Oh, such a good mail day. Let's recap:
1.) My (Moroccan) print. I'm a wee bit disappointed that it looks slightly darker than it did online, but that is of course the chance you take going on monitor colors. I think framed and matted it'll be more than fine.
2.) My new bra. This actually wasn't in the mail; Nordstrom uses DHL, not low-rent delivery services like the US Post or FedEx*. My dad found the box at the front door and was somewhat distressed at its lack of weight. He was concerned that someone might have stolen my merchandise--I mean, are we trusting the lazy soccer moms parked at the corner?*--but reassured on learning that big box did in fact contain the 2 oz of lingerie it was supposed to. (Then we had to have a lovely talk about why I can't buy bras at "that store up the street you like", i.e. the Tarzhay.)
3.) My EW with Christina Hendricks (as Joan Holloway of Mad Men) looking smoking hot on the cover. Smoking hot. The red hair, the red nails, and, ooo, that yellow shift. I want that dress. And the underwear that goes with it. You'll remember the bullet bra discussion that started me talking about my underwear, real and imagined, in here? Joan Holloway/Christina Hendricks is rocking that bra, obviously. It's drool-worthy. She's drool-worthy. Go seek it out on the newsstand if you haven't seen it.
xoxo
*These are tongue-in-cheek remarks. I don't really think Nordstrom thinks they're too good to use FedEx or that the soccer moms are really larcenous as well as walking-averse. Just in case that wasn't crystal clear. Cheers, thanks a lot.
Friday, May 30, 2008
tongue in cheek
Okay, so it's come to my consciousness that of late at least three people have, on different occasions, taken seriously things I have said totally ironically, humorously, or tongue-in-cheek. It's happened in writing, and it's happened face to face. It's happened with people who know me well, really well, or fairly well.
It's starting to freak me out a little.
Either I need to get help with my comedic timing, or I need to start using more emoticons in my writing and/or start poking people and saying, "That was a joke, ok?"
(Since neither of those things is likely to happen, just assume everything that comes out of my mouth or typing fingers is meant non-sincerely. Including this. Oh, crap, now see, that won't work. Sigh.)
xoxo
It's starting to freak me out a little.
Either I need to get help with my comedic timing, or I need to start using more emoticons in my writing and/or start poking people and saying, "That was a joke, ok?"
(Since neither of those things is likely to happen, just assume everything that comes out of my mouth or typing fingers is meant non-sincerely. Including this. Oh, crap, now see, that won't work. Sigh.)
xoxo
Thursday, May 29, 2008
and an underwear update
I bought a half-price Wacoal online at the Nordstrom half-yearly sale, and even with the ridiculous $8 shipping and the fact it's a funky color, it's quite the bargain. And, according to my e-mail, it has shipped.
Just thought you'd want to know. Ahahaha.
/non-substantive posts for may 29/
xoxo
Just thought you'd want to know. Ahahaha.
/non-substantive posts for may 29/
xoxo
gosling update
D and I saw the geesies crossing the street this morning. In the freaking crosswalk. I almost, but not quite, died of the cuteness.
This almost, but not quite, made up for the toilet overflowing at 7am.
xoxo
This almost, but not quite, made up for the toilet overflowing at 7am.
xoxo
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
ms malevolent's neighborhood
Ms Malevolent wears cardigans too, and would probably play with puppets if given half a chance, but that's all Mr Rodgers and I have in common.
I live on a deadend street, or as we say when we're being klassy, a cul de sac. The corner of my street is a school bus stop. Every school day, come about 2 pm, there are two or three cars in park at the bottom of the street near the corner, waiting for the school bus. And every time I see them, I think, as you do, WTF?
My own opinion, and you know I have one, is that if you are home during the day and you have a working vehicle, you could drive the mile to the elementary school and pick your little angel up yourself, and save my freaking tax dollars. You'd also be saving your own time, because while you're sitting there at the end of my street for ten minutes or more waiting for the bus to show, you could already be at the school and on your way. OTOH, if you prefer to save your gas (which is understandable, perhaps even admirable), you could, oh--and this is a radical suggestion, I know--walk the effin two or three or four blocks to the bus stop to meet your child, especially on a 60 degree afternoon in May when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping.
Now, a more charitable person than I might suggest that these people waiting by the bus stop in their cars might be elderly grandparents picking up the kiddos for their working parents, and thus not easily able to walk a few blocks and better kept from driving on the main streets anyway. That charitable person would be incorrect. I scoped them out today as I passed. Soccer-mom-types, all of 'em.
I told you yesterday. I'm sadly judgmental.
But they're lazy.
Which is worse? (Don't answer that.)
xoxo
I live on a deadend street, or as we say when we're being klassy, a cul de sac. The corner of my street is a school bus stop. Every school day, come about 2 pm, there are two or three cars in park at the bottom of the street near the corner, waiting for the school bus. And every time I see them, I think, as you do, WTF?
My own opinion, and you know I have one, is that if you are home during the day and you have a working vehicle, you could drive the mile to the elementary school and pick your little angel up yourself, and save my freaking tax dollars. You'd also be saving your own time, because while you're sitting there at the end of my street for ten minutes or more waiting for the bus to show, you could already be at the school and on your way. OTOH, if you prefer to save your gas (which is understandable, perhaps even admirable), you could, oh--and this is a radical suggestion, I know--walk the effin two or three or four blocks to the bus stop to meet your child, especially on a 60 degree afternoon in May when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping.
Now, a more charitable person than I might suggest that these people waiting by the bus stop in their cars might be elderly grandparents picking up the kiddos for their working parents, and thus not easily able to walk a few blocks and better kept from driving on the main streets anyway. That charitable person would be incorrect. I scoped them out today as I passed. Soccer-mom-types, all of 'em.
I told you yesterday. I'm sadly judgmental.
But they're lazy.
Which is worse? (Don't answer that.)
xoxo
out.of.touch.
So, D's flipping through the TV channels and they're playing videos on Fuse. "Californication," to be exact. I ask him to leave it on until it's done, because, like any right-thinking individual (okay, any right-thinking het woman or gay guy), I never pass up an opportunity to look at Anthony Kiedis shirtless.
If you haven't seen it, the Californication video features the Chili Peppers being turned into digitized versions of themselves and going on a video game adventure. I watch it for a minute or two and I say to D, "They should have that, where you could put your picture into the game and have your little character actually be you. That'd be cool."
He gives me a look reminiscent of the whole silver purse incident and says, "They do." And starts explaining it to me.
"Shows what I know," I say, cracking up.
Just when you think you have your finger on the pulse of pop culture, you are rudely slapped down. (And just when you think you can use metaphors, you realize you mix them horribly. Ahem.)
xoxo
If you haven't seen it, the Californication video features the Chili Peppers being turned into digitized versions of themselves and going on a video game adventure. I watch it for a minute or two and I say to D, "They should have that, where you could put your picture into the game and have your little character actually be you. That'd be cool."
He gives me a look reminiscent of the whole silver purse incident and says, "They do." And starts explaining it to me.
"Shows what I know," I say, cracking up.
Just when you think you have your finger on the pulse of pop culture, you are rudely slapped down. (And just when you think you can use metaphors, you realize you mix them horribly. Ahem.)
xoxo
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
books, covers
L came to visit this weekend, and among other things, we discussed the fact that we've been friends for almost 32 years. That's longer than most marriages last, we joked, and certainly the traditional marriage vows apply: richer and poorer, in sickness and in health. I could get sappily sentimental about what a blessing it is to have a friendship of such long duration, but that's not why I'm here.
There's a dress, a summer dress, hanging in my closet with the tags still attached, the weather having not cooperated hereforeto with its being donned, and L was admiring it. "Tarzhay," I told her, and later, when we were in Tarzhay picking up beach supplies, "See! There's my dress." She picked it up in the store for a closer look, still admiring, but asked, "Doesn't that make you look bigger?" I honestly didn't know what she was talking about. "These dresses with the empire waists...don't they make your boobs look bigger?" I assured her I had *no problem* with that. It's kind of symbolic of the difference between us. It wouldn't even ever occur to me to try to hide or even downplay the boobage.
A few years ago I inadvertently hurt L's feelings by saying how glad I was we had met as teenagers, because I didn't think if we met now, we'd become friends, at least not the intimate kind of friends we are now. I tried to dig myself out of that hole by explaining--and this is true--that if I met her now, I would wrongly consider her to be conservative or conventional or uptight and think that if she got to know anything about me beyond the surface level, she would disapprove. And nothing could be further from the truth. While she is on some levels conservative or conventional, she is also the single most open minded and nonjudgmental person I know. (Certainly less judgmental than me, considering that *I* would wrongly extrapolate from her turtlenecks and sensible shoes, church attendance and non-drinking, that she would be horrified by how I live my life.)
Okay, so that is a blessing of our friendship. (She said sappily.) Not just that we can and do tell each other almost everything, without fear of disapproval, but that over the years we've learned stuff from each other. And one of the things I've learned from her, one of the things I continue to learn from her, is to be careful not to ascribe attitudes to people based on my own little stereotypes.
I love you, L.
xoxo
There's a dress, a summer dress, hanging in my closet with the tags still attached, the weather having not cooperated hereforeto with its being donned, and L was admiring it. "Tarzhay," I told her, and later, when we were in Tarzhay picking up beach supplies, "See! There's my dress." She picked it up in the store for a closer look, still admiring, but asked, "Doesn't that make you look bigger?" I honestly didn't know what she was talking about. "These dresses with the empire waists...don't they make your boobs look bigger?" I assured her I had *no problem* with that. It's kind of symbolic of the difference between us. It wouldn't even ever occur to me to try to hide or even downplay the boobage.
A few years ago I inadvertently hurt L's feelings by saying how glad I was we had met as teenagers, because I didn't think if we met now, we'd become friends, at least not the intimate kind of friends we are now. I tried to dig myself out of that hole by explaining--and this is true--that if I met her now, I would wrongly consider her to be conservative or conventional or uptight and think that if she got to know anything about me beyond the surface level, she would disapprove. And nothing could be further from the truth. While she is on some levels conservative or conventional, she is also the single most open minded and nonjudgmental person I know. (Certainly less judgmental than me, considering that *I* would wrongly extrapolate from her turtlenecks and sensible shoes, church attendance and non-drinking, that she would be horrified by how I live my life.)
Okay, so that is a blessing of our friendship. (She said sappily.) Not just that we can and do tell each other almost everything, without fear of disapproval, but that over the years we've learned stuff from each other. And one of the things I've learned from her, one of the things I continue to learn from her, is to be careful not to ascribe attitudes to people based on my own little stereotypes.
I love you, L.
xoxo
this weekend, I
1.) was attacked by the killer inchworms, but did not end up encased in a giant cocoon
2.) was mistaken for half of a lesbian couple by an extremely pregnant Italian mattress saleswoman
3.) got a wee little bit of sun on me despite the spf 30, proving I am the whitest white woman in North America
4.) bought a coaster with a photo of some '70s parents on it and the caption, "You kids put down that homework. These cocktails aren't going to refill themselves, you know." because alcoholism and child abuse are funny
5.) neglected my blog shamefully
xoxo
2.) was mistaken for half of a lesbian couple by an extremely pregnant Italian mattress saleswoman
3.) got a wee little bit of sun on me despite the spf 30, proving I am the whitest white woman in North America
4.) bought a coaster with a photo of some '70s parents on it and the caption, "You kids put down that homework. These cocktails aren't going to refill themselves, you know." because alcoholism and child abuse are funny
5.) neglected my blog shamefully
xoxo
Friday, May 23, 2008
today's fashion advice
I mean, besides the "don't go sockless with loafers, guys, lest you look douchey" thing.
You all know that, despite my ranking on Possibly Irish Danny's hideous neck tattoo and the bodyart of various members of the Cleveland Cavaliers, I do like me an attractive tattoo or three or twenty. When I see strangers in public with art I think is fab, I need to restrain myself from telling them so. And when I see someone with half- or full sleeves, I have to admire it and/or them. That's dedication, a serious investment of money, time, and, yeah, pain. Of course, as a woman, it's kind of hard to pull off. You need a certain vibe, Amy Winehouse-esque perhaps, where you know, completely, down in your bones, just how you want to look.
And part of that is giving up certain other things.
I just saw a picture of a woman with close-to-half-sleeves wearing a busily patterned short sleeve top. To quote another website: oh, honey, no.
I admire your dedication to your bodyart. Now couple it with a dedication to wearing solid colors and we're golden.
xoxo
You all know that, despite my ranking on Possibly Irish Danny's hideous neck tattoo and the bodyart of various members of the Cleveland Cavaliers, I do like me an attractive tattoo or three or twenty. When I see strangers in public with art I think is fab, I need to restrain myself from telling them so. And when I see someone with half- or full sleeves, I have to admire it and/or them. That's dedication, a serious investment of money, time, and, yeah, pain. Of course, as a woman, it's kind of hard to pull off. You need a certain vibe, Amy Winehouse-esque perhaps, where you know, completely, down in your bones, just how you want to look.
And part of that is giving up certain other things.
I just saw a picture of a woman with close-to-half-sleeves wearing a busily patterned short sleeve top. To quote another website: oh, honey, no.
I admire your dedication to your bodyart. Now couple it with a dedication to wearing solid colors and we're golden.
xoxo
odds and ends for Friday
1.) Okay, I've resisted this long, but no. I can't let the weekend begin without blogging on this matter. I am weak.
So, here's the thing. Bill Belichick and his "galpal" Linda Holliday were in attendance at Tuesday night's Celtics game, leading to an appearance in Wednesday morning's paper. Now, I'm not going to link to said photo, because the majority of you have either come across it on your own, or looked at it because I've *already forced you to.* But, if you haven't, let me say this about Ms Holliday (who I'm sure is probably a lovely person when you get to know her): the inelegant but probably apt phrase "rode hard and put away wet" comes to mind. As does the term skanktacular. And, Bill? Wearing loafers without socks, he was. Could someone just whisper in his ear that his chance to be an extra on the Sopranos has come and, sadly, gone? It was a fairly hilarious photo, proving once again what we all know: money can't buy taste, yo.
So, the one upside I was willing to concede was that at least Billy was dating in his own age group, not trying to bag the stereotypical trophy chicks fifteen or twenty years his junior, because my guess of Ms Holliday's age was approximately 52 (while trying to look 35). However, my amazing google-fu tells me that she is--wait for it--43. As in, two years younger than your malevolent correspondent. I must say, shallowly, that this made me immediately gratified about my own skincare regime and/or genetics. Because, 43? That woman has more neck rings than a sequoia.
And then, my amazing google-fu led me to some shocked gossip column news that both Ms Holliday and Ms Sherocca (i.e. the NJ woman at whose divorce trial Billy almost had to testify, because apparently he's been banging her for years, as well as, like, buying her apartments and sending her cash) attended the Super Bowl. Shocked because, you know, it's absolutely inconceivable that both women should know about each other and be okay with it. Ahem.
God bless America. And stay away from the tanning beds.
2.) I've been looking at more possible art on etsy and this has brought to my attention an interesting realization or two. First of all, apparently I like photography more than any other art form. I don't think I would have or could have articulated that before, but over and over again I keep going back to look at photos. Secondly, almost all the photos that really draw me in have a door or gate or window or courtyard/alley/hallway or stairway theme. Something about entrances or blocked entrances give me--and this is going to make me sound like even more of a whack job than I usually do--a funny flutter in my stomach, an unsettled feeling. It's maybe an echo of childhood, because I remember as a kid being fascinated by the idea of books like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. That you could go into a closet and come out somewhere else--it was alluring and horrifying at the same time, and I wanted it to be true. There are certain photos that invoke in me that same unsettled but attracted feeling. And I like them.
3.) There was something else that was supposed to go here, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. That's what happens when I'm distracted from important things like writing blog entries by, y'know, work. But just pretend I said something fascinating and amusing.
xoxo
So, here's the thing. Bill Belichick and his "galpal" Linda Holliday were in attendance at Tuesday night's Celtics game, leading to an appearance in Wednesday morning's paper. Now, I'm not going to link to said photo, because the majority of you have either come across it on your own, or looked at it because I've *already forced you to.* But, if you haven't, let me say this about Ms Holliday (who I'm sure is probably a lovely person when you get to know her): the inelegant but probably apt phrase "rode hard and put away wet" comes to mind. As does the term skanktacular. And, Bill? Wearing loafers without socks, he was. Could someone just whisper in his ear that his chance to be an extra on the Sopranos has come and, sadly, gone? It was a fairly hilarious photo, proving once again what we all know: money can't buy taste, yo.
So, the one upside I was willing to concede was that at least Billy was dating in his own age group, not trying to bag the stereotypical trophy chicks fifteen or twenty years his junior, because my guess of Ms Holliday's age was approximately 52 (while trying to look 35). However, my amazing google-fu tells me that she is--wait for it--43. As in, two years younger than your malevolent correspondent. I must say, shallowly, that this made me immediately gratified about my own skincare regime and/or genetics. Because, 43? That woman has more neck rings than a sequoia.
And then, my amazing google-fu led me to some shocked gossip column news that both Ms Holliday and Ms Sherocca (i.e. the NJ woman at whose divorce trial Billy almost had to testify, because apparently he's been banging her for years, as well as, like, buying her apartments and sending her cash) attended the Super Bowl. Shocked because, you know, it's absolutely inconceivable that both women should know about each other and be okay with it. Ahem.
God bless America. And stay away from the tanning beds.
2.) I've been looking at more possible art on etsy and this has brought to my attention an interesting realization or two. First of all, apparently I like photography more than any other art form. I don't think I would have or could have articulated that before, but over and over again I keep going back to look at photos. Secondly, almost all the photos that really draw me in have a door or gate or window or courtyard/alley/hallway or stairway theme. Something about entrances or blocked entrances give me--and this is going to make me sound like even more of a whack job than I usually do--a funny flutter in my stomach, an unsettled feeling. It's maybe an echo of childhood, because I remember as a kid being fascinated by the idea of books like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. That you could go into a closet and come out somewhere else--it was alluring and horrifying at the same time, and I wanted it to be true. There are certain photos that invoke in me that same unsettled but attracted feeling. And I like them.
3.) There was something else that was supposed to go here, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. That's what happens when I'm distracted from important things like writing blog entries by, y'know, work. But just pretend I said something fascinating and amusing.
xoxo
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
$367.50
That's what it costs to replace a sliding glass door. In case it comes up in conversation or anything.
xoxo
xoxo
Sunday, May 18, 2008
sad disappointments
I have two.
1.) That they had to give Eric Gagne ::spit:: his World Series ring. What did they say when they presented it? "Thanks for all your 'help' in getting us to the playoffs"? "Here's your World Series ring, even though you weren't allowed to throw a pitch in it since Tito isn't a complete moron"? "Thanks for not pitching in the World Series, we appreciate it"? The mind boggles.
2.) I was looking at more photographic prints on Etsy and came across one entitled "Harem Window." It's the view from a gated harem window at Topkapi Palace. I would want this so much. Except, it turns out it's ugly and badly composed. *I* could do better than that, and I take crap pictures. (And I mean, cut people's heads off level of crap pictures.) See, judge for yourself: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=8617865
Why must they taunt me like this, promising something I need to have and then pulling it away with its lameness?
I would discuss other decorating links, but they have not proved to be sad disappointments yet, and so would be off-topic. Marvel at my self-discipline.
xoxo
1.) That they had to give Eric Gagne ::spit:: his World Series ring. What did they say when they presented it? "Thanks for all your 'help' in getting us to the playoffs"? "Here's your World Series ring, even though you weren't allowed to throw a pitch in it since Tito isn't a complete moron"? "Thanks for not pitching in the World Series, we appreciate it"? The mind boggles.
2.) I was looking at more photographic prints on Etsy and came across one entitled "Harem Window." It's the view from a gated harem window at Topkapi Palace. I would want this so much. Except, it turns out it's ugly and badly composed. *I* could do better than that, and I take crap pictures. (And I mean, cut people's heads off level of crap pictures.) See, judge for yourself: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=8617865
Why must they taunt me like this, promising something I need to have and then pulling it away with its lameness?
I would discuss other decorating links, but they have not proved to be sad disappointments yet, and so would be off-topic. Marvel at my self-discipline.
xoxo
Saturday, May 17, 2008
decorating ideas
As you know if you've been paying attention, I want to redecorate, and it appears I am starting with my bedroom. I have my fabulous bed in there, which I definitely would not want to replace, though it could probably use a new box spring, one of my past cats (not Evil Kitty) having made a hole in the underside of it so as to get into it to sleep. One of the canopy bars on it is also slightly bent, thanks to the human child having hung off of it in pull-up position at an age when he really should have known better and a weight which was apparently just a bit too heavy. (Oh, they have laws against child abuse. I couldn't actually beat him, though I did think about it fondly.) But other than those slight problems, my bed rocks and I love it.
I have a lime-greenish comforter (which is another similarity to that photo I bought!) and the two sets of sheets I use most often are 1.) dark brown leopard print, which looks surprisingly lovely with the lime green and 2.) off-white with bright tropical-colored fruit on it, including the same color green. I have sheer curtains which are sort of plum (?). I have my amazing desk that I painted gold like C3P0 last autumn. The desk chair is slipcovered in a goldish (much yellower than the desk color) velvet; unfortunately the slipcover doesn't fit well, because it's an extra wide dining/desk chair. Also unfortunately, the original upholstered seat of the chair is stained beyond help, hence the ill-fitting slipcover.
All the other visible wood furniture (two tables and a trunk/chest) is the same color the desk was before I painted it--that very light, whitewashed look. I have a small bureau that's much darker, but it's actually inside one of the closets. (I'm thinking the tables and chest should be painted too, but I'm not sure if even *I* can live with three pieces of gold furniture in the same room. I might need to decoupage them to tone it down.) I have a floor lamp that is black wrought-iron-looking like the bed. It definitely needs shade help. I have one--count 'em--picture on the wall, a framed three-dimensional looking photo, gate-themed. Obviously I can't adequately describe it. The only object d'art that absolutely needs to stay displayed is a tiny gilded glass stoppered bottle, which looks as if a genie should live in it, and which was given to me by a friend for my 41st birthday for just that reason.
We won't discuss the corner that is The Graveyard of Computer Equipment That Has Died, nor the shoebox filing system, nor the $5 CD tower that doesn't really have any CDs in it any more, nor the two clear plastic storage tubs full of clothes that will never fit me again.
We will discuss a few hideous things that do not involve my inability to purge junk properly. There's the carpet which I cannot afford to rip up. It's from the 80s. It's some nondescript earth tone, goldish brownish beigish. It's seen better days and it was always ugly. The 80s were not a good design period. The walls are off-white and dingy. The ceiling is white and dingy. The closet doors are ugly louvered folding things; I don't know how to categorize wood tones, but it's reddish (cherry?). The woodwork is similar.
I am thinking that besides painting and decoupaging the furniture, adding wall art, and getting a new shade for the lamp, I really ought to paint the walls. The last time I considered that, I was thinking earth tones, because what the hell else will blend with the ugly carpet and woodwork? But I am so over the bland earth tone thing after living in this 80s house for 13 years, lemme tell you. My gold desk has helped liberate me.
So I've been looking at other people's decorating projects on the internet, and I came across this : http://norrishomeprojects.blogspot.com/2008/04/master-bedroom.html
I would never have believed *black walls* would look so awesome, but there you are. I think that's a gorgeous room, though it's too glam and deco to work for my particular style. It has me considering dark walls, though. And, y'know, I like my bedroom to be cave-like. None of this "shades thrown open to let the early morning sun in" for me. I'm thinking, gold desk, lime comforter, plum curtains--the walls ought to be...purple!
Except that in 1981, before there was even Goth, my cousin had dark purple bedroom walls and I'm not sure I can get past my association with "depressed teenager who dyes her hair black." That's not the look I'm going for either. So, wall color suggestions cheerfully entertained! Maybe a reddish-plum color? Or would that be like sleeping in a giant welt?
This non-boring non-earth-toned crap is hard, man.
xoxo
I have a lime-greenish comforter (which is another similarity to that photo I bought!) and the two sets of sheets I use most often are 1.) dark brown leopard print, which looks surprisingly lovely with the lime green and 2.) off-white with bright tropical-colored fruit on it, including the same color green. I have sheer curtains which are sort of plum (?). I have my amazing desk that I painted gold like C3P0 last autumn. The desk chair is slipcovered in a goldish (much yellower than the desk color) velvet; unfortunately the slipcover doesn't fit well, because it's an extra wide dining/desk chair. Also unfortunately, the original upholstered seat of the chair is stained beyond help, hence the ill-fitting slipcover.
All the other visible wood furniture (two tables and a trunk/chest) is the same color the desk was before I painted it--that very light, whitewashed look. I have a small bureau that's much darker, but it's actually inside one of the closets. (I'm thinking the tables and chest should be painted too, but I'm not sure if even *I* can live with three pieces of gold furniture in the same room. I might need to decoupage them to tone it down.) I have a floor lamp that is black wrought-iron-looking like the bed. It definitely needs shade help. I have one--count 'em--picture on the wall, a framed three-dimensional looking photo, gate-themed. Obviously I can't adequately describe it. The only object d'art that absolutely needs to stay displayed is a tiny gilded glass stoppered bottle, which looks as if a genie should live in it, and which was given to me by a friend for my 41st birthday for just that reason.
We won't discuss the corner that is The Graveyard of Computer Equipment That Has Died, nor the shoebox filing system, nor the $5 CD tower that doesn't really have any CDs in it any more, nor the two clear plastic storage tubs full of clothes that will never fit me again.
We will discuss a few hideous things that do not involve my inability to purge junk properly. There's the carpet which I cannot afford to rip up. It's from the 80s. It's some nondescript earth tone, goldish brownish beigish. It's seen better days and it was always ugly. The 80s were not a good design period. The walls are off-white and dingy. The ceiling is white and dingy. The closet doors are ugly louvered folding things; I don't know how to categorize wood tones, but it's reddish (cherry?). The woodwork is similar.
I am thinking that besides painting and decoupaging the furniture, adding wall art, and getting a new shade for the lamp, I really ought to paint the walls. The last time I considered that, I was thinking earth tones, because what the hell else will blend with the ugly carpet and woodwork? But I am so over the bland earth tone thing after living in this 80s house for 13 years, lemme tell you. My gold desk has helped liberate me.
So I've been looking at other people's decorating projects on the internet, and I came across this : http://norrishomeprojects.blogspot.com/2008/04/master-bedroom.html
I would never have believed *black walls* would look so awesome, but there you are. I think that's a gorgeous room, though it's too glam and deco to work for my particular style. It has me considering dark walls, though. And, y'know, I like my bedroom to be cave-like. None of this "shades thrown open to let the early morning sun in" for me. I'm thinking, gold desk, lime comforter, plum curtains--the walls ought to be...purple!
Except that in 1981, before there was even Goth, my cousin had dark purple bedroom walls and I'm not sure I can get past my association with "depressed teenager who dyes her hair black." That's not the look I'm going for either. So, wall color suggestions cheerfully entertained! Maybe a reddish-plum color? Or would that be like sleeping in a giant welt?
This non-boring non-earth-toned crap is hard, man.
xoxo
U R hot
So yesterday I heard, several times, a teaser for one of the stories on Fox25 news at ten. (Imagine Voice O' Doom) How your high-tech devices can be used against you in divorce court!
Being, y'know, not presently married, I didn't think that it was applicable--though maybe I ought to be taking notes for when I hook up with the grandfather of my future step-grandchildren, forewarned being forearmed and all, haha--but it gave me that sense of disgusted amusement all such teasers do. You know, the ones about how my purse is trying to kill me or how sex offenders are working at my local McDonalds right now and doing unspeakable things to the Special Sauce. It's the Voice O' Doom that really sells it.
Nevertheless, I did not in fact turn on the 10 o'clock news to watch this riveting story. I may actually have been asleep by ten. (I put on all fresh bedding last evening and that always leads to a delightful night's slumber.) I think, however, that I can give you all a tip about high-tech devices and divorce court that will be as crucial to your lives as anything you'd see on local news.
Do not, repeat do not, text your former spouse's lawyer "U R hot" from the other side of the courtroom. Even if they are. This can only lead to trouble.
You're welcome!
xoxo
Being, y'know, not presently married, I didn't think that it was applicable--though maybe I ought to be taking notes for when I hook up with the grandfather of my future step-grandchildren, forewarned being forearmed and all, haha--but it gave me that sense of disgusted amusement all such teasers do. You know, the ones about how my purse is trying to kill me or how sex offenders are working at my local McDonalds right now and doing unspeakable things to the Special Sauce. It's the Voice O' Doom that really sells it.
Nevertheless, I did not in fact turn on the 10 o'clock news to watch this riveting story. I may actually have been asleep by ten. (I put on all fresh bedding last evening and that always leads to a delightful night's slumber.) I think, however, that I can give you all a tip about high-tech devices and divorce court that will be as crucial to your lives as anything you'd see on local news.
Do not, repeat do not, text your former spouse's lawyer "U R hot" from the other side of the courtroom. Even if they are. This can only lead to trouble.
You're welcome!
xoxo
Thursday, May 15, 2008
more misc.
1.) I'm thinking about buying this print to hang in my bedroom. The artist is Irina Souiki, and her Etsy shop is StillMemory. The actual bed in it looks very much like my bed, except I don't have the beautiful bed curtains, so I think it would look really interesting and pretty in my room. I have this impulse to redecorate in small ways, probably because I'm discouraged by the fact that I don't have the money right now to do the things that really need to be done, like, y'know, rip out and replace all the disgusting original carpeting, or buy a new couch and loveseat for the downstairs. A thirty dollar print will make me feel better, right?
2.) Today is the two year anniversary. I guess I'm the kind of person who keeps track of things like that, for good or for ill. It's made me think about, if not dwell on, certain feelings I have about D and his illness.
Here's the thing. In most ways he's doing okay. Certainly he's completely compliant with his treatment, and I have no worries about that, something which many, many (if not most) parents in my position cannot say. So that's a comfort. I see incremental signs of improvement, as tiny and slow as they may be. So that's a comfort too. But it's still impossible for me to not be on my guard.
Example. D takes fish oil for his cholesterol, as well as for the reputed neurological benefits. Can't hurt, in any case. Well, for Christmas, as one of his stocking stuffers, I got him a bottle of Omega 3s from Trader Joe's. A month or two ago, he said to me, kind of out of the blue, that he thought he should only take the Trader Joe's ones from now on. And couldn't or wouldn't articulate why. When I went to replace them, Trader Joe's didn't have the exact same ones, so I bought what I thought was a reasonable substitution. He then went on the internet and searched until he found some that, while not Trader Joe's, were apparently exactly the same formulation, and mail-ordered them. It's really hard for me not to see this as some kind of disordered or compulsive thinking, and to be worried about it. And I couldn't tell you why.
Another example. About two and a half weeks ago, I woke up to find that he had done something that I had to consider Not Right, something reminiscent of some behavior he'd had when he was in psychotic mania. On top of that, he had a piece of paper he'd written some definitions of things on, which he didn't want me to see, and which was, again, reminiscent of past abnormal behavior. I was starting to feel upset, like "here we go again." I went online to check e-mail and there was e-mail from him. I was dreading opening it and it turned out to be...an lolcat, something he knew was going to crack me up. So, right back to Normal D from Possibly Sick D. I had to let go of my fears about the possibly-not-right behavior, but believe me, I've been watching.
The balance between possibly ignoring a relapse and being paranoid myself? Very fucking difficult.
xoxo
2.) Today is the two year anniversary. I guess I'm the kind of person who keeps track of things like that, for good or for ill. It's made me think about, if not dwell on, certain feelings I have about D and his illness.
Here's the thing. In most ways he's doing okay. Certainly he's completely compliant with his treatment, and I have no worries about that, something which many, many (if not most) parents in my position cannot say. So that's a comfort. I see incremental signs of improvement, as tiny and slow as they may be. So that's a comfort too. But it's still impossible for me to not be on my guard.
Example. D takes fish oil for his cholesterol, as well as for the reputed neurological benefits. Can't hurt, in any case. Well, for Christmas, as one of his stocking stuffers, I got him a bottle of Omega 3s from Trader Joe's. A month or two ago, he said to me, kind of out of the blue, that he thought he should only take the Trader Joe's ones from now on. And couldn't or wouldn't articulate why. When I went to replace them, Trader Joe's didn't have the exact same ones, so I bought what I thought was a reasonable substitution. He then went on the internet and searched until he found some that, while not Trader Joe's, were apparently exactly the same formulation, and mail-ordered them. It's really hard for me not to see this as some kind of disordered or compulsive thinking, and to be worried about it. And I couldn't tell you why.
Another example. About two and a half weeks ago, I woke up to find that he had done something that I had to consider Not Right, something reminiscent of some behavior he'd had when he was in psychotic mania. On top of that, he had a piece of paper he'd written some definitions of things on, which he didn't want me to see, and which was, again, reminiscent of past abnormal behavior. I was starting to feel upset, like "here we go again." I went online to check e-mail and there was e-mail from him. I was dreading opening it and it turned out to be...an lolcat, something he knew was going to crack me up. So, right back to Normal D from Possibly Sick D. I had to let go of my fears about the possibly-not-right behavior, but believe me, I've been watching.
The balance between possibly ignoring a relapse and being paranoid myself? Very fucking difficult.
xoxo
all apolog--, no wait, no apologies
I read a rant/plea the other day wherein a woman noted that on craft forums, people are apparently unable to post any pictures without apologizing for them. If it's not "here's the dress I made, it's kind of crappy," it's "I think this dress I made came out pretty well, even though I know it makes my arms look chunky" or "I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to fix my hair before I took a photo of me in the dress" or "please excuse the mess on my desk in the background" or "the dress came out great; I'm sorry I'm such a crap photographer that you can't really see it very well." The ranter was pleading with people to please stop apologizing for, apparently, existing.
I thought it was a good observation. But in retrospect I realized that we bloggers do the same thing, about our writing. I did it yesterday with my little disclaimer on how I knew my gosling story was going to be of interest to no one but myself. And I've certainly read plenty of other people saying things like, "I know I said I wouldn't talk about this any more, but..." or "I know that last tangent was of interest to no one but me" or "I'm sorry, I know this is probably TMI."
I know exactly where this impulse to apologize comes from. It's a defense mechanism, a way to deflect criticism. "I know my arms are chunky/my project isn't perfect/my room is too messy/my writing is boring; you can't hurt me by saying (or thinking!) so, because I already know it. So there. Nyah."
It used to be one of my big issues when I was younger, the impulse to worry and care about what other people thought of me and their perceived criticisms, warring with the impulse to say, "oh fuck you, who cares what you think?" (Which, as anyone who has a teenager or who has been a teenager knows, means that of course you care what they think.) I thought that this was one of the issues I'd more or less successfully worked on and dealt with, until a realization like this one comes along and smacks me upside the head. Oops. Perhaps not so in the past as I'd like to convince myself.
So! Dr Andrea's therapy for herself is, starting today? No more blog apologies and disclaimers. If it's boring, if it's repetitive, if it's TMI, well, so it is. If I write it, it's because I want to write it, and it's going to stand without hedging and qualifying and asking pardon.
xoxo
I thought it was a good observation. But in retrospect I realized that we bloggers do the same thing, about our writing. I did it yesterday with my little disclaimer on how I knew my gosling story was going to be of interest to no one but myself. And I've certainly read plenty of other people saying things like, "I know I said I wouldn't talk about this any more, but..." or "I know that last tangent was of interest to no one but me" or "I'm sorry, I know this is probably TMI."
I know exactly where this impulse to apologize comes from. It's a defense mechanism, a way to deflect criticism. "I know my arms are chunky/my project isn't perfect/my room is too messy/my writing is boring; you can't hurt me by saying (or thinking!) so, because I already know it. So there. Nyah."
It used to be one of my big issues when I was younger, the impulse to worry and care about what other people thought of me and their perceived criticisms, warring with the impulse to say, "oh fuck you, who cares what you think?" (Which, as anyone who has a teenager or who has been a teenager knows, means that of course you care what they think.) I thought that this was one of the issues I'd more or less successfully worked on and dealt with, until a realization like this one comes along and smacks me upside the head. Oops. Perhaps not so in the past as I'd like to convince myself.
So! Dr Andrea's therapy for herself is, starting today? No more blog apologies and disclaimers. If it's boring, if it's repetitive, if it's TMI, well, so it is. If I write it, it's because I want to write it, and it's going to stand without hedging and qualifying and asking pardon.
xoxo
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
signs of spring, redux
(This is post #367 of things that no one but me gives a crap about, but that I feel compelled to write anyway.)
There's a little pond near my house. I feel quite possessive of it, though I certainly don't own it and my house isn't actually on it. Nevertheless, I call it "my pond" and it makes a nice landmark to give people directions from. Pretty much every year some geese nest on it and have babies. And every year we see them walking on the residential street that runs behind it, the mommy and daddy and little goslings in a row, and sometimes across the main road on the other side, into the parking lot of the Dunkin' Donuts. So much so that a few years ago the city put up a waterfowl crossing sign (which delighted me), but even so, even when they stop traffic in both directions at 7:30 in the morning, I have never seen anyone react to them with anything but a smile. They are cuteness squared, and seeing them always makes my day.
Well, just a little bit ago I was taking a walk to the post office, and there they were, the first time this year! Four babies, still fuzzy, and the parents. I was so excited I had to whip out my cell phone and call home to tell D and my dad.
Yes, I am a big dork.
In other news? Chair massage, proven sleep enhancer. No, no, not getting one, watching one. I ordered a chair massage video off amazon, because honestly, that was a weak part of the curriculum at my school, and that's another way I'd like to possibly make some money. Well, it arrived in yesterday's mail and I was so excited, I decided to watch it before I started making dinner. I popped it into the DVD player in my bedroom, and in only a few minutes? Naptime. I watched a bit more when I finally woke up, but I saved most of it for later. At which point? Right to sleep.
I didn't actually think you were supposed to get that relaxed watching bodywork.
xoxo
There's a little pond near my house. I feel quite possessive of it, though I certainly don't own it and my house isn't actually on it. Nevertheless, I call it "my pond" and it makes a nice landmark to give people directions from. Pretty much every year some geese nest on it and have babies. And every year we see them walking on the residential street that runs behind it, the mommy and daddy and little goslings in a row, and sometimes across the main road on the other side, into the parking lot of the Dunkin' Donuts. So much so that a few years ago the city put up a waterfowl crossing sign (which delighted me), but even so, even when they stop traffic in both directions at 7:30 in the morning, I have never seen anyone react to them with anything but a smile. They are cuteness squared, and seeing them always makes my day.
Well, just a little bit ago I was taking a walk to the post office, and there they were, the first time this year! Four babies, still fuzzy, and the parents. I was so excited I had to whip out my cell phone and call home to tell D and my dad.
Yes, I am a big dork.
In other news? Chair massage, proven sleep enhancer. No, no, not getting one, watching one. I ordered a chair massage video off amazon, because honestly, that was a weak part of the curriculum at my school, and that's another way I'd like to possibly make some money. Well, it arrived in yesterday's mail and I was so excited, I decided to watch it before I started making dinner. I popped it into the DVD player in my bedroom, and in only a few minutes? Naptime. I watched a bit more when I finally woke up, but I saved most of it for later. At which point? Right to sleep.
I didn't actually think you were supposed to get that relaxed watching bodywork.
xoxo
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
after 3 or 4 weeks
...of it being really, really busy in work, I have hit a dead spot.
Thus, I give you: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LOLCat_Bible_Translation_Project
I am sure (sure sure sure sure) that this amuses me far more than it has any right to. From the book of John--
John teh Baptist Sez "I Iz Not Jebus!! No Wai!!11!!!1!!1!!
19 Jerusalem Sent Levites and Pretchers to John and sez "OMG! Who r u?"20 John says "Me no lyer, not Jebus, Ceiling Cats kitteh"
21 They asked him, "Who R u? R u Elijah?" He said, "Omg no!" "R u teh Profitz?" He sez, "WTF? Omg, No!"
22 Tehn they wuz, "LOL, so hoo ar you?"
23 John got all liek profit Isaiah LOL srsly, "O hai am liek gai talks in desert, 'Strayten up for Ceiling Cat but DO NOT USE vacuum!!!!1!' "
24 Pharisees sez,25 "Oh hai wai you washt ppl if no Christ or profit? NO LIKE WET FURZ!!1!"
26 John sez "Ai washt wit water (WTF???). But don no this won manz.27 Him folowz me. Ai no allowd to play wit hes shooz"
28 Wuz at Bethany. "
Now, seriously, I am going to go file my reports.
xoxo
Thus, I give you: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LOLCat_Bible_Translation_Project
I am sure (sure sure sure sure) that this amuses me far more than it has any right to. From the book of John--
John teh Baptist Sez "I Iz Not Jebus!! No Wai!!11!!!1!!1!!
19 Jerusalem Sent Levites and Pretchers to John and sez "OMG! Who r u?"20 John says "Me no lyer, not Jebus, Ceiling Cats kitteh"
21 They asked him, "Who R u? R u Elijah?" He said, "Omg no!" "R u teh Profitz?" He sez, "WTF? Omg, No!"
22 Tehn they wuz, "LOL, so hoo ar you?"
23 John got all liek profit Isaiah LOL srsly, "O hai am liek gai talks in desert, 'Strayten up for Ceiling Cat but DO NOT USE vacuum!!!!1!' "
24 Pharisees sez,25 "Oh hai wai you washt ppl if no Christ or profit? NO LIKE WET FURZ!!1!"
26 John sez "Ai washt wit water (WTF???). But don no this won manz.27 Him folowz me. Ai no allowd to play wit hes shooz"
28 Wuz at Bethany. "
Now, seriously, I am going to go file my reports.
xoxo
Monday, May 12, 2008
I suppose
...I should be writing about Julian Tavares being gone, Alex Cora being back, and Eric Gagne being demoted, since all y'all seem very excited by these developments. However, I think I have reached my baseball post quota for the month. And we're not even halfway through.
Plus I do need to save one for when Manny gets #500.
What I would really like to post is a picture of the tulips D gave me for Mother's Day, because they are the prettiest flowers ever. This , however,would require putting some batteries in my camera, if I in fact even have the right ones, and then finding the cable thingy (you like it when I talk all technical, doncha? don't lie) that plugs into my computer. So don't hold your breath. The flowers will be dead by the time that happens.
Of course, I could go work on that now, because ::ahem:: they're changing pitchers right now, Buchholz sucking really badly as he does. I knew I shouldn't have started talking Red Sox.
xoxo
Plus I do need to save one for when Manny gets #500.
What I would really like to post is a picture of the tulips D gave me for Mother's Day, because they are the prettiest flowers ever. This , however,would require putting some batteries in my camera, if I in fact even have the right ones, and then finding the cable thingy (you like it when I talk all technical, doncha? don't lie) that plugs into my computer. So don't hold your breath. The flowers will be dead by the time that happens.
Of course, I could go work on that now, because ::ahem:: they're changing pitchers right now, Buchholz sucking really badly as he does. I knew I shouldn't have started talking Red Sox.
xoxo
vegetable puzzlement
I don't know if you ever shop at Stop & Shop, but they have their own line of organic foods which they call Nature's Promise. Now, I am not overly concerned about buying organic (particularly because I cannot afford to buy all organic), but if the organic choice is comparable in price, I'll buy it. /disclaimer
So this week I happened to buy some Nature's Promise frozen veggies for the first time and Saturday night I cooked some up for dinner. And while they were cooking, I was idly reading the fine print on my Organic Mixed Vegetables. And I come across: product of China.
Are they serious? Am I the only one who finds this disturbing? What's probably even more disturbing is that these were damn good frozen vegetables. I would definitely buy them again on taste grounds. And now I want to go look at a bag of Bird's Eye or something and see where they come from. Maybe I have been feeding my family possibly contaminated vegetables for years without knowing it. I just never thought to check.
Screw this global economy crap.
xoxo
So this week I happened to buy some Nature's Promise frozen veggies for the first time and Saturday night I cooked some up for dinner. And while they were cooking, I was idly reading the fine print on my Organic Mixed Vegetables. And I come across: product of China.
Are they serious? Am I the only one who finds this disturbing? What's probably even more disturbing is that these were damn good frozen vegetables. I would definitely buy them again on taste grounds. And now I want to go look at a bag of Bird's Eye or something and see where they come from. Maybe I have been feeding my family possibly contaminated vegetables for years without knowing it. I just never thought to check.
Screw this global economy crap.
xoxo
Saturday, May 10, 2008
advertising hatred
I've been meaning to post this all week, since I see this commercial every single time I watch a Sox game, but then I get distracted.
You know those "let's vent" Coors commercials? In case you've been blissfully spared by the miracle of Tivo or something, guy gets a phone call from a friend and says to his wife/girlfriend, "So-n-so needs to vent." Wife/girlfriend is all, "Oh, yeah, you should be there for him." Cut to friend's apartment where bunch of guys are getting wasted on the new Coors from the vented can. Guy calls wife/girlfriend and tells her they're going to be venting a little longer.
Hate. So. Much. Hate.
First of all, I fail to understand how this "vent" is supposed to make that crappy-ass swill they're passing off as beer any better. Secondly, I could happily take the guy and his friend out with a semi-automatic, they're so annoying. But those are just minor points. My major problem is that this commercial shows me, once again, how apparently out of step I am with quote unquote normal middle-class American values and attitudes.
Seriously, it's 2008. Women are supposed to be somehow upset that their husbands or boyfriends have friends and want to hang out with them? It sounds like a bad sitcom plot from 1964. And then the husbands or boyfriends are supposed to, instead of acting in an adult manner and standing up for themselves, creatively lie to put one over on the woman, like eight year olds going behind mommy's back? And this is supposed to be amusing and cute or something? Jesus.
We're supposed to see being jealous and controlling and overly needy of your partner's attention (on the one hand) and being childish, dishonest, and game-playing (on the other) as normal behavior in a putatively loving relationship. Feh. I mean, I know, what we're supposed to do is buy beer that tastes like ass, but in order to get us to do that, they're assuming we identify with the people in their stoopid ads.
Well, I don't. And I weep that other people do. So there.
xoxo
You know those "let's vent" Coors commercials? In case you've been blissfully spared by the miracle of Tivo or something, guy gets a phone call from a friend and says to his wife/girlfriend, "So-n-so needs to vent." Wife/girlfriend is all, "Oh, yeah, you should be there for him." Cut to friend's apartment where bunch of guys are getting wasted on the new Coors from the vented can. Guy calls wife/girlfriend and tells her they're going to be venting a little longer.
Hate. So. Much. Hate.
First of all, I fail to understand how this "vent" is supposed to make that crappy-ass swill they're passing off as beer any better. Secondly, I could happily take the guy and his friend out with a semi-automatic, they're so annoying. But those are just minor points. My major problem is that this commercial shows me, once again, how apparently out of step I am with quote unquote normal middle-class American values and attitudes.
Seriously, it's 2008. Women are supposed to be somehow upset that their husbands or boyfriends have friends and want to hang out with them? It sounds like a bad sitcom plot from 1964. And then the husbands or boyfriends are supposed to, instead of acting in an adult manner and standing up for themselves, creatively lie to put one over on the woman, like eight year olds going behind mommy's back? And this is supposed to be amusing and cute or something? Jesus.
We're supposed to see being jealous and controlling and overly needy of your partner's attention (on the one hand) and being childish, dishonest, and game-playing (on the other) as normal behavior in a putatively loving relationship. Feh. I mean, I know, what we're supposed to do is buy beer that tastes like ass, but in order to get us to do that, they're assuming we identify with the people in their stoopid ads.
Well, I don't. And I weep that other people do. So there.
xoxo
perceiving patterns
I know that it is a truth of psychology and/or neurology that the human brain is predisposed to perceiving patterns if it's expecting them. Thus the old chestnut about deaths coming in threes. But, but, but...last summer when three of my friends had immediate family members die in the space of less than a month, it was three, not two, not four.
Yeah, I know.
But having (after all my recent musing on my own prospective funeral arrangements!) in the last two days, had news of my aunt-by-marriage's death and of the very-soon-to-occur demise of a former partner's dad, I have to tell you, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And hoping in a weird (and probably horrible way) that it'll be a former neighbor or a friend of a friend of a friend--you know, someone that I won't really grieve or that someone close to me won't really grieve, but that will satisfy the pattern. Because even though I know better, a primitive part of me thinks it's an immutable law of nature, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, or Papelbon protecting a lead.
Um, yeah. So maybe the shoe won't drop after all.
xoxo
Yeah, I know.
But having (after all my recent musing on my own prospective funeral arrangements!) in the last two days, had news of my aunt-by-marriage's death and of the very-soon-to-occur demise of a former partner's dad, I have to tell you, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And hoping in a weird (and probably horrible way) that it'll be a former neighbor or a friend of a friend of a friend--you know, someone that I won't really grieve or that someone close to me won't really grieve, but that will satisfy the pattern. Because even though I know better, a primitive part of me thinks it's an immutable law of nature, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, or Papelbon protecting a lead.
Um, yeah. So maybe the shoe won't drop after all.
xoxo
Friday, May 9, 2008
and another important question
Is anyone else having problems with blogger? It'll let me post, but it won't let me read my own frigging blog. Even after I cleared my cache.
My middle infielders aren't cooperating with me. Teh Internet isn't cooperating with me. It may just be time to go to bed.
xoxo
My middle infielders aren't cooperating with me. Teh Internet isn't cooperating with me. It may just be time to go to bed.
xoxo
julie, julie, julie
Are we quite sure it's too late to teach Jacoby to play SS? How the fuck much worse could he do?
xoxo
xoxo
Thursday, May 8, 2008
the opposite of
I have a feeling this is going to be a disjointed and rambling kind of post, because I'm trying to draw together some thoughts and feelings generated both by stuff I've written recently and stuff I've read. So mea culpa, in advance.
What I've been thinking about are the various opposites of happy. When you say that someone is unhappy, what shade of meaning are you using?
Just a little over two years ago, D went in the hospital for two and a half months. That summer I was definitely not happy. What I was, was scared and sad. I cried a lot when I wasn't numbing myself with baseball, music, or bad TV. I felt, literally, like my heart was breaking, a physical kind of pain. I took no pleasure in anything, other than little sudden bursts of hope and excitement when he seemed to be doing better or having a good day. I certainly didn't take physical pleasure in anything--I had no sex drive and eating was just to get through the day. But as soon as he really turned the corner, as soon as things started improving and stayed improved and he came home, I was filled immediately with joy. Some of you may just remember me announcing his discharge and posting the sentence "I'm a happy girl." And I was.
Then, of course, there have been the times in my life when I've been clinically depressed and thus not happy. As I've said before, depression is a very different feeling for me than sadness. It's an essential blackness and bleakness of spirit, a lack of hope, a feeling that everyone and everything sucks and always will. There's an overlay of anger to it for me, and an irritability that goes far beyond my usual baseline charming crankiness. Now, wiser with experience, and knowing it can be, for me, fixed by pharmacological and other means, I can recognize the very beginnings of it when they crop up: I hate everyone. Strangely though, I can feel pleasure, physical pleasure, when I'm depressed. I may not take joy in it, but food, sex, music, and other sensory delights can be appreciated on some level.
Then there's another not happy: discontent, disgruntlement. I look back at last summer, when I was working six days a week and yet still incredibly insecure about my financial situation, afraid I'd made a mistake accepting the massage job (and, oh yeah, did I ever...say it with me: bastards!) but trying hard to be hopeful and optimistic, with nothing really to complain about but yet...lacking in joy. I remember celebrating L's birthday last year. It was a Saturday afternoon in July. I had worked at the hospital in the morning, but she and I and her boyfriend were at one of the local beaches by midafternoon--sat in the sun, went in the water, talked and snacked and relaxed. Then we drove into the North End for dinner. After dinner, we walked to Mike's (of course!) and bought some pastries, and walked some more, down to one of the wharves, and sat on a bench, eating our desserts, talking and laughing, and just enjoying the beautiful summer night. And the whole time I had a semi-sick feeling in my stomach, because the next day, Sunday, was the beginning of a three day course that I'd been pressured into taking for the massage job, a course that would teach me technique I was not at all interested in learning, a course for which I was paying money I couldn't really afford to pay, a course that was also making me miss two days of income. I was trying hard not to be negative about it. But I just wasn't able to take the joy I should have in spending a gorgeous afternoon and evening with two people dear to me, celebrating a happy occasion. And yet?
I'm not sure I would have articulated that I was not happy. I was discontented, disgruntled. I almost couldn't recognize how not happy I was until the whole situation was over and I realized I'd spent the last 4 or 5 months taking almost no pleasure at all. It was almost more of a poisonous situation than sadness (which is an inevitable consequence of life and a kind of pain that illuminates just how wonderful joy is, when it ends) or depression (which, at least in my case, is just neurotransmitters needing tweaking). Like I said before, I think perhaps one of our reasons to be alive is to take pleasure and to feel moments of joy. Being discontented robs you of that and in a way that you might not even notice. It is, it's poisonous.
I will (and you will, too) always have sadness come and go in my life. I'll probably always have to be on guard for depression slipping in. But I hope to never be not happy in that discontented way again. If I'm alive to feel transient moments of joy and fleeting moments of great pleasure, then, damn, I'm going after them whenever they present themselves.
I do however retain the right to be charmingly cranky.
xoxo
What I've been thinking about are the various opposites of happy. When you say that someone is unhappy, what shade of meaning are you using?
Just a little over two years ago, D went in the hospital for two and a half months. That summer I was definitely not happy. What I was, was scared and sad. I cried a lot when I wasn't numbing myself with baseball, music, or bad TV. I felt, literally, like my heart was breaking, a physical kind of pain. I took no pleasure in anything, other than little sudden bursts of hope and excitement when he seemed to be doing better or having a good day. I certainly didn't take physical pleasure in anything--I had no sex drive and eating was just to get through the day. But as soon as he really turned the corner, as soon as things started improving and stayed improved and he came home, I was filled immediately with joy. Some of you may just remember me announcing his discharge and posting the sentence "I'm a happy girl." And I was.
Then, of course, there have been the times in my life when I've been clinically depressed and thus not happy. As I've said before, depression is a very different feeling for me than sadness. It's an essential blackness and bleakness of spirit, a lack of hope, a feeling that everyone and everything sucks and always will. There's an overlay of anger to it for me, and an irritability that goes far beyond my usual baseline charming crankiness. Now, wiser with experience, and knowing it can be, for me, fixed by pharmacological and other means, I can recognize the very beginnings of it when they crop up: I hate everyone. Strangely though, I can feel pleasure, physical pleasure, when I'm depressed. I may not take joy in it, but food, sex, music, and other sensory delights can be appreciated on some level.
Then there's another not happy: discontent, disgruntlement. I look back at last summer, when I was working six days a week and yet still incredibly insecure about my financial situation, afraid I'd made a mistake accepting the massage job (and, oh yeah, did I ever...say it with me: bastards!) but trying hard to be hopeful and optimistic, with nothing really to complain about but yet...lacking in joy. I remember celebrating L's birthday last year. It was a Saturday afternoon in July. I had worked at the hospital in the morning, but she and I and her boyfriend were at one of the local beaches by midafternoon--sat in the sun, went in the water, talked and snacked and relaxed. Then we drove into the North End for dinner. After dinner, we walked to Mike's (of course!) and bought some pastries, and walked some more, down to one of the wharves, and sat on a bench, eating our desserts, talking and laughing, and just enjoying the beautiful summer night. And the whole time I had a semi-sick feeling in my stomach, because the next day, Sunday, was the beginning of a three day course that I'd been pressured into taking for the massage job, a course that would teach me technique I was not at all interested in learning, a course for which I was paying money I couldn't really afford to pay, a course that was also making me miss two days of income. I was trying hard not to be negative about it. But I just wasn't able to take the joy I should have in spending a gorgeous afternoon and evening with two people dear to me, celebrating a happy occasion. And yet?
I'm not sure I would have articulated that I was not happy. I was discontented, disgruntled. I almost couldn't recognize how not happy I was until the whole situation was over and I realized I'd spent the last 4 or 5 months taking almost no pleasure at all. It was almost more of a poisonous situation than sadness (which is an inevitable consequence of life and a kind of pain that illuminates just how wonderful joy is, when it ends) or depression (which, at least in my case, is just neurotransmitters needing tweaking). Like I said before, I think perhaps one of our reasons to be alive is to take pleasure and to feel moments of joy. Being discontented robs you of that and in a way that you might not even notice. It is, it's poisonous.
I will (and you will, too) always have sadness come and go in my life. I'll probably always have to be on guard for depression slipping in. But I hope to never be not happy in that discontented way again. If I'm alive to feel transient moments of joy and fleeting moments of great pleasure, then, damn, I'm going after them whenever they present themselves.
I do however retain the right to be charmingly cranky.
xoxo
another piece
...in the Possibly Irish Danny puzzle! Another week, another sighting, and a very interesting piece of information. I had assumed (and as Felix Unger told us, when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me) that P.I. Danny lived near me and took the prison bus to near where I work for court or probation appearances as so many, many riders of the midday prison bus do. However, it turns out the P.I. Danny lives near where I work and is in fact heading home when I see him. So! Where is it that he is returning from on the prison bus?
He's a mystery and an enigma, our boy is.
xoxo
He's a mystery and an enigma, our boy is.
xoxo
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
and on the subject
...of having a food monopoly, I paid $2.09 for a bottle of VitaminWater at the convenience store at Haymarket this afternoon, purely because 1.) I was about to get on my bus and 2.) I was thirsty and 3.) I knew said bus was going to be stuck in rush hour traffic for a while and if I didn't buy a drink then and there I was going to be really thirsty by the time I got home.
But $2.09? Are they kidding me?
In other news, I was remarking last night that the Cleveland Cavaliers are the most aesthetically displeasing sports team I have ever seen. They are, to a man, just a cavalcade of bad bodyart and unfortunate hairdos, and (since they were in uniform when this came to my attention) I can only imagine their suits. Has MTV Cribs done a LeBron James episode yet? I'm imagining a black marble sunken tub with gold faucets. In the shape of peeing cherubs.
LeBron, babe, if it turns out you actually have taste, or the foresight to have hired a decorator with taste, I apologize in advance, man.
xoxo
But $2.09? Are they kidding me?
In other news, I was remarking last night that the Cleveland Cavaliers are the most aesthetically displeasing sports team I have ever seen. They are, to a man, just a cavalcade of bad bodyart and unfortunate hairdos, and (since they were in uniform when this came to my attention) I can only imagine their suits. Has MTV Cribs done a LeBron James episode yet? I'm imagining a black marble sunken tub with gold faucets. In the shape of peeing cherubs.
LeBron, babe, if it turns out you actually have taste, or the foresight to have hired a decorator with taste, I apologize in advance, man.
xoxo
Monday, May 5, 2008
miscellaneous updatery
1.) So, Mr Barma and I were, in e-mail, coming up with some possible epitaphs for ourselves. In the midst of telling him excitedly (i.e. dorkily) about a new arnica-based product I just bought, I suggested "Andrea was obsessed with topical anti-inflammatories." And he said--and I thought this was a genius idea--that perhaps the lil vials o' Andrea-remains that I would have passed out at my service should have different, individualized epitaphs inscribed on each one. So, listen, not only would I have party favors, I could have party games, wherein each epitaph could be read aloud and my mourners could guess which one was meant for them. It could be the funnest funeral ever! Too bad for me I'd be, y'know, dead.
2.) D went to his PCP this morning. The good news is that he lost 4 pounds and Dr B told him to "keep up the good work!" The bad news? Well, they didn't do any blood work, which I thought was strange because the reason he's been going so frequently is to follow his cholesterol and liver functions. Before we even got back home, the nurse left a voice mail saying he needs to make an appointment to come back and get some labs drawn. head/desk
3.) I have been watching the first season of Dexter on DVD. I must say even though I think Michael C Hall is a fabulous actor, and even though I read the book the series is based on and enjoyed it well enough, and even though I am definitely not squeamish, and even though I do so enjoy black humor, and even though my friend G loves the show and I trust his TV judgment, after watching the first two or three episodes, I almost removed the other DVDs from my queue. There was something way too over the top about it, in a way that reminded me of Nip/Tuck, a show I hate. (Maybe I just dislike shows set in Miami on general principle?) But I stuck with it, and I got sucked in. I still think it's over the top and kinda stupid, but I want to know what happens. So an equivocal thumbs up.
4.) Mr Indemnity thinks that the fact that Mindy McCready looks an awful lot like Mrs Clemens is proof that ol' Rog has no imagination at all (HGH makes the muscles grow, but the cerebral cortex not so much, that's what I think) and that if you're going to bang a woman who looks just like your wife, you ought to just bang your wife and, like, save yourself a lot of aggravation. I can't really argue with any of that.
5.) After I saw John Lester's postgame press yesterday, I must regret he's off my possible hate list. He was talking about learning to pitch quicker, especially when he's in trouble, so that "the bad thoughts don't start" and I was like, ohhhhh, poor baby, he just has performance anxiety. Why I feel empathy/sympathy/pity for someone being paid that much money to throw a baseball, I dunno, but I wanted to hug him. No hugs for Julie Lugo yet, though.
xoxo
2.) D went to his PCP this morning. The good news is that he lost 4 pounds and Dr B told him to "keep up the good work!" The bad news? Well, they didn't do any blood work, which I thought was strange because the reason he's been going so frequently is to follow his cholesterol and liver functions. Before we even got back home, the nurse left a voice mail saying he needs to make an appointment to come back and get some labs drawn. head/desk
3.) I have been watching the first season of Dexter on DVD. I must say even though I think Michael C Hall is a fabulous actor, and even though I read the book the series is based on and enjoyed it well enough, and even though I am definitely not squeamish, and even though I do so enjoy black humor, and even though my friend G loves the show and I trust his TV judgment, after watching the first two or three episodes, I almost removed the other DVDs from my queue. There was something way too over the top about it, in a way that reminded me of Nip/Tuck, a show I hate. (Maybe I just dislike shows set in Miami on general principle?) But I stuck with it, and I got sucked in. I still think it's over the top and kinda stupid, but I want to know what happens. So an equivocal thumbs up.
4.) Mr Indemnity thinks that the fact that Mindy McCready looks an awful lot like Mrs Clemens is proof that ol' Rog has no imagination at all (HGH makes the muscles grow, but the cerebral cortex not so much, that's what I think) and that if you're going to bang a woman who looks just like your wife, you ought to just bang your wife and, like, save yourself a lot of aggravation. I can't really argue with any of that.
5.) After I saw John Lester's postgame press yesterday, I must regret he's off my possible hate list. He was talking about learning to pitch quicker, especially when he's in trouble, so that "the bad thoughts don't start" and I was like, ohhhhh, poor baby, he just has performance anxiety. Why I feel empathy/sympathy/pity for someone being paid that much money to throw a baseball, I dunno, but I wanted to hug him. No hugs for Julie Lugo yet, though.
xoxo
Sunday, May 4, 2008
"chocolate peanut butter cheerio treat"
I've posted before about my displeasure with the new company running our cafeteria at work. Not only was there that troubling 1200 calorie calzone debacle, but the food has been really, really bad since they took over. It plays havoc with the whole intuitive eating concept, because there's never anything there I want to eat, and even when there is, there's no guarantee it'll be there the next day.
I was cheesed off all week because there were no Tazo teabags, other than one bizarre herbal one I don't drink. If this means they are discontinuing the Tazo tea altogether, I will really be pissed. Similarly, there was no Vitamin Water all week. I don't know how they expect me to do any work when there's no hydration available that I enjoy. Bastards.
But what I really want to discuss is what I ate yesterday. One of the few good things they have now--occasionally--are rice crispy treats. Not the prepackaged ones, but more or less homemade ones. But, again, they don't always have them. A couple weeks ago they had some kind of "fruit loop treats" which frankly I think could be classified as a crime against nature. And then, yesterday? Chocolate peanut butter cheerio treats. As far as I can tell, this was a mass of cheerios glued together with some kind of peanut butter concoction and then covered in chocolate. Are you gagging yet? I bought one. Okay, are you gagging now?
I think it says something about the offerings that that was what looked best to me.
If they don't have the right tea bags tomorrow, god only knows what I will be driven to eat.
xoxo
I was cheesed off all week because there were no Tazo teabags, other than one bizarre herbal one I don't drink. If this means they are discontinuing the Tazo tea altogether, I will really be pissed. Similarly, there was no Vitamin Water all week. I don't know how they expect me to do any work when there's no hydration available that I enjoy. Bastards.
But what I really want to discuss is what I ate yesterday. One of the few good things they have now--occasionally--are rice crispy treats. Not the prepackaged ones, but more or less homemade ones. But, again, they don't always have them. A couple weeks ago they had some kind of "fruit loop treats" which frankly I think could be classified as a crime against nature. And then, yesterday? Chocolate peanut butter cheerio treats. As far as I can tell, this was a mass of cheerios glued together with some kind of peanut butter concoction and then covered in chocolate. Are you gagging yet? I bought one. Okay, are you gagging now?
I think it says something about the offerings that that was what looked best to me.
If they don't have the right tea bags tomorrow, god only knows what I will be driven to eat.
xoxo
Saturday, May 3, 2008
planning your funeral
All this talk of writing your own obit reminds me that while I haven't done that, I do have my best-of-all-possible funerals planned in my head. First of all, I definitely don't want a traditional service and I definitely definitely don't want a wake. The very last thing I would want to do to my survivors is to torture them from beyond the grave by making them attend a wake.
For all your acquaintances and not-close-friends and extended family, a wake is just a forced social obligation that everyone dreads with every fiber of their being. "Andrea died? OMG, that's terrible! Wow. Wait--does this mean I have to go to the wake? Crap!" And for those people who are actually really mourning you, your wake is just, if I remember from my mom's, physically and mentally and emotionally exhausting. So, no wake.
I wanna be cremated. Then, no matter what month it happens to be when I kick, I want my remains to be put into storage until some beautiful evening in mid-summer, right around dusk, at which point a bunch of the people who really loved me are going to take them to Red Rock Park and go down out onto the rocks that the immigrant guys fish off of, as far out as the tide allows, and sit down and reminisce and/or talk smack about me briefly, and then toss the ashes into the Atlantic just as the sun is setting. Then everyone can pile into a couple of cars and go to the real Kellys in Revere and have some Memorial Onion Rings.
I realize there's probably a couple of problems with this plan. First of all, the Commonwealth probably has laws against disposing of human remains that way. Secondly, it presupposes that I die at an age where my friends are still capable of climbing out onto a bunch of slippery rocks in the ocean. (See! Just another reason to want the step-grandchildren. They could scamper out onto the rocks and toss me if all my loved ones were otherwise too decrepit and had to stay on the pavement. But I think I'm probably going to die young anyway, so that may not be necessary.)
In any case, doable or not, that is how I would like things to go after I am dead.
xoxo
For all your acquaintances and not-close-friends and extended family, a wake is just a forced social obligation that everyone dreads with every fiber of their being. "Andrea died? OMG, that's terrible! Wow. Wait--does this mean I have to go to the wake? Crap!" And for those people who are actually really mourning you, your wake is just, if I remember from my mom's, physically and mentally and emotionally exhausting. So, no wake.
I wanna be cremated. Then, no matter what month it happens to be when I kick, I want my remains to be put into storage until some beautiful evening in mid-summer, right around dusk, at which point a bunch of the people who really loved me are going to take them to Red Rock Park and go down out onto the rocks that the immigrant guys fish off of, as far out as the tide allows, and sit down and reminisce and/or talk smack about me briefly, and then toss the ashes into the Atlantic just as the sun is setting. Then everyone can pile into a couple of cars and go to the real Kellys in Revere and have some Memorial Onion Rings.
I realize there's probably a couple of problems with this plan. First of all, the Commonwealth probably has laws against disposing of human remains that way. Secondly, it presupposes that I die at an age where my friends are still capable of climbing out onto a bunch of slippery rocks in the ocean. (See! Just another reason to want the step-grandchildren. They could scamper out onto the rocks and toss me if all my loved ones were otherwise too decrepit and had to stay on the pavement. But I think I'm probably going to die young anyway, so that may not be necessary.)
In any case, doable or not, that is how I would like things to go after I am dead.
xoxo
Friday, May 2, 2008
a life without
Do you ever have deep philosophical conversations in your own head about what your purpose in life is or whether you have one or whether anyone really has one? Oh, sure you do. C'mon. Play along. (Maybe that's your purpose in life...to humor Andrea! Think about it. Ooo, deep.)
Anyway. N E Way. What brings this up, you ask? Coupla things.
One an offhand comment on a mental illness board I read, where a parent tossed off a comment that "a life without [blank] isn't worth living." It kind of pissed me off, (oh, yeah, big surprise) because D's life and the lives of many people who read that board or whose loved ones read that board are without [blank], and I don't think they should all go out and kill themselves. Nor do I think, less drastically, that their lives are not worth anything or have no value.
I started thinking about what I would say to D if he felt his life, as it is now, was not worth living, what I would refute that with. My first thought would be to say that "You're happy sometimes now; there are things you can take enjoyment from." Because there's a part of me that thinks that's what life is really for--that we take those few fleeting moments of pleasure and joy in life that we get, and if we get a few here and there, that's it. That's the reason to keep getting up every other day of our lives. That's what makes life worth living. That the transcendent joy in the perfect kiss or perfect meal or perfect sunrise or perfect home run by Mr Ramirez is why whomever ordered the universe wants us to be here.
And then I thought that I would say "Your life is worth living because of what you give to me. I value so much the love that you give to me and the love you take from me. And you have made me a much better person." But, while that is very true, and perhaps closer to how society measures our lives--what we do for other people and/or what we accomplish--I think deep down that I don't believe that. That our worth is not in what we give or do, or rather, that our purpose is not in those things. That D has made me a better person has worth, that D can love and accept love has worth, but I don't think that is, or should be, his reason to exist.
I don't think by most measures I am what is usually considered a selfish person, my $189 platform shoes that would clothe a whole village in Bangladesh notwithstanding. But I think, philosophically, that no one exists for what they can give to another person or people or family or village or country or society.
The second reason this topic comes to mind is that in the last few weeks I have had two separate conversations with two separate individuals in which mocking of newspaper obituaries was involved. Specifically, mocking of the one line descriptor of the dead person. In one case, it was so-n-so was a "communicant of St Whatever Church"; in the other, so-n-so "enjoyed bingo." Really? You die at age 50 or 70 or 90 and that's the most remarkable thing they can say about you? I was poking fun at it as well and saying, only half-kiddingly, that I better get on the stick and accomplish something in my life before I croak and get a really insipid obituary tagline like that. "Andrea ______, age 45, avid blogger."
But seriously? I dunno. Maybe enjoying bingo is why so-n-so was put on Earth.
xoxo
Anyway. N E Way. What brings this up, you ask? Coupla things.
One an offhand comment on a mental illness board I read, where a parent tossed off a comment that "a life without [blank] isn't worth living." It kind of pissed me off, (oh, yeah, big surprise) because D's life and the lives of many people who read that board or whose loved ones read that board are without [blank], and I don't think they should all go out and kill themselves. Nor do I think, less drastically, that their lives are not worth anything or have no value.
I started thinking about what I would say to D if he felt his life, as it is now, was not worth living, what I would refute that with. My first thought would be to say that "You're happy sometimes now; there are things you can take enjoyment from." Because there's a part of me that thinks that's what life is really for--that we take those few fleeting moments of pleasure and joy in life that we get, and if we get a few here and there, that's it. That's the reason to keep getting up every other day of our lives. That's what makes life worth living. That the transcendent joy in the perfect kiss or perfect meal or perfect sunrise or perfect home run by Mr Ramirez is why whomever ordered the universe wants us to be here.
And then I thought that I would say "Your life is worth living because of what you give to me. I value so much the love that you give to me and the love you take from me. And you have made me a much better person." But, while that is very true, and perhaps closer to how society measures our lives--what we do for other people and/or what we accomplish--I think deep down that I don't believe that. That our worth is not in what we give or do, or rather, that our purpose is not in those things. That D has made me a better person has worth, that D can love and accept love has worth, but I don't think that is, or should be, his reason to exist.
I don't think by most measures I am what is usually considered a selfish person, my $189 platform shoes that would clothe a whole village in Bangladesh notwithstanding. But I think, philosophically, that no one exists for what they can give to another person or people or family or village or country or society.
The second reason this topic comes to mind is that in the last few weeks I have had two separate conversations with two separate individuals in which mocking of newspaper obituaries was involved. Specifically, mocking of the one line descriptor of the dead person. In one case, it was so-n-so was a "communicant of St Whatever Church"; in the other, so-n-so "enjoyed bingo." Really? You die at age 50 or 70 or 90 and that's the most remarkable thing they can say about you? I was poking fun at it as well and saying, only half-kiddingly, that I better get on the stick and accomplish something in my life before I croak and get a really insipid obituary tagline like that. "Andrea ______, age 45, avid blogger."
But seriously? I dunno. Maybe enjoying bingo is why so-n-so was put on Earth.
xoxo
Thursday, May 1, 2008
babies!
I had this little 20 month old in work this afternoon and she was so freakin adorable, not in looks per se, but in mannerisms and her obvious brightness, that I got one of my occasional "goddamn, too bad my baby-making factory is closed" pangs. These days, those pangs are usually followed by a more serious pang in which I get momentarily sad that I'm more than likely never going to be a grandmother.
I'd be such a fabulous grandmother. (Shut up. I would not say the word fuck in front of my grandchildren. At least not until they were, y'know, in high school.)
Eh. Maybe sometime in the next fifteen years I'll sucker some poor, poor bastard with adult children into marrying me, and I can be a step-grandmother. I'm sure any bitterness these totally theoretical stepchildren of mine might feel could be overcome with lots of free babysitting! And if they were my step-grandchildren I might even refrain from saying fuck in front of them until they went off to college. Just to be extra nice.
xoxo
I'd be such a fabulous grandmother. (Shut up. I would not say the word fuck in front of my grandchildren. At least not until they were, y'know, in high school.)
Eh. Maybe sometime in the next fifteen years I'll sucker some poor, poor bastard with adult children into marrying me, and I can be a step-grandmother. I'm sure any bitterness these totally theoretical stepchildren of mine might feel could be overcome with lots of free babysitting! And if they were my step-grandchildren I might even refrain from saying fuck in front of them until they went off to college. Just to be extra nice.
xoxo
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