Here's how it went down:
First, S told his parents first thing on Christmas Eve. We waited until then because on the 23rd we were attending his sister's surprise party and we didn't want the engagement to take away any of the attention from her.
They were very pleased and his father told him that he had made a very wise choice. His mother grabbed my face and welcomed me into their family and gushed on about how much she liked me. I was extremely flattered.
Then, we went to my parents' house on the morning of Christmas Eve. My mom and dad's place is wreck right now. It flooded during Katrina so their are exposed studs up to chest high and it looks like the place was robbed. But, this is where they were because mom was cooking on her gas stove (one of the few appliances that survived) as she does not "trust" the electric stove at my brother's apartment (where they have been staying post-Katrina).
My mom brought a dining chair into the living room for S to sit on (I was on the arm of the moldy sofa and dad was on the recliner) and S asked to her take a seat. Mom, not knowing what is going on, says, "No, I can't sit I don't really have the time . . .
S, "Oh, you'll want to sit down for this."
By the way, the entire time, my dad is reading the Sports section of the Times Picayune and only now does he realize, "Hmm, I may want to pay attention, too," and sets it down.
S' speech: Mr. and Mrs. M, I wanted to tell you that I love your daughter . . .
Dad, "We love her, too . . . "
S, "And, that I plan to be around for a very long time."
Dad, "Good . . . "
S, "She is an amazing woman, you did a wonderful job raising her and I'd love to become a part of this family, if you'll have me."
Dad, "Wow, thanks . . . sure, sure."
S, "And, I'd like to ask your permission to marry her."
(At which point he presented the ring.)
Dad, "Yes, yes, of course . . . you can have her."
I was misty eyed and laughing at dad's reaction and S turned to me and said, "If you'll have me . . . will you marry me?"
I said yes, mom was teary eyed, I was teary eyed . . .
Dad, "You could not have given me a better Christmas present."
It was quite nice. Mom told S that, not because I'm her daughter or anything, "But, Melissa is a good woman and you are lucky to have her."
Then she turned to me and said, "You are a very lucky woman to have such love."
After my Aunt V found out, this is what she told S, "I am so happy for you. I knew that when you moved to AL for her, this was good. This was good, strong love."
We celebrated Christmas Eve all evening long: first with his family and then with mine. Many champagne toasts were made.
So many toasts, that at one point at S' family's house the conversation turned to misplaced rings and lost items and his mother's voice rang above everyone else's:
"One more glass of these, and I'll tell you about something else I lost once."
I know I make her sound like a booze hound there, but she's not. Mrs. B is a really cool lady and the B's in general are a warm, welcoming family. Not only did they raise an amazing man, but they welcomed me with open arms.
I'm a very lucky, lucky girl.
Check back later to see if I've posted the Flickr link to our Christmas photos. Guess who got themselves one of them new fangled digital cameras for Christmas?
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Lost in Translation
"This is my daughter Melissa. She has just been compromised."
This, people, is how my father announced my engagement to his neighbor.
You see in Spanish, when the gentleman has made his intentions known, he has offered the family a "compromiso," a promise if you will, to marry.
These slips in translation are the kinds of things that made me cringe when I was 13. Now though, I just wish I'd had the camera to capture the look on his elderly neighbors face as she processed the information she had just received.
This, people, is how my father announced my engagement to his neighbor.
You see in Spanish, when the gentleman has made his intentions known, he has offered the family a "compromiso," a promise if you will, to marry.
These slips in translation are the kinds of things that made me cringe when I was 13. Now though, I just wish I'd had the camera to capture the look on his elderly neighbors face as she processed the information she had just received.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Crazy Pussy
The last time I talked about my c@t, I got a bunch of weird spam comments. So, I'm going to try not to use the word: c@t.
Anyway, I have three pussies and the oldest one is 10-years-old (now, that out to generate some interesting spam). Her name is Sasha and she is so mean that my roommate thinks she is some sort of reincarnation experiment: perhaps a bit Joan Crawford with a splash of Bette Davis.
When she was a young pussy, she would stalk moths. I used to live in Colorado Springs and we'd go through "Miller Moth Season." It's what it sounds like: a ton of annoying migrating moths fly around your bulbs on the front porch and balcony lights and zoom inside at the first chance.
Sasha used to squeeze herself into the space between the top of our kitchen cabinets and ceiling and wait. They'd flit around the ceiling lights and she'd never take her eyes off of them. I never actually saw her catch them, but inevitably I'd look up at her and she'd have a bit of wing poking out of her clenched jaw.
Whatever. It kept them off of me and my wool sweaters.
But, Sasha was just a tiny baby pussy (not like Anne Heche's) with all kinds of energy. These days, she spends most days moving herself from sunny spot to sunny spot: not unlike a retiree on a Florida beach.
Until a few weeks ago. See, she'd been spending an awful lot of time in our kitchen lately. I just assumed it was because we were baking for the holidays and it was one of the toastiest rooms in the house.
Oh, but no.
Little miss had spotted a mouse.
Yes, there was a mouse in my house!
I didn't know but you can bet my pussy knew.
How did we find out?
Turns out the old pussy caught the fucking mouse.
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at attention, as proud as you please, with this little gift for me.
There was high praise for her as she dropped it and presented it to me.
She may be considered a "senior" as far as pussies go, but clearly Sasha still has a lot of fight in her.
Anyway, I have three pussies and the oldest one is 10-years-old (now, that out to generate some interesting spam). Her name is Sasha and she is so mean that my roommate thinks she is some sort of reincarnation experiment: perhaps a bit Joan Crawford with a splash of Bette Davis.
When she was a young pussy, she would stalk moths. I used to live in Colorado Springs and we'd go through "Miller Moth Season." It's what it sounds like: a ton of annoying migrating moths fly around your bulbs on the front porch and balcony lights and zoom inside at the first chance.
Sasha used to squeeze herself into the space between the top of our kitchen cabinets and ceiling and wait. They'd flit around the ceiling lights and she'd never take her eyes off of them. I never actually saw her catch them, but inevitably I'd look up at her and she'd have a bit of wing poking out of her clenched jaw.
Whatever. It kept them off of me and my wool sweaters.
But, Sasha was just a tiny baby pussy (not like Anne Heche's) with all kinds of energy. These days, she spends most days moving herself from sunny spot to sunny spot: not unlike a retiree on a Florida beach.
Until a few weeks ago. See, she'd been spending an awful lot of time in our kitchen lately. I just assumed it was because we were baking for the holidays and it was one of the toastiest rooms in the house.
Oh, but no.
Little miss had spotted a mouse.
Yes, there was a mouse in my house!
I didn't know but you can bet my pussy knew.
How did we find out?
Turns out the old pussy caught the fucking mouse.
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at attention, as proud as you please, with this little gift for me.
There was high praise for her as she dropped it and presented it to me.
She may be considered a "senior" as far as pussies go, but clearly Sasha still has a lot of fight in her.
Let's Get Ready to Ruuuuuumble!
A few months ago I got into a fight with a friend. Of course, it all started out via email.
Email is a dangerous thing when you are having an argument because there's no tone. It's all inferred. These here internets have been around for some time now and I'm sure other bloggers have covered the dangers of arguing via email much better than I could.
Anyway, my final email wrapped up something like this:
"I've HAD IT. I am THROUGH with you."
The particulars of our fight aren't really important except for one thing: Don't fuck with my family.
My loyalty to them, no matter how misguided sometimes, is unflagging.
Anyway, removing this person from my life was as easy as deleting their phone number from my cell phone. This isn't something that I'm proud of, but it's something that I've done only under extreme cases of betrayal.
And, I'm good at it.
It's not about hate. It's about realizing that clearly this person is not a positive influence in my life so it is better for me if we are no longer friends.
The funny thing is, since I've stopped talking to this person I've realized that I don't really miss him. The only times I am really aware that he is no longer in my life are when I think of something really funny and bitchy to say. He's the only person that will cackle along with me no matter how cutting my comment.
That's also when I realize, "DAMN! I'm bitchy."
It's been quite humbling to realize I am . . . mean.
That's also why I appreciate having S in my life.
Whenever I start to get really bitch, angry or impatient, he's the living angel on my shoulder that always helps me see the other side of a situation. He doesn't indulge my bitchy nature and that's just one of the many little ways in which I realize how good this man is for me.
I've since seen the guy that I had the huge fight with and it wasn't uncomfortable. He was familiar and it was easy falling back into our pattern, but the truth is . . . I don't miss him.
Email is a dangerous thing when you are having an argument because there's no tone. It's all inferred. These here internets have been around for some time now and I'm sure other bloggers have covered the dangers of arguing via email much better than I could.
Anyway, my final email wrapped up something like this:
"I've HAD IT. I am THROUGH with you."
The particulars of our fight aren't really important except for one thing: Don't fuck with my family.
My loyalty to them, no matter how misguided sometimes, is unflagging.
Anyway, removing this person from my life was as easy as deleting their phone number from my cell phone. This isn't something that I'm proud of, but it's something that I've done only under extreme cases of betrayal.
And, I'm good at it.
It's not about hate. It's about realizing that clearly this person is not a positive influence in my life so it is better for me if we are no longer friends.
The funny thing is, since I've stopped talking to this person I've realized that I don't really miss him. The only times I am really aware that he is no longer in my life are when I think of something really funny and bitchy to say. He's the only person that will cackle along with me no matter how cutting my comment.
That's also when I realize, "DAMN! I'm bitchy."
It's been quite humbling to realize I am . . . mean.
That's also why I appreciate having S in my life.
Whenever I start to get really bitch, angry or impatient, he's the living angel on my shoulder that always helps me see the other side of a situation. He doesn't indulge my bitchy nature and that's just one of the many little ways in which I realize how good this man is for me.
I've since seen the guy that I had the huge fight with and it wasn't uncomfortable. He was familiar and it was easy falling back into our pattern, but the truth is . . . I don't miss him.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Pillow Talk
A few weeks ago S and I were in bed cuddling. My head was on his chest and his right hand was playing with my hair. This isn't particularly out of the ordinary as 5 nights our of 7 this is how I fall asleep. While it's fairly typical, it's wonderful because I've never been the kind of person that can fall asleep while being held. Maybe it's just that I'm finally in the arms of the right man.
Anyway, on one such particular night, I was in that blissful place where you're body feels light, your foot does the occasional twitch and you're just about to fall asleep, and S says to me, "You know how we're going home for Christmas and our families are going to meet?"
Me, sleepily, "Mmm,hmmm . . . "
S, "Why don't we make it an engagement party."
Me, still groggily, "Mmm, sounds nice."
And then, my inner bridezilla, the one that's been sitting aroundin her dress and veil, tapping her foot impatiently, stood up and shouted, "BITCH, WAKE THE FUCK UP! THIS IS IT!"
So, my brain started to catch up to everything that was going on and instantly I was awake.
I lifted my head up from S' chest and leaned back so I could look him in the eye.
He was smiling and I said, "Oh."
Bridezilla rolled her eyes and plunked herself back down.
S continued on, "I know how important family is to you and I know how much you want to get married in the church, so instead of getting married in New Orleans . . . what do you think of getting married in Honduras?"
At this point, Bridezilla was glaring at me to answer this man.
And it's true, it had never crossed my mind to have a destination wedding. Much less, having one in Honduras but once he'd suggested it, it all just fell into place. It would be modest and other than tickets and hotel rooms, it could be done inexpensively and beautifully.
Me, now all dewy-eyed, "That's so sweet."
Sweet because I know how important family is to S as well, and getting married out of the country would mean that his four siblings would more than likely be unable to attend. So I said, "But, what about your family?"
S, "Well, I think mom and dad would go. Mom has yet to see any of the churches in Honduras. And, JJT & J are welcome to fly down, but as long as Mom and Dad are there I'd be happy. But, you still haven't said yes."
Me, "Right."
See, this isn't the first time for me.
My first thought was, "I really don't want to screw this one up . . ." which makes no sense at all because I didn't screw the first one up. But, I did make a bad decision. When my ex asked me to marry him I remember a voice in my head screaming, "NOOOOOOooooo . . . " and sort of fading off like a dying super hero.
This time it was different.
This time is was like a cheesy 50's movie where fireworks go off and a marching band starts playing.
I knew that I wanted to, my first instinct was to look into his eyes and say, "Yes." But I was scared. I told S this and he said, "That's understandable, and if you don't want to say yes that's fine, too. I'm not going anywhere so take your time."
The next few weeks went by and nothing changed.
I've always felt part of a team with S. I've always felt that I was in a secure, committed relationship. I know that regardless of marriage, S and I will continue to take care of each other and do all of those little things that couples do for each other. We bought a house together, so clearly I'm committed.
I'm just scared.
Anyway, on one such particular night, I was in that blissful place where you're body feels light, your foot does the occasional twitch and you're just about to fall asleep, and S says to me, "You know how we're going home for Christmas and our families are going to meet?"
Me, sleepily, "Mmm,hmmm . . . "
S, "Why don't we make it an engagement party."
Me, still groggily, "Mmm, sounds nice."
And then, my inner bridezilla, the one that's been sitting aroundin her dress and veil, tapping her foot impatiently, stood up and shouted, "BITCH, WAKE THE FUCK UP! THIS IS IT!"
So, my brain started to catch up to everything that was going on and instantly I was awake.
I lifted my head up from S' chest and leaned back so I could look him in the eye.
He was smiling and I said, "Oh."
Bridezilla rolled her eyes and plunked herself back down.
S continued on, "I know how important family is to you and I know how much you want to get married in the church, so instead of getting married in New Orleans . . . what do you think of getting married in Honduras?"
At this point, Bridezilla was glaring at me to answer this man.
And it's true, it had never crossed my mind to have a destination wedding. Much less, having one in Honduras but once he'd suggested it, it all just fell into place. It would be modest and other than tickets and hotel rooms, it could be done inexpensively and beautifully.
Me, now all dewy-eyed, "That's so sweet."
Sweet because I know how important family is to S as well, and getting married out of the country would mean that his four siblings would more than likely be unable to attend. So I said, "But, what about your family?"
S, "Well, I think mom and dad would go. Mom has yet to see any of the churches in Honduras. And, JJT & J are welcome to fly down, but as long as Mom and Dad are there I'd be happy. But, you still haven't said yes."
Me, "Right."
See, this isn't the first time for me.
My first thought was, "I really don't want to screw this one up . . ." which makes no sense at all because I didn't screw the first one up. But, I did make a bad decision. When my ex asked me to marry him I remember a voice in my head screaming, "NOOOOOOooooo . . . " and sort of fading off like a dying super hero.
This time it was different.
This time is was like a cheesy 50's movie where fireworks go off and a marching band starts playing.
I knew that I wanted to, my first instinct was to look into his eyes and say, "Yes." But I was scared. I told S this and he said, "That's understandable, and if you don't want to say yes that's fine, too. I'm not going anywhere so take your time."
The next few weeks went by and nothing changed.
I've always felt part of a team with S. I've always felt that I was in a secure, committed relationship. I know that regardless of marriage, S and I will continue to take care of each other and do all of those little things that couples do for each other. We bought a house together, so clearly I'm committed.
I'm just scared.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Oooh, Oooh . . . Cat Fight!
I apologize for hitting you with two cat stories in a row.
Last Thursday and Friday I was in Hotlanta for work. When I got home I collapsed into one of the living room chairs and Jackson (my grey tabby) jumped into my lap.
Jackson is a fairly easy-going cat, and he's also extremely affectionate. We adopted him in February of 2000 and on the ride home he nestled into my pea coat with his paws around my neck: he purred the whole way home and it was love from that moment on. I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite, but Jackson is mine.
When it's time to go to bed he'll hop up and snuggle up next to me. If I move even an inch away he'll wiggle over to me until he is nestled against me. I realize that this is starting to sound like a 3rd grade essay assignment, but my love for Jackson is quite deep. (Okay, it's pathetic really.)
So, imagine my horror when I started petting him on Friday and I felt crusty bumps on his tail. And, when I got to the crusty bumps he let out the most pitiful wail. It made my heart leap and I was thisclose to running him straight to the vet. I didn't because the vet was closed and Jack was still eating and playing so overall he seemed okay.
My heart broke the following morning when I saw him trying to get comfy on the bed and he tried to fall asleep with the front half of his body on the bed and his back half hovering over the mattress.
That was it: my baby was in pain and I couldn't take it.
So, off to the vet we went and what oh what did they find?
Bite marks.
Jack, although he is my favorite, can be a bit of an asshole you see.
He is what my mom would call, an instigator. He likes to start shit with the female cats in the house. Often he will jump on a peacefully sleeping Sweet Pea simply because her spot on the bed looks good to him.
He's a bit of a bully.
I don't have proof of it or anything, but it seems awfully coincidental that Sweet had blood around her face and mouth just a few days before I felt his scabby tail. She's lived with him for two years now and I guess she'd had enough of it.
Jack really hasn't been the same since this whole ordeal. He's been sleeping more than usual and he's keeping his distance from Sweet Pea.
I can't say that I blame him.
Bitch is crazy.
Last Thursday and Friday I was in Hotlanta for work. When I got home I collapsed into one of the living room chairs and Jackson (my grey tabby) jumped into my lap.
Jackson is a fairly easy-going cat, and he's also extremely affectionate. We adopted him in February of 2000 and on the ride home he nestled into my pea coat with his paws around my neck: he purred the whole way home and it was love from that moment on. I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite, but Jackson is mine.
When it's time to go to bed he'll hop up and snuggle up next to me. If I move even an inch away he'll wiggle over to me until he is nestled against me. I realize that this is starting to sound like a 3rd grade essay assignment, but my love for Jackson is quite deep. (Okay, it's pathetic really.)
So, imagine my horror when I started petting him on Friday and I felt crusty bumps on his tail. And, when I got to the crusty bumps he let out the most pitiful wail. It made my heart leap and I was thisclose to running him straight to the vet. I didn't because the vet was closed and Jack was still eating and playing so overall he seemed okay.
My heart broke the following morning when I saw him trying to get comfy on the bed and he tried to fall asleep with the front half of his body on the bed and his back half hovering over the mattress.
That was it: my baby was in pain and I couldn't take it.
So, off to the vet we went and what oh what did they find?
Bite marks.
Jack, although he is my favorite, can be a bit of an asshole you see.
He is what my mom would call, an instigator. He likes to start shit with the female cats in the house. Often he will jump on a peacefully sleeping Sweet Pea simply because her spot on the bed looks good to him.
He's a bit of a bully.
I don't have proof of it or anything, but it seems awfully coincidental that Sweet had blood around her face and mouth just a few days before I felt his scabby tail. She's lived with him for two years now and I guess she'd had enough of it.
Jack really hasn't been the same since this whole ordeal. He's been sleeping more than usual and he's keeping his distance from Sweet Pea.
I can't say that I blame him.
Bitch is crazy.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Life with Cats
So, I've gotten into the habit of letting my cats go outside.
I realize there is some inherent risk to letting them go out (cars, dogs . . . ), but they look so happy and (so far) always come back when I call them.
Last night, let's call her, "Not-So-Sweet" Pea scared the shit out of me.
See, when she first came into my life she was an outside cat. Well, she was actually an indoor cat that was forced to become an outdoor cat. She was declawed and tossed out by former neighbors. By all appearances, it had been months since she'd seen a vet or been fed a good meal. Following many tears (on my part) and Not-So-Sweet Pea throwing herself at J's feet, he decided we could keep her.
She was an easy cat. Mostly, I think she was just happy to know where her next meal was coming from and thankful for the central air and heat that we provided her. So, we could leave the door wide open and she'd stick her head out, look left and right and just walk back in the house. She showed no interest in going outside.
But, since we've been letting Jack and Sasha out, Sweet realized that we weren't kicking her out, but letting her come back in when she was ready.
Lately, she's been asking to go out at sundown and will usually find her way back to our front porch by the time we go to bed.
Last night, S went outside to round them up and one by one they returned with Sweet bringing up the rear. I was in bed at the time and Sweet jumped up to the foot of the bed and just as I was reaching out to scratch her head I recoiled in horror.
Blood.
All over her face and her front left paw.
I leapt off the bed and went to see S on the front porch:
Me, "Why is Sweet covered in blood?"
S, "What?!?"
We both ran into the house to find her and as I scooped her up in my arms S did a quick assessment of her limbs and face. She let him touch her and did nothing other than purr in my arms.
We took her over to the sink and I held her while S lathered her paw with kittie soap and rinsed off her face.
Our only conclusion: she killed something.
This wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that I was witness to the gory aftermath. Some months ago, she took down a mockingbird. Our roommate walked out to check our mail only to find the grisly remains and a proud Sweet prancing and preening around her "contribution" to the house.
He praised her and once she was satisfied there was an air of "please see that it is taken care of" haughtiness in the lift of her tail as she walked in the house.
Which, is what is confusing about last night. Usually, cats bring their catch home. We didn't receive any such gift, so we are going with one of two options:
1. She brought it in the house and we have yet to find it.
or
2. She didn't quite finish it off last night.
Either way, it's not a pretty thought.
I realize there is some inherent risk to letting them go out (cars, dogs . . . ), but they look so happy and (so far) always come back when I call them.
Last night, let's call her, "Not-So-Sweet" Pea scared the shit out of me.
See, when she first came into my life she was an outside cat. Well, she was actually an indoor cat that was forced to become an outdoor cat. She was declawed and tossed out by former neighbors. By all appearances, it had been months since she'd seen a vet or been fed a good meal. Following many tears (on my part) and Not-So-Sweet Pea throwing herself at J's feet, he decided we could keep her.
She was an easy cat. Mostly, I think she was just happy to know where her next meal was coming from and thankful for the central air and heat that we provided her. So, we could leave the door wide open and she'd stick her head out, look left and right and just walk back in the house. She showed no interest in going outside.
But, since we've been letting Jack and Sasha out, Sweet realized that we weren't kicking her out, but letting her come back in when she was ready.
Lately, she's been asking to go out at sundown and will usually find her way back to our front porch by the time we go to bed.
Last night, S went outside to round them up and one by one they returned with Sweet bringing up the rear. I was in bed at the time and Sweet jumped up to the foot of the bed and just as I was reaching out to scratch her head I recoiled in horror.
Blood.
All over her face and her front left paw.
I leapt off the bed and went to see S on the front porch:
Me, "Why is Sweet covered in blood?"
S, "What?!?"
We both ran into the house to find her and as I scooped her up in my arms S did a quick assessment of her limbs and face. She let him touch her and did nothing other than purr in my arms.
We took her over to the sink and I held her while S lathered her paw with kittie soap and rinsed off her face.
Our only conclusion: she killed something.
This wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that I was witness to the gory aftermath. Some months ago, she took down a mockingbird. Our roommate walked out to check our mail only to find the grisly remains and a proud Sweet prancing and preening around her "contribution" to the house.
He praised her and once she was satisfied there was an air of "please see that it is taken care of" haughtiness in the lift of her tail as she walked in the house.
Which, is what is confusing about last night. Usually, cats bring their catch home. We didn't receive any such gift, so we are going with one of two options:
1. She brought it in the house and we have yet to find it.
or
2. She didn't quite finish it off last night.
Either way, it's not a pretty thought.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Why I Like to Go Shopping with My Mom
Yesterday I was at a large department store with my mom. In the aftermath of Katrina, my mother discovered that all of her shoes were ruined.
Ya'll, my mom is like the Honduran Imelda so this was no small loss. She even lost shoes that she had yet to wear.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking shit about her habit because I'm just as bad.
When we moved, S carried out three large Tupperware bins and was appalled to discover they were all filled with shoes.
So, we walked into said department store and they were having a shoe sale. All of their fancy brands were on sale for 50% off or greater. So, we dove in and started elbowing the Sunday crowd out of our way.
As we were walking away from the discount racks (each of us with six pairs of shoes under our arms) I asked mom, "Where do you think our obsession with shoes comes from?"
She got this pensive look, hitched up the boxes under her arms and said, "Well, everyone has to have a hobby."
Ya'll, my mom is like the Honduran Imelda so this was no small loss. She even lost shoes that she had yet to wear.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking shit about her habit because I'm just as bad.
When we moved, S carried out three large Tupperware bins and was appalled to discover they were all filled with shoes.
So, we walked into said department store and they were having a shoe sale. All of their fancy brands were on sale for 50% off or greater. So, we dove in and started elbowing the Sunday crowd out of our way.
As we were walking away from the discount racks (each of us with six pairs of shoes under our arms) I asked mom, "Where do you think our obsession with shoes comes from?"
She got this pensive look, hitched up the boxes under her arms and said, "Well, everyone has to have a hobby."
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I Send My Heart Down to New Orleans
I don't even know where to begin when it comes to Katrina and New Orleans.
I grew up in Metairie, just 10 minutes outside of New Orleans, and the city I loved so much is now under God only knows how many feet of filth and sludge. And, don't give me that shit about how New Orleans was always a cesspool.
New Orleans has character.
My family is fine. They all got out okay, but they have very little to go back to. My parent's house is still standing, although at some point it had 12 inches of water. They are there right now pulling carpets, dragging wet furniture, box springs, clothes and shoes to the curb. Fortunately, the windows were not blown out and no trees fell on the house.
They lost a lot of their posessions, but most things can be replaced. The heartbreaking losses are the family pictures, our christening gowns and all of those little things that seem to take up space and collect dust, but are physical reminders of where you've been in life. Those things cannot be replaced.
I have a lot of family pictures, so my first priority will be copying them and assembling them in an album for my mom and dad. I am also lucky enough to have a copy of their wedding invitation (from January of 1970) and wedding picture. I was already working on framing them for their anniversary.
I know it doesn't seem like much, but I'm hoping that having those family pictures will help in the healing process. My mom is a tough cookie and I needed no greater proof than a trip we took to the local Goodwill to know that she will be okay. In her search for "new" clothes she said to me, "I don't know what I was thinking when I left. I really thought we'd be back in a few days." She got teary eyed and I thought she was going to cry, when all of a sudden she took a deep breath, thrust her shoulders back and declared, "Enough of that . . . get to work on finding me a pair of black Capri pants."
It's going to take time, but she's on her way.
I saw pictures of my high school today: Mount Carmel Academy. The Mother House looks fine, but I think the first floor may have gotten water. I've never actually been in there though, so I don't know if that first floor was just storage or what. The high school though has water up to the second floor. The whole first floor was under water thanks to the breach at the 17th Street canal.
I was stunned.
I've never been much of a joiner. My so's sister-in-law went to my high school and she's immediate past president of the alumnae association: she is a joiner. Regardless of my apathetic approach to our alumnae association, Mount Carmel has always held a special place in my heart.
I formed my closest friendships there and without those girls I would be a completely different person today. Janine Espinal and Nicole Danos helped me laugh when a boy broke my heart, they helped me study for tests, but most of all they made high school fun.
We don't talk on the phone every day, every week or every month, but right now I can't stop thinking about them, their families, their homes and whether or not everyone is okay.
The school has a website set up with a bulletin board for teachers, students and alumnae and it just kills me that all these girls who were looking forward to starting a new year, some of whom were entering their final year at Mount Carmel, are now displaced. They sound so lost, they don't know if they should register at the high school where they are currently living. They haven't seen the pictures.
They are in Texas, Alabama, Tennessee, Indiana . . . but, wherever they are, in their hearts they will forever be sisters of Mount Carmel. I don't know when the school will reopen it's doors, but I plan on helping in any way I can.
That's what you do for family.
I grew up in Metairie, just 10 minutes outside of New Orleans, and the city I loved so much is now under God only knows how many feet of filth and sludge. And, don't give me that shit about how New Orleans was always a cesspool.
New Orleans has character.
My family is fine. They all got out okay, but they have very little to go back to. My parent's house is still standing, although at some point it had 12 inches of water. They are there right now pulling carpets, dragging wet furniture, box springs, clothes and shoes to the curb. Fortunately, the windows were not blown out and no trees fell on the house.
They lost a lot of their posessions, but most things can be replaced. The heartbreaking losses are the family pictures, our christening gowns and all of those little things that seem to take up space and collect dust, but are physical reminders of where you've been in life. Those things cannot be replaced.
I have a lot of family pictures, so my first priority will be copying them and assembling them in an album for my mom and dad. I am also lucky enough to have a copy of their wedding invitation (from January of 1970) and wedding picture. I was already working on framing them for their anniversary.
I know it doesn't seem like much, but I'm hoping that having those family pictures will help in the healing process. My mom is a tough cookie and I needed no greater proof than a trip we took to the local Goodwill to know that she will be okay. In her search for "new" clothes she said to me, "I don't know what I was thinking when I left. I really thought we'd be back in a few days." She got teary eyed and I thought she was going to cry, when all of a sudden she took a deep breath, thrust her shoulders back and declared, "Enough of that . . . get to work on finding me a pair of black Capri pants."
It's going to take time, but she's on her way.
I saw pictures of my high school today: Mount Carmel Academy. The Mother House looks fine, but I think the first floor may have gotten water. I've never actually been in there though, so I don't know if that first floor was just storage or what. The high school though has water up to the second floor. The whole first floor was under water thanks to the breach at the 17th Street canal.
I was stunned.
I've never been much of a joiner. My so's sister-in-law went to my high school and she's immediate past president of the alumnae association: she is a joiner. Regardless of my apathetic approach to our alumnae association, Mount Carmel has always held a special place in my heart.
I formed my closest friendships there and without those girls I would be a completely different person today. Janine Espinal and Nicole Danos helped me laugh when a boy broke my heart, they helped me study for tests, but most of all they made high school fun.
We don't talk on the phone every day, every week or every month, but right now I can't stop thinking about them, their families, their homes and whether or not everyone is okay.
The school has a website set up with a bulletin board for teachers, students and alumnae and it just kills me that all these girls who were looking forward to starting a new year, some of whom were entering their final year at Mount Carmel, are now displaced. They sound so lost, they don't know if they should register at the high school where they are currently living. They haven't seen the pictures.
They are in Texas, Alabama, Tennessee, Indiana . . . but, wherever they are, in their hearts they will forever be sisters of Mount Carmel. I don't know when the school will reopen it's doors, but I plan on helping in any way I can.
That's what you do for family.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Monosyllabic Knuckle Dragging Mouthbreathers
I swiped the title for this entry from a friend's blog. I did it because this is exactly what I was thinking when I walked up to my gate at the Atlanta airport, littered with USAF jack offs.
You see, I was returning from a work trip and making a connection in Atlanta. A connection that would, finally, take me home. So, I walk up to the gate only to find that my flight has been delayed by 30 minutes. I figured, "No big deal. I can get lunch." Except that an hour later I was still waiting for my damn flight.
In the meantime, I was surrounded by "high and tights" as far as my tired little eyes could see. Their leader, the tallest and best looking one, was quite possibly the worst representation of the US Air Force I have ever met. He was a loud braggart that gave himself whiplash anytime a pretty lady with big boobs walked by . . . a true gentleman that one.
Finally, at 4 pm, an announcement is made that my flight has been cancelled due to maintenance. Whatever, I'd rather be grounded than fly on a plane held together by duct tape and bubble gum.
The thing is, no one is doing anything, so I pick up my bag and weave through the outstretched legs of about 50 Air Force folks and make my way to another gate and ask to fly standby on another Delta flight heading to Montgomery. The agent was helpful and found me a flight scheduled to leave at 4:35, but cautioned me that there was no guarantee that I would get on, although it looked good since there was only one other person on the standby list.
That 4:30 pm flight was delayed and not scheduled to take off until 5:30 pm. In the meantime, the knuckle draggers started showing up and it wasn't long before I was again surrounded my a bunch of folks who think "what happens on TDY, stays on TDY" is perfectly acceptable. Finally, the plane starts boarding at 5:45 pm and it starts dawning on me that there's no fucking way I'm going home on that place because active military gets priority.
That's right, these lazy asses that are sleepwalking there way through a 25 year career because they have no marketable skills (One of them had a degree in Logistics Management, in other words, dude totally rocks at finding the cheapest toilet paper and paper towels for the bathrooms. Good luck finding a job that pays what you've gotten used to with the USAF.) on the outside are going to board before I will.
These fucks that are flying on a discounted military rate will board way before my full-price ticket. These brave desk jockeys prepared to stab someone in the eye with their Number 2's will reach their destination before I will.
I hear the flight crew make the call that they are done boarding and there are three other sorry souls sitting around me realizing that their bags will arrive before they will. And, that's when it happened, I used the only thing I had left to find a flight home.
I started crying.
I didn't intend to use it to my advantage. I was discreetly tucked away in a corner quietly weeping. Once the gate agent was free I stumbled up and asked for a travel voucher and a rental car. The gentleman said to me, "Vee cannot give you zat. Vee can try to put you on standby for the 10 o'clock flight."
Me, "NO, you don't understand. I could have driven home by that time. I'm not going to sit here and wait to see if maybe you can send me home on another flight. That's what I did here and here I am and there they go. You can't guarantee me that I will be able to get on that flight."
Him, "Miss, vee cannot guarantee anyzing."
Me, now sobbing, "So, you see, I would rather not sit around and take my chances when I KNOW that I can drive home much sooner."
Him, "Let me zee vat I can do," and he starts typing furiously, "Okay, eef you leave now for gate C32 you may fly standby on zee 6:30." (It's 6:15 when we're having this conversation.)
Me, still sobbing, "But, you can't guaranteed that I will get on board."
Him, "You are not leestening to me. GO NOW! EET EEZ BOARDING! EEF YOU RUN YOU CAN CATCH EET! I have given you priority."
Ya'll, I don't do much running. I might do a cheek-clenched power walk on the way to the bathroom occasionally, but I do not run.
Ya'll I was like fuckin' Flo Jo down that concourse. IN FLIP FLOPS, PEOPLE!
And, Atlanta is not a small airport, there are trains that have to take you to another concourse and I hopped on that train just before the doors closed. Then, I ran up the escalator and down another concourse to hear the gate agent announce, "Final boarding call for standby passenger (my last name)."
Breathless and with my shins beginning to cramp I slapped my boarding pass on the counter and wheezed, "Zatsme."
Minutes later I was buckling up and headed home.
The flight was short and uneventful, and when I landed I knew my bags weren't going to be on my flight. I had watched them load my bag onto the flight with the military idiots so I didn't even wait for them at baggage claim.
After grinning like an idiot at S and jumping into his arms for kisses and hugs I told him that my bags probably weren't on my flight.
We went straight to the desk and asked if my bag had arrived on the earlier flight. The agent looked at me over her glasses and asked, "What earlier flight?"
Me, "There was a flight that left Atlanta 20 minutes before I did."
She starts typing and says, "Oh, that one pulled away from the gate, but got called back due to mechanical problems. Are you sure you're bag wasn't on your flight."
Hee, fuckers totally got grounded and then their flight was cancelled.
Me, grinning from ear to ear, "Oh no, I'm sure it was on that other flight, but I'll stick around and wait to see if it arrived anyway."
I didn't get my bag that night and I didn't care. I was finally in my own bed with S's arms wrapped around me.
I had gotten to fly into the wild blue yonder, afterall.
So, take your priority and SUCK IT, BITCHES!
You see, I was returning from a work trip and making a connection in Atlanta. A connection that would, finally, take me home. So, I walk up to the gate only to find that my flight has been delayed by 30 minutes. I figured, "No big deal. I can get lunch." Except that an hour later I was still waiting for my damn flight.
In the meantime, I was surrounded by "high and tights" as far as my tired little eyes could see. Their leader, the tallest and best looking one, was quite possibly the worst representation of the US Air Force I have ever met. He was a loud braggart that gave himself whiplash anytime a pretty lady with big boobs walked by . . . a true gentleman that one.
Finally, at 4 pm, an announcement is made that my flight has been cancelled due to maintenance. Whatever, I'd rather be grounded than fly on a plane held together by duct tape and bubble gum.
The thing is, no one is doing anything, so I pick up my bag and weave through the outstretched legs of about 50 Air Force folks and make my way to another gate and ask to fly standby on another Delta flight heading to Montgomery. The agent was helpful and found me a flight scheduled to leave at 4:35, but cautioned me that there was no guarantee that I would get on, although it looked good since there was only one other person on the standby list.
That 4:30 pm flight was delayed and not scheduled to take off until 5:30 pm. In the meantime, the knuckle draggers started showing up and it wasn't long before I was again surrounded my a bunch of folks who think "what happens on TDY, stays on TDY" is perfectly acceptable. Finally, the plane starts boarding at 5:45 pm and it starts dawning on me that there's no fucking way I'm going home on that place because active military gets priority.
That's right, these lazy asses that are sleepwalking there way through a 25 year career because they have no marketable skills (One of them had a degree in Logistics Management, in other words, dude totally rocks at finding the cheapest toilet paper and paper towels for the bathrooms. Good luck finding a job that pays what you've gotten used to with the USAF.) on the outside are going to board before I will.
These fucks that are flying on a discounted military rate will board way before my full-price ticket. These brave desk jockeys prepared to stab someone in the eye with their Number 2's will reach their destination before I will.
I hear the flight crew make the call that they are done boarding and there are three other sorry souls sitting around me realizing that their bags will arrive before they will. And, that's when it happened, I used the only thing I had left to find a flight home.
I started crying.
I didn't intend to use it to my advantage. I was discreetly tucked away in a corner quietly weeping. Once the gate agent was free I stumbled up and asked for a travel voucher and a rental car. The gentleman said to me, "Vee cannot give you zat. Vee can try to put you on standby for the 10 o'clock flight."
Me, "NO, you don't understand. I could have driven home by that time. I'm not going to sit here and wait to see if maybe you can send me home on another flight. That's what I did here and here I am and there they go. You can't guarantee me that I will be able to get on that flight."
Him, "Miss, vee cannot guarantee anyzing."
Me, now sobbing, "So, you see, I would rather not sit around and take my chances when I KNOW that I can drive home much sooner."
Him, "Let me zee vat I can do," and he starts typing furiously, "Okay, eef you leave now for gate C32 you may fly standby on zee 6:30." (It's 6:15 when we're having this conversation.)
Me, still sobbing, "But, you can't guaranteed that I will get on board."
Him, "You are not leestening to me. GO NOW! EET EEZ BOARDING! EEF YOU RUN YOU CAN CATCH EET! I have given you priority."
Ya'll, I don't do much running. I might do a cheek-clenched power walk on the way to the bathroom occasionally, but I do not run.
Ya'll I was like fuckin' Flo Jo down that concourse. IN FLIP FLOPS, PEOPLE!
And, Atlanta is not a small airport, there are trains that have to take you to another concourse and I hopped on that train just before the doors closed. Then, I ran up the escalator and down another concourse to hear the gate agent announce, "Final boarding call for standby passenger (my last name)."
Breathless and with my shins beginning to cramp I slapped my boarding pass on the counter and wheezed, "Zatsme."
Minutes later I was buckling up and headed home.
The flight was short and uneventful, and when I landed I knew my bags weren't going to be on my flight. I had watched them load my bag onto the flight with the military idiots so I didn't even wait for them at baggage claim.
After grinning like an idiot at S and jumping into his arms for kisses and hugs I told him that my bags probably weren't on my flight.
We went straight to the desk and asked if my bag had arrived on the earlier flight. The agent looked at me over her glasses and asked, "What earlier flight?"
Me, "There was a flight that left Atlanta 20 minutes before I did."
She starts typing and says, "Oh, that one pulled away from the gate, but got called back due to mechanical problems. Are you sure you're bag wasn't on your flight."
Hee, fuckers totally got grounded and then their flight was cancelled.
Me, grinning from ear to ear, "Oh no, I'm sure it was on that other flight, but I'll stick around and wait to see if it arrived anyway."
I didn't get my bag that night and I didn't care. I was finally in my own bed with S's arms wrapped around me.
I had gotten to fly into the wild blue yonder, afterall.
So, take your priority and SUCK IT, BITCHES!
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
That's my SONG!
I watch copious amounts of TV. I know that's not something to be proud of, but I'm going somewhere with this, I swear.
I grew up in a house with six people in it. I'm used to the rattle and hum of people moving around a house, having conversations, listening to the radio, watching tv . . . this is my white noise.
So, sometimes when I'm in my apartment alone I turn on the tv. It's usually on pretty low and I'll go about my business. Whether it's cooking, getting undressed or reading a book. Right, I read with the tv on. I know that I could turn on the radio, but something about the flickering light soothes me. It makes me feel like I have company.
But, that's not to say that I don't watch the damn thing. I get sucked in by MTV and VH1's reality programming.
Ya'll, for the last week I've been counting the days until the premier of Laguna Beach. What is wrong with me? I've been curious as to what happened with Stephen and LC in San Francisco, I want to know if Kristin cheated on Stephen and who in the hell is this new girl? Although I don't much like Kristin I too think that "from her hair to her personality, she's fake." It's all so high school, but I love it.
The Surreal Life - Janice Dickinson. Yeah, pretty much the only reason I'm watching this season. She's brash, she's rude, she's crazy . . . she's awesome.
The Real World - I started watching this when it first aired. Now the kids are in Austin and I'm wondering, are the participants getting less attractive as this show goes on or is my taste improving?
But, one of my favorite shows has been Motor Mouth. Essentially, Motor Mouth is based on the premise of a loved one tricking another loved one into test driving a vehicle that is set up with a camera. That loved one that is tricked is notorious for singing and dancing to whatever is playing on the radio. So, you have all this footage of someone singing badly to whatever songs are playing. I don't necessarily sit through an entire show because it gets kind of boring, but it cracks me up because I could so easily be the person in the driver's seat.
See, I travel the state a lot for work and that gives me enormous blocks of time in rental vehicles. I'm usually alone so I crank up the stereo and go to town. Yesterday, I was on my way home from a trip and Adina Howard's "Freak Like Me" came on. So, I holla, "Oooooh, that's my SONG!" So, there I am in my rental wearing my pinstripe skirt, button down blouse and pearls, raising the roof and singing:
I'm packing all the flavor you need
I got you shook up on your knees
'cause it's all about the dog in me
But, it doesn't just stop at the singing. I usually dance, too. Energetic finger pointing, neck crooking, pimp hands . . . if it can be done sitting down, I'm doing it.
I flip out when I catch a good 80's station because it's on! Every Rose Has It's Thorn, Never Say Good-Bye, anything by Journey. . . the cheesier the power ballad the better!
So, the next time you're traveling Alabama's highways pay no heed to the crazy woman in the rental car having her own little rave.
I grew up in a house with six people in it. I'm used to the rattle and hum of people moving around a house, having conversations, listening to the radio, watching tv . . . this is my white noise.
So, sometimes when I'm in my apartment alone I turn on the tv. It's usually on pretty low and I'll go about my business. Whether it's cooking, getting undressed or reading a book. Right, I read with the tv on. I know that I could turn on the radio, but something about the flickering light soothes me. It makes me feel like I have company.
But, that's not to say that I don't watch the damn thing. I get sucked in by MTV and VH1's reality programming.
Ya'll, for the last week I've been counting the days until the premier of Laguna Beach. What is wrong with me? I've been curious as to what happened with Stephen and LC in San Francisco, I want to know if Kristin cheated on Stephen and who in the hell is this new girl? Although I don't much like Kristin I too think that "from her hair to her personality, she's fake." It's all so high school, but I love it.
The Surreal Life - Janice Dickinson. Yeah, pretty much the only reason I'm watching this season. She's brash, she's rude, she's crazy . . . she's awesome.
The Real World - I started watching this when it first aired. Now the kids are in Austin and I'm wondering, are the participants getting less attractive as this show goes on or is my taste improving?
But, one of my favorite shows has been Motor Mouth. Essentially, Motor Mouth is based on the premise of a loved one tricking another loved one into test driving a vehicle that is set up with a camera. That loved one that is tricked is notorious for singing and dancing to whatever is playing on the radio. So, you have all this footage of someone singing badly to whatever songs are playing. I don't necessarily sit through an entire show because it gets kind of boring, but it cracks me up because I could so easily be the person in the driver's seat.
See, I travel the state a lot for work and that gives me enormous blocks of time in rental vehicles. I'm usually alone so I crank up the stereo and go to town. Yesterday, I was on my way home from a trip and Adina Howard's "Freak Like Me" came on. So, I holla, "Oooooh, that's my SONG!" So, there I am in my rental wearing my pinstripe skirt, button down blouse and pearls, raising the roof and singing:
I'm packing all the flavor you need
I got you shook up on your knees
'cause it's all about the dog in me
But, it doesn't just stop at the singing. I usually dance, too. Energetic finger pointing, neck crooking, pimp hands . . . if it can be done sitting down, I'm doing it.
I flip out when I catch a good 80's station because it's on! Every Rose Has It's Thorn, Never Say Good-Bye, anything by Journey. . . the cheesier the power ballad the better!
So, the next time you're traveling Alabama's highways pay no heed to the crazy woman in the rental car having her own little rave.
Friday, July 22, 2005
To Spank or Not To Spank
It's Friday and I'm bored at work.
So, I started reading other people's blogs. I was at www.hannahbeth.com and I started looking through her archives and came across an entry she did on spanking.
I don't have kids, so I don't know from practical experience if I would spank.
I like to think that I wouldn't since I was spanked and still have some bitterness regarding it. I wasn't spanked: I was whipped.
Dad had a two inch leather belt that he wore every day. If he had to spank me, he'd unbuckle it and remove it from his belt loops in one swift movement.
I'd then lay across the bed (in shorts, pants were not allowed) and he'd whip me.
He'd lash me across the backs of my legs with so much force that I wouldn't be able to sleep on my back that night, and sitting in class the next day would be painful.
I remember one whipping in particular.
I was in fourth grade, and I'd been caught talking in class. I was given my second behavior report of the year from the same teacher.
I begged her not to give it to me, I begged her so hysterically that she took me in the hall to talk to me.
I pleaded with her, "Please! I wasn't talking, it was Joey, I was just listening. Please! I can't take that home!"
She just shook her head and told me I should have considered that before I started talking.
That afternoon, I walked home shaking.
When I'd received my first behavior report dad warned me about what would happen if I got another one. I got home and just laid on my bed, crying and waiting for him to get home. I didn't even have the courage to give it to him. I just left it on his nightstand.
When he saw it he roared my name. and I heard the distinct snap his belt made when he folded it in half.
I don't think I'd ever been whipped that badly before. I didn't cry and after the first few strikes I didn't feel it anymore.
I think that made it worse.
I remember this particular whipping because I had dance class that night. I had to wear my leotard and tights over the welts on the backs of my legs. I begged my mom not to take me, I begged her to let me stay home and miss class.
Dad wouldn't hear of it.
He was paying good money for those classes, and he'd be damned if I was going to miss one.
So, there I was at the barre, trying my damndest to plie without crying. My dance teacher caught on, took pity on me and let me sit out the rest of the class.
I was humiliated.
Did spanking make me a better child, though?
No.
Did I fear my father?
Yes.
Did I respect him?
No.
I knew that there would be consequences to my actions, dire consequences, so I just got better at hiding things. It taught me how to be sneaky.
I was still "bad," I just got better at not getting caught.
So, would I spank my child? No
In part because I know it won't give me the long-term results that I want as a successful parent.
I also won't spank because I'm afraid I'll lose control like my father did.
Hannah made a really good point in her entry.
Whenever I tell people (especially people with children) that I don't want to spank my future children they say, "You just don't understand. You can't reason with a two-year-old."
I get that.
But like Hannah said, you can't reason with a dog either but you can still work with it to develop positive behavior and squelch negative behavior without physical force.
Here's what I think: I think that parents that spank are lazy.
Spanking produces a quick result. It takes time and effort to raise a child without raising your hand to him or her.
Will it drive me crazy that my child won't "get it" after the third time I've said no? Yes.
Will I spank him or her? No.
There has to be a better way.
Dad loves to re-tell the story about how one day I "pitched a fit" in the middle of a department store. He slid off his belt and gave me several lickings on the back of my three-year-old thighs.
"You never did that again." He'll say proudly.
Thanks dad.
So, I started reading other people's blogs. I was at www.hannahbeth.com and I started looking through her archives and came across an entry she did on spanking.
I don't have kids, so I don't know from practical experience if I would spank.
I like to think that I wouldn't since I was spanked and still have some bitterness regarding it. I wasn't spanked: I was whipped.
Dad had a two inch leather belt that he wore every day. If he had to spank me, he'd unbuckle it and remove it from his belt loops in one swift movement.
I'd then lay across the bed (in shorts, pants were not allowed) and he'd whip me.
He'd lash me across the backs of my legs with so much force that I wouldn't be able to sleep on my back that night, and sitting in class the next day would be painful.
I remember one whipping in particular.
I was in fourth grade, and I'd been caught talking in class. I was given my second behavior report of the year from the same teacher.
I begged her not to give it to me, I begged her so hysterically that she took me in the hall to talk to me.
I pleaded with her, "Please! I wasn't talking, it was Joey, I was just listening. Please! I can't take that home!"
She just shook her head and told me I should have considered that before I started talking.
That afternoon, I walked home shaking.
When I'd received my first behavior report dad warned me about what would happen if I got another one. I got home and just laid on my bed, crying and waiting for him to get home. I didn't even have the courage to give it to him. I just left it on his nightstand.
When he saw it he roared my name. and I heard the distinct snap his belt made when he folded it in half.
I don't think I'd ever been whipped that badly before. I didn't cry and after the first few strikes I didn't feel it anymore.
I think that made it worse.
I remember this particular whipping because I had dance class that night. I had to wear my leotard and tights over the welts on the backs of my legs. I begged my mom not to take me, I begged her to let me stay home and miss class.
Dad wouldn't hear of it.
He was paying good money for those classes, and he'd be damned if I was going to miss one.
So, there I was at the barre, trying my damndest to plie without crying. My dance teacher caught on, took pity on me and let me sit out the rest of the class.
I was humiliated.
Did spanking make me a better child, though?
No.
Did I fear my father?
Yes.
Did I respect him?
No.
I knew that there would be consequences to my actions, dire consequences, so I just got better at hiding things. It taught me how to be sneaky.
I was still "bad," I just got better at not getting caught.
So, would I spank my child? No
In part because I know it won't give me the long-term results that I want as a successful parent.
I also won't spank because I'm afraid I'll lose control like my father did.
Hannah made a really good point in her entry.
Also (not to make the dreaded pet to child comparison, but I have to because this burns me up the most), it's pretty well accepted among trainers and breeders that negative reinforcement doesn't work at all. All it will get you is an aggressive, or submissive-aggressive, ill-behaved animal. And I know how it feels to tell your dog "no" a thousand times and have her not listen, or turn around and growl at you, and all you want to do is whack her a little on the backside. But if I sat here and wrote how I just smacked Montego around, I bet a million-to-one that I'd get a thousand hate emails before my hand even stopped stinging. "A dog doesn't understand." "A dog can't be reasoned with." Well, you look your two-year-old in the face and you tell her you love her while you use all 200 of your pounds to spank her tiny bottom, leaving a red mark across her cheeks and then tell me that she understands your reasoning.
Whenever I tell people (especially people with children) that I don't want to spank my future children they say, "You just don't understand. You can't reason with a two-year-old."
I get that.
But like Hannah said, you can't reason with a dog either but you can still work with it to develop positive behavior and squelch negative behavior without physical force.
Here's what I think: I think that parents that spank are lazy.
Spanking produces a quick result. It takes time and effort to raise a child without raising your hand to him or her.
Will it drive me crazy that my child won't "get it" after the third time I've said no? Yes.
Will I spank him or her? No.
There has to be a better way.
Dad loves to re-tell the story about how one day I "pitched a fit" in the middle of a department store. He slid off his belt and gave me several lickings on the back of my three-year-old thighs.
"You never did that again." He'll say proudly.
Thanks dad.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Debbie Does Dallas
So, get this: a friend of mine has been approached by the porn industry to debut in a film. Sure, it's not a debut in the sense of a debutante ball but you know . . . there will be balls. (Yeah, I'm 12.)
I think she's going to go through with it. I'm completely behind (Hee.) the decision to do it (Hee.) because you're only young once, you know. Plus, this person is an adult and able to make these types of decisions.
So, when I'm told about this opportunity, I'm all, "Fuck yeah!" (Hee.)
Then, I took it to S and told him about it and he, very logically said, "While it sounds cool, there are some things to think about: 1. How would this impact your career? What if someone recognizes you in a restaurant while you're at a business lunch? 2. How will you handle if someone comes (Hee.) up to you while you're with a colleague? 3. What if a colleague sees the film?"
All very sound questions that I took back to my friend who said, "You know, we need S around?"
Me, "Hmm?"
Friend, "Well, you and I are like a pack of hyenas just cackling on about the whole thing."
Me, "No . . . it's more like Dumb and Dumber."
So, the time is coming (Hee.) and her time to see the producer is nearing. So, she sent me some pictures of herself. Pictures she wants to take with her to her audition.
None of them were raunchy, but they were very, "Come and get me, big boy."
So, I looked at them and while they were indeed smoking hot, they made me a bit uncomfortable. But, she looked gorgeous only I got sidetracked when I was looking at them and asked,
"Hey, were those taken in your kitchen?"
Her, "Yeah! What did you think?"
Me, "I love your cabinets!!!"
Her, "Mmm, hmm . . . "
Me, "No, seriously, I love glass front cabinetry."
Her, "What about MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!?!"
Me, "Oh, yeah . . . you looked nice. Are you in a bungalow?"
She hung up shortly afterward.
I think she's going to go through with it. I'm completely behind (Hee.) the decision to do it (Hee.) because you're only young once, you know. Plus, this person is an adult and able to make these types of decisions.
So, when I'm told about this opportunity, I'm all, "Fuck yeah!" (Hee.)
Then, I took it to S and told him about it and he, very logically said, "While it sounds cool, there are some things to think about: 1. How would this impact your career? What if someone recognizes you in a restaurant while you're at a business lunch? 2. How will you handle if someone comes (Hee.) up to you while you're with a colleague? 3. What if a colleague sees the film?"
All very sound questions that I took back to my friend who said, "You know, we need S around?"
Me, "Hmm?"
Friend, "Well, you and I are like a pack of hyenas just cackling on about the whole thing."
Me, "No . . . it's more like Dumb and Dumber."
So, the time is coming (Hee.) and her time to see the producer is nearing. So, she sent me some pictures of herself. Pictures she wants to take with her to her audition.
None of them were raunchy, but they were very, "Come and get me, big boy."
So, I looked at them and while they were indeed smoking hot, they made me a bit uncomfortable. But, she looked gorgeous only I got sidetracked when I was looking at them and asked,
"Hey, were those taken in your kitchen?"
Her, "Yeah! What did you think?"
Me, "I love your cabinets!!!"
Her, "Mmm, hmm . . . "
Me, "No, seriously, I love glass front cabinetry."
Her, "What about MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!?!"
Me, "Oh, yeah . . . you looked nice. Are you in a bungalow?"
She hung up shortly afterward.
Baby Talk
So, not to long ago, S and I were in the middle of our weekly shopping trip when all of a sudden, in front of the frozen veggies he turns to me and asks,
"So, when do you think we'll want to start a family?"
Me, "Uhm, uh, uh . . . "
Him, "I don't mean today, but you know . . . someday."
Huh, you know, it's funny because I've said that I don't really think I NEED to get married ever. I don't need marriage to feel more committed, and while I still feel that way I don't think I want to have children and not be married. So, you see my dilemma.
First, I work in an extremely conservative environment where single motherhood would more than likely be frowned upon. So, the following day I was with a coworker(one slightly more superior than I in the chain of command) shredding files in the attic when I asked him whether or not our boss would take issue with me getting pregnant and not being married.
Him, "Why?"
Me, "Well, I just figured while we're up here in the attic alone . . . "
At which point he died laughing because it sounded like I was asking this very happily married man to be my baby daddy.
Which, is so not what I was getting at. Anyway, the hysterical laughter sort of cut my question short, but I assured him that I was not with child, but might one day like to be . . . by someone that is not him, clearly.
He simply said, "No, you would not get fired."
Secondly, what would my mother say? I know, I KNOW I'm a grownup and everything, but having to hear it from her would drive me up the wall. I asked S that on the night he brought this whole thing up.
Me, "What would your mother think?"
Him, affecting his mother's reaction (with pearl clutching and all, "'Oh, no. Not until you're married.' But you know what, it's my life so I don't really care what she thinks."
Finally, what would people say. And that, that is what disappoints me the most. That I care at all what other people would think.
The truth of it is, I'm incredibly disappointed in myself because as hippie dippy as I want to be I can't imagine being unmarried and with child.
As much as I don't need to get married I'm still a girly girl and I still think about my wedding. I used to want this big princessy deal, but I had a wedding once and the truth of it is I don't have the funds for a big wedding, it would be gauche to do so (it's not like it's my first wedding) and the thought of spending $25,000+ on a wedding is ridiculous.
So far, I've got myself getting married in a morning catholic ceremony in the church where I received all of my sacraments. It's a small church, very simple, but I feel at home there. I grew up there. I'd probably do it around Easter because that's when the altar is decked out with flowers. Then, I'd have a champagne brunch either at my mom's house or a local restaurant that my parents and I go to all the time when I am in town. I'm such a loon that I even have my "dream ring" picked out:
You have to click on the ring to see all three views.
I'd go with a dress cut like this one:
My dress wouldn't be green, it would be champagne.
I'm thinking I'd have my hair pulled up with some flowers in it. Maybe a small bouquet like this one:
in my hand and the rosary I had during my first communion.
My groom would be in a nice suit, but definitely not tails or anything.
That's it. Simple and easy. I don't think I'd even do a registry since, like I said:
I'm full-grown!
"So, when do you think we'll want to start a family?"
Me, "Uhm, uh, uh . . . "
Him, "I don't mean today, but you know . . . someday."
Huh, you know, it's funny because I've said that I don't really think I NEED to get married ever. I don't need marriage to feel more committed, and while I still feel that way I don't think I want to have children and not be married. So, you see my dilemma.
First, I work in an extremely conservative environment where single motherhood would more than likely be frowned upon. So, the following day I was with a coworker(one slightly more superior than I in the chain of command) shredding files in the attic when I asked him whether or not our boss would take issue with me getting pregnant and not being married.
Him, "Why?"
Me, "Well, I just figured while we're up here in the attic alone . . . "
At which point he died laughing because it sounded like I was asking this very happily married man to be my baby daddy.
Which, is so not what I was getting at. Anyway, the hysterical laughter sort of cut my question short, but I assured him that I was not with child, but might one day like to be . . . by someone that is not him, clearly.
He simply said, "No, you would not get fired."
Secondly, what would my mother say? I know, I KNOW I'm a grownup and everything, but having to hear it from her would drive me up the wall. I asked S that on the night he brought this whole thing up.
Me, "What would your mother think?"
Him, affecting his mother's reaction (with pearl clutching and all, "'Oh, no. Not until you're married.' But you know what, it's my life so I don't really care what she thinks."
Finally, what would people say. And that, that is what disappoints me the most. That I care at all what other people would think.
The truth of it is, I'm incredibly disappointed in myself because as hippie dippy as I want to be I can't imagine being unmarried and with child.
As much as I don't need to get married I'm still a girly girl and I still think about my wedding. I used to want this big princessy deal, but I had a wedding once and the truth of it is I don't have the funds for a big wedding, it would be gauche to do so (it's not like it's my first wedding) and the thought of spending $25,000+ on a wedding is ridiculous.
So far, I've got myself getting married in a morning catholic ceremony in the church where I received all of my sacraments. It's a small church, very simple, but I feel at home there. I grew up there. I'd probably do it around Easter because that's when the altar is decked out with flowers. Then, I'd have a champagne brunch either at my mom's house or a local restaurant that my parents and I go to all the time when I am in town. I'm such a loon that I even have my "dream ring" picked out:
You have to click on the ring to see all three views.I'd go with a dress cut like this one:
My dress wouldn't be green, it would be champagne.
I'm thinking I'd have my hair pulled up with some flowers in it. Maybe a small bouquet like this one:
My groom would be in a nice suit, but definitely not tails or anything.
That's it. Simple and easy. I don't think I'd even do a registry since, like I said:
I'm full-grown!
Monday, July 04, 2005
Why? Why? Why?
The other night I was making dinner and I asked S to remind me in 15 minutes to check on the stove.
He said, "Why don't we just set the timer on the stove?"
I mumbled, "I don't think it works."
He said, "What?"
Me, "It says a minute has passed, but I don't think it goes a whole minute."
Him, "What?"
Me, "Look," I said rolling my eyes and putting my hands on my hips, "I've set the thing before, but the numbers go by a whole lot faster than 60 seconds. It's more like 15 or 30 seconds."
Him, "Mmm, Hmm . . . " and he turns around and starts setting the timer.
Me, "Okay . . . whatever."
Him, as the timer turns to 15, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 . . ."
I looked at like he was crazy and then I realized he was going to count to 60 to SHOW ME that the timer does indeed work.
I realized, that when the day comes, he'll be able to take on our little one when he/she starts asking, "Why is the sky blue? Why is the sky green?"
(No ya'll, I'm not with child so don't go getting all hysterical.)
He said, "Why don't we just set the timer on the stove?"
I mumbled, "I don't think it works."
He said, "What?"
Me, "It says a minute has passed, but I don't think it goes a whole minute."
Him, "What?"
Me, "Look," I said rolling my eyes and putting my hands on my hips, "I've set the thing before, but the numbers go by a whole lot faster than 60 seconds. It's more like 15 or 30 seconds."
Him, "Mmm, Hmm . . . " and he turns around and starts setting the timer.
Me, "Okay . . . whatever."
Him, as the timer turns to 15, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 . . ."
I looked at like he was crazy and then I realized he was going to count to 60 to SHOW ME that the timer does indeed work.
I realized, that when the day comes, he'll be able to take on our little one when he/she starts asking, "Why is the sky blue? Why is the sky green?"
(No ya'll, I'm not with child so don't go getting all hysterical.)
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
I HAVE TO Be Right
That's what my ex would tell me. That it would kill me to admit that I was wrong.
So, in trying to become a more mature adult I'm trying to let go of my NEED to be right all the time. The other day, I was out riding around with S when I pointed to a platte of land that now has a strip mall going up on it and said, "Wow, that went up fast. Wonder what they did with the cows?"
S, "What kind of cows were they?"
Me, thinking back and remembering light brown ones I said, "Jerseys."
S, with that smirk you give to a cute child when they mess something up (Okay, that smirk bugged me a little . . . no, a lot.) "You mean, gurnsey?"
Me, "No, Jersey."
S, still with the smirk, "It's gurnsey."
Me, letting it go because I don't always HAVE TO be right, "Okay . . . whatever."
So, I just did some Google Image searching and what do I find?
Go ahead, check it out:
A JERSEY COW MUTHAFUCKAH!!!! Representin' with it's badass mohawk.
This my dears is what used to reside where there is now construction for a new mini mall.
Not . . . a gurnsey, which, as it happens, is black and white.
I'm still working on not NEEDING to be right, but when I am . . . I just . . .
AM, NEBRASKA BOY!
So, in trying to become a more mature adult I'm trying to let go of my NEED to be right all the time. The other day, I was out riding around with S when I pointed to a platte of land that now has a strip mall going up on it and said, "Wow, that went up fast. Wonder what they did with the cows?"
S, "What kind of cows were they?"
Me, thinking back and remembering light brown ones I said, "Jerseys."
S, with that smirk you give to a cute child when they mess something up (Okay, that smirk bugged me a little . . . no, a lot.) "You mean, gurnsey?"
Me, "No, Jersey."
S, still with the smirk, "It's gurnsey."
Me, letting it go because I don't always HAVE TO be right, "Okay . . . whatever."
So, I just did some Google Image searching and what do I find?
Go ahead, check it out:
A JERSEY COW MUTHAFUCKAH!!!! Representin' with it's badass mohawk.
This my dears is what used to reside where there is now construction for a new mini mall.
Not . . . a gurnsey, which, as it happens, is black and white.
I'm still working on not NEEDING to be right, but when I am . . . I just . . .
AM, NEBRASKA BOY!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Totally Short Changed
Because, how is it that I've gone 30 years without ever having had a boy, or man, sing this to me:
Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah.
The gypsy flies from coast to coast
Knowing many, loving none,
Bearing sorrow havin’ fun,
But back home he’ll always run
To sweet Melissa... mmm...
Freight train, each car looks the same, all the same.
And no one knows the gypsy’s name
No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies.
In all his deepest dreams the gypsy flies
With sweet Melissa... mmm...
Again the morning’s come,
Again he’s on the run,
Sunbeams shining through his hair,
Appearing not to have a care.
Well, pick up your gear and gypsy roll on, roll on.
Crossroads, will you ever let him go? (lord, lord)
Will you hide the dead man’s ghost,
Or will he lie, beneath the clay,
Or will his spirit roll away?
But I know that he won’t stay without Melissa.
Yes I know that he won’t stay without Melissa.
Melissa
The Allman Brothers
Of course, and maybe it's because I loved reading Sweet Valley High novels and so I am eternally looking for cheesy romantic gestures, when I hear this song I like to pretend I'm being serenaded. Because. I'm lame.
Thanks Cingular for giving me my props, yo!
Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah.
The gypsy flies from coast to coast
Knowing many, loving none,
Bearing sorrow havin’ fun,
But back home he’ll always run
To sweet Melissa... mmm...
Freight train, each car looks the same, all the same.
And no one knows the gypsy’s name
No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies.
In all his deepest dreams the gypsy flies
With sweet Melissa... mmm...
Again the morning’s come,
Again he’s on the run,
Sunbeams shining through his hair,
Appearing not to have a care.
Well, pick up your gear and gypsy roll on, roll on.
Crossroads, will you ever let him go? (lord, lord)
Will you hide the dead man’s ghost,
Or will he lie, beneath the clay,
Or will his spirit roll away?
But I know that he won’t stay without Melissa.
Yes I know that he won’t stay without Melissa.
Melissa
The Allman Brothers
Of course, and maybe it's because I loved reading Sweet Valley High novels and so I am eternally looking for cheesy romantic gestures, when I hear this song I like to pretend I'm being serenaded. Because. I'm lame.
Thanks Cingular for giving me my props, yo!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time I fell in love.
I was dazzled by a man whose words moved me and whose cute smile made me swoon.
My parents thought I was crazy, they said that you were too different from me. That I was too young to feel this way.
But it didn't matter to me. I'd lay in my room and fantasize about the two of us dancing together. Making everyone in the room jealous because we were the best dancers in the entire room.
Your pain was my pain. I know what it felt like to be humiliated by my daddy: my daddy beat me with the belt, too.
When tragedy struck you I cried for you. I prayed that weren't burned too badly. Mom and dad thought I was being silly.
But they didn't know!
They didn't know how much you meant to me and how much I adored you.
And now, here I sit thinking about that girl with the silly crush wondering whatever happened to you?
I stood by your side when they snickered about the elephant man bones, the hyperbaric chamber and Bubbles the Chimp.
But, Jesus Juice Michael? Inviting little boys into your bed?
I'm probably minutes away from hearing the verdict on your trial wondering whatever happened to the dashing black man in the white tux on the cover of my Thriller album.
Was it the fire, Michael?
Did catching your jerry curl on some misaimed fireworks spark your need to create Neverland?
Here it is, the verdict . . . not guilty on all counts.
And, this makes me even sadder because I just don't get it Michael.
Do you really see yourself as some sort of Peter Pan? Are you that broken that a world of fantasy is the only one you can stand to live in?
I don't get why you invite boys to sleep in your bed.
But what I REALLY don't get is the parents that would allow a sleepover at your house. Did you threaten them or were they just opportunists biding their time and waiting to stike?
I just don't know, Michael.
I just don't know.
I was dazzled by a man whose words moved me and whose cute smile made me swoon.
My parents thought I was crazy, they said that you were too different from me. That I was too young to feel this way.
But it didn't matter to me. I'd lay in my room and fantasize about the two of us dancing together. Making everyone in the room jealous because we were the best dancers in the entire room.
Your pain was my pain. I know what it felt like to be humiliated by my daddy: my daddy beat me with the belt, too.
When tragedy struck you I cried for you. I prayed that weren't burned too badly. Mom and dad thought I was being silly.
But they didn't know!
They didn't know how much you meant to me and how much I adored you.
And now, here I sit thinking about that girl with the silly crush wondering whatever happened to you?
I stood by your side when they snickered about the elephant man bones, the hyperbaric chamber and Bubbles the Chimp.
But, Jesus Juice Michael? Inviting little boys into your bed?
I'm probably minutes away from hearing the verdict on your trial wondering whatever happened to the dashing black man in the white tux on the cover of my Thriller album.
Was it the fire, Michael?
Did catching your jerry curl on some misaimed fireworks spark your need to create Neverland?
Here it is, the verdict . . . not guilty on all counts.
And, this makes me even sadder because I just don't get it Michael.
Do you really see yourself as some sort of Peter Pan? Are you that broken that a world of fantasy is the only one you can stand to live in?
I don't get why you invite boys to sleep in your bed.
But what I REALLY don't get is the parents that would allow a sleepover at your house. Did you threaten them or were they just opportunists biding their time and waiting to stike?
I just don't know, Michael.
I just don't know.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Still Fat
Yeah, that's kind of how I'm feeling these days.
I haven't changed too significantly over the last few months, but not working out is really screwing with my head.
So, why haven't I? Worked out, I mean.
I'm just not making it a priority.
It really is that simple.
When I travel I could finish my day with a good workout at my hotel's gym sponsor, but I don't. And ya'll I've been traveling a lot these last few weeks.
I have this Y membership that I never use. That's really bad because, HELLO . . . MONEY!
I was telling myself it was because of S.
I mean, I would rather hang out at home with S before he leaves for work than go to the gym. Cuddles vs working out: yeah - that was a tough choice.
But, the truth is I wasn't working out even when I was away from home.
No excuses now folks as S has started working day shifts. Which means most days he'll be working until a few hours after I get off of work. So, what should I do to fill the hours? Go to the gym. At least that's the plan.
I've also signed up for a middle eastern dance course that I've been wanting to take for a while. Partly because I miss dance classes of any sort, but mostly because I have no girlfriends and it's starting to bug. So, this is my attempt to put myself out there.
"Put it out into the universe" as Britney says.
Oh GOD! Have ya'll beem watching Chaotic? It's insane. Totally the drunken tapes of poor white trash. They really should have just called it Tragic
It's AWESOME!
I haven't changed too significantly over the last few months, but not working out is really screwing with my head.
So, why haven't I? Worked out, I mean.
I'm just not making it a priority.
It really is that simple.
When I travel I could finish my day with a good workout at my hotel's gym sponsor, but I don't. And ya'll I've been traveling a lot these last few weeks.
I have this Y membership that I never use. That's really bad because, HELLO . . . MONEY!
I was telling myself it was because of S.
I mean, I would rather hang out at home with S before he leaves for work than go to the gym. Cuddles vs working out: yeah - that was a tough choice.
But, the truth is I wasn't working out even when I was away from home.
No excuses now folks as S has started working day shifts. Which means most days he'll be working until a few hours after I get off of work. So, what should I do to fill the hours? Go to the gym. At least that's the plan.
I've also signed up for a middle eastern dance course that I've been wanting to take for a while. Partly because I miss dance classes of any sort, but mostly because I have no girlfriends and it's starting to bug. So, this is my attempt to put myself out there.
"Put it out into the universe" as Britney says.
Oh GOD! Have ya'll beem watching Chaotic? It's insane. Totally the drunken tapes of poor white trash. They really should have just called it Tragic
It's AWESOME!
Friday, May 20, 2005
Fat Cock Fucks Pussy
I admit, I'm kind of a geek. So, I spend time online reading other people's blogs. This entry, which also won a Diarist Award for best rant, cracks me up:
http://i-girl.diaryland.com/040407_96.html
Let's just say, she inspired this entry.
See, I've been watching porn lately and I have to admit I just don't get it.
What I-Girl said really jumps out at me (no pun intended). In particular:
the precious slap, the spitting and the EXTREME closeups.
Let's start with: the slap.
What is that! When I see the guys do it to the woman it's one thing. Not that it's right, or remotely sexy, but I'm guessing that this guy is just clueless and just has no idea what to do. BUT, what really gets me is when the woman does it to herself or to another woman.
I don't care how much fucking money you want to pay me, ain't no way I'm going to slap my own pussy.
It just doesn't feel good. It's a slap.
Would I slap another woman's pussy? Aw HELL no! I like my eyes, I don't want to risk my partner in porn scratching my eyes out with her GED nails . . . thaaaaaanks. Tell you what, start showing the women slap a man's dick or balls and then maybe, maaaaaaaaaaaaybe I'll change my mind.
The spitting.
Look, I know that films work under a budget, but get some ID. Christ, K-Y in a pump bottle would do. I'm tired of watching guys spit in a woman's pussy. Y
ou know what dude? You gotta spit in it, ya probably ain't doin' a good job.
Conversely, I really hate watching a woman hawk a loogie on a guy's dick. That's just nasty.
The close-ups. NO, just - no. Aside from being too up close and personal for me, it's boring.
In and out, in and out . . . there's no variation.
I like face, I like reactions. I think the close-up is a result of a director who thinks it's naughty to make the "ok" sign with the thumb and forefinger of one hand while sliding the forefinger of the other hand in and out of the "o."
Want to know what frightens me about porn?
It's not the potential for degradation, it's not the unrealistic body images and it's not the sex. Dude, I like sex.
It's the fact that somewhere, there's young guys somewhere studying the oral sex scenes and taking notes.
Step away from the monitor little one's. Put down the pad and paper and erase from your mind what you've just seen.
We do not like the fast tongue flicky thing. You are not a vibrator and you never will be: I'm sorry, but get over it. Slow and steady wins the race . . . believe me. Tease it a little, go slowly, change your pressure and don't forget to use your hands.
Again, forget what you've seen in the movies. I don't want you to pump your fingers in and out of me like a plunger. Slow, steady strokes and for christ's sake watch my hips and listen to my breathing. You don't have to actually ask, "Did you come?"
If you gotta ask . . .
And before I wrap things up to go look at porn: should you ever actually get lucky enough to get near a real live vagina . . . don't drill it like a jackhammer.
At least . . . not from the getgo.
http://i-girl.diaryland.com/040407_96.html
Let's just say, she inspired this entry.
See, I've been watching porn lately and I have to admit I just don't get it.
What I-Girl said really jumps out at me (no pun intended). In particular:
the precious slap, the spitting and the EXTREME closeups.
Let's start with: the slap.
What is that! When I see the guys do it to the woman it's one thing. Not that it's right, or remotely sexy, but I'm guessing that this guy is just clueless and just has no idea what to do. BUT, what really gets me is when the woman does it to herself or to another woman.
I don't care how much fucking money you want to pay me, ain't no way I'm going to slap my own pussy.
It just doesn't feel good. It's a slap.
Would I slap another woman's pussy? Aw HELL no! I like my eyes, I don't want to risk my partner in porn scratching my eyes out with her GED nails . . . thaaaaaanks. Tell you what, start showing the women slap a man's dick or balls and then maybe, maaaaaaaaaaaaybe I'll change my mind.
The spitting.
Look, I know that films work under a budget, but get some ID. Christ, K-Y in a pump bottle would do. I'm tired of watching guys spit in a woman's pussy. Y
ou know what dude? You gotta spit in it, ya probably ain't doin' a good job.
Conversely, I really hate watching a woman hawk a loogie on a guy's dick. That's just nasty.
The close-ups. NO, just - no. Aside from being too up close and personal for me, it's boring.
In and out, in and out . . . there's no variation.
I like face, I like reactions. I think the close-up is a result of a director who thinks it's naughty to make the "ok" sign with the thumb and forefinger of one hand while sliding the forefinger of the other hand in and out of the "o."
Want to know what frightens me about porn?
It's not the potential for degradation, it's not the unrealistic body images and it's not the sex. Dude, I like sex.
It's the fact that somewhere, there's young guys somewhere studying the oral sex scenes and taking notes.
Step away from the monitor little one's. Put down the pad and paper and erase from your mind what you've just seen.
We do not like the fast tongue flicky thing. You are not a vibrator and you never will be: I'm sorry, but get over it. Slow and steady wins the race . . . believe me. Tease it a little, go slowly, change your pressure and don't forget to use your hands.
Again, forget what you've seen in the movies. I don't want you to pump your fingers in and out of me like a plunger. Slow, steady strokes and for christ's sake watch my hips and listen to my breathing. You don't have to actually ask, "Did you come?"
If you gotta ask . . .
And before I wrap things up to go look at porn: should you ever actually get lucky enough to get near a real live vagina . . . don't drill it like a jackhammer.
At least . . . not from the getgo.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Sing - Sing A Song . . .
I was sitting at my desk this morning working on some articles for our quarterly publication when Pearl Jam's Daughter started playing on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up because I used to love that song.
It came out when I was a freshman in college and I remember playing it over and over in my car's tape deck during the ride between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I'm sitting in my office feeling these feelings I felt over ten years ago and they hit me like a brick wall because it's been so long since I was silly and irresponsible. I miss those days.
I miss not having to be anywhere until noon. I miss hanging out, dancing and drinking until the bars closed. I miss the fried mushrooms from The Chimes restaurant and the hash browns from Louie's. I miss feeling like every day held a new adventure.
When it comes to music, nothing takes me back like the songs I listened to during the Summer of 1993. That was right after I graduated high school, I had my first job and I was dating a ridiculously silly guy that was two years younger than I.
I remember being in the back seat with R and making out to Tony! Toni! Tone!'s If I Had No Loot while R's best friend C drove. PM Dawn's Looking Through Patient Eyes, Duran Duran's Ordinary World, Whitney Houston I Have Nothing, Spin Doctor's Two Princes, SWV's Weak. All of this music played over and over on the musak at our job.
None of those songs are fantastic in their own right, most of them are pure crap, but when I hear them they take me back. I can close my eyes and instantly be back in R's car, leaning against the seat and feeling like his girl.
I still talk to R. He's married and has two adorable little kids. Sometimes we reminsce about our relationship and laugh and sigh. The thing is, it really wasn't the healthiest relationship. He's quite possibly the only person that's ever brought me to yelling during an argument. He liked to push my buttons because I could give it right back. We were like cats and dogs most of the time.
But, it was the easiest relationship I've ever been in because we didn't put any expectations on each other. It was just a summer thing and we were always clear about that. So, we hung out, had a good time and made each other laugh.
Sure, those songs from the summer of 1993 still make me feel all giddy and girlie, so I go with that and love the memories that they produce. It was an awesome time.
It was perfect for me at 18, but that's where I'd like to keep it.
It came out when I was a freshman in college and I remember playing it over and over in my car's tape deck during the ride between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I'm sitting in my office feeling these feelings I felt over ten years ago and they hit me like a brick wall because it's been so long since I was silly and irresponsible. I miss those days.
I miss not having to be anywhere until noon. I miss hanging out, dancing and drinking until the bars closed. I miss the fried mushrooms from The Chimes restaurant and the hash browns from Louie's. I miss feeling like every day held a new adventure.
When it comes to music, nothing takes me back like the songs I listened to during the Summer of 1993. That was right after I graduated high school, I had my first job and I was dating a ridiculously silly guy that was two years younger than I.
I remember being in the back seat with R and making out to Tony! Toni! Tone!'s If I Had No Loot while R's best friend C drove. PM Dawn's Looking Through Patient Eyes, Duran Duran's Ordinary World, Whitney Houston I Have Nothing, Spin Doctor's Two Princes, SWV's Weak. All of this music played over and over on the musak at our job.
None of those songs are fantastic in their own right, most of them are pure crap, but when I hear them they take me back. I can close my eyes and instantly be back in R's car, leaning against the seat and feeling like his girl.
I still talk to R. He's married and has two adorable little kids. Sometimes we reminsce about our relationship and laugh and sigh. The thing is, it really wasn't the healthiest relationship. He's quite possibly the only person that's ever brought me to yelling during an argument. He liked to push my buttons because I could give it right back. We were like cats and dogs most of the time.
But, it was the easiest relationship I've ever been in because we didn't put any expectations on each other. It was just a summer thing and we were always clear about that. So, we hung out, had a good time and made each other laugh.
Sure, those songs from the summer of 1993 still make me feel all giddy and girlie, so I go with that and love the memories that they produce. It was an awesome time.
It was perfect for me at 18, but that's where I'd like to keep it.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Random Thoughts
The thing is, right now I don't really have a whole lot going on. There's no drama in my life so I don't have much to post.
Things are going well with S. I have just discovered the Gilmore Girls' marathons on ABC Family so I've been watching a lot of those. Last weekend S said to me, "You know, I downloaded a bunch of those for you. If you want I can save them to disk and we could curl up in bed and you could have a Gilmore Girls day."
Best. Boyfriend. Evah!
That's what my life is most of the time: all sweet and shit. I dig it.
S is currently going through a rough bought with an allergic reaction to Virginia Creeper. It ain't pretty folks. But, he's through the worst of it.
I watched Closer last night and man was that depressing. Just a reminder of how much we can rationalize having an affair and telling/not telling our partner. I was laying in bed watching it with S and I looked up at him and without even looking at me he squeezed his arm tighter around me. It felt reassuring and it was exactly what I needed.
I know that S isn't perfect, so occasionally I do realize that he's likely to cheat. He's just as likely to cheat as I am. I don't preoccupy myself with the thought of him cheatng, but he's human.
Lately I've been having some really upseting dreams. In one, S was packing up his clothes and leaving me. He didn't even talk to me . . . just kept packing while I tried to get him to talk to me.
I had a dream this weekend that really sucked. S' sister J invited me out to go shopping only she left out one small detail: S' ex girlfriend B was joining us. It was wretched because J just kept going on and on about how B was better match for S. How I'd never measure up and that I should leave S because it was only a matter of time before he leaves me. That S has only ever loved B and will always love B. The part that made this dream so rough was that J wasn't letting me say a damn thing. It was Mean Girls with grown up women and it sucked.
I woke up very pouty the next morning and when I padded into the living room to find S I was on the verge of tears when I said, "I need you." He held me and let me tell him about my dream. He rubbed my back, kissed my head and whispered, "It was just a dream." It's so simple but that always makes me feel better.
Things are going well with S. I have just discovered the Gilmore Girls' marathons on ABC Family so I've been watching a lot of those. Last weekend S said to me, "You know, I downloaded a bunch of those for you. If you want I can save them to disk and we could curl up in bed and you could have a Gilmore Girls day."
Best. Boyfriend. Evah!
That's what my life is most of the time: all sweet and shit. I dig it.
S is currently going through a rough bought with an allergic reaction to Virginia Creeper. It ain't pretty folks. But, he's through the worst of it.
I watched Closer last night and man was that depressing. Just a reminder of how much we can rationalize having an affair and telling/not telling our partner. I was laying in bed watching it with S and I looked up at him and without even looking at me he squeezed his arm tighter around me. It felt reassuring and it was exactly what I needed.
I know that S isn't perfect, so occasionally I do realize that he's likely to cheat. He's just as likely to cheat as I am. I don't preoccupy myself with the thought of him cheatng, but he's human.
Lately I've been having some really upseting dreams. In one, S was packing up his clothes and leaving me. He didn't even talk to me . . . just kept packing while I tried to get him to talk to me.
I had a dream this weekend that really sucked. S' sister J invited me out to go shopping only she left out one small detail: S' ex girlfriend B was joining us. It was wretched because J just kept going on and on about how B was better match for S. How I'd never measure up and that I should leave S because it was only a matter of time before he leaves me. That S has only ever loved B and will always love B. The part that made this dream so rough was that J wasn't letting me say a damn thing. It was Mean Girls with grown up women and it sucked.
I woke up very pouty the next morning and when I padded into the living room to find S I was on the verge of tears when I said, "I need you." He held me and let me tell him about my dream. He rubbed my back, kissed my head and whispered, "It was just a dream." It's so simple but that always makes me feel better.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Cry Baby
I read the following at Coleen's website: www.hussified.com.
For those of you who know me really well, you'll know that I'm a big cry baby. With that being said, you must understand that sometimes I cry at a really good comercial, but when it comes to movies there's one scene that always makes me well up.
It's a scene from Forrest Gump. Forrest and Jenny have just spent the day in DC and Jenny turns to Forrest and they exchange the following words:
Jenny Curran: Why are you so good to me?
Forrest Gump: You're my girl.
I know it doesn't read like much, but it's all in the delivery. Kills me every time I even think about Hanks' expression when he says, "You're my girl." Seriously, as I sit here typing this out I'm welling up a little.
The other scene (and this is from a TV show) is when Miranda and Steve are finally honest about their feeling on Sex and the City (Pulled from www.televisionwithoutpity.com):
[Miranda] stares at the cake, which only reads, "Happy Birthday, Brady."
Steve walks in, with a candle shaped like a number one. He's all, will you look at that?
[Miranda] says, "I love you. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have said it! I fucked it up! But I love you!"
[Steve replies that it's okay]"I mean, come on! You're the one."
Again, it's all in the delivery, the look in his face and the tone in his voice when he says, "You're the one."
That one actually makes me cry when I watch it.
What scene in what movie always makes you well up (want to cry), even just thinking about it? If they are too numerous to mention, then what one is the saddest and why.
For those of you who know me really well, you'll know that I'm a big cry baby. With that being said, you must understand that sometimes I cry at a really good comercial, but when it comes to movies there's one scene that always makes me well up.
It's a scene from Forrest Gump. Forrest and Jenny have just spent the day in DC and Jenny turns to Forrest and they exchange the following words:
Jenny Curran: Why are you so good to me?
Forrest Gump: You're my girl.
I know it doesn't read like much, but it's all in the delivery. Kills me every time I even think about Hanks' expression when he says, "You're my girl." Seriously, as I sit here typing this out I'm welling up a little.
The other scene (and this is from a TV show) is when Miranda and Steve are finally honest about their feeling on Sex and the City (Pulled from www.televisionwithoutpity.com):
[Miranda] stares at the cake, which only reads, "Happy Birthday, Brady."
Steve walks in, with a candle shaped like a number one. He's all, will you look at that?
[Miranda] says, "I love you. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have said it! I fucked it up! But I love you!"
[Steve replies that it's okay]"I mean, come on! You're the one."
Again, it's all in the delivery, the look in his face and the tone in his voice when he says, "You're the one."
That one actually makes me cry when I watch it.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
'Til Death Do Us Part
A friend of mine asked me the other day if I wanted to get married. It wasn't a proposal or anything, it was just a question.
I've been thinking about this for a while and the truth is I don't think I need to get married. Maybe it's like skydiving in that I've done it once, it was thrilling, but I don't feel the need to do it again because I know I can attain that thrill through other means.
I know that as a divorcee any comments that I have on marriage may just be referred to as bitter mutterings, but I think that marriage is a beautiful sacrament not to be taken lightly. I also know that while there will be downs, the ups are amazing and rewarding. However, that doesn't mean you have to be married to experience the blessings of love, commitment and loyalty.
Here's the thing, I don't think I need to get married to be in a loving, committed relationship. I don't think marriage will deepen our commitment to each other because I'm already committed to this man and only this man, as he is to me.
I don't think marriage will make me feel like S and I are more of a unit or team: the two of us against the world. I feel that we already are and I wake up every morning feeling blessed that every day this man chooses to love me with the same commitment and intensity that I choose to love him.
Steve is my family and I am his, we know this with every certainty.
So, why not get married anyway?
I think that once "'Til Death Do Us Part" is uttered at a ceremony the blessing of this person choosing me every day gets lost along the way. The permanence that a marriage ceremony implies makes it easy for us to take each other for granted. I'm happy with our relationship and I can't imagine it getting deeper or more committed than it already is. I simply don't need marriage to move my relationship to "the next level" because it's already there.
I recognize the great privilege it would be to be S's wife, but I don't need that to feel validated.
Some might say what Carrie Fisher said in When Harry Met Sally about divorce, "At least you can say you WERE married."
But, what the hell does that mean?
I've been thinking about this for a while and the truth is I don't think I need to get married. Maybe it's like skydiving in that I've done it once, it was thrilling, but I don't feel the need to do it again because I know I can attain that thrill through other means.
I know that as a divorcee any comments that I have on marriage may just be referred to as bitter mutterings, but I think that marriage is a beautiful sacrament not to be taken lightly. I also know that while there will be downs, the ups are amazing and rewarding. However, that doesn't mean you have to be married to experience the blessings of love, commitment and loyalty.
Here's the thing, I don't think I need to get married to be in a loving, committed relationship. I don't think marriage will deepen our commitment to each other because I'm already committed to this man and only this man, as he is to me.
I don't think marriage will make me feel like S and I are more of a unit or team: the two of us against the world. I feel that we already are and I wake up every morning feeling blessed that every day this man chooses to love me with the same commitment and intensity that I choose to love him.
Steve is my family and I am his, we know this with every certainty.
So, why not get married anyway?
I think that once "'Til Death Do Us Part" is uttered at a ceremony the blessing of this person choosing me every day gets lost along the way. The permanence that a marriage ceremony implies makes it easy for us to take each other for granted. I'm happy with our relationship and I can't imagine it getting deeper or more committed than it already is. I simply don't need marriage to move my relationship to "the next level" because it's already there.
I recognize the great privilege it would be to be S's wife, but I don't need that to feel validated.
Some might say what Carrie Fisher said in When Harry Met Sally about divorce, "At least you can say you WERE married."
But, what the hell does that mean?
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Hey Shorty . . . It's Your Birthday
We're gonna party like it's your birthday . . .
Seriously though, my 30th birthday was last weekend and it was awesome!!!!
I was a little bummed at first because I didn't think my dad would be able to make it to dinner on Friday night. He was flying back to N.O. from a business trip and wasn't due back until 7 pm. We were having dinner at 5:30 because everyone was tired from the week. S, J and I were hanging out on my mom's back porch when I see this shadow through the sliding glass doors . . . it was dad!!!!
He'd taken an earlier flight and surprised all of us!!!!!
On Saturday we all went to breakast and I got to hang out with my mom. She took me shopping and even bought me a birthday outfit. Later that afternoon we went back to the house and my longest-lasting friend Mischa was there.
I've known Mischa since we were in third grade and although our friendship has had lots of ups and downs she is the only woman I have ever known that will tell me when my face is dirty and help me clean it up.
She drove in from Baton Rouge at the last minute to help me celebrate my birthday. She left her three girls (three under six years of age) and her husband to party with with me.
S, J, Mischa and I met out with my brother and his partner. We started out with a really long dinner (due to the tragic waitress) that didn't need to be as long as it was, but man was it fun. Then, we went over to Parade (a gay bar in New Orleans) and were fortunate to get in before they started charging a cover (we got there at 9ish or so) AND it was still happy hour.
And then something truly wild happened. I'm sitting on a stool (yes, we even had bar stools to perch on) and I look over J's shoulder and see this guy. This guy that looks really familiar and I ask J, "Hey, is that Ty?"
So, always the forward person, J goes over there and asks, "Hey, is your name Ty?"
And, it totally was. Ty was a guy that I new at LSU. He was an aerobics instructor back in the day so I didn't really know him, but then he sort of fell into my circle of friends through another friend so we really go to know him really well. The amazing thing was that in 1994 Ty was HIV positive and we just never knew how much more time we'd have with him. 11 years later he's still around (although he did have a close call two years ago) and as crazy as ever.
We did a lot of drinking and a lot of dancing and on the ride home I realized how truly blessed I am. J flew across the country to help me celebrate my 30th birthday, Mischa dropped her plans at the last second to hang out with me, S took time off to drive in with me and my dad caught an earlier flight to make it for dinner . . . how did I get so lucky to have all of these wonderful people in my life?
I'm not going into 30 with that sense of dread that most people seem to when they hit this age. I'm embracing this new decade with all of the joy and energy that is humanly possible and with these amazing people in my life I can't wait to see what's next.
Seriously though, my 30th birthday was last weekend and it was awesome!!!!
I was a little bummed at first because I didn't think my dad would be able to make it to dinner on Friday night. He was flying back to N.O. from a business trip and wasn't due back until 7 pm. We were having dinner at 5:30 because everyone was tired from the week. S, J and I were hanging out on my mom's back porch when I see this shadow through the sliding glass doors . . . it was dad!!!!
He'd taken an earlier flight and surprised all of us!!!!!
On Saturday we all went to breakast and I got to hang out with my mom. She took me shopping and even bought me a birthday outfit. Later that afternoon we went back to the house and my longest-lasting friend Mischa was there.
I've known Mischa since we were in third grade and although our friendship has had lots of ups and downs she is the only woman I have ever known that will tell me when my face is dirty and help me clean it up.
She drove in from Baton Rouge at the last minute to help me celebrate my birthday. She left her three girls (three under six years of age) and her husband to party with with me.
S, J, Mischa and I met out with my brother and his partner. We started out with a really long dinner (due to the tragic waitress) that didn't need to be as long as it was, but man was it fun. Then, we went over to Parade (a gay bar in New Orleans) and were fortunate to get in before they started charging a cover (we got there at 9ish or so) AND it was still happy hour.
And then something truly wild happened. I'm sitting on a stool (yes, we even had bar stools to perch on) and I look over J's shoulder and see this guy. This guy that looks really familiar and I ask J, "Hey, is that Ty?"
So, always the forward person, J goes over there and asks, "Hey, is your name Ty?"
And, it totally was. Ty was a guy that I new at LSU. He was an aerobics instructor back in the day so I didn't really know him, but then he sort of fell into my circle of friends through another friend so we really go to know him really well. The amazing thing was that in 1994 Ty was HIV positive and we just never knew how much more time we'd have with him. 11 years later he's still around (although he did have a close call two years ago) and as crazy as ever.
We did a lot of drinking and a lot of dancing and on the ride home I realized how truly blessed I am. J flew across the country to help me celebrate my 30th birthday, Mischa dropped her plans at the last second to hang out with me, S took time off to drive in with me and my dad caught an earlier flight to make it for dinner . . . how did I get so lucky to have all of these wonderful people in my life?
I'm not going into 30 with that sense of dread that most people seem to when they hit this age. I'm embracing this new decade with all of the joy and energy that is humanly possible and with these amazing people in my life I can't wait to see what's next.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Oh, How the Blush of New Love Quickly Fades
See, I told you that eventually I would quit writing with any regularity.
I was thinking the other day how March 3 is my anniversary date. My work anniversary date, and as you all know, a yearly anniversary usually means a review and maybe a raise.
I really wasn't thinking about that though, as much as I was thinking about how much I've changed in the last year.
Right before I started this job, I'd left a job in advertising that left me completely destroyed.
So destroyed that I just walked in one day and quit . . . WITH NOTHING LINED UP.
You have to understand how big that is for me. I graduated college in 1997 and in the intervening eight years I've had six jobs. That might seem like a lot and might even lead you to believe I'm flighty, but I've always had a reason for leaving a job, and I always had a better job lined up.
Sure, some of those jobs I left because I had a boss that was batshit crazy and one of those jobs I left because my ex was military and it was either follow him or forget our marriage, but for the most part I left to expand my professional experience and earn a bigger paycheck.
I never just walked out without a safety net.
But the design house, I left because after a year I was so broken I felt like a total loser. It was a constant uphill battle for me because as it turns out, I hate advertising. In all fairness, I'm pretty sure I hated it because I sucked at it.
It was a vicious cycle because like many things in one's professional life, you actually have to care in order to do a good. Whether that's as a sales clerk at a shop, or selling someone's corporate image or enticing folks to shop at the new mall.
So, here's how things would go: I'd get this assignment that seemed fairly easy and I'd crank it out as quickly as possible (the more jobs we passed through the shop meant the more money we made) only to get them back from my incredibly disappointed boss.
There were times where I wrote things that were really good. My particular forte, as it turns out, was writing radio scripts. Which really comes as no surprise to me because writing dialogue is something that's always come easily to me.
Writing a great headline though? Not so much.
This just killed my boss. For one, my inconsistency lead her to rightfully question my dependability. Sometimes I could knock something great out in 15 minutes, but other times I'd agonize for hours over a seven word headline.
I think it also killed her because I wasn't becoming what she wanted me to be. See, she has this thing for hiring the young and inexperienced. Not only can she pay them squat, but she can also mold their young minds to her style. So, she'd get personally vested in all of her creative staff because it was a direct reflection on her and her company.
I can understand that, but in time I really lost respect for her.
First, there was the "meeting" she called me in for when she heard that I'd been talking about her with people from her church. That's a long story that I'll save for another day, but let's just say I just said, "A is a very driven woman who knows what she wants from her company and she works hard to get it."
So, in our "meeting" she wants to discuss what she heard from a third party (an ex-employee). He'd been busted for sleeping in his car on lunch breaks. Mind you, he no longer worked with A when he learned that she knew.
I told her the gist of the story and she gets TEARY-EYED and says to me, "I just don't like thinking that the people that work for me think I'm a bitch."
Me, "No, never at any point in that conversation did I even discuss what it was like to work with you, or what I thought of you personally. The word bitch didn't even pass my lips."
(Hmm, reading that sentence back to myself I realize I sort of implied that while I thought she was a bitch, I wasn't stupid enough to say that to someone that attended her church.)
I walked out thinking, "Suck it up." You started a business to make money, not to make friends. Whether or not someone thinks your a bitch shouldn't be your concern. Get over it.
With that conversation behind us, we continued to work and produce. But, then we had this weird discussion one day. It's been so long that I don't even remember it now.
See, I'd go into her office for "mentoring," requested on my behalf. I really wanted to make this thing work and she really is the best in town so I wanted to learn from her. The truth is, I am amazed by her talent and really felt like I was working under someone that would go on to do something really big.
What it all boiled down to was that she couldn't understand why I wasn't as passionate about the work as she was. And, in this later meeting she teared up again and said to me, "When I think about everything I've given up to make this company work (sniff, sniff)."
I was disgusted by this whole pity me routine.
She chose to move to our small town and start this company (and let's face it, it's a lot easier being a big fish in a small pond), she chose to work weekends, she chose to sacrifice her social life . . . no one asked her to do it.
In my mind, I dismissed her at that point because I really didn't care to work harder for her. If I cranked out more jobs it meant more money to the company and more money for our paychecks is what we were told. But, uh . . . no. If I worked harder it meant I improved her bottom line and would only see a tiny cut of that. We didn't even have 401ks.
So, I started to care less and less, my work suffered, she let it be known and eventually I got to feeling like I couldn't do anything right and she let me know I was always disappointing her.
I left because I started to feel like a talentless joke.
So, I went back to corporate training because it was something that didn't require me to be creative. I at least learned this about myself: working 40 hours a week at a desk job is not for me.
You know what makes me feel better about having felt like such a loser? Everyone that has worked for her and quit feels the same way.
It's not that we are talentless. It's that she sets the bar so high that most of us keep banging our heads into it.
I am talented, just not in the way she wanted/needed me to be.
I was just not talented enough for her.
So, here I am a year later, working at a job that I love where people appreciate my skills.
A job that makes me feel good about myself and I wouldn't trade that for anything.
I was thinking the other day how March 3 is my anniversary date. My work anniversary date, and as you all know, a yearly anniversary usually means a review and maybe a raise.
I really wasn't thinking about that though, as much as I was thinking about how much I've changed in the last year.
Right before I started this job, I'd left a job in advertising that left me completely destroyed.
So destroyed that I just walked in one day and quit . . . WITH NOTHING LINED UP.
You have to understand how big that is for me. I graduated college in 1997 and in the intervening eight years I've had six jobs. That might seem like a lot and might even lead you to believe I'm flighty, but I've always had a reason for leaving a job, and I always had a better job lined up.
Sure, some of those jobs I left because I had a boss that was batshit crazy and one of those jobs I left because my ex was military and it was either follow him or forget our marriage, but for the most part I left to expand my professional experience and earn a bigger paycheck.
I never just walked out without a safety net.
But the design house, I left because after a year I was so broken I felt like a total loser. It was a constant uphill battle for me because as it turns out, I hate advertising. In all fairness, I'm pretty sure I hated it because I sucked at it.
It was a vicious cycle because like many things in one's professional life, you actually have to care in order to do a good. Whether that's as a sales clerk at a shop, or selling someone's corporate image or enticing folks to shop at the new mall.
So, here's how things would go: I'd get this assignment that seemed fairly easy and I'd crank it out as quickly as possible (the more jobs we passed through the shop meant the more money we made) only to get them back from my incredibly disappointed boss.
There were times where I wrote things that were really good. My particular forte, as it turns out, was writing radio scripts. Which really comes as no surprise to me because writing dialogue is something that's always come easily to me.
Writing a great headline though? Not so much.
This just killed my boss. For one, my inconsistency lead her to rightfully question my dependability. Sometimes I could knock something great out in 15 minutes, but other times I'd agonize for hours over a seven word headline.
I think it also killed her because I wasn't becoming what she wanted me to be. See, she has this thing for hiring the young and inexperienced. Not only can she pay them squat, but she can also mold their young minds to her style. So, she'd get personally vested in all of her creative staff because it was a direct reflection on her and her company.
I can understand that, but in time I really lost respect for her.
First, there was the "meeting" she called me in for when she heard that I'd been talking about her with people from her church. That's a long story that I'll save for another day, but let's just say I just said, "A is a very driven woman who knows what she wants from her company and she works hard to get it."
So, in our "meeting" she wants to discuss what she heard from a third party (an ex-employee). He'd been busted for sleeping in his car on lunch breaks. Mind you, he no longer worked with A when he learned that she knew.
I told her the gist of the story and she gets TEARY-EYED and says to me, "I just don't like thinking that the people that work for me think I'm a bitch."
Me, "No, never at any point in that conversation did I even discuss what it was like to work with you, or what I thought of you personally. The word bitch didn't even pass my lips."
(Hmm, reading that sentence back to myself I realize I sort of implied that while I thought she was a bitch, I wasn't stupid enough to say that to someone that attended her church.)
I walked out thinking, "Suck it up." You started a business to make money, not to make friends. Whether or not someone thinks your a bitch shouldn't be your concern. Get over it.
With that conversation behind us, we continued to work and produce. But, then we had this weird discussion one day. It's been so long that I don't even remember it now.
See, I'd go into her office for "mentoring," requested on my behalf. I really wanted to make this thing work and she really is the best in town so I wanted to learn from her. The truth is, I am amazed by her talent and really felt like I was working under someone that would go on to do something really big.
What it all boiled down to was that she couldn't understand why I wasn't as passionate about the work as she was. And, in this later meeting she teared up again and said to me, "When I think about everything I've given up to make this company work (sniff, sniff)."
I was disgusted by this whole pity me routine.
She chose to move to our small town and start this company (and let's face it, it's a lot easier being a big fish in a small pond), she chose to work weekends, she chose to sacrifice her social life . . . no one asked her to do it.
In my mind, I dismissed her at that point because I really didn't care to work harder for her. If I cranked out more jobs it meant more money to the company and more money for our paychecks is what we were told. But, uh . . . no. If I worked harder it meant I improved her bottom line and would only see a tiny cut of that. We didn't even have 401ks.
So, I started to care less and less, my work suffered, she let it be known and eventually I got to feeling like I couldn't do anything right and she let me know I was always disappointing her.
I left because I started to feel like a talentless joke.
So, I went back to corporate training because it was something that didn't require me to be creative. I at least learned this about myself: working 40 hours a week at a desk job is not for me.
You know what makes me feel better about having felt like such a loser? Everyone that has worked for her and quit feels the same way.
It's not that we are talentless. It's that she sets the bar so high that most of us keep banging our heads into it.
I am talented, just not in the way she wanted/needed me to be.
I was just not talented enough for her.
So, here I am a year later, working at a job that I love where people appreciate my skills.
A job that makes me feel good about myself and I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Baby Machine
Again?
That was the first thing I thought when one of my university friends sent me an email announcing that she's having a boy, let's call her Crafty.
This is Crafty's 3rd child, and if my calculations are correct she will have three children under the age of six in her house. All I can think is, "STOP!" Look into some birth control, some hobbies . . . I don't know, anything.
Crafty is a year younger than I am and has been married for (I think) nine years now. She married her high school sweetheart even. In fact, I think I was Maid-of-Honor in her wedding.
I don't really remember now because it seems it was such a long time ago and Crafty and I have really lost touch.
We just email occasionally now.
Anyway, she graduated from school with a degree in Human Ecology (Home Ec) with an emphasis in Fashion Design.
This is what I remember about Crafty the most.
See, she made a dress for me once. Such a cute dress that I got a zillion compliments on it the first time I wore it. People who didn't even know me were whispering, "Oh my god, look at that cute dress."
I heard them, even.
I graduated a year before she did and so did her spouse.
Being military, her spouse took off for training and then his first assignment, which meant that Crafty had to stay at university for 6 months without him.
Crafty was lost without him. She was so upset that she wanted to just quit school. Actually said, "It's not like I plan on ever really using my degree so I don't see the point in staying here without him."
Now, even though she was married her parents were still paying for her tuition, and having footed my own bill (partially) through college this really annoyed me.
The thing is, Crafty only went to university because her parents "made her." She went with the whole Fashion Design thing because she loved to sew (even though, she admitted, that in high school she was super competitive and always felt a small victory when she'd get a slightly higher grade than Sweetheart in Calculus). By all means, Crafty could have gone into the "hard sciences" and done really well.
In general, when I think about Crafty I get kind of annoyed.
Why? I have no idea.
As far as I know, she's thrilled being a stay-at-home mom, and I know that's what she's always wanted. She always used to say that she just wanted to be a wife and mom, but deep down I want more for her.
Maybe some part of me wants to validate my choices to work and forego children.
There's also a little part of me that thinks, "Why did she even bother with school?"
What was the point of having your parents shell out, out-of-state tuition when you had no intention of using your degree whatsoever?
To that, I think I have at least one answer.
Crafty's parents pretty much told her it was university or she was on her own.
And, I think, good god . . . why did all those women before us fight so hard for equality and opportunity when there's the likes of you running around?
You with your education and your decision to just pass GO and collect your MRS.
Then I realize, they did it for her.
They did it so that she could have that choice.
So, thanks Crafty for exercising your right to choose motherhood with no apologies to bitches like me who sometimes forget that it was about choice.
Congratulations on Baby 3!
That was the first thing I thought when one of my university friends sent me an email announcing that she's having a boy, let's call her Crafty.
This is Crafty's 3rd child, and if my calculations are correct she will have three children under the age of six in her house. All I can think is, "STOP!" Look into some birth control, some hobbies . . . I don't know, anything.
Crafty is a year younger than I am and has been married for (I think) nine years now. She married her high school sweetheart even. In fact, I think I was Maid-of-Honor in her wedding.
I don't really remember now because it seems it was such a long time ago and Crafty and I have really lost touch.
We just email occasionally now.
Anyway, she graduated from school with a degree in Human Ecology (Home Ec) with an emphasis in Fashion Design.
This is what I remember about Crafty the most.
See, she made a dress for me once. Such a cute dress that I got a zillion compliments on it the first time I wore it. People who didn't even know me were whispering, "Oh my god, look at that cute dress."
I heard them, even.
I graduated a year before she did and so did her spouse.
Being military, her spouse took off for training and then his first assignment, which meant that Crafty had to stay at university for 6 months without him.
Crafty was lost without him. She was so upset that she wanted to just quit school. Actually said, "It's not like I plan on ever really using my degree so I don't see the point in staying here without him."
Now, even though she was married her parents were still paying for her tuition, and having footed my own bill (partially) through college this really annoyed me.
The thing is, Crafty only went to university because her parents "made her." She went with the whole Fashion Design thing because she loved to sew (even though, she admitted, that in high school she was super competitive and always felt a small victory when she'd get a slightly higher grade than Sweetheart in Calculus). By all means, Crafty could have gone into the "hard sciences" and done really well.
In general, when I think about Crafty I get kind of annoyed.
Why? I have no idea.
As far as I know, she's thrilled being a stay-at-home mom, and I know that's what she's always wanted. She always used to say that she just wanted to be a wife and mom, but deep down I want more for her.
Maybe some part of me wants to validate my choices to work and forego children.
There's also a little part of me that thinks, "Why did she even bother with school?"
What was the point of having your parents shell out, out-of-state tuition when you had no intention of using your degree whatsoever?
To that, I think I have at least one answer.
Crafty's parents pretty much told her it was university or she was on her own.
And, I think, good god . . . why did all those women before us fight so hard for equality and opportunity when there's the likes of you running around?
You with your education and your decision to just pass GO and collect your MRS.
Then I realize, they did it for her.
They did it so that she could have that choice.
So, thanks Crafty for exercising your right to choose motherhood with no apologies to bitches like me who sometimes forget that it was about choice.
Congratulations on Baby 3!
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Too Happy To Write?
That was the title of an email my friend B sent me.
I read it, thought for a second and realized, "Kind of . . . "
But, the truth is that I just haven't had a whole hell of a lot to say these days.
Maybe it's February.
It's the shortest month of the year, but it seems so long to get through. What with the crummy weather and the promise of Spring right on the other side.
Plus, you know, fucking Valentine's Day is in February.
In year's past, Valentine's Day has never really been very special for me. J would always bring home flowers or something and we may have gone out to dinner somewhere, but there was never anything really special about the day.
It just felt like another date night only with flowers.
This year, I got a wild hair and some months ago asked S if he'd like to spend Valentine's Weekend in a cabin in the mountains. He sounded excited about it so that's what we did and it was awesome.
You don't need all of the details, but I will say that we went on some lovely hikes, there was a beautiful fire in our fireplace and everything felt right.
S took a walk to the park's general store at some point and when he came back he'd bought a blanket.
He held it up and said to me, "I know that we don't need it, but I thought that every time we used it, it would remind us of this weekend."
Ya'll, am I not supposed to fall in love with this man?
Other than that lovely weekend, February has dragged on like Britney Spears' career.
Also, I think February is a huge drag because my birthday is in March, and having to wait a whole month before I get presents again seems like a really long time.
I read it, thought for a second and realized, "Kind of . . . "
But, the truth is that I just haven't had a whole hell of a lot to say these days.
Maybe it's February.
It's the shortest month of the year, but it seems so long to get through. What with the crummy weather and the promise of Spring right on the other side.
Plus, you know, fucking Valentine's Day is in February.
In year's past, Valentine's Day has never really been very special for me. J would always bring home flowers or something and we may have gone out to dinner somewhere, but there was never anything really special about the day.
It just felt like another date night only with flowers.
This year, I got a wild hair and some months ago asked S if he'd like to spend Valentine's Weekend in a cabin in the mountains. He sounded excited about it so that's what we did and it was awesome.
You don't need all of the details, but I will say that we went on some lovely hikes, there was a beautiful fire in our fireplace and everything felt right.
S took a walk to the park's general store at some point and when he came back he'd bought a blanket.
He held it up and said to me, "I know that we don't need it, but I thought that every time we used it, it would remind us of this weekend."
Ya'll, am I not supposed to fall in love with this man?
Other than that lovely weekend, February has dragged on like Britney Spears' career.
Also, I think February is a huge drag because my birthday is in March, and having to wait a whole month before I get presents again seems like a really long time.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
An Actual Conversation on Instant Messenger
The following is a conversation held with my dad via IM:
Dad says:
Hola hija que tal estas?
Translation: Hello daughter, how are you?
Trixie says:
Good, oooh it's Mardi Gras day. You have the day off.
Trixie says:
Is it raining?
Dad says:
Hay 60% de chance pero no esta lloviendo.
Translation: There's a 60% chance, but it is not raining.
Dad says:
Como seguiste,dice tu Mami si ya estas mejor.
Translation: How have you been, you mom says you are better.
[I've been getting over a head cold.]
Trixie says:
Yeah, I feel good. I am still blowing my nose and coughing but I'm not tired anymore.
Dad says:
Ok that's a good sign.
Dad says:
Estas tomando medicina?
Translation: Are you taking medicine?
[Any time one of us coughs or sniffles my mom's first response is, "Are you taking medicine." So, the running gag at our house is to ask if you are taking medicine with varying degrees of panic in our voice.]
Trixie says:
No, I sleep well at night.
Dad says:
OK, Jason va a recibir su K. Cake hoy, ojala le guste.
Translation: Ok, Jason will recieve his King Cake today. I hope he likes it.
[It's Mardi Gras and King Cake is a sweet sugary confection sold only during carnival season and only regionally. Read more here: http://www.mardigrasunmasked.com/mardigras/king_cake.htm The first year J and I moved to CO, mom and dad sent us a king cake. It was a complete surprise and they did it every year until I moved to AL because they figured I could get it now that I was back in the South. Boy did they rue the day they quit sending one. We got one the following year. Yes, I am "the baby." ]
Melissa says:
Will they deliver it if he isn't home I wonder? I know he'll love it. That was very nice of you guys to do that for him.
Dad says:
You know we like him.
Dad says:
I think he is a good man.
Trixie says:
Well, you're certainly nicer to him now that he's not my husband.
Dad says:
I don't think so.
[I call bullshit and if J is reading this, he's probably just let out a loud, "HA!" and is also calling bullshit.]
Trixie says:
I do. Mom was always nice but you were different.
Dad says:
You know I'm overprotective when it comes to you, I'm thinking always of abusive men.
[Which, I misread as, "I'm thinking always of abusing men."]
Dad says:
I know that was not the case with him.
Trixie says:
Oh god, that's so funny. You know, there are certain red flags when it comes to abusive men.
[Read more here: http://www.acadv.org/abusers.html#characteristics]
Trixie says:
I used to work for the Coalition Against Domestic Violence. I remember the warning signals.
Trixie says:
I know what to look for and if I ever suspected anything like that the guy wouldn't be around for long.
Dad says:
I know.
Trixie says:
And, don't worry about that with S. He treats me with a lot of respect and gives me a lot of room to do what I need to do.
Dad says:
Ok, it is good to hear that.
Trixie says:
He's actually a lot like J in some ways only better because, you know . . . not gay.
Trixie says:
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Jesus says:
jajajaja
Translation: hahahaha
Trixie says:
Seriously, be nice to S. He's a good man.
Dad says:
Ok I'll try.
Trixie says:
And, most importantly, S treats J with a lot of respect.
Dad says:
Yes I have noticed that.
Trixie says:
Not a lot of straight men are comfortable with gay men, and I honestly think that S doesn't think of J as gay.
Trixie says:
He just thinks of J as . . . a guy.
Trixie says:
And, J treats S with a lot of respect. Trust me, if J didn't like S he would tell me. That is what best friends do.
Dad says:
Ok, we are going to the parades this afternoon, weather permitting.
[This is dad's not-so-subtle way of changing the subject. Yes, he is this abrupt in person as well.]
Trixie says:
Good!!! Mom will like that!
Trixie says:
Are you taking T?
[My mom's sister, my aunt.]
Dad says:
She is going with Shero to the Casino.
[This was funny to me because it's become family folklore. My aunt's boyfriend has been around for years, but my aunt's first language is not English so she has always called him "Shero." When I was filling out wedding invitations I asked my brother, "How do you spell Shero?" And my brother ask me, "Are you serious?" and then proceeds to laugh like a hyena. He finally composes himself and says, "It's Sheryl." Me, "Ohhhhhhhh . . . "]
Dad says:
WE might end up going too, we'll see.-Talk to you later.
Trixie says:
Have fun!!!
Trixie says:
Don't let mom flash for beads.
Dad says:
No, I wont.
Dad says:
Hola hija que tal estas?
Translation: Hello daughter, how are you?
Trixie says:
Good, oooh it's Mardi Gras day. You have the day off.
Trixie says:
Is it raining?
Dad says:
Hay 60% de chance pero no esta lloviendo.
Translation: There's a 60% chance, but it is not raining.
Dad says:
Como seguiste,dice tu Mami si ya estas mejor.
Translation: How have you been, you mom says you are better.
[I've been getting over a head cold.]
Trixie says:
Yeah, I feel good. I am still blowing my nose and coughing but I'm not tired anymore.
Dad says:
Ok that's a good sign.
Dad says:
Estas tomando medicina?
Translation: Are you taking medicine?
[Any time one of us coughs or sniffles my mom's first response is, "Are you taking medicine." So, the running gag at our house is to ask if you are taking medicine with varying degrees of panic in our voice.]
Trixie says:
No, I sleep well at night.
Dad says:
OK, Jason va a recibir su K. Cake hoy, ojala le guste.
Translation: Ok, Jason will recieve his King Cake today. I hope he likes it.
[It's Mardi Gras and King Cake is a sweet sugary confection sold only during carnival season and only regionally. Read more here: http://www.mardigrasunmasked.com/mardigras/king_cake.htm The first year J and I moved to CO, mom and dad sent us a king cake. It was a complete surprise and they did it every year until I moved to AL because they figured I could get it now that I was back in the South. Boy did they rue the day they quit sending one. We got one the following year. Yes, I am "the baby." ]
Melissa says:
Will they deliver it if he isn't home I wonder? I know he'll love it. That was very nice of you guys to do that for him.
Dad says:
You know we like him.
Dad says:
I think he is a good man.
Trixie says:
Well, you're certainly nicer to him now that he's not my husband.
Dad says:
I don't think so.
[I call bullshit and if J is reading this, he's probably just let out a loud, "HA!" and is also calling bullshit.]
Trixie says:
I do. Mom was always nice but you were different.
Dad says:
You know I'm overprotective when it comes to you, I'm thinking always of abusive men.
[Which, I misread as, "I'm thinking always of abusing men."]
Dad says:
I know that was not the case with him.
Trixie says:
Oh god, that's so funny. You know, there are certain red flags when it comes to abusive men.
[Read more here: http://www.acadv.org/abusers.html#characteristics]
Trixie says:
I used to work for the Coalition Against Domestic Violence. I remember the warning signals.
Trixie says:
I know what to look for and if I ever suspected anything like that the guy wouldn't be around for long.
Dad says:
I know.
Trixie says:
And, don't worry about that with S. He treats me with a lot of respect and gives me a lot of room to do what I need to do.
Dad says:
Ok, it is good to hear that.
Trixie says:
He's actually a lot like J in some ways only better because, you know . . . not gay.
Trixie says:
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Jesus says:
jajajaja
Translation: hahahaha
Trixie says:
Seriously, be nice to S. He's a good man.
Dad says:
Ok I'll try.
Trixie says:
And, most importantly, S treats J with a lot of respect.
Dad says:
Yes I have noticed that.
Trixie says:
Not a lot of straight men are comfortable with gay men, and I honestly think that S doesn't think of J as gay.
Trixie says:
He just thinks of J as . . . a guy.
Trixie says:
And, J treats S with a lot of respect. Trust me, if J didn't like S he would tell me. That is what best friends do.
Dad says:
Ok, we are going to the parades this afternoon, weather permitting.
[This is dad's not-so-subtle way of changing the subject. Yes, he is this abrupt in person as well.]
Trixie says:
Good!!! Mom will like that!
Trixie says:
Are you taking T?
[My mom's sister, my aunt.]
Dad says:
She is going with Shero to the Casino.
[This was funny to me because it's become family folklore. My aunt's boyfriend has been around for years, but my aunt's first language is not English so she has always called him "Shero." When I was filling out wedding invitations I asked my brother, "How do you spell Shero?" And my brother ask me, "Are you serious?" and then proceeds to laugh like a hyena. He finally composes himself and says, "It's Sheryl." Me, "Ohhhhhhhh . . . "]
Dad says:
WE might end up going too, we'll see.-Talk to you later.
Trixie says:
Have fun!!!
Trixie says:
Don't let mom flash for beads.
Dad says:
No, I wont.
Friday, February 04, 2005
History
Clearly, at this age we all have a little history and the baggage that comes with it.
This has been on my mind today because when S moved in he brought a lot of stuff. Not just clothes and such, but a huge bag of pictures.
I'd told him earlier in the week that I wanted to look at them sometime. His response,
"Go to town, baby."
So, last night after he left for work I pulled out a plastic bin (like the kind you're supposed to store shoes neatly in - HA!) and started going through his pictures.
I don't know the chronology on any of them, but I figured organizing them by size was better than them sitting in a plastic grocery bag.
It took me a few hours to go through them all and in the process I found pictures of one S's exes. THE ex.
We all have one, you know, the one that broke your heart into a million billion bits and then walked all over them on his or her way out the door.
And, it made me sad.
Sad because I know he loved her and it kills me that someone would take S's heart and break it into a million billion bits.
I was looking at pictures of the two of them, candids of her, thinking, "I wish S wouldn't have been so beaten down by that relationship. I really wish things would have been better for them."
Then I realized, "Fuck that!"
I wish his heart hadn't been broken just as much as I wish my heart had never been broken, but then who would we be today?
Would we even be together?
All the bad exes, the cheaters, the liars, the schemers . . . they have all led us to where we are today.
Sometimes I look at S and think, "Mayn, am I a lucky girl," and I think sometimes I see that reflected in his eyes (except for him thinking he's a lucky girl and all) and I realize we deserve each other.
For all the bullshit we have been through with our exes we are finally cashing in on our kharma.
Do I expect him to throw out the pictures?
Nah, all of that is part of his past.
I'm his present.
And, hopefully, his future.
This has been on my mind today because when S moved in he brought a lot of stuff. Not just clothes and such, but a huge bag of pictures.
I'd told him earlier in the week that I wanted to look at them sometime. His response,
"Go to town, baby."
So, last night after he left for work I pulled out a plastic bin (like the kind you're supposed to store shoes neatly in - HA!) and started going through his pictures.
I don't know the chronology on any of them, but I figured organizing them by size was better than them sitting in a plastic grocery bag.
It took me a few hours to go through them all and in the process I found pictures of one S's exes. THE ex.
We all have one, you know, the one that broke your heart into a million billion bits and then walked all over them on his or her way out the door.
And, it made me sad.
Sad because I know he loved her and it kills me that someone would take S's heart and break it into a million billion bits.
I was looking at pictures of the two of them, candids of her, thinking, "I wish S wouldn't have been so beaten down by that relationship. I really wish things would have been better for them."
Then I realized, "Fuck that!"
I wish his heart hadn't been broken just as much as I wish my heart had never been broken, but then who would we be today?
Would we even be together?
All the bad exes, the cheaters, the liars, the schemers . . . they have all led us to where we are today.
Sometimes I look at S and think, "Mayn, am I a lucky girl," and I think sometimes I see that reflected in his eyes (except for him thinking he's a lucky girl and all) and I realize we deserve each other.
For all the bullshit we have been through with our exes we are finally cashing in on our kharma.
Do I expect him to throw out the pictures?
Nah, all of that is part of his past.
I'm his present.
And, hopefully, his future.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Intuition
S works nights.
So, at around 6:30 a.m. he crawls into bed with me and I snuggle with him for about 30 minutes.
There is no better alarm clock ever invented.
This morning though, something felt . . . off.
I was laying on my right side and he curled up behind me and wrapped his arm around my waist.
I was groggy, but I stretched my left arm back and put it on his left thigh.
"Relax, " I whispered, "Your body feels really tense."
Normally, when he spoons me his body instantly relaxes. As if the second we make contact everything just goes away.
I dozed for another 30 minutes and when I rolled over to look at him he was on his back . . . eyes wide open.
I immediately asked, "What's wrong?"
And he preceeded to tell me what exactly was wrong.
I won't go into any detail regarding what was wrong because it's personal. Let's just say it has nothing to do with the two of us.
After he told me everything, he turned to me and asked, "How'd you know?"
Me, "Know what?"
Him, "That something was wrong?"
Me, "I don't know. Usually when you lay in bed you're out in two seconds. You never just lie there awake like I do."
Him, "No, you knew something was wrong before that. The second I touched you, you knew."
Me, "Oh, well you just felt different somehow. Usually when you curl up next to me you just sort of, I don't know, melt, sink in to me even."
Him, "Huh?"
Me, "Do you feel better having talked to me?"
Him, "Yeah, thank you."
Me, "No problem. Any time you've got something like this talk to me, okay?"
Pretty soon we were talking about ways to solve his problem and I said something silly and he was laughing. He shook his head, looked at me and said,
"I can't believe I'm even smiling."
Me, "I'm glad."
Him, "Thank you."
Thinking back on it, I don't really know what it was that lead me to believe something was up.
Yeah, we've been seeing each other for 10 months, but we haven't even lived together for a week yet.
Is it possible that I know him that well?
Was it intuition?
Whatever it was I'm just glad I didn't ignore it.
So, at around 6:30 a.m. he crawls into bed with me and I snuggle with him for about 30 minutes.
There is no better alarm clock ever invented.
This morning though, something felt . . . off.
I was laying on my right side and he curled up behind me and wrapped his arm around my waist.
I was groggy, but I stretched my left arm back and put it on his left thigh.
"Relax, " I whispered, "Your body feels really tense."
Normally, when he spoons me his body instantly relaxes. As if the second we make contact everything just goes away.
I dozed for another 30 minutes and when I rolled over to look at him he was on his back . . . eyes wide open.
I immediately asked, "What's wrong?"
And he preceeded to tell me what exactly was wrong.
I won't go into any detail regarding what was wrong because it's personal. Let's just say it has nothing to do with the two of us.
After he told me everything, he turned to me and asked, "How'd you know?"
Me, "Know what?"
Him, "That something was wrong?"
Me, "I don't know. Usually when you lay in bed you're out in two seconds. You never just lie there awake like I do."
Him, "No, you knew something was wrong before that. The second I touched you, you knew."
Me, "Oh, well you just felt different somehow. Usually when you curl up next to me you just sort of, I don't know, melt, sink in to me even."
Him, "Huh?"
Me, "Do you feel better having talked to me?"
Him, "Yeah, thank you."
Me, "No problem. Any time you've got something like this talk to me, okay?"
Pretty soon we were talking about ways to solve his problem and I said something silly and he was laughing. He shook his head, looked at me and said,
"I can't believe I'm even smiling."
Me, "I'm glad."
Him, "Thank you."
Thinking back on it, I don't really know what it was that lead me to believe something was up.
Yeah, we've been seeing each other for 10 months, but we haven't even lived together for a week yet.
Is it possible that I know him that well?
Was it intuition?
Whatever it was I'm just glad I didn't ignore it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Bad Girl!
This weekend was fabulous!!!!
I met S on Friday night in NO at a bar that we've been frequenting lately. The atmosphere is okay, the lingerie show (that I've never attended) seems a bit skeevy, but they have the best hamburgers!!!!
So, we met up there, ate, drank, I got the key to the room and he headed off to work.
Ya'll, I didn't realize how tired I was.
I unloaded my car, took a scalding hot shower and climbed into bed. I fell asleep watching the second Harry Potter movie.
At some point, my cell rang and it was S:
"Hey baby! I'm gettin' out early. I'll be there in a little while."
Me, "Hmmwha . . . oh, okay, great!"
Him, "Ooooh, I'm sorry baby. I didn't realize you'd be asleep."
Me, "'sokay. I'll see you soon."
I clicked my phone shut, laid it on my stomach and fell back asleep.
I don't know how much later it was, but my phone rang again.
This time it scared the shit out of me because I wasn't expecting to hear the vibratine. So, I jumped and it must have slithered off of me because when I did a half-assed search for it I couldn't find it.
In the back of my mind I though, "That's probably S telling me he's in the lot."
And, I turned over in bed and fell back asleep.
Because . . . I am a bad girlfriend.
Ya'll, when you add the 4.5 hour drive to 4 consecutive 12-hour workdays and you finally shut down . . . you SHUT FUCKIN' DOWN!
I was OUT!
It turns out S was calling me from the other side of our room's door. Yeah, he'd left his key in his truck and wanted me to let him in.
I know, I know . . .
The whole weekend was kind of a blur. We lazed in bed most of Saturday morning and eventually headed out, but we were so tired we gave up on any grand plans we may have had for Saturday.
On Sunday we went to the Quarter where S bought me the prettiest ring ever (not that kind of ring)and a groovy shirt. I also picked up some earrings and a Valentine's Day gift for J.
Then, we headed to Canal Place to catch Sideways. I liked it because it appealed to my, "I'm almost 30 and what have I really done with my life" crisis that I'm going through.
Before the movie started, S slipped his arm around me and I cuddled against his chest and I said, "You know, House of Flying Daggers is playing at the Capri [Montgomery indie theater] this weekend."
S, "You want to go see it when I come up?"
Me, pulling away from him to look at his face "You're coming up to visit this weekend?"
Him, eyes narrowing and peering at me, "Noooo, I'm moving up this weekend."
Me, eyes darting around like the busted doofus that I am, "That's THIS weekend?"
That's right folks, S is moving up and I completely forgot about it.
I lost track of the dates. I thought there was another week left in January or something.
Because . . . I am a bad girlfriend.
I met S on Friday night in NO at a bar that we've been frequenting lately. The atmosphere is okay, the lingerie show (that I've never attended) seems a bit skeevy, but they have the best hamburgers!!!!
So, we met up there, ate, drank, I got the key to the room and he headed off to work.
Ya'll, I didn't realize how tired I was.
I unloaded my car, took a scalding hot shower and climbed into bed. I fell asleep watching the second Harry Potter movie.
At some point, my cell rang and it was S:
"Hey baby! I'm gettin' out early. I'll be there in a little while."
Me, "Hmmwha . . . oh, okay, great!"
Him, "Ooooh, I'm sorry baby. I didn't realize you'd be asleep."
Me, "'sokay. I'll see you soon."
I clicked my phone shut, laid it on my stomach and fell back asleep.
I don't know how much later it was, but my phone rang again.
This time it scared the shit out of me because I wasn't expecting to hear the vibratine. So, I jumped and it must have slithered off of me because when I did a half-assed search for it I couldn't find it.
In the back of my mind I though, "That's probably S telling me he's in the lot."
And, I turned over in bed and fell back asleep.
Because . . . I am a bad girlfriend.
Ya'll, when you add the 4.5 hour drive to 4 consecutive 12-hour workdays and you finally shut down . . . you SHUT FUCKIN' DOWN!
I was OUT!
It turns out S was calling me from the other side of our room's door. Yeah, he'd left his key in his truck and wanted me to let him in.
I know, I know . . .
The whole weekend was kind of a blur. We lazed in bed most of Saturday morning and eventually headed out, but we were so tired we gave up on any grand plans we may have had for Saturday.
On Sunday we went to the Quarter where S bought me the prettiest ring ever (not that kind of ring)and a groovy shirt. I also picked up some earrings and a Valentine's Day gift for J.
Then, we headed to Canal Place to catch Sideways. I liked it because it appealed to my, "I'm almost 30 and what have I really done with my life" crisis that I'm going through.
Before the movie started, S slipped his arm around me and I cuddled against his chest and I said, "You know, House of Flying Daggers is playing at the Capri [Montgomery indie theater] this weekend."
S, "You want to go see it when I come up?"
Me, pulling away from him to look at his face "You're coming up to visit this weekend?"
Him, eyes narrowing and peering at me, "Noooo, I'm moving up this weekend."
Me, eyes darting around like the busted doofus that I am, "That's THIS weekend?"
That's right folks, S is moving up and I completely forgot about it.
I lost track of the dates. I thought there was another week left in January or something.
Because . . . I am a bad girlfriend.
Friday, January 21, 2005
So Tired
I'm tired.
So tired I'd like to just crawl into bed and sleep for days.
See, the place that I work for has a lot of members and lots of business to take care of. So, about once every quarter we throw a conference.
I don't know if any of you have ever hosted a conference, but typically it means 12-hour days. So yeah, I'm pretty tired right now.
The good news is that this weekend I'm going to be in New Orleans. That's right, I'm spending this weekend in S's arms and I can't think of any place I'd rather be.
But, before I sign off for the weekend, here's a song that is a few years old but I only listened to for the first time the other day (because, yeah, it's clear that I DO in fact live under a rock).
So cheesy, right?
So tired I'd like to just crawl into bed and sleep for days.
See, the place that I work for has a lot of members and lots of business to take care of. So, about once every quarter we throw a conference.
I don't know if any of you have ever hosted a conference, but typically it means 12-hour days. So yeah, I'm pretty tired right now.
The good news is that this weekend I'm going to be in New Orleans. That's right, I'm spending this weekend in S's arms and I can't think of any place I'd rather be.
But, before I sign off for the weekend, here's a song that is a few years old but I only listened to for the first time the other day (because, yeah, it's clear that I DO in fact live under a rock).
I Could Not Ask For More
Lying here with you
Listening to the rain
Smiling just to see the smile upon your face
These are the moments I thank God that I'm alive
These are the moments I'll remember all my life
I found all I've waited for
And I could not ask for more
Looking in your eyes
Seeing all I need
Everything you are is everything to me
These are the moments I know heaven must exist
These are the moments I know all I need is this I have all I've waited for
And I could not ask for more
Chorus
I could not ask for more than this time together
I could not ask for more than this time with you
Every prayer has been answered
Every dream I have's come true
And right here in this moment is right where I'm meant to be
Here with you here with me
These are the moments I thank God that I'm alive
These are the moments I'll remember all my life
I've got all I've waited for
And I could not ask for more
Chorus
I could not ask for more than the love you give me
'cuz it's all I've waited for
And I could not ask for more
I could not ask for more
So cheesy, right?
Monday, January 17, 2005
Bounce
I've grown up in a family of bouncers.
Not bar bouncers, car bouncers.
Car bouncing is this thing that my dad does when he gasses up the car.
The gas pump shuts off and my dad proceeds to bounce the car two or three times.
His theory is that this makes the gas settle and so you can top it off just a little bit more.
I know, I know . . .
The thing is, as crazy as it sounds, I bounce the car, too.
I kind of lean into it and give it a bounce.
This was an ongoing argument with J and I. The validity of bouncing and the dangers of topping off.
Not to long ago, I was riding around with S and realized I was low on gas (like, my light's been on for a while now so I guess I should get gas kind of low) and I decided to pull into the next gas station I found.
I pulled up to the pump, turned off the car and reached for my seatbelt and he said, "Stay, I'll do it."
I thought, "That's nice, cool."
So, I leaned in and gave him a kiss and off he went.
I sat in the car fiddling with the radio station and just as I heard the pump click off I felt the car bounce.
Once, twice . . . three times.
He got in the car, I grinned and asked, "Did you just bounce the car?"
Him, "Huh? Oh, yeah. You know you can add just a little bit more gas that way."
Hee.
Not bar bouncers, car bouncers.
Car bouncing is this thing that my dad does when he gasses up the car.
The gas pump shuts off and my dad proceeds to bounce the car two or three times.
His theory is that this makes the gas settle and so you can top it off just a little bit more.
I know, I know . . .
The thing is, as crazy as it sounds, I bounce the car, too.
I kind of lean into it and give it a bounce.
This was an ongoing argument with J and I. The validity of bouncing and the dangers of topping off.
Not to long ago, I was riding around with S and realized I was low on gas (like, my light's been on for a while now so I guess I should get gas kind of low) and I decided to pull into the next gas station I found.
I pulled up to the pump, turned off the car and reached for my seatbelt and he said, "Stay, I'll do it."
I thought, "That's nice, cool."
So, I leaned in and gave him a kiss and off he went.
I sat in the car fiddling with the radio station and just as I heard the pump click off I felt the car bounce.
Once, twice . . . three times.
He got in the car, I grinned and asked, "Did you just bounce the car?"
Him, "Huh? Oh, yeah. You know you can add just a little bit more gas that way."
Hee.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Baby Mine
Last night I worked late.
Really late. So when I got home I just wanted to veg out. I reheated some Chinese food and settled down in front of the tv. I was flipping channels and I ran across this:
"Cindy Margolis Inside Out"
I didn't know who Ms. Margolis was prior to watching this show. But, here's a link to her website: http://www.cindymargolis.com/ so from the looks of her I kind of thought Inside Out was going to be something about her rise as a porn star or something.
As someone who harbors a secret ambition to be a porn star (or at least a stripper, because . . . how fucking cool would that be!), I was immediately compelled to watch. (My strpper name would be something along the lines of Brown Sugar or Hot Mami.)
Imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a special on Ms. Margolis and her hubby's struggles with infertility and their attempt to conceive through In Vitro Fertilization (IVF).
Maybe it's because I'm 29 and childless with no spouse to father my children. Maybe it's because I have friends who've been unable to have babies, but this show thoroughly sucked me in.
I sat there for an hour, watching her spouse shoot her up with hormones, listening to them argue about the need to get the shot at the exact time every day (which, you don't but it gave her peace of mind so shutupyoubigtool because if it makes her feel better and she's all hormonal anyway so you'd better fucking just suck it and be late to that goddamn Laker game. JACKASS!)
And then I cried.
SPOILER ALERT!
First I got upset because she didn't have enough embryos to put a couple on ice in case this didn't work.
Then, it started out with this lump in my throat when she told her spouse that she didn't want to go to the clinic and get the pregnancy test. As if she was trying to hold on to the ignorance of not knowing and believing in possibility.
I sniffled because she knew that emotionally she couldn't go through the weeks of shots again if it didn't happen this time.
Then I cried because her pregnancy test came out negative.
And then I kind of freaked out because . . . HELLO!
I'm 29 with no children and no spouse. I want children someday dammit.
What if I can't have any!?!
When I look at family history, it would appear that I will be able to conceive until my early forties. But you know what, that sometimes doesn't matter. My friend C's sisters all easily conceived well into their 30's, as did their mother, but it just wasn't a go for C.
She started going through perimenopause at 29!
I realize I'm overreacting and the fact that I'm due to start my period soon isn't helping matters, but I get sad at the thought of not having my own child.
I know adoption is an option, but I actually want to go through the experience of being pregnant, labor, delivery and nursing. (I know it's not going to be a picnic, but I walked home on a broken leg once so I figure I might have a reasonably high pain tolerance.)
I get sad at the idea of not being able to tell my husband, "Honey, I'm pregnant!" and then watching his face break out into a huge grin.
I want to feel him put his hand on my tummy, lay with my head on his chest and ask, "So, do you think it's going to be a boy or a girl."
I want him to help me fight the good fight against stretch marks and help me slather cocoa butter on my growing bump.
I want him to kiss that bump and hear him say, "Come on little one, I can't wait to hold you."
I want him there with me on the big day, when I'm cussing him out and telling him I'll never allow him to touch me again because the pain is so consuming, helping me bring into this world the lovely little baby that's about to change our lives forever.
If it doesn't happen, I guess I can always try and make that whole porn star/stripper thing work.
Really late. So when I got home I just wanted to veg out. I reheated some Chinese food and settled down in front of the tv. I was flipping channels and I ran across this:
"Cindy Margolis Inside Out"
I didn't know who Ms. Margolis was prior to watching this show. But, here's a link to her website: http://www.cindymargolis.com/ so from the looks of her I kind of thought Inside Out was going to be something about her rise as a porn star or something.
As someone who harbors a secret ambition to be a porn star (or at least a stripper, because . . . how fucking cool would that be!), I was immediately compelled to watch. (My strpper name would be something along the lines of Brown Sugar or Hot Mami.)
Imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a special on Ms. Margolis and her hubby's struggles with infertility and their attempt to conceive through In Vitro Fertilization (IVF).
Maybe it's because I'm 29 and childless with no spouse to father my children. Maybe it's because I have friends who've been unable to have babies, but this show thoroughly sucked me in.
I sat there for an hour, watching her spouse shoot her up with hormones, listening to them argue about the need to get the shot at the exact time every day (which, you don't but it gave her peace of mind so shutupyoubigtool because if it makes her feel better and she's all hormonal anyway so you'd better fucking just suck it and be late to that goddamn Laker game. JACKASS!)
And then I cried.
SPOILER ALERT!
First I got upset because she didn't have enough embryos to put a couple on ice in case this didn't work.
Then, it started out with this lump in my throat when she told her spouse that she didn't want to go to the clinic and get the pregnancy test. As if she was trying to hold on to the ignorance of not knowing and believing in possibility.
I sniffled because she knew that emotionally she couldn't go through the weeks of shots again if it didn't happen this time.
Then I cried because her pregnancy test came out negative.
And then I kind of freaked out because . . . HELLO!
I'm 29 with no children and no spouse. I want children someday dammit.
What if I can't have any!?!
When I look at family history, it would appear that I will be able to conceive until my early forties. But you know what, that sometimes doesn't matter. My friend C's sisters all easily conceived well into their 30's, as did their mother, but it just wasn't a go for C.
She started going through perimenopause at 29!
I realize I'm overreacting and the fact that I'm due to start my period soon isn't helping matters, but I get sad at the thought of not having my own child.
I know adoption is an option, but I actually want to go through the experience of being pregnant, labor, delivery and nursing. (I know it's not going to be a picnic, but I walked home on a broken leg once so I figure I might have a reasonably high pain tolerance.)
I get sad at the idea of not being able to tell my husband, "Honey, I'm pregnant!" and then watching his face break out into a huge grin.
I want to feel him put his hand on my tummy, lay with my head on his chest and ask, "So, do you think it's going to be a boy or a girl."
I want him to help me fight the good fight against stretch marks and help me slather cocoa butter on my growing bump.
I want him to kiss that bump and hear him say, "Come on little one, I can't wait to hold you."
I want him there with me on the big day, when I'm cussing him out and telling him I'll never allow him to touch me again because the pain is so consuming, helping me bring into this world the lovely little baby that's about to change our lives forever.
If it doesn't happen, I guess I can always try and make that whole porn star/stripper thing work.
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