knew I was pregnant. Never mind that I didn't like it, so probably only drank half.
Forget that I sang "Hush, Little Baby" a bazillion times, and stood by his crib for hours, patting him on his back, waiting until I could tiptoe away without waking him.
I comfort myself with these thoughts. And try not to remember the painful times. Telling him that his dad and I were divorcing. Seeing him cry. Going to family therapy and listening to him talking about the good times. When I read to him in bed. And that he loved us. In the course of a 50 minute session, my baby became a man. In my eyes.
As imperfect (fucked-up) as I am, I take pride in one thing. Kiddo doesn't need me to make it in this life. And even though he manages just fine without me, I have a feeling there will be times when he needs me.
Like me. With my mother. She made me crazy. When my brother died, I had a major melt-down. Over who was going to drive to the funeral home. We both wanted to drive. And we both stubbornley refused to yield the wheel. In retrospect, we were both having a panic attack - the need to control something, even if just the wheel of a car, became paramount. I remember screaming at her, then running to my bedroom, sobbing hysterically, a 38 year old child. The Daddler walking into my room and telling me that he was disappointed in me. I swear, I'd rather he whipped out a switch and put welts on my legs than say that to me.
Strange thing. I was stubborn. Classic middle-child trait. We had some sort of unpalatable (to a 5 year old) dinner. I refused to eat it. My mother got her dander up. Everyone else retired to the living room to watch Perry Mason or Twilight Zone. I sat alone. In the dark. I was prepared to stay the night. I never considered eating the swill. Then The Daddler appeared. He told me to go on. Wow. He was the good guy. It made an impression. I'm sure that's a big part of why I love him so much.
Another time, I broke a cup. Mother was mad. The D told me not to worry about it. I'll never forget that. I was the only one who wanted to go fishing with him. I was so proud of sticking a hook through a minnow. Hated when it came out of the eye. I reached into the screened cricket house, grasped a creepy bug, and stuck my hook through its thorax. I hated when I went too low and pierced the abdomen and the yellow guts oozed out. The worms were the best. Couldn't go wrong. They were like tube socks.
Back to Mother. When I was sick, I cried for her. When my belly was sliced open (3 times) and I was all alone in a sterile hospital room, I called her. She was awake. Ironing. And I'm sure, waiting for my call. Fifteen minutes later, she appeared. When she died, she cried. In my arms. I was the only one she talked to about dying. And as selfish, immature, and childish as I'd been, I found a way to mother her, the same way she'd mothered me. When she told me she didn't want to be a burden, I told her to think about all the shitty diapers she'd changed. She was too sick to laugh, but I know that she loved me for it. I miss her so much.
Ok, I'm wiped out. Gonna go have a good cry. Try to resist telling The D about how much I love him and how much I hate the Emotional Vampire. I tell him about my dreams of Mother. Today, he told me that he hadn't had any dreams since he'd had his strokes. That he used to. It broke my heart. But I took great comfort in his love affair with that silly dog. Because Mother loved dogs. And Daddy says this dog has her brown eyes. So do I...
The thing is, my circumstances have changed. I've tucked away a few bucks for retirement. That, added to my conviction that I'm going to die young (ok, middle-aged), and the fact that Kiddo is about to finish his sophomore year at a good school, with good grades, and ambition in spades, and that he has a responsible/conservative dad, and my life insurance would more than pay for a PhD and a respectable car, plus keep him in D&G Light Blue for life. But that's another blog post.
Even though Kiddo detests me, I take great satisfaction in knowing that I was a good mom. At least until 7th grade. I read to him every night. I was laissez-faire about potty training. Gave him whole milk until he was two years old, because I was informed enough to know that cholesteral is a good thing when it comes to a developing brain. I ate fruit and took vitamins and walked an hour a day when he was in utero. I stressed over a stupid irish coffee I had before I knew I was pregnant. Never mind that I didn't like it, so probably only drank half.
Forget that I sang "Hush, Little Baby" a bazillion times, and stood by his crib for hours, patting him on his back, waiting until I could tiptoe away without waking him.
I comfort myself with these thoughts. And try not to remember the painful times. Telling him that his dad and I were divorcing. Seeing him cry. Going to family therapy and listening to him talking about the good times. When I read to him in bed. And that he loved us. In the course of a 50 minute session, my baby became a man. In my eyes.
As imperfect (fucked-up) as I am, I take pride in one thing. Kiddo doesn't need me to make it in this life. And even though he manages just fine without me, I have a feeling there will be times when he needs me.
Like me. With my mother. She made me crazy. When my brother died, I had a major melt-down. Over who was going to drive to the funeral home. We both wanted to drive. And we both stubbornley refused to yield the wheel. In retrospect, we were both having a panic attack - the need to control something, even if just the wheel of a car, became paramount. I remember screaming at her, then running to my bedroom, sobbing hysterically, a 38 year old child. The Daddler walking into my room and telling me that he was disappointed in me. I swear, I'd rather he whipped out a switch and put welts on my legs than say that to me.
Strange thing. I was stubborn. Classic middle-child trait. We had some sort of unpalatable (to a 5 year old) dinner. I refused to eat it. My mother got her dander up. Everyone else retired to the living room to watch Perry Mason or Twilight Zone. I sat alone. In the dark. I was prepared to stay the night. I never considered eating the swill. Then The Daddler appeared. He told me to go on. Wow. He was the good guy. It made an impression. I'm sure that's a big part of why I love him so much.
Another time, I broke a cup. Mother was mad. The D told me not to worry about it. I'll never forget that. I was the only one who wanted to go fishing with him. I was so proud of sticking a hook through a minnow. Hated when it came out of the eye. I reached into the screened cricket house, grasped a creepy bug, and stuck my hook through its thorax. I hated when I went too low and pierced the abdomen and the yellow guts oozed out. The worms were the best. Couldn't go wrong. They were like tube socks.
Back to Mother. When I was sick, I cried for her. When my belly was sliced open (3 times) and I was all alone in a sterile hospital room, I called her. She was awake. Ironing. And I'm sure, waiting for my call. Fifteen minutes later, she appeared. When she died, she cried. In my arms. I was the only one she talked to about dying. And as selfish, immature, and childish as I'd been, I found a way to mother her, the same way she'd mothered me. When she told me she didn't want to be a burden, I told her to think about all the shitty diapers she'd changed. She was too sick to laugh, but I know that she loved me for it. I miss her so much.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Blue
Sad. Mopey. Down. Synonyms for depressed. Interestingly enough, there's only one synonym for synonym. And no synonym for antonym. Weird, huh?
Typical for me on a Sunday. I dreamed about Mother last night. Unfortunately, the Emotional Vampire also made an appearance. I keep thinking I'm over that, and then she resurfaces. Like scum on a pond. Pus on a sore. Methane over a landfill.
Enough. You get the idea.
When I woke up, in a start, I turned on the crazy talk radio. I think there was something about numerology. Not sure. I'm sure there were ETs, too. Aliens. UFOs. I have to figure out another way to rock myself to sleep. Because late this morning, I looked out the window of my enchanted aerie, and saw a little white orb floating up into the ether. At first I thought it was a dandelion seed. Then a feather - think Forrest Gump. A bubble. I concluded that it was a visitor from another planet.
I'm tired. My kitchen is a mess. The laundry is stinking. And tomorrow is garbage day. If I can get everything to the curb tonight, I can sleep late tomorrow. So..., off I go...
Typical for me on a Sunday. I dreamed about Mother last night. Unfortunately, the Emotional Vampire also made an appearance. I keep thinking I'm over that, and then she resurfaces. Like scum on a pond. Pus on a sore. Methane over a landfill.
Enough. You get the idea.
When I woke up, in a start, I turned on the crazy talk radio. I think there was something about numerology. Not sure. I'm sure there were ETs, too. Aliens. UFOs. I have to figure out another way to rock myself to sleep. Because late this morning, I looked out the window of my enchanted aerie, and saw a little white orb floating up into the ether. At first I thought it was a dandelion seed. Then a feather - think Forrest Gump. A bubble. I concluded that it was a visitor from another planet.
I'm tired. My kitchen is a mess. The laundry is stinking. And tomorrow is garbage day. If I can get everything to the curb tonight, I can sleep late tomorrow. So..., off I go...
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Loquacious
That's my new favorite word. It sounds like a good thing, don't you think? Kinda like eloquent.
Wellll, it's probably just a gentle way of calling someone a chatterbox. Or as my mother used to say, having diarrhea of the mouth. I'm the queen of rationalization, so I blame this annoying trait of mine on several plausible causes. Middle Child Syndrome for one. Working from home. Alone. But mostly, The Daddler gig. I try to talk to him, but honestly, it's not the same as gabbing with my GFs.
Here's an example of my latest attempt at conversing with him:
Me: Daddy, Deb just woke up, so I'm going to fix lunch. She's going to come later to take you to get your hair cut.
The D: What?
Me: (Louder and more slowly) Deb just woke up, so I'm going to fix lunch. She's going to come over later to take you to get your hair cut.
The D: (Grimacing) What?
Me: DEBBIE...IS...COMING...TO...PICK...YOU...UP...LATER. I'LL...FIX...YOUR...LUNCH.
The D: Ok.
Let's be clear. I'm not complaining. Just venting a little. I swanee, without this blog, I'd go stark, raving mad. I try to spread my loquaciousness around among my friends. For some reason, they still like me. I try to buy them little presents at random times to make up for being so annoying. Since I never remember birthdays, and the holidays overwhelm me, I've adapted. It's a brilliant strategy, I must admit. See, on birthdays and Christmas, people are flooded with gifts. Since it's the thought that counts, if I remember, I call the birthday girl/boy, and launch into my sad imitation of "Happy Birthday, Mr. President." I wax loquacious, expressing my love and affection for my belovedvictim friend, and say we have to get together soon to celebrate properly.
It helps that I send really funny cards at random times throughout the year. I found a great one for FF which featured a b&w photo of a little boy scratching his bare bottom. I can't remember the punch line, or why it made me think of him, but I figured it would make him laugh, since he gets my goofy sense of humor. Because his is goofier. If that's possible.
But my gifts are perfect. It really is better to give than to receive. Especially when it's unexpected and as a bonus, can't be compared to the one the recipient opened earlier that day. It's cheaper, too. I went to Lowe's yesterday. I asked the location of the clearance plants. Jackpot. The deals were unbelievable. I won't go into details except to say that I spent $37, and if I'd bought this stuff at full price, it probably would've cost me over $500. I get a huge rush from crazy-good deals. And even better, I love to spread the wealth. I'll put a pot of lavender (OMG, it smells sooo good) into a pretty container and drop it by Angela's - my BFF who has everything. I'll take some things to my surrogate mom. They'll love it.
Speaking of plants, I need to get busy. I have lots of holes to hew and plants to plant. I'll take pictures and post them later.
All for now...
Wellll, it's probably just a gentle way of calling someone a chatterbox. Or as my mother used to say, having diarrhea of the mouth. I'm the queen of rationalization, so I blame this annoying trait of mine on several plausible causes. Middle Child Syndrome for one. Working from home. Alone. But mostly, The Daddler gig. I try to talk to him, but honestly, it's not the same as gabbing with my GFs.
Here's an example of my latest attempt at conversing with him:
Me: Daddy, Deb just woke up, so I'm going to fix lunch. She's going to come later to take you to get your hair cut.
The D: What?
Me: (Louder and more slowly) Deb just woke up, so I'm going to fix lunch. She's going to come over later to take you to get your hair cut.
The D: (Grimacing) What?
Me: DEBBIE...IS...COMING...TO...PICK...YOU...UP...LATER. I'LL...FIX...YOUR...LUNCH.
The D: Ok.
Let's be clear. I'm not complaining. Just venting a little. I swanee, without this blog, I'd go stark, raving mad. I try to spread my loquaciousness around among my friends. For some reason, they still like me. I try to buy them little presents at random times to make up for being so annoying. Since I never remember birthdays, and the holidays overwhelm me, I've adapted. It's a brilliant strategy, I must admit. See, on birthdays and Christmas, people are flooded with gifts. Since it's the thought that counts, if I remember, I call the birthday girl/boy, and launch into my sad imitation of "Happy Birthday, Mr. President." I wax loquacious, expressing my love and affection for my beloved
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Life is good...
...for a change.
My surgery went well yesterday. All I've done for the last 24 hours is sleep and eat. My hand feels so much better. And the icing on the cake is that one of the stocks I own is, as of today, a takeover target. Which means it's gone up 100% since yesterday's close. And since I have a sizeable stake in it (for me), it's had a big effect on my IRA. So maybe I won't be forced to eat Alpo in my golden years.
I had lots more to say, but it'll have to wait. I have some catching up to do.
Over and out...
My surgery went well yesterday. All I've done for the last 24 hours is sleep and eat. My hand feels so much better. And the icing on the cake is that one of the stocks I own is, as of today, a takeover target. Which means it's gone up 100% since yesterday's close. And since I have a sizeable stake in it (for me), it's had a big effect on my IRA. So maybe I won't be forced to eat Alpo in my golden years.
I had lots more to say, but it'll have to wait. I have some catching up to do.
Over and out...
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Who Knew?
Now that I'm coming up for air after filing or extending way too many tax returns, I'm catching up on email, blogging, et cetera. A fellow pseudo-intellectual friend sent me these links to lists of common mispronunciations. Actually, he's a real academician (and he reads my blog) - the "pseudo" part only applies to me.
http://grammar.yourdictionary.com/style-and-usage/mispron.html
http://www.primermagazine.com/2008/learn/10-words-you-mispronounce-that-make-people-think-youre-an-idiot
I love words. I strive to use them responsibly, but I mess up all the time. I still cringe when I think about mispronouncing "fiefdom" (it's pronounced "feef-dom", not "fife-dom"). I blame this on two things. My vocabulary is better than average because I read a great deal. By the way, did you know there's no such word as "alot"? I learned this in 11th grade English, but I don't comply with it alot. Dr. Middleton was the best teacher I've ever had. She had a PhD and had never married. She was brilliant and extremely eccentric. She was very well-endowed - one time we counted the hooks on the back of her bra. I think they were in the double digits.
She took a dislike to a girl in our class. I'll call her Daphne. Daphne was crazy-smart, but she had no social skills. In retrospect, I think she had Asberger's Syndrome. Dr. M didn't like the fact that Daphne read books during her lectures, rather than sitting in rapt attention like the rest of us. I remember the day that Dr. M transformed into a female Mikhail Barishnakov. She pranced over to Daphne's desk, did a little pirouette, snatched up the book, danced back to her desk, and ceremoniously tossed it into the round metal garbage can. Needless to say, we were taken aback. But Dr. M didn't miss a beat. She launched back into explaining the difference in the styles of Ibsen and Chekhov. Which I still remember. That reminds me - Hedda Gabler is playing at Theater Memphis.
I also remember the bake sale. I guess Daphne was excused from class for it. Dr. M told us not to eat Daph's cookies. That they were surely poisoned. Which triggered a discussion of the final act of Romeo and Juliet.
Back to my original point of this post. I was surprised to learn that my pronunciation of commonly mispronounced words wasn't always correct. But I was also pleased to see the ones I say right, especially because I often hear them mispronounced. "Often" is case in point. No "T". Dr. M taught us that.
I can forgive the occasional mis-pro, but one thing I cannot forgive is the abuse of the word "literally." It makes me crazy. I need to compile a list of this and my other peeves. Of which there are many.
Ok, I just realized that it's Tuesday and that I'm going to have surgery to remove these stupid pins from my hands in the morning. So I should take care of a few odds and ends.
Over and out...
http://grammar.yourdictionary.com/style-and-usage/mispron.html
http://www.primermagazine.com/2008/learn/10-words-you-mispronounce-that-make-people-think-youre-an-idiot
I love words. I strive to use them responsibly, but I mess up all the time. I still cringe when I think about mispronouncing "fiefdom" (it's pronounced "feef-dom", not "fife-dom"). I blame this on two things. My vocabulary is better than average because I read a great deal. By the way, did you know there's no such word as "alot"? I learned this in 11th grade English, but I don't comply with it alot. Dr. Middleton was the best teacher I've ever had. She had a PhD and had never married. She was brilliant and extremely eccentric. She was very well-endowed - one time we counted the hooks on the back of her bra. I think they were in the double digits.
She took a dislike to a girl in our class. I'll call her Daphne. Daphne was crazy-smart, but she had no social skills. In retrospect, I think she had Asberger's Syndrome. Dr. M didn't like the fact that Daphne read books during her lectures, rather than sitting in rapt attention like the rest of us. I remember the day that Dr. M transformed into a female Mikhail Barishnakov. She pranced over to Daphne's desk, did a little pirouette, snatched up the book, danced back to her desk, and ceremoniously tossed it into the round metal garbage can. Needless to say, we were taken aback. But Dr. M didn't miss a beat. She launched back into explaining the difference in the styles of Ibsen and Chekhov. Which I still remember. That reminds me - Hedda Gabler is playing at Theater Memphis.
I also remember the bake sale. I guess Daphne was excused from class for it. Dr. M told us not to eat Daph's cookies. That they were surely poisoned. Which triggered a discussion of the final act of Romeo and Juliet.
Back to my original point of this post. I was surprised to learn that my pronunciation of commonly mispronounced words wasn't always correct. But I was also pleased to see the ones I say right, especially because I often hear them mispronounced. "Often" is case in point. No "T". Dr. M taught us that.
I can forgive the occasional mis-pro, but one thing I cannot forgive is the abuse of the word "literally." It makes me crazy. I need to compile a list of this and my other peeves. Of which there are many.
Ok, I just realized that it's Tuesday and that I'm going to have surgery to remove these stupid pins from my hands in the morning. So I should take care of a few odds and ends.
Over and out...
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Aaugh!
That's Charlie Brown's expression of frustration. I always thought it was "Arrgh," but whadya know? I was wrong. Per usual.
I'm scrambling to meet the dreaded tax deadline. Open letter to all my friends: Do NOT call me Sunday afternoon and ask me to help you do your tax return. File an extension. It's Form 4868 and you can find it at IRS.gov. I could tell you stories of people I hadn't heard from in years who suddenly were thinking of me and called, just wanting to catch up. And by the way, they had some minor tax question they thought I would know, off the back of my hand. I've seriously been considering going on a telephone fast. My clients email me, and I have no social life, so it probably wouldn't matter at all.
I have to own up, though, to asking for free legal advice all the time. But since I have way too many attorney friends, I try to spread it around. Oh, that reminds me. The latest lawsuit fad is not Mesothelioma (whatever the hell that is). The trendy thing is toner-shoe-injuries. Just Google it. I definitely qualify as a member of the class of plaintiffs. And the best part is that proceeds from personal injury lawsuits are not subject to income tax. As opposed to sexual harrassment, gender/racial/religious discrimination, and anti-trust cases. Have I mentioned that I'm thinking of suing Comcast? Hello...restraint of trade, anyone???
Truth be told, though, the most anyone has ever collected from a class action lawsuit is $12.13. Seriously. Not counting the lawyers. Or expert witnesses. Or forensic accountants. Jury consultants. Aaugh!
Oh, back to ComCrap, I'm like that dummy on their commercial who goes on and on about the joys of talking on the phone. I swear, I have seen it at least a thousand times. Everytime I hang out with The Daddler in the living room and get a healthy dose of fair and balanced reporting, the commercial plays incessantly. I say that, because I've tried to refrain from blogging and I was just going to post a sweet picture of Mother. I miss her so much every time a holiday rolls around. This past weekend was rough. The D was fine - he loves him some Gus's Fried Chicken and his favorite daughter (not me) went to church with him. I called it in and got Kiddo to pick it up for lunch. Yuck. I don't want fried chicken for at least a year. I'm the same way with barbeque. I get a hankerin' for it, and then I feel awful. Same with a big slab of rare filet mignon. I'm thinking of becoming a vegan. Or at least a vegetarian. I don't think vegans can carry Dooney & Bourke (leather) purses and I have a thing for them. I only own two, and one I've had for 25 years, but they make me so happy. Also, I could never give up cheeseburgers for good. I don't care what Dr. Oz says, veggie burgers aren't the same. I CAN tell the difference. And I would miss them. I didn't think I could swear off Taco Bell, though, but after the whole pink slime debacle, I can't go there. Darn it. I'm craving red meat and Mexican all of a sudden. I must be anemic. Mother used to pull on my lower eyelids and say I was "peaked." I feel peaked. And hungry. Restless. Unfocused.
So I'm going to take a multi-vitamin, microwave a nice bowl of Progresso veggie soup (so good), do some push-ups and crunches and maybe take a short walk with Lucy and my removable splint, and force myself to become one with The TurboTax. Not necessarily in that order.
Ok, back to the original intent of this post. A really cute picture of Mother. She was a teenager, at a sleepover with some girlfriends. Unfortunately, her friend's dad looks like he should be featured on "To Catch a Predator." And with that, I'll close. Over and out...
P.S. My mother is the one on the right. Is she sprouting dreadlocks? Hopefully, they're pincurls. Maybe that's why Easter's so hard for me. Memories of trying to sleep in the bobbie pins and pink foam curlers and eating my weight in chocolate and marshmallow for breakfast. And that's not counting the Medusa effect from the hair implements. I'm sure I have a picture somewhere...
I'm scrambling to meet the dreaded tax deadline. Open letter to all my friends: Do NOT call me Sunday afternoon and ask me to help you do your tax return. File an extension. It's Form 4868 and you can find it at IRS.gov. I could tell you stories of people I hadn't heard from in years who suddenly were thinking of me and called, just wanting to catch up. And by the way, they had some minor tax question they thought I would know, off the back of my hand. I've seriously been considering going on a telephone fast. My clients email me, and I have no social life, so it probably wouldn't matter at all.
I have to own up, though, to asking for free legal advice all the time. But since I have way too many attorney friends, I try to spread it around. Oh, that reminds me. The latest lawsuit fad is not Mesothelioma (whatever the hell that is). The trendy thing is toner-shoe-injuries. Just Google it. I definitely qualify as a member of the class of plaintiffs. And the best part is that proceeds from personal injury lawsuits are not subject to income tax. As opposed to sexual harrassment, gender/racial/religious discrimination, and anti-trust cases. Have I mentioned that I'm thinking of suing Comcast? Hello...restraint of trade, anyone???
Truth be told, though, the most anyone has ever collected from a class action lawsuit is $12.13. Seriously. Not counting the lawyers. Or expert witnesses. Or forensic accountants. Jury consultants. Aaugh!
Oh, back to ComCrap, I'm like that dummy on their commercial who goes on and on about the joys of talking on the phone. I swear, I have seen it at least a thousand times. Everytime I hang out with The Daddler in the living room and get a healthy dose of fair and balanced reporting, the commercial plays incessantly. I say that, because I've tried to refrain from blogging and I was just going to post a sweet picture of Mother. I miss her so much every time a holiday rolls around. This past weekend was rough. The D was fine - he loves him some Gus's Fried Chicken and his favorite daughter (not me) went to church with him. I called it in and got Kiddo to pick it up for lunch. Yuck. I don't want fried chicken for at least a year. I'm the same way with barbeque. I get a hankerin' for it, and then I feel awful. Same with a big slab of rare filet mignon. I'm thinking of becoming a vegan. Or at least a vegetarian. I don't think vegans can carry Dooney & Bourke (leather) purses and I have a thing for them. I only own two, and one I've had for 25 years, but they make me so happy. Also, I could never give up cheeseburgers for good. I don't care what Dr. Oz says, veggie burgers aren't the same. I CAN tell the difference. And I would miss them. I didn't think I could swear off Taco Bell, though, but after the whole pink slime debacle, I can't go there. Darn it. I'm craving red meat and Mexican all of a sudden. I must be anemic. Mother used to pull on my lower eyelids and say I was "peaked." I feel peaked. And hungry. Restless. Unfocused.
So I'm going to take a multi-vitamin, microwave a nice bowl of Progresso veggie soup (so good), do some push-ups and crunches and maybe take a short walk with Lucy and my removable splint, and force myself to become one with The TurboTax. Not necessarily in that order.
P.S. My mother is the one on the right. Is she sprouting dreadlocks? Hopefully, they're pincurls. Maybe that's why Easter's so hard for me. Memories of trying to sleep in the bobbie pins and pink foam curlers and eating my weight in chocolate and marshmallow for breakfast. And that's not counting the Medusa effect from the hair implements. I'm sure I have a picture somewhere...
Friday, April 6, 2012
Come-uppance...
...a coloquialism for Karma. What goes around, comes around. Do unto others.
I'm feeling persecuted. Like a martyr. Except this Charles Bronson thing is creeping in. Death Wish. Vigilante justice.
Unfortunately, I talk big, but when it comes to risky behaviors, I'm more of a Walter Mitty than a Charles Bronson. Here's a good trivia question. What was his character's name? Answer: Paul Kersey. Who knew?
I've had a day. The Daddler and his favorite daughter (not me), ganged up on me. I spent 6.5 hours trying to cut through red tape, while being blamed for everything from the national deficit to the 15 wrong turns The D was sure of.
On the up-side. I got the coolest Brooks sprinting shoes (not that I ever sprint, but they weigh nothing and they're cute and half the price I'd pay at a civilian retail store with exhorbitant sales tax). We have two boxes of The D's Vella Burgundy wine for 2/3 of the civvy price. I got a great deal on D&G Light Blue. I want to asphixiate on this stuff. I bought a 12 pack of Dos Equis for $10.44. For Kiddo. Who will be 21 in July. And for the record, he'll have to wait until then to drink it. Also, for the record, The D bought all these goodies as gifts to express his appreciation for the loving-kindness shown to him by hiscaptors sweet, loving family.
I'm tired. So, so, very tired...
I'm feeling persecuted. Like a martyr. Except this Charles Bronson thing is creeping in. Death Wish. Vigilante justice.
Unfortunately, I talk big, but when it comes to risky behaviors, I'm more of a Walter Mitty than a Charles Bronson. Here's a good trivia question. What was his character's name? Answer: Paul Kersey. Who knew?
I've had a day. The Daddler and his favorite daughter (not me), ganged up on me. I spent 6.5 hours trying to cut through red tape, while being blamed for everything from the national deficit to the 15 wrong turns The D was sure of.
On the up-side. I got the coolest Brooks sprinting shoes (not that I ever sprint, but they weigh nothing and they're cute and half the price I'd pay at a civilian retail store with exhorbitant sales tax). We have two boxes of The D's Vella Burgundy wine for 2/3 of the civvy price. I got a great deal on D&G Light Blue. I want to asphixiate on this stuff. I bought a 12 pack of Dos Equis for $10.44. For Kiddo. Who will be 21 in July. And for the record, he'll have to wait until then to drink it. Also, for the record, The D bought all these goodies as gifts to express his appreciation for the loving-kindness shown to him by his
I'm tired. So, so, very tired...
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