Seeing as how my younger son always has my camera these days (he’s got a “girlfriend” in California – who he believes is 16 years old, but we’re pretty sure is a 45 year old fat, bald man in greyed briefs) so he can send photos off to this “girlfriend”.
I’m in Taking Back My Power mode these days so I figured, hey, I’m Taking Back My Camera, too!
I’ve got some old photos on there I never shared with you, and I took some new photos while doing some Christmas shopping at the Maul of America today. Note the photoshopped hat. God, I am crazy with my photoshop skillz!
This one is my Concert Date, Eddie, who now works at Brookstone. I just love Eddie. Not love love him, but love him in an appropriate way. He’s so damned happy all the time and quite the charmer.
I’d just found out that he was working there so I thought it would be fun to find a gift for The Big Nugget with the help of Eddie.
Not so much.
Eddie kept trying to sell me one of those stupid remote control helicopters. Like I need that shit flying around my house while I’m trying to sneak a cocktail.
Which reminds me, The Big Nugget was in a room last night where I’d stashed some booze (seeing as how I can’t keep booze in normal booze spaces) so he got to witness me sneaking in, with my glass of tinkling ice, and uncover the hidden booze & pour some into my glass before people who shouldn’t know where the hidden booze is could see me).
“Do we have a problem here?” he asked.
“You mean because I have booze hidden around the house?” I asked back (which is what people who’ve got drinking problems do, never answering a question with an answer).
And then we both laughed. Ha. Living in a house where someone needs to go through treatment but will not go through treatment is so amusing to us. We laugh when we can.
Anyhoodle. That’s my photo of Eddie. My concert date from the Mat Kearney/Keene concert back in the early part of summer.
Here’s a photo from the Maul of America today. I don’t like the Maul during the holidays. It’s full of very slow, indecisive people who like to make human walls of sweat pants and softball jackets (with zip-out flannel linings!) that keep you from getting to your destination without going totally insane at a very slow pace.
It’s such a huge damn mall. And it takes a whole lot of oversized Christmas decorations. But that makes me feel good, knowing that somewhere out there, there’s an oversized Christmas decoration company with a whole lot of paid employees! Ain’t I just peppy and positive?
Here’s one from the Maul – at an entry point into the amusement park formerly known as Camp Snoopy. Which was way more thematically cute than that stupid Camp Nickelodeon, or whatever it’s called.
I would have walked around and taken more photos, had I not been accompanied by an unwilling child-man, who wanted to die from the embarrassment his mother was causing him…taking photos in a Maul! With witnesses! God!
This is part one of a two-part photo essay. It is also the only photo I’ve taken, so far, of the two-part photo essay. Part 2 will have to be taken tonight.
You’ll understand tomorrow. When Part 2 has been taken and is posted.
I like how I write that I’m going to post it tomorrow as though I’m so rapid with my photo posting.
You’re probably wondering why I’d take, and then post, some random photo of a basic ranch home on a wintery day. It’s not my house. Just be patient, would ya?
This is my sweet, sweet doggy, Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden. Such a sweet, sweet dog.
She killed another squirrel today. I watched the fight. The squirrel was quite the contender. Smacking my dog in the face with it’s itty bitty squirrel paws, hanging from my dog’s back and hanging from my dog’s pretty pink polka-dotted collar. Flinging through the air with the greatest of ease, only to be trapped again immediately. Stella Mirra isn’t so sweet at all.
She’ll pretend she’s your friend but don’t get too close (if you’re wearing your squirrel coat) or she’ll kill you!
And then she’ll smile.
Because you are so delicious!
Speaking of delicious, here’s the photo from The Big Nugget’s birthday cake that about made my head explode from the annoyance of it all.
I have never been so pissed off while making a cake. And a cheesecake. That was the wrong size.
It was delicious. Except I threw about 2/3 of it away because The Big Nugget doesn’t eat much, in general, so I had to toss it or I’d have finished it all myself.
Sorry for the fuzzy photo. But it really was tasty!
There’s a guy in my old Medical Terminology class (that’s so yesterday!) who I took notes for. I’m not sure what his issue is…eye/hand coordination, poor small motor skills, letter transposition tourette’s; but I didn’t mind taking notes for him at all. Especially because the teacher gave me this really cool carbonless copying spiral notebook. So fancy. And so neat to write on. My writing looked so readable!
Anyway, the teacher started calling him Dale. But his name was Dean. Or, uh, she started calling him Dean but his name was Dale. I don’t really know what his actual name is because I gave him the nickname “Deandale”. And then, because this is how dumb funny and confused funny I am, I forgot which of the names was his actual name. So I spent the semester saying “Hey Deandale!” whenever I’d see him in the hallway. Such a nice guy. He always smiled and said “Hey!” back. And probably just “Hey!” because I don’t think he ever knew my name. Or maybe he knew it was Kathy but he wasn’t sure if it was Kathy or Cathy. You know, there’s a difference. In my head. The “K” has a hard sound but the “C” has a soft sound, to me. Not soft, like an “S”, just soft, like a softer “K”.
Yep. That’s how I see Cathy vs. Kathy. Cathy is much softer, much sweeter. Kathy is a gal who tromps through the hallways and everyone jumps out of the way so as to not get knocked over by the hard K.
This is the thought that occurred to me while I was off purchasing primer and paint for our new crown molding, which is being constructed as we read this entry. Unless you’re reading this while the construction is not going on.
I also thought about a friend’s grandma (a friend who’s NaME I will not mENtIon) who got a wee bit confused while living in a nursing home; and horny. Grandma got horny. You know what? I hate that word, horny, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother me when I’m using it to refer to an old person in a nursing home. Huh. Anyway… Grandma found herself a partner. Who’s name was Dan. Or Don. Grandma could never remember. Or she could remember it differently at any given time. She got to the point of confusion, I seem to recall, that she just started calling him Dandon. And she didn’t really care what in the hell his name was, as long as he was willing to get horny along with her. And not steal her dentures.
I am so going to be that woman when I am in my 90s, aren’t I?
You just make sure you come and visit me. Bring me candy. And warm socks. And some condoms.
Um, yeah, Ben Folds? I love you so much, you know I do. But that damn show, “Sing-Off?” Frankly, dear Ben Folds, I’m embarrassed for you.
A middle-aged women barbershop quartet?
Seriously?
The Christian group who thinks the opposite of being straight-laced is bowling and jumping into piles of leaves?
And the editing of that damn show?
For real?
You are so smart and so talented and it’s obvious that you know what you’re talking about, but I can’t watch “Sing-Off” ever again. Unless I shove hot pokers into my ears and lose my hearing.
No. Not even then. I’d still have to look at those old broads performing barbershop without straw hats and red & white striped vests. If they’re going to be ridiculous, they should dress the part.
And I know, yes I know, that they are selling Pampered Chef and Mary Kay out of the backs of their mini-vans. And they consider themselves to be a “hoot and a half of fun”. I bet it’s on their bio applications that they filled out for the show.
Oh Ben Folds. I’m just going to hope that you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into when you signed the contract. Please tell me it was a short-termed contract.
***
Finished my finals today. Business English? We’ll see what I get. It could go either way. Receptionist Skills? I had to take a test in that? That’s just goofy. The phone rings and I answer it. Somebody comes into the office and I say hello, how can I help you. Medical Terminology? I nailed that mofo. I’d be surprised if I got more than one wrong.
Yes. I am that arrogant about my prowess in the Medical Terminlogy.
Speaking of prowess, if you’re a facebook friend of mine, you already saw this:
Not really sure what number of hootchie-mama I am.
Am I not awesome with my photoshopping skills?
I am self-taught!
I know!
Crazy photoshop skillz!
Question: If you didn’t already see this on my facebook page, why aren’t you my facebook friend? Is it because my teeth aren’t blinding white like Tiger’s?
If only I’d get over my fear of teeth whitening. And I had a cashload of money fall in my hands. I’d be all over the teeth whitening. Because that cashload could pay for the therapy I’d need to get over my worry of my teeth becoming brittle from bleach, and cracking off at any moment. Although, any therapist who was worth their money would know that bleach plus teeth do not mix, and would be talking to me about my fear of having teeth that are a natural color.
Note to self: learn how to photoshop-whiten teeth.
***
I’m done with my personal pity party. Thank god. I am taking a break from trying to fix the broken people. The broken people are going to have to fix themselves. I don’t want to play their manipulation game anymore. I don’t like playing games where the only one who has the rules is the one who’s an asshat.
I’m sure I had to go through a pity party in able to take my power back. I took my power back and I intend to keep it with the help of a professional, plus one of those free groups where they try to tell you that you have to give it over to god. There is no god, I say. Then they tell me that it doesn’t have to be god, but that I can give it over to whatever it is I believe I can give it over to. I have decided to have a monthly themed-givee that I will give it over to. For the rest of December, I’m giving it over to cookies with frosting. They will be my higher power. I believe in cookies. Especially the ones with frosting.
My prayer will be:
Cookies with Frosting, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference…
Amen. Also, you are delicious.
I wonder, will that professional I’m hoping to find this week throw out a little phrase that sounds like “bi-polar”? Last week I’m a fucking mess and this week I’m giving my power over to cookies with frosting.
Yum. Cookies. With frosting!
What with my back being totally fucked up all week, getting ready for finals next week, and making an attempt to join in on Christmas – I’ve been a tired, tired gal.
Last night I set a goal to stay up through Saturday Night Live’s weekend news with Seth Meyers. I love Seth Meyers and I’ve always loved SNL’s news. I made it through. God, I’m glad I stayed awake because had I not, I wouldn’t have seen the commerical for NBC’s The Sing-Off, that starts tomorrow night.
I wasn’t really sure if I saw what I thought I saw, so I asked The Big Nugget to google it for me, and sure enough…
Ben Folds is going to be a judge on the show!
Are you fucking kidding me? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!!!!
I just saw him on Halloween and he didn’t say a word!
Not one damned word about the fact that he’ll be on t.v. and he’ll be talking!
I love to listen to Ben Folds talk.
I love to listen to him play the piano and sing, but I really love to hear this smart motherfucker talk.
And yes, I realize, I am dropping the fuck word a whole lot in this entry, but are you fucking kidding me?
Ben Folds on t.v.? Talking?!
Be still my fucking heart!
If you know me, you know that Ben Folds is my music favorite. Ever.
Although if Luther Vandross came back to life and they were both giving concerts at the exact same time, I’d have to go see Luther because, shit, it’s Luther. And – yum!
Besides, Ben Folds always comes back to Minneapolis. I don’t know how long they’d be able to keep Luther alive this time. You know, like they’ve done it before?
Okay then. How did The Sing-Off bring up a dead Luther?
I’m. So. Fucking. Excited.
Can you tell?
I really don’t understand how people can get addicted to vicodin. I don’t want to take it unless I absolutely have to.
Yesterday I ended up taking a total of 1 vicodin and 2 muscle relaxers. And, except for the knock-out factor, I hated being so fuzzy.
I stayed home from school yesterday because I just couldn’t take anymore of my seized-up back and I couldn’t drive to school while taking the meds.
Today I skipped my first class but went to my 9 o’clock class, where I took 1/2 of a vicodin, knowing I needed to stay on campus until 2:00.
It was kind of fun to be the only “drunk” one in the group (that I know of). I’m not absolutely sure but I think that by the time my Medical Terminology test came around, I was pretty dang funny. Too bad I wasn’t as smart as I was funny because I’m sure I missed a few questions on the test.
The vicodin was worn off by the time I headed for home. I waited as long as I could and took the other 1/2 just a bit ago. I’m feeling the fuzzy again, which isn’t as much fun if you don’t have a bunch of classmates to say stupid stuff to.
So that was that for the end of regular classes. Next week I have a few finals and then I have a few weeks off before the next semester starts. It’d be nice to just lay around but I can’t because I haven’t done anything for Christmas, except buy one bag of clothing for the boys. No decorations, no cookies, no Christmas cards. Nada. My house is a mess and I’ll have to do something about that because Christmas Eve is at our house. There’s just too much mess to cover it up by candlelight.
God. This entry is getting boring. It’s the fuzzy. I blame it on the fuzzy.
I’m hungry.
Nice segue.
Thank you.
I’ve got artichoke dip in the oven. I’ve had a hankering for it lately and I’ve decided that it’s not just for parties anymore. If I’m craving it and I happen to have all the ingredients on hand, I’m having it for dinner. The Big Nugget likes it, too, so that saves me from eating the entire dish all by myself.
Good god, this is boring.
Except for the vicodin party for one at school today, I’ve got nothing.
And yet I continue to write an entry.
Huh.
Innerestin’.
I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t want to bring out the mother in you…I threw my back out on Sunday. Doing absolutely nothing. Which is pretty much the way it goes. All of a sudden I got a splitting surge of rip-apartedness in my lower lumbar region. Par for the freakin’ course. And that was that.
I attempted to realign myself by getting on the inversion table, to no avail.
I knew I was screwed. I also know that it’s a manifestation of the emotional shitstorm I’ve been recently going through. But there’s not a dang thing I can do to stop the back pain and the muscle spasms that come with the back pain. I just have to let it run it’s course.
Did I mention that it’s finals week next week? And that some classes are coming to an end this week? I can’t miss school.
That being said, I skipped out early today. After the end of yesterday, when I was crying my way to my car on the long walk across the parking lot, I knew that I couldn’t push myself that far again without dire consequences.
So I made it into school this morning for an English test, got through Receptionist Skills, handed over my carbonless copying notebook to a classmate for Medical Terminology (I take notes for another student in class, too, which is why I have a carbonless notebook) and then I skeedaddled as quickly as a middle-aged, top-heavy gal with a back problem can skeedaddle. Thankfully, one of my classmates supervised my parking lot walk. Which helped keep me from crying again. All I need sometimes is something else to focus on so that my back doesn’t seize up.
That is a long, dang walk on a winter weather advisory day, let me tell you.
Once I got home, I got horizontal on the couch and made a phone call to my doctor’s office.
I don’t do drugs unless I absolutely have to. I don’t think I’ve asked for back pain meds for years. The last batch of vicodin I had went missing, so I’m not even wanting to have the stuff in the house. Know what I’m sayin’? But I’m a desperate gal and I need me some meds to get me through the next two days of school (I’m planning on feeling better by Monday, fingers crossed *spit*spit*)
I have a really good relationship with my doctor and he knows how much I don’t want drugs, which is probably why he didn’t make me come in, and also called in a script for not just a muscle relaxer but a pain killer.
I just got back from picking them up and I didn’t even sit down before I popped a muscle relaxer. I’ve never taken a muscle relaxer before. What is going to happen to me? Will I lose control of all muscles? Even my bladder muscle? Will I poop without knowing it?
My plan is that I’ll drive to school tomorrow and then pop one. I might be sleepy but my back will hopefully loosen up and I’ll leave it up to my classmates to keep me awake. It takes a village of secretarial schoolettes to raise a middle-aged secretarial student.
It’s annoying how much of a junkie I felt like when picking up my prescriptions. I’m hoping it says in my file at Walgreen’s “Never gets drugs for herself! Don’t give judging looks!”
It says that, right?
I bought bags of candy, a Minnesota Monthly magazine (the pet issue!) and a pint of half and half, just so it would look like I wasn’t just there for the drugs. Also, I was totally out of half and half and we’ve got 36 hours of snow headed our way. I can’t be stuck in the house without half and half for my coffee.
Junkies would never buy bags of candy and a local magazine that is excited about local pets. Right?
I am pathetic.
And I have so much on my mind that I want to talk about, and I should do it fast before the muscle relaxer kicks in and I fall over, asleep.
Did you watch Dr. Phil yesterday or today? Yesterday was the 7 year old who was schizophrenic and today is another very very very mentally messed up kid.
I am grounded. I have issues with one of my child, but I do not have ISSUES with my child.
Thank you, Dr. Phil. I still don’t like you and I rarely watch you but, thank you.
I would also like my readers to know that Stella Mirra, floofed dog, has now crossed from a clean dog that smelled like a church full of old, over-perfumed, ladies to a normal dog with very bad breathe that no one wants anything to do with.
Let’s see. What else? I haven’t fallen over, asleep, yet.
Tiger Woods?
Asshat.
Hoarders?
Good god. Should we really be watching people that crazy on t.v. for entertainment?
Let’s just hope that people are getting lessons of grounding because of Hoarders like I got from Dr. Phil that past couple of days.
Still not asleep but I’m bored with the blogging.
From Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden:
I don’t know, Mormon readers, I’m not so sure this such a good place for you. I love you, I just worry about your future what with you reading here. I sure hope you don’t come to your Mormon senses, though, and go away. I like having you here. I like to pretend that I’m editing for you, when really, I’m not because it is very hard for me to edit what I write.
It’s the tourette’s that I’ve self-diagnosed myself with.
So, I had to cancel my hair appointment last week, at almost the last minute (sorry Lynn, and hi!) because of a family thing that came up. I also had to cancel the dog’s hair and mani/pedi appointment. However, I was able to reschedule hers for Saturday but not mine because 1) Petsmart has a shit-load of dog groomers, 2) Petsmart is open on Saturdays; while 1) I’ve only got one head-groomer for myself, and 2) my salon isn’t open on Saturdays anymore. Or Sundays, which I don’t think they’ve ever been.
So now my dog is pretty and fluffy and she’s wearing a bow from PetsMart. Also, she smells like a church full of grandmas. I wish they’d come up with a nicer scent than church full of grandmas because ick. And also, my throat is irritated by the scent of a church full of grandmas.
Also? I can recognize that scent because I used to go back to church. Back before I made up my own mind and was my mother’s puppet on a string. Did I ever tell you that we only went to church when my mother’s parents, my grandparents, came to town. Boy oh boy, did I ever get in trouble when I made that announcement to the grandparents. At least I wasn’t lying about going to church all the time. I’d think that was a double sin, lying about not doing something and that something being church.
So I need to figure out what to do about my hair and the limited hours at my salon (sorry Lynn). My weekdays are pretty much either taken or on a heightened level of Immediate Need to Be Somewhere mode. If my hair salon was open on Saturdays, there’d be no conflict as the places I might have an immediate need to be at are not open on the weekends.
Not what I want to do, find a new hairdresser. I like my Lynn. Lynn just needs to work on weekends. The end.
So remember how I wrote about friends, and how I’ve got so few?
Today the phone rang and it was an old friend.
Who went on to tell me how wonderful, still, her life is. Free vacations and jaunts to other companies to purchase new cars and oh, yes, the children are perfect and nothing ever goes wrong at the wrong time.
And then, after I told her I was going to school for medical transcription, she informed me that she was pretty sure it was a dying field.
God. It was so much fun catching up. I hope we can do that again, soon.
Why is it that some people have to burden so much while others lives are just rich and full of exotic trips that are free of charge and children who are perfect?
Now before you answer that, know this: I know them very very very well and really, things almost always go their way. And also? I don’t want you to answer that.
Oh yeah, when the phone rang and I knew who it was, I called out to The Big Nugget, “Don’t answer that!” but he did anyway so I gave him the stink eye when he handed me the phone. Later, when I told him about the conversation he said, “Don’t answer the phone anymore when she calls.” And I said, “That’s what I was telling you before you picked up the phone!” And he said, “Oh. I thought you said ‘Get that!’”
What an idiot.
I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t know I had so many Mormons reading my blog. I would have thought that reading my blog would be against the Mormon rules. I’m loaded with caffeine! And I am barely a good solo wife to my husband. All by myself. Imagine if I had to share him with other wives!
Okay. Now I imagined living with other wives. With me being the Head Wife. My house would be so much cleaner.
I think I need to sign us up for that!
Also? My apologies to caffeine-drinking, one-wife-Mormon-household readers that I just offended with that first paragraph in this entry. I know that’s just stupid of me. I was just being silly. Without my filters on. Until this paragraph. Filters: ON.
You can return my rudeness by picturing all fence-balancing, agnostic/atheists to be just like me. Middle-aged mouthy broads in secretarial school.
Do you know that I feel better after I vented the other day? And accepted that we might have a basement dweller in our home longer than we have a basement? I think I spent so much time poking fun (in my head) at people who still lived in their parent’s basement that I forgot to look at why that needs to happen sometimes.
I kept expecting our children to grow up and get the hell out of the house just like their dad and I did. Good god, you couldn’t have stopped either one of us from leaving the home the minute we graduated from high school. Maybe that just tells the world that The Big Nugget and I are incredible people and nobody wants to leave us.
Just do not ask the opinion of The Big Nugget’s brother, who stayed with us for a bit this summer, and almost snuck away in the middle of the night. He didn’t think we were so incredible at all.
Speaking of family…I intend to celebrate ours on Christmas Day by not going to a family gathering. Which, once it’s known, might put the kibosh on the family gathering planned at our house for Christmas Eve. And if that happens, I’m okay with that. I would just like to know right away so that I can feel less guilty for not having a cleaner house sooner. Know what I’m sayin’?
I might start Christmas shopping today. But then, I don’t know what to buy so maybe I’ll spend the day not Christmas shopping. That sounds more appealing to me. We don’t have our Christmas tree yet and I haven’t put up one ornament. But then I just remembered (right now! really!) that we’re having a contractor come in next week to put trim around our windows, our floors and our ceilings. Probably not a good time to bring out the pretties. Unless I feel like dusting every square bit that gets dust on it.
This entry has been brought to you by a Better Mood.
Who knew that going to school would give me more than a diploma in secretarialness?
I have found strength and support and compassion in the most surprising of places.
As I was about to emotionally bottom out, people who were strangers to me back in August, have pulled me back up and set me in the right direction.
I can’t say much more except that having a family member who is suffering from a debilitating mental illness is a very lonely place.
I am sad about the lack of a support net from the people I have been closest to in my past but thankful for the support I have from the most surprising of places.
I am sad about the fact that mental illness is a silent disease but thankful for the professionals who offer options, sometimes in baby steps.
I am disappointed.
I am hopeful.
I am a fucking mess.
Amen.
I was in my garage this afternoon, hugging my UPS Man, when I noticed my neighbor, watching us from her family room.
Damn.
Can’t a gal hug her UPS Man in private?
And you people think I’m not a hugger?
I hug.
My UPS Man.
My brother had his german shepherd/husky-mix dog over for a visit earlier this week. Frankie loves to come over and run with his cousin, Stella. Well, once the dickering for who’s in charge is over. Frankie’s just a puppy (even though he’s pretty big) and Stella scares him. Once they’ve warmed up to each other, it’s a running fest.
My brother told me that he’s had problems with Frankie digging holes in their yard. He said that his wife had read somewhere that they should sprinkle cayenne pepper where Frankie’s digging so that he’ll come back, take a sniff, and get a snout-full of pepper. Should keep them from digging in the same spot again.
Stella is not a hole digger. But after Frankie left, I caught her digging a hole that looked to be about the size of a five gallon pail! There was dirt all over the patio. And it had been drizzling so the dirt was turning to mud. She was covered with dirt/mud and the porch, where she’d run into when I came out and caught her, was now covered with dirt/mud.
After I quit yelling, I got a shovel and refilled the hole, then swept the dirt/mud off the patio as best as I could. I sprinkled cayenne pepper over where the hole had been. Then I let Stella out of the porch. She ran right over to the location of the crime, took one sniff…
…and started licking the dirt.
I just flavored her hole.
“MY HOLE HAS FLAVOR! THIS IS THE BEST DAY, EVER!” is what Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden, would be saying were she to be a word-saying dog.
I have now covered her hole with lawn furniture and rocks. Now her hole has fiber.
I went out last night to help celebrate my oldest niece’s 30th birthday. The party was at a bar in downtown Minneapolis. The Big Nugget was at some computer geek seminar so I drove my brother and his wife downtown with me. Those two, they are askeered to drive downtown.
So there went my night of rowdy drinking. I was the designated driver and bro and sis-in-law were the designated riders. They don’t drink. At all.
Let the madcappery begin!
We wanted to eat out and got downtown about an hour and a half before the party began (we wanted to avoid the dinner rush, which there was none of, but hey — when you are old, you are cautious). The party bar was across the street from Gluek’s, and I like Gluek’s, although I haven’t been there in years. As a matter of fact, in case there’s a test, my first date with The Big Nugget included drinks at Gluek’s.
After dinner, the three of us walked a block over to First Avenue, where my oldest nephew works as a bartender. Fact: First Avenue is where parts of Prince’s movie, Purple Rain, were filmed. It’s my favorite place to go to see Ben Folds at. It’s my old stomping ground, and here is where my widdle nephew bartends. We will haunt that place forever.
We talked the door guys out of charging us a cover charge and went to the upstairs bar and found our nephew. I’m glad we went. He told us that he was leaving the country by the end of the year. We’ll see him for Christmas and then he’ll be off to Japan.
We then went to Bar 508, where the party hadn’t really taken off yet. It ain’t a party until my sister shows up and tells you about the 12 pounds of butter she bought for .99 a pound!
Also? I patted down her mother-in-law, in search of pierogies. Baba makes a mean pierogie. Unfortunately, she had none on her.
It was fun to see all the girls I’ve known, since they were pre-teens, all grown up and married and pregnant or married and not pregnant or not married and not pregnant but dating very nice guys.
I learned something new:
This is what the girls were drinking. They call it a Minnesota Martini.
I want one.
Now.
For breakfast.
A little hair of the dog after that one Grain Belt Premium I had last night.
Alas, I have no beer. Only olives. And olives in my morning coffee aren’t going to do it for me.
Today’s goofy conversation went a little something like this:
The Big Nugget (BN): Eels have a new album coming out
Me: When
BN: January 19
Me: Perfect timing (Eels have a very very very sad sound & style…but I still love them). I haven’t seen anything from them for awhile.
BN: Not since the one you bought a few months ago.
Me: I did not.
BN: Yes you did.
Me: What’s it called? What does it look like?
BN turns his laptop toward me, showing me the album cover.
Me: I have never seen that before.
BN: Yes you have. You bought it.
Me: Did not.
BN: You own it.
Me: I know nothing about this. When did I buy it? Where did I buy it?
BN: You own it.
Me: Oh. I get it. You’re telling me that I already own it so that I won’t go out and buy it.
BN: No I’m not. You already bought it.
Me: Did I buy it on iTunes?
BN: You bought the CD.
Me: I did not. Prove it to me.
BN: I don’t know where it is. You own it. You put it somewhere.
Me: Did I buy it and you took it from me so that I never got to listen to it, thereby not implanting that I own it?
BN: I don’t know what in the hell you did with it. You own it.
Me: Do not. (And then I went to the bathroom. When I came back out, it was sitting on the kitchen island).
BN: It was in the glove compartment.
Me: See! I told you, you took it from me.
BN: Your glove compartment!
Me: From a time when you drove my car!
BN: You are really annoying.
Me: I don’t understand. I can’t recall buying this. Where was I? Who was I with? What day was it?
BN: This is just the beginning of how your life is going to be from now on.
Me: Are you messing with me? Aren’t you supposed to be going somewhere? I thought you had some thing that started at 9.
BN: It starts at 10, but there’s a breakfast at 9.
Me: Does your girlfriend know that you mess with me like this?
BN: My calendar is sitting on my desk.
Me: The calendar you and your girlfriend made up to throw me off. Make me think that I’m going insane.
BN: You are really annoying.
Note: New Book Choice Poll over at Books & Snacks, the low-key bookclub for people who don’t like to pretend that they know what the author means
There seems to be something in the air making everyone cranky-like, cranky-ish, crankoids.
My school friend, Karna, has decided that it has something to do with Thanksgiving. People are prematurely reacting to the time they have to spend with bickering relatives over over-cooked turkey. I couldn’t agree more. And I add to this the fact that we are almost without daylight. Well, not like Alaska’s lack of daylight. But the minute we changed our clocks, things got funky. Both here and at school. And I’m going to guess, but if you look at what’s been going on around your home, your school, your work–you might agree.
Teachers are cranky these days. Boy howdy! are they cranky! So cranky, that I got taken to task, for a snarky remark I made, from one of my teachers. Who actually met me in the hallway to do so.
Lordy, that was embarrassing. And totally ridiculous. Something is up Ms. Typing Teacher’s behind and she needed to take it out on somebody. It just so happened that I timed my snarky remark poorly, so that someone to take it out on was me.
My classmates who witnessed my snarkiness were shocked to find out that the teacher had a word with me in the hallway. It all happened so quickly.
Good god. I got it from a teacher at a trade school in the hallway. I haven’t gotten it from an attitude tweak from a teacher in a hallway since I brought a mouse to home ec with me in the 12th grade. That would have been in 1977.
Home ec teachers and typing teachers are my Achilles’ heel.
Since then, I have been a model student, with nary a funny thing to say.
My classmates are bored. My teacher who likes me to be funny is bored. Hell, the teacher who snapped at me is bored.
My fellow students think the whole thing is hysterical. One of them has offered to shank the teacher (she offers to shank anyone for me, I like that in a fellow student). One of them thinks it’s awesome that the teacher’s pet got a scolding. One of them wants me to continue with the funny because every time she laughs, her baby that is due around Christmas, wants to bust out and make a run for it. She is very ready to have that baby.
My school friend, Karna, is just happy to watch me get in trouble; ever since I brought to our entire typing class’s attention that Karna was farther ahead than anyone, even me, in our typing class (wishing she could replace me as Teacher’s Pet, brown noser). She figures revenge is a dish best served by a respect-seeking typing teacher.
I would like everyone to know that I really like my school friend, Karna, and I’m happy that she’s happy with my embarrassment. I would also like to know that my school friend, Karna, is out today–shopping for bigger pants, because the ones she currently wears have turned her into a sausage in a casing. And please note, dear grammar nazis, that I used dashes when I wrote that Karna was shopping for bigger pants; as Karna and I have learned in our English class that dashes are for emphasis. If I’d wanted to keep Karna’s need for bigger pants more low-profile, I’d have used de-emphasizing parenthesis.
Do you think I should share my blog link with Karna? So that she knows my revenge is shared with the internets?
On a different note: Our family will be staying in the Twin Cities for Thanksgiving, which is the first time this has happened in about two decades. And there wasn’t even a fist fight to get to this point.
I had just now, scootched forward onto my chair. My baby kitty, Scooter, hopped up on the back part of the chair and then pawdy-pawed on my back. I got myself a free back massage.
This is why I have a cat.
I don’t know if I’ll take a golldanged photo of that golldanged german chocolate cake/cheesecake concoction. It wore me out, that stupid cake/cakes.
Firstly, I had to run back to the grocery store to get heavy whipping cream.
Secondly, I had to run back to the grocery store to get heavy whipping cream because when I went, firstly, I accidently purchased half and half.
People, let this be a lesson to you. Read the label. At least as far as “Half and Half” vs. “Heavy Whipping Cream”.
Thirdly, the cheesecake was made in a 10″ springform pan. Which I always think of and therefore type as, “springboard”, and have to then correct in my thoughts and on the keyboard.
Fourthly, I accidentally used an extra 8 oz. package of cream cheese. Which caused no difference to either flavor or texture. Makes me think that perhaps the recipe needs an extra package of cream cheese.
Fifthly, I baked the german chocolate cake layers in 9″ round cake pans. Which made it a very big mess when I placed the 10″ cheesecake on top of the bottom 9″ cake layer.
Sixthly, cheesecake does not trim neatly. However, I now have a little container of cheesecakes parts and there is never a reason to complain about excess cheesecake that can’t be accounted for when being eaten bit by bit.
Seventhly, when I explained to The Big Nugget and The Things why I was baking a German Chocolate/Cheesecake for the Big Nugget’s birthday – “Because you like German chocolate cake and you also like cheesecake, and I saw this recipe, on-line from Junior’s deli in New York – that deli I love so much, that I thought it was a great idea” – to which The Big Stupid Nugget replied, “I like salsa, too, are you going to put salsa on the cake?”
Eighthly, “I like malts, too, are you going to put a malt on the cake?” Fucker thought he was funny and wouldn’t stop thinking of shit he liked and wondering if I was going to put it on the cake.
Ninthly, “I don’t really like that restaurant. You like that restaurant. I don’t like that restaurant.”
So, yeah. Stupid asshat german chocolate cheesecake piece of crap. Happy damn birthday you Stupid Nugget.
It’s The Big Nugget’s birthday on Monday. He’ll be all of 48. While I still stand at 50. God, I married a baby!
Today I’ll be making his birthday cake. Cheesecake. Cake and cheesecake. I’m making a regularly-flavored cheesecake between two layers of German chocolate cake. With layers of coconut pecan frosting inbetween. And on top of. But not around.
Got that?
There will be a test.
Mr. Nugget’s not really into food so he doesn’t care if I make a cake or not. But you know me, I like cake. And I will exploit anybody’s birthday to get some.
Please make sure to remind me when it is your birthday, so that I may bake a cake in your honor. And eat it myself.
Last night we were invited to dinner by The Pope and his wife. Yep. The Pope has a wife. I bet you didn’t know that the Pope had a wife. I don’t think I’ve ever told you this before, but Mr. Frame Shop’s real name is Mr. Pope. He is not Catholic.
He is bald.
But you wouldn’t know that by looking at him just like you wouldn’t know that he wasn’t the boss of the Catholics when looking at his last name.
So let’s see if you understand this, The Pope is not Catholic and he’s bald–but doesn’t look that way when you stare at his head. Which means that he is named incorrectly, and he wears a wig. I mean toupee. Only, really, it’s a wig, because if you ask me, and by reading this blog, you kind of are, a toupee is just a little patch of hair that attaches to your little pieces of hairs thusly subsidizing your hairline. While a wig is subsidizing your entire head.
See the difference?
There will be a test!
Also. He is married. A married Pope who wears a wig, but isn’t Catholic.
Got that?
Also?
He reads my blog.
Do you think he’ll mind that I’ve given so many details about him away?
Also?
My Comic-strip reading English teacher from the trade school does not read this blog. But if she did, would she scream with the poor grammar what is written here?
For months, since the downfall of our happy little family and the depression that almost choked me, the branches shook loose the people who were not there for me. Plop. Plop. Plop. Down they fell. And while it was sad for a while, it was really awesome to no longer have to pretend to have certain kinds of relationships with certain kinds of people.
Right now, all the players in my life are playing the same game with the same equipment. Makes the game of life so much more fun.
“Don’t take this wrong,” CiNDy said to me yesterday, “but you sound healthy!”
And she’s right. I feel healthy. And I get that she was trying to say “you were a frickin’ mess!” before.
What’s really weird, is that the universe knows it, too. The universe knows it’s time for a sigh of relief.
Our house phone, that has rarely rung over the past year+, has started to ring again. And not just a ring here or a ring there. But a ring ring ring. It’s as though the world had paused for awhile and is now back in motion.
Things are not perfect. Far from it. But things are not as from from perfect as they were this time, last year. Hell, things could still go very awry but for now, there’s a normalcy-shift. I don’t trust it. After the last couple of years, I don’t think I’ll ever trusty my time in normalcy. But I’ll enjoy it while I can.
Each morning a group of students from the special ed area (for lack of better term, even after a search of my school’s website) roll out a couple of carts and a popcorn wagon.
They set it all up on the commons area and spend a couple of hours selling pretzels, popcorn, cookies, and nachos.
It’s a great educational deal for them. Working on communication with the general public, making eye contact, handling food and money.
It’s a great bargain for us. Something besides the bags of chips, candy bars, and greased lettuce* & more that they sell in the cafeteria (greased food that I love).
I didn’t notice it until this week, when one of my classmates pointed out to me, that one of the wheels of the popcorn cart looks as though it got backed over when somebody parked the popcorn wagon behind their mother’s minivan.
Wobble wobble wobble wobble, down the hallway it comes. Pushed by one of the students who will, with the aid of an aide, get it all plugged in, filled up and ready to sell.
That wobbly wheel is the perfect metaphor for the program and the students behind the popcorn wagon. And the students in front of the wagon, with a drive for the taste that goes with that smell – fresh popped popcorn – wobbly, yes, but just the right thing for everyone involved.
And the fact that I only got 30 cents in change, when the student owed me 50 cents, but had tossed all the coins into one bin, because they were so much fun to play with – and then got confused about the denomination of each coin, gave me a smile that lasted for hours. Well worth the 20 cent tip.
*A fellow student said this week, after I’d been talking about how my turkey burger was so good that it had to be mostly fat, “All of their food is filled with fat, they grease their lettuce here!”
I want two of these and a matching couch. In a brown. Chocolate brown.
I’m so tired of our furniture. We’ve had both the living room and family room couches and overgrown chairs for over 12 years now. God. I hate them. I want smaller furniture. But given the state of our economy, the one in our house, it’s going to be awhile before we get some new furniture.
So I’ll just continue to get a bug up my butt and make an attempt to like the furniture again by rearranging it. Which is what I did yesterday. Last year, I swapped the living room and family room furniture altogether, and I think that was a smart thing to do. But still. Sick of it all.
It would also be nice to have a bedroom suite instead of the dresser my dad made and the dresser my grandfather made. They don’t match, at all. Dad’s was made in the 50s and Grandpa’s was probably made in the 30s or 40s. I love them both. The dresser. And the Dad and the Grandpa. And I’d never get rid of the dressers. They’d be great in a guest room. But really, I have hand-me-down furniture that is mismatched and just not what a decorator would recommend.
I am tell you these things because I have a fever. 98.7. Which means nothing to you but to me, who runs at a constant 97.9 (I’m always checking myself after checking the kids, who are always trying to get out of going to school) so 98.7 has me feeling flushy and achey and ready for the bigger fever to drop any minute now. But not right just now because my fingernails don’t feel pressure. So that means I’m not about to spike a fever. Which always happens when I get a fever. It feels like someone is pushing on my fingernails. Or, I suppose, me pushing on my fingernails.
It’s the fever talking.
I better hurry up and get my homework done so I can run it into school on Monday and cough in Crabby McTeachersen’s face.
This morning, while getting the kids ready for school. God that makes them sound like primary schoolers. Like we had to help them with their shoes and backpacks and Elmo lunchboxes!
Anyway. God, I get so tired of when I interrupt myself.
I was sipping my coffee when The Big Nugget came out to the kitchen and said, “I was just reading an article about building an elevator to space.”
“Space?” I asked.
“Outer space,” he replied.
“Well, I understand that a cable could maybe reach space, it’s flexible enough,” I said, “but once you built an elevator shaft, you’re going to have some structural issues.”
Lordy, I’m an engineer, ain’t I?
“It’d be an elevator box that would ride up the cable, not an elevator shaft,” he snapped back at me. Like I was an idiot for not understand the details in an elevator to outer space.
The conversation went back and forth about how, maybe, instead of an elevator, they should put up a set of stairs.
“Except it would probably be those stupid spiral stairs. Jesus. You can’t haul you luggage up those damn things!” I said. Knowing how much of pain in the ass that is after our many visits to see our friend, Ben, in Breckenridge. Thank god he spent big bucks and got those damn things out of there. And also? It’s important for me to discuss how I’ll haul my things with me when I walk the staircase to outerspace. A gal’s going to need a couple of changes of underwear, at least.
“Maybe they’d just build them like a wheelchair ramp,” Ricky Nugget explained to me so that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting my luggage to outerspace.
“Oh! Like those chairs you can ride up and down the stairs on?!” I asked so very excitedly, knowing now that I would be able to bring my luggage along when I took the stairs to ourspace.
“Yes, dear, sure, why not. ‘Where’s my sandwich?!!!’ you could yell back to me, while riding your chair up the staircase to outerspace,” he replied.
“Stop making fun of me!” I said, “You’re the ass who started this whole, stupid conversation in the first damn place!”
I’m almost feeling sorry for that teacher of mine. 30 academic teaching years in a trade school with just a few weeks left to go, and she’s go nobody to have lunch with?
Bitch much?
Hell, even me, who’s had the song “The Bitch is Back” by Elton John, dedicated to her over the campus radio station, has friends to have lunch with at the trade school. (Not the trade school campus radio station. Back in the old days at the Real College campus radio station. I think the trade school’s version of a Campus Radio Station is when the kids in the auto mechanic schooling area and turn on the radio in a car they’re tuning up.)
Maybe I should start bringing a sack lunch with me, and join her at the little common table for the rest of her tenure.
Kill her with kindness.
I have done and gone a very very very scary thing. I have been a fanatic fan of teesha moore for a very long time. Even took a class with her when she came to St. Paul to teach a class. Funny how that worked out, right?
But I walked away from most things teesha moore when I quit rubber stamping and got hooked on beading. However, I continued to read Teesha’s blog, and drool over her collage journal pages. All that color. All those polkie dots and stripes. Lordy, I love me polkie dots and stripes. I want to adopt a couple of widdle doggies, just so I can name them polkie dot and stripe! Hell, Stella Mirra, Retrieved Golden, arrived at our house wearing a polkie dot collar. It was love at first dot!
So lately, that evil temptress, teesha moore, has posted videos that show up exactly how she makes her collage journals. And I watched every dang one of them. And? It makes me want to quit school and cut up magazine pages. Who needs an income? I ain’t got time for income!
Besides, half of that damn school of mine has succumb to the H1N1. Sick bastards. All they do is cough and hack and sniffle, and a gal can not catch a lecture even if her life depended on it.
That being said, this is not the weekend to start collage journaling. Nay, this weekend has been dedicated to Cleaning. Mothertrucking cleaning! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve cleaned this house?
Probably even longer than it’s been since that damn trade school teacher had a friend join her for lunch.
Yesterday, for my Word class, I had to wait half an hour before class started so that I could turn in my finished work that wasn’t due until next week. No big deal. I was glad to have it done. It wouldn’t kill me to hang around. While I waited, I worked on some other stuff. Finally, the teacher came into class and I handed her my finished projects. “Come back tomorrow for the next chapter summary test,” she said.
Because, you know, why shouldn’t I have to wait around for her again the next day, too, when all she really had to do was give me a copy of the damn thing she had in the trolley she’s pushing around school all the damn time.
Fine.
So today, I got done with the class before her class about 40 minutes early. And this time I thought I might just pop into her office and, if she’s there, ask if she would give me a copy of the next chapter’s summary test.
She was sitting at the table outside of her office, in the pod that four instructors share. And I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but would it be possible to get the copy of the summary questions now?”
“It is my lunch break,” she snappily replied, “but I suppose I can do it this once.” She snarked at me.
I had to bite my tongue, but of course, me being me, I couldn’t bite it fast enough before saying, “Sorry to interrupt your comic strip.” She was reading the comic strips in the newspaper.
“It is my lunch break,” she said again as she got the question summary out for me. Which took all of about 3 seconds.
Jesus fucking h christ. She’s retiring at the end of this semester and has about 7 weeks left to go and she wants to go out being a bitchy mc bitch bitch? I had just heard that morning, from another student, that the teacher wouldn’t accept late work, even though the student’s best friend had just died in a car accident, and the student had informed her before leaving to drive 7 hours away. Teacher McBitch Head reminds us that things do not work this way in the business world.
What?
When somebody dies, your boss insists you come to work? When you get sick? You better show up and answer the phone?
Also? I can’t count the days in my past working career, because there were so many, that I didn’t have time for lunch. Or that I ever copped an attitude because someone had the nerve to interrupt my lunch to ask me a 3-second question. This reminds me, in my last job, there was a guy, who’d worked at the same company for way too many years, who took his lunch in the office break room and then got crabby when coworkers spoke to him, accidentally mentioning a work issue – even if it was a passing comment. Oh. And he was a regular reader of the comic strips. That’s very interesting, isn’t it. Two people in relatively unrewarding careers who ooze bitchiness.
I get that she’s had it up to her goofy eyebrows in students’ excuses, but bitch, please, stop it.
I can’t decide if it was worth me getting out of school 39 minutes and 57 seconds earlier today after witnessing such ridiculous behavior.
I don’t ask for much. Hell, this is the first time I’ve ever asked a teacher for anything. I’m always in class. I’m always respectful when a teacher’s lecturing. I don’t ask stupid questions. I take notes in one class for another student, because a teacher asked me a favor (The Big Nugget thinks I should get a discount in that class). I get A’s. I get my work done early. I barely ask questions because I read the damn instructions. And then I get chastized for this?
She was reading the frickin’ funny papers. Her retirement, next month, can’t come soon enough for everybody involved.
Last week, on Wednesday morning, I drove Thing 1 to his school and then I came home before it was time to head out to my school. I pulled into the driveway and hit the garage door opener, only to find that The Big Nugget had parked in the center of the garage, making it impossible for me to pull in.
“Is this what you do when I’m away?” I asked him.
“Why are you here?” he replied.
Normally, I run some errands on my way to my school but this one time I wanted to run back home. So sue me, dude!
This morning I said to The Big Nugget, “I’m coming back home after dropping off Thing 1, so stay off of my side of the garage!”
So when I pulled into the driveway and hit the garage door opener, imagine my surprise when I saw this:
I laughed my ass off. I don’t know how he did it, but he did it fast and he did it well.
Asshat.
He’s a funny one. He was just on the phone with one of his brother’s, trying to work out some sort of a plan for their mom’s birthday this weekend.
I heard this…
“So you’re taking mom out on Sunday? How about you take her out on Saturday, too, and tell her it’s from me.”
He’ll have to come up with a Plan B.
I called the hostess from Friday night’s dinner party to ask if she’d share her recipe for the amazing chicken she’d served. She was happy to oblige. It’s cooking on my stovetop right now. Well, sort of.
It’s cooking but I think it’s only 45% accurate to the recipe she gave me. One reason why it’s not 100% accurate is because her Spanish is so thick, I have a dickens of a time understanding her. She’s from Spain but was schooled in French immersion, moved to the United States and then did some further schooling in Japan. So she’s kind of a cocktail of speech.
God. I wish I was a cocktail of speech. With a cocktail in my hand right now.
It’s not just the language barrier that’s giving me tonight’s inaccurate chicken dish. I didn’t have all of the ingredients she’d listed. I had chicken and I had onions & garlic. And I had some nutmeg and a few cloves. But I didn’t have the saffron or the white wine. I didn’t want to do some of the steps involved, either. So pretty much, I’m making some chicken with a recipe that was Marga-inspired.
It smells fantastic! I’ll let you know how it goes. And if it goes well, I’ll share the recipe with you.
I can’t let November 1st arrive without first celebrating my blog anniversary. 9 years ago this very night, October 31, 2000, I sat down at the computer and started my diaryland blog. The rest has been a roller coaster of entries and comments and blog movings and meeting people in real life.
I’m glad I started blogging. I still love it, almost a decade later.
Thank you for reading and being supportive, and for being asshats when you felt the need to share your asshat with me. If it weren’t for the asshats, the rest of us wouldn’t look so danged pretty. I like to look pretty. Keeping on asshatting! (Hey! Is that a gerund?!)
And what a wonderful way to celebrate my nine blogging years…heading to downtown Minneapolis so see Ben Folds with the Minnesota Orchestra. It was really good. Not great, but really good.
He’s so talented. And such a geek. I love talented geeks.
Guess I should get off of the computer and go hang out with my own talented geek.
Keep reading!
The Big Nugget and I went to a dinner party last night. An actual, sit down, dinner party of eight. A self-thrown birthday party given by our long-time friend and her husband.
I was thinking about how, in my younger years, these kinds of sit-down dinners made me very nervous. But now, I look forward to picking up a bottle of wine and driving into the city for somebody else’s cooking.
And our hostess, the birthday girl, is originally from Spain so the food is not your typical lasagne and green salad spread, typical of a Minnesota gathering. (Unless it’s a Christmas gathering, which involves lefse, if your hostess is of the energetic variety)
I found myself in the kitchen, sipping wine-alot of wine, and helping (by mostly supervising) the frying of mushrooms (with chile peppers and garlic – awesome!) and a variety of unusual peppers. Suggesting higher heat for the breaded goat cheese and more wine! Fearing standing next to the pressure cooker with the chicken. (There were no injuries, and our hostess’ Spanish grandmother’s chicken recipe was wonderful!)
It was a great combination of dinner guests. A couple we’ve met at our hostess’ past birthday parties and a couple that was new to us.
We laughed our asses off.
Really. Somehow, even with all that wine and all that good food, I managed to weigh two pounds less today than I did yesterday.
I think the secret’s in the laughter workout I had last night. And that makes me want to have a dinner party of my own. It’s been awhile since I’ve had one.
A local Knights of Columbus hall hired a gal I went to high school with to handle their books.
Imagine my surprise today when I opened the local newspaper and saw that the gal had been arrested and charged with theft of over 50 grand.
My surprise wasn’t over the gal’s stealing. Nope. No surprise there. Gal’s got a rap sheet. My surprise is that the Knights of Columbus Hall would hire somebody who had three felony charges against her for stealing money that doesn’t belong to her. One of those times being theft of over $35,000.
Even little old me could look that one up on the records to know that she probably wasn’t the best person for the job. I’ve known about this for awhile. Little old me. A person who won’t even hand over our checkbook to The Big Nugget, for fear he’ll throw all of his hard-earned money at power tools.
People in charge of hiring, do this for me next time, will you? Run a criminal history check on a person before hiring them. It’ll save you money and embarrassment.
Oh Carolyn. I love you, too! But you know, in a way that doesn’t make me want to make out with you, or anything. More like a way where I think we should hang out together and laugh our asses off. Except now that will never happen because I mentioned not making out and got you all worried that the thought did cross my mind that maybe, just maybe…
Beth. I was so happy to have another dose of Xanax available for class today. Me and a microphone without Xanax equals bright red ears and matching red cheeks. And perhaps urinary incontinence. Me and a microphone with Xanax equals total fun in the front of the classroom. Except the part where I had difficulty reading the sheet of paper the teacher had given to me because of my damn bifocals and inability to read with them on, or off. I’m going to have to get a pair of those damn Carrie Donovan glasses.
I say that if there is a god and he didn’t want me to use the Xanax, he wouldn’t have come up with somebody smart enough to invent the wonder drug. If there’s a god and I get to meet him or her one day, I’ll make sure to say Thanks for the Xanax!
Hey! Did I tell you guys that after searching for decades, I finally found a bra that fits me perfectly? It’s the same damn bra I’ve been wearing for over two years now and I just decided to order it in a different size, thinking maybe, just maybe, the cup wouldn’t be pouchy, with lots of air space, when I’m taking a nap? And lordy, it’s important that my cup not have pouchy spots when I’m napping! So I ordered the same damn bra in a cup size smaller and there you go, upright fit, nap fit.
My world just gets better every day!
Oh. Hey. I got an A- in a written test for Word Processing this week. A test I walked away from, strongly knowing the answers to only 4 out of 30 questions. The other 26? I guessed at the multiple choice options. Totally guessed. So imagine my surprise, yet again, to get an A-. I think the Secretarial School Gods are on my side. They know that I’m born to be a secretary. Or at the very least, a Clerk Typist I, or gal from the steno pool.
And? The school cafeteria has a great turkey burger.
I love Secretarial School!
p.s. Head on over to Books & Snacks if you want a say in November’s book!
