Sweet.

That, my friends, is water pressure. In my kitchen sink. Something I've been wanting badly since the day I moved in. There have been two places--the kitchen sink and the master bath shower--that have had the most piss poor (pun and yucky visual intended) water pressure--that have been driving me nutso. And aren't those the exact two places where you care about water pressure the most? I mean, those and the Turbo Bidet Orgazmo 3000. But I digress.

When the plumber came today to install the toilet (see: "Sweeter," below), I batted my eyes and said, "Well, while you're here, could you tell me what's up with this water pressure...pleeeeeeeze?" The master bath is a more-involved issue (i.e., another day, another several hundred dollars), but I'll be damned if homeboy didn't fix the kitchen sink lickety split. For free. [After today's work, I highly recommend "Clarke Kent" plumbing in Austin. Gay name; Good service;Reasonable price.]

Sweeter.

There she is ladies and (probably no) gents (except for Butt...you stalker): an adult size Kohler toilet that's functional and everything. I love it so much, I could almost kiss it. Almost. It has been nearly 3 weeks since I've been able to #1 or #2 in my bathroom, and I gotta say, this is one sweet ride: tall, long, and luxurious. Me likey.

Sweetest.

Holy Mother of God. The Bose soundock for the iPod is SO worth the money. The sound quality is unreal for something so compact. I am seriously considering throwing out my regular old stereo for this mo-fo. I've been listening to it non-stop since I got it, and it rocks so hard, even when it's cranked.

The downward slide.

My 16 year old cat, Ellen (a.k.a. The Ellen Melon, Brownie, Grunchy, etc.), is going downhill fast. It's so hard to watch. She's so bony, and shaky, and still. I've been at home most of the day today, and I can state without a doubt that she has been in the same spot on the guest room bed for at least 10 hours. Hasn't eaten. Hasn't drunk any water. Hasn't peed or pooped. She's just slept and occasionally readjusted her position.

I know the end is near--and by near, I'm not talking this weekend or anything, more like a few months at least. But still, it's very hard to think about her not being a part of my life. She's been with me since the winter of 1990 for Christ's sake. I've had 4 different cars and 9 different addresses during that time, but only 1 Ellen.

I look over at her, sleeping on the bed, and my heart hurts.

I am in love with a dead man.

I was watching some documentary thing on MGM movie musicals last night, and they had this whole section on Gene Kelly, and by the end of it, I'd fallen madly in love with him. I've always thought he was handsome and talented. And ever since he played that clarinet-playing old coot in "Xanadu," I've had a special place in my heart for him. But as they played clip after clip of him dancing and singing and leaping around, I just melted. There was nothing the slightest bit fey about the way he danced--just pure athletic elegance. When he danced, not only did it look effortless, but it looked like he was enjoying the hell out of himself. Plus, it didn't hurt that he was very, very good looking--unlike Fred Astaire who was sort of goofy in an endearing way. I mean, look at him.

Sigh.

Now I want to know more about my new dead boyfriend. Where was he from? Was he married? Any kids? I'm totally smitten.

To say I'm disgusted and disturbed just doesn't cut it.

Don't ask me how, but I ran across this on ye olde Internet: a PRO-anorexia support group. I don't guess I should be surprised. I mean, the internet is filled to the gills with freaky shit. But these entries--which seem like they're all written by very young women--are so fucked up. It just goes to show you what the overwhelming pressure to be thin can lead to. Now that I have a daughter of my own, this whole body image for girls thing is really scary.

Christmas in Texas...

...means you get to play OUTSIDE with your toys wearing short sleeves and sunglasses.

It also means you get to put about a gagillion miles on your environmentally-friendly, human-powered new car...

And finally, it means that you get the present that matters most: lots and lots of sugar.

Yes, my hair and my shirt match. I planned it that way.

Do a little dance, make a little love...

Merry Christmas, Disco Freaks!

I am intrigued.

First let me say, that I think "Classmates.com" is sort of dorky. But, a couple of years ago, I registered on it, and have received a couple of e-mails from long, lost classmates along the way. Usually quick catch up type exchanges, then nothing else. You know: you learn the recent history, blah, blah, and then you're sort of done.

Well, yesterday I got an e-mail via Classmates.com from someone I've been dying to hear from: a male classmate of mine who I've always had "I wonder what would've happened if..." thoughts about. He e-mails me out of the blue, and I wrote him right back. Now I'm waiting to see if my eagerness and quick response wigged him out, or if I'll actually hear from him again.

He too is a Pine Curtain Refugee. Now lives in Colorado, apparently. He never exactly fit in to the East Texas dude mold--he didn't like football, didn't dip snuff, didn't say the "N" word, didn't drive a bitchin' camaro, and basically didn't give a shit what people thought of him. He was a true individual in every sense of the word, and he and I were really good friends. We never dated, although we did kiss. Once. After graduation. It was sort of intense. At least for me it was.
Last time I saw him was at our 10 year H.S. reunion. He looked pretty much the same--which is to say angular, tall, handsome--was married to a nice gal, and (if memory serves) already had two boys. My God, so much has happened in my life since then. If we do start corresponding, he's going to think I'm making shit up when I tell him what's been going on over the past 8 or 9 years.

At any rate, I'm curious.

You know what feels really good?

Introducing your co-workers to R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet," when they've never, ever heard anything about it, and then listening them piss their pants laughing while they watch it on their computers.

Looking back, looking forward.

This time last year, I had just returned from my first trip to Russia where I'd met the baby girl who would, several months later, officially become my daughter.

I will never, ever forget the exact moment I laid eyes on her for the first time. I was tired and very, very nervous. It was snowing like crazy outside, and the orphanage was extremely overheated. I'd been waiting all day to get there, and our trip had been delayed due to some "business" that was going on at the orphanage. So, it was now early evening and already dark outside. My facilitator ushered me inside where we removed our coats and put plastic booties on over our snow boots in a feeble attempt to keep the floors clean. They put me in the sparsely furnished, very warm Director's office and told me to wait. The walls were covered with photos of babies and toddlers who'd been adopted from there. Adoption announcements. Christmas cards. Birthday announcements. I looked at all of them at least 50 times. My palms were sweaty. I was lightheaded. Minutes seemed like hours. I could hear Russian being spoken and lots of movement in the hall outside the door. I kept thinking that they were about to open the door, but no. More waiting.

Then suddenly, a nurse walked in--a large woman dressed in all white--and thrust a baby out in front of her. The translator said, "Here she is. This is your baby." I gasped. All of the air went out of the room. My heart, beating impossibly loudly, leapt into my throat. Tears flooded my eyes. And, in that instant, that micro-second, my heart was hers. I would never, ever be the same after looking into those amazing, AMAZING blue eyes. Her eyes brightened the moment she saw me, as if she could feel my excitement to be in her presence. I timidly asked, "Can I hold her?" To which the translator brusquely replied, "Of course! Take her!" I spent the next few hours just holding her, gazing at her, touching her face, hands, hair. Memorizing every thing about her.

That's the first photo I ever took of her. She didn't smile. I don't think she knew how. No one had ever smiled AT her, so why would she? She was pale and tiny. 4 1/2 months old exactly. Wearing pajamas with bees on them and the words, "Fly away with me..."

I was completely bowled over by the enormity of it all, and the quiet intimacy of it. I was all by myself in this unfriendly foreign country holding this precious, precious child. I know that I will never know what it feels like to gaze upon the face of a child you've just given birth to, but I can't imagine that it feels any less amazing than what I felt on that night in that room.

I will also never forget the enormous pain and emptiness that I felt when I had to leave her there and come back home, not knowing when I would be seeing her again. Everytime I thought of her (which was at least 500 times a day), I felt like I'd been punched in the gut and hit in the heart. It physically hurt to think about her there in that godawful place, wondering if anyone had picked her up that day, if anyone had held her, if she'd had enough to eat, if she was sick, etc. It was mental torture. And as the weeks turned into months, the helplessness and deep ache just became more profound. All the while, I was physically ill, dealing with the intense cramping and bleeding that preceded (and necessitated) my hysterectomy. It was fucking awful.
Last Christmas was not joyous. It was lonely and sad. My stepfather had just died, and my mom was depressed and alone. I didn't have enough time off at work to go home to be with my mom, so I spent Christmas eve with a work friend eating popcorn, getting wasted drinking wine and watching DVDs.
This Christmas will be SO different: My mom, The Geej and me, all together. Hanging out and enjoying each other.
Thank you, Universe.

This is news?

Um, hel-LO! Researchers! This isn't a new phenomenon. Girls have been kicking Barbie's perfect plastic ass since the day she rolled off the assembly line. I guess you just haven't been paying attention to all the armless, magic-markered, mohawked Barbies lying around. It's about time you woke up and took heed of this neophyte feminist statement.

Bastards.

All I want for Christmas is my potty.

Remember how I was so excited about my new tile and my new toilet in my new master bath? Well, I'm over it. Seems when they removed the old toilet designed for tiny people, the flange broke. What's a flange, you ask? THAT is a flange, and as best I can gather, it's this part that attaches the toilet to the sewage pipe or some such shit (pun intended). It's not uncommon for these suckers to break when a toilet over a certain age is removed. So when the plumber came to install my new toilet last Wednesday night, he also noticed that there was a crack in the sewage pipe that was going to necessitate a "special" flange be ordered--a longer-than-usual one that would cover the crack so that water wouldn't seep underneath the floor. And guess what: My new toilet still sits in the boxes it came in, and I haven't heard from the plumber. I called him on Friday to see if he had an update for me, and he said, "Well, I've got some supply houses looking for it, but if we can't find the part we need we may have to have the guys who installed the tile come back out and remove the tiles from around the toilet area, let me install, then re-tile around it." What? Jesus. This is starting to really piss me off. We're about to run into the holidays, which I'm sure is going to delay things even more. I feel like such a useless girl. And, so far, all of this extra hoo-hah is going to end up costing me at least an extra $200 on top of what I already paid for the basic "re-set" service. Home ownership is FUN!!

To top all of this crap (again, pun totally intended), I'm sick as a dog. Chest cold. Head cold. Sore throat. Stomach ache. You name it: I've got it. I've got the kind of cough that, when people hear you coughing, they look at you with shock and horror. I feel like I'm in danger of cracking a few ribs each time I let out a big ol' hack. This morning after about 2 hours of restless, hacking sleep (and that's WITH taking medicine), I coughed up some stuff that would freak out even the most diehard science fiction fans. I just want to crawl under a rock and die.

Hand-Me-Downs RULE!

I am so lucky. Scratch that. The Geej is so lucky. From even before her arrival, my wonderful, WONDERFUL girlfriends began showering me with gently used clothes from their own children. I am lucky because Malcontent Mama's daughter (who also happens to be my goddaughter) is seasonally in sync with The Geej when it comes to sizes. But I've also gotten clothes from this gal, and this one, and at least 4 or 5 others. I've only actually BOUGHT this child o' mine about $100 worth of stuff in the past year. It's very cool to be in this clothing pipeline as a) it saves money, b) it makes sense from a recycling, conscious consumerism perspective, and c) the damn kids outgrow stuff so fast anyway that they probably only wear it 3 or 4 times before it's dunzo.
The outfit you see here was a hand-me-down, and I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember from whom. But I've been dying to see The Geej in it since the day I got it. Today she wore it to daycare since it's her last day there for two weeks (that's right, they're closed for two weeks, but I'm lucky enough to get to pay a full month's tuition. Yay!). Might I just say, she looked edible.

Worth every penny.

Here's my new master bathroom before:

Why, I ask you, would anyone put CARPET in a bathroom? Makes exactly no sense. So, after painting the dark-green-shiny-teal bedroom, getting tile installed in the bathroom was the next priority. And here is the result:

Much, much better if I do say so myself. In the process, I also decided to replace my toilet, which was apparently designed for use exclusively by people under 4 ft. tall. That's getting installed today. And then I get to buy towels and bathmats and stuff. Yay!! Merry Christmas to me!!

A bad, bad influence.

My mom still rolls her hair on hard plastic rollers that she sleeps in. It's ridiculous. Recently, while The Geej and I were speding the night at my mom's house, this happened:
Oh Lord. Make it stop.

Little by little.

The new house is slowly coming together. Yes, half-unpacked boxes still plague me, but I'm making progress. Sort of.

Case in point:

Here's the guest room before I moved in--

I only wish this photo did justice to the godawful "why in the Hell would ANYONE ever paint ANYTHING this dark, high-gloss teal" color that was actually going on in there. It was just so icky. And shiny. And dark. It gave me the creeps and made the room look itty bitty. But now...

Ahhh. SO much better.

As I type this, there are tile dudes at my house installing tile on the floor of the master bath, which until now, was covered in carpet. Again: Why? Who puts carpet in the bathroom. Talk about icky...

Next up after the tile (and after the holidays): New back door.

Now, back to unpacking...

SBC Yahoo DSL Sucks Donkey.

I think the "DSL" stands for: Dick. So Lame. And I thought RoadRunner was bad... Whaaaaaaaaaah!

I could write a 10 page long rant about the whole DSL hook up thing, but I'm not going to b/c I am at work on a Saturday, and I want to get the hell outta dodge. Why am I here? To check on a work-email that I was supposed to receive by the "end of day" yesterday and never did. And I don't want to be at work. But I had to because I have NO FUCKING INTERNET AT HOME because Yahoo sucks.

That is all.

I am going insane.

Tomorrow it will be 2 weeks since I moved into my house, and I am so sick of looking at boxes, I could die. It's driving me totally nuts not having everything put away. Even more annoying than the fully packed boxes are the half-unpacked boxes. It is so hard to get anything done. I mean, by the time The Geej has gone off to slumber land, the last thing I want to do is unpack boxes. Instead, all I want to do is veg out and not do ANYthing. I did manage to get my clothes sort of organized this week, which was a big deal. And I hung a few things on the wall. But my "one box a night" goal I set for myself this week has clearly gone by the wayside. It's not just the inside of the house that's bugging me either. Half of the garage is...well...a clusterfuck. There could be an entire family of raccoons living out there for all I know, but I need to deal with the box situation IN the house before I move it outside. If I get the house boxes done by the end of this weekend, it will feel like I've accomplished something. I swear, I'm having the world's biggest garage sale next month. I gotta purge.

The other thing that's driving me crazy? No internet at home yet. I got all the equipment I need to get hooked up, and I plan to work on that tonight after Her Royal Geejness goes to sleep. I am pretty stupid when it comes to technical stuff, so who knows how that will all go. If I get up and running, I'll post later tonight. If there's no post, then you know I'm sitting on the floor looking at a bunch of wires with a confused/slightly retarded look on my face, cussing. Until then...

Beyond ridiculous.

I was channel surfing last night and the godawful Billboard Music Awards were on. They were about to cut to commercial, and the announcer tease said something like this: "Coming up...the Century Award presentation to Tom Petty...R. Kelly performs...and the announcement of the T. Mobile Ring Tone of the Year award." What the HELL?! "Ringtone of the Year?" Am I just getting really, really old or is that the most asinine thing you've heard of lately? And I'll give you a dollar if you can guess who one of the show's major sponsors was...

That's right: T. Mobile! Your dollar's in the mail.

And while we're talking stupid t.v., one of the best written, well-acted, original shows in years, "Arrested Development," is officially getting cancelled while shit like "According to Jim" carries on. Hollywood is so fucked up. Thank goodness for "The Office" and "My Name is Earl." Although "The Office" isn't exactly original as a premise, the show has come in to its own and is pretty damn funny. Dwight KILLS me. "My Name is Earl" IS original and just simply a good time. Plus, I have a special place in my heart for Earls in general as many of you may already know.

Finally, I just want to say HALLELUJAH that "The Real World: Austin" has finally breathed its last vomit-tinged breath. What a lame, lame, LAME season. I mean, "The Real World" as a concept jumped the shark a loooooooooong time ago. But I felt like I had to watch this season since it was filmed here and all. God, what I wouldn't give for those hours of my life back... The "Housemates" were idiots. Wait. That's too kind. Let's see...they were about as interesting as underwear stains and half as fun. If this bunch represent what college kids are like these days, then I'd like to set off a bomb to destroy the entire self-centered, sex-starved, ill-informed, lazy, belligerent, System-of-a-Down-loving, drunkass lot of them.

Austin is a cool city with lots to see and do. But the only places they ever went to were the lamest bars (The Dizzy Rooster and Treasure Island) and restaurants (Chipoltle and Paradise) on 6th Street. Hey Real Worlders: Austin is more than one city block! You stupid, insipid fucks.

So why did I watch if I hated them so much? Car crash, baby. Car crash. Once I started watching, I couldn't look away. I wanted Wes to get kicked in the teeth while flashing one of his shit-eating grins or sent to jail for date rape and, while in jail, becoming some big dude named Spud's bitch. I wanted Johanna to get a flesh eating STD. I wanted Neamiah to get his nuts caught in a vice. And Melinda and Danny? I was hoping for a murder/suicide type thing. But alas, no such luck. Instead, I got my mind rotted by all of the immature, spoiled, hyper-dramatic bullshit one could possibly pack into 1/2 hour increments. I am so ashamed...

3 Reasons I Should Always Have My Digital Camera With Me.

This morning on the way to work I saw...

1. A Hummer on a flat bed tow truck, and it was all kinds of wrecked up. I'd hate to see the car it hit, but this one was going to the Hummer Graveyard. Hah fucking hah!

2. As the traffic on MoPac was creeping along at about 20 mph, I got behind a Honda Civic with its sunroof open and a big dog head was sticking out of it. It was a Weimeraner (sp?) (who always look so stoic to begin with) and he was just looking about, taking in the scenery.

3. On 5th street, right near El Arroyo, there was this poor bastard standing there in jeans, a jacket and a baseball cap holding a poster board with the words: "I cheated on my wife, and this is my punishment," written in magic marker on it. He was sort of looking down at the ground as the rush hour traffic sped by. Brilliant.*

*I found out later on the 10:00 news that that dude was part of a radio stunt. Those wacky morning deejays at mix 94.7 really pulled one over on me!! What a bunch of hilarious goofballs!**

**Not really. I think morning deejays are the most un-funny people in the world. Especially on super crappy radio stations. Ugh.

I couldn't agree more.

I seriously wish I'd written this.

I'm alive! I'm alive!

I've been in the throes of moving for days and daze now. I'm starting to dig out from underneath the mountain of boxes of crap that is apparently indispensable, but I still have a LONG way to go before I feel "settled." But I have caught myself grinning at the concept of "this is MY house, that is MY floor, those are my light fixtures." There's something so grown up about being this much in debt.

The Geej has settled in to her new digs with no problems. Soon I'll post a photo of her in her new room, but first I have to remember what I did with the digital camera.

Also, I don't have an internet hookup at home yet, so I imagine my postings are going to be sparse and infrequent for the next week or so. Stay with me kids! I promise I'll be interesting and amusing some day soon!

I hope to be so lucky.

This is a photo of my mom Cheryl, with the Geej, taken this weekend. My mom will be 60 at the end of January. She's the same age as Harriet Miers (and we all remember how scary and witch-like she is). I gotta say, my mom looks damn good. And she hasn't had any "work" done (aside from a chemical peel a couple of years ago). Her mother was the same way--looked amazing until the day she died. I pray--PRAY--I got those genes. I mean, I got the famously large hips from that side of the family, so I figure I should also be thrown a genetic bone with the never-aging skin.

Early Thanksgiving

Picture a spiral notebook, covered in hearts and unicorns, with the words, "I LOVE all my friends. 2 gether. 4 ever. NoEndEver." scrawled in flowery 13-yr. old script all over its cover. THAT is, in a nutshell, how I feel about my friends. I have a constant, continual crush on them. They never cease to find new ways to make me love and appreciate them, and I count my lucky stars every day that I am so blessed with all of these amazing jack asses in my life. They rule.

(This photo was taken at Malcontent Mama's kick ASS white trash party like...13 years ago. I'm the pregnant bride with the 40 in hand, wearing a koozie around my neck.)

Since my family is small (ostensibly, me, The Geej, and my mom--with some extended, but not very connected aunts, uncles and cousins out there), my friends are truly my family. When my dad died, it was my friends who were surrounding me. Not my family. When I collapsed at work in July 2004 and had to go to the hospital in an ambulance, it was my friends who took care of me. When I had my hysterectomy this summer, my friends came to the rescue to take care of the baby so my mom could come up to the hospital to visit me. In short, they are nothing less than amazing. Not just because of how they care for me, but because of who they are as individuals. Man, they're awesome.

I think the worst card one could be dealt would be to go through his/her life and not ever know what it means to have a true, TRUE friend. In that respect, I am wealthy beyond imagination. And I thank God/Buddha/Allah/Ganesh/Bob Marley.

Who you calling "Garden Gnome"?

Does she look like she's ready to throw down, or what? The only thing that's as cute as a nekkid baby, is a baby in a hat. Yay! Cold weather!

Let the games begin!

I went and got my homeowner's insurance squared away and got the cashier's check (gulp) for my closing costs and down payment today. Thursday's the final walk-through. Then Friday, I close. Oh God, it's official: I'm a damn grownup. Baby? Check. Mom-ish SUV-type vehicle? Check. Mortgage? Check. Prefer sleeping over socializing? Check. Wow.

And to make things more interesting, I am SLAMMED at work. Have been for a couple of weeks now. Seriously, I get to work at about 8:30-ish, and do not stop unless it's to pee, eat lunch, or call the utility companies to arrange to have my services turned on at the new place. (A call to SBC ate up 27 minutes of my life today.)

When I get home, my to-do list is as long as the one at work, and just as tedious. It's times like these that I think, "Hmmm...maybe if I started taking meth, I'd get skinny and have the energy I need to do everything I need to do." Well, not really. But almost.

So it's 11:20 right now, and I've still got at least an hour's worth of stuff to accomplish before I collapse in bed. And what am I doing? Blogging. Wait. Scratch that. I'm waiting for the laundry to dry so I can fold it. Yeah. That's what I'm doing.

Tomorrow I won't get a lick of work done because we've got this all-day gauntlet of interviews for a new position on our team. They're literally scheduled from 9:00 to 4:00. And here's the kicker: our boss already has her mind up who she wants to hire. We're basically just going through the motions as far as I can tell. This is the kind of shit that convinces me that I will have a stroke before I'm forty.

On the lighter side, I'm thinking that maybe--just maybe--it's finally fall. We've had a couple of head-fuck cool fronts blow through over the past month or so (Ahhh...it's finally fall...wait...NO IT'S NOT! It's 89 degrees and humid! Sucker!! Here's some mid-November mosquito bites just for funzies.), but the one that blew in today may be The One that means the hot weather is done for a while. We shall see...

Before and After

I haven't had a haircut since early August. For those of you without a calendar in front of you or a normal human's sense of time, that's OVER THREE FUCKING MONTHS. Ah-hem. Anyhoo, I've colored my hair since then--grocery store/at home job--but the cut hasn't happened. And it was getting ugly. Not only did I have 1-1/2" roots, those roots were mostly grey. Fucking G.R.E.Y. Oy vey. I mean, Oy Grey.

So I finally have the chance to get my hair tended to today and...can I just say...ahhhhhhhh.

If any men are reading this, I can only equate this relief and joy to taking a massive dump while reading the Sports section of USA Today. Or cumming. Two things I know you boys enjoy immensely.

Feel free to comment away. I know that I look like the ultimate soccer mom with this cut, but trust me: in real life, the color is funky enough to have most soccer moms raising a professionally-plucked eyebrow.

Fake-Food-a-Go-Go

A fake apple, carrot, weenie and broccoli. I think we may be dealing with a bit of an oral fixation here...

I'm so very proud.

Oftentimes I tell The Geej how weird she is. I call her a Gooney-bird, and let her know that she's a complete freak. I feel that it's important that she knows this about herself before she encounters the larger world and all of its cruel inhabitants. What I really mean is that she's wonderfully quirky and has an admirably strong independent streak, even at only 15 mos. old, and that that's fantastic.

But it's oddly reassuring when I hear this same opinion about my wee one from others. From her daycare "report card" today:

"A.M. The Geej was a total goofball this morning. She is into this throwing dirt thing, and when I told her she could throw it down, she decided to eat it instead. And before I could blow her nose, she was walking around blowing her boogers out. :-)"

Awww...my dirt-eating-booger-blowing princess. This report card is SO going in the baby book.

I'm Going to be on Oprah!

Maybe.

See, a friend of mine clued me into this site that has the "what's coming up" topics on Oprah, and allows you to nominate yourself (more or less) to appear on an upcoming show. Although the "Do you suffer from extremely bad hangovers?" and "Do you know a man who has developed breasts?" topics were intruiging, I opted to go for the "Are you 30-something and want to tell your story?" topic. Here's what I wrote for my entry:

"My thirties have been a whirlwind: Moved from Chicago to Austin. Started a new job. Got married. Got divorced. Got promoted. Grandfather died. Mom got cancer, lived. I lost 41 lbs. Dad got cancer, died. Changed positions at work. Gained back the 41 lbs. I’d lost. Stepdad died. Adopted a baby girl (as a single parent)from Russia. Had a hysterectomy and discovered--surprise--I had a malignant tumor. (I'm fine, thank God.) And am in the process of buying my first home. Whew! Somehow, I'm still standing and still smiling, although it hasn't been easy. If you want a guest who's done it all in their 30s, I'm your gal. Thanks!"

I'm expecting a call any moment now. Don't worry--I won't forget you when I'm famous.

Frozen Foods I Love

I very rarely actually get to cook for myself these days, what with the Geej and all, so when I DO actually get to eat food that isn't Geej leftovers (Are you gonna eat that last bite of banana? Cool. Can I have it?), it's usually of the frozen/microwave variety. So now, an homage to the stuff that sustains me. In no particular order, I dig:

1. Stouffer's Spinach Souffle
I actually haven't had this in a long time, but I fucking love it. Have since I was a kid. It takes about 5 hours to cook in the oven, but it's so worth it.

2. Morningstar Farms Veggie Corn Dogs
I know you meat-itarians are going, "Yuck!" But seriously, these things taste just like the pig lips weenie variety you know and love.

3. Boca Breakfast Sausage Patties
Love 'em. Eat 'em for dinner sometimes. The Geej likes them too.

4. Hain Pure Foods Veggie Bowls
They're so damn good. Nice mixtures of vegetables (like green peas, green beans and Brussels sprouts, for instance) that you steam in their own bowl with these light, flavorful sauces that enhance (but don't mask) the flavor of the veggies.

5. Fish sticks
A holdover from childhood. Give them to me and let me drench them in lemon juice or malt vinegar, and I'm as happy as a pig in slop.

6. Anything by Amy's
Her black-eyed peas/rice bowl is great. Her pesto tortellini is great. Hell, even her vegetarian meatloaf is yummy. I heart Amy's.

7. Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream
I really can't buy this anymore, because I have the tendency to polish off a pint within 48 hours (which is not a good thing...for my ass). But damn, I love it.

8. Marie Callendar's Cobblers
Again, haven't made this in a long time, but just getting to smell them while they cook is almost as big of a treat as eating them.

9. Grapes
If you freeze green grapes, they taste like yummy little popsicles.

10. Tater Fucking Tots.
I think I'm drooling a little. Crispy tater tots sprinkled with cayenne pepper? Heaven.

Proof that I'm insane (as if you needed any)

Here are the last 5 songs I bought off of iTunes:

• Chicago, "25 or 6 to 4"
• Adam & the Ants, "Antmusic"
• Sugarcubes, "Hit"
• Judas Priest, "You've Got Another Thing Comin'"
• Depeche Mode, "Precious"

Seriously, the "Purchased Music" section of my iTunes Library looks like a study in musical schizophrenia.

I'm a homeowner, bitches!

Well...almost. I close on 11/18. Crazy, no? I feel like such a grown up and shit. Look at me! I'm gonna have a mortgage! Yay!

So here's the skinny:
Built in 1981. 3/2. 1660 sq. ft. MIL plan. Formal dining. Kick ass covered deck. It's in south Austin (literally less than 1/2 mi. from MoPac). Has crown molding throughout. Cool fixtures and hardware. Newish appliances. Roof only 2 yrs. old. HVAC only 5 yrs. old. No foundation problems. And...perhaps most important to me these days...A DISHWASHER!!! As scared as I am about what it means to be a homeowner, I'm just as excited about what it's going to mean to have our own place. I can see the Geej and I here for quite a while.

The next few weeks are going to be beyond busy for me (I move the Saturday after Thanksgiving), so I predict sporadic postings. But once I get moved and settled, I'm sure you'll get to read a bunch of posts about paint colors and bathroom tile and different exterior door styles. Lucky you!

Fashion Plate

Here's The Geej modeling a hoodie/overall combo.

And here she is modeling an overall...um...skirt, shirt-that-looks-like-a-bonnet ensemble.
We were bored, okay? Don't judge.

I'm speechless.

The sheer hotness of Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash is making me have major heart palpitations. I just want to lick him. God...

My mom is NOT a lesbian.

Last Saturday night, my aunt and her husband took my mom to see Robert Earl Keen at Gruene Hall. It was a gorgeous fall night, and although Robert Earl Keen isn't really my speed, it would've been a great night to see ANY show at Gruene Hall. I was proud of mom for getting out and about, and was curious to see how things went the next day. Here's the conversation we had on the phone on Sunday:

Me: So, how was the show?
Mom: It was good. The weather was awesome.
Me: Yeah...
Mom: It was really crowded. Lots of people smoking and waving their cigarettes into your face.
Me: I hate that.
Mom: Yeah...that Robert Earl Keen is handsome.
Me: Yeah, he's pretty good looking.
Mom: Peggy (my aunt) and I were digging him.
Me: Cool.
Mom: There was this weird lady there who kept touching me.
Me (laughing): What?
Mom: She was patting me on the shoulder and kept acting like she knew me...trying to talk to me, but it was so loud.
Me: Was she drunk?
Mom: I think so. She ended up reaching down and grabbing my hand and just holding it.
Me: WHAT?! What did you do?
Mom: I just sort of stood there. Then I moved over on the other side of Peggy and Mike to get away.
Me: Did she follow you?
Mom: No. She was weird.
Me: Mom, she was gay. She was totally hitting on you.
Mom: What? No way!
Me: Um..yes, she was.
Mom: Well, she was about six feet tall...

When bad hair happens to good people.

I remember the day this photo was taken. My friend Monica Johnston and I drove around looking for picturesque places to take my rush photos. That's right people: Rush. As in sorority rush. (You see, you had to send all these photos in to your prospective sororities so that they could project them up on the wall and pick you apart during rush meetings. Yes, it was as messed up as it sounds.)

It was early spring of my senior year, and I had a couple of rolls of photos taken of me posing around in no fewer than 3 outfits. [The outfit pictured included a sweater vest with bunnies and strawberries on it, and little strawberry-shaped buttons. Blech.] In some of the pictures, I'm actually holding flowers. Daffodils. In this one, however, I am leaning against a pine tree, which is VERY east Texas of me. The pictures are all totally gay. And my hair is BEYOND huge, but I thought it looked amazing that day.

Any wonder why American kids are so fucking fat?

Please look at the set of play food I bought for The Geej today:
On the left, you'll see fake crinkle cut French fries right below the fake Pringles. On the right, more fake Pringles along with ice cream, a brownie, cookies, a donut and pie. And in case that's not enough sweets, there's cake and brownie mix in the boxed foods section. In the upper right corner: pats of butter. In the very center, second from the top is some yellowish mound of something. Icing? Ice cream? Lard? I'm not really sure.

How was my weekend?

Glad you asked. Perhaps a list of the things on my receipt after today's trip to Target will give you some idea:

Baby Einstein book (for the baby)
A book called "Shaoey" (for the baby)
Fruit snacks (for the baby)
Pull and Glow Worm (for the baby)
Set of play food (for the baby)
Animal flashcards (for the baby)
7 items of baby clothes (for...you guessed it, the baby)
A Wine Cube (for me)
Grand Total: $121.02

Yeah...I know.

2 Terrible Things

1. Tuckerville. Remember when the Discovery channel was like a more-accessible National Geographic/History Channel? Well, no more. They're now the "Fox News" among other edu-tainment themed stations. This show was on last night and, because I have no life, I watched an entire episode. I felt dirty afterward. Like I needed a long shower and/or HazMat hose down. As far as I can tell, it's just a sad, sad show, filled with way too many bedazzled outfits and fanny packs. And if you ever wanted another reason to quit smoking, just watch it so you can see Tanya's "Executive Assistant," Annie.

2. As I was channel surfing last night, I kept checking in on Astros to see how they were doing in their first ever World Series game. I don't care about baseball, or the Astros, but I felt it was my duty as a Texan. Anyway, one of the times I flipped over to the game, I was apalled to see Liz "Fuck and Run" Phair singing "God Bless America" to the Windy City crowd. WHAT? My 90s beacon of all things cool is singing a shmalzty patriotic number in the middle of Cominsky Park...oh, excuse me, "U.S. Cellular Park"? I don't know whether to laugh or throw up.

I was a weird, weird kid--The Gripping Conclusion

So here we are in September. Only a few more months to go. Let's get started, shall we?

9/7/year unknown
Dear Diary [DD],
I really think everybody acked smart.
Love, Karla May

["Acked?" Well, some may have acted smart, but it's pretty clear who wasn't very smart at all.]

9/9/year unknown
Super Surprise
Super Dessert
hot tea

[Apparently The Diary was hijacked and forced to perform double-duty as an order pad during a game of "Restaurant." I wonder what the hell "Super Surprise" was? Sounds like some crazy Japanese restaurant.]

9/15/year unknown
DD,
My
favorite
song
is
summer
nights
of grease.

[Yes, this is how it was written on the page. I guess I was going for some sort of a pseudo-haiku thing here. Or not.]

10/31/81
DD,
Tonight I spent the night with Susan. Charlie and Robby came over (I am going with Charlie) and I let Charlie feel me off (on top). It was really my first time. I hope it doesn't get around.

[WHAT THE FUCK?! I was TWELVE for Pete's sake! And had zilcho for boobs! Oh my LORD what a little ho.]

11/1/year unknown
DD,
Tomorrow is the night I go spend the night with Ann. What a blast.

11/5/year unknown
DD,
Fran is baby sitting me. She can play the organ. And

[And? And what? I can't believe I left it hanging like that.]

11/20/80
DD,
Well, I haven't written you in about--a year. That is a long time. I have got a lot to say. Sixth grade is the BEST! I am going with DALE ARMSTRONG.* I realy think Kevin Heilman is cuter but I'll never tell. I frenched him 2 times at the Lobo Pirates football game. 23 to 0. Boo Hoo! Wow! It was his first time. Tomorrow I am going to Shannon and Debbies party. I hope it is fun. Well, write you soon.
Love,
Karla May

[*Okay, at the top of this page and then again after Dale's name, I drew what looks like a Superman emblem, but instead of just an "S," there's an "SF." What did it mean? Super Fox.]

11/21/80
Today I got on the raido (96X). They asked, "Who shot JR?" I said the baby did it. Ha ha.
More after the party.

11/22/80
The party was great! Dale and I didn't french because he has a cold. But...we played Texas chase, we slow danced, and we sat together alot. Shannon liked her gift. More later.

11/25/81
6th grade
People I have gone with

Nathan W.
Dale A.
Robby D. (2)
Clint A.
Stephen Mc.
Brian K. [I had a star after his name.]
Steve O.

11/25/82 [same page]
7th grade

Randy Bobo
Rodney Carrington
Wayne Boyce
Brian Kennedy
Charlie Merriman
Timmy Long
Kevin H.

12/15/year unknown
DD,
Gina is the most nicest babysitter I've ever had. She's so sweet and she is a really good dancer too.

12/22/year unknown

12/31/year unknown

Believe it or not...

I was a weird, weird kid, Part 2

The saga of the diary continues... [Remember, the screwed up spelling and punctuation is directly from the pages of this thing.]

3/30/81
Dear Diary [DD],
Today President Reagan was shot. James Brady--White house press secretary died. Age 40. 2 other people were wounded. Doctor's say Reagan is doing well. It took place around 1:30. Now at 4:16, we understand that James Brady is alive.
[Was I a little Connie Chung in training, or what?]

4/9/year unknown
DD,
My mom is really a pain in the ass! Sometimes she's so "sweet" and others I want to kill her. If something happens, who's the first person she asks, ME!
[I was an only child. OF COURSE I was the first person she asked.]

5/4/year unknown
DD,
Today I started going with Brian.

5/10/year unknown
DD,
Last Fri. night was my first night with Brian Kennedy. We went to see "Road Games," stupid show. But why should I care, I didn't watch very much of it. Wendy & Deann were real pests. I got mad at them. I found out something new, Brian has a great but (along with everything else.) More later!
Love, Karla May [big, flourishy signature]

5/11/year unknown
DD,
Today Brian came over. We were lying on my bed kissing, and he tried to feel me off, but I didn't let him. Good for me! I think he understands now.
[I wore a AA-cup bra until my freshman year in college. I can't imagine what in the hell he was trying to "feel off."]

5/23/year unknown
DD,
Brian broke up today.

5/26/year unknown
DD,
My cat is very sweet.

5/30/year unknown
DD,
Help! Mama whipped me! It didn't hurt

6/15/year unknown
DD,
Why me? I feel so left out! Hardly anyone talks to me anymore.

8/11/year unknown
DD,
You open this like you opened it.
[Well, duh!]

8/22/77
DD,
I think Roy has a big nose. But I'm afraid to tell.
Love, Karla May

Tomorrow, the gripping conclusion of, The Diary.

I was a weird, weird kid.

So, as verified by my previous post, I've come into something of a windfall of blog-worthy material. Most recent discovery: A diary purchased at K-mart and contributed to sporadically from 1976 (age 7) to 1982 (age 13).

It is so...well...I'll let the words speak for themselves: (These entries are in order by month. The years are all fucked up. So are the spelling and grammar. If you see regular parentheses, those are comments from back in the day. Anything bracketed by these: [ ] are modern day comments, to help you understand the context.)

1/1/76
Dear Diary (DD),
I took my tape recorder. And put it buy the door where some girls were talking. I was recording them.

1/2/76
DD,
I went to my dad's. It was very dull. All he did was sleep and watch tv. That's why it was so dull.

1/3/76
DD,
Monday, I went to school. I was so-so. But who can help that. How do you think I draw:

1/4/76
DD,
I put water in Kim's seat. She never found out.

1/5/76
DD,
[no entry]

1/6/76
DD,
I hate Roy.
[At this point, my future stepfather Roy was dating my recently-divorced, very hot mom. I was not a fan of him, or the situation I found myself in. Obviously.]

1/7/76
I HATE ROY!
[Written in prison escapee psycho script handwriting.]

1/8/76
I Hate Hate Hate ROY!

1/9/76
DD,
Lauri, Gina's sister, is a real nice girl too. She can sing's good too.
[Apparently I went a little retarded on this day.]

1/10/82
DD,
Today I went over to Rodney Carrington's*. It wasn't too fun. I swear he's the biggest flirt! I absolutely hate Paige [his sister]! What a snob! I'm going with Kevin Heilman, but I'm in LOVE with Kevin Jones (as always)!

More,
Later

*The "Rodney Carrington" I'm writing about here is comedian/actor Rodney Carrington. He's got his own sitcom in its 2nd season on ABC. Who knew?

1/26/year unknown
Traci is very stupid. And I hate her and she sings horribble And she is so moody she thinks she is so great

1/27/various years
Here is how I write:
[Followed by handwriting samples of my signatures from 1976, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, and 82. Again, a scanner would be awesome right about now.]

1/30/76
Today is my BIRTHDAY

2/15/year unknown
Mike is so moody. One minute he's nice, next he's mean.

2/26/81
No matter how he hurts or treats me I will always love Marty Pliler. I wil love him more than any other boy. Only you, God, and I know this and that's how it will always be. Some day I hope hel love me at last half as much as I love him. I think about him continulously day or/and night. Please, let him feel and know these words as I am writing them. And someday soon let him feel the same way. I LOVE Marty Pliler. (no erase)
[I wrote "no erase," but this entire entry is scribbled over with the words "NO WAY" over it.]

2/28/81
Tonight has been a wonderful night. Me & Shelli wnt to the mall with Marty Pliler and Steve McClure. Marty asked us to go! I can't believe it! We didn't do anything though. Tammy would kill us and the last thing I want to do is hurt Tammy. We just walked around and talked and it was fun. I don't even know why I'm going out with Dale. I don't love him half as much as I like Marty. Arghhhhhhhhhhh!

Memo: [There's a "Memo" section at the end of each month.]
Mrs. Neel [my 4th grade teacher] is so so so picky. I can knot stand her!!!

Next Entry: March thru May.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

Today is the one-year anniversary of my blog. Who'duh thunk I would've actually stuck with it this long. I have about 50 diaries lying around that I've started and then gave up on after a few earnest weeks or months. But not this puppy. No sir. This one's a keeper. So anyway, Happy Anniversary to the D.o.a.P.C.R. Long may she wave.

Let's review, shall we? Since I began blogging I've:

• Had a fun girls' weekend in Las Vegas
• Lost my stepfather to a crummy death
• Gone to Russia, twice
• Adopted a baby
• Had a hysterectomy/cancer I didn't even know about
• Had my mom move within 50 miles of me
• Been celibate as a nun

Wow.

Also, coincidentally, today also marks year number 6 that I, Karla May, have been with my current employer. Pretty amazing considering my longest time with an employer prior to this gig was 2 years. Every two years I'd pick up and move or get bored or whatever, but that used to be my upper limit of job/company tolerance. But so far with this gig I'm still happy, even though I can be cynical. I'm still challenged, even though I sometimes get thrown "busy work." And, most importantly I suppose, I'm still here.

My Hometown.

Here it is, in all its glory: Longview, Texas. Taken on "The Loop." Go over that hill and take a right between the Nissan dealership and the liquor store/bbq restaurant, and you're in my old neighborhood.
On the left you see the Whataburger I ate at pretty much every day in 11th and 12th grade. Yes friends, it's just as exciting as this picture would lead you to believe. I can't believe I found this on the web. Too damn funny.

Sometimes, being a grown up isn't fun.

This Saturday, I went to a dear friend's house to be with her while she had her 17 year old cat, Vincent, put to sleep. It was so damn sad. He was in bad, bad shape. And although he'd rallied somewhat that day, his "good" day was not very good at all. Bless him.

He was one of those orange and white boys (like my own Earl) who's just bursting with personality.He wasn't much on pleasantries, but was charming as Hell, nonetheless. His most commonly uttered phrase was, "Scratch my head, Bitch." Although, he was also quite fond of saying, "Outside. Now."

The whole euthanasia itself didn't take long, and was utterly peaceful. And my friend knew she was doing the right thing, although that knowledge didn't make the whole ordeal any easier.

During that afternoon, and beyond, I kept thinking, "When we're kids, our parents (try to) shield us from this kind of shit. But when you're a grown-up, you just have to deal with it, like it or not." That is SUCH a raw deal.

R.I.P., Vincent: You cantaknerous old bastard.

Busy as Hell.

How come it's always feast or famine? Either I'm bored to the point of mental retardation at work, spending all my time e-mailing, IM-ing, web surfing and blogging OR I'm so fucking busy at work that I barely have time to go pee. And we all know how much I love to pee...

Well, the Busy Me has been prevalent this week. And it kinda sux. I'm all for working hard. In fact, I prefer it to slacking off. But really: some balance would be nice.

But still, despite the insane day I had today, I managed to do some shopping before I picked up the Geej, came home, washed dishes, wiped the Oliver Twistesque daycare grunge off of the Geej, made beds (you'll see why before the end of this paragraph), put out a spread of organic olive party mix, wild rice sticks, fresh baguette, roasted tamari almonds, black pepper chevre, a lovely manchego a bunch of organic champagne grapes, and chilled wine, cranked up the iTunes station "Secret Agent on SomaFM" (under "Eclectic"--HIGHLY recommended for background work/party music), made the Geej's dinner and applied lipstick (to myself, not the Geej). You see, my cousin who is visiting from Switzerland and his girlfriend were coming by for a visit, and he's young, hip, handsome and incredibly well-traveled, and I wanted him to think I was this super pulled-together single mom. Why? I have no idea. Maybe because he's much more "worldly" than I'll ever be. (He's lived in England, Texas, Venezuela, Belgium, France, Greece, Boston and Geneva, speaks 4 languages fluently, and he's only 27.) Maybe because he's tall and handsome, young and naive, and I see a lot of myself when I was 27 in him. Maybe because I'm so painfully starved for any kind of real social life that impressing my cousin and his girlfriend has become waaaaaaaaaay too important to me.
Well, I'm happy to report that we had a lovely time. He's an interesting kid--quirky and awkwardly sweet. It was good to spend some quality time with him. And he and his girlfriend seemed smitten with The Geej. Of course.

So tomorrow, it's back to the salt mines. I feel a day of hookie coming up in the very near future...

Will they ever leave me alone?

This photo cracks me up. It reminds me of those pictures you see of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, taken by the paparazzi. "I'm just trying to go into the 7-11 to get my Red Bull. Do you mind?" I can just see the caption, "The Geej seen leaving Ivy, after dinner with a new mystery beau. Looks like she spilled some of her gorgonzola ravioli on her pants and forgot her shoes. Oops!"

Mama with a gun.

Tuesday morning I went to the shooting range and unloaded a couple of boxes of ammo using a revolver and a Ruger. Typical Tuesday? Not so much. It was part of this wacky "team building" thing with work. Let me say that I am not a fan of guns. Despite my dad's many, MANY attempts to bestow a gun upon me pretty much every birthday/Christmas from the time I was 18 years old, I have managed to remain gun-free, and intend to keep it that way. I am a Texan, however, so I have shot a gun before. It was in high school while I was going out with a guy who liked to shoot targets, skeet, deer, javelina, wild turkeys, doves, ducks, and pretty much anything else that was considered "huntable." He took me to his family's ranch, and we shot Coke cans, milk jugs and skeet. I remember thinking it was fun, but also thinking (with a sense of relief), "Okay. That's that. I never have to/want to shoot a gun again." So imagine my surprise when I enjoyed the hell out of firing all those shots into my paper target. There's something very cool about holding that much power in your hands and being in control of it. I can almost understand the "sport" behind shooting. Almost.

Gone, but not forgotten.

Several years ago, I got in the habit of looking on the website for Longview's newspaper, "The Longview News-Journal." Why? (Good question.) Well they had this column called "The Soapbox," and it was pure gold. Basically, it was this voicemail box at the newspaper, and you could call and "get on your soapbox" about, well, anything, and they'd publish your insane rantings. If you were mad about the new speedbumps they installed in your neighborhood, or if you thought this year's courthouse Christmas decorations just weren't as pretty as last year's, The Soapbox was your place to unload.

My dad was a fan of The Soapbox. He told me he'd called it a few times about things that had pissed him off and, knowing my dad, I'm sure he went OFF. Indeed it seemed to me that most of the Soapbox messages I read were left by very cranky, very old people. Like computer message boards, there would be threads of commentary, but because it was in print, you had to be an avid Soapbox reader in order to fully comprehend that some of the things you were reading were referring to a Soapbox item from a couple of days prior. It was oftentimes so disjointed, that it read like dialogue in a Beckett play, making people seem that much more out of their minds. And, I'm willing to bet, it was the same 15 or 20 people who were calling all the time. God, I wish I could get my hands on some audio tapes of those message...

Sadly, The Soapbox was retired a couple of years ago. I guess the crazies just got too nuts, and the voicemail box got too full to handle. Luckily, I wrote down some of my favorite postings, and think that now the time has come to share them. Please note: I did not alter one single word of this. There's no way I could make this shit up. Enjoy!!

Domestic Issues
I really hate when mothers get granted child support and go and party the money away and the father that busted his butt all week at work gets the kid 24/7, to make sure he is taken care of. Does this sound familiar to you?

In response to the woman that talked about her husband leaving her for a "Whataburger honey" after being married so many years. Tell her I feel sorry for her because mine left for a Golden Corral waitress that had waited on our family. When I was 38, he said he didn't want to make my living anymore, and I had been a stay-at-home mom, too. I sympathize.

I live in White Oak and have a goat, two chickens and a pet armadillo in the city limits, and no one has ever given me a hard time. This allows me to have a fresh country breakfast every morning.

Proper vs. Improper Behavior
My mother taught that people who used foul language were stupid. They weren't smart enough to know the proper words to express themselves. "Family" rated movies contain extremely offensive language. Singers and rappers can't make a recording without offensive language. These people prove my mother was right. They sure sound stupid to me.

This is a word of warning to all you "young folks" out there who seem to have little use for those of us who are showing signs of aging. One of these days, you will be where we are, and you will want to be respected, needed, included, wanted and appreciated. Just because we are gray and wrinkled doesn't make us of lesser value on this earth. In fact, we are reservoirs of knowledge and experience that may lie untapped if we are ignored.

Does anyone understand what RSVP means? Where did common etiquette go? You can't drive without your cell phone pressed to your ear and yet you can't take two minutes to use that same phone to call and say you won't be able to attend?

Entertainment and the Arts
Today I was watching a movie on TV. It had that format where part of it's cut off at the top and part cut off at the bottom. Just a narrow strip of movie in the middle. What is the purpose of this?

I really like the new Longview logo on the water tank that is near St. Mary's School. It is so pretty.

There is too much baseball on TV.

Religion
What's wrong with shacking up? It is a sin. You are afraid to make the commitment to one person. You won't think religious people are hilarious when Christ comes back. Read the Bible and learn what God wants you to do.

What is wrong with religious people these days is what is wrong with ignorant people these days. They said what is wrong with shacking up. God said, "Let every man have his own wife and let every wife have their own husband." God said it, not man. Now why don't you dispute it with God.

Women should not be leaders in a church. They should teach children and help with the social functions. Women are just not designed for leadership. Leadership is for men only. It is un-Christian for women to usurp their authority over men. This works best and makes everybody happier.

Patriotism
I would just like to remind people who fly the Texas flag that the white is supposed to go on top, not the red. I noticed one today that is flying upside down. If you are going to fly them, they need to be flown right.

It seems to me that every idiotic idea originated in California. If you hear of a new scam, 10-to-1 odds is that it originated in Oklahoma. I am certainly glad I am a Texan.

Stop criticizing George Bush and calling him Dubya. Have respect for the president of the United States of America. If you can do a better job than he is doing, get up there and do it yourself or keep your mouth shut. Amen and amen.

Nature
I wish people would realize trees are for the forest and not for the city. Put the trees where they belong. If you are going to have a shade tree, please keep it topped so there won't be any danger of it killing you when it falls.

Chickens are penned up. Armadillos run wild and that is why you see them dead on the road. So you see, you're not so smart.

I just wanted to know if anyone out there has a strange, little, white bird that's been coming around lately? He is real white and about the size of a sparrow and very aggressive with the other birds. I would like to know if anyone has seen one like that and what it is.

Health and Science
Mayo Clinic doctors proved, fat in a proper diet does not make fat. Tests in England showed nothing detrimental to one's health in beef and pork. Vegetarians, most of whom look pale and undernourished, can now enjoy a well-balanced diet.

It takes about 50 years of smoking a pack a day to put a few black spots on your lungs. It only takes about four days for a cola to completely dissolve a nail and only two days to dissolve a T-bone steak.

My brothers and I used to chase the "mosquito truck" and ride in that cloud of DDT or whatever they used back in the early 1960s and there's nothing wrong with us. As a matter of fact, we see better than most folks, thanks to the extra eyes in our foreheads.

What “They” Need and/or Should Do
After witnessing a man at a health club die today, they really need defibrillators with trained staff to use them. Somebody needs to check into having defibrillators at health clubs.

I was in the Marshall Wal-Mart and met a guy in there, Glen in maintenance, who was the politest person, and he helped me find what I needed. They need more people like that in their stores.

I just want to say that I am tired of people putting down truck drivers. They better remember that the only thing not delivered by a truck driver is a baby. They better think about it.

Unclassifiable, yet still very wise
I'm going to get on a plane and go some place, any place where it is snowing.

Everybody don't like Pepsi-Cola. I am a Coke drinker, and I would like to find a restaurant in Longview that I could buy a Coke in.

I am going to use my tax refund to buy a gun and a Bible.

My daughter: Drama Queen

How freakin' sad and pitiful does The Geej look in this photo?

But don't buy it. Not even for a minute. Because mere seconds before this sad, sad photo was taken of my little Olivia Twist baby, I took THIS photo:

She's a future Oscar winner, no doubt. That, by the way, is "Bedtime Bear" that she's holding. It's a Care Bear, and no, I didn't buy it for her.

Poetry rules.

One of the many windfalls of my mother moving from the house we'd live in since 1983 to the house she lives in now, is that she forced me to take ownership of all the weird old shit I'd been storing in my jr. high/high school/home-from-college room for 20+ years. I have this trunk that I kept tons o' crap in--including notes passed to me in my 8th grade locker, among other treasures--that has now come into my possession, for better or worse. Tonight I was leisurely thumbing through a scrapbook I found in The Trunk. This one (I have several) runs from roughly 1981 (age 12) to 1986 (age 15). Yes, the most fucked up, awkward years of one's life.

Anyway, I found a poem I wrote in a 6th grade poetry booklet decorated with wallpaper and a lion cut out of a greeting card on the front . Damn, I wish I had a scanner...

The poem is called "Homework," and I'll be damned if it's not a classic:


Homework

My homework is not finished yet
I said to frowning Mrs. Glicketette
It was chewed up by my hamster, Fred
Who now, by the way, is dead.
It was used as a marker in my library book.
It's there no more. Just take a look!
I was used by my Great Aunt Myrtle,
To feed her pet turtle, Pirtle.
People found it such a beaut,
It's now in the Smithsonian Institute!

Again, I wish I had a scanner b/c there's also a picture I drew to accompany the poem. It's obviously me (big blonde perm gives me away) and the "frowning Mrs. Glicketette" standing in front of me with a severe gray bun and a paddle in her hand as big, if not bigger, than my head.

Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

This morning as I was about to load The Geej into the backseat of my car, a big gust of cool wind hit us, blowing the leaves at our feet and the hair on our heads. She looked at me with big, surprised eyes and then just started laughing hysterically. The wind made her giggle with glee. And after 8 straight days of record-breaking heat, it made me pretty happy too. God, I hope the 105 degree days are over...

My mother, the genius.

I've been bitching and moaning a LOT lately about my consistent lack of quality sleep, due in large part to my tiny bladder and my noisy baby. The bladder I can't do anything about. Even if the last drop of liquid I had was at 5pm, I'm still gonna have to get up at some point in the night to pee. I can't do much about the noisy baby either. She sleeps through the night pretty well, but there are always one or two moments when she cries out in her sleep and then goes right back to snoozeville. When these cries come through the baby monitor, they jolt me awake, even though the stupid monitor is turned all the way down and lying on it's speaker to muffle it even more. And once I'm awake, I'm awake. Period. It's a very frustrating and exhausting way to spend the night.

My mom--the genius--suggested that I turn the monitor off while sleeping. My house is small enough (and I'm a light enough sleeper) that I would be able to hear The Geej from my room if she really was crying, and maybe with the monitor off, I wouldn't be jolted awake so easily with the little midnight cries-for-n0-reason.

I'm on night #2 of no monitor, and I gotta say, I'm sleeping much better. Now if I could just get my genius mother to come up with some painfully obvious and effective way to deal with my teeny bladder, than I'd be all good.

1977

When my dad and mom divorced, my dad moved in to this "singles-only" apartment community called "The Treehouse" apartments. It was newly-built, with clean walls and bitchin' green shag carpet. I remember that apartment so clearly. It was right by the pool (which I thought was awesome) and had one bedroom that was almost entirely taken up with his king sized brass bed. There was a small-ish bathroom, a dinette set with swivel chairs that had smokey gray plastic backs and white vinyl seats, and a small, galley kitchen. The living area featured a black vinyl couch and recliner, with metal studs as decorative accents, and a black and white modular plastic coffee table with matching end tables. He had a top-of-the-line television and stereo equipment, lots of plastic plants and on almost every wall: large, yarn "Eyes of God," handmade by someone he knew. Looking back, the place was tiny--maybe 750 square feet. It was so "seventies," that it's almost comical. It was his bachelor pad, and it was tacky as hell, but always spotless.

I was eight, and I'd come over to visit every other weekend. My dad was 32, and in full-on "free and single" mode. Although he had a girlfriend (my mom's ex best friend, dontcha know), there was a different woman there every weekend I came to visit. He had no idea what to do with me, so he'd usually hire a babysitter and go get fucking wasted at the Elks Lodge with his slut-of-the-week. To give me something to do, he showed me how to use his stereo so that I could entertain myself. He taught me to respect the records, being careful to clean them with a special cleaner, and to never, ever scratch them. He also showed me how to use the reel-to-reel tape player--considered state of the art at the time. I would put on the ENORMOUS headphones, and lie in front of the stereo for hours listening to records and tapes. One of my favorites was Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon." I knew every word by heart, and really liked "Money" because it said the word "bullshit."

He had a bizarre, eclectic record collection: Neil Diamond, Kid Creole and the Coconuts, Willie Nelson, Barry Manilow, Olivia Newton-John, Waylon Jennings, Jesse Colter, The Rolling Stones, ELO, ZZ Top, Moe Bandy and the Rodeo Clowns, The Eagles, Linda Rondstat, and lots and lots of Elvis. I fell in love to listening to music in that crappy apartment. I picked it apart as I listened to it--isolating drum lines and harmonies and guitar parts in my head. I would teach myself how to sing all of the harmonies of ELO and the back up parts for Neil Diamond. I was determined to be a background singer when I grew up. Or Olivia Newton-John. Either one would've worked for me.

I started saving up my measly allowance so that I could go to Musicland at the mall and buy 45s and albums of my own. It didn't matter what the genre was, if it was appealing to me, I bought it.

You know, I really have my dad to thank for my love of music. It's not just a love of music, it's more like an insatiable hunger, really. R&B; Albums; Country; 45s; Electronica; 8-track tapes; AOR; cassette tapes; Metal; CDs; Rock; MP3s; Pop. It's all good, and I can never, ever get enough.

SUCH a DICK!!!!

Please tell me you've heard the soundbite of Monkey Boy/President W. making a speech this week where he FUCKING segued from hurricane Katrina to the "War on Terror" (thereby subtly linking the two).

It went something like this:
"We see the destruction of Katrina, and our hearts break. They see the destruction and wish they'd caused it. These are the people we're at war against. It's a war. On terror."

God, I want to just slap him across his stupid, stupid face. Hard. How DARE he?! The man has no shame. Next thing you know, he'll be like, "That bus fire on the highway outside of Houston that killed 20+ elderly people? War on terror." "Cancer? War on terror." "Break up of Tori Spelling's year-old marriage? War on terror."

I can not understand how, with this fucking JACK ASS and all of his evil, crooked cronies leading our country down the toilet at a blinding speed, why we don't have a major revolt on our hands! I'm talking 1789 Paris, baby. Guillotines and blood in the streets.

Ugh. I'm just disgusted.

The Kissing Bandit Strikes Again!!

The Geej likes to kiss pretty much anything or anyone she can get her lips on. Recent victims include the cat, pictures of herself, the bathtub, me, her shoes, the mirror, her diapers (clean, of course), a spoon, and the floor. You name it, she's kissed it.

Behold, her latest victim: The sweet, adorable Anderson F. Quite possibly the most pleasant baby in the world with the most pinchable cheeks this side of Topeka. I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship...