It's quarter to 11pm, and I am wide awake. Stupid daylight savings. I'm supposed to be asleep right now, so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Monday morning at work.
The 2 hour nap I took today might also be playing a role...DANG!
No updates on my living situation. Ex-F is still out of town (and every day is bliss!), still do not have a confirmed tenant for my house in SC. Still don't know if Ex-F is really moving out or if he's just thinking about it. So since so much of it is out of my control, I have been content to not stress about it so much. Just trying to watch my pennies in case I'm in a bind.
Did I tell you I gave up candy and TV for Lent? Just candy. Not ice cream, cookies, pudding, etc. Dude! It is hard! I am majorly jonesing for Twizzlers. And those little sour watermelon slices. And don't even talk to me about Cadbury eggs. The TV thing isn't as difficult. I have allowed myself to watch DVDs and the news. Since I'm not a big movie watcher to begin with, I have immersed myself in various news programs. And now, I have turned from a casual news junkie into fairly-obsessed news junkie. I know WAY more than I ever cared to about the upcoming St. Patty's Day Festival here in Savannah and the Health Care Bill debate going on in DC. I'm kind of ready for them to just vote on it already, because I'm getting kind of bored.
Of course, the main purposes of these two Lenten abstinences (is that a word?) were to motivate me to lose weight (candy normally consists of about 1/3 of my diet) and to encourage me to read more books (don't get me wrong, I like to read, but I will always pick TV over a book, simply for its interactivity with other people, albeit indirect).
Like many of my self-improvement plans, this one has failed miserably. In lieu of candy, my ice cream intake has approximately tripled, and I am now watching TONS of news and am reading only in the last 5 minutes of my day. The news is on in the background whenever I am home. News programs totally know how to reel me in. They tease you with a really crazy story (Car Wash Owner Harassed Over 4 cent Tax Bill! Plane Lands in Middle of Highway!)...which will be on in exactly 32 minutes. ARGH! So, of course, I have to keep watching until the story I really want pops up.
Alright, y'all. I gotta go try and get to sleep. Hope everyone set their clocks and watches and checked their fire alarms.
Crap. I am still totally awake. Maybe I will see what's on the news....
Showing posts with label addictions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label addictions. Show all posts
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Familiarity Breeds Contempt, Part I
Alright, so far, I am seeing choice #4 pop up in the votes the most, so today I will discuss the roommate issue a little bit more. In case you are scratching your head right now, E moved out the weekend of Halloween....in theory. (You'll see what I mean in Part II)
Now, I know I have familiarized you with E and her antics before. But I haven't really given you the whole story. So here we go.
I met E several years ago, through my friend W. At the time, they were roommates-- E rented from W. Every so often, we would all get together, so I knew E well enough to like her, but let me tell you, you never REALLY know someone until you live with them.
When W's boyfriend moved into her condo, which is pretty small, E began to feel like three was a crowd. And really, with a boyfriend around, I think most single girls would feel they were a third wheel. So I understood her feelings of discomfort and interest in moving out. Coincidentally, at the time, my old roommate K (who is a WHOLE other story which I won't get into right now) had moved out, and my extra bedroom was empty. So I invited E to move in with me.
That's when I got what I should have seen as Red Flag #1: "Oh, I would love to, but I'm really broke and I wouldn't be able to pay you a whole lot of rent, so I would feel bad doing that to you," E explained. I told her that since we were friends, I would cut her a deal, no problem. At that point, I needed the rent money. ANY rent money.
"Ok, well, how about you pay me $350 per month?" I offered. Where I live, this is a really good rent price, especially for living in a house, rather than an apartment.
"That's more than I'm paying now. I really can't afford to pay more than $230 per month," she replied.
Since I was really just wanted ANY extra money, I said ok. "You are a sucker," CN told me. I told him that we are friends, and I would feel bad if I charged her a price that broke her bank.
"$230 doesn't break anyone's bank, unless they are on welfare," he replied.
A little voice in the back of my head told me he was right, but I decided to ignore it. While E doesn't have a college degree (she dropped out), she does make a decent living working for a health benefits company. I don't know how much exactly, but she probably makes around $30,000-35,000. Looking back on it now, I do kind of feel like a sucker. When I made that amount of money, I was paying $500/month in rent.
Not long after E moved in, I began to learn more about her financial situation. With around $20,000 in credit card debt and an upside-down car loan, she was on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. Suddenly, her low rent request made a lot more sense to me. I told her to let me know if things got even worse and if she needed extra time to pay rent, or some other kind of help. She was my friend, after all.
Then, I started noticing the shopping. And I'm not talking about hitting big annual sales or Target or even Walmart shopping. E would buy brand new Coach purses. And not the little ones -- the BIG ones. She would justify the purchases by using $25 coupons she received in the mail for being a loyal Coach customer. "It's such a good deal! How can I not do it?" she would exclaim, showing off her new purchase. Then there were the matching shoes that had to be purchased to go with the purse. And if there was a party or an event coming up? She had to buy a new outfit. Often from places like Banana Republic or J.Crew. If nothing else, E is a well-heeled girl. I have to give her some props -- she's a fantastic dresser. But really, at what cost?
This was from the girl who swears she cannot afford to pay me more than $230/month in rent.
Then, there was her car. It was only about 2 years old, and it was a big, gas-guzzling SUV. It was newer and more expensive than my car. I am not saying that I am envious of her, because as you will soon see, that is the last thing I feel towards E. I'm just stating this as evidence of how outside of her means this girl lives. I make more money than E does, and my used car cost only $8,000. Hers was around $25,000. She eventually managed to trade it in and get a new car loan at a slightly lower interest rate. I thought this was a great idea, until she brought home her new car. It was a brand new, $25,000 car. "My payments are a little lower now. And it's much better on gas," she explained.
Is this girl for real???
Now, is it just me, or does it seem pretty stupid for someone in her financial situation to live this kind of lifestyle? I mean, it's a no-brainer, really. But wait -- it gets better.
One day, we were talking about her precarious financial situation. I managed to, in a round-about-way, aske her how in the holy fuck she got into this mess to begin with. Her explanation? Her ex-boyfriend from several years back, who we are pretty sure is a drug dealer (oh yes, she picks some real winners), showered her with luxurious gifts for so long (these were guilt presents, because he was cheating on her left and right) that she got used to them, and just can't seem to go back to anything less.
Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me.
I asked her what kinds of things he had bought her before he ripped out her heart and stomped on it. (Side note: It was a pretty shitty breakup -- he basically kicked her out of his apartment to make room for the new girlfriend, who he'd been cheating on her with. Yeah, he was a really great guy.) He had purchased for her: several Coach bags, shoes, perfume, a Rolex and (drumroll please) a Louis Vuitton purse. As in, a real one, NOT a knock-off from Canal Street or someone's car trunk.
Call me crazy, but if I was broke as shit, drowning in debt, and I had a bunch of junk that some asshole had bought for me with drug money to ease his guilt over cheating on me, I would sell that crap on eBay so fast it would make your head spin. But does she do that? No. She'd rather wear her Rolex every day, a constant reminder of not only a miserably failed relationship, but also her poor decision making skills. What the hell is this girl on, anyway?
Well, for starters, alcohol. Now, we all know that I don't drink anymore, so I am a little out of the loop, but I'm pretty sure it's not really very acceptable to drink beer on your lunch break. But this didn't stop E. I would come home at lunch to find one empty beer can in the trash, and a fresh one in her hand. Sometimes, she would get drunk on margaritas at lunch and go back to work. Yeah. I'm sure you're not surprised to hear this, but she also would drink heavily at night and on the weekends. In addition to knocking out a case of beer every week at home (an amount I already think is kind of a lot), she would go out at least 2 times during the week and every Friday and Saturday--drinking for about 5 hours straight. Now, E is a fun girl, I will give her that. But I also think a lot of fun people are alcoholics, and she's one of them. Not only was her safety impacted by her drinking (she would drive drunk if no one would was around to take her home and she came thisclose to getting busted for an open container once), but so was her budget and her job. She called in sick several times due to a hangover. I know a lot of people do this, but she would do it about once or twice a month. That's a lot.
In addition to the alcohol, E was also on a cocktail of pills. She's a Heath Ledger waiting to happen: anti-depressants, Xanax, Ambien and Adderoll were all put into her body every day. This is in addition to all the alcohol, any over the counter painkillers she would take, and if she was sick, antibiotics. She admitted to doctor shopping, especially when one of them would not refill her prescriptions.
As you can imagine, anytime her behavior became strange or erratic, I just assumed it was from all the chemicals she had swimming around in her body. Or an eccentric personality. After a while, I grew accustomed to her insomnia, her weekend sleep-a-thons, her drunken antics, her Ambien-induced sleepwalking, and her passing out in the bathtub. What, I never told that story? I can't believe I never told that one. I was probably trying to protect her by not spilling her personal life on this blog. But at this point, I doubt I will lose any sleep over it. If anything, I'm hoping this will serve as a warning to anyone using or thinking about using Ambien. The drug is evil, I tell you.
A few times, E would come home drunk, take her Ambien and watch TV in her bed. I have learned that drunk people need everything to be louder than sober people do, so several times I would wake up to the sound of her TV or music coming from her room. Knocking on her door, yelling her name and even shaking her did not wake her up. A couple of times, she was so PTFO that I thought about calling 911. She was seriously dead to the world. If there had been a fire, she would have burned alive. No joke. So I would eventually just give up, turn the TV or music off myself, and go back to bed.
This wasn't a huge deal, but it started to scare me as time went on. More than once, I would wake up in the morning to find that the oven had been on all night. E had gone out, gotten drunk, come home to make a frozen pizza, and then PTFO on her Ambien before turning the oven off. I was really starting to get worried, but always hoped it would be the last time.
The last straw came with The Bathtub Incident. One night, I was awakened by the sound of music coming from her bathroom. At this point, it was normal for her to be up all night, re-organizing her room as she often did when she had bouts of insomnia. I was annoyed, but I knew she hadn't woken me up on purpose, so I walked over to ask her to turn her music down. I knocked on the door. No answer. I yelled her name. No answer. Thinking she had passed out in her bed, I went into her room -- she was not there. She had to be in the bathroom. I peeked around the corner to look into her bathroom. She was passed out in the bathtub, with water up to her chest. I was panicked, and sort of froze for a minute, because what do you do? All I could think was, "What the fuck? I am so pissed at her for putting me in this situation. This is so fucking awkward and scary. At worst, she could drown. At best, I have to go in there and drag my wet, naked roommate out of the tub, which is very awkward!!"
So I went in and shook the crap out of her until she woke up long enough to mumble that she was fine. Then she passed right back out. I seriously didn't know what to do. She was too heavy and slippery for me to pick her up, because I tried. I was really furious that I even had to deal with this at 3am. I was starting to feel like her babysitter, and I was really just OVER IT. Looking back on it, I should have let the water out of the tub, but it didn't occur to me in my half-asleep stupor. I was just pissed. I took a good look at the depth of the water and realized that she was too tall to slip under it. (E is about 5' 9") At the time, that was good enough for me. I figured the water would eventually get cold enough that it would wake her up and she would get out. So I turned the music down and went back to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, I totally panicked, because HOLY SHIT, I just left her there??? What the hell was I thinking??? I felt horrible. But I am a deep sleeper, and not the clearest thinker in the middle of the night. I still can't believe I did that, and I shudder to think of what could have happened. But at the time, I thought I had made a good decision. Stupid, I know. I feel really bad about that. Anyway, so I ran to her room and I saw that she was safe in her bed--WHEW. I didn't even tell her about it until several weeks later, because it was just so awkward, and I was so pissed about it, I didn't want to bring it up.
This, along with the random guy she left at my house, were major turning points in our relationship. I began to really resent her and grow very annoyed with her. Little things that hadn't bothered me before started to drive me up the wall. For example, every morning, she would ask me if her outfit looked ok. It always did, because she has the most gorgeous wardrobe you've ever seen, and thanks to the Adderoll, she's as thin as a rail. I am not nearly as good of a dresser as she, so it never made sense to me why she'd even ask for my opinion in the first place. After the Bathtub Incident, this little morning routine began to drive me insane. It began to feel like she just wanted to show off her clothes to me. As if that wasn't bad enough, I swear she began turning her iPod up more loudly, and she listened to the SAME four songs every morning. And she has really bad taste in music. For weeks, I had to listen to "Please don't stop the music please don't stop the music please don't stop the music!!" (that Rihanna song) at 67 decibels.
As if the morning wasn't bad enough, lunch breaks were even worse. When I go home for lunch every day, I like to read or watch "What Not to Wear". I don't mind a little small talk or gossip, but if E took her lunch at the same time, she would basically hijack my lunch time. E would often change outfits at lunch, so I would have to go through the whole outfit-approval discussion again. And instead of making small talk and letting me get back to my meal/book/tv show, she would use lunch breaks as an opportunity to inform me on one of the following topics:
OMG, You Won't Believe What Someone Did to Me!
My Ex-Boyfriend is an Asshole and You Won't Believe What He is Doing Now! (aka OMG, You Won't Believe What a Stalker I Am!)
OMG, I Hate My Job
OMG, My Boyfriend is Such an Asshole (Side note: he wasn't. He's actually a great guy. Who gave her the boot a few months ago, because he also grew tired of her crap.)
As you can probably gather from this list of topics, E has a tendency to be a martyr and dwell on things. She's a little obsessive about how people have wronged her. A lot of the time, like with her ex, she's right -- the guy is a total fucking jerk. But they broke up FOUR YEARS AGO. LET. IT. GO. She still, as far as I know, stalks his girlfriend on myspace, drives by their apartment, looks for his car when she goes out, etc. A lot of girls have done these things, including yours truly, but for FOUR years???? Good grief, Charlie Brown!
All of E's Martyr Talks got really old after a while. I just wanted to eat my sandwich and watch my show and be left alone. I did not go home for lunch to play therapist. To the same patient. With the same issues. Every day. Not surprisingly, she never took any of my (basic and obvious) advice anyway, which only irritated me further. It's like she is hell bent on making her life as difficult and emotionally upheaving as possible. I don't get it. So I began to take my lunch breaks very early, to avoid seeing her. She rarely went to lunch before noon, and never went back to work before 2pm (yeah, her job is another story!) . I have found that simply avoiding her works very well. I haven't had to watch The E Show in a very long time. (You know anyone like that? Every time they talk to you, it's all about them? Never about you? That's E in a nutshell.)
For a while, the nights and weekends were great -- she would be at her boyfriend's house, and I would be free of her. But as I said a little bit ago, several months ago, he apparently grew tired of her, too, and dumped her. So then she was suddenly at home all the time. When she started dating the guy she's currently with, I thought, "Great! Now she can start sleeping over at his house!" -- but I had no such luck. She managed to start dating a 33 year old guy who still lived with his parents. Not that he doesn't have any money -- he owns 3 cars. But I guess he still wants mommy to do his laundry. WTF.
So he started sleeping over all the time, which led to their shower antics and that time I kicked him out, etc--I have already told you about those things. He only made things worse.
One day, not too long before she moved out, I broke down and told E everything -- I went on and on and on. I talked about The Bathtub Incident, kicking her new guy out of the house, how she left the oven on all the time, how tired I was of getting up at night to turn things off, how she drove drunk, how absurdly she managed her money, how silly it was for her to obsess over her ex, how smoking cigarettes wasn't a good idea considering how much cancer ran in her family, how I was worried about her -- I went on and on and on, for about 30 minutes. I ended it with, "I am really worried about you and I think you need to think about going to rehab."
Know what her response was?
"OMG. You're right. I really need to stop taking Ambien. I will talk to my doctor and switch to something else."
When I started to tell her that wasn't really what I meant, she jumped in with,
"I am such a burden to you. It is so good that I'm moving out soon. I feel terrible. Don't worry. I will be gone soon. I am so sorry."
I guess some people just don't get it.
Stay tuned for Part II.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Be thankful you have a better head on your shoulders than my ex-roommate.
Now, I know I have familiarized you with E and her antics before. But I haven't really given you the whole story. So here we go.
I met E several years ago, through my friend W. At the time, they were roommates-- E rented from W. Every so often, we would all get together, so I knew E well enough to like her, but let me tell you, you never REALLY know someone until you live with them.
When W's boyfriend moved into her condo, which is pretty small, E began to feel like three was a crowd. And really, with a boyfriend around, I think most single girls would feel they were a third wheel. So I understood her feelings of discomfort and interest in moving out. Coincidentally, at the time, my old roommate K (who is a WHOLE other story which I won't get into right now) had moved out, and my extra bedroom was empty. So I invited E to move in with me.
That's when I got what I should have seen as Red Flag #1: "Oh, I would love to, but I'm really broke and I wouldn't be able to pay you a whole lot of rent, so I would feel bad doing that to you," E explained. I told her that since we were friends, I would cut her a deal, no problem. At that point, I needed the rent money. ANY rent money.
"Ok, well, how about you pay me $350 per month?" I offered. Where I live, this is a really good rent price, especially for living in a house, rather than an apartment.
"That's more than I'm paying now. I really can't afford to pay more than $230 per month," she replied.
Since I was really just wanted ANY extra money, I said ok. "You are a sucker," CN told me. I told him that we are friends, and I would feel bad if I charged her a price that broke her bank.
"$230 doesn't break anyone's bank, unless they are on welfare," he replied.
A little voice in the back of my head told me he was right, but I decided to ignore it. While E doesn't have a college degree (she dropped out), she does make a decent living working for a health benefits company. I don't know how much exactly, but she probably makes around $30,000-35,000. Looking back on it now, I do kind of feel like a sucker. When I made that amount of money, I was paying $500/month in rent.
Not long after E moved in, I began to learn more about her financial situation. With around $20,000 in credit card debt and an upside-down car loan, she was on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. Suddenly, her low rent request made a lot more sense to me. I told her to let me know if things got even worse and if she needed extra time to pay rent, or some other kind of help. She was my friend, after all.
Then, I started noticing the shopping. And I'm not talking about hitting big annual sales or Target or even Walmart shopping. E would buy brand new Coach purses. And not the little ones -- the BIG ones. She would justify the purchases by using $25 coupons she received in the mail for being a loyal Coach customer. "It's such a good deal! How can I not do it?" she would exclaim, showing off her new purchase. Then there were the matching shoes that had to be purchased to go with the purse. And if there was a party or an event coming up? She had to buy a new outfit. Often from places like Banana Republic or J.Crew. If nothing else, E is a well-heeled girl. I have to give her some props -- she's a fantastic dresser. But really, at what cost?
This was from the girl who swears she cannot afford to pay me more than $230/month in rent.
Then, there was her car. It was only about 2 years old, and it was a big, gas-guzzling SUV. It was newer and more expensive than my car. I am not saying that I am envious of her, because as you will soon see, that is the last thing I feel towards E. I'm just stating this as evidence of how outside of her means this girl lives. I make more money than E does, and my used car cost only $8,000. Hers was around $25,000. She eventually managed to trade it in and get a new car loan at a slightly lower interest rate. I thought this was a great idea, until she brought home her new car. It was a brand new, $25,000 car. "My payments are a little lower now. And it's much better on gas," she explained.
Is this girl for real???
Now, is it just me, or does it seem pretty stupid for someone in her financial situation to live this kind of lifestyle? I mean, it's a no-brainer, really. But wait -- it gets better.
One day, we were talking about her precarious financial situation. I managed to, in a round-about-way, aske her how in the holy fuck she got into this mess to begin with. Her explanation? Her ex-boyfriend from several years back, who we are pretty sure is a drug dealer (oh yes, she picks some real winners), showered her with luxurious gifts for so long (these were guilt presents, because he was cheating on her left and right) that she got used to them, and just can't seem to go back to anything less.
Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me.
I asked her what kinds of things he had bought her before he ripped out her heart and stomped on it. (Side note: It was a pretty shitty breakup -- he basically kicked her out of his apartment to make room for the new girlfriend, who he'd been cheating on her with. Yeah, he was a really great guy.) He had purchased for her: several Coach bags, shoes, perfume, a Rolex and (drumroll please) a Louis Vuitton purse. As in, a real one, NOT a knock-off from Canal Street or someone's car trunk.
Call me crazy, but if I was broke as shit, drowning in debt, and I had a bunch of junk that some asshole had bought for me with drug money to ease his guilt over cheating on me, I would sell that crap on eBay so fast it would make your head spin. But does she do that? No. She'd rather wear her Rolex every day, a constant reminder of not only a miserably failed relationship, but also her poor decision making skills. What the hell is this girl on, anyway?
Well, for starters, alcohol. Now, we all know that I don't drink anymore, so I am a little out of the loop, but I'm pretty sure it's not really very acceptable to drink beer on your lunch break. But this didn't stop E. I would come home at lunch to find one empty beer can in the trash, and a fresh one in her hand. Sometimes, she would get drunk on margaritas at lunch and go back to work. Yeah. I'm sure you're not surprised to hear this, but she also would drink heavily at night and on the weekends. In addition to knocking out a case of beer every week at home (an amount I already think is kind of a lot), she would go out at least 2 times during the week and every Friday and Saturday--drinking for about 5 hours straight. Now, E is a fun girl, I will give her that. But I also think a lot of fun people are alcoholics, and she's one of them. Not only was her safety impacted by her drinking (she would drive drunk if no one would was around to take her home and she came thisclose to getting busted for an open container once), but so was her budget and her job. She called in sick several times due to a hangover. I know a lot of people do this, but she would do it about once or twice a month. That's a lot.
In addition to the alcohol, E was also on a cocktail of pills. She's a Heath Ledger waiting to happen: anti-depressants, Xanax, Ambien and Adderoll were all put into her body every day. This is in addition to all the alcohol, any over the counter painkillers she would take, and if she was sick, antibiotics. She admitted to doctor shopping, especially when one of them would not refill her prescriptions.
As you can imagine, anytime her behavior became strange or erratic, I just assumed it was from all the chemicals she had swimming around in her body. Or an eccentric personality. After a while, I grew accustomed to her insomnia, her weekend sleep-a-thons, her drunken antics, her Ambien-induced sleepwalking, and her passing out in the bathtub. What, I never told that story? I can't believe I never told that one. I was probably trying to protect her by not spilling her personal life on this blog. But at this point, I doubt I will lose any sleep over it. If anything, I'm hoping this will serve as a warning to anyone using or thinking about using Ambien. The drug is evil, I tell you.
A few times, E would come home drunk, take her Ambien and watch TV in her bed. I have learned that drunk people need everything to be louder than sober people do, so several times I would wake up to the sound of her TV or music coming from her room. Knocking on her door, yelling her name and even shaking her did not wake her up. A couple of times, she was so PTFO that I thought about calling 911. She was seriously dead to the world. If there had been a fire, she would have burned alive. No joke. So I would eventually just give up, turn the TV or music off myself, and go back to bed.
This wasn't a huge deal, but it started to scare me as time went on. More than once, I would wake up in the morning to find that the oven had been on all night. E had gone out, gotten drunk, come home to make a frozen pizza, and then PTFO on her Ambien before turning the oven off. I was really starting to get worried, but always hoped it would be the last time.
The last straw came with The Bathtub Incident. One night, I was awakened by the sound of music coming from her bathroom. At this point, it was normal for her to be up all night, re-organizing her room as she often did when she had bouts of insomnia. I was annoyed, but I knew she hadn't woken me up on purpose, so I walked over to ask her to turn her music down. I knocked on the door. No answer. I yelled her name. No answer. Thinking she had passed out in her bed, I went into her room -- she was not there. She had to be in the bathroom. I peeked around the corner to look into her bathroom. She was passed out in the bathtub, with water up to her chest. I was panicked, and sort of froze for a minute, because what do you do? All I could think was, "What the fuck? I am so pissed at her for putting me in this situation. This is so fucking awkward and scary. At worst, she could drown. At best, I have to go in there and drag my wet, naked roommate out of the tub, which is very awkward!!"
So I went in and shook the crap out of her until she woke up long enough to mumble that she was fine. Then she passed right back out. I seriously didn't know what to do. She was too heavy and slippery for me to pick her up, because I tried. I was really furious that I even had to deal with this at 3am. I was starting to feel like her babysitter, and I was really just OVER IT. Looking back on it, I should have let the water out of the tub, but it didn't occur to me in my half-asleep stupor. I was just pissed. I took a good look at the depth of the water and realized that she was too tall to slip under it. (E is about 5' 9") At the time, that was good enough for me. I figured the water would eventually get cold enough that it would wake her up and she would get out. So I turned the music down and went back to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, I totally panicked, because HOLY SHIT, I just left her there??? What the hell was I thinking??? I felt horrible. But I am a deep sleeper, and not the clearest thinker in the middle of the night. I still can't believe I did that, and I shudder to think of what could have happened. But at the time, I thought I had made a good decision. Stupid, I know. I feel really bad about that. Anyway, so I ran to her room and I saw that she was safe in her bed--WHEW. I didn't even tell her about it until several weeks later, because it was just so awkward, and I was so pissed about it, I didn't want to bring it up.
This, along with the random guy she left at my house, were major turning points in our relationship. I began to really resent her and grow very annoyed with her. Little things that hadn't bothered me before started to drive me up the wall. For example, every morning, she would ask me if her outfit looked ok. It always did, because she has the most gorgeous wardrobe you've ever seen, and thanks to the Adderoll, she's as thin as a rail. I am not nearly as good of a dresser as she, so it never made sense to me why she'd even ask for my opinion in the first place. After the Bathtub Incident, this little morning routine began to drive me insane. It began to feel like she just wanted to show off her clothes to me. As if that wasn't bad enough, I swear she began turning her iPod up more loudly, and she listened to the SAME four songs every morning. And she has really bad taste in music. For weeks, I had to listen to "Please don't stop the music please don't stop the music please don't stop the music!!" (that Rihanna song) at 67 decibels.
As if the morning wasn't bad enough, lunch breaks were even worse. When I go home for lunch every day, I like to read or watch "What Not to Wear". I don't mind a little small talk or gossip, but if E took her lunch at the same time, she would basically hijack my lunch time. E would often change outfits at lunch, so I would have to go through the whole outfit-approval discussion again. And instead of making small talk and letting me get back to my meal/book/tv show, she would use lunch breaks as an opportunity to inform me on one of the following topics:
OMG, You Won't Believe What Someone Did to Me!
My Ex-Boyfriend is an Asshole and You Won't Believe What He is Doing Now! (aka OMG, You Won't Believe What a Stalker I Am!)
OMG, I Hate My Job
OMG, My Boyfriend is Such an Asshole (Side note: he wasn't. He's actually a great guy. Who gave her the boot a few months ago, because he also grew tired of her crap.)
As you can probably gather from this list of topics, E has a tendency to be a martyr and dwell on things. She's a little obsessive about how people have wronged her. A lot of the time, like with her ex, she's right -- the guy is a total fucking jerk. But they broke up FOUR YEARS AGO. LET. IT. GO. She still, as far as I know, stalks his girlfriend on myspace, drives by their apartment, looks for his car when she goes out, etc. A lot of girls have done these things, including yours truly, but for FOUR years???? Good grief, Charlie Brown!
All of E's Martyr Talks got really old after a while. I just wanted to eat my sandwich and watch my show and be left alone. I did not go home for lunch to play therapist. To the same patient. With the same issues. Every day. Not surprisingly, she never took any of my (basic and obvious) advice anyway, which only irritated me further. It's like she is hell bent on making her life as difficult and emotionally upheaving as possible. I don't get it. So I began to take my lunch breaks very early, to avoid seeing her. She rarely went to lunch before noon, and never went back to work before 2pm (yeah, her job is another story!) . I have found that simply avoiding her works very well. I haven't had to watch The E Show in a very long time. (You know anyone like that? Every time they talk to you, it's all about them? Never about you? That's E in a nutshell.)
For a while, the nights and weekends were great -- she would be at her boyfriend's house, and I would be free of her. But as I said a little bit ago, several months ago, he apparently grew tired of her, too, and dumped her. So then she was suddenly at home all the time. When she started dating the guy she's currently with, I thought, "Great! Now she can start sleeping over at his house!" -- but I had no such luck. She managed to start dating a 33 year old guy who still lived with his parents. Not that he doesn't have any money -- he owns 3 cars. But I guess he still wants mommy to do his laundry. WTF.
So he started sleeping over all the time, which led to their shower antics and that time I kicked him out, etc--I have already told you about those things. He only made things worse.
One day, not too long before she moved out, I broke down and told E everything -- I went on and on and on. I talked about The Bathtub Incident, kicking her new guy out of the house, how she left the oven on all the time, how tired I was of getting up at night to turn things off, how she drove drunk, how absurdly she managed her money, how silly it was for her to obsess over her ex, how smoking cigarettes wasn't a good idea considering how much cancer ran in her family, how I was worried about her -- I went on and on and on, for about 30 minutes. I ended it with, "I am really worried about you and I think you need to think about going to rehab."
Know what her response was?
"OMG. You're right. I really need to stop taking Ambien. I will talk to my doctor and switch to something else."
When I started to tell her that wasn't really what I meant, she jumped in with,
"I am such a burden to you. It is so good that I'm moving out soon. I feel terrible. Don't worry. I will be gone soon. I am so sorry."
I guess some people just don't get it.
Stay tuned for Part II.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Be thankful you have a better head on your shoulders than my ex-roommate.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Genealogics Anonymous
OMG. I need help, you guys. I am not exaggerating when I say that just about every waking minute of every day for the last week or so has involved me talking about genealogy, researching genealogy or thinking about genealogy.
MJ is about to kill me she is so sick of me talking about it.
CN caved in to my nagging, and is now letting me research his family, too.
To make it even worse, Ancestry.com gives you a free 14 day trial, so I'm trying to milk every last free minute out of them.
I have found relatives in Oklahoma, Seattle, Chicago, Massachusetts, Iowa, Minnesota, NYC, Kansas, St. Louis, Wisconsin, Virginia, upstate New York and Connecticut.
I have found the following weird first names: Karona, Gerhard, Aloysius, Cornelia, Herbert, Velvet, Elisha, Hepzebah, Bertha, Adelaide, Jerusha, Augustus, Eleazer, Ephraim, Jabez, Dorcas, Larvina, Hezekiah, Ulysses, Isolde, Chamberlain, Mercy, Ruke, Ebenezer, Asaph, Huldah, Prince, Waitstill, Celestine, too many Gertrudes to count and my favorite name so far: Bartimus.
I have found Revolutionary War heroes, Civil War casualties, steamboat operators, inventors, someone who went to court with Henry Ford, professors, dentists, judges, lawyers, real estate agents, oil company managers, doctors, bookstore owners, hardware salesmen, railroad engineers, preachers, and of course, lots and lots and LOTS of farmers.
I have, according to Ancestry.com, traced my family back to the 1380s (!!) in England. Obviously, there's no way to prove the records are correct, but then again, there's probably no way to disprove them, either.
Every once in a while, I stumble upon cool family stories and photos that other genies haves submitted to Ancestry.com or one of the other websites I'm using. Which is basically like crack to me. I will spare you these stories for now. Because telling them will only fan the flames. I am dealing with a serious addiction! Don't believe me?
These are the signs of an addiction:
Loss of interest in things that were important before.
Long, unexplained absences.
Decrease in performance at work or school.
Wanting to participate in addictive activity at all times of the day.
Increased desire for more of the activity.
Participating in the activity alone for long periods of time.
High tolerance for participating in the activity.
Preoccupation or craving.
Continued use.
Withdrawl symptoms.
Finding an excuse for doing it.
I'm even annoying myself at this point. I am not interested in going out, working out, reading a book or watching tv. For me, it's All Genie, All the Time. What if I can't stop? What if I turn into a shriveled up, little old lady genealogist who cannot hold normal conversations, because she constantly asks if you're referring to the Iowa McCrackens or the Minnesota McCrackens? ? Genealogy is pretty addictive, because there's always one. more. person. to. find.
Everyone has a mother and a father. And most people have siblings. It could go on forever.
I (obviously) haven't done much work, haven't gone to the gym, haven't cleaned my house...I haven't done much of anything, including blog reading. I am going to try and go on detox here this week, so I need your support. I think that in baby steps, I can make it out ok and come back to the world of the living.
Hi, my name is Virginia. And I'm a genealogy addict.
MJ is about to kill me she is so sick of me talking about it.
CN caved in to my nagging, and is now letting me research his family, too.
To make it even worse, Ancestry.com gives you a free 14 day trial, so I'm trying to milk every last free minute out of them.
I have found relatives in Oklahoma, Seattle, Chicago, Massachusetts, Iowa, Minnesota, NYC, Kansas, St. Louis, Wisconsin, Virginia, upstate New York and Connecticut.
I have found the following weird first names: Karona, Gerhard, Aloysius, Cornelia, Herbert, Velvet, Elisha, Hepzebah, Bertha, Adelaide, Jerusha, Augustus, Eleazer, Ephraim, Jabez, Dorcas, Larvina, Hezekiah, Ulysses, Isolde, Chamberlain, Mercy, Ruke, Ebenezer, Asaph, Huldah, Prince, Waitstill, Celestine, too many Gertrudes to count and my favorite name so far: Bartimus.
I have found Revolutionary War heroes, Civil War casualties, steamboat operators, inventors, someone who went to court with Henry Ford, professors, dentists, judges, lawyers, real estate agents, oil company managers, doctors, bookstore owners, hardware salesmen, railroad engineers, preachers, and of course, lots and lots and LOTS of farmers.
I have, according to Ancestry.com, traced my family back to the 1380s (!!) in England. Obviously, there's no way to prove the records are correct, but then again, there's probably no way to disprove them, either.
Every once in a while, I stumble upon cool family stories and photos that other genies haves submitted to Ancestry.com or one of the other websites I'm using. Which is basically like crack to me. I will spare you these stories for now. Because telling them will only fan the flames. I am dealing with a serious addiction! Don't believe me?
These are the signs of an addiction:
Loss of interest in things that were important before.
Long, unexplained absences.
Decrease in performance at work or school.
Wanting to participate in addictive activity at all times of the day.
Increased desire for more of the activity.
Participating in the activity alone for long periods of time.
High tolerance for participating in the activity.
Preoccupation or craving.
Continued use.
Withdrawl symptoms.
Finding an excuse for doing it.
I'm even annoying myself at this point. I am not interested in going out, working out, reading a book or watching tv. For me, it's All Genie, All the Time. What if I can't stop? What if I turn into a shriveled up, little old lady genealogist who cannot hold normal conversations, because she constantly asks if you're referring to the Iowa McCrackens or the Minnesota McCrackens? ? Genealogy is pretty addictive, because there's always one. more. person. to. find.
Everyone has a mother and a father. And most people have siblings. It could go on forever.
I (obviously) haven't done much work, haven't gone to the gym, haven't cleaned my house...I haven't done much of anything, including blog reading. I am going to try and go on detox here this week, so I need your support. I think that in baby steps, I can make it out ok and come back to the world of the living.
Hi, my name is Virginia. And I'm a genealogy addict.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
One Day at a Time
Today is my ten year anniversary. For the last decade, I have maintained my sobriety 100%. My life has remained totally alcohol-free since the late 90s.
If you are doing the math, you are realizing that I did not drink on my 21st birthday. And that I quit drinking after my freshman year of college. I will add that I do not even sip champagne at New Year's or drink the wine at church.
A lot of people ask me how on earth I could have been an alcoholic at such a young age. The answer to this is that many alcoholics are born that way. In my family, it seems to be genetic: two grandparents, one parent, three siblings and several extended family members have all been afflicted with this disease. At least 2 have died in alcohol-related deaths. So whether I began drinking at age 16 or age 43, the results would have been the same: I have and will always have a problem controlling my drinking.
When I tell people that I really only drank for two years, they are even more confused. How did I realize I had a problem after only 2 years? After all, the majority of college freshmen are binge drinkers, especially on the weekends, and especially at large state universities. But by the time I was about 12, I had seen the effects of alcoholism on my family. Thanks to my mother's lectures and descriptions, I could rattle off the signs of an alcohol problem as easily as my multiplication tables.
By the time I was a senior in high school, alcohol was readily available to me, and like most young people, I was all about experimenting. Gradually, I began to see some bad signs...
Blackouts were my first sign that I may not have a normal and healthy relationship with alcohol. Yes, many novice alcohol drinkers have blackouts. But I was having them about once a month. And it wasn't like certain parts of the evening were hazy. I'm talking about the WHOLE NIGHT. Once, I woke up in my dorm room, dressed in party clothes, with a trashcan next to my bed and a concerned note from my friends. To this day, I do not even remember going out AT ALL. I have no idea what I did or where I was. Think about that. It's kind of scary to be that out of control.
If I wasn't blacking out entirely, I was drunk to the point that I had to be carried out of the party. At every party. Having "just two" didn't compute in my brain. Where's the fun in that? The whole goal of the evening is to reach the if-I-have-one-more-I-will-barf buzz and keep it as long as possible. Duh. But of course, I am an alcoholic, so the stopping point for me was always "just one more and I'll stop." Remember the girl at the frat party who was always found sitting on a step, slurring and crying and asking everyone for a cigarette? The one with barf all over her tank top and mascara smeared all over her face? Who had to be baby-sat by her girlfriends? That was me. Every weekend. And by weekend, I mean Wednesday thru Saturday nights. Alcoholics are always up for a party.
My ability to increase my tolerance for alcohol was frightening. By the end of my first semester in college, I could put down 10-12 beers. They were like soda pop to me. I weighed about 130 pounds. I was drinking this amount of beer in less than 2 hours. I'm no good at math, but it's pretty safe to say that I was far over the legal driving limit. I remember strategizing on Friday and Saturday nights, using complicated formulas to ensure maximum alcohol consumption: "Ok, if I don't eat anything between noon and six, and then eat as many breadsticks as I can an hour and a half before I leave to go out, I should be able to drink 2 extra beers before I barf." -- Who does that??? That is not normal!
It wasn't just the urge to drink as much as I possibly could, as quickly as I could. Just like any other alcoholic, I didn't give a rat's ass what the beverage was, I just wanted as much of it as possible, as quickly as possible. If you are a normal person, and you despise tequila, when you go to a party that serves nothing but tequila, you are probably going to drink water or soda pop all night. Not the alcoholic. They will think, "Crap. I hate tequila. This is going to suck." -- and then they will line up the shots and down ten of them before you can blink an eye! That makes absolutely no sense. It's like someone who hates broccoli eating 2 pounds of it, just because it's there.
One of the worst signs of an alcohol problem is a change in personality. When I was drunk, I became hostile and angry. I tried to pick fist fights with my friends. I literally wanted to punch the snot out of anyone and everyone. If you know me in person, this concept is laughable. I am such a wuss that I won't even do wheelies on a bicycle. I have some friends who have never even seen me lose my temper. But when I drank, I turned into a psychotic bitch with the shortest fuse you've ever seen. It would take nothing to set me off.
As you can probably guess, denial plays a huge role in an alcoholic's life. Example thoughts:
"I am totally ok to drive." (Um, no, you're not!)
"That guy is HOT." (Riiiight)
"She's not that pissed at me. (Um, you just made out with her boyfriend.)
I look smokin' hot right now. "(Is that why your hair is plastered to your skull and you can't walk?)
"My skirt is totally covering my butt." (You just flashed an entire room of total strangers.)
"This party is awesome!" (...if by "awesome" you mean that you are the only person on the dance floor because it's 4am and the party is over.)
"I don't know. I guess someone stole my keys." (Actually, drunk ass, you dropped them somewhere.)
I did something else that my just seem like strange behavior, unless you too are someone familiar with alcoholism: I became extremely possessive with my alcohol. If I brought my own alcohol to a party, I would label it with my name, patrol the fridge to make sure no one stole it, and refuse to share so much as a sip with anyone. You see, I have the brain of an alcoholic, and the thought of running out of alcohol was terrifying to me, especially when I was under 21. This is why you hear of alcoholics hiding bottles everywhere. It's because they don't ever want to run out. Of course, I knew that hiding alcohol was a sign of alcoholism, so I fought the urge to do this. If I didn't hide it, I must not be an alcoholic, right?
I used to (and strangely enough, still do) pressure my friends to drink as much as I did. To an alcoholic's brain, as long as everyone else is drinking like you do, that means your relationship with alcohol is normal. If everyone's jumping off a bridge, then it must be an OK thing to do. This is why it's common to see an alcoholic hang out with other alcoholics. Now that I am sober, I have watched other alcoholics grow visibly uncomfortable around me, especially when I tell them that I am sober because of my alcoholic tendencies. Other alcoholics will often stop talking to me or pressure me to drink, even when I have said, "No, thank you" several times.
And I can spot an alcoholic ten miles away. Some people have gay-dar, I have alcoholic-dar. Now, I'm not as adamant about it as my mother, who honestly believes every third person on the planet is a raging alcoholic, but there are a lot of them out there. Some are like me, and become alcoholics from day one. Others cultivate their addiction over a period of decades. A few, like my grandmother, wait until a life-changing event (in her case, the death of her husband) happens. They turn to the bottle to soothe themselves. But I can always spot them, sometimes within minutes. Their actions are so familiar to me, it's like looking in a mirror.
Ten years ago today, my family came home from vacation to find me blitzed out of my mind. I had remained at home, claiming I had to work at my waitressing job, when really what I wanted to do was throw a huge keg party and spend the majority of the week finding my next drink. (Lying to loved ones takes a back seat to booze when you're an alcoholic.) After the parties were over, I had to clean up the house before they got home. Part of this cleaning involved disposing of the leftover alcohol. So I decided to have "just one" margarita while I cleaned up the house. It would be such a shame to pour the tequila down the drain. By the time my family got home, I was slurring my speech as I mopped the kitchen floor. My mother, a recovering alcoholic herself, knew instantly what was going on. To this day, the look on her face -- a mix of fear, anger and guilt -- haunts me. At that moment, I knew that I could not keep drinking and have a good relationship with my mother. I could not bear the thought of making her feel that way ever again.
That was the last time I ever drank. I quit in a very unusual way -- cold turkey, and without the assistance of Alcoholics Anonymous. This is VERY unusual, actually. I have never even been to an AA meeting, although I'm not saying I will never go to one. There is no cure for this disease.
I would be lying if I said that I never want to drink alcohol. I never tried gin or Midori before I quit, and I think melontinis and gin & tonics smell wonderful. I know I would have loved them. And yes, there are certain times when I miss the stress-relieving and social lubrication benefits of a drink. Luckily, I have found that Xanax and cigarettes are excellent substitutes. And (non-alcoholic) beer is now what I crave when I've had a long day. I guess you can take the alcohol out of the alcoholic, but not the alcoholic out of the alcohol aisle. The worst times are when I'm out with my girlfriends, because I do miss getting a little buzzy (ok, a LOT buzzy) with my girlfriends. I never did like looking sloppy drunk around guys. Not that it ever stopped me, back then. And I still fight the urge to escape reality, boredom and difficult emotions with substances. (Hello, Vicodin!)
But somehow, I have managed to say "No, thank you" to alcohol for the last ten years.
Go me.
If you recognize yourself or a loved one in any of my descriptions above, you might want to look at this quiz. A score of 8 or more indicates a possible problem with alcohol. My score was 19.
If you are doing the math, you are realizing that I did not drink on my 21st birthday. And that I quit drinking after my freshman year of college. I will add that I do not even sip champagne at New Year's or drink the wine at church.
A lot of people ask me how on earth I could have been an alcoholic at such a young age. The answer to this is that many alcoholics are born that way. In my family, it seems to be genetic: two grandparents, one parent, three siblings and several extended family members have all been afflicted with this disease. At least 2 have died in alcohol-related deaths. So whether I began drinking at age 16 or age 43, the results would have been the same: I have and will always have a problem controlling my drinking.
When I tell people that I really only drank for two years, they are even more confused. How did I realize I had a problem after only 2 years? After all, the majority of college freshmen are binge drinkers, especially on the weekends, and especially at large state universities. But by the time I was about 12, I had seen the effects of alcoholism on my family. Thanks to my mother's lectures and descriptions, I could rattle off the signs of an alcohol problem as easily as my multiplication tables.
By the time I was a senior in high school, alcohol was readily available to me, and like most young people, I was all about experimenting. Gradually, I began to see some bad signs...
Blackouts were my first sign that I may not have a normal and healthy relationship with alcohol. Yes, many novice alcohol drinkers have blackouts. But I was having them about once a month. And it wasn't like certain parts of the evening were hazy. I'm talking about the WHOLE NIGHT. Once, I woke up in my dorm room, dressed in party clothes, with a trashcan next to my bed and a concerned note from my friends. To this day, I do not even remember going out AT ALL. I have no idea what I did or where I was. Think about that. It's kind of scary to be that out of control.
If I wasn't blacking out entirely, I was drunk to the point that I had to be carried out of the party. At every party. Having "just two" didn't compute in my brain. Where's the fun in that? The whole goal of the evening is to reach the if-I-have-one-more-I-will-barf buzz and keep it as long as possible. Duh. But of course, I am an alcoholic, so the stopping point for me was always "just one more and I'll stop." Remember the girl at the frat party who was always found sitting on a step, slurring and crying and asking everyone for a cigarette? The one with barf all over her tank top and mascara smeared all over her face? Who had to be baby-sat by her girlfriends? That was me. Every weekend. And by weekend, I mean Wednesday thru Saturday nights. Alcoholics are always up for a party.
My ability to increase my tolerance for alcohol was frightening. By the end of my first semester in college, I could put down 10-12 beers. They were like soda pop to me. I weighed about 130 pounds. I was drinking this amount of beer in less than 2 hours. I'm no good at math, but it's pretty safe to say that I was far over the legal driving limit. I remember strategizing on Friday and Saturday nights, using complicated formulas to ensure maximum alcohol consumption: "Ok, if I don't eat anything between noon and six, and then eat as many breadsticks as I can an hour and a half before I leave to go out, I should be able to drink 2 extra beers before I barf." -- Who does that??? That is not normal!
It wasn't just the urge to drink as much as I possibly could, as quickly as I could. Just like any other alcoholic, I didn't give a rat's ass what the beverage was, I just wanted as much of it as possible, as quickly as possible. If you are a normal person, and you despise tequila, when you go to a party that serves nothing but tequila, you are probably going to drink water or soda pop all night. Not the alcoholic. They will think, "Crap. I hate tequila. This is going to suck." -- and then they will line up the shots and down ten of them before you can blink an eye! That makes absolutely no sense. It's like someone who hates broccoli eating 2 pounds of it, just because it's there.
One of the worst signs of an alcohol problem is a change in personality. When I was drunk, I became hostile and angry. I tried to pick fist fights with my friends. I literally wanted to punch the snot out of anyone and everyone. If you know me in person, this concept is laughable. I am such a wuss that I won't even do wheelies on a bicycle. I have some friends who have never even seen me lose my temper. But when I drank, I turned into a psychotic bitch with the shortest fuse you've ever seen. It would take nothing to set me off.
As you can probably guess, denial plays a huge role in an alcoholic's life. Example thoughts:
"I am totally ok to drive." (Um, no, you're not!)
"That guy is HOT." (Riiiight)
"She's not that pissed at me. (Um, you just made out with her boyfriend.)
I look smokin' hot right now. "(Is that why your hair is plastered to your skull and you can't walk?)
"My skirt is totally covering my butt." (You just flashed an entire room of total strangers.)
"This party is awesome!" (...if by "awesome" you mean that you are the only person on the dance floor because it's 4am and the party is over.)
"I don't know. I guess someone stole my keys." (Actually, drunk ass, you dropped them somewhere.)
I did something else that my just seem like strange behavior, unless you too are someone familiar with alcoholism: I became extremely possessive with my alcohol. If I brought my own alcohol to a party, I would label it with my name, patrol the fridge to make sure no one stole it, and refuse to share so much as a sip with anyone. You see, I have the brain of an alcoholic, and the thought of running out of alcohol was terrifying to me, especially when I was under 21. This is why you hear of alcoholics hiding bottles everywhere. It's because they don't ever want to run out. Of course, I knew that hiding alcohol was a sign of alcoholism, so I fought the urge to do this. If I didn't hide it, I must not be an alcoholic, right?
I used to (and strangely enough, still do) pressure my friends to drink as much as I did. To an alcoholic's brain, as long as everyone else is drinking like you do, that means your relationship with alcohol is normal. If everyone's jumping off a bridge, then it must be an OK thing to do. This is why it's common to see an alcoholic hang out with other alcoholics. Now that I am sober, I have watched other alcoholics grow visibly uncomfortable around me, especially when I tell them that I am sober because of my alcoholic tendencies. Other alcoholics will often stop talking to me or pressure me to drink, even when I have said, "No, thank you" several times.
And I can spot an alcoholic ten miles away. Some people have gay-dar, I have alcoholic-dar. Now, I'm not as adamant about it as my mother, who honestly believes every third person on the planet is a raging alcoholic, but there are a lot of them out there. Some are like me, and become alcoholics from day one. Others cultivate their addiction over a period of decades. A few, like my grandmother, wait until a life-changing event (in her case, the death of her husband) happens. They turn to the bottle to soothe themselves. But I can always spot them, sometimes within minutes. Their actions are so familiar to me, it's like looking in a mirror.
Ten years ago today, my family came home from vacation to find me blitzed out of my mind. I had remained at home, claiming I had to work at my waitressing job, when really what I wanted to do was throw a huge keg party and spend the majority of the week finding my next drink. (Lying to loved ones takes a back seat to booze when you're an alcoholic.) After the parties were over, I had to clean up the house before they got home. Part of this cleaning involved disposing of the leftover alcohol. So I decided to have "just one" margarita while I cleaned up the house. It would be such a shame to pour the tequila down the drain. By the time my family got home, I was slurring my speech as I mopped the kitchen floor. My mother, a recovering alcoholic herself, knew instantly what was going on. To this day, the look on her face -- a mix of fear, anger and guilt -- haunts me. At that moment, I knew that I could not keep drinking and have a good relationship with my mother. I could not bear the thought of making her feel that way ever again.
That was the last time I ever drank. I quit in a very unusual way -- cold turkey, and without the assistance of Alcoholics Anonymous. This is VERY unusual, actually. I have never even been to an AA meeting, although I'm not saying I will never go to one. There is no cure for this disease.
I would be lying if I said that I never want to drink alcohol. I never tried gin or Midori before I quit, and I think melontinis and gin & tonics smell wonderful. I know I would have loved them. And yes, there are certain times when I miss the stress-relieving and social lubrication benefits of a drink. Luckily, I have found that Xanax and cigarettes are excellent substitutes. And (non-alcoholic) beer is now what I crave when I've had a long day. I guess you can take the alcohol out of the alcoholic, but not the alcoholic out of the alcohol aisle. The worst times are when I'm out with my girlfriends, because I do miss getting a little buzzy (ok, a LOT buzzy) with my girlfriends. I never did like looking sloppy drunk around guys. Not that it ever stopped me, back then. And I still fight the urge to escape reality, boredom and difficult emotions with substances. (Hello, Vicodin!)
But somehow, I have managed to say "No, thank you" to alcohol for the last ten years.
Go me.
If you recognize yourself or a loved one in any of my descriptions above, you might want to look at this quiz. A score of 8 or more indicates a possible problem with alcohol. My score was 19.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Uh Oh! Hot Dog Monkey on My Back!
Well, between working two jobs, dog sitting and living my life, my blog has been sorely neglected, and I apologize. And if I am not posting to my blog, that also means I am not reading your blog. So I apologize for that, too. When I get a minute, I will try to catch up with everyone.
Things have happened, but nothing really adds up to a full post. So I am here to give you the highlights:
1. My new part time job at Dildo's dept store is fine. I guess. I mean, it's retail. So you're pretty bored most of the time. But it's easy money. I have stuff to share (Ok, more like bitching to do), but I will get into that later.
2. Biggie, the dog I kept over the Memorial Day Week (yeah, it was almost a week, so that's what I'm calling it -- the dog was at my house for 5 days!), turned out to be.....a total asshole. He would start whining at FOUR in the morning and would not stop. My house is so small that moving his crate into the spare bedroom didn't work -- I could still hear him. So after the first sleepless night, I stayed at CN's house for the rest of the week.
Then, CN went to walk him and Sammy one night while I was at work. He called me:
CN: Hey babe. Just checking on the dogs for you. Um, where do you keep your band-aids?
VB: Why do you need band-aids?
CN: Well, cause I was throwing the ball with the dogs, and they sort of...got into a fight.
VB: What?! Are they ok?
CN: Yeah, I think. Biggie bit Sammy's ear. I think. One of them is bleeding. I'm pretty sure it's Sammy. Should I put a band-aid on it?
*exasperated sigh on my part*
VB: No, dogs don't wear band-aids, honey. Is Sammy ok?
CN: Yeah, he seems to be acting normal. Hey, babe, where do you keep your uh, carpet cleaner?
VB: *slightly panicky* Did they get blood on the carpet? Or on the rug my mom got me???!!
*CN tries to describe where the blood is, but I have no idea what he's talking about, because he's a boy and doesn't know the difference between the terms "rug" and "carpet" and "slipcovered sofa", and I didn't feel like teaching a home decorating vocabulary lesson, so I just told him to squirt some of the carpet cleaner on it*
*CN does as instructed.*
CN: Ok, um, what do I clean it up with?
*I tell him where the rags are and tell him where to put the dirty rag when he's done.*
CN: Ok, I did that.
*A commotion erupts in the background*
CN: Ok, um, Biggie just barfed.
VB: Oh God. Where?
CN: Right next to me. Oh Jeez, it's everywhere.
VB: *panicking again* Is it on the rug or the carpet? Or on the couch? Wait, forget I asked. Just clean it up.
CN: Oh! Wait! No big deal. He's licking it back up! Yeah! Good boy, Biggie!
*another exasperated sigh on my part*
Sammy's ear is fine, and there were no more Biggie problems (well, except the poop he left for me in the living room...but that was my own fault...) for the rest of the week. But I'm never sitting Biggie again. Ever. He is like having 5 dogs, all wrapped up in one tiny Jack Russell body. And my poor little head cannot handle his incessant barking. And my sleeping schedule cannot handle his whining. So my house is officially a No Biggie Zone. Please don't tell my friend Super. I sort of down-played all of his bad behavior.
3. I had a dream the other night that CN and I were down visiting his parents. He had mentioned that he wanted to meet up with someone named Heather, but I forgot about it when I was helping his parents prepare for the huge storm heading straight for their house. After the storm was over, CN was nowhere to be found, so I texted him to see where he was. "I'm playing poker with Heather at McAir's." -- McAir's was a bar. I can't remember what he said after that, but what it boiled down to was that he was hanging out with some girl named Heather and he wanted me to leave him alone. He blew me off! So I spent the rest of the dream crying and feeling hurt. When I woke up, it was difficult not to be angry at him, actually!
And no, there is no Heather in real life, unless you count my friend Mr. Bill's wife.
4. Speaking of CN's parents, they were in a pretty bad storm about 2 weeks ago. Their house was near a tornado that went through the area -- this is probably why I had that dream. Anyway, they don't know if they were hit by an actual tornado, but 4 windows in their house were blown out, as well as all the windows in their truck. The hail was so big, it left big divots in their yard and dents all over their truck! I think it messed up their roof, too. They are fine, but had to file some insurance claims.
5. I was in the dog house with CN last weekend. We wanted to grill out, but I had to go to work that night, so we planned on eating an early dinner at 3pm. Three came and went. I waited and waited and waited....and finally gave up and ate by myself. Little did I know, he was over at his house, grilling up a massive feast of food: chicken, tilapia, burgers, corn and hot dogs. He came over at about 5 to tell me the food was ready, and like a dumbass, I blurted out that I already ate and was running late for work, so I didn't have time to eat anything he had made. He was pissed. Oops. I apologized and explained that I wanted to eat at 3, not 5. He pointed out that I should have called to see what was going on. He was right. But then I pointed out that he was crazy for making all this food for just the two of us. He was upset but said he'd get over it. I went to work. By the time I got home later on, I was STARVED, so I came over and ate a bunch of it. That seemed to soothe his hurt feelings. I still feel terrible about it. He had been cooking all afternoon for me. Good thing I made him some cookies. I think that helped, too.
6. You all know how much of a total sugar addict I am. I mean, at this point, I think an intervention is in order. It is that bad. If you don't believe me, consider today's realization:
MJ is stuck at work, craving chocolate desperately. Unfortunately, she has no money for the vending machine. (Why none of her coworkers can bum her 50 cents is another issue, but whatever...) I told her that if she wants, she can come over to my house after work to have some of my chocolate. That's when I realized I have all of the following at my house right now:
chocolate ice cream (fat free)
chocolate pudding (sugar free and fat free)
Jell-O pudding pops (some are chocolate)
chocolate covered pretzels
chocolate Twizzlers (ok, actually, I polished those off last night...)
Nestle Qwik drink mix (sugar free)
Hershey's chocolate syrup
hot chocolate (diet)
chocolate chex mix
brownie mix
chocolate cake mix
chocolate frosting
I. AM. A. FREAK.
Jeez, I could open up a Chocolate Store with all that!!! And this isn't even including the non-chocolate sweets at my house. I have Jolly Ranchers, whip cream.....and maybe some animal crackers.
I think it's pretty safe to say that I have an addiction to the little white crystals, and I don't mean crack. I want to get off the white stuff, I swear! But I just can't do it! I know I would lose so much weight if I could just STOP the sweet tooth. Because I don't eat all that badly, outside of the sweets. But I just LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE sweets. *sigh*
So yeah, the monkey on my back? It's still there. Although I can now run 3 miles and knock out all kinds of weight lifting, my muscular under-bod is still encased in a squishy layer of blubberized sugar. And thanks to MJ, now I am specifically craving chocolate. *sigh*
6. And thanks to CN, who started joking with me today about the following video, I am now craving hot dogs, too.
Will Ferrell As Harry Carey
7. If the rain holds out, hopefully I will be able to get one at the baseball game tonight. A big group of us is planning on going. Since it's the season opener, the tix are half price, the beer is a buck and there are fireworks afterwards! YAY!!!
8. Speaking of funny hot dog videos, I can't forget to share this one. I love MadTV, and especially Bobby Lee. He cracks me up!
Things have happened, but nothing really adds up to a full post. So I am here to give you the highlights:
1. My new part time job at Dildo's dept store is fine. I guess. I mean, it's retail. So you're pretty bored most of the time. But it's easy money. I have stuff to share (Ok, more like bitching to do), but I will get into that later.
2. Biggie, the dog I kept over the Memorial Day Week (yeah, it was almost a week, so that's what I'm calling it -- the dog was at my house for 5 days!), turned out to be.....a total asshole. He would start whining at FOUR in the morning and would not stop. My house is so small that moving his crate into the spare bedroom didn't work -- I could still hear him. So after the first sleepless night, I stayed at CN's house for the rest of the week.
Then, CN went to walk him and Sammy one night while I was at work. He called me:
CN: Hey babe. Just checking on the dogs for you. Um, where do you keep your band-aids?
VB: Why do you need band-aids?
CN: Well, cause I was throwing the ball with the dogs, and they sort of...got into a fight.
VB: What?! Are they ok?
CN: Yeah, I think. Biggie bit Sammy's ear. I think. One of them is bleeding. I'm pretty sure it's Sammy. Should I put a band-aid on it?
*exasperated sigh on my part*
VB: No, dogs don't wear band-aids, honey. Is Sammy ok?
CN: Yeah, he seems to be acting normal. Hey, babe, where do you keep your uh, carpet cleaner?
VB: *slightly panicky* Did they get blood on the carpet? Or on the rug my mom got me???!!
*CN tries to describe where the blood is, but I have no idea what he's talking about, because he's a boy and doesn't know the difference between the terms "rug" and "carpet" and "slipcovered sofa", and I didn't feel like teaching a home decorating vocabulary lesson, so I just told him to squirt some of the carpet cleaner on it*
*CN does as instructed.*
CN: Ok, um, what do I clean it up with?
*I tell him where the rags are and tell him where to put the dirty rag when he's done.*
CN: Ok, I did that.
*A commotion erupts in the background*
CN: Ok, um, Biggie just barfed.
VB: Oh God. Where?
CN: Right next to me. Oh Jeez, it's everywhere.
VB: *panicking again* Is it on the rug or the carpet? Or on the couch? Wait, forget I asked. Just clean it up.
CN: Oh! Wait! No big deal. He's licking it back up! Yeah! Good boy, Biggie!
*another exasperated sigh on my part*
Sammy's ear is fine, and there were no more Biggie problems (well, except the poop he left for me in the living room...but that was my own fault...) for the rest of the week. But I'm never sitting Biggie again. Ever. He is like having 5 dogs, all wrapped up in one tiny Jack Russell body. And my poor little head cannot handle his incessant barking. And my sleeping schedule cannot handle his whining. So my house is officially a No Biggie Zone. Please don't tell my friend Super. I sort of down-played all of his bad behavior.
3. I had a dream the other night that CN and I were down visiting his parents. He had mentioned that he wanted to meet up with someone named Heather, but I forgot about it when I was helping his parents prepare for the huge storm heading straight for their house. After the storm was over, CN was nowhere to be found, so I texted him to see where he was. "I'm playing poker with Heather at McAir's." -- McAir's was a bar. I can't remember what he said after that, but what it boiled down to was that he was hanging out with some girl named Heather and he wanted me to leave him alone. He blew me off! So I spent the rest of the dream crying and feeling hurt. When I woke up, it was difficult not to be angry at him, actually!
And no, there is no Heather in real life, unless you count my friend Mr. Bill's wife.
4. Speaking of CN's parents, they were in a pretty bad storm about 2 weeks ago. Their house was near a tornado that went through the area -- this is probably why I had that dream. Anyway, they don't know if they were hit by an actual tornado, but 4 windows in their house were blown out, as well as all the windows in their truck. The hail was so big, it left big divots in their yard and dents all over their truck! I think it messed up their roof, too. They are fine, but had to file some insurance claims.
5. I was in the dog house with CN last weekend. We wanted to grill out, but I had to go to work that night, so we planned on eating an early dinner at 3pm. Three came and went. I waited and waited and waited....and finally gave up and ate by myself. Little did I know, he was over at his house, grilling up a massive feast of food: chicken, tilapia, burgers, corn and hot dogs. He came over at about 5 to tell me the food was ready, and like a dumbass, I blurted out that I already ate and was running late for work, so I didn't have time to eat anything he had made. He was pissed. Oops. I apologized and explained that I wanted to eat at 3, not 5. He pointed out that I should have called to see what was going on. He was right. But then I pointed out that he was crazy for making all this food for just the two of us. He was upset but said he'd get over it. I went to work. By the time I got home later on, I was STARVED, so I came over and ate a bunch of it. That seemed to soothe his hurt feelings. I still feel terrible about it. He had been cooking all afternoon for me. Good thing I made him some cookies. I think that helped, too.
6. You all know how much of a total sugar addict I am. I mean, at this point, I think an intervention is in order. It is that bad. If you don't believe me, consider today's realization:
MJ is stuck at work, craving chocolate desperately. Unfortunately, she has no money for the vending machine. (Why none of her coworkers can bum her 50 cents is another issue, but whatever...) I told her that if she wants, she can come over to my house after work to have some of my chocolate. That's when I realized I have all of the following at my house right now:
chocolate ice cream (fat free)
chocolate pudding (sugar free and fat free)
Jell-O pudding pops (some are chocolate)
chocolate covered pretzels
chocolate Twizzlers (ok, actually, I polished those off last night...)
Nestle Qwik drink mix (sugar free)
Hershey's chocolate syrup
hot chocolate (diet)
chocolate chex mix
brownie mix
chocolate cake mix
chocolate frosting
I. AM. A. FREAK.
Jeez, I could open up a Chocolate Store with all that!!! And this isn't even including the non-chocolate sweets at my house. I have Jolly Ranchers, whip cream.....and maybe some animal crackers.
I think it's pretty safe to say that I have an addiction to the little white crystals, and I don't mean crack. I want to get off the white stuff, I swear! But I just can't do it! I know I would lose so much weight if I could just STOP the sweet tooth. Because I don't eat all that badly, outside of the sweets. But I just LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE sweets. *sigh*
So yeah, the monkey on my back? It's still there. Although I can now run 3 miles and knock out all kinds of weight lifting, my muscular under-bod is still encased in a squishy layer of blubberized sugar. And thanks to MJ, now I am specifically craving chocolate. *sigh*
6. And thanks to CN, who started joking with me today about the following video, I am now craving hot dogs, too.
Will Ferrell As Harry Carey
7. If the rain holds out, hopefully I will be able to get one at the baseball game tonight. A big group of us is planning on going. Since it's the season opener, the tix are half price, the beer is a buck and there are fireworks afterwards! YAY!!!
8. Speaking of funny hot dog videos, I can't forget to share this one. I love MadTV, and especially Bobby Lee. He cracks me up!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sick Puppy
Note to readers: This is one of those posts where you should not eat and read. So put down your lunch.
This is a photo of my dog, Sammy. Yesterday, Sammy went to the vet to have some teeth pulled. Yes, I know I should brush my dog's teeth and yadda yadda yadda. Trust me, I have a pretty hefty guilt trip about it and I have sworn on all things holy to start brushing his teeth ASAP. But it was too late to save a couple of them, so he had to be put under so they could be removed. Just like humans, dogs must have empty tummies before being put under anesthesia. So poor Sammy didn't get to eat that morning.
After I got off work, I picked him up. The combination of anesthesia, pain killers and antibiotics left him looking pretty ill. He was lethargic and wobbly. The vet said that he will be like that for maybe a day, because the anesthesia had to wear off.
I took him home, and waited an hour to feed him, like the vet told me. I fed him half of what I normally fed him, and added water to the food so it would be soft, just like the vet told me. I also gave him one of the painkillers the vet had given me. Since Sammy was sick and I had a headache, we vegged out on the couch together all night. He was really not himself, poor little thing.
This morning, everything seemed to be fine -- Sammy was a littler perkier and seemed more like himself. So I gave him one of his antibiotic capsules before I forgot. Which was stupid of me, because I am Barf Queen, and I should have remembered one of the Laws of Barf:
Empty tummy + antibiotics = barf
So the medicine came back up. Realizing what I had done wrong, I decided to give Sammy some canned dog food and then tried again to give him his medicine.
He was starved, so he pretty much wolfed it down as usual. I followed it up with the antibiotic. Everything was fine for about an hour.
Then I went to go get ready for work. I came out of the bathroom a little later to find....
Tons of barf. It was everywhere. And not just in one spot, either -- it was like Sammy had made a lap around the room, barfing as he went. There was a giant circle of chunky, pinkish-reddish barf in my living room.
And of course, true to my level of luck, it was all on the carpet, rather than the easy-to-clean linoleum. I sighed and looked at my dog.
Sammy had that look on his face that he has when he does something wrong. Aw. My poor baby. He thought he was in trouble! So I reassured him that everything was ok, and began cleaning it up.
"Well, his tummy just needs to calm down still. I will try feeding him tonight when I get home," I thought. Worried, I decided to call the vet anyway. She said that it is just taking him longer to recover than usual, and just to give it time, and don't let him eat any more food for a while.
I went back to getting ready for work.
Sammy barfed again.
And again.
And again.
Seven pools of dog barf later, I was totally out of paper towels and rags. I was now running late for work, and my house smelled like carpet cleaner. Aw, man! I wish Sammy could just barf once and get it all over with, you know?
Hurrying around to get ready and clean up, I suddenly remembered that I had some leftover dog medicine for vomiting, from a while back. So I gave one of the pills to Sammy before I left for work today. CN is going to check on him in a little bit, but hopefully he will be ok now.
Poor little guy. He hasn't eaten in two days. :( And he looks so pathetic!!!
In other news, I went to my Big Brothers Big Sisters orientation. I am so excited about volunteering for them!! But first, I have to have a 2 hour interview, where they will ask me all kinds of stuff, including, but not limited to:
- my use of drugs, alcohol and tobacco
- whether or not I own firearms/have them in the house
- my living situation (ie, roommates, pets, etc.)
- my sexual orientation (I'm sure they will have questions about CN, since he lives so close to me)
- any abuse/neglect I have experienced in my life
- what my childhood was like and what my relationships with my family members are like
- why I want to volunteer for them
I figured these would be the sort of things they'd ask me about. And it's fine -- I totally understand, and I'm glad they ask the important questions. But I am afraid I'm going to cry during the interview!!! There's no way I can answer these questions without talking about my brother's death, my father's death, all the alcoholism in my family, my own alcoholism and the sexual assault I had in college. (No, I was not raped, but it was an act that I was forced into and I was physically restrained during it. So it's not exactly the highlight of my college experience. It's not a huge deal for me to talk about it, but it's not a picnic, either.)
It is about 4 weeks until my interview. So I have time to mentally prepare myself to talk about pretty much all the crap in my life in one go. Ugh. Anyway, after that, if my references check out and they like who I am and what I say during the interview (ie, I am not a danger to any child), they will start to look for a Little Sister for me. I was disappointed to hear that this process might take about 6 months. :( But it's just that they want to make sure they pair you up with someone who you can hang out with over the long term. So I understand.
They have encouraged us to think about what kind of a Little we are looking for. We have to think about what sorts of issues we are willing to deal with: behavioral, abuse, domestic violence, physical disability, etc. It's kind of a weird feeling, to sit here and think "yes" or "no" about some kid's life experience. A kid who has been having a rough go of things. And here I am, deciding what I can tolerate. But I understand why they want us to do this. Not everyone can handle every type of situation. And sometimes, if you have been in the same situation as the kid, you are a better match for them. So in the long run, I think it's good, the way they do this. You don't want to go through the whole process, only to back out of it 4 months later. These kids have enough problems, without you getting their hopes up.
Another thing they encouraged us to do was to do free or low-cost activities with the kids. Not only do you not want to feel resentment towards the kid about the money you spend, you don't want to spoil the kid or cause a rift between you and the parent. Most of the parents in this program don't have a lot of money, and you don't want to swoop down with your credit card and "save the day". Splitting the cost with the parents and doing something special for the kid's birthday are fine, but you don't want to be a walking wallet. It's just not a good idea. This is fine with me, because as we all know, I am trying to budget, anyway!
So I guess that is all I have for right now. The ball won't really get rolling until I go to my interview and cry when the lady brings up all my personal stuff! :P
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Thursday 13
Thirteen Diet Thoughts
1. This f**king blows. I want cake. Any cake. A big piece, with lots of chocolate frosting. And then I want a whole bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos. And I want it all inside my body as soon as possible.
2. I have to diet, or else I will continue to blimp up like a whale, and then I really will be fat enough to be on Biggest Loser. And then I won't be able to take it off, and I will die an early, weight-related death. Which would really suck. So this has to be a permanent lifestyle change, like quitting drinking or quitting smoking. But unfortunately, unlike cigarettes or alcohol, it is impossible to quit eating entirely. Which is why I think this is so hard for me. I am really good at quitting stuff. Not so good at cutting back. Cutting back is a slippery slope to me. My brain doesn't compute that concept.
3. It is a miracle that the package of Oreos I bought on Sunday remain sitting on my kitchen counter, unopened. Oreos are on my list of "Foods I Would Possibly Cut Off a Pinky Toe For". (I am making an Oreo-crust cheesecake this weekend for a dinner party, and then promptly donating all leftover Oreos to someone who can enjoy them without crying as they eat them.)
4. For some reason, this time around, the exercising part is fun and not so bad, but the dieting part is making me cranky and bitchy. And I'm really REALLY hating it. I feel punished, I feel deprived, I feel resentful and I am hungry. Every other time I have tried to get in shape, the dieting part hasn't been so bad. But this time is different for some reason.
5. Then again, it could be my hormones...they are also being blamed for #1. I read somewhere once that when a woman is having her "time", her body burns an extra 100 calories per day. This statement was obviously written by a man, because any woman of menstruating age knows that it's more like an extra 90,000 calories per day. Seriously, y'all, I could clean out my fridge in one sitting right now. And my pantry. And then hit Taco Bell. I hope this aching hunger goes away next week. I am starting to have a deep suspicion that I am possibly addicted to sugar and melted cheese. And it kind of scares me.
6. I am currently keeping my hands occupied with typing this blog post in order to stop myself from grabbing a spoon and a jar of peanut butter. I just knocked on wood that I will soon grow too sleepy to have enough energy to eat. Sometimes, this works. Thank God I am not a night owl.
7. This would be a good post for my readers to leave comments like, "You can do it!" and "You are Willpower Queen! Don't undo all your hard work in one moment of weakness!!" and "Take it one day at a time!"
8. This would be a bad post for my readers to leave comments like, "You are SO not fat, VB! You are incredibly thin, actually! Go eat those Oreos!" or "CN will like you no matter how fat you get! Who cares?"
9. I have lost a whopping 1 pound since January 1st.
10. Which is why I am now treating myself like a child and literally writing down everything that goes in my mouth. I figure, if I'm going to act like a child, I will treat myself like a child. I have this little notebook where I write it all down. The pages are all wrinkled from the tears I cry as I list everything. Ok, not really. But it paints a sympathetic picture, right?
11. This means that months from now, I can tell you what I had for lunch on March 2nd. Which seems vaguely scary to me....
12. The anonymous blog comment I received on my cooking blog telling me that I am "still fat" didn't help my self-esteem much. And he's fucking stupid if he thinks I can't figure out who it is.
13. But it did motivate me. And now, I am one hard-working fat girl, with a determined, little, skinny bitch inside, clawing her way out.
2. I have to diet, or else I will continue to blimp up like a whale, and then I really will be fat enough to be on Biggest Loser. And then I won't be able to take it off, and I will die an early, weight-related death. Which would really suck. So this has to be a permanent lifestyle change, like quitting drinking or quitting smoking. But unfortunately, unlike cigarettes or alcohol, it is impossible to quit eating entirely. Which is why I think this is so hard for me. I am really good at quitting stuff. Not so good at cutting back. Cutting back is a slippery slope to me. My brain doesn't compute that concept.
3. It is a miracle that the package of Oreos I bought on Sunday remain sitting on my kitchen counter, unopened. Oreos are on my list of "Foods I Would Possibly Cut Off a Pinky Toe For". (I am making an Oreo-crust cheesecake this weekend for a dinner party, and then promptly donating all leftover Oreos to someone who can enjoy them without crying as they eat them.)
4. For some reason, this time around, the exercising part is fun and not so bad, but the dieting part is making me cranky and bitchy. And I'm really REALLY hating it. I feel punished, I feel deprived, I feel resentful and I am hungry. Every other time I have tried to get in shape, the dieting part hasn't been so bad. But this time is different for some reason.
5. Then again, it could be my hormones...they are also being blamed for #1. I read somewhere once that when a woman is having her "time", her body burns an extra 100 calories per day. This statement was obviously written by a man, because any woman of menstruating age knows that it's more like an extra 90,000 calories per day. Seriously, y'all, I could clean out my fridge in one sitting right now. And my pantry. And then hit Taco Bell. I hope this aching hunger goes away next week. I am starting to have a deep suspicion that I am possibly addicted to sugar and melted cheese. And it kind of scares me.
6. I am currently keeping my hands occupied with typing this blog post in order to stop myself from grabbing a spoon and a jar of peanut butter. I just knocked on wood that I will soon grow too sleepy to have enough energy to eat. Sometimes, this works. Thank God I am not a night owl.
7. This would be a good post for my readers to leave comments like, "You can do it!" and "You are Willpower Queen! Don't undo all your hard work in one moment of weakness!!" and "Take it one day at a time!"
8. This would be a bad post for my readers to leave comments like, "You are SO not fat, VB! You are incredibly thin, actually! Go eat those Oreos!" or "CN will like you no matter how fat you get! Who cares?"
9. I have lost a whopping 1 pound since January 1st.
10. Which is why I am now treating myself like a child and literally writing down everything that goes in my mouth. I figure, if I'm going to act like a child, I will treat myself like a child. I have this little notebook where I write it all down. The pages are all wrinkled from the tears I cry as I list everything. Ok, not really. But it paints a sympathetic picture, right?
11. This means that months from now, I can tell you what I had for lunch on March 2nd. Which seems vaguely scary to me....
12. The anonymous blog comment I received on my cooking blog telling me that I am "still fat" didn't help my self-esteem much. And he's fucking stupid if he thinks I can't figure out who it is.
13. But it did motivate me. And now, I am one hard-working fat girl, with a determined, little, skinny bitch inside, clawing her way out.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Men at Wal-Mart
Alright, since FEW people seem to be interested in my family stories, as evidenced by the paltry comments on the last post-- *ahem*-- I will not talk about that today.
So this is a big "FINE! Be that way!!" temper tantrum from yours truly. I know you guys are just jealous because my family has more boycotted marriages than yours does. Haters.
Today, I will post about something I know a lot of you will want to comment on: Wal-Mart.
Before going to work today, I stopped by the Wal-Mart near my house. MJ refers to this particular branch of the Big Box Store as "Little Mexico", since it is normally chock full of Hispanic immigrants who think blonde hair is the most fascinating thing EVER. They nudge each other when I go down the aisles. They stare at me. They like to call me "Mami" and "Bonita" and stuff like that under their breath. Uck. Why do men do that stuff? It's so annoying and rude, no matter who they are. It makes me feel objectified and I hate it. Something about it creeps me out. It makes me want to go home and take a shower. *shudders*
I wish I could learn how to respond in Spanish: "Yes, hello. While I am, in a nauseating way, flattered at the attention you are currently giving my outward appearance, I would like to inform you that it makes me feel very uncomfortable and violated, because it is rude and invasive, not to mention extremely dangerous, considering I outweigh you by about 50 pounds and could drop you like a hot tamale. Please refrain from doing so in the future or else I will be forced to call INS on your asses. Thanks. Have a nice day."
I need to type that up and make little flyers, and just hand them out when I go to Wal-Mart. That should do the trick.
So I'm at Wal-Mart this morning, and I am at first relieved by the noticeable absence of tiny Hispanic men, undressing me with their eyes. Whew!
Unfortunately, they were replaced with........
OLD PEOPLE!!!!
*screams bloody murder and faints*
If there is one thing I hate, it's old people. They are too slow, they smell funny and they are boring. I don't hate ALL old people, just most of them. There are some old people who kick ass, like The Fruitcake Lady. But unfortunately, this morning at Wal-Mart, there were no cool old people. (Except for the free samples lady who gave me a sugar cookie and tried to help me figure out the difference between semi-sweet and bittersweet chocolate.)
Nope. Today, there was a special deal at Wally World: disgusting old people! Just in time for Christmas!
NOTE: If you are eating while you are reading this, you may want to stop now. Don't say I didn't warn you.
I walk over to the coolers where they keep the milk. On my way, I pass an old man, hacking up one of his lungs. I am talking gurgling phlegm, here, peeps. He had just gotten some milk and put it into his cart, as he was coughing incessantly ALL OVER THE PLACE because he DIDN'T COVER HIS MOUTH AT ALL.
All in chorus now: Eeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwww!!!
I tried to put it in the back of my mind as I used my grocery list to grab the door handle. "Thank God I keep hand sanitizer in my car!" I thought. I grabbed my milk and put it in my cart.
Not three feet away, I look up to find Disgusting Old Man #2. He is -- get this - CUTTING HIS FINGERNAILS in the middle of the dairy department!!! Just clip! clip! clipping away!!! He wasn't even bothering to clean them up. He just let them fall on the floor.
This was so offensive to me that I could feel my stomach getting queasy and could not help but make a face as I passed. Unfortunately, he didn't see me, or else I would have said to him: "Does your wife let you do this? Because that's DISGUSTING!!!!" It is only because I was raised to respect my elders that I managed to walk away without saying something.
Gah. Unbelievable. What idiot thinks it's ok to do that?! In public???!! I won't even do it in front of my family members! Seriously, that is just.....disGUSting!!!
A few aisles later, I come across the baking aisle. Most of my list involves the baking aisle, since I cannot seem to kick this baking binge I've been on. I'm not kidding. Some people hole up in hotel rooms, smoking crack until the cops break down the door. I go on baking benders. People won't see me this weekend. I'll be holed up in my kitchen, baking soda in one hand and measuring spoons in the other. It will look like I'm on drugs, because I am sweaty, jittery and holding spoons and a white powder, but I assure you, it is only an addiction to baking. This is what happens when it's 4pm and all you've had to eat all day are chocolate chip cookies. It will mess you up, a little. And before you know it, you get hooked. I have been waking up in the morning, going, "Must. Bake. Something!" I don't know if it's the holidays or the cold weather or what, but dangit, I. Can. Not. Stop. Baking.
Well, apparently this is addiction is going around, because the baking aisle is jammed FULL of little old ladies, who were entirely too caught up in talking to even notice that I'm trying to get into the aisle. After pausing for a second to think, "Oh. I think I'm getting a glimpse at my future....I am turning into a little old lady who bakes all day. Huh. It's not so bad. I bet their grandkids love it.....Dammit, there's a shitload of old people in here today. Gah, are they bussing them in or something? Did the old folks home have a field trip?? What the hell?!" --I decided to go around them and come into the baking aisle from the other end.
So I'm going around via the cereal aisle. I turn right to get to the baking aisle and I see an old man, just standing at the end of the aisle. He's all alone -- no wife in sight -- uh-oh. As I am walking towards him, I see him looking around to see if anyone is nearby. For some reason, he doesn't look in my direction, although I'm practically close enough to touch him by this point.
And that's when he let one. He FRIGGING FARTED in Wal-Mart, right next to me. It was a very audible fart, too. And the second he did it, he looked straight at me, only to receive a disapproving look on my part. He was totally busted. He got a deer-in-headlights expression on his face, and then looked at the ground. He mumbled something as I passed by, but I didn't catch it. I was trying to get away from him before I had to deal with any after-effects. UGH.
Lucky for me, this was the last disgusting thing I have seen today. But thanks to these nasty old men, roaming around Wal-Mart, making everyone want to barf, I am now able to make a promise to future generations:
When I am a little old lady who bakes all day, I promise I will never EVER bring a disgusting old man with me to Wal-Mart!!!!!! I will make him stay in the car!!!!
So this is a big "FINE! Be that way!!" temper tantrum from yours truly. I know you guys are just jealous because my family has more boycotted marriages than yours does. Haters.
Today, I will post about something I know a lot of you will want to comment on: Wal-Mart.
Before going to work today, I stopped by the Wal-Mart near my house. MJ refers to this particular branch of the Big Box Store as "Little Mexico", since it is normally chock full of Hispanic immigrants who think blonde hair is the most fascinating thing EVER. They nudge each other when I go down the aisles. They stare at me. They like to call me "Mami" and "Bonita" and stuff like that under their breath. Uck. Why do men do that stuff? It's so annoying and rude, no matter who they are. It makes me feel objectified and I hate it. Something about it creeps me out. It makes me want to go home and take a shower. *shudders*
I wish I could learn how to respond in Spanish: "Yes, hello. While I am, in a nauseating way, flattered at the attention you are currently giving my outward appearance, I would like to inform you that it makes me feel very uncomfortable and violated, because it is rude and invasive, not to mention extremely dangerous, considering I outweigh you by about 50 pounds and could drop you like a hot tamale. Please refrain from doing so in the future or else I will be forced to call INS on your asses. Thanks. Have a nice day."
I need to type that up and make little flyers, and just hand them out when I go to Wal-Mart. That should do the trick.
So I'm at Wal-Mart this morning, and I am at first relieved by the noticeable absence of tiny Hispanic men, undressing me with their eyes. Whew!
Unfortunately, they were replaced with........
OLD PEOPLE!!!!
*screams bloody murder and faints*
If there is one thing I hate, it's old people. They are too slow, they smell funny and they are boring. I don't hate ALL old people, just most of them. There are some old people who kick ass, like The Fruitcake Lady. But unfortunately, this morning at Wal-Mart, there were no cool old people. (Except for the free samples lady who gave me a sugar cookie and tried to help me figure out the difference between semi-sweet and bittersweet chocolate.)
Nope. Today, there was a special deal at Wally World: disgusting old people! Just in time for Christmas!
NOTE: If you are eating while you are reading this, you may want to stop now. Don't say I didn't warn you.
I walk over to the coolers where they keep the milk. On my way, I pass an old man, hacking up one of his lungs. I am talking gurgling phlegm, here, peeps. He had just gotten some milk and put it into his cart, as he was coughing incessantly ALL OVER THE PLACE because he DIDN'T COVER HIS MOUTH AT ALL.
All in chorus now: Eeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwww!!!
I tried to put it in the back of my mind as I used my grocery list to grab the door handle. "Thank God I keep hand sanitizer in my car!" I thought. I grabbed my milk and put it in my cart.
Not three feet away, I look up to find Disgusting Old Man #2. He is -- get this - CUTTING HIS FINGERNAILS in the middle of the dairy department!!! Just clip! clip! clipping away!!! He wasn't even bothering to clean them up. He just let them fall on the floor.
This was so offensive to me that I could feel my stomach getting queasy and could not help but make a face as I passed. Unfortunately, he didn't see me, or else I would have said to him: "Does your wife let you do this? Because that's DISGUSTING!!!!" It is only because I was raised to respect my elders that I managed to walk away without saying something.
Gah. Unbelievable. What idiot thinks it's ok to do that?! In public???!! I won't even do it in front of my family members! Seriously, that is just.....disGUSting!!!
A few aisles later, I come across the baking aisle. Most of my list involves the baking aisle, since I cannot seem to kick this baking binge I've been on. I'm not kidding. Some people hole up in hotel rooms, smoking crack until the cops break down the door. I go on baking benders. People won't see me this weekend. I'll be holed up in my kitchen, baking soda in one hand and measuring spoons in the other. It will look like I'm on drugs, because I am sweaty, jittery and holding spoons and a white powder, but I assure you, it is only an addiction to baking. This is what happens when it's 4pm and all you've had to eat all day are chocolate chip cookies. It will mess you up, a little. And before you know it, you get hooked. I have been waking up in the morning, going, "Must. Bake. Something!" I don't know if it's the holidays or the cold weather or what, but dangit, I. Can. Not. Stop. Baking.
Well, apparently this is addiction is going around, because the baking aisle is jammed FULL of little old ladies, who were entirely too caught up in talking to even notice that I'm trying to get into the aisle. After pausing for a second to think, "Oh. I think I'm getting a glimpse at my future....I am turning into a little old lady who bakes all day. Huh. It's not so bad. I bet their grandkids love it.....Dammit, there's a shitload of old people in here today. Gah, are they bussing them in or something? Did the old folks home have a field trip?? What the hell?!" --I decided to go around them and come into the baking aisle from the other end.
So I'm going around via the cereal aisle. I turn right to get to the baking aisle and I see an old man, just standing at the end of the aisle. He's all alone -- no wife in sight -- uh-oh. As I am walking towards him, I see him looking around to see if anyone is nearby. For some reason, he doesn't look in my direction, although I'm practically close enough to touch him by this point.
And that's when he let one. He FRIGGING FARTED in Wal-Mart, right next to me. It was a very audible fart, too. And the second he did it, he looked straight at me, only to receive a disapproving look on my part. He was totally busted. He got a deer-in-headlights expression on his face, and then looked at the ground. He mumbled something as I passed by, but I didn't catch it. I was trying to get away from him before I had to deal with any after-effects. UGH.
Lucky for me, this was the last disgusting thing I have seen today. But thanks to these nasty old men, roaming around Wal-Mart, making everyone want to barf, I am now able to make a promise to future generations:
When I am a little old lady who bakes all day, I promise I will never EVER bring a disgusting old man with me to Wal-Mart!!!!!! I will make him stay in the car!!!!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Stories of My Family, Part 2
This is the story about my Grandma Virginia. She was The Czarina's mother, and yes, I am named after her.
Virginia grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, the daughter of German-Irish stock. (I can't remember if she was half German or a quarter German...anyway, it's not important). Being Catholics, they had your typical large family. Here were the names of some of her siblings: Wilbur, Harold, Helen, Jerry...I know there were more, but I can't remember their names. I believe there were 9 children in all. Eventually, they all ended up getting married and having a between 2 and 6 children a piece. That was three generations ago.
By this point in time, there are approximately 5.2 million people in this branch of my family, which means that every resident of Kansas City is a first, second or third cousin of mine. When they have family reunions, each little segment of the family has to wear a designated-color tshirt, or else no one would know who the hell anyone is.
But I digress.
I don't know a lot about Grandma Virginia. I never met her or my Grandpa John. You see, both of my mom's parents died when she was about 21. Grandpa John was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Three months later, Grandma Virginia was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. They died less than a year apart, when my mom was fresh out of college. Not surprisingly, this was rather traumatizing to The Czarina, who has a difficult time talking about her parents at all, to this day. (Oh crap, I'm getting sad again.)
So I don't know a whole lot about her. But I do know the following:
1. She is where my mother and I get our love of efficiency from. We enjoy being productive and making the most of our time. Apparently, multi-tasking IS genetic. We joke about how "German" we are. We are Type-A and want everything streamlined.
2. This is also where I get some of my penny-pinching ways from. Not that I'm a penny pincher. My bank account would be Exhibit A in that court case. But I do have my moments. Lord knows I didn't get it from my dad's side or Grandpa John's side. They were both constitutionally against saving money on anything. In fact, I believe it was physically painful for them to save money.
3. Grandma Virginia is responsible for the vast majority of my family's recipes, including the biscuit recipe, which originated with my great-great grandmother, who was a pioneer out west back in the 1800s. To this day, we make Grandma's gravy, pot roast, beef stew and spaghetti, among other things. She handed down this love of cooking to her daughter and granddaughter. We are all good cooks. I have a soup pot that belonged to her, and the handle just broke on it, and I'm really upset.
4. Apparently, my love of shoes was something I also have in common with Grandma V. Although my size 9 feet are nothing like her tiny size 6s (she was barely five feet tall, after all), the passion is the same: when it comes to heels, the higher, the better, the more, the merrier. Grandma used to go to the Saxon shoe sale in Richmond twice a year and buy about ten pairs at a time. This just makes my heart swell with pride. (By the way, if you are ever in Richmond and you love shoes, you have GOT to go to Saxon. It is the Holy Grail of shoedom.)
I don't know a lot about her childhood or her single-girl years, but I do know that she dated a guy (I think his name was Charlie) who was crazy about her. They had grown up together, and dated for a long time, ever since she was in high school. When World War II broke out, they decided to wait until after the war to get married. But he gave her this beautiful gold and mother-of-pearl locket to remember him by when he left. He even engraved it with a little love note and the date. We still have it. They wrote letters to each other, until one day, Virginia heard through the grapevine that Charlie had been killed in action or was missing in action -- something like that. (Oops, there goes the sad thing again!)
At about the same time, Grandma Virginia attempted to attend college, but was ultimately dismissed because on a dare, she rode a horse through downtown Kansas City, disrupting traffic and I assume, breaking several laws. This was not very acceptable behavior for a good German Catholic girl, and so she was kicked out of college.
Hmmm, this must also be where I get my wild streak.....
I am not sure why, but this, along with the sad news about Charlie, may have been the reason she decided to move to Washington state and work for Boeing during World War II.
She got a job as a secretary in the Headquarters building at Boeing. One day, she was sitting at her desk, doing some work, when a very tall (6'3") young, thin man walked up to her.
She didn't recognize him. "May I help you?" she asked.
He leaned on the desk and casually asked over his shoulder, "How 'bout a cup o' coffee, Babe?"
And that is how my grandparents met.
They started dating immediately, and Grandpa was a total goner for her -- hook, line and sinker. They reached a crossroads when World War II came to an end: their jobs were also coming to an end, since there was no longer a need for new wartime aircraft. This meant that Virginia was going to move back home to Kansas City.
This did not sit well with Grandpa John.
So he followed her there uninvited. He somehow found her parents' house and knocked on the door. After explaining to her mother who he was, Virginia came down to talk to him alone in the living room. Grandma V's mom left them alone so they could talk privately. A few minutes later, there was a big commotion. Much to the family's surprise, they ran into the living room to find John, chasing Virginia in circles around the sofa, pleading with her to marry him.
This did not sit well with Virginia's father, who was a big jerk and thought Virginia should only marry a German Catholic, not an Irish Catholic. (Because they are SO different, right?!)
But it didn't sit well with Virginia, either. She said to John: "I won't marry you until you quit drinking and save up $1,000."
As we all know from the last post, John liked to drink. A LOT. It was pretty much his only hobby. But he was also terrible with money, as I just mentioned. So this was a double-whammy challenge for him.
"Okay," John said.
He quit drinking that day, and found a job. He saved up $1,000 and went straight back to Virginia's house to propose again. This time, he had a ring and she said yes. They got married on January 11, 1945 and had their honeymoon in New Orleans.
Their wedding pictures are really funny, because he's more than a foot taller than her.
Her father didn't walk her down the aisle, because he didn't approve of her marrying an Irishman. (He didn't walk any of his daughters down the aisle, actually, because none of them married German Catholics. I think the girls did it for spite, actually.) I think he got over it, eventually, though. Czarina spent many happy summers visiting her Kansas City cousins and eating her grandmother's applesauce cake. So things couldn't have been too bad between Grandma V and her dad.
Grandpa John never drank a drop of alcohol again for the rest of his life.
But that was the first and last time he ever saved $1,000.
And what about Charlie? Well, I just realized, after typing all of this, that I have posted the Charlie story before. Duh! Go read the side-story about Charlie here. It's the freakin' saddest thing I've ever heard of in my life.
Virginia grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, the daughter of German-Irish stock. (I can't remember if she was half German or a quarter German...anyway, it's not important). Being Catholics, they had your typical large family. Here were the names of some of her siblings: Wilbur, Harold, Helen, Jerry...I know there were more, but I can't remember their names. I believe there were 9 children in all. Eventually, they all ended up getting married and having a between 2 and 6 children a piece. That was three generations ago.
By this point in time, there are approximately 5.2 million people in this branch of my family, which means that every resident of Kansas City is a first, second or third cousin of mine. When they have family reunions, each little segment of the family has to wear a designated-color tshirt, or else no one would know who the hell anyone is.
But I digress.
I don't know a lot about Grandma Virginia. I never met her or my Grandpa John. You see, both of my mom's parents died when she was about 21. Grandpa John was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Three months later, Grandma Virginia was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. They died less than a year apart, when my mom was fresh out of college. Not surprisingly, this was rather traumatizing to The Czarina, who has a difficult time talking about her parents at all, to this day. (Oh crap, I'm getting sad again.)
So I don't know a whole lot about her. But I do know the following:
1. She is where my mother and I get our love of efficiency from. We enjoy being productive and making the most of our time. Apparently, multi-tasking IS genetic. We joke about how "German" we are. We are Type-A and want everything streamlined.
2. This is also where I get some of my penny-pinching ways from. Not that I'm a penny pincher. My bank account would be Exhibit A in that court case. But I do have my moments. Lord knows I didn't get it from my dad's side or Grandpa John's side. They were both constitutionally against saving money on anything. In fact, I believe it was physically painful for them to save money.
3. Grandma Virginia is responsible for the vast majority of my family's recipes, including the biscuit recipe, which originated with my great-great grandmother, who was a pioneer out west back in the 1800s. To this day, we make Grandma's gravy, pot roast, beef stew and spaghetti, among other things. She handed down this love of cooking to her daughter and granddaughter. We are all good cooks. I have a soup pot that belonged to her, and the handle just broke on it, and I'm really upset.
4. Apparently, my love of shoes was something I also have in common with Grandma V. Although my size 9 feet are nothing like her tiny size 6s (she was barely five feet tall, after all), the passion is the same: when it comes to heels, the higher, the better, the more, the merrier. Grandma used to go to the Saxon shoe sale in Richmond twice a year and buy about ten pairs at a time. This just makes my heart swell with pride. (By the way, if you are ever in Richmond and you love shoes, you have GOT to go to Saxon. It is the Holy Grail of shoedom.)
I don't know a lot about her childhood or her single-girl years, but I do know that she dated a guy (I think his name was Charlie) who was crazy about her. They had grown up together, and dated for a long time, ever since she was in high school. When World War II broke out, they decided to wait until after the war to get married. But he gave her this beautiful gold and mother-of-pearl locket to remember him by when he left. He even engraved it with a little love note and the date. We still have it. They wrote letters to each other, until one day, Virginia heard through the grapevine that Charlie had been killed in action or was missing in action -- something like that. (Oops, there goes the sad thing again!)
At about the same time, Grandma Virginia attempted to attend college, but was ultimately dismissed because on a dare, she rode a horse through downtown Kansas City, disrupting traffic and I assume, breaking several laws. This was not very acceptable behavior for a good German Catholic girl, and so she was kicked out of college.
Hmmm, this must also be where I get my wild streak.....
I am not sure why, but this, along with the sad news about Charlie, may have been the reason she decided to move to Washington state and work for Boeing during World War II.
She got a job as a secretary in the Headquarters building at Boeing. One day, she was sitting at her desk, doing some work, when a very tall (6'3") young, thin man walked up to her.
She didn't recognize him. "May I help you?" she asked.
He leaned on the desk and casually asked over his shoulder, "How 'bout a cup o' coffee, Babe?"
And that is how my grandparents met.
They started dating immediately, and Grandpa was a total goner for her -- hook, line and sinker. They reached a crossroads when World War II came to an end: their jobs were also coming to an end, since there was no longer a need for new wartime aircraft. This meant that Virginia was going to move back home to Kansas City.
This did not sit well with Grandpa John.
So he followed her there uninvited. He somehow found her parents' house and knocked on the door. After explaining to her mother who he was, Virginia came down to talk to him alone in the living room. Grandma V's mom left them alone so they could talk privately. A few minutes later, there was a big commotion. Much to the family's surprise, they ran into the living room to find John, chasing Virginia in circles around the sofa, pleading with her to marry him.
This did not sit well with Virginia's father, who was a big jerk and thought Virginia should only marry a German Catholic, not an Irish Catholic. (Because they are SO different, right?!)
But it didn't sit well with Virginia, either. She said to John: "I won't marry you until you quit drinking and save up $1,000."
As we all know from the last post, John liked to drink. A LOT. It was pretty much his only hobby. But he was also terrible with money, as I just mentioned. So this was a double-whammy challenge for him.
"Okay," John said.
He quit drinking that day, and found a job. He saved up $1,000 and went straight back to Virginia's house to propose again. This time, he had a ring and she said yes. They got married on January 11, 1945 and had their honeymoon in New Orleans.
Their wedding pictures are really funny, because he's more than a foot taller than her.
Her father didn't walk her down the aisle, because he didn't approve of her marrying an Irishman. (He didn't walk any of his daughters down the aisle, actually, because none of them married German Catholics. I think the girls did it for spite, actually.) I think he got over it, eventually, though. Czarina spent many happy summers visiting her Kansas City cousins and eating her grandmother's applesauce cake. So things couldn't have been too bad between Grandma V and her dad.
Grandpa John never drank a drop of alcohol again for the rest of his life.
But that was the first and last time he ever saved $1,000.
And what about Charlie? Well, I just realized, after typing all of this, that I have posted the Charlie story before. Duh! Go read the side-story about Charlie here. It's the freakin' saddest thing I've ever heard of in my life.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Stories of My Family, Part 1
I was talking about The Czarina's parents the other day, and realized I have never blogged about them. So here we go!
Let's do Grandpa John first. His parents met in a very interesting way. His dad (Thomas), the son of Irish immigrants, may or may not have immigrated to the U.S. illegally! You see, his parents came over after the Great Potato Famine, but settled at first in Canada. Then, things get a little fuzzy, and suddenly they are in Wisconsin, claiming to be natural-born U.S. Citizens on the census, which we know is not true. So we think there is some illegal border-crossing going on somewhere. Anyway, Thomas went to law school at the University of Wisconsin, after convincing them that he is also a U.S. Citizen, although we think he was born in Canada.
A few years later, he was on vacation from his job as a lawyer/businessman in Virginia. He decided to go to a resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. At almost 50, it was well-believed by the family that he would just end up an old bachelor.
Meanwhile, a young lady named Mary Ellen was going on a trip. She and her sister and mother were leaving Ireland to go visit some relatives in Denver, Colorado. (They were actually going to visit James Denver, a distant cousin whom the city was named after -- cool, huh? Yeah, I have a Colorado connection!)
Ok, um...I just read that Wikipedia entry, and now I am not so sure they were actually going to Denver, or if they were just visiting Cousin Denver in Washington, DC...because apparently, after 1858, Cousin Denver only went to Denver for visits--he didn't live there anymore. And I know all of this took place after 1858.......hmmm.......will have to ask Czarina about that.
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.
Since it was a long trip, the women decided to take a break in -- you guessed it -- Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed at the same resort where Thomas was. Although she was half his age, it was love at first sight and they got married right away. Mary Ellen, her sister and her mother never went back to Ireland! They all moved with Mary Ellen and Thomas to Norfolk, Virginia. That branch of my family--the Irish branch-- is still there.
They had 4 kids. The 2nd one was my Grandpa John. Family legend states that John was very rascally and often in trouble with authority figures! He was not malicious or anything, just acting like little boys do. (I like to say that this behavior is genetic, as my brothers were also totally obnoxious children.)
Unfortunately for the family, the birth of the fourth and youngest child (a girl) did not go very well. Mary Ellen needed a blood transfusion. But this was before anyone really understood blood types--all they knew was that sometimes transfusions worked, and sometimes they didn't. It was a roll of the dice. And Mary Ellen apparently got the wrong kind of blood, and so she died soon afterwards. Everyone in the family took it very, very hard.
Sad, I know. But it's ok. If you have read Angela's Ashes, you know by now that the Irish race is full of sad stories. But sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are funny. Ok, back to the story.
Soon after Mary Ellen died, the 1929 stock market crash hit, and all of Thomas's investments and businesses went belly up. The financial ruin, combined with the sudden loss of his wife and the worries about raising 4 young children (when he was already so old) were too much for Thomas to handle, so he basically locked himself in a room and turned into an alcoholic.
Crap. This is sad again, I know! But this is my family, so I can't just make up stuff here. There are lots of Irish alcoholics in my family, unfortunately...as you will soon see....
Meanwhile, the kids were running amok because Thomas was too drunk to take care of them. And since there was no money, there were lots of unpaid bills. So their Aunt and Grandma stepped in and cared for the kids. They sent the boys to military school (which they hated) and the only daughter ended up being raised by the Aunt. Then Aunt and Grandma sold everything in the house to pay the bills. (The only things we have left from that house are a chair and a clock!) They even had to sell the house. Thomas ended up living in a hotel and dying in poverty, I believe. (Ugh, sorry this is so depressing guys...but Irish families rarely have happy stories.)
Ok, so meanwhile, my Grandpa John graduates from military school and moves back to Norfolk, where he becomes a soda jerk, moves into a boarding house with his brother* and proceeds to pursue his new favorite hobby: alcoholism. It was at this point when the Great Depression really kicked in. Talk about bad timing.
This is where it gets kinda foggy. Although Grandpa John eventually quit drinking, as you will see later on in my story, he was always ashamed of it and didn't like to talk about the Great Depression when he was basically wasted and unemployed for an entire decade. (Can you blame him?) All we know is that during the Great Depression, he was a hobo who rode the empty freight train cars and he spent some time in Chicago. During this time, he also discovered a passion: journalism. But that's all he ever told anyone.
I like to think, with my overactive imagination, that he was a member of 'Bugs' Moran's North Side Gang, which was an Irish gang involved in prostitution, racketeering and gambling rings and fought continuously with Al Capone's gang, culminating in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
But that is purely speculation.
And vehemently denied by my mother. Who apparently, has no imagination.
So who knows what my grandpa really did besides jump trains and drink cheap booze between 1929-1939. I guess I will never know. When WWII did break out, Grandpa John decided that putting himself at risk of death every day was worth it to have food in his mouth, so he went to join the military. Unfortunately, he was soon kicked out because he was drunk all the time. Oops. Now what?
Bad, I know. But it's ok. It gets better.
At any rate, thank goodness for World War II's effect on the U.S. economy, or else I may not be here today. Gramps probably would have ended up in a gutter somewhere, pulling a Jimmy Hendrix, asphyxiating on his own vomit or something.
But that didn't happen. What happened was, the U.S. entered WWII, and we needed to build some planes. A LOT of planes. That is when Boeing got a big-ass government contract and hired thousands of people to build planes at their huge building facilities in Washington state. It was sort of like an army base, only it was full of civilians who built airplanes. Lots of Rosie the Riveters.
They had so many employees (we are talking about 50,000 here) that it became necessary to have employee housing. Which means they will need schools, a hospital, grocery stores, and everything else a large group of people would need. Including a newspaper.
Grandpa John somehow managed to get a job with Boeing. He was in charge of the factory base's newspaper. And one day, he went over to the headquarters building to interview one of the Boeing Big Shots...........
Ok, that's all for today.
When does he meet Virginia? Does Grandpa John ever stop drinking alcohol? Or is VB's mother conceived in a drunken hook up? What happens on the interview? Stay tuned to see what happens next!!
* I actually just found this out recently, because I was geeking out in a genealogy database, and looked him up in the U.S. Census of 1930. I was so excited, I called The Czarina, who had no clue her dad had ever been a soda jerk, let alone rented an apt with his brother!
Let's do Grandpa John first. His parents met in a very interesting way. His dad (Thomas), the son of Irish immigrants, may or may not have immigrated to the U.S. illegally! You see, his parents came over after the Great Potato Famine, but settled at first in Canada. Then, things get a little fuzzy, and suddenly they are in Wisconsin, claiming to be natural-born U.S. Citizens on the census, which we know is not true. So we think there is some illegal border-crossing going on somewhere. Anyway, Thomas went to law school at the University of Wisconsin, after convincing them that he is also a U.S. Citizen, although we think he was born in Canada.
A few years later, he was on vacation from his job as a lawyer/businessman in Virginia. He decided to go to a resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. At almost 50, it was well-believed by the family that he would just end up an old bachelor.
Meanwhile, a young lady named Mary Ellen was going on a trip. She and her sister and mother were leaving Ireland to go visit some relatives in Denver, Colorado. (They were actually going to visit James Denver, a distant cousin whom the city was named after -- cool, huh? Yeah, I have a Colorado connection!)
Ok, um...I just read that Wikipedia entry, and now I am not so sure they were actually going to Denver, or if they were just visiting Cousin Denver in Washington, DC...because apparently, after 1858, Cousin Denver only went to Denver for visits--he didn't live there anymore. And I know all of this took place after 1858.......hmmm.......will have to ask Czarina about that.
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.
Since it was a long trip, the women decided to take a break in -- you guessed it -- Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed at the same resort where Thomas was. Although she was half his age, it was love at first sight and they got married right away. Mary Ellen, her sister and her mother never went back to Ireland! They all moved with Mary Ellen and Thomas to Norfolk, Virginia. That branch of my family--the Irish branch-- is still there.
They had 4 kids. The 2nd one was my Grandpa John. Family legend states that John was very rascally and often in trouble with authority figures! He was not malicious or anything, just acting like little boys do. (I like to say that this behavior is genetic, as my brothers were also totally obnoxious children.)
Unfortunately for the family, the birth of the fourth and youngest child (a girl) did not go very well. Mary Ellen needed a blood transfusion. But this was before anyone really understood blood types--all they knew was that sometimes transfusions worked, and sometimes they didn't. It was a roll of the dice. And Mary Ellen apparently got the wrong kind of blood, and so she died soon afterwards. Everyone in the family took it very, very hard.
Sad, I know. But it's ok. If you have read Angela's Ashes, you know by now that the Irish race is full of sad stories. But sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are funny. Ok, back to the story.
Soon after Mary Ellen died, the 1929 stock market crash hit, and all of Thomas's investments and businesses went belly up. The financial ruin, combined with the sudden loss of his wife and the worries about raising 4 young children (when he was already so old) were too much for Thomas to handle, so he basically locked himself in a room and turned into an alcoholic.
Crap. This is sad again, I know! But this is my family, so I can't just make up stuff here. There are lots of Irish alcoholics in my family, unfortunately...as you will soon see....
Meanwhile, the kids were running amok because Thomas was too drunk to take care of them. And since there was no money, there were lots of unpaid bills. So their Aunt and Grandma stepped in and cared for the kids. They sent the boys to military school (which they hated) and the only daughter ended up being raised by the Aunt. Then Aunt and Grandma sold everything in the house to pay the bills. (The only things we have left from that house are a chair and a clock!) They even had to sell the house. Thomas ended up living in a hotel and dying in poverty, I believe. (Ugh, sorry this is so depressing guys...but Irish families rarely have happy stories.)
Ok, so meanwhile, my Grandpa John graduates from military school and moves back to Norfolk, where he becomes a soda jerk, moves into a boarding house with his brother* and proceeds to pursue his new favorite hobby: alcoholism. It was at this point when the Great Depression really kicked in. Talk about bad timing.
This is where it gets kinda foggy. Although Grandpa John eventually quit drinking, as you will see later on in my story, he was always ashamed of it and didn't like to talk about the Great Depression when he was basically wasted and unemployed for an entire decade. (Can you blame him?) All we know is that during the Great Depression, he was a hobo who rode the empty freight train cars and he spent some time in Chicago. During this time, he also discovered a passion: journalism. But that's all he ever told anyone.
I like to think, with my overactive imagination, that he was a member of 'Bugs' Moran's North Side Gang, which was an Irish gang involved in prostitution, racketeering and gambling rings and fought continuously with Al Capone's gang, culminating in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
But that is purely speculation.
And vehemently denied by my mother. Who apparently, has no imagination.
So who knows what my grandpa really did besides jump trains and drink cheap booze between 1929-1939. I guess I will never know. When WWII did break out, Grandpa John decided that putting himself at risk of death every day was worth it to have food in his mouth, so he went to join the military. Unfortunately, he was soon kicked out because he was drunk all the time. Oops. Now what?
Bad, I know. But it's ok. It gets better.
At any rate, thank goodness for World War II's effect on the U.S. economy, or else I may not be here today. Gramps probably would have ended up in a gutter somewhere, pulling a Jimmy Hendrix, asphyxiating on his own vomit or something.
But that didn't happen. What happened was, the U.S. entered WWII, and we needed to build some planes. A LOT of planes. That is when Boeing got a big-ass government contract and hired thousands of people to build planes at their huge building facilities in Washington state. It was sort of like an army base, only it was full of civilians who built airplanes. Lots of Rosie the Riveters.
They had so many employees (we are talking about 50,000 here) that it became necessary to have employee housing. Which means they will need schools, a hospital, grocery stores, and everything else a large group of people would need. Including a newspaper.
Grandpa John somehow managed to get a job with Boeing. He was in charge of the factory base's newspaper. And one day, he went over to the headquarters building to interview one of the Boeing Big Shots...........
Ok, that's all for today.
When does he meet Virginia? Does Grandpa John ever stop drinking alcohol? Or is VB's mother conceived in a drunken hook up? What happens on the interview? Stay tuned to see what happens next!!
* I actually just found this out recently, because I was geeking out in a genealogy database, and looked him up in the U.S. Census of 1930. I was so excited, I called The Czarina, who had no clue her dad had ever been a soda jerk, let alone rented an apt with his brother!
Friday, November 09, 2007
Different Planets
CN and I have a lot in common, so it's always surprising when we have little moments when we just don't understand each other.
Example #1:
I made CN some brownies. A couple days later, he called me about them.
CN: Hey, um...should I keep the brownies in the fridge? Will they go bad if I leave them on the countertop?
VB: I don't understand. What do you mean? Like, you haven't finished them yet?
CN: Heck, no! I've only had about three.
*Very long pause.*
VB: Um....well......I don't know. I've never had brownies last that long before. At my house, they are gone in about 4 hours. So I don't know if brownies can go bad. I guess keep them in the fridge. I dunno.
Example #2:
I have just finished telling about 8 family stories to CN.
VB: I'm sorry. I'm hogging the conversation. Tell me some stories about your family.
CN: No, it's fine! They are really interesting. But um...I don't really have any family stories to share. How do you know so much about your family?
VB: Uh...because when we all get together, we just re-tell the same few stories over and over again. I've heard all this stuff since I was in diapers. You don't tell family stories when you all get together? What else is there to talk about?
CN: Um......I dunno.
*Long pause on both our parts. Lots of blinking. He's wondering why his family doesn't do that, and I'm flabbergasted that they don't.*
Example #3:
CN: Hey, do you want to come to my parents' house for Thanksgiving?
VB: Sure! I gotta check with my mom, though. She may not be cool with this idea. She always tells us that until we get married, we have to spend all holidays with her. But I'll see. Your mom's probably a really good cook, huh?
CN: Ooooooh yeah she is. She makes turkey, stuffing, pie, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole--
VB: Did you say 'sweet potato casserole'?
CN: Yeah.
VB: Ohmygod, I LOVE sweet potato casserole. And I have been lobbying at Mom's house to get her to make it, and she won't do it. We never eat sweet potatoes there.
CN: You......don't? Eat? Sweet potatoes?? *extremely confused expression*
Speaking of which......I need to tell you some family stories! And post some recipes! Woo Hoo! I can feel the writer's block melting away!!! I might post again later today....
Have you taken my quiz yet??? Look at yesterday's post! The winner gets a PRIZE!!
Example #1:
I made CN some brownies. A couple days later, he called me about them.
CN: Hey, um...should I keep the brownies in the fridge? Will they go bad if I leave them on the countertop?
VB: I don't understand. What do you mean? Like, you haven't finished them yet?
CN: Heck, no! I've only had about three.
*Very long pause.*
VB: Um....well......I don't know. I've never had brownies last that long before. At my house, they are gone in about 4 hours. So I don't know if brownies can go bad. I guess keep them in the fridge. I dunno.
Example #2:
I have just finished telling about 8 family stories to CN.
VB: I'm sorry. I'm hogging the conversation. Tell me some stories about your family.
CN: No, it's fine! They are really interesting. But um...I don't really have any family stories to share. How do you know so much about your family?
VB: Uh...because when we all get together, we just re-tell the same few stories over and over again. I've heard all this stuff since I was in diapers. You don't tell family stories when you all get together? What else is there to talk about?
CN: Um......I dunno.
*Long pause on both our parts. Lots of blinking. He's wondering why his family doesn't do that, and I'm flabbergasted that they don't.*
Example #3:
CN: Hey, do you want to come to my parents' house for Thanksgiving?
VB: Sure! I gotta check with my mom, though. She may not be cool with this idea. She always tells us that until we get married, we have to spend all holidays with her. But I'll see. Your mom's probably a really good cook, huh?
CN: Ooooooh yeah she is. She makes turkey, stuffing, pie, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole--
VB: Did you say 'sweet potato casserole'?
CN: Yeah.
VB: Ohmygod, I LOVE sweet potato casserole. And I have been lobbying at Mom's house to get her to make it, and she won't do it. We never eat sweet potatoes there.
CN: You......don't? Eat? Sweet potatoes?? *extremely confused expression*
Speaking of which......I need to tell you some family stories! And post some recipes! Woo Hoo! I can feel the writer's block melting away!!! I might post again later today....
Have you taken my quiz yet??? Look at yesterday's post! The winner gets a PRIZE!!
Friday, September 21, 2007
I Think We're Alone Now
...the beating of our hearts is the only sound....
(anyone else remember Tiffany?? Haha, now you have that song in your head!)
Well, now that most of us are here, all I can say is:
Holy Lurking, Batman!!!
I tell ya, nothing brings the lurkers out more than making your blog private! Yesterday, when I got to work at about 1:30, I opened my email:
44 New Messages.
Holy Schnikes! That was a new record! And the emails just kept pouring in all day long! It was so cool, because I had NO CLUE I had so many lurkers. I thought that about 25 people read this thing on a regular basis. So far, it's more like 85! WOW. Now I know why my statcounter tells me someone is reading this in Montana, Raleigh, Canada, etc.
So I am saying a big HELLO to all of my lurkers out there. Thanks for lurking. I am flattered to have so many fans and wonderful fan mail! WOOT! I am amazed at your ability to keep your mouth shut and never leave comments! As you can tell, this is a skill I do not possess. So more power to ya.
Hopefully, we won't have to be all secretive and stuff for too long. I wish that Google would stop cacheing (sp?) my blog, too. It has a bunch of posts on there, but oh well. What can you do?
I'm sure you wall want a CN update. Because if you're anything like me, the love lives of virtual strangers are the most fascinating things EVER. So here is your update.
There is no update. I haven't seen him since our Sunday Smoochfest. Crazy, considering he lives across the street from me, I know. But we are both busy. I think he's getting kinda antsy, though, because he seemed really bummed when I couldn't hang out with him Wednesday or Thursday. Tee hee.
So instead, we have resorted to one of my specialties: communicating through obnoxiously flirty text messages and novel-length myspace comments. Barf, barf, I know.
On Saturday, I'm going to his house to watch the game (and I swear upon all things holy that if Blake Mitchell throws THREE interceptions this week, I will fly to Baton Rouge myself to personally kick his ass!!!).
Then we're going to my house so I can make him dinner, and he is entirely too excited about this. "Ok, I have to calm down. Let me think about baseball and Angela Lansbury for a minute..." he said, when I told him what I wanted to make. You'd think no one has ever made dinner for him before-- he was that excited.
Time for a totally unrelated and jarring change of subject. You know me!
I did some shopping the other day and had a fantastic, wonderful experience.
All my male readers are saying, "Oh great. I accepted the invitation for this?!" -- ha ha! Yes, I am talking about shopping again.
I have been lusting after this one pair of Steve Madden shoes for months. I think since about April. Every time I have gone to the mall, I have picked them up, held them to my chest and cooed over them. Alas, I was not willing to drop $60 on a spontaneous purchase. After all, it's not like I would wear them every day.
But Wednesday night, I walked into Dillard's to behold......SHOE CLEARANCE. *fans herself.*
I walked up to the section for my shoe size, and there they were in their full glory: the LAST pair of my shoes. In my size. For $23.
[insert chorus of singing angels and heavenly beam of light here.]
Needless to say, they are in my closet right now. Pair #62 (I think....) I just need to find a killer outfit to wear them with...
So I might go shopping after work today to see if I can find something perfect to wear with them tonight. MJ, KT and I (and yes, VW and CN are coming, too) are going out to dinner and then we're going to see our favorite local band. So it should be a fun night.
I might post again later on this afternoon, peeps. I promise it won't be as random and incoherent as this one. Because after re-reading this, I fear I should be on ritalin....
(anyone else remember Tiffany?? Haha, now you have that song in your head!)
Well, now that most of us are here, all I can say is:
Holy Lurking, Batman!!!
I tell ya, nothing brings the lurkers out more than making your blog private! Yesterday, when I got to work at about 1:30, I opened my email:
44 New Messages.
Holy Schnikes! That was a new record! And the emails just kept pouring in all day long! It was so cool, because I had NO CLUE I had so many lurkers. I thought that about 25 people read this thing on a regular basis. So far, it's more like 85! WOW. Now I know why my statcounter tells me someone is reading this in Montana, Raleigh, Canada, etc.
So I am saying a big HELLO to all of my lurkers out there. Thanks for lurking. I am flattered to have so many fans and wonderful fan mail! WOOT! I am amazed at your ability to keep your mouth shut and never leave comments! As you can tell, this is a skill I do not possess. So more power to ya.
Hopefully, we won't have to be all secretive and stuff for too long. I wish that Google would stop cacheing (sp?) my blog, too. It has a bunch of posts on there, but oh well. What can you do?
I'm sure you wall want a CN update. Because if you're anything like me, the love lives of virtual strangers are the most fascinating things EVER. So here is your update.
There is no update. I haven't seen him since our Sunday Smoochfest. Crazy, considering he lives across the street from me, I know. But we are both busy. I think he's getting kinda antsy, though, because he seemed really bummed when I couldn't hang out with him Wednesday or Thursday. Tee hee.
So instead, we have resorted to one of my specialties: communicating through obnoxiously flirty text messages and novel-length myspace comments. Barf, barf, I know.
On Saturday, I'm going to his house to watch the game (and I swear upon all things holy that if Blake Mitchell throws THREE interceptions this week, I will fly to Baton Rouge myself to personally kick his ass!!!).
Then we're going to my house so I can make him dinner, and he is entirely too excited about this. "Ok, I have to calm down. Let me think about baseball and Angela Lansbury for a minute..." he said, when I told him what I wanted to make. You'd think no one has ever made dinner for him before-- he was that excited.
Time for a totally unrelated and jarring change of subject. You know me!
I did some shopping the other day and had a fantastic, wonderful experience.
All my male readers are saying, "Oh great. I accepted the invitation for this?!" -- ha ha! Yes, I am talking about shopping again.
I have been lusting after this one pair of Steve Madden shoes for months. I think since about April. Every time I have gone to the mall, I have picked them up, held them to my chest and cooed over them. Alas, I was not willing to drop $60 on a spontaneous purchase. After all, it's not like I would wear them every day.
But Wednesday night, I walked into Dillard's to behold......SHOE CLEARANCE. *fans herself.*
I walked up to the section for my shoe size, and there they were in their full glory: the LAST pair of my shoes. In my size. For $23.
[insert chorus of singing angels and heavenly beam of light here.]
Needless to say, they are in my closet right now. Pair #62 (I think....) I just need to find a killer outfit to wear them with...
So I might go shopping after work today to see if I can find something perfect to wear with them tonight. MJ, KT and I (and yes, VW and CN are coming, too) are going out to dinner and then we're going to see our favorite local band. So it should be a fun night.I might post again later on this afternoon, peeps. I promise it won't be as random and incoherent as this one. Because after re-reading this, I fear I should be on ritalin....
Friday, August 17, 2007
Friday 13? We All Want Ice Cream!
This is a combo Fun Friday/Thursday 13 post.
I'll be alone most of this weekend, so I have been thinking of fun things to do. Most of them involve eating ice cream. I pretty much have ice cream on the brain. There should be a 12 Step Program for people like me. It must be the heat....we have had a really bad heat wave here for about 2 weeks--we have broken a few records, actually. We have been approaching 120 degrees, if you include heat index. Yowza. We are cooking to death down here. It makes me want to lay around and eat ice cream.
I'll be alone most of this weekend, so I have been thinking of fun things to do. Most of them involve eating ice cream. I pretty much have ice cream on the brain. There should be a 12 Step Program for people like me. It must be the heat....we have had a really bad heat wave here for about 2 weeks--we have broken a few records, actually. We have been approaching 120 degrees, if you include heat index. Yowza. We are cooking to death down here. It makes me want to lay around and eat ice cream.
Thirteen Ways I Can Incorporate Ice Cream Into My Weekend
1. Sleep in! Woo Hoo! No plans means I don't have any reason to get up early! Hmmm. Vanilla ice cream for breakfast......I could put um, granola on top of it. That's kinda breakfasty. Ooh! I know! Coffee ice cream!
2. Continue reading The Game and The Mystery Method so I can learn more about all this Pick Up Artist (PUA) business. (See last few posts if you don't know what I'm talking about.) This may or may not involve a solo trip to Starbuck's. I've been craving my vanilla latte. Or maybe I could go to Bruster's Ice Cream and read there....hmmmmm....Cookies n Cream sounds good...
3. Finish watching Season 2 of HBO's Big Love (thank you, HBO on Demand!!!). While eating the new Ben & Jerry's flavor: Creme Brulee. I just found out about it. And creme brulee is my ALL TIME favorite dessert, so to put it into an ice cream format pretty much just blows my mind right now.
4. Hit the gym. I have been stuck at this weight for at least a month. I wonder if my recent ice cream addiction is playing a role in this.....
5. Stay cool: long cold showers, drink Perrier lime (THE most refreshing drink ever), see if I can find a friend who has lake/pool connections, enjoy being scantily-clad as I lay around in my air-conditioned house...and of course, eat more ice cream. I think I'm out of caramel sauce...wait, don't I have some leftover toffee bits laying around somewhere??
6. Continue NOT being a smoker. Three weeks and counting. Go me! I believe I have replaced nicotine with frozen dairy products in my life. Aargh. (Seriously, why can I not stop eating ice cream????) Coping with this makes me want chocolate. Ooh, brownie chunks...in the ice cream...*drools*
7. Oh! This reminds me of one of my all-time favorite comedy skits! (from Eddie Murphy's Delierious -- if you have never rented this, you MUST!)
8. I could go to the Art Museum here in town. I cannot believe I was practically an art major and have never been! It's free on Saturdays....yay!! FINALLY! And it's near the downtown branch of Marble Slab Creamery. Since I always have "ice cream order envy", I will get what MJ got last time: Swiss Chocolate with peanut butter cups in it. Note to self: always order AFTER your friends do. You always wish you'd ordered what they got.
Oh who am I kidding. I love their lemon custard. I'll probably get that.
9. Stare at Hot Neighbor and Cute Neighbor through my front windows. I may or may not put on clothes to do this...although, they might not want to look at me, because if I keep eating ice cream, I will look like this guy:
10. Enjoy what will hopefully be my last scantily-clad weekend, as E is probably going to be my new roommate soon! YAY for not being extremely poor anymore! Now I can buy more ice cream!
11. Ok, this one has nothing to do with ice cream. I just wanted to share. Have you seen these videos? Hilarious! Long live Will Ferrell!
Video #1
Video #2
12. Continuing on with my ice cream theme...check out this list of 101 disgusting ice cream flavors. They really exist! And now I want to know what the hell is wrong with Japanese people. Can someone please explain to me how anyone could like this stuff??? Salad flavored? Curry? Mustard? Squid Ink? Raw Horseflesh??? EWWWW
13. Like me, this lady seems to be substituting her love life with an ice cream addiction...
2. Continue reading The Game and The Mystery Method so I can learn more about all this Pick Up Artist (PUA) business. (See last few posts if you don't know what I'm talking about.) This may or may not involve a solo trip to Starbuck's. I've been craving my vanilla latte. Or maybe I could go to Bruster's Ice Cream and read there....hmmmmm....Cookies n Cream sounds good...
3. Finish watching Season 2 of HBO's Big Love (thank you, HBO on Demand!!!). While eating the new Ben & Jerry's flavor: Creme Brulee. I just found out about it. And creme brulee is my ALL TIME favorite dessert, so to put it into an ice cream format pretty much just blows my mind right now.
4. Hit the gym. I have been stuck at this weight for at least a month. I wonder if my recent ice cream addiction is playing a role in this.....
5. Stay cool: long cold showers, drink Perrier lime (THE most refreshing drink ever), see if I can find a friend who has lake/pool connections, enjoy being scantily-clad as I lay around in my air-conditioned house...and of course, eat more ice cream. I think I'm out of caramel sauce...wait, don't I have some leftover toffee bits laying around somewhere??
6. Continue NOT being a smoker. Three weeks and counting. Go me! I believe I have replaced nicotine with frozen dairy products in my life. Aargh. (Seriously, why can I not stop eating ice cream????) Coping with this makes me want chocolate. Ooh, brownie chunks...in the ice cream...*drools*
7. Oh! This reminds me of one of my all-time favorite comedy skits! (from Eddie Murphy's Delierious -- if you have never rented this, you MUST!)
8. I could go to the Art Museum here in town. I cannot believe I was practically an art major and have never been! It's free on Saturdays....yay!! FINALLY! And it's near the downtown branch of Marble Slab Creamery. Since I always have "ice cream order envy", I will get what MJ got last time: Swiss Chocolate with peanut butter cups in it. Note to self: always order AFTER your friends do. You always wish you'd ordered what they got.
Oh who am I kidding. I love their lemon custard. I'll probably get that.
9. Stare at Hot Neighbor and Cute Neighbor through my front windows. I may or may not put on clothes to do this...although, they might not want to look at me, because if I keep eating ice cream, I will look like this guy:
10. Enjoy what will hopefully be my last scantily-clad weekend, as E is probably going to be my new roommate soon! YAY for not being extremely poor anymore! Now I can buy more ice cream!
11. Ok, this one has nothing to do with ice cream. I just wanted to share. Have you seen these videos? Hilarious! Long live Will Ferrell!
Video #1
Video #2
12. Continuing on with my ice cream theme...check out this list of 101 disgusting ice cream flavors. They really exist! And now I want to know what the hell is wrong with Japanese people. Can someone please explain to me how anyone could like this stuff??? Salad flavored? Curry? Mustard? Squid Ink? Raw Horseflesh??? EWWWW
13. Like me, this lady seems to be substituting her love life with an ice cream addiction...
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Dr. Kidney
See if I care that only two people commented on my last post. Because you know what? I don't care. Not one bit.
*sniff!*
Obviously, no one wants to read about Vermont or see how beautiful it is, so instead, I will talk about something else today.
*sniff!*
Today, you get to learn all about my pee. Ha! Take that! See what happens when you ignore my posts? You get gross-out medical posts. Just remember this the next time you choose not to leave comments.
Where should I start? Hmmm. I know. Let's start with the fact that this poster actually means something to me today:
Because for me, it is indeed a urinal. You see, doctors keep finding an excessive amount of protein in my urine, and they can't figure out why. So after 3 dip-stick tests and a catheter experience, they still can't figure out what's wrong. That means I have to go to the next level of testing: I will be spending all of Sunday filling up this weird-looking brown jug with my pee. The pee has to stay cold, so I will either keep it in a sealed bag in my fridge or in a styrofoam cooler. I haven't decided which is worse/grosser. Then, on Monday morning, I will drop off 24 hours worth of VB Pee at Dr. Kidney's (the urologist's) office so they can run more tests. Yippee. Nothing like saving your own pee to make the weekend exciting.
And when I bring in my jug o' pee on Monday, I will probably get more stares from the old men in the waiting room. Sitting there with their enlarged prostates, they were all looking at me like, "Why are YOU here?" -- It was very surreal.
Oh, and as for the PSA portion of this post, let me advise my female readers: If you ever have to go to a urologist's office and wait in their waiting room, bring something to read! My only reading options included: golfing magazines, parenting magazines, entrepreneurial magazines and brochures about overactive bladder medications. Ugh. Obviously, I was not the normal patient. Great.
Anyway, after peeing in yet another cup, even Dr. Kidney seemed baffled about it. "I just can't tell from this. It's probably nothing, but just to be sure...."
And that's when he introduced me to the weird brown jug.
Being both a librarian and paranoid, I of course looked up stuff on the Internet so I could attempt at diagnosing myself.
BAD IDEA.
According to what I've read, high levels of protein indicates kidney damage and is usually found in people with diabetes.
I know I don't have diabetes. It doesn't even run in my family. I mean, if I were diabetic, I'd know by now, right? I mean, I need to lose like, 15 pounds. That's not enough extra weight to give me adult-onset diabetes, right??? I'm not especially thirsty or anything.....
But maybe, just maybe, I have somehow damaged my kidneys. I did have a kidney infection once. And I think I got into a fight with my brother when I was little, and he punched me in the ol' kidneys.....no, wait. I think I punched him in the kidneys.
WHAT IF THERE IS REALLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME???
*Overactive Imagination presents VB with mental pictures of the Worst Case Scenario: "I'm sorry, Virginia, but not one of your family members or wonderful friends is a match. You have extremely difficult-to-match kidneys, in addition to have that incredibly rare kidney disorder for which there is no cure. You're going to have to be placed on a kidney transplant waiting list. At the bottom. It will probably take about 18 years for you to get the kidneys you need. Until then, we're just going to have to remove your breasts and eyeballs, and put you on this special medicine, which makes you go bald permanently and barf a lot. We're also going to have to start dialysis. You might want to think about moving back in with your mother so she can take care of you. It will be very painful and incredibly expensive. You've got insurance, right? You might want to call your provider about this." says Dr. Kidney.*
I have talked to dieticians, nurses, friends and hypochondriacs. (You think I am kidding....) I have heard everything from, "Just drink more water!" to "Are you sure you don't have diabetes?" One person is convinced it's the dietary supplement I'm on (biotin-- it's good for your hair and nails!). Another person is sure it's because I've lost weight. Yet another person thinks there's actually nothing wrong with me at all: "What if your body is just like that, and it's 'normal' for you?"
Of course, I'm convinced some crime from my past is catching up with me, in some sick & twisted karmic revenge. It's a result of the MRSA I had this time last year. It's a side effect from the vicodin. I smoked weird, kidney disease-laced pot in college. I've caught some kidney disease from one of my stupid ex-boyfriends. This is my body's reaction to my being mean to old people. Or this is my body's way of saying to me, "You eat entirely too much sugar! I tried to warn you, but now it's too late! You will never eat ice cream again! Hahahahahahahaha!!!"
Much to my dismay, MJ won't pee into the jug for me. I tried bribing her with pumpkin bread, but unfortunately, she doesn't like pumpkin. Some friend she is. I would pee for her. *grumble*
*sniff!*
Obviously, no one wants to read about Vermont or see how beautiful it is, so instead, I will talk about something else today.
*sniff!*
Today, you get to learn all about my pee. Ha! Take that! See what happens when you ignore my posts? You get gross-out medical posts. Just remember this the next time you choose not to leave comments.
Where should I start? Hmmm. I know. Let's start with the fact that this poster actually means something to me today:
Because for me, it is indeed a urinal. You see, doctors keep finding an excessive amount of protein in my urine, and they can't figure out why. So after 3 dip-stick tests and a catheter experience, they still can't figure out what's wrong. That means I have to go to the next level of testing: I will be spending all of Sunday filling up this weird-looking brown jug with my pee. The pee has to stay cold, so I will either keep it in a sealed bag in my fridge or in a styrofoam cooler. I haven't decided which is worse/grosser. Then, on Monday morning, I will drop off 24 hours worth of VB Pee at Dr. Kidney's (the urologist's) office so they can run more tests. Yippee. Nothing like saving your own pee to make the weekend exciting.
And when I bring in my jug o' pee on Monday, I will probably get more stares from the old men in the waiting room. Sitting there with their enlarged prostates, they were all looking at me like, "Why are YOU here?" -- It was very surreal.
Oh, and as for the PSA portion of this post, let me advise my female readers: If you ever have to go to a urologist's office and wait in their waiting room, bring something to read! My only reading options included: golfing magazines, parenting magazines, entrepreneurial magazines and brochures about overactive bladder medications. Ugh. Obviously, I was not the normal patient. Great.
Anyway, after peeing in yet another cup, even Dr. Kidney seemed baffled about it. "I just can't tell from this. It's probably nothing, but just to be sure...."
And that's when he introduced me to the weird brown jug.
Being both a librarian and paranoid, I of course looked up stuff on the Internet so I could attempt at diagnosing myself.
BAD IDEA.
According to what I've read, high levels of protein indicates kidney damage and is usually found in people with diabetes.
I know I don't have diabetes. It doesn't even run in my family. I mean, if I were diabetic, I'd know by now, right? I mean, I need to lose like, 15 pounds. That's not enough extra weight to give me adult-onset diabetes, right??? I'm not especially thirsty or anything.....
But maybe, just maybe, I have somehow damaged my kidneys. I did have a kidney infection once. And I think I got into a fight with my brother when I was little, and he punched me in the ol' kidneys.....no, wait. I think I punched him in the kidneys.
WHAT IF THERE IS REALLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME???
*Overactive Imagination presents VB with mental pictures of the Worst Case Scenario: "I'm sorry, Virginia, but not one of your family members or wonderful friends is a match. You have extremely difficult-to-match kidneys, in addition to have that incredibly rare kidney disorder for which there is no cure. You're going to have to be placed on a kidney transplant waiting list. At the bottom. It will probably take about 18 years for you to get the kidneys you need. Until then, we're just going to have to remove your breasts and eyeballs, and put you on this special medicine, which makes you go bald permanently and barf a lot. We're also going to have to start dialysis. You might want to think about moving back in with your mother so she can take care of you. It will be very painful and incredibly expensive. You've got insurance, right? You might want to call your provider about this." says Dr. Kidney.*
I have talked to dieticians, nurses, friends and hypochondriacs. (You think I am kidding....) I have heard everything from, "Just drink more water!" to "Are you sure you don't have diabetes?" One person is convinced it's the dietary supplement I'm on (biotin-- it's good for your hair and nails!). Another person is sure it's because I've lost weight. Yet another person thinks there's actually nothing wrong with me at all: "What if your body is just like that, and it's 'normal' for you?"
Of course, I'm convinced some crime from my past is catching up with me, in some sick & twisted karmic revenge. It's a result of the MRSA I had this time last year. It's a side effect from the vicodin. I smoked weird, kidney disease-laced pot in college. I've caught some kidney disease from one of my stupid ex-boyfriends. This is my body's reaction to my being mean to old people. Or this is my body's way of saying to me, "You eat entirely too much sugar! I tried to warn you, but now it's too late! You will never eat ice cream again! Hahahahahahahaha!!!"
Much to my dismay, MJ won't pee into the jug for me. I tried bribing her with pumpkin bread, but unfortunately, she doesn't like pumpkin. Some friend she is. I would pee for her. *grumble*
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Back to the Drawing Board
Chaotic.
That is the word I would use to describe my life right now. Isn't that also the name of the Britney/K-Fed reality show? I think it is. Don't worry, I haven't shaved my head or anything. Not that I haven't thought about doing it, considering the high number of bad hair days I've been having lately.
It's been one thing after another, these past few weeks. I've got trips and parties and get-togethers and time off, all things which are making me super-busy. I need a vacation from my vacation! *sigh*
Add to that: work has been a little busier than usual, insomnia for two nights straight, medical issues and being broke.
I am so exhausted and have so many things floating around in my brain, this post will probably be choppy. I feel like I'm losing my mind, and after you read this post, I'm certain you will agree.
Where to begin? Hmmm. Let's start with catheters in my bladder. Who doesn't want to read about that? The good news is, it didn't hurt a bit. Seriously, it was no sweat. But I can tell it's one of those procedures (like, say, drawing blood) where, if the person doesn't know what they are doing, it would hurt like crazy. I lucked out.
The bad news is, there is still too much protein in my pee. So I am awaiting my referral to a urologist. Which means: $$$$$$ and probably more catheters. Oh the joy.
I just keep repeating to myself: I. Do. Not. Want. A. Kidney. Stone.
And since I don't want any cavities either, I went to the dentist yesterday. "Oh, I see we have to update your x-rays today!" said the hygienist. I thought, "Oh.....crap. $$$$$$$$$$$" And then, as she was cleaning, and lecturing me about how I am not brushing OR flossing enough/properly, I thought, "I am paying this woman to not only torture me, but to also give me a guilt trip second only to The Czarina's."
Then she hit below the belt: "So, Virginia..........do you smoke?"
Fuckfuckcrapitycrap.
"Yes, sometimes..." I confessed, weakly.
"I can tell. There's some stain discoloration," she deadpanned.
Ugh! What is it with these people?! As if just paying someone to scrape your teeth with metal utensils isn't bad enough, they have to throw in a guilt trip, too. I bet that's a course they take in dental hygiene school: "Guilt Tripping 101" -- it was probably taught by my mother. If I were a dog, my tail would be between my legs during every trip to the dentist. I think people who work there are actually BDSMers in white lab coats, who have managed to figure out a way to support themselves by preying on the phobias of the general public.
After an hour of scraping and scratching, I was finally free to go. Ashamed of myself, I collected the fragments of my dignity and walked out to the front desk. "That's it. I have reached the end of dental humiliation. I'm going to be Superstar Tooth Nazi until my next appointment! And quit smoking, too!!" I thought.
"Ok, that will be $105.00," said the receptionist.
There is a direct relationship between my age and the level of unpleasantness experienced at the dentist's office. Now, not only does it hurt my gumline, it hurts my wallet, too. Oh how I miss the days of my childhood, when a trip to the dentist's office meant only that I got to play with the giant, toy teeth and give the hygienists heart attacks with my sudden fits of giggling. (You see, I have extremely ticklish gums, and when they'd polish my teeth, I would erupt into uncontrollable laughter. I still do it, sometimes.)
Speaking of laughter, I had Lasagna Night on Sunday. MJ, KT, Mr. & Mrs. Bill, J-Rich and Mack Daddy came. We had such a good time. I don't think anyone went to bed hungry! We had a really good time. The only downside was that Cute Neighbor never showed. He never came over to tell me he couldn't make it, and he hasn't come over to apologize for being MIA, either. I find this very rude. Not to mention, a little insulting: it's not like it would be a ton of effort for him to tell me. He wouldn't even have to get into his car.
I don't get it. If your diet consists mainly of Healthy Choice frozen dinners (he told me that's pretty much all he eats), and your cute & single neighbor invites you over for a free, homemade meal, and all you have to do is basically fall out of your front door and grab a fork, then what is the problem? I mean, even if you aren't interested in her romantically, at the very least, you're getting a free dinner. And free beer. Men make no sense to me. And I think I've hit a new low in my pathetic dating life: guys won't even get up off their couches to mooch free food from me. WOW. I am, apparently, just that repulsive.
So, it's back to the drawing board again.
Speaking of drawing....MJ invited me to an art show this past weekend. Four local artists displayed their work, and there was even one piece on which all four of them collaborated. It was fantastic. All four artists have different styles, but their styles meshed well together. MJ's dating The Artist, and his art is....really just incredible stuff. You have to look at the pieces for a looooong time before you can soak it all in. It's been described as "post-modern", but I would describe it more as "Picasso meets Dali meets Pollock meets Dr. Seuss". Normally, I don't "get" modern art, but I really dug his stuff. I wish I had a little extra money lying around, because I would buy something from him. I wish I could find some pictures of his stuff online so I could show you some of his work, but I'll have to let you imagine it from my description above. (MJ-- you need to tell him to set up a flickr account or something!)
We are slowly but surely getting our details worked out for our NYC/Vermont trip next week. I am still so excited, I'm about to burst! Want to see what we've got lined up so far? Here is a photo quiz. Can you guess?
This sounds really stupid, but I'm actually really excited to ride on the subway. And to take the train to Vermont. There isn't much public transportation in SC. So this will be really interesting to me. Heck, this will only be the 5th or 6th airplane trip I've ever been on, so even that will be fun! I'm one of those weird people who gets waaaaay too excited to get on airplanes. I even like the food.
I have always defined a vacation as: "Going somewhere, other than a conference or my mother's house, which requires me to board an airplane to get there." By that definition, this will be my first vacation since Rome, Italy in 2000.
I told MJ I would embarrass her in NYC by asking every waitress/waiter if the restaurant serves grits or mashed sweet potatoes. If she doesn't want me to do this, she should keep my mouth full of some of that delicious NY-style pizza. Mmmmmmmmmmmm......can't wait.
But instead, I think I will stare straight up as we walk down the streets, proclaiming in the thickest of Southern accents, "Well, gaaaaawlee, I ain't never seen no buildin' that high! Shucks!" -- Huh. That came out more like Gomer Pyle. Perhaps I will practice my impression before I get on the plane......I will charm the pants off them "city folk". Hopefully, the cute and single ones.
Oh man. One can only hope......de-panting hotties is one of my favorite things to do......*daydreams*
I have no clue what to pack. I'm tempted to bring nothing but stilettos and cocktail dresses, but I'm sure that's entirely inappropriate. LOL But aren't I supposed to look like this in order to fit in?
I certainly don't want to look like this.....*shudders*
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I go to NYC and Vermont, I am being visited by....
The Czarina. *cue Darth Vader theme song*
And Smurf and Czarina's Best Friend are coming, too. They will serve as a no-fly-zone, because otherwise, The Czarina and I would drive each other bonkers. We need referees when we hang out.
The good news is, she wants to buy me some stuff for my house. And I think (fingers crossed, people!) that I can talk her into giving me some money for my NYC trip. Because, if she doesn't, I might have to dig through NYC garbage cans to find something to eat. Oh well. It will be good for the diet if I don't eat for 5 days, right? Maybe I can just eat hot dogs from those street vendors.....
Where was I? Oh yes. The Czarina is coming, with her best friend and my little sister in tow. She hasn't been to Columbia since the day I moved here, 5 years ago, almost to the day. She finally gets to see my house. We will be decorating mi casa, which is nice. We will be visiting some local historic homes and dining out at some of my favorite restaurants, like this one and this one. They will get to meet my coworkers and some of my friends. I think I will give them a little tour of my favorite spots in town. I am thinking we should probably hit the Columbia Museum of Art, since they just got a couple of Renoirs on loan from Chicago, and they have recently expanded their late-Renaissance Dutch painting collection.
And what are my favorite kinds of paintings?????
Anything by Renoir and anything Dutch.
In order to prepare for their visit, I have to take deep breaths, have a cigarette binge, practice nodding my head and saying, "Yes, Mom, you are absolutely right!" and clean my room. I have also stocked up on The Czarina's favorite diet foods:
Eggbeaters
apples
low-fat cheddar cheese
diet tonic water
oatmeal
low-fat cottage cheese
whole wheat bread
bagged lettuce
Ugh. No wonder she's always so cranky. Wouldn't you be, if that was what you ate, 90% of the time? And she wonders why I cannot lose weight. It's because I'd rather be fat than eat that stuff, day in and day out. But this topic deserves its own post, so I will stop there with that little difference in opinion between mother and daughter.
Which reminds me......I need to hide all my "bad" stuff: twizzlers, oreos, birth control pills, ashtray & cigarettes....what am I forgetting?? Oh, those condoms in my purse....which were actually a gag gift, I swear on all things holy......I know you don't believe me, but they were. I just laughed at my friend W's joke and absent-mindedly stuck them in my purse. Oh, come on! You have to believe me. Like I'd even get a chance to use those things, at the rate I'm going. [See paragraph about Cute Neighbor, above.]
The Czarina will be here tomorrow afternoon. So I don't know how often I'll be able to post until she leaves on Sunday. This long-ass, rambling post will probably have to do ya for a few days.
That is the word I would use to describe my life right now. Isn't that also the name of the Britney/K-Fed reality show? I think it is. Don't worry, I haven't shaved my head or anything. Not that I haven't thought about doing it, considering the high number of bad hair days I've been having lately.
It's been one thing after another, these past few weeks. I've got trips and parties and get-togethers and time off, all things which are making me super-busy. I need a vacation from my vacation! *sigh*
Add to that: work has been a little busier than usual, insomnia for two nights straight, medical issues and being broke.
I am so exhausted and have so many things floating around in my brain, this post will probably be choppy. I feel like I'm losing my mind, and after you read this post, I'm certain you will agree.
Where to begin? Hmmm. Let's start with catheters in my bladder. Who doesn't want to read about that? The good news is, it didn't hurt a bit. Seriously, it was no sweat. But I can tell it's one of those procedures (like, say, drawing blood) where, if the person doesn't know what they are doing, it would hurt like crazy. I lucked out.
The bad news is, there is still too much protein in my pee. So I am awaiting my referral to a urologist. Which means: $$$$$$ and probably more catheters. Oh the joy.
I just keep repeating to myself: I. Do. Not. Want. A. Kidney. Stone.
And since I don't want any cavities either, I went to the dentist yesterday. "Oh, I see we have to update your x-rays today!" said the hygienist. I thought, "Oh.....crap. $$$$$$$$$$$" And then, as she was cleaning, and lecturing me about how I am not brushing OR flossing enough/properly, I thought, "I am paying this woman to not only torture me, but to also give me a guilt trip second only to The Czarina's."
Then she hit below the belt: "So, Virginia..........do you smoke?"
Fuckfuckcrapitycrap.
"Yes, sometimes..." I confessed, weakly.
"I can tell. There's some stain discoloration," she deadpanned.
Ugh! What is it with these people?! As if just paying someone to scrape your teeth with metal utensils isn't bad enough, they have to throw in a guilt trip, too. I bet that's a course they take in dental hygiene school: "Guilt Tripping 101" -- it was probably taught by my mother. If I were a dog, my tail would be between my legs during every trip to the dentist. I think people who work there are actually BDSMers in white lab coats, who have managed to figure out a way to support themselves by preying on the phobias of the general public.
After an hour of scraping and scratching, I was finally free to go. Ashamed of myself, I collected the fragments of my dignity and walked out to the front desk. "That's it. I have reached the end of dental humiliation. I'm going to be Superstar Tooth Nazi until my next appointment! And quit smoking, too!!" I thought.
"Ok, that will be $105.00," said the receptionist.
There is a direct relationship between my age and the level of unpleasantness experienced at the dentist's office. Now, not only does it hurt my gumline, it hurts my wallet, too. Oh how I miss the days of my childhood, when a trip to the dentist's office meant only that I got to play with the giant, toy teeth and give the hygienists heart attacks with my sudden fits of giggling. (You see, I have extremely ticklish gums, and when they'd polish my teeth, I would erupt into uncontrollable laughter. I still do it, sometimes.)
Speaking of laughter, I had Lasagna Night on Sunday. MJ, KT, Mr. & Mrs. Bill, J-Rich and Mack Daddy came. We had such a good time. I don't think anyone went to bed hungry! We had a really good time. The only downside was that Cute Neighbor never showed. He never came over to tell me he couldn't make it, and he hasn't come over to apologize for being MIA, either. I find this very rude. Not to mention, a little insulting: it's not like it would be a ton of effort for him to tell me. He wouldn't even have to get into his car.
I don't get it. If your diet consists mainly of Healthy Choice frozen dinners (he told me that's pretty much all he eats), and your cute & single neighbor invites you over for a free, homemade meal, and all you have to do is basically fall out of your front door and grab a fork, then what is the problem? I mean, even if you aren't interested in her romantically, at the very least, you're getting a free dinner. And free beer. Men make no sense to me. And I think I've hit a new low in my pathetic dating life: guys won't even get up off their couches to mooch free food from me. WOW. I am, apparently, just that repulsive.
So, it's back to the drawing board again.
Speaking of drawing....MJ invited me to an art show this past weekend. Four local artists displayed their work, and there was even one piece on which all four of them collaborated. It was fantastic. All four artists have different styles, but their styles meshed well together. MJ's dating The Artist, and his art is....really just incredible stuff. You have to look at the pieces for a looooong time before you can soak it all in. It's been described as "post-modern", but I would describe it more as "Picasso meets Dali meets Pollock meets Dr. Seuss". Normally, I don't "get" modern art, but I really dug his stuff. I wish I had a little extra money lying around, because I would buy something from him. I wish I could find some pictures of his stuff online so I could show you some of his work, but I'll have to let you imagine it from my description above. (MJ-- you need to tell him to set up a flickr account or something!)
We are slowly but surely getting our details worked out for our NYC/Vermont trip next week. I am still so excited, I'm about to burst! Want to see what we've got lined up so far? Here is a photo quiz. Can you guess?
This sounds really stupid, but I'm actually really excited to ride on the subway. And to take the train to Vermont. There isn't much public transportation in SC. So this will be really interesting to me. Heck, this will only be the 5th or 6th airplane trip I've ever been on, so even that will be fun! I'm one of those weird people who gets waaaaay too excited to get on airplanes. I even like the food.
I have always defined a vacation as: "Going somewhere, other than a conference or my mother's house, which requires me to board an airplane to get there." By that definition, this will be my first vacation since Rome, Italy in 2000.
I told MJ I would embarrass her in NYC by asking every waitress/waiter if the restaurant serves grits or mashed sweet potatoes. If she doesn't want me to do this, she should keep my mouth full of some of that delicious NY-style pizza. Mmmmmmmmmmmm......can't wait.
But instead, I think I will stare straight up as we walk down the streets, proclaiming in the thickest of Southern accents, "Well, gaaaaawlee, I ain't never seen no buildin' that high! Shucks!" -- Huh. That came out more like Gomer Pyle. Perhaps I will practice my impression before I get on the plane......I will charm the pants off them "city folk". Hopefully, the cute and single ones.
Oh man. One can only hope......de-panting hotties is one of my favorite things to do......*daydreams*
I have no clue what to pack. I'm tempted to bring nothing but stilettos and cocktail dresses, but I'm sure that's entirely inappropriate. LOL But aren't I supposed to look like this in order to fit in?
I certainly don't want to look like this.....*shudders*
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I go to NYC and Vermont, I am being visited by....
The Czarina. *cue Darth Vader theme song*
And Smurf and Czarina's Best Friend are coming, too. They will serve as a no-fly-zone, because otherwise, The Czarina and I would drive each other bonkers. We need referees when we hang out.
The good news is, she wants to buy me some stuff for my house. And I think (fingers crossed, people!) that I can talk her into giving me some money for my NYC trip. Because, if she doesn't, I might have to dig through NYC garbage cans to find something to eat. Oh well. It will be good for the diet if I don't eat for 5 days, right? Maybe I can just eat hot dogs from those street vendors.....
Where was I? Oh yes. The Czarina is coming, with her best friend and my little sister in tow. She hasn't been to Columbia since the day I moved here, 5 years ago, almost to the day. She finally gets to see my house. We will be decorating mi casa, which is nice. We will be visiting some local historic homes and dining out at some of my favorite restaurants, like this one and this one. They will get to meet my coworkers and some of my friends. I think I will give them a little tour of my favorite spots in town. I am thinking we should probably hit the Columbia Museum of Art, since they just got a couple of Renoirs on loan from Chicago, and they have recently expanded their late-Renaissance Dutch painting collection.
And what are my favorite kinds of paintings?????
Anything by Renoir and anything Dutch.
In order to prepare for their visit, I have to take deep breaths, have a cigarette binge, practice nodding my head and saying, "Yes, Mom, you are absolutely right!" and clean my room. I have also stocked up on The Czarina's favorite diet foods:
Eggbeaters
apples
low-fat cheddar cheese
diet tonic water
oatmeal
low-fat cottage cheese
whole wheat bread
bagged lettuce
Ugh. No wonder she's always so cranky. Wouldn't you be, if that was what you ate, 90% of the time? And she wonders why I cannot lose weight. It's because I'd rather be fat than eat that stuff, day in and day out. But this topic deserves its own post, so I will stop there with that little difference in opinion between mother and daughter.
Which reminds me......I need to hide all my "bad" stuff: twizzlers, oreos, birth control pills, ashtray & cigarettes....what am I forgetting?? Oh, those condoms in my purse....which were actually a gag gift, I swear on all things holy......I know you don't believe me, but they were. I just laughed at my friend W's joke and absent-mindedly stuck them in my purse. Oh, come on! You have to believe me. Like I'd even get a chance to use those things, at the rate I'm going. [See paragraph about Cute Neighbor, above.]
The Czarina will be here tomorrow afternoon. So I don't know how often I'll be able to post until she leaves on Sunday. This long-ass, rambling post will probably have to do ya for a few days.
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