The first one away from family. In Chicago. I made my mom's cornbread dressing and took it to a big potluck hosted by some dudes living in a crazy house in Pilsen. The dressing was unevenly cooked--done around the edges, mushy in the middle. My boyfriend tooke a mincemeat pie from the grocery store. We all drank a lot, got loud, and had a blast.
The right after my stepdad had been moved from the hospital to the nursing home. I convinced my mom to come down to Austin for Thanksgiving. We, and two of my friends who weren't traveling home, went to a fancy Thanksgiving feast at The Driskill. It was really nice, but there was an undertone of sadness to the whole event. My stepdad died the following week.
The one right after I'd moved back to Austin with my fiance. We had another couple over, and between the four of us, we cooked up an amazing feast. While we were in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, our Siberian Husky made off with the turkey carcass that was still on the dinner table and had a feast of his own. We'd smoked enough pot to think it was hilarious.
One at my grandmother's house when she'd purchased all the meals from the junior college's band booster club. They came in styrofoam containers--turkey, a scoop of dressing, green beans, sweet potatoes. My mother and aunts supplemented with pies and Parker House rolls. All the grown ups were pretty lit, so it wasn't a surprise when the rolls spilled out over the too-small pan in the oven and looked like slightly burnt scrotum sacks. Someone took pictures. Everyone thought it was hysterical.
The last one I had with my dad.
The one the first Thanksgiving the BH was living in Austin. Hosted my mom and four friends who were not traveling. The food was magnificent. I specifically remember having rhubarb pie for the first time, and loving it.
The one in Galveston. I was in college, and my mom, stepdad, and aunt, uncle, spouses and cousins all rented a place near the beach. We had shrimp instead of turkey.
The one with my dad where I found a wandering dog with a collar on on my way to his house. When I arrived, stray dog in tow, my very intoxicated father yelled at me for bringing the dog to his house. He was furious with me. I left with the dog, crying. Went back to my mom's house and eventually found the dog's owner and took the dog home to them. I left town that weekend without speaking to my dad again.
The one at my stepfather's mother's house in Athens, Texas. I ate a lot of coconut cream pie that had been sitting out a bit too long. The next day, I had my first case of food poisoning, and as I was in the feverish throes of vomiting and shitting myself silly, I tearfully begged my mom to let me die.She started to cry. I was eleven.
The one that we had at Mom's house when I was home from college. Mom, my stepdad, my grandmother, my Aunt and her husband. It was the first time I'd taken on some real cooking duties. I wanted everything to be so nice. I read up on how to properly set the table. I really focused on the presentation of my dishes. I think it was one of only about 10 times that dining room was used during the 20 years we lived in that house.
The one where I silently got up and left my dad's house after he'd said the word "nigger" more than I could handle while watching the Texas vs. A&M game.
Last year. Hosting BH's crotchety old dad and BH's two sons.Purchased a new gravy boat. I ordered the turkey, but cooked everything else. I finally got Mom's dressing right. A strong, windy cold front blew in while we were eating, dropping the temperature by at least 20 degrees.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
A scratchy throat, a report on parasites, and a holiday bitch fest. You're welcome.
Yes, it's been actual weeks since my last post. Believe me, I wish I'd had the time and inspiration to create some posts, but both of those things have been sadly absent from my life. And now I'm sick. Sort of. I mean, I'm not sure what's up. I'm blaming allergies, but basically it's a feeling of general-worn-outedness (more so than normal), banging hangover-like headaches, and the rawest, sorest throat ever. Of course all of this is coming on when I'm wildly busy at work and I've got actual social events on my calendar. Of course.
On the domestic front, after never having them before, The Geej has contracted lice twice since September. The most recent lice-fest began this past Tuesday when she nonchalantly mentioned at the breakfast table, "My head is itchy." And sure enough, looked at her sclap and there those nasty bastards were. I beelined it to Walgreen's and bought a remedy that lands on the effectiveness spectrum somewhere between scalp napalm and tap water. So far, so good, but WHAT a pain in the ass. I kept her home from school that day while I cleaned everything that had come into contact with her noggin for the past week and treated her scalp, twice. We're still treating her each night and looking for those goddamned nits, but the fucking school and aftercare that she attends better be doing THEIR part to check for infestation, or it's all for naught. I alerted both of them about our situation on Tuesday and got a couple of vaguely reassuring emails about their policies, etc., but I think they should put that shit on lock-down until they are sure that shit's under control. Blech. I guess the ONLY good thing about getting lice in this day and age is that there it is far less stigma around it than it was when I was a kid. I got lice in 5th grade, presumably from the new, non-English speaking student I was tutoring in, no kidding, a broom closet. Her name was Ofelia, and she was 14 years old. I was 11. Our school was utterly unprepared to handle the needs of a student who didn't speak a word of English, so they enrolled her in 5th grade (instead of 7th or 8th, where she should've been age-wise) and then assigned a "gifted" student (moi) to sit in a broom closet with her and go over books that were intended for pre-schoolers. During that period, I got lice. And not only was my mother HORRIFIED (I might as well have come home with a lamprey stuck to my face), the school kept it all on the down-low and treated me and Ofelia like we were radioactive. I was so ashamed to have gotten such a "dirty" ailment, and my mother put a stop to my daily broom closet rendezvous with Ofelia and we were, instead, allowed to sit at a small tabel in the corner of the classroom for our tutoring sessions, which meant we weren't quite so close together. I eventually got over my lice, and Ofelia eventually left our school.
Next week is Thanksgiving. I fucking love Thanksgiving. It's during my favorite season, it focuses on my favorite kinds of food, and there are usually copious napping opportunities. Something I do NOT love? Traveling during the holidays and/or traveling on IH-35, both of which I get to do for this coming Thanksgiving holiday. We're actually going to be at my mom's on Thanksgiving Day, which is a short, non-busy drive and will involve her cornbread dressing, which is truly one of my favorite foodstuffs in the world. So that's good. But the next day, you know Friday...Black Friday...the busiest travel day of the year? We're loading up the car with all three kids and heading to "The Christmas Capital of Texas," Grapevine. Sigh. This whole thing is the brainchild of BH's mother, Dixie. And I love Dixie. Really, I do. And I love my brother and sister-in-law and their kids, who are also going to this family gathering. But OMFG, I am not looking forward to the travel. And also? We're going to be staying here, which means that we'll be dealing with the other thing I despise: holiday crowds. I know that The Geej is going to love the shit out of it. And like I said, I really do love BH's family, so I'm just going to have to focus on that. Because if not? I may lose my shit. BH feels the same way about this whole endeavor, btw. Hopefully we'll be able to keep each other from committing sepuku.
Some happier news: It rained earlier this week. Not a whole lot--about 1/2 an inch at our house--but it was still nice to see. And despite the fact that small rains like this (we had another one about a month ago) certainly perk up the grass and plants around town, the drought is showing no signs of letting up. Fucking drought. I blame Rick Perry. Not because I really think he's at fault, but because I hate him.
Alright, I'm signing off for now. Hopefully it won't be another 3 weeks before you hear from me again.
By the way, that there is a disgustingly real looking turkey cake I spotted recently at HEB. Ewww...
On the domestic front, after never having them before, The Geej has contracted lice twice since September. The most recent lice-fest began this past Tuesday when she nonchalantly mentioned at the breakfast table, "My head is itchy." And sure enough, looked at her sclap and there those nasty bastards were. I beelined it to Walgreen's and bought a remedy that lands on the effectiveness spectrum somewhere between scalp napalm and tap water. So far, so good, but WHAT a pain in the ass. I kept her home from school that day while I cleaned everything that had come into contact with her noggin for the past week and treated her scalp, twice. We're still treating her each night and looking for those goddamned nits, but the fucking school and aftercare that she attends better be doing THEIR part to check for infestation, or it's all for naught. I alerted both of them about our situation on Tuesday and got a couple of vaguely reassuring emails about their policies, etc., but I think they should put that shit on lock-down until they are sure that shit's under control. Blech. I guess the ONLY good thing about getting lice in this day and age is that there it is far less stigma around it than it was when I was a kid. I got lice in 5th grade, presumably from the new, non-English speaking student I was tutoring in, no kidding, a broom closet. Her name was Ofelia, and she was 14 years old. I was 11. Our school was utterly unprepared to handle the needs of a student who didn't speak a word of English, so they enrolled her in 5th grade (instead of 7th or 8th, where she should've been age-wise) and then assigned a "gifted" student (moi) to sit in a broom closet with her and go over books that were intended for pre-schoolers. During that period, I got lice. And not only was my mother HORRIFIED (I might as well have come home with a lamprey stuck to my face), the school kept it all on the down-low and treated me and Ofelia like we were radioactive. I was so ashamed to have gotten such a "dirty" ailment, and my mother put a stop to my daily broom closet rendezvous with Ofelia and we were, instead, allowed to sit at a small tabel in the corner of the classroom for our tutoring sessions, which meant we weren't quite so close together. I eventually got over my lice, and Ofelia eventually left our school.
Next week is Thanksgiving. I fucking love Thanksgiving. It's during my favorite season, it focuses on my favorite kinds of food, and there are usually copious napping opportunities. Something I do NOT love? Traveling during the holidays and/or traveling on IH-35, both of which I get to do for this coming Thanksgiving holiday. We're actually going to be at my mom's on Thanksgiving Day, which is a short, non-busy drive and will involve her cornbread dressing, which is truly one of my favorite foodstuffs in the world. So that's good. But the next day, you know Friday...Black Friday...the busiest travel day of the year? We're loading up the car with all three kids and heading to "The Christmas Capital of Texas," Grapevine. Sigh. This whole thing is the brainchild of BH's mother, Dixie. And I love Dixie. Really, I do. And I love my brother and sister-in-law and their kids, who are also going to this family gathering. But OMFG, I am not looking forward to the travel. And also? We're going to be staying here, which means that we'll be dealing with the other thing I despise: holiday crowds. I know that The Geej is going to love the shit out of it. And like I said, I really do love BH's family, so I'm just going to have to focus on that. Because if not? I may lose my shit. BH feels the same way about this whole endeavor, btw. Hopefully we'll be able to keep each other from committing sepuku.
Some happier news: It rained earlier this week. Not a whole lot--about 1/2 an inch at our house--but it was still nice to see. And despite the fact that small rains like this (we had another one about a month ago) certainly perk up the grass and plants around town, the drought is showing no signs of letting up. Fucking drought. I blame Rick Perry. Not because I really think he's at fault, but because I hate him.
Alright, I'm signing off for now. Hopefully it won't be another 3 weeks before you hear from me again.
Friday, October 21, 2011
My Religious Period
My father was the youngest of 5 born into a very strict Pentecostal family. He once told me that, by the time he was 15, he'd attended enough church to last him the rest of his life, so he stopped going--much to the chagrin of his deacon father. My mother was raised in a Methodist household that attended church during major religious holidays, but not much during the rest of the year. Neither of them ever guided me in a religious direction as I grew up.
When I was about 13, I was invited by a friend of mine to attend church with her. She went to a big, impressive Southern Baptist church that had just opened a cool new family activity center that had a gym, an indoor running track, classrooms, etc. Other friends of ours attended this church, and so I thought nothing of it when I agreed to accompany her family to a few worship services. Since my family didn't "do" church, the only way I was going to go to church at all was going to be by tagging along with another family who did.
After a few visits to the church, I started accompanying her to other youth-focused events there, and eventually agreed to go to an over-night "Lock In" with her. For those of you unfamiliar with what goes on during a Lock In, allow me to break it down for you:
Your parents drop you off at the church's family activity center early on Friday evening. There are lots of other kids there your age, some from your school, some from other schools in the town. The chaperones are made up of youthful members of the congregation who you've maybe seen in Sunday school or in the pews and the church's Youth Minister--a (usually male) minister who is young enough to connect with the kids but old enough to command their respect. The evening starts with an orientation and low-down on the schedule and the rules, and then you're set loose to eat pizza, roller skate, play basketball, racquetball, watch movies, do arts and crafts, etc. At about 2 am, they gather you all in the gym and start to talk to you about the Lord. About how we're all sinners, and about how, if we die without accepting Jesus Christ as our Savior, we will go to Hell. The chaperones get up and tell emotional, dramatic stories about how they were "saved," and about how they don't want any of us to burn in Satan's inferno because we were unwilling to accept the gift that God gave us through his Son, Jesus Christ. It goes on and on. There are prayers and crying. There are readings from scripture and more praying and crying. And then they start asking who in that room wants to come to Heaven with them. Who wants to be saved by the blood of Jesus Christ. Exhausted, over-sugared, puberty-addled kids start to stagger up from their pillows and sleeping bags and walk toward the Youth Minister, crying. He asks each of them if they accept Jesus Christ as their savior and will agree to "witness" for the Lord and be baptised into the church. Yes! Yes!! We don't want to die and burn in Hell! Anything you want, Youth Minister! We're young, highly impressionable teens who are sleep deprived and wanting more than anything to fit in. And as we see peer after peer head toward you and agree to be saved and baptised, we get swept up in the moment and say we believe. Oh how we believe, Youth Minister!!
When my mom came to pick me up the following morning, I was a ball of electric energy. I couldn't stop talking about being saved and how I was going to get baptised and how I was going to go to Heaven because I'd accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior and I hoped that she was saved so that she could go to Heaven too. She agreed to come and watch me get baptised, but she wasn't sure about the "church 3 times a week" request I made of her.
After the Lock In, I became insufferable. I would "witness" to my friends and family--preaching to them about what my faith meant to me...how good salvation felt...and how, they too, could join me in Heaven if they'd just agree to accept Jesus as their Lord. I prayed obsessively. I tried, with all my heart, to be the model Christian I felt like Jesus and The Youth Minister wanted me to be.
I got baptised during a Sunday evening service a few weeks after the Lock In, and attended church all the time: Sunday school, Sunday morning service, Sunday evening service, Wednesday evening youth fellowship, and Wednesday evening service. My mother dutifully drove me to and from, but never joined me. I even worked as a junior counselor at Vacation Bible School that summer, earning $150 for an entire summer's worth of work. My Pentecostal relatives were relieved that I'd chosen a different path than my wayward father, even if it was with the Southern Baptists rather than their much more conservative (if you can even imagine) church.
My religious fervor continued for about a year-and-a-half and then? I got over it.
Many, many years later, I revisited this whole bizarre time in my life. It felt like someone else's memories had been downloaded into my brain. Was that really me? Was I really that zealous and blindly accepting? What the Hell did my mother think about the whole thing? What made me decrease my commitment to my church and my religion?
Now, when I see others with this kind of fundamental faith and belief in their religion, I find it equal parts scary and admirable. Maintaining that kind of faith and devotion requires a surrender to an intense myopia that I can't even imagine. It requires that you view the world in terms of absolutes: Black and white; Yes and no. There is no room for shades of gray or maybes in a mind filled with the idea that there is only one path to heaven.
When I was about 13, I was invited by a friend of mine to attend church with her. She went to a big, impressive Southern Baptist church that had just opened a cool new family activity center that had a gym, an indoor running track, classrooms, etc. Other friends of ours attended this church, and so I thought nothing of it when I agreed to accompany her family to a few worship services. Since my family didn't "do" church, the only way I was going to go to church at all was going to be by tagging along with another family who did.
After a few visits to the church, I started accompanying her to other youth-focused events there, and eventually agreed to go to an over-night "Lock In" with her. For those of you unfamiliar with what goes on during a Lock In, allow me to break it down for you:
Your parents drop you off at the church's family activity center early on Friday evening. There are lots of other kids there your age, some from your school, some from other schools in the town. The chaperones are made up of youthful members of the congregation who you've maybe seen in Sunday school or in the pews and the church's Youth Minister--a (usually male) minister who is young enough to connect with the kids but old enough to command their respect. The evening starts with an orientation and low-down on the schedule and the rules, and then you're set loose to eat pizza, roller skate, play basketball, racquetball, watch movies, do arts and crafts, etc. At about 2 am, they gather you all in the gym and start to talk to you about the Lord. About how we're all sinners, and about how, if we die without accepting Jesus Christ as our Savior, we will go to Hell. The chaperones get up and tell emotional, dramatic stories about how they were "saved," and about how they don't want any of us to burn in Satan's inferno because we were unwilling to accept the gift that God gave us through his Son, Jesus Christ. It goes on and on. There are prayers and crying. There are readings from scripture and more praying and crying. And then they start asking who in that room wants to come to Heaven with them. Who wants to be saved by the blood of Jesus Christ. Exhausted, over-sugared, puberty-addled kids start to stagger up from their pillows and sleeping bags and walk toward the Youth Minister, crying. He asks each of them if they accept Jesus Christ as their savior and will agree to "witness" for the Lord and be baptised into the church. Yes! Yes!! We don't want to die and burn in Hell! Anything you want, Youth Minister! We're young, highly impressionable teens who are sleep deprived and wanting more than anything to fit in. And as we see peer after peer head toward you and agree to be saved and baptised, we get swept up in the moment and say we believe. Oh how we believe, Youth Minister!!
When my mom came to pick me up the following morning, I was a ball of electric energy. I couldn't stop talking about being saved and how I was going to get baptised and how I was going to go to Heaven because I'd accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior and I hoped that she was saved so that she could go to Heaven too. She agreed to come and watch me get baptised, but she wasn't sure about the "church 3 times a week" request I made of her.
After the Lock In, I became insufferable. I would "witness" to my friends and family--preaching to them about what my faith meant to me...how good salvation felt...and how, they too, could join me in Heaven if they'd just agree to accept Jesus as their Lord. I prayed obsessively. I tried, with all my heart, to be the model Christian I felt like Jesus and The Youth Minister wanted me to be.
I got baptised during a Sunday evening service a few weeks after the Lock In, and attended church all the time: Sunday school, Sunday morning service, Sunday evening service, Wednesday evening youth fellowship, and Wednesday evening service. My mother dutifully drove me to and from, but never joined me. I even worked as a junior counselor at Vacation Bible School that summer, earning $150 for an entire summer's worth of work. My Pentecostal relatives were relieved that I'd chosen a different path than my wayward father, even if it was with the Southern Baptists rather than their much more conservative (if you can even imagine) church.
My religious fervor continued for about a year-and-a-half and then? I got over it.
Many, many years later, I revisited this whole bizarre time in my life. It felt like someone else's memories had been downloaded into my brain. Was that really me? Was I really that zealous and blindly accepting? What the Hell did my mother think about the whole thing? What made me decrease my commitment to my church and my religion?
Now, when I see others with this kind of fundamental faith and belief in their religion, I find it equal parts scary and admirable. Maintaining that kind of faith and devotion requires a surrender to an intense myopia that I can't even imagine. It requires that you view the world in terms of absolutes: Black and white; Yes and no. There is no room for shades of gray or maybes in a mind filled with the idea that there is only one path to heaven.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Twelve. Seven. And One thousand one hundred fifty.
Twelve.
Today is my 12th anniversary working for you-know-who. Wow. When I started this job I was a lot younger, skinnier, and blonder. I was also a lot less bruised by life. I had more energy but less stress. I drove a Mitsubishi that was 1/2 way paid for. I'd just moved back to Austin after being gone for five years, and lived in a rented house with horrible carpet and a man I would marry and divorce. I had lots of free time and saw lots of movies and live music. Everyone was freaking about the Millennium and what it would mean to computer systems around the world. My boss was hoarding bottled water and food in his spare bedroom. I had straight hair and bangs. I had a 401k and a savings account. My parents still lived in Longview, which meant somewhat frequent trips to The Pine Curtain. America was not (technically) at war. I smoked a good deal of pot. I was not a mother to anything other than a Siberian husky and an old, grumpy cat. I'd never been to Wisconsin, Michigan, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Oregon, or New Mexico. I didn't know what "genetically modified organisms" or "organic integrity" meant. My dad and stepfather were still alive. I had no tattoos.
Seven.
Today is my 7th Bloggiversary. When I started this blog, I was quite a bit younger, skinnier, and had flaming red hair. I'd been pretty beaten up by life. The world had changed because of 9/11. I drove a VW wagon that was my first V-6. I lived alone in a house rented from a friend that had a great deck and a tiny kitchen. I was dating, but it was nothing serious. I had a 401(k), a savings account, and stock options. I still had all of my reproductive organs and thyroid in tact. I had lots of free time, saw lots of movies and went out a pretty fair amount. America was at war in the Middle East. My grandfather and father had died. My stepfather was in long-term care because of a surgery recovery that had gone awry. There was no Facebook or Twitter. I was about to purchase my first iPod. Everyone was freaking out about the upcoming presidential election. I smoked pot, but only occasionally. Katrina hadn't happened. I'd started the international adoption process, but hadn't yet been matched with a baby. I was a mother to an old, grumpy cat, and a young, orange butterball cat. That summer, I'd ridden to the hospital in an ambulance because I collapsed at work due to stress. I'd also attended my second (and last) ACL Fest. I had one tattoo, but no facial piercings.
One thousand one hundred and fifty.
This is my 1,150th post. I am older, fatter, and blonde-ish gray. My hair is curly, longish and layered. Life and I have agreed to a tense truce. The world is divided, bitter, dangerous and filled with selfish and stunning intolerance. I drive a VW convertible that isn't even 1/2 way paid for. I have over 17,000 songs in my iTunes and on my iPod. I live with my husband, daughter, two cats, a dog, a leopard gecko and, occasionally, my stepsons in a house I bought on my own that has a great deck and a tiny kitchen. I have a 401(k), savings account, Roth IRA account, 529 account and stock options. Everyone is freaking about the upcoming presidential election and the Occupy movement. I Facebook and am on Twitter...a lot. I have no free time and almost never see movies. I only go see live music of bands I really love and only if I am guaranteed good seats. America is still at war in the Middle East with no end in sight. My stepfather is dead. My mother is remarried and no longer lives in Longview, so I rarely go to the Pine Curtain any more. Last week, I got physically ill because of work stress. I have one tattoo and my nose is pierced.
Today is my 12th anniversary working for you-know-who. Wow. When I started this job I was a lot younger, skinnier, and blonder. I was also a lot less bruised by life. I had more energy but less stress. I drove a Mitsubishi that was 1/2 way paid for. I'd just moved back to Austin after being gone for five years, and lived in a rented house with horrible carpet and a man I would marry and divorce. I had lots of free time and saw lots of movies and live music. Everyone was freaking about the Millennium and what it would mean to computer systems around the world. My boss was hoarding bottled water and food in his spare bedroom. I had straight hair and bangs. I had a 401k and a savings account. My parents still lived in Longview, which meant somewhat frequent trips to The Pine Curtain. America was not (technically) at war. I smoked a good deal of pot. I was not a mother to anything other than a Siberian husky and an old, grumpy cat. I'd never been to Wisconsin, Michigan, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Oregon, or New Mexico. I didn't know what "genetically modified organisms" or "organic integrity" meant. My dad and stepfather were still alive. I had no tattoos.
Seven.
Today is my 7th Bloggiversary. When I started this blog, I was quite a bit younger, skinnier, and had flaming red hair. I'd been pretty beaten up by life. The world had changed because of 9/11. I drove a VW wagon that was my first V-6. I lived alone in a house rented from a friend that had a great deck and a tiny kitchen. I was dating, but it was nothing serious. I had a 401(k), a savings account, and stock options. I still had all of my reproductive organs and thyroid in tact. I had lots of free time, saw lots of movies and went out a pretty fair amount. America was at war in the Middle East. My grandfather and father had died. My stepfather was in long-term care because of a surgery recovery that had gone awry. There was no Facebook or Twitter. I was about to purchase my first iPod. Everyone was freaking out about the upcoming presidential election. I smoked pot, but only occasionally. Katrina hadn't happened. I'd started the international adoption process, but hadn't yet been matched with a baby. I was a mother to an old, grumpy cat, and a young, orange butterball cat. That summer, I'd ridden to the hospital in an ambulance because I collapsed at work due to stress. I'd also attended my second (and last) ACL Fest. I had one tattoo, but no facial piercings.
One thousand one hundred and fifty.
This is my 1,150th post. I am older, fatter, and blonde-ish gray. My hair is curly, longish and layered. Life and I have agreed to a tense truce. The world is divided, bitter, dangerous and filled with selfish and stunning intolerance. I drive a VW convertible that isn't even 1/2 way paid for. I have over 17,000 songs in my iTunes and on my iPod. I live with my husband, daughter, two cats, a dog, a leopard gecko and, occasionally, my stepsons in a house I bought on my own that has a great deck and a tiny kitchen. I have a 401(k), savings account, Roth IRA account, 529 account and stock options. Everyone is freaking about the upcoming presidential election and the Occupy movement. I Facebook and am on Twitter...a lot. I have no free time and almost never see movies. I only go see live music of bands I really love and only if I am guaranteed good seats. America is still at war in the Middle East with no end in sight. My stepfather is dead. My mother is remarried and no longer lives in Longview, so I rarely go to the Pine Curtain any more. Last week, I got physically ill because of work stress. I have one tattoo and my nose is pierced.
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