I will do my best to post substantively tomorrow.
Still pretty blah. Wondering about the "Dead Parent Club," of which Michelle spoke the other night. Pretty crappy club, if you ask me.
In the meantime, you get some more videos from the Harry Potter Puppet Pals:
Why? Because you NEEDED them.
It's hard to stay downhearted when it's 80 degrees and sunny in December.
But I somehow managed it.
Man, I'm just kicked to the curb.
Work got backed up, of course, while I was gone (seriously, it was only THREE DAYS, people). My body feels fat and bloated from all of that rich food we ate up there. I've done a fairly good job of getting back to Egg Beaters and chicken breasts - free and yummy trip to The Melting Pot last night notwithstanding - but finding time to really exercise has become challenging.
And the creative juices? They are not flowing. Rather, they are stagnating and fermenting, like my sour, bloaty stomach.
I think I'll just stop now. You're welcome.
I'm back in Austin; it's all over.
Man. I want so much to write about everything, but I'm just sort of blown out. I'll give it a shot, but it's entirely possible that I may have to abort this attempt.
First of all, the support of our friends and family was nothing short of astounding. I have never seen so many people send flowers, or call, or stop by with food, ever, in my life. (I have never seen THAT MUCH FOOD in my life. Do your families eat like there is no fucking tomorrow when there's a death, or is it just mine?) The house was positively drenched with the smell of flowers. People came from so far away...seriously, mind-bogglingly far, to be with us. Me, even. We, I, are deeply humbled, and so grateful, to receive that kind of support.
The planning of the funeral was the part that I dreaded, but even that turned out to be OK. We, not being church-goers, only met the minister that would be performing the service the night before. We requested a nice, simple Methodist, and one was delivered, on time, at 7:30 on Sunday night. He arrived, and - lo and behold, there stood before us a jovial, heavy-set, red-headed older man, from northwest Missouri...wearing a BLACK AND GOLD STRIPED TIE. As the evening progressed, and we told all of our stories, it was revealed that this minister - a Morel-mushroom hunting, fishing, and Missouri Tiger fanatic - was actually my father's soulmate. (Albeit being much more, well, peaceful and ministerial and all that.) He ended up staying a bit late because his wife was a little long in finding our house, and thus my mother had time to show him ALL of her MU memorabilia. We were all absolutely delighted with each other. It was precious.
The one thing we asked was that Dad would not have been into scripture-reading or hymn-singing, and that we would rather have the minister tell stories about him. So, my sister, brother, and I each wrote out our favorite memories...and the minister read ALL of them. It was really very moving, and exactly what he would have wanted.
Then, the minister ends his sermon, and says something along the lines of this: "I'm not supposed to tell anyone during my services that I didn't know the deceased. I'm breaking a big rule here. But, I must tell you, that perhaps more than any other time I've done this, I feel like I know Richard, just from the evening I spent at his house, with his family, last night." And then he passed out a copy, to the family, of this cartoon, in which a man, entering heaven, sees a field of morel mushrooms, and says "It's just like I always dreamed."
Dad? Not much for the ceremonies...but he would have LOVED it.
I'm glad I'm home. I feel like someone's been hitting me with sticks for five days. (The OG and the YG were great at the funeral, by the way, open casket and all. OG probably had like ten cookies later, I was feeling so generous to her.) I'm glad that I got to see my nephews, whom I adore deeply and never get to see. I'm glad that my mom is holding it together, even though she wasn't ready to see him go. And, I'm glad that he left, the way he wanted to, at home, and I'm sure to the absolute core of my being that he was ready.
There are other memories, of course, besides the good ones. But, those are for later.
For the record, this is what I wrote for the funeral:
My favorite memory of Dad was of him taking me to the Olde Firehouse, by ourselves, when Mom was at NEA meetings. (This was after John and Sharon had left for college, and it was just the two of us for dinner on quite a few nights.) He loved the Mexican food at the Olde Firehouse, and I did, too. He ate the hot salsa, and mine was the mild. (He would be proud to know that mine is the hot salsa now. I've clearly inherited his love of hot and spicy food.)
My friends asked me to remind everyone about the breakfasts he would cook for them when they stayed over at my house. Whenever we rolled out of bed - no matter the hour - Dad would have coffee made, and a table full of bacon, eggs, and toast with jelly, all hot, and piled high. He was a very gracious host to me and my friends when we came; nobody ever left here feeling like anything but family.
Dad initially thought that I would be a good fisherman...as, at the beginning of his "training," I was! However, I lost my taste for it early on, after I realized that I was killing the fish. My anti-fishing strike began at about age 9, and I've never picked up a rod since then. In my newly-activist desire to save all of the little fishies, I had a secret, pre-PETA-inspired quest that did NOT please my father, and that was to set free all of his minnows from his bait buckets in the lake. When he wasn't looking, I would sneak down to the docks, and "accidentally" spring the latch on the buckets. (He knew.) And, though I did really feel for the poor minnows, the final straw came the day that he brought home a bait bucket full of crawdads. Now, I LOVED crawdads, as I caught the ones that lived near our docks, and fed them shrimp and bread, on a nearly daily basis. Dad let it be known in no uncertain terms that these were bait, and were not to be touched. He went to bed, and I sat there with Sharon, who was babysitting me, watching TV that night, completely unable to think of anything except the crawdads. Sharon, finally tired of my sniffling, looked at me and said, "Do what you think is right." I thought about it for a second, and then walked down to the dock, in the dark, and let loose the crawdads. The next morning, I did not say a word about it...and Dad, who must have figured it out the next day, never mentioned it, either.
One of my earliest memories of Dad was shopping for his birthday - or Father's Day, can't remember which - present at Dolgin's with my mother. I was probably about three years old. I insisted that he would want, above all else, a Fisher-Price Little People Doll House. And so, that is what my mother got him. He graciously thanked me, and told me that I could play with it anytime I wanted. Another early memory is when I filled out the order form for the $30 Disney book that I wanted, and took it to the mailbox and mailed it, all by myself, at age four. He could have been livid - that was a lot of money for a book, at that time - but he thought it was so cute, that he let me keep the book. To this day, I still have that book.
Thanks for all of your kind words regarding my dad's passing. It was a bit harried for a little while getting plane tickets and getting out the door yesterday morning, but we all arrived in Kansas City yesterday evening with no complications.
Because the funeral home wouldn't confirm with my mother exactly when the funeral would be, I planned a fairly wide window that I would be up here - from yesterday until Tuesday. And, it looks like it was a good thing that I did, as it won't be held until Monday morning. (That was kind of a hassle...they knew all along that they were having some sort of event all day Saturday, which was when my mom wanted to have it, but they wouldn't TELL her that until yesterday afternoon. The kids could have stayed in school another day, you know?)
I've now heard the whole story of how Dad died. He started getting sick Wednesday morning, and - being my father - refused to go to the hospital that morning, and again that afternoon, and again that evening. When his breathing got very bad, Mom called the ambulance, but they couldn't bring him back.
I believe that this is what he wanted, and that he was wholly ready to go. It's never pleasant, of course, but he died here at home, not at the hospital, which was his desire.
Everything is calm up here now; there's just the comings and goings of people with casseroles and such. My brother arrived from Boston last night, and of course my poor sister - who was here at the house for the whole horrible thing - is also here, although she's taking a well-deserved rest today. The girls are eagerly awaiting the arrival of their cousins, my brother's boys, who will arrive tonight. (Their response to all this is rather clinical and curious, and not particularly emotional. I suppose that's normal for their age.) The adults are going through papers, and calling insurance and social security peoples and the like.
So, it looks like we'll just be talking and gathering and eating for the weekend. There's a brisket, and baked beans, and a whole lot of cookies...and Lee, being Lee, stocked us with a fridge full of Boulevard Nutcracker Ale. Erin and Trish will be coming -which was VERY nice and totally unexpected - and have offered to come to rub my shoulders and raise a glass with us.
The festive aspect of funerals always interests me. I've never been to a family funeral that didn't also involve a lot of joy in the reuniting.
And, I know that my Dad - the bringer of the enormous breakfasts - would not have had it any other way.
-----------------------------
Postscript: And yes, my mother did exclaim, "Oh, what a shame you'll have to miss the football game!"
My dad died.
I'm assuming I'll be out of pocket for a while, though I may visit here briefly as needed for sanity's sake.
Happy 300th post! Shall we celebrate?
Actually, erm, hold that thought. My belly is plumb celebrated out. This week shall be one of Egg Beaters, sliced turkey breast, and steamed vegetables. NO. MORE. CHEESE. (Or delightfully fattening cheese sticks, though the leftovers are singing their siren song to me, even now.) Alcohol shall be eschewed in favor of nice digestive teas. (Until next Saturday, and the Big XII Championship Game, beeyotches!)
But I'll not tire you with more football and/or Midwestern history lessons tonight. Tonight is the night on Mags when we chill and watch The Simpsons on the TiFaux.
Hope you have all recovered. In the words of the OG tonight, "Whew, I'm glad THAT vacation's over!"
36-28.
Damn, that was a hard-fought victory.
A belated congratulations for a great season to the KU Jayhawks. Though it's hard to believe - given my previous post - were it any other year, I would be right there with y'all. I'd so much rather see someone like KU in a championship game than someone like Oklahoma or Texas, who have seen more than their share of title games. (No offense, honey. Hook 'em, mean it!)
And, in my regrets for my pre- and during-game anxiety, I am very sorry for calling KU Coach Mark Mangino "Mark ManGINA." That was not called for. (However, it was a tincy bit funny. Might have been the wine.)
For this night only, and in tribute...Rock Chalk, Jayhawk. See you, and your badass quarterback, next year.
Now...The Man has gotten us tickets for the Big 12 Championship Game against Oklahoma next weekend in San Antonio. Wonder what we're doing with our kids?
I grew up on the outskirts of Kansas City, MO, about five miles from the Kansas/Missouri border; less than that as the crow flies, or if you'd wanted to swim across the (huge and log-swollen) Kansas River.
It seems, perhaps, to an outlander, a strange point of pride, to claim oneself a "Missourian" over a "Kansan," particularly when we share a major city, split nearly halfway down the middle. And, lets face it: to anyone else in the country, this is Flyover Land, our big hair and un-Yoga'd, barbecue-fed keisters indistinguishable from those of twenty other states.
But, to a Missourian and a Kansan, you are One. Or. The. Other. Period. And if you are The Other, this could, very well, be a problem.
Again, to an outsider, this would perhaps be linked to the great sports rivalry between our two major state universities, the University of Missouri and the University of Kansas (MU and KU, respectively. No, I don't know why it's not U of M and U of K. It just isn't.) They wouldn't be wrong; this is a very huge and storied rivalry, and the oldest west of the Mississippi. They've been keeping stats on MU vs. KU for over a hundred years now...and we can't even agree on THOSE.
But, the history behind this conflict is actually much deeper than similar rivalries, such as UT vs. Oklahoma, or UT vs. Texas A&M. Those, to my eyes, mostly appear to stem from long exposure to each other's teams in the same conferences, and yes, proximity of two major universities that are packed to the gills with drunk-ass testosterone-fueled college students.
No, the MU/KU divide, like the Missouri/Kansas divide, was birthed in the good old days of slavery, and those heady pre-Civil War days of border raids, murder of innocents, and burning of villages to the ground. (I'm going to apologize in advance to my History Major Friends - and you know who you are - for putting forth what is a total simplification of the facts. The lateness of the hour, and the limits of my patience, forbid me from telling the whole story. But I'll try to sum it up as best I can. If I get anything very very wrong, tell me, and I'll amend it.)
Kansas was admitted to the union under a clause in which the residents were to elect whether they were going to allow slavery or not. It was assumed that Kansas would become a slave state, but an enormous amount of violence erupted as a result. (This became known in the popular parlance as "Bleeding Kansas.") It seems that many Kansans - who will forever hold the moral high ground, and I'll swear to that - were pro-Union abolitionists ("Jayhawkers," in the common parlance,) particularly over in Lawrence, the neighboring village to Kansas. Fiery old John Brown was a Kansan, and the gun he was raising over his head in most of his iconography was mostly aimed towards the immediate east.
My state, I'm sad to say, was a slave state, and while not secessionists per se, we were clearly horribly, morally, in the wrong. Due to the passions and the horrifying conflict of the years leading up to the Civil War, skirmishes erupted on both sides of the borders, stemming from both sides. In many ways, these skirmishes - portrayed in the very good Ang Lee movie Ride With the Devil, if you are so interested - were the kindling to the beginning of the Civil War.
During the Civil War, the Union army conducted a few atrocities, including imprisoning (and executing) women and children who were accused of aiding and abetting the guerillas. The land of these women was also seized and given to pro-Union sympathizers. The Union attacked Osceola, MO, and nine men were given a quickie "trial" and executed in short order.
As a response to these events, a man named William Quantrill led a guerilla raid into Lawrence, in which he and his men burned the town of Lawrence to the ground, and systematically executed all of the males in the town, including young boys. When the day was over, 187 were dead, and nearly every building burned.
Needless to say, the repercussions on my state, when the Union came in to put the smackdown on these folks, were severe. The Union essentially evicted EVERYONE in four counties on the Missouri side of the border from their land - including my mother's ancestors, as a side note - and burned everything to the ground. Quantrill died, and the guerillas petered out after the end of the Civil War, leaving only a few disgruntled folks on the Missouri side whose mamas had lost their land; notably, Frank and Jesse James, two of my other, erm, famous hometown boys.
(Whew. You still with me? Good. If you're bored with this, scroll down. There's a hot picture of Sting on my last post.)
So, fast-forward to the present day. I am a fourth-generation Missouri Tiger. Plenty of my high school friends went to KU, and that was typical, as it was actually closer to my house than MU was. However, in my family, going to KU would have been, shall we say, FROWNED UPON. (Unless I was going to be a doctor, and in that case, it would have been grudgingly approved, as long as I swore never, ever to root for their sports teams.)
The MU-KU game is legendary, in our schools...but, at least in football, honestly, it rarely, if ever, means anything to anyone else but us. Quite frankly, our football teams have historically, well, SUCKED. We are usually lucky to make it into some lame-assed bowl - my favorite being the "Insight.com Bowl" one year - which is why, typically, we have MORE fun during the MU-KU game than any silliness that goes on in the post-season.
UNTIL. THIS. YEAR.
Missouri is number THREE. KU is number TWO. IN THE NATION.
And THE NUMBER ONE TEAM IN THE NATION - LSU, my mother-in-law's beloved alma mater - JUST LOST.
The winner of this game - it's tomorrow night - goes to the Big 12 Championship, and, if they win that one...they go to the National Fucking Championship Game.
This is it, it's for all the marbles. This will NEVER happen again. The winner of this game will have bragging rights for thirty years. And the loser will hang their head in shame.
Oh, my God. I am just about to burst out of my freaking skin in anticipation.
And, now, you know the vicious backstory. I hope you watch the game, and enjoy it, if you're into that sort of thing. Really, I wouldn't blame you for choosing John Brown's side over Quantrill's, but I promise you, the pro-vs-anti-slavery issue isn't a thing anymore. (If anything, you can think of Kansas's new infamy, and root against them as the "Anti-Evolutionist State.")
Go Tigers.
-----------------------------------------
On a related note, here's some of the (admittedly tacky on our part) t-shirts that have been spotted on the MU-KU fans of late:
...on the back of which reads "Missouri 187; Kansas 0."
...on the back of which reads "Suck it, Slaver!"
Now, do you see? DO YOU SEE?
(And why? At $90 a ticket...$110 with parking and service charge...I really feel that I have no choice. It's my Big Social Event of the season, by default.)
I am still basking in the joy of last night, my first Police concert since the Synchronicity Tour in 1983. (November 24, 1983, according to Wikipedia. Nearly 24 years to the day. Damn.) My face literally hurts from the huge grin I had plastered on my face all night long.
The evening started off with a rush-hour, pre-holiday-weekend, thankless drive to San Antonio. (Huge thanks to BobNoxious, our mostly cheerful driver, even after the end of the first hour, when we were still in South Austin. Cristen and I were free to get our pre-concert beer on, and to debate the relative merits of Regatta de Blanc and Outlandos d' Amour as they were played over the car stereo.)
The AT&T Center in San Antonio was a fairly standard stadium venue; but, lord, how long has it been since I attended a "stadium concert?" I think, maybe U2 back in the early 90's? I went with an old boyfriend to see James Brown at the Erwin Center, but it was really a fairly small show...not sure if that counts. Anyway, it was big, but the crowd last night was only about 11,000. That seemed strange...I think Houston sold out in like minutes.
Our seats were a little crappy, but not horrible. None of the three of us were willing to pay $200 for floor seats, but we did get first balcony...however, the stadium itself was oddly rectangular, and we were sitting in what was essentially the opposite corner from the stage, so that if we looked straight ahead, we would just be looking at the seats on the other side of the stadium. Our seats were exactly the ones that formed the right-hand turn of the corner - what is inappropriately named the "Super Box" - so the whole section was sort of crammed together and craning our heads to the right. But, the good news is, that two ginormous Bud Lights in plastic stadium cups later, there was little to no discomfort noted.
Sting's son Joe Sumner opened the show with his band, Fiction Plane. Now, I usually eschew all opening bands, but I liked them. Honestly, when we walked in, and they were already playing, I was afraid that we were late...Joe sounds JUST like his dad! (Can't believe he's 30...shit.) I'm considering getting their album, or at least a few songs off of iTunes.
Man, though, good as the opening act was, the electricity that coursed through that place when these three - OLD - guys took the stage was freakin' amazing. (Eat your heart out, Hannah Montana.) From the opening moments - Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up" - we were on our feet, and remained there for almost the entire show.
Thanks to the lovely interweb, the set list from last night was posted somewhere almost immediately. Perhaps the thing to do is just amend that list with my observations? (Note: Every song not annotated should include the default statement "I was totally blissed out when they played THAT one.")
1. Message in a Bottle
They take the stage. Sting is in a clingy forest-green t-shirt. Fucking SHIT, he is still AMAZING LOOKING. Seriously! Look at those arms! And six-pack abs! Cristen and I, goggle-eyed, confirm that we know no twenty-year-olds with a body like that. Damn, this song is still really good, too. We dance in our confined seats.
You would think that his sexiness would have declined in 24 years. You would think that he'd not look as good, or that age would have tempered his insane hotness.
But you'd be wrong.
2. Synchronicity II
My favorite Police song. It has the good rock-and-roll thrash that I missed in all the several subsequent Sting solo concerts that I've attended, which all seemed to be jazzy and mellow. They sound great. Super tight. I can't believe it's only the three of them, making that wall of sound.
3. Walking On The Moon
Stewart Copeland has also aged really well. Same floppy hair; just a bit grayer. I'd take Stewart, too, probably any day...but, poor guy, it's like standing near the sun. Andy Summers looks like a small, aged hobbit.
4. Voices Inside My Head
Elfin or not, Andy is still an OUTSTANDING guitar player. Wow, they are the ultimate rock stars. I can't believe they ever hated each other.
5. When The World Is Running Down
Cool! The really old stuff! This song is one of their best ever. Cristen and I are seriously getting on our white-girl 80's bop dance. Bob is amused. At one point, the phrase, "Good CHRIST, I love him!" is shrieked. Might have been me.
6. Don't Stand So Close To Me
He says, "Before I got this job, I used to be a teacher." Cristen and I decide that we'd have mixed emotions if he were our daughter's teacher. She decides that she'd need a conference.
7. Driven To Tears
Nice one. A closeup on the big screen of Andy's guitar reveals that his hands are actually carved from wizened pieces of driftwood. But they are still smoking on that thing.
8. Truth Hits Everybody
We don't know this one, but it is very rocking. We enjoy.
9. Hole In My Life
Man, they are totally hitting the back catalog! Approximately 100 of us in the crowd know this song and are dancing. Why isn't this concert in Austin? I bet every person at a Police concert in Austin would know every word to every song, and would be at completely rapt attention.
10. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
They take this one slower than they should. It's a jubilant song, and they play it jazzy and a bit slowed-down. I consider peeing. It's getting slightly urgent. But...no. Not just yet.
11. Wrapped Around Your Finger
Do you remember all those candles in the video? And seeing that video 10,ooo million times? I do. Bob points out that, in our post-cigarette smoking times, nobody holds up lighters anymore. We all decide that holding up cell phones is extremely queer.
12. De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
We all agree that this is a dumb song. But, by this point, Cristen and I have decided that we'd pay $90 a ticket to hear him read the phone book. We sing "AAA Automotive...ABC Plumbing..." along with the song.
13. Invisible Sun
Cool. A dark one. Somehow, though, the crowd is getting more amped up, now. Good, about damn time.
14. Walking In Your Footsteps
Much call and response. I still have to pee. But not yet.
15. Can't Stand Losing You
AIEEE! I can't believe they're playing this one! Total back catalog. They're bound and determined to rock out tonight.
16. Roxanne
First encore. Completely expected. But, no denying the thrill of seeing the red lights come on the big screen.
17. King Of Pain
This is the big crowd pleaser? Everyone is finally singing in unison. Don't get me wrong; it's a fantastic song...it's just kind of, well, an obsessive bummer. But, hey, you gotta go with it. Yes, Sting, that's my soul up there.
18. So Lonely
Yeah. Blistering reggae backbeat. My head is about to bop off my shoulders. My love, you can't hit ALL the high notes anymore, but what you can still do with your voice is fairly startling.
19. Every Breath You Take
Of course. Bob, Cristen, and I remember them playing this song about three times per hour on MTV and on nearly every radio station for like 10 weeks straight. Thus, it's our collective least-favorite song...but, upon a good, hard, re-listen, it really is great...it's dark, obsessive, and freaky, and not anything like a love song, actually. I would have ended with "Synchronicity 2" - something a little more rockin' out - but, it's still a great finale.
By the time I finally peed, I was about one nanosecond away from deep embarrassment. Thankfully, I made it out sans accident. Bob drove us home, to The Man, who had valiantly volunteered to watch all four (!) children, all by himself.
Sadly, this was not the evening that Sting chose me from the crowd; the night that he had but to point at me and crook his finger, and I would forget my previous life and be his forever. Next time, then? Call me!
I'm 38 years old today.
Take your English Major medicine.
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie.
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
----"Spring and Fall to a Young Child;" G.M.H.
--------------------------------------------
A recap of the childless birthday weekend:
Friday night: Eight of us went to dinner at Bellagio, a fairly spendy Italian restaurant in North Austin that Lee took me to a long time ago. I wanted Italian, I remembered it was good, so we went there.
The evening was...well, quite frankly, kind of bizarre. Our waiter was very good, but just this side of creepy. He served and advised well, but...he was very chummy by the end of the evening. Kind of cracking wise with us, but in a very superior kind of fashion. And though he started the evening with a pronounced speech impairment, it had completely disappeared by the end of the evening (admittedly some hours later).
And the food was really unremarkable, for the most part. Some things were definitely off. The tomato salad was mealy, and I sent it back, and my filet was cold, and I sent it back. (I ended up waiting like 15 minutes for the filet, and when it returned, it was pretty much after everyone else had finished.) Admittedly, the filet, when it returned, was fantastic, but neither of these things were removed from the menu, and they should have been.
The upside to the evening was that our waiter, odd and chummy man that he was, kept the wine glasses full all evening in such a stealthy fashion that my wine glass was never actually empty. Which made me, um, lose track of exactly how much wine I had drunk. Which turned out to be a lot, actually. (It was this kind of evening: Eric, at one point, just stopped talking and said to the group, "You know how I know [Mags] has had too much to drink? When she starts gesturing VERY BROADLY." (I was all, no WAY. I don't ever gesture broadly. Or with my hair. )
After dinner, Bob, Cristen, and Julie went with us to Opal Devine's, where I had two martinis, which was a GREAT idea. I am not sure how I escaped vomiting, but I did; I cruised on the 'not quite so drunk as to hurl' margin for the entire night, and fell asleep around 1:00 AM.
Saturday: The morning was spent tending to the care and feeding of my brand new baby hangover:
...but we can call it paradise.
Guess what band I'm going to go see in December...not three weeks after I see the Police in San Antonio...?
No, you have to guess...come on...
You give up? Well, flip on the YouTube and embrace the dream, my loves:
The Divine Ms. Milena thought of me this morning and got me a ticket. For this, I am truly grateful, and I am in rapt anticipation of seeing them again. Plus, I'll get to spend another delightful evening with Milena, a lovely woman who is simultaneously a great mom and a fabulously good time at parties...AND who shares my joy and obsession for all things D-squared.
(But, seriously, M? Love ya and all, but hands off my Simon or I WILL CUT YOU.)
My once-again rapidly approaching birthday brings to mind a small confession that I've been meaning to share for some time, and it is thus:
I never, ever used to use those fantastic-smelling lotions that my friends got me for birthdays and holidays.
Oh, sure, I liked the way they smelled. I've always been a big fan of the Aveda-slash-Body Shop-slash white musk lemon verbena mandarin lime what have you sorts of stuff. I would sometimes remember to swipe some around on my body when I was, like, going out on a hot date, that sort of thing.
But, moisturizer-free, my skin has historically tended to be really soft, and one of the few joys of being zaftig is that a certain level of plumposity in one's face tends to fill in wrinkles fairly well. So, all these years have gone by, and I've never really paid THAT much attention to my skin, other than to pluck random Gramma hairs and to tend to the odd zit. So, the lotions mostly just sat around in my bathroom cabinets, growing old, until I would realize that - hey! I've had this bottle of hand lotion for ten years now! - and, with the shades of my mother permeating my being, I would, shuddering, pitch the stuff.
Last year, however, Trish got me, for my birthday, a nice little sampler of Burt's Bees moisturizers. They're not the usual yellow label stuff, though; these are in purple boxes, and they have a nicely-preserved, Tilda Swinton-looking Woman of a Certain Age on the front.
Is it now, said I? Has it come to this? Have I been creased by time? As I peered into the mirror as unflinchingly as possible, it occurred to me: Yes, there are some lines there. And, erm, some of them are, as it turns out, kind of...deep, actually.
I, suddenly, knew that I had really, really been kidding myself for Quite Some Time. The forehead? It looked like Edward Scissorhands had gotten to it. And the two frikkin' horizontal lines between my eyebrows might as well be a tattoo. And...when I pushed up the skin around my eyes? It stayed up, for just a nanosecond, like it was made of crepe paper.
That night, I began to moisturize in earnest. And it's been all downhill from there. I swear, since my birthday last year, I have become a total Unguent Ho. If it's greasy and expensive, I will slather it onto my face and hands and neck with no questions asked. It could be made of thousands of baby kitten toes, and I would not care, if it made any difference whatsoever in this sudden desert that is my complexion.
So, my friends? I promise not to let any more fancy creams, lotions, or oils go to waste. If you've tried them, and they smell good and/or promise to erase ten years with every application, I will accept them gladly. And I'll wear them to bed, EVEN THOUGH it makes me feel about as sexy as Ethel Mertz from I Love Lucy. (Sorry, honey.)
-------------------------------------------
Five days 'til 38...and I'm clearly in my annual pre-birthday funk.
I'm terribly sorry to inform you that history suggests that this will not ebb until I'm nursing my post-birthday hangover. So, expect some droning, mewling, pissing/moaning, etc., to be spewed forth for at least the next few days.
In the interim, here is Marianne Faithfull, singing the Anthem O'The Soccer Moms. Enjoy.
(And, I also found this, which made me totally miss Absolutely Fabulous!)
--------------------------
Four-Word Film Review of Bee Movie (which I took the chillen to Sunday):
Movie? O.K. Seinfeld? OVEREXPOSED!
I typed SO MANY WORDS TODAY that my fingers feel like they are falling off of my hands.
My shoulders ache from eight hours completely hunched over my computer, and my forearms and wrists are singing from the prolonged use of the laptop instead of the desktop.
I know; it's been a few days....and I FINALLY have the time tonight to sit down and gather my thoughts. (And there are so many! The Man's consulting a urologist to consider the snippage! Holiday-Anticipating Fun-n-Hijinx! Six days and counting until my dreaded, fucking, 38th birthday!) However, I just don't think I have it in me tonight.
I b'lieve I'll fix myself a nice cuppa, and watch me some Heroes instead. Maybe a TiFauxed 30 Rock or two.
________________________________
Four-Word Film Review of Pink Flamingoes: "Do my balls, Mama!"
No, not NaBloPoMo. I didn't post yesterday. I told you I couldn't do it every day for a month. Some evenings are meant for clearing out the DVR and watching several back-to-back episodes of The Office.
(And Pushing Daisies. I resisted it for a while - it looked a bit too cutesy, like when Northern Exposure went off the rails - but it won me over when Kristen Chenoweth and Ellen Greene started singing "Birdhouse In Your Soul" - which is probably tied with "Under Pressure" as the best song OF ALL TIME - in the back of the sisters' car...which is of course being driven by the OTHER driver, who is frickin' cool-as-hell Swoosie Kurtz. Hell, I guess, since the damn show is apparently WRITTEN for me, that I need to start watching it.)
No, my victory today was thus:
I had a sort-of-crappy at work. I forgot a meeting; no excuses, nobody's fault except my own, I just forgot to check the calendar. I got caught up with something, and just fucking spaced it. (And I just love when I look all competent like that, in front of like seven people. It's great.) Everyone was nice about it, but still. Dumbass.
After that, I went to pick up the OG at school. Now, she and I are still doing really awesomely, but the OG is not one for the effusive displays of affection, even on the best of days. I mean, she cuddles up with me and tells me that she loves me every night, but it's at home, in secret, and absolutely NEVER within earshot of any child that is anywhere near her age.
The other day, OG came home with a piece of work that she had completed with her new, 5th grade "buddy." They had been getting to know each other, and were instructed to complete Venn diagrams to define their similarities and differences, and where they met in the middle. OG's Venn diagram wasn't too detailed; from what I could tell, they both had short hair and went to the same school, but that was about all.
Today, I noticed that the 5th grade teacher had posted up her class's Venn Diagrams, which were of course more thorough and detailed. Right on top was the OG's buddy's diagram. In the middle, where they had to write where they and their second-grade buddies, she had written "Both our moms are the people we most respect, and they're also our role models."
Awwwwww! I chased her around the playground, threatening to give her a big ol' kiss on the face - in front of everyone - for that.
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Four-Word Film Review of Little Shop of Horrors: Feed me! FEEEEEEEED ME!
Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon....
Another gay-baiting, hypocrite, criminal, Republican goes down. (And not in the sense that we're getting used to these days.) That Kentucky governor lost the election.
And another one's gone, and another one's gone...another one...well, you know.
____________________________
Four-Word Film Review of Blue Velvet:
It's Daddy, you shithead!
Hmmmm... so, you're telling me that, the Kentucky GOP is...let me see, foundering in the gubernatorial election, which is tomorrow, so they - THEY - decide that, it would be an EXCELLENT idea to insinuate that the Democratic candidate is...say it with me now, children: GAY.
Must be Tuesday.
But, that's not all...get this: They even have a RoboCall going out tonight from none other than Pat Boone, who asks if Kentuckians want a governor who wants Kentucky to be "another San Francisco." (Because that would clearly be a bad idea.)
Pat Boone! Damn, now there's some relevance for ya!
I feel very like sending out this link to all the people that received that call and are seriously considering listening to Mister Christian tell them how to vote. (Serious Caveat: That link is Not Safe For Work, and will burn out your retinas. You have been warned.)
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Four Word Film Review of The Princess Bride:
Have fun stormin' dacastle!
OK, I am reasonably sure that this is, perhaps, a strange question, for those of you with children:
When you're doing the "fever" thing - the really good one, the past 104-degree one - the up-past-midnight, mopping of the overheated brow with the cold compresses, the checking the temperature every ten minutes, the exchanging furrowed-brow looks with the spouse...that one?
When you're doing that, do you flash on "Little Women," and imagine that you are Jo, bustling around and worrying, with your sisters and Marmee, working slavishly to help Beth's fever break?
Or is that just me?
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Four-Word Film Review of the training video I am supposed to finish watching before work tomorrow:
My eyes...so heavy....
My Saturday was spent hanging out on the couch, with the feverish OG, for most of the day.
(The Man and the YG went to Wurstfest, but the OG was still too sick to attend. So, we stayed home.)
We read several - correction; MANY - chapters of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, watched football, played some computer chess and some "Line Rider," watched some movies, periodically took temperatures, and giggled about names we generated on the Captain Underpants "Professor Poopypants Name Generator."
In short? Today, I did not exercise; I did not go to "Wurstfest," I did not attend the school carnival, and I did not attend the last soccer game of the season, or the corresponding soccer party. I sat, on my largish ass, on the couch, pressed up against my (very warm) daughter, for the entire day.
And?
We had the BEST TIME. EVER.
Did I mention that I'm totally IN LOVE with her? Because I am. Sick or not. (Dorky Chickensprinkles is our favorite Professor Poopypants name. Haw!)
----------------------------------------
OK, I'm now going to write about Missouri Tigers football.
(Insert: A quick survey of those of you that I know of that customarily read this blog, that are interested in football at all:
You? No.
The rest of you, individually....? No...no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, sort of, no, no, no, not by a long shot, no, no, fuck no, and NO.)
You all? The ones that I surveyed? You can stop reading now.
Because the MU Tigers just STOMPED THE FUCKING SHIT out of Colorado. And it was damn near sexual in execution. (For me.)
Pretty fun stuff. Those who never dreamed that an MU - Kansas game would command national attention? Those guys? Are dying a little bit inside.
I can't WAIT to kick the crap out of Kansas. Yes., evolutionary stance included. Your backwards-thinking asses are GOING DOWN.
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Four-Word Film Review of Young Frankenstein:
Madeline Kahn IS GOD.
The show! With boobs!
-----------------------
The OG is OK, BTW. She's still sick, but it's nothing funky; just a virus that makes her hive out. I'm a little disgruntled that our Wurstfest! plans are possibly - I hate to use the word "likely" - not going to work out.
Hey, it's probably for the best. I didn't even WANT to go.
Drinking tons of beer with my friends, eating lots of sausage and fried food, riding poorly-maintained carnival rides with real! actual! carnies, dancing the Chicken Dance and the Hokey Pokey to Brave Combo...who wants to do that, anyway?
...is to spend it in the emergency room at the new Children's Hospital.
Sigh.
The story starts, I guess, thusly:
The OG went out on Halloween last night, suitably overstimulated and bouncing around like the hyperactive little monkey that she is. However, I did notice that her stamina this year was not quite what it was last year - I mean, she really only did two blocks - but I figured it was probably just that she was ready to come back and play Harry Potter with her best buddy Cole.
This morning, she woke up tired...I'm all, "No, shit, dude?" - except that I don't really say "No, shit, dude," I say something motherly instead, like "Um, yes, honey, you stayed up until ten last night, remember?" She complained of her finger hurting; I took a look at it, and didn't see anything, but it was red and kind of swollen. In fact, I noticed, all of his fingers were a little sausage-y, but I chalked that up to candy and the late night. I gave her a band-aid for her finger...I figured she'd gotten a splinter or a little piece of glass in it, or something, and sent her on her way to school.
So, later, the school nurse called me at about 11:00, to tell me that OG has now developed a rash on her legs and arms, and that her hands and feet were swollen up. We chatted a bit about the amoxicillin that she's been on for a week or so due to what I'd presumed was a flare-up of her old, recurrent strep infection. The nurse said that the OG looked, to her, like she was having an allergic reaction to the amoxicillin, and that her doctor should probably take a look at it. OG got on the phone with me and said that she didn't feel well, but I encouraged her to eat a bit of lunch, and she agreed to try.
Hmmmm, says I; OK. I made an appointment with her doctor for right after school, 'cause there didn't seem to be a huge rush, or anything.
When I got to school at 2:45 and found her, she looked TERRIBLE. Her face, which is pretty pale to begin with, is stone white, with that distinctive "high-color" on the cheekbones. When I touched her, she was burning up with fever, and the rash was angrily throbbing. Worse, her hands and toes were PURPLE, and HUGE.
We bustled off to the doctor's office, wherein the OG promptly fell asleep. (No! I'm serious! Yeah, MY DAUGHTER!) The doctor kept us there for quite a while, putting in calls to various infectious disease specialists, and then said - in that inimitable doctor way, "Well, it could be an allergic reaction to the amoxicillin, or it could be just a virus, or it could be a really serious disease like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever." (Me: "Huuuunhh?) She advised us to hightail it down to the new Children's Hospital Emergency Room.
I shall spare you the details of the Four-And-One-Half-Hours That We Spent There. With no books. Or dinner. And only evening television to placate the cartoon-loving OG. Needless to say, we were hungry and cranky...though I must point out that ONE of us at LEAST had a BED to lie in.
After much, much, MUCH waiting and bloodwork, we determined that yes, indeedy, it is an allergic reaction to the amoxicillin, or a virus, and that, either way, it should clear up in a day or so. Though I was of course glad to hear that, part of me was a little - just a tiny, little bit - like, "Seriously; four and a half hours, and she doesn't even have something exotic?"
We didn't arrive home until 10:00, and clearly the OG is really sick, as I tried to make her (?) feel better by buying a box of warm Mrs. Johnson's Doughnuts on the way home, and she was not even remotely interested. (DAMN, that is an insidious place! I mean, they put an extra doughnut on top of the box when they hand it to you! They are FORCING me to eat one!)
Anyway, pity me, folks...not for having to spend all that time in the ER, but because I NOT ONLY watched "Drake and Josh," and I NOT ONLY watched three episodes of "Courage the Cowardly Dog," but....I watched an ENTIRE EPISODE of "Full House."
I need a glass of wine, now. STAT!
__________________________
(Interjection: My favorite conversational interlude from today:
OG: "Where in the HELL is the nurse?"
Me: "Um...where in the HECK is the nurse?"
I have NO idea where she heard that.
___________________________
My Four Word Film Review of the "Annual to Semi-Annual E.R. Trip with One of My Children:"
God, PLEASE KILL ME.
Happy Halloween, everybody. Aren't they cute? I'm totally jealous of the OG's ensemble...but, then again, I could probably put on the YG's wig tonight and have some fun with The Man, too.
If relevant, I hope you got your kids shoveled into their beds into something like a reasonable hour, with something less than forty pieces of candy in their stomach.
Us? Not by a long shot. In the words of the inimitable OG, "Whoooo-EEEE! I'm gonna be a WRECK tomorrow!"
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I've decided not to attempt the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) thing again. It makes writing a chore, and I want it to be fun, or at least theraputic. Plus, Badger had the best idea - to write about a song every day - and I am too consumed with jealousy to come up with anything on my own.
But - if I were going to do NaBloPoMo...I would do Four-Word Film Reviews. Or, TV reviews; I don't get out much.
For example?
My Four-Word Film Review of last night's "Heroes" episode: Hey, that's Yakov Smirnoff.
(...without The Man, mind you, who is on a little vacation to El Paso to visit Bret. Which I told him that I'm fine with, as long as there would be no beer drinking involved. He swore.)
Balls to the wall?
Four on the floor?
Up to my eyes?
Going 90 MPH?
Holly up on poppy?
Whatever your favorite metaphor for "busy" - or your favorite XTC song, for that matter -
I have been absolutely smackdown, slackjawed, beat-to-the-ground, shitcanned, SWAMPED at work this week.
How busy? Well, for starters...YOUR blog has NOT been read this week. THAT busy.
Didja ever have one of those weeks? One of those weeks, when you are freaking RACING, from Monday through Friday, only to find out that, in the end, not much has actually been accomplished?
I believe this is why people drink, no? That, and all that clanging cognitive dissonance...
-------------------------------
Speaking of drinking...this is mightily amusing. Get to the end.
Thanks, Anita! What made you think of me?
--------------------------------
I'm starting to wonder about my commitment to McJo's Poker on Tuesday nights. See, I'm not great at it, but I'm just good enough...or enough of a slow player, however you may wish to view it...that I'm usually in the top three or four players, out of ten.
That's nice for pride and all - as Connie would attest, I'm reasonably competitive - but if I'm in the top three or four players, I'm either playing until the bitter end, or I am DEALING until the bitter end.
This Tuesday, that bitter end was not reached until 1:30 AM. Last time I played, it was 1:45. I won NEITHER of those games; I came in third and second, respectively. That means that, on those evenings, I got four hours of sleep, and received, in return, NO money, NO glory, NOTHING, except a few measly points on the board that only exists in the fantasy world known, to twenty-five or so people on the whole planet, as "McJo's Poker."
Every week that I go - only every other week, at best, as The Man also has to get in his fix - I swear that THIS week is absolutely the LAST FUCKING WEEK that I am putting myself through this nonsense again. And yet...and yet...I always sign up again.
Poker, you are officially my Bad Boyfriend. You are clearly not worth my time. All my friends say so. I'm never speaking to you again. Hmmmph.
(What? You say you're drunk, and want to come over? Well...OK, just this once...)
...did gyre and gimble in the blogs.*
1. What time is it?
8:43 P.M.. And I'm going to bed soon. And I'm not ashamed.
2. What's your full name?
Mags. Mags FrauBlucher Dirigible. Nice to meetcha.
3. What are you most afraid of?
Bad things happening to my family. For me personally, heights. And death. Death from heights, more to the point. Oh, and my cold, unflinchingly brutal, digital scales.
4. What is the most recent movie that you have seen that was bootlegged?
I don't believe I've ever seen a bootlegged movie. Oh, wait; I watched a suspicious DVD of "The Little Mermaid" once.
5. Place of birth
North Kansas City, Missouri
6. What is your favorite food?
Italian and Indian. I refuse to choose. There are days for incredible crusty bread with herbed EVOO and parmesan cheese, red wine, long-simmered red sauce, and fresh cannoli; there are days for naan, saag paneer, chicken korma, and kheer. And they are all good days.
7. What's your natural hair color?
It's actually a non-color. It's whatever is between blonde and brown that absolutely refuses to choose sides. It's the fence of colors; the anti color, the sucking vacuum maw that exists in the middle of the color wheel. (And, whenever I'm poor enough to let it grow out, it becomes more and more apparent that there are serious streaks of gray; again, a non-color.)
8. Ever been a "neat freak?"
Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! (wipes eyes) Um...only compared to my husband. And my children. Sadly.
9. Ever been skinny dipping?
Erm, I grew up on a lake, helloooo?
10. Love someone so much it made you cry?
I've never NOT cried over someone I've loved.
11. Been in a car accident?
Several, though not for a very long time. (Universe, you will disregard that last statement.)
12. Croutons or bacon bits?
Real bacon. It is my most sacredly held belief that all foods can be improved with bacon. Amen.
13. Favorite day of the week?
Friday. It used to be Thursday, but Thursday has been kind of biting me in the ass recently. So, it's Friday, until Thursday gets its shit together again.
14. Favorite restaurant?
Again, I refuse to choose. In Austin, "fancy" places include Vespaio, The Clay Pit, Bellagio, Andiamo, Castle Hill, and Fonda San Miguel. But, I also love littler, cheaper places, like Mandola's, Curra's (the south one,) Guero's, Enoteca, Elsi's, Phil's Icehouse...hell, even Dan's Hamburgers hits me just right on some days.
Oh, though, some of the best places I've ever been are when I travel. Just outside of Austin, there's Cooper's Barbecue, which is our church on several Sundays throughout the spring. I love d'Bronx Deli and Arthur Bryant's Barbecue in Kansas City. Boudro's in San Antonio made the most incredible soup I have ever had. Best Indian restaurant ever? Oslo, Norway! The deli Trish and Mike took me to in Columbus, OH, was the best I've ever been to, anywhere. And, the pizza and cheesesteaks in Philly, this last trip, made me want to die a little bit inside.
Thus, I deem this question unanswerable. Next!
15. Favorite Flower?
This one, I have more of a problem answering. (Not so much the food one. Didja notice?)
I guess...Gerbera daisies, but that's only in the visual presentation, as I can't ever keep them alive. As far as the ones that actually grow in my yard for a while...I do like the multicolored Southwestern Cosmos that come up all spring and summer.
16. Favorite sport to watch?
Football. I really, really like watching football.
I hated football growing up, and my mother loved it. She always made me drive to Columbia with her to watch the Tigers games, and I was freaking miserable and bored for every single one. At some point, I started to at least develop a modicum of understanding of how the game worked, but it was completely under protest.
However, at some point, in college, I realized that, if I watched football with guys I was interested in, then I could "get my foot in the door," as it were. And, I don't know if it was the power of association (like football=getting lucky; ergo football = fun,) but, at some point, I began to like it.
Now, ironically, watching football with the man results in kind of the opposite equation. (Football = hanging out with the guys drinking beer; ergo football = us passing out with no sex involved whatsoever.)
17. Favorite drink?
Alcoholic: really expensive and smooth red wine
Non-Alcoholic: Hibiscus mint iced tea, unsweetened. Or fresh-squeezed, tart, lemonade.
18. Favorite ice cream?
The Almond Joy ice cream at the little ice cream stand outside of Bedford, MA. Or, coconut almond fudge ice cream/gelato in general.
19. Warner Brothers/Disney?
Miramax, actually. Oh, OK, if you force me...I'm a Disney girl.
20. Ever been on a ship?
I don't think so. Many, many boats, but the only "ships" have really been ferries...e.g. across the English Channel.
21. What color is your bedroom carpet?
It's all hardwoods.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test?
Just once.
23. From whom did you get your last e-mail?
It was spam. Before that, from Trish.
24. What do you do when you are bored?
Memes
25. Bedtime?
Between 11:00 and 12:00.
26. Who would respond if I tagged them?
Not sure; probably everyone else is way more bored with these than I am.
27. Favorite TV shows?
I'm too embarrassed to go nattering on AGAIN about TV shows. Um, I'll pick "My Name is Earl" insofar as what is on right now, and "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" for favorite TV show of all time.
28. Last person you went to dinner with?
Besides The Man? Erin, in Philly. At a lovely little Italian bistro in a swanky part of downtown. Incredible seafood in broth.
29. Park or Zoo?
Park
30. What are your favorite colors?
Blue, Red, Purple, Black.
31. How many tattoos do you have?
None. I keep fantasizing about getting a tramp stamp,** but I really don't have the lower body to pull it off.
32. How many pets do you have?
Um, we really don't need to go into that right now...it's a source of "contention" in my "marriage," as I'm supposedly "the one" that "keeps bringing home" more "animals." (Although, as I constantly remind The Man, it was HE who had the three cats when I met him, and I only had the one...so HE is actually the crazy cat lady in our relationship. So there.)
One dog
Five cats (Molly looks...kind of great, actually!)
One Sea-Monkey
So, whatever that comes to. I don't think it matters. Next question.
33. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Most mornings, it's eggs.
34. What do you want to do before you die?
Go to the South Seas.
35. Do you have a celebrity crush?
Many.
36. Have you ever been to Hawaii?
No, damn it.
37. Have you been to countries outside the U.S.?
Yes.
38. Time this survey ended?
10:03 P.M. And time well spent. (What else was I supposed to do? Put away my laundry?)
Thanks, my old buddy JB, for the e-mail!
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*Do you know the reference? Do ya do ya do ya?
**Disclaimer: The term "tramp stamp" does not imply that I think that any or all of my friends that have them are "tramps." They are, in fact, "sluts."
Continuing the thread of not posting anything meaningful...or at least substantive...
Go here and look at this:
http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22556281-661,00.html
and then come back and tell me if you're "clockwise" or "counterclockwise." (Or if you, like the man, are too busy staring at her magnificent tits to decide.)
If you try really hard, and stare at the shadow at the bottom for a while, you can see it the other way. (And it's really freaky; once you see it one way, it's really hard to see it the other way.)
I thought I was clockwise, but after I looked at it a while, I decided that I'm "bi."
From "How I Met Your Mother," when Robin revealed that she was once an 80's teen pop star in Canada:
I'm gonna rock your body 'til Canada Day!
Oh, no, y'all...Brentwood Tavern is being shut down!
I am majorly bummed. This place has EVERYTHING - it's in my neighborhood, walking distance from our house. It's outdoors and kid friendly - hell, it's practically Kid Happy Land, or as close as you can get without being some godawful hellhole like Chuck E. Cheese - what with the playscape, the stage, and the big bales of hay to climb on. While the service was incidental, the burgers and masses of fried yummies never lacked, and the sweet, homemade sandwich buns were fantastic.
Oh yes; of course, it also had big, soothing pitchers of BEER. Good, cold, frothy BEER. And did I MENTION that the kids liked it, too? And that we could WALK there? And that it was a great place meet to have soccer parties, or meet for a birthday gathering, or just MEET, for no reason other than it was Friday and we were too tired to cook?
Damn it.
But, that's not the worst part...the worst part is the reason WHY it is closing. The rumors suggest that some guy wants to open some place where he can house his new-agey crystal collection.
I do not shit you. No, sadly, I do not.
Sigh. The last night is next Thursday, Oct. 25. If you're in Austin, let's all head down sometime this week to pay our respects with some Stella Artois, onion rings, and ignored-yet-happy children, shall we?
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In other 'hood news, they were filming a scene for "Friday Night Lights" at the Crestview Minimax yesterday. (Yes, we drove around it and gawked. We don't get out much.)
I like that show so much when I watch it, but I just don't watch much of anything anymore...and my TiFaux is freaking maxed out, full of stuff that I don't have time to watch.
Should I make that one more of a priority, I wonder? Sadly, most weeks I don't make it past "Heroes," "The Office," "My Name is Earl," "Lost," and "Thirty Rock." (Though I am getting to like "Reaper" and "Pushing Daisies," insofar as the new crop goes. I tried "Journeyman," but felt it was just "Quantum Leap" all over again. And, I never did turn that pseudo-porny HBO show "Tell Me You Love Me" back on again...it just sucked, and by that, I'm not referring to the graphic blow jobs.)
OK, I've got LOL Cats Fodder for you...and I'm awaiting entries...
First off: Do you remember this waifish little guy? This was Curbie - nee "Kirby," spelling changed courtesy of the OG - whom we adopted in February, on a whim:
The visiting shelter lady doing her weekend stand at the PetCo saw a sucker in me straight off, and handed him over to me "just to hold for a second." As he draped himself over my arm like a motionless, furry purse, I had an epiphany; this might just be the right animal for the bouncy and hyperactive OG.
Though he'd been taken care of at the Gonzalez shelter, he was underweight, and pretty small overall for eight months old. His tail looks a little bent because there was a mangy spot, right near the end. He also had a sore on his leg, and was pretty ratty-lookin' overall. I have to admit, sweet cat or not, I had my doubts as to whether this fugly little kitten was at all worth the time.
So, eight months later, this is Curbie:
Nowadays, the fur is no longer mangy; it's thick and soft. (Would make a great pair of gloves, actually) I'd put him at at least a ten-spot, weight-wise; maybe more. Unlike previous big-boned cats that I've had in the past, he carries his weight in his backside, causing us to rename him "Lardass" "Chunkbutt" "Hippolicious," etc.
He's still sweet, and still generally a lumpy suitcase of a cat that can be carried from room to room draped over any arm that can manage to support his girth. And, I will admit, he does pay the rent, in that he happily sleeps on the OG's bed every single night while she's falling asleep .
But - I have to say, this is the most smug bastard cat that I have ever met. Seriously, look at that self-satisfied smile!
"Yeah, I started off at a shelter, can you believe it? Now, I'm CEO of the fucking Trump Cat Condo for Suck-ahs! Hey, would pass me that bowl of primo Bark-n-Purr organic overpriced kibble? Nah, I don't feel like getting up; just stick it next to my face and I'll roll over and lick it."
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On a sadder note, this is Molly...
...whom, even though I'm sad for her, I am sure is saying something along the lines of "Screw you! I will NEVER die! Look! I'm eatin' and drinkin'! And walking around, albeit into walls! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
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OK, damn it. I. MUST. STOP.
I'm a little down tonight, for the following reasons (in no particular order):
So, here's the thing:
I have a crush.
ON MY DAUGHTER.
The OG, that is. My god, she is just...she is just so cool! And smart! And funny!
And - get this - she's not taking ANY medication anymore; no Adderall, no Zoloft, NO NOTHING - except vitamins, minerals, and fish oil capsules with Omega 3!
The Man and I went to her parent/teacher conference today, and it was SO positive. Her teacher said to me, "(The OG) is a great kid. She's smart, and she's happy, and she's interested, and I really, really like her." (No, I know, teachers always have to say that. It was her tone. She meant it.)
When I apologetically told her why OG isn't on the meds anymore - which has mostly to do with the side effects on the OG from the Zoloft and Adderall from last year; when she was having the bad dreams, and when she withdrew into her darkened room with her blinds drawn for hours at a time, when she stopped letting me hug and kiss her, and when she repeatedly cut her fingertips off with the scissors? Her teacher was HORRIFIED, and absolutely could not believe that I was talking about the same child. "OG? No WAY! That's not her AT ALL!"
I'm not sure what's happened to her this year. She's - all of a sudden - gotten so grown up. She's blowing off temper tantrums, she's laughing and joking with me all of the time, she's sitting through whole dinners at restaurants without getting up six hundred times and/or having a massive meltdown, and she's doing homework without too much stress. She lets me hug her. (Although not in front of her second grade classroom. Gaw! Mom!)
She even has a best friend that I really like. I spied on her on the playground the other day when I dropped her off - I'm not proud - and she was playing, so delightedly, with that friend, and not pacing around the fence by herself, looking awkward, because the one person she had fixated on that day was refusing to play with her!
So, this crush thing. It's weird. I swear, I think about her all the time, and how much I'm just in love with this person she's become. I can't wait to pick her up from school, and - I wouldn't lie to you - over the past few years, that has NOT always been the case. Likewise, taking her with me on errands is not the dreaded chore that it used to be - because, though I cannot believe it, it is more likely than not that we will have a good time, instead of a horrible fight.
Oh, she's not perfect. She still antagonizes her sister, she's still REALLY distractible, and I still have to remind (nag) her to complete even the most basic morning routine tasks (that she REALLY should know to do, even at age seven) before we are late, damn it. But, the crux of the matter is that she is tending to stop negative behaviors before I get all pissed off and punish-y. Most of the time, these days, a warning will suffice. And that, my friends, is AWESOME.
I don't know what spurred all this on. Simple maturity? The lack of psychotropic drugs? (Surely it's not just the fish oil and vitamins.) Is it us? Are we better parents these days? Did we finally get her, and she us?
Whatever. I'm totally in love, and don't care.
**Oh, and YG? If I die, and you read this many years from now? I love you too, and very dearly, at that. Oh, and by the way, that tube top makes you look like a hussy.
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Molly's home. Not in the metaphorical sense, like "She's gone home, brothahs and sistahs," I mean she's back at my home. And still alive, though I would not say that there is a lot of joy there.
She is eating and drinking, and can stand up and walk around a bit. However, they weren't particularly optimistic at the vet's, but did say that I could probably have a few more weeks with her.
Before you say anything, I promise that I won't torture her. She's on some meds, and I might have to give her some subcutaneous fluids, but I won't force anything else on her. And, if I am to be brutally honest, we can't afford it. If it would make her live for two more years happily, then yes, we'd do it. But I'm not going to throw down horrific amounts of money for - well - this, which just is not going to last that long, and is pretty unsatisfactory at that.
I just wish she could talk, you know? Say, yes, I'm still wanting to live, or no, I'm done with all of this shit. Her body language, in the past, has always implied the former - even pissed off and evil as all hell, she wanted to live.
Now, though, I'm not so sure. She looks pretty distant.
Sigh.
...is not doing well.
Molly, that is.
When the vet calls you three times in a day - and starts the talk about "quality of life" - you know it's probably not going to end well.
They got her to eat something just at the end of today, surprisingly. I wonder...can she do it? She's pulled herself back from the brink of death many times over...can she do it one more time?
We shall see. Not feeling too hopeful, though.
