One Week Later

Birth control pills were approved for contraceptive use in America when my mother was 14 years old. And Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in America in 1973. That same year, I turned 4 years old and  became part of the first generation of American girls raised having safe and accessible choices when it came to our reproductive destiny.

Flash forward 40 years.

It is 11:50pm on a hot Tuesday night in Austin, Texas. I am crowded into the rotunda of the state capitol building with thousands of other people who are all wearing orange shirts, scarves and hair ribbons and screaming at the top of their lungs. Around me are half a dozen friends my age, and we are screaming too while we sweat and check news feeds on our phones as the clock nears midnight. My ears are vibrating in pain at the sheer volume of the voices—so guttural and primal and sustained—raised in a deafening unison roar. Then the clock strikes twelve, and impossibly, the volume of the screaming grows even louder. I have no idea if we’ve been successful in killing #SB5, but it damn sure feels like we’ve done something important by coming together and raising our voices in this way. I go home exhausted but too energized to sleep. I am wide awake.

---

Flash forward one week.

I’m still hoarse. My hair continues to stand up when I see photos or videos or read well-written accounts of what happened on Tuesday,June 25th in the Texas state capitol building. They are calling it “The People’s Filibuster.” And having been part of it, is still very much with me and many, many others.

The whole thing—and all of the action that has followed—has made me do a lot of reflecting, and I found myself wondering: Why am I so damn passionate about the abortion issue? Why did I wear my headphones listening to Texas state senator Wendy Davis filibuster against anti-abortion legislation on the senate floor almost all day while I was at work?  Why did I rush down to the capitol that night when I saw the 3^rd point of order raised against Senator Davis—and the intense reaction to what was going on in the rotunda—live on the 10 o’clock news? Why did I stand there for hours and hours with thousands of orange-clad strangers who, like me, desperately wanted to be heard that night? Why did I go back to the capitol this week to stand with 6,000 others there to protest the blatantly anti-woman legislation that is back in front of the Texas legislature?

The answer to all these questions is simple: Because this issue—women’s accessibility to safe, affordable LEGAL gynecological services including pregnancy termination—is not only important to women, it says a great deal about how women are viewed in our society. 

A bit of background: When I became sexually active in my late teens, I had access to inexpensive birth control via the Planned Parenthood clinic in the town where I was attending college. I also got regular “well woman” check-ups at that same clinic (required in order to maintain my birth control prescription), and I was able to do all this without my parents’ or my partner’s permission or intervention. To me, taking care of my lady business was simply a part of becoming an independent young woman. It never occurred to me that what I was doing with regard to my reproductive health would (our could) ever be anyone else’s business. Because I had no memory of what life had been life prior to the pill or legalized abortion, I never considered what I was doing a fragile freedom that might be threatened or even disappear. In essence, I’d received all the spoils of a war that I knew little about. And, like many women my age, I became complacent and assumed my reproductive rights were protected. But clearly, I was wrong.

It didn’t happen overnight—the most insidious change rarely does. Over the past two decades, the lines between the church and the statehouse have become so blurred that the foundational principle of the separation of church and state has become little more than a hollow footnote in America. Simultaneously, politicians who run on platforms of “limited government” and “personal freedom” while also advocating for the increased government intrusion into women’s reproductive organs have continued to win local, statewide and national elections. The result of this perfect theocratic storm has been that, little by little, the rights that my grandmother’s and mother’s generation fought so hard to secure are being stripped away. Like many other women in America, I now live in a state where a very vocal, organized, fundamentalist religious minority has managed to bring us to the brink of passing some of the most restrictive anti-abortion legislation in the entire country. Meanwhile, our state leaders and GOP legislators have the gall to smile their lipless smiles and tell us that it’s all for own good. And this condescending “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it… we know what’s best for you” stance is insulting, infuriating bullshit.

Let me clarify that I am NOT “pro-abortion” as I’m sure some would be quick to label me. Come ON!! Who in their right minds would wish that they or someone they love would ever EVER have to undergo an abortion? No one, that’s who. That’s why the bogus-yet-frequently-repeated claim that those of us who are pro-choice are actually “pro-abortion” makes my blood boil. It’s just fucking stupid, and if you say it, I have no choice but to think that you’re an ill-informed, myopic idiot.

I have a young daughter, and the thought of her ever facing the agonizing choices that come with an unplanned or unsustainable pregnancy is enough to make my stomach turn and bring me to tears. As a parent, my ultimate goals are to protect her, guide her toward good choices in her life, and to do everything within my power to ensure she is safe, happy and healthy. And I hope beyond description that she will never undergo an abortion procedure. But as a realist who resides on planet Earth, I also understand and accept that no matter how much praying anyone does, unplanned and unsustainable pregnancies can–and do--happen to females of child-bearing age regardless of their race, address, financial situation, sexual history, religion, marital status, or political affiliation. And yes, that potentially includes my daughter. What I hope for her is to never have to consider having an abortion, but if she does, I want her to have options and access and not be shamed or criminalized for her choice. Period.

The people of my grandmothers’ and mothers’ generations fought hard to ensure that first, women were granted access to birth control and later, that the cloak of danger and criminality that surrounded abortion was lifted. And after years of admitedly taking these freedoms for granted, I now have all of their fight inside me.

Also inside me is the fight of that indignant 19 year old casually picking up her birth control pills at the women’s clinic who cannot fathom why my—or any other woman’s--reproductive choices should be anyone else’s damn business.

Now I have a daughter who is nearly 9 years old. She deserves the same reproductive freedoms that I and all of the other American women of my generation have been guaranteed as a legal right. And Hell yes, I’ve got her fight inside of me too.

So even if the Texas legislature wins this battle, they now have a full-fledged war on their hands. I'm ready for the fight, and I'm bringing lots of people with me.

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...

Technomologeez

I got a new computer at work yesterday. Normally, this would be something I would be dancing a happy jig about this. But thus far, I am not very happy with the whole switching-over-to-the-new-system bullshiz. Yes, I know I'm old and shit. And I don't "get it" as quickly or as easily as most of The Kids these days. But OMG, I've been having to mess with this whole pile o' crap almost all day today--a day when I NEED to be working my tail off. The biggest pain in the arse of all was caused by my beloved iPhone, or as BH disdainfully calls it, my "peg board." Allow me to walk you through my trials and tribulations:

Because this is a WORK computer, they won't transfer over non-business items like Tweetdeck, iTunes, etc. This is understandable. So, one of the first things I did today was install iTunes. As you may have heard, a new operating system (or "OS" if you want to sound all techie-like) was released from Apple earlier this week. After I installed iTunes on ye olde hard drive, I plugged in my iPhone to sync it like I do every day and BLEEP BORP BLEEK, a little robot inside my computer said, "YOU MUST UPGRADE! NEW O.S. BEEP BEEP. COMPUTING!!" or something like that. I dutifully did as my Apple Computer Master instructed me, including turning on iCloud and backing my phone up to it at 11:37am (FORESHADOWING!), and it seemed as if all might be okay.

I should've known that the sense of peace I felt was simply due to my innocence about the fact that my iPhone world was about to come crashing down around me.

About 20 minutes after I'd gotten everything installed and set up, I picked up my phone to do something, and went to unlock it and it didn't recognize my security code. You know, the one I've been using since I got my phone in January? The one I'd JUST RE-PROGRAMMED into my phone when I set up the whole iCloud b.s.? So I tried it again. And again. Locked the fuck out.

But SURELY there'd be some quick fix or advice on the Apple website, right?

Yeah, not so much.

So I called Apple and was on the phone with them for--no lie--nearly TWO HOURS. They had no idea what to do with me. So they "force" restored my computer taking it down to its factory settings and wiping it of all of my contacts, apps, photos, etc. But I wasn't too worried about it b/c my stuff was in a magical cloud somewhere, and I would be able to just pluck it out of the ether and restore it to my phone and go on living. Except that didn't happen. At all. And despite that my iTunes was TELLING me that my phone had backed up to iCloud, we couldn't get that backup to reappear. Fuckfuckfuckity fuck.

I finally got off the phone with them and went down to one of our IT dudes, Jim. Jim's awesome, and he was able to get some of my contacts back via reconnecting my phone with Outlook. But the vast majority of them are gone. Poof. And because I am old (see paragraph 1), I don't know anyone's phone numbers anymore. They're committed to my phone rather than to memory. I guess I'll spend the next year or so reaccumulating them...along with the addresses and whatnot that were also in my phone before The Big Wipe.

All of this moaning is just to say OMFG, y'all. I hate being this tethered to something that can so easily be compromised and obliterated. But man, am I ever tethered. It's kind of pitiful.

In unrelated-yet-still-technical news, I have fallen in love with our new HDTV. I bit the bullet and upgraded our cable package to get the HD channels (because, what's the point of having the TV if you can't get the channels, right?), and I watched the damn Rangers vs. Detroit game on that sucker last night, and it was amazeballs. The game, and the picture.

Alright. Thank you for letting me get all of that off my chest.

Namaste.

General Malaise

I don't know if it's the rapid passing of another year that's got me in a funk or what, but I am definitely in one.

Let's investigate, shall we?

Health:
Well, my shingles are not as painful as they once were (thank goodness), but now they're just sort of hanging out, looking gruesome and feeling uncomfortable. Thank goodness it's not shorts season. My biggest concern now is passing this nastiness on to BH or The Geej. I've taken precautions, but you just never know. In other news, I went to my semi-annual visit to my cardiologist yesterday, and my bad cholesterol has come down a bit. So, yay.

House:
Our house is sort of half-assed decorated for Christmas. BH doesn't really like all of the trappings of the season, so I try not to go too nuts. But going half-ass is somehow more depressing than not doing anything at all. Our cats have launched a full-scale offensive against the Christmas tree and its Ornaments of Doom. This is no surprise to anyone, least of all me. But it's still annoying as Hell. Cute, but annoying.

Also in house news, I'm ready to finish up the flooring by having the new carpet installed, but my bank account isn't. I was hoping to get the installation scheduled right after the first of the year, but it may be later than that now. Our carpet has never looked good: The color sucks and the state of the carpet itself is pretty sad. But now that the hardwoods have been installed, man does it ever look shitty.

There are parts of the house--especially the garage--that are beginning to look like they were interior decorated by psychotic hoarders. I wish I could spend like three solid days (or more) just de-cluttering and cleaning. I need to, but I just never have the right combination of time and energy to undertake this monumental task. Therefore, I just get more and more frustrated and disgusted by the whole situation.

Work:
The move on to the new team has gone well thus far. There are a still a lot of things we need to figure out about how we're going to fit in and priorities, etc., but so far, so good. I'm going to a big work meeting in Ft. Lauderdale in mid-January, so that should be interesting. I feel like I've got a lot to do to get prepared for that between now and then.

The Holidays:
I'm about 50% done w/my Christmas shopping, but I have NO ideas about what to get my mom and her fiance, my stepsons, or my inlaws. I guess I'll wrap up the remainder of what I need to do during lunch hour shopping trips since I don't know when I'll have time to do it otherwise.

Since I had to take time off for the shingles, I'll be able to take very little time off for the holidays. Having to choose between taking time off to deal with an illness or to be with family for the holidays is a shitty choice to have to make, but when you've got very little time off allotted to you each year, that's what you've got to do. I really love where I work, but (as I've said before) our paid time off policy SUCKS.

The Geej:
Man, that kid kills me. Her reading is getting so good, she's really enjoying math, and she's just generally flourishing and growing TOO DAMN FAST. She's so completely believes in Santa that it's just charming the Hell out of me. This is probably the last year that she'll have no doubts about the jolly ol' elf, and I'm just soaking it in. After today, she's out of school for two weeks. Thank God that the wonderful Dah will be taking care of her for most of that time. What would I do without her?! And this Sunday, I'm taking The Geej to see the Rockettes Holiday Spectacular. She is going to have her mind blown by the sparkliness of it all.

Chores:
I fucking hate grocery shopping with the fiery passion of one million suns. Well, not really the shopping, per se. It's the hassle of the shopping. The list making (which doesn't matter because I invariably forget something important from the list), the parking, the dealing with oblivious customers who are in my fucking way, the parking lot...I hate all of it. If I could shop in an empty store, by myself, and have my groceries magically delivered to my car, and then unpacked at my house and prepared into some lovely meal, I might--and I mean might--not hate it so much. But that's doubtful. Anyway, lately somehow our house has been getting down to stems and seeds in the groceries department, and it 85% of the time it falls to me to a) figure out what we need to replenish what's missing, b) plus what we might need to plan meals for the next few days and c) shop to get all of that stuff and then d) lug that shit home and unpack it and then e) whoop up something delicious and nutritious for dinner. And this is after working all day, fighting rush hour traffic, and picking up The Geej so that there's a six year old in tow during one of my least favorite domestic activities. Is it any wonder that after all of that I'm in a Grade-A shittastic mood?

Let's change the subject, shall we?

Thanks to a lovely hand-me-down from Dah, we now have a matching, less-than-a-year-old high-efficiency washer and dryer. They're kind of awesome, even though I'm still getting used to them. But regarding laundry: Why can't I ever stay on top of it? I mean, I know better than to wait until the weekend to do all of it (even though that's still when I do most of it), but no matter how much I do during the week, there is always more to be done. It seems like each morning, I'm starting a load before I leave for work, then I'm too damn tired to finish it up when I get home. So you know what I end up doing? Running the rinse cycle again the next morning (lest they get moldy), and aiming to complete the load that afternoon/evening. Sort of defeats the purpose of the whole High Efficiency thing, huh?

Miscellaneous:
God, I'm boring the shit out of myself just writing about this drudgery.

Look away, people. Look away...

Perhaps next post I'll be in a different state of mind.

Black Friday is Stupid

Yeah, I said it. I guess that means I'm un-American. Whatever.

Anyhoo, I'm too tired and over liquored to get too original tonight, and yet must honor my NaBloPoMo commitment, and so I'm going to dig one about the joys of holiday shopping out of the archives. I promise it's a good one. With pictures and everything!

So, for your consideration: "Worst. Retail. Experience. Ever."

Overheard at the nail salon...

There really should be a website like "Overheard in New York" that's totally devoted to the conversations in nail salons, because in my rather limited nail salon experience, I've eavesdropped on some humdingers.

Take today, for example. My daughter's poignant critique of my toes had me jonesing for a pedicure. So, I snuck off during lunch time to have my toes did. There's a very stereotypical cheapo salon near my house run by people of the Asian persuasion. I've been there a couple of times before, and remembered that although they do a pretty good job, they have a lousy magazine selection, so I took my new book on Nancy Cunard, and planned on immersing myself in it.

I got right in to a chair, and this very slight, very fem Asian guy was my pedicurist. To my left were a guy and gal who were both getting pedicures as well. They were there together, and I couldn't tell if they were friends, a couple, or what. All I know is they never shutthefuckup the whole time they were there.

Horribly cheesed out soft sounds of the 80s and 90s were loudly playing including "Endless Love," "We are The World" and some Michael Bolton and Celine Dion. It must've been some sort of CD mix (as opposed to the radio) because there were no commercials, and my pedicure dude kept singing along under his breath as if in a trance. Poor guy, you know this was probably the 3 millionth time today that he'd heard this ghastly mix. At one point, a Bee Gees song came on (surprise!), and the late 40s school-marmy looking lady to my right (who was getting a manicure) starting asking her manicurist if she'd ever heard much about the Bee Gees. The manicurist politely said no, but I'm not even sure she understood the question. At any rate, this lady starts going into this long, very detailed history of the Bee Gees...talking about how they're from Australia, and that there were four of them, and that the youngest one--Anthony--had his own career outside of the others but had died of a heart defect. I mean, she had her shit all kinds of wrong. I kept wanting to scream out: "Heart defect?! Hell no! It was that coke whore Victoria Principal that he was banging at the time. She got him hooked on coke and then he had a coke-induced heart attack! And his fucking name was NOT Anthony, it was Andy, and I LOVED HIM!!" But somehow, I controlled myself.

Ugh. I only managed to read like four pages of my book because of all of the wretched music and inane conversation. If I didn't think it would be insanely rude, I'd wear my iPod while getting a pedicure. But that would be as big of an asshole maneuver as talking on your cellphone while you're cashier is checking you out at the grocery store.

But hey, at least my toes look a helluva lot better.

Dictionary definition of the term "Brain Dead."

Y'all, The Geej and I had a blast visiting Julie, Moon and their kiddos in Norman. Too much of a blast, I suspect. I am running on fumes, and my liver is hating me. And guess what? I GOT PICKED AT JURY DUTY TODAY! Ohmyfuckinggod, I have never, EVER been so damn bored in my life. My day went like this (now with bullets!!):
Get to the Municipal Courthouse by 8:30.

• Sit in "reception" room for about 45 minutes.
• Go into actual courtroom.
• Get asked questions by both attorneys.
• Get asked to go into the hallway and wait.
• Get called back into the courtroom.
• Watch 11 other people get released.
• 6 of us remain.
• The trial starts immediately.
• It's about this dude who lives on this 10 acre tract in an area called the "ETJ" (extra territorial jurisdiction) of the city of Austin. It's more or less a no-man's-land that's not considered within the city limits (and receives little or no city services), but is still beholden to the laws and ordinances of the city. Anyhoo, he was basically using his land for a purpose that was not sanctioned by the proper permitting, and had three charges pending against him. This particular case had been going on since 2002. I seriously wanted to kill myself after about an hour of listening to the minutiae of this stupid ass case.
• But no, it lasted until 5:00pm, when we were FINALLY charged and told to go figure out his guilt or innocence and his punishment if necessary.
• Our deliberation lasted about another 45 minutes.
• Ultimately, we all figured out that he's an idiot, but that doesn't excuse him from the letter of the law. He was guilty on all 3 counts and we levied a $750 for each charge (the maximum was $2000/per).
• Did I mention how fucking boring this shit was?
• And the prosecuting attorney was slimy and icky and I wanted to slap him.
• Aside from perhaps the Social Security office, the Municipal Court building may be one of the most depressing places on the face of the Earth.
• I hope it's another 20 years before I get called upon to do my civic duty.

I'm going to bed. Pictures and tales from Okra-homa tomorrow.

Blogger's not letting me post a title. If it did, my title would be something along the lines of, "Stuff That's Pissing Me Off; Stuff That's Making Me Happy."

I guess the whole not-being-able-to-post-a-title thing is yet ANOTHER bug they can't figure out. Sort of like the whole spacing fuck up thing when you post pictures.

If I weren't so lazy and technologically ditzy I'd move this sucker over to Wordpress or something.

Damnitalltohell.

Other shit that's bugging the fucklights out of me?

The rain. Obviously. I mean, it's all anyone (including me) can talk or blog about. It really is ridiculous. Today we had lots o' sun. It was actually quite gorgeous. And then, around 7:30, lightning, thunder, and buckets upon buckets of--sigh--rain.

My dentist's office. I called to get a teeth cleaning and a) they said, "Oh, you also need an exam. Would you like to do that during the same appointment?" Um, no dumbass. I'd like to have to come there TWICE when I could do everything in one appointment. I am all about complicating my life, so yes, please, book two separate appointments for me. And b) they can't get me in until OCTOBER 15th. WTF, la gente? Really? This dentist--whose office is in the MALL mind you--is that popular? Yep, this is what I get when I go for the "low insured" dental plan.

My garage. Y'all, I know I've bitched about this before, but 1/2 of my entire garage is just filled with shit I need to either give away, throw away, or sell. I know if I would "Craig's List" half of it, it would be gone by the end of next week. There's some good shit out there. It's just shit I don't want anymore. Now it's too steamy and warm to get out there and do anything about it. Every time I go out there to get in my car, the mess at hand just makes me mad...at me.

Fucking jury duty. July 16th until ? And guess what: My "Fortune's 100 Best Places to Work" company doesn't pay you while you're out on jury duty. Nice.

My roots. I swear, it was barely a month ago that I got my hair cut/colored, and already, my roots are like 1.5" long, gray, and skanky. My hair's longer than it's been in a while (which I'm sort of liking), but I have no idea why it's growing so fast. It's certainly not because I'm having too much calcium. If anything, I'm calcium deficient. I'm going to get it touched up this week. But still, it's pissing me off.

My toenails. Wow, do I ever need a pedicure. That's all I'm gonna say.

Daya is closing. My favorite day spa EVAH is closing, and I don't know why. Not that I get to go there a lot or anything, but when I DO have the opportunity to go get a massage or a facial, this is the ONLY place in Austin I've really enjoyed going to. Damnit!!

My CD burner on my computer. It no workee. Grrrrr...

That's enough of that.

Now, for some stuff that's making me happy:

El Chile now sells its insanely good salsa at Whole Foods. Thank you, Jesus.

Karla will be here in a week.

Next weekend The Geej and I will be visiting our DEAR friend Julie (who REALLY needs to update her blog--HINT HINT) and her adorable kiddos and her two kitties and her house pony and her friends. I just want to hug them all to pieces.

KEXP's "Shake the Shack" rockabilly show. Flawless.

The taste-testing panels at work that I signed up for. Fun!

All of the Collective Wellbeing products. Especially their "Night Balm."

Hip Hop/Twirling Lesson Fridays. (We just established this at work. More on this later.)

This book that a work friend bought for me and The Geej. It is most excellent in every way.

The fact that not only did Mr. Wonderful get a phone interview for a local job this week, he's also been talking about coming down for a visit at the end of the month.

The fact that I raided my mom's pantry the last time I was out at her house and managed to release her from the ownership of these unecessary salt and pepper shakers along with the "Cinnamon" vial that is obviously from the set of Gunsmoke:

Um...WHY???!! Why did she pack and MOVE these from Longview to her current house? Do you see that there are two of these that have no mate? That's like packing ONE shoe. Or a piece of Tupperware with no lid. WHAT'S THE POINT? And then she just stuck them in the back of a shelf in the pantry behind packages of chicken bullion and ranch dip mix?

Okay. I'm signing off.

I'm equalized. At least there's more stuff making me happy than pissing me off.

Bye my little babies.

I loathe this guy almost as much as I do Toby Keith:

Ugh. Larry the Cable Guy.

He's apparently pimping some horrific swill called "Git-R-Done" beer because, as the beer's brewer says, "Rednecks love quality too."

Seriously, is it any wonder people think that we southerners are mildly brain damaged when we have ambassadors like this?

There's one in every neighborhood.

If you go to a tall man's convention, there's still always going to be one dude who's the shortest guy in the room.

The same goes for neighborhoods. I don't care if you live in the most hoity toity gated shi shi neighborhood in your town, there's always that one house that's just kind of trashy. Maybe they decided to paint their brick some godawful color. Or maybe they just let their yard go until it looks like utter shit. Or maybe they collect lawn "art" that they think is tasteful, but anyone with a brain thinks is awful.

That house in my very UNhoity toity neighborhood is right across the street from me, and it makes me want to punch something.

First of all, it seems like they have some sort of "garage" sale every month. Like this past Saturday, for instance. They pulled all of this shit--including FIVE strollers--out of their packed-to-the-rafters garage, threw it out in the driveway, and attracted bargain hunters like flies. But by around noon, when it became clear that most of their crap wasn't going home with anyone, they just threw it all back into the garage and closed the doors until next month's shit-sale-o-rama.

And I guess the full garage would account for part of the fact that they always have NO FEWER THAN SEVEN vehicles parked in front of their house. Fucking A people!! When I snapped this photo yesterday, there were 11 cars there. ELEVEN!! (Trust me. I counted. You can't see the one parked in front of the van on the left...you know, the van with its hood up. And they are stacked several deep in an auxilary "driveway" they've made on the right of their house.) I wish I could say that seeing eleven cars over there was really an unusual sight, but it's not at all.

I don't even know these people, but I know I don't like 'em...

600th Post, Bitches!

Wow. 600 of these suckers. Woo hoo.

Sorry, I'm just not "feelin' it" ya'll.

I had a day that started shitty, got better, and sort of ended shitty. Shitty bookends, so to speak. And now I'm in the throes of preparing to take my team on a two-day "teambuilding" on one of the beautiful Highland Lakes. It rained off and on all day today, so I'm also in the throes of praying for good weather.

I can't wait for the road trip tomorrow and the scenery and being with my friends, who also happen to be my coworkers. I really am lucky in that respect.

I'll give you a full report (with photos, yay!) post facto, but for now I'll leave you with this handwritten proof that money does not buy you brains. My penmanship ain't the best, but at least it doesn't look like it did in 4th grade.

I swear I'm gonna write about our trip soon, but first I must pose a question:

Why oh why do (most) people who own beach houses/condos feel the need to decorate them in such a ghastly way?

First: You really don't HAVE to go with a lighthouse/sea shell/nautical theme if you don't want to. We're already at the beach, so it's sort of redundant.

Second: Why all the horrible silk floral arrangements? All they do is collect dust and look terribly depressing--like someone's untended grave. Just don't do it.

Third: If you're going to spend the dough to update your condo with really nice ceramic tile, sisal rugs, new cabinetry, and silestone countertops, why the HELL don't you do something about the ghastly wallpaper in the master bedroom, the master bath, and the second bath. And just a hint--if the wallpaper is peeling off in big-ass sheets, maybe it's time to get rid of it altogether.

Fourth: Some sort of window coverings besides sheer drapes might be appropriate since this is a vacation spot and most people would like to be able to sleep in a bit later than normal.

Fifth: Rattan furniture? Really?

Sixth: Why not go ahead and splurge on a) a mattress cover and b) a fitted sheet rather than putting a flat sheet on the bottom, tucking it in, and calling it a day.

All in all, our place was nice. It was clean, and quiet, had a fabulous view (see below), and the grounds were lovely. It's just that the way things were done in our particular condo were kind of...half ass? Tacky?

Goings on.

So remember when I told ya'll about my most excellent spa day I had on Friday? Well, leave it to me to completely fuck ALL of that up by severely pulling a muscle in my shoulder/neck area Saturday morning. While lying in bed talking on the phone. Yep, that's how cool I am. I mean I fucked it up, big time by doing nothing more physically taxing than holding the phone to my ear. WTF, people?! Is this what getting old is, because if so, I'm not enjoying it one bit.

Had lunch with a friend then went to the grocery store while all hopped up on Aleve. Came home, packed a bag, and headed out to Dah's house for the night. She had these two new bedspreads she was all psyched for me to see. Um...okay. She made a nice dinner and kept heating up in the microwave this weird thing that you can wrap around your aching body parts to give them relief. Between that and the Aleve and the Advil and the wine, my neck started to feel a tiny bit better.

I was very much looking forward to a scorching hot bath in her whirlpool tub, but I managed to fuck that up as well. See, I decided to put like a TEAspoon of bubble bath in there, and when I turned the whirlpool jets on, shit went nuts. It was Bubble City, and to keep it from going over the edges of the tub, I decided to let a bit of the water out. But then I couldn't get the damn tub stopper thing to go back down, and all of the hot, wonderful water drained out before I could get my mom in to help me (humiliating). Finally, we got the stopper thing to work, and I started to fill the tub once more. And guess what: no hot water. Grrrr... Sucked.

My neck's about 50% better now, but I'm still pissed off at my stupid old-ass body.

But here are two things to be happy about:

1)

That is 420 one dollar bills. I've been socking them away for a while now, almost every time I get change back that includes ones, and I finally decided to pull them out of the shoebox and count them. I'm not sure what I'm going to splurge on, but I can promise you it's going to be something fun.

2) As most of you know, my real name is not Karla May. My real name--first and last--is rather unusual. In fact, in my entire lifetime, I've only actually met 3 other people with my first name and 1 other with my last name (who wasn't somehow related). So it's been a weird thing knowing that there's another woman in Austin with my exact same name. I've had all these near-misses with meeting her, and LOTS of confusion of people hearing things about this woman (good things, thank God), and thinking it was me. Last week it happened twice. Two different people at work said things to me about the OTHER Karla May that they thought were attributed to me. So finally, I decided enough is enough: I e-mailed this woman who shares my name, and we're going to finally meet. For lunch. Tomorrow. I can't wait! I've known about her since 1994, so it's high time we met. I hope she understands that, like "The Highlander," there can only be one Karla May.

My glamourous, glamourous* life.

*I also spell catalogue like that.

In the past 48 hours I have...

...cleaned up cat barf.

...cleaned up toddler pee off the kitchen chair. (It's not made of a permeable material, so it was an easy clean up. But still...)

...scooped the litter box.

...cleaned out my pantry and discovered things in there that expired in 2004.

...plucked my chin hairs.

...put away the messy DVD stack that had taken up semi-permanent residence on top of my entertainment center and discovered that I own at least 9 movies I've never seen.

...pulled weeds. Oh, correction: Pulled yard. That's right folks: my entire yard--save a few square feet--is weeds.

--spent $48 dollars online shopping for shit I absolutely do not need.

--lost about $4,500 in the stock market.

--realized that, holyfuckingshit, tomorrow it's already March.

--cleaned toddler pee off of my only living room chair. And this chair, my friends, is made of permeable/non-cleanable material.

--had to call my mother to talk me down off the ledge after I discovered toddler pee on my only living room chair.

--spent the last of my iTunes gift certificate I got for my birthday on shit like The Eagles and The Mamas and the Papas. (Thanks again, Jimmy!)

--fantasized about the perfect martini.

--gotten pissed off about concerts that friends are getting to go to that I'm not (The Police, The Shins, Justin Timberlake)

And right now:

--eating leftover tuna salad right out of the bowl on melba toast.

--blogging while eating said tuna salad.

It doesn't get much sexier than Karla May (tm). (Yep, I'm going to trade mark that. T-shirts will soon be available here. Stay tuned!!)

Pine Curtain, Here I Come!

That's right, my little monkeys. Dah, The Geej and I are packing up the Nissan and heading to Longview tomorrow. There I will be rendezvousing with Mr. Wonderful, his two boys and a whole other assortment of family members--his and mine. Wow. I haven't been up there since May 2005, and it will be the first time I've been since Mom's moved. I mean, I'm going to be going "home" but don't have a home to go to. Weird, weird stuff.

At any rate, I've got a gazillion things to do before I'm ready to hit the road. But I'm packing the camera, and I'm sure I'll have lots of stories to tell upon my return. Check with me on Sunday evening.

But before I go, I have to comment on something:
Last night, I got in bed and decided to channel surf for a few minutes. When I landed on each of the "news" channels (MSNBC, CNN, FauxNews, etc.) each and every one of them were featuring Anna Nicole Smith coverage. This simple fact is nauseating enough but out of all of them, Nancy Grace was the most putrid. I swear that she was practically having multiple orgasms over all of the tragedy and scandal. I didn't even know who Nancy Grace was when I first saw Amy Poehler do a dead on (if not funny) impersonation of her on SNL. But now that I've seen this bitch? Amy P. was MUCH too kind in her portrayal. What a whacked out waste of genetic material this woman is. How the FUCK did she get her own show? Who watches this crazy crisis junkie? I really, really, REALLY want to punch her in the mouth anywhere that might require that she get her jaw wired shut for, oh I don't know, a few years. What if she were your mother?! Gawd.

Okay. I feel better now that I've gotten that off of my chest.

I'll check back with you after my Pine Curtain adventure!

What part of "Go the fuck away!!" don't you understand?

During the months leading up to November's election, I had a LOT of random people ringing my doorbell at all hours of the day, wanting to know my opinion about this candidate or that candidate. Also, since moving into this neighborhood, I've had more than my fair share of kids selling magazines/candy, smelly hippies wanting me to sign environmental petitions (a.k.a. donate to their cause), religious freaks trying to push their god stuff on my heathen soul, etc. ad nauseum.


Finally, I'd fucking had enough. I went to Lowe's (which I HATE) and looked for a small, professional looking "No Soliciting" sign to hang on or near my door. They were out, so I made them order me one and call me when it came in.


The understated but seemingly unambiguous result** was this:

Nice, right? See how it's carefully positioned right above the doorbell so that pushy motherfuckers HAVE to see it before they ring the bell?

Yeah well, in the past 2 weeks I've had three--yes, THREE--"solicitors" ring my bell at 7:30 pm or later. When that happens, know what I want to do? Open the door, sucker punch them in the nose or throat or some other hyper-sensitive area, and slam the door in their faces. And then watch through my peephole as they walk away crying and bloody.

Violent? Maybe. But the sign says "NO SOLICITING!!!!!!!!" [The eight exclamation points are what I consider editorial license.--ed.] So unless you're collecting money for the blind and/or severely dyslexic and are yourself, in fact, blind or dyslexic, then what could POSSIBLY be your excuse for ringing my goddamned bell?

I'm going to type out an addendum and have it laminated and nail that fucker right below the doorbell. It's going to go a little something like this:

"Dear Asshole,

If you're too stupid to understand the term 'NO SOLICITING,' please allow me to break it down for you:

The fact that I've made the effort to go out and buy/mount a "No Soliciting" sign right by my dooorbell most likely means that I am hoping you won't ring my bell or knock on my door. Chances are, I'm probably hanging out with my daughter, or if not, spending one of the three hours a day I get to myself to talk to my friends on the phone, watch a favorite t.v. program, shower, read a book, eat dinner, enjoy my pet cat, clean my house, do laundry, finish some work I didn't have time for today while actually AT work, pay bills/balance my checkbook, read a book or magazine, prepare my taxes, shave my legs, change my sheets, etc.

Do you actually have the nuts to think that I want to spend time talking to you about whatever the fuck it is that you're advocating and/or selling*? If you do, then go ahead and ring the doorbell, because when I DO open the door, I'm going to punch you as hard as I possibly can in the face or throat. I may, in fact, be brandishing a blunt object of some sort or perhaps a dirty pull-up (courtesy of my daughter) or a hand full of litter-covered cat shit (courtesy of--you guessed it, genius--my cat).

If you're willing to take that chance, then go for it motherfucker. If not, then I suggest you turn around and get the fuck off of my front porch. Pronto.

(By the way, Dickweed: Consider yourself warned. If you don't take heed and this throat-punching shit actually goes down, I guaranTEE you that this shit will hold up in a court of law unless you' happen to be blind/dyslexic. And even then, you should have someone with you who is helping you, and the fact that you don't only tells me that you're obviously such a turd that no one wants to be around you.)

Thank you and have a nice day.

--The Bitch Who Lives in this House

*This, my friends, is called "foreshadowing." Pay attention to what happens later!!

**There's this cool thing called the internet. And on it, there's this other cool thing called 'Google.' If I feel compelled to contribute to a charity OF MY CHOICE and WITHIN MY BUDGET, or support a social cause that I believe in, or back a political candidate or issue that I feel deserves it, then guess what: I CAN RESEARCH IT MYSELF AND DO IT ONLINE!! In other words, although I respect your passion and commitment, you really shouldn't ring my damn doorbell."


Feel free to steal that text and post it above your own door. I think it will be better for everyone.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph people. I'm going nucking futs.

Remember in The Shining when Jack Nicholson goes all crazy when he's cooped up in that creepy hotel with his creepy wife and creepy kid and that creepy Scatman Corothers and he starts having drinks in the hotel bar with an imaginary bartender and there are those creepy twins and the hallway full of blood and that creepy old lady in the bathtub and Jack ends up running around with a hatchet wanting to hack up everyone in his path? Yeah. I'm beginning to relate to Jack...

It's Wednesday morning, and I'm beginning Day Five of ICE STORM 'O7 by myself with a very chatty, very under-my-feet, very bored toddler. Lord help me. Yesterday, my office building was closed for the first time in my seven years of working there. It's still closed until at least noon today. But I swear to you, if they open at noon, The Geej and I will be there by 12:01. I need adult human contact before I go totally insane. I love her completely, but there's only so much I can deal with alone.

Oh and ya'll, if this fucking ice shit keeps me from leaving for Colorado to see Mr. Wonderful tomorrow afternoon, you'd better avoid me at all costs because there will be innocent people harmed.

Here are some cool things that have happened during our isolation--

1) Frito Pie made with turkey chili and real Fritos.

2) The Geej wearing Big Girl Panties about 80% of the time for the first time ever.

3) This:

4) Really good afternoon naps.

5) Earl all puffed up and in snuggle overdrive:

6) Potato soup:
7) Getting to wear things knitted for me by my friends:
8) Finally filing my fingernails and reading really good books (and my "really good" I mean "shitty"):
9) Finally watching movies that have been on my TiFaux since March '05 (yes, I'm that lame):
10) Walking outside at night and having it be utterly quiet except for that weird creaky sound you hear when the wind goes through the icy branches of trees.

11) Clearing out waaaaaaaaay too much of my iTunes Shopping Cart:

12) This:
But even with all that, if this shit doesn't end soon, you can look for me on the evening news. (And that's assuming they'll break in to their round-the-clock freaked out weather coverage.)

The shortest route to crazy town...

...is being cooped up by yourself with your extremely chatty and needy toddler for (what will be tomorrow) five days because of the weekend combined with the threat of an ice storm. I am exhausted and pretty much out of things to stave off our boredom with this situation.

All I know is that there better be a 6 in. layer of ice on EVERYTHING tomorrow to make all of this hype well worth it.

In which I am hemorraging money.

God, ya'll.

I finally went to my long-awaited appointment with the ear/nose/throat doctor on Friday to see about this damn TMJ that's killing me, and he basically said, "There's nothing I can do for you. Go see your dentist. That'll be $120 for the five minutes we just spent together." Fuckity-fuck-fuck. So it's back to eating handfuls of Advil until I can see a dentist who can--hopefully--help me get some relief.

That night, Jaye came over to hang out, and throughout the night, I kept noticing that every time I opened the fridge, it seemed to be getting less and less cold in there. Finally there was no denying that it had become room temperature in my refrigerator. Shit. The freezer was still working, but it was struggling at best. It rained HARD all night Friday night and most of the day on Saturday. I woke up and everything in my fridge had started to stink. I called a repairman thinking that there was no way I'd get someone to come out a) on a Saturday and b) in this craptacular weather. But they had a guy at my house by 12:30, and by 2:00, the fridge was fixed, and my wallet was about $300 lighter. Yay!

So today I had to go to the store to replace a lot of the stuff I ended up having to throw out due to the whole fridge debacle, and I get home and realize that they'd totally forgotten to put AN ENTIRE BAG worth of stuff that I'd bought/paid for back in my cart. And I didn't notice because I was dealing with a cranky 2 1/2 year old. And as pissed as that made me, do you really think I was going to load the baby back into the car, drive all the way back up there, fight for parking, unload her (in the cold rain, I might add), and then go try and find some customer service person to help me deal with this?

Grrr...

The only real bright spots in my weekend were the 2 time The Geej pooped on the potty. Yep, shit has become a "bright spot" for me. Try not to envy me too much.

"Math is hard."--Barbie and Karla May

I blame it on Mrs. Blankenship and House Bill 72.

I had always been good at math and been in gifted and talented or advanced classes as long as they'd been offering such a thing. That is, until I drank the deadly cocktail of 9th grade algebra + a shitty, impatient teacher. To cut her a wee bit of slack, she may not have been shitty or impatient if it hadn't been for the Texas legislature's recent passing of HB 72, better known as the "no pass, no play" bill (and the beginning of the "teach for the test" bullshit the Texas public school system can't rid itself of today). You see, besides making sure athletes had to have passing grades in order to take the field (which should've been happening all along, but hey, this is Texas, and we love our football!!), one of the things this bill did was determine these "essential elements" for every grade, every class. These were things that teachers HAD to cover in any given school year, and if they didn't (and couldn't prove through their templatized lesson plans and statewide test scores that they'd done so), they could lose their jobs and the funding for entire school districts could suffer.

Maybe I've got the facts wrong, but this is the way it was explained to me when I dared to fall behind in 9th grade algebra. There were concepts in algebra that I just could NOT get. This was very alarming and stressful to me, as I'd never EVER struggled--even slightly--in any other classes before. Except for P.E., but that's because I was a spaz.

But I digress...

I fell behind and would raise my hand to ask for a problem to be explained or re-explained, and Mrs. Blankenship wouldn't even try to hide her exasperation with me. "Come ON, Karla May. You're holding up the class. This is an essential element, and we've got to cover it today. This train has left the station, and the rest of us can't wait around on the caboose." That's right people: the bad permed bitch called me a "caboose" in front of the entire class. More than once. I was fourteen and mortified. She made me feel stupid. Really, really stupid. I finally just quit raising my hand, and cried through my homework every night. I struggled through the rest of the year, and barely managed a "B." I ended 9th grade absolutely math-o-phobic and wanting to disembowel Mrs. Blankenship and the entire state legislature.

The next year was geometry, which I was dreading. But at least it was "normal" math, not advanced math anymore. So now I was with other kids who might hate math and be just as dumb as me. Perhaps that meant I wouldn't be the only "caboose" in class. But something magical and totaly unexpected happened: I got geometry. Somehow the spatial relationships and proofs made perfect sense to me, and I sailed through class with an easy A. Fuck you, essential elements. Karla May was back, and confident. I loved geometry, and didn't feel like a huge dumbass anymore.

Then came Algebra II, and of course I found myself back in the conceptual Hell that I'd thought I'd left behind in 9th grade. And why? Because I'd never really learned Algebra I in any real way, plus I was scared shitless of it. So I spent yet another year crying through my homework and freaking the fuck out while the rest of my friends were mastering Trig and Calculus. My caboose ass somehow managed to squeak a "B" out of Algebra II, but just barely.

My senior year? I took "computer math," which was some BASIC programming on first generation Apple computers. The class was filled with potheads and jocks, and served as the last nail in the coffin of my one time love affair with math.

Fast forward to my (second) senior year in college. I met with my graduation counselor at the beginning of the school year to make sure I'd covered all of my graduation requirements--my "essential elements" if you will--and guess what: I lacked a math credit. Yep, it's just like those recurring nightmares you have where you've suddenly found out you have a test and realized you never went to the class. FUCK. ME. I was a fucking math-o-phobic English/Drama double major with a bad case of senior-itis. I could barely do the math required to balance my checkbook--even with a calculator. And now I was going to have to take a fucking MATH class to graduate when I hadn't taken math since 11th grade?! Jesus H. Christ. My counselor calmly advised me to take the misleadingly titled "Applicable Math for Liberal Arts Majors." I thought, "Oh awesome! I'm going to learn how to do my taxes and figure out how much I should invest in my 401(k)! Yipee!" But guess what kids--it was algebra. Straight up. And to put the mustard on top of this shit sandwich, it was taught by an Italian T.A. whose accent was so thick he sounded like one of the Mario brothers, and I couldn't understand a goddamned word he said. God it sucked. Again, I busted my ass to just try and pass the fucker. The only smart thing I did during this time was schedule to take the GRE because I figured, hey, I'd better take that thing when I was in the throes of a semester that included a math class because, as soon as that fucking semester was done, I planned on hitting "Erase" and forgetting everything I'd learned and/or bonging myself into oblivion.

But again, I digress...

Fast forward about 80 years to the present day: I STILL fucking hate math. Everyone who knows me knows this. Don't ever ask me to to figure out how to split a bill at a restaurant. I don't count change, so you could pretty much rob me blind, and I wouldn't know it. I haven't balanced my checkbook in over a decade, and I've still never done my own taxes.

Today, Jaye and our friend Jimmy and I were trying to figure out how to split the bill at lunch. For some reason, I was the one with the pen and paper trying to figure who owed what before tip after tax. Once again, I was in Mrs. Blankenship's class, afraid to raise my hand. But at least I wasn't the only one. It took the three of us about 20 minutes to figure it out, and we even had a calculator!! Our waiter actually asked if we'd been drinking because we all seemed so confused.

So congratulations, public education system. And fuck you, Mrs. Blankenship, wherever you are.