At my grandpa's funeral, my father and I stand holding hands, watching an eagle swoop down and tear a small bird to bits. It flies off with two halves, one in its beak and the other in its claws, and three crows fly off with it, attacking it repeatedly. My dad looks at me and points beyond the casket, while the eagle cartwheels off into the pines.
I think that this scene should be poignant somehow, or have some vast karmic meaning, but mostly I am amused to see the crows lead a full-on assault of a bird five times their size. While staring after them all, I see my grandpa's best friend, in his Hawaiian shirt, looking very small and ancient despite being over 300 pounds and 6 feet tall. It's plain his heart is broken, and all I can think of when I see him is that it's still hard to reconcile this big old man who is a kind old uncle of sorts to me with his other life, where he sells midget porn and butt plugs the size of table top christmas trees.
I feel this way a lot about a good portion of the people here.
My friend-slash-hairstylist, a former boarder at my grandpa's house, whispers to me about various liasons and scandalous acts committed by any of the older queens present, and while I'm not surprised, it's strange to think about your elderly fairy godfathers still getting ass. Lots of it. In various manners and places and....
I'll think about Thanksgivings, having olives pulled out of my ears, eating whatever bread or cookie Grandpa whipped up in his kitchen, and all of that family-ish sort of jazz. I'm ok with sexual lives, but I'd prefer to stay insulated the way they all worked to keep me. I'm cool with being the sassy, smartassed little girl with sticky hands and a big round tummy to them still.
Well, my belly's still round, at least.
I am wearing my grandpa's onyx ring. There is a big chip in the corner, and it is beat to hell. If I saw it on the side of the road, I'd probably keep walking despite being a crow like my mother who wants to put everything shiny in her pockets. My dad is wearing a much prettier ring, it's tiger's eye, I think, but it has gold ticks around the square face and I think that it looks like a ring watch. Over and over I have to swallow down my urges to collect everything here of my grandpa's, I have this deep need to "keep" everything for him. I don't want it, I just don't want to see things spread around. You don't loan jewlery and hats and things like that out because you've gone on vacation. You leave those things to people when you've died. And I still am pretty not alright with that concept.
Earlier, while the casket was open and my mom, dad, cousins and I stayed in the funeral home's foyer to greet people, I walked by an open door and spied the heavily made-up nose and bald ostrich-egg pate lying in the casket. It looked like any time he'd sit up and make bitchy noises in the back of his throat at all of the silliness and bowleg-walk out of the room. On his own, of course. But he hasn't walked on his own in about five years now, and he isn't wearing his glasses, and his hair is too short, and he forgot his hat and none of that will do. It's all wrong.
Also, they painted his lips and face the same color. It's very mod. I think it's to look "natural", but I don't know anyone who actually looks like that. Other than that, he looks like I could walk in and hold his hand. And a very surprisingly large part of me wants to. Hugely. Instead, weird, squelched, raw pig noises start squeaking out of my throat and I am finally at the anger stage as I rush out a back door to lose it for a good bit. I am mad at myself still, that the last time I saw him was September and that my last memory will be of being horrified and depressed at how deaf and physically slow he'd gotten. I'm ashamed that I couldn't stop being an asshole before the next time I saw him, which is now. I hope that there is an afterlife or some sort of part of the consciousness lives on, and then I won't feel like I have to explain.
The funeral home is full, with the family seated in the middle and half of the right hand side. They're mixed in with the ancient group of Masons, and look a little confused about the tiny old men wearing purple aprons and holding canes. On the left side, there are kids (now older than my dad) who had Grandpa as a DeMolay dad - a kind of cubscouts for freemasons, I figure out. There are kids (now in their fifties) who knew him when he worked at a local high school. They all look slightly bewildered as to why they're here and if it's alright. It is. I'm glad they are. I think I get my tendancy to keep various parts of my life completely separate from one another comes from my Grandpa at this point, and it's a little odd to think of how and why that is. I'm too exhausted to ponder it, I haven't been sleeping well with a belly full of large baby who squirms when I am not busy crying.
A small crowd follows to the graveside service, it's freezing and windy but all of the Washitonians present remark on how lucky we are there's no rain. Of course. It's like some version of a local prayer, no matter what's happening, "lucky the weather held out".
My son is holding hands with an elderly freemason who has a hearing aid that makes him look like a more organic version of the Borg. He is fascinated with the waving of evergreens, and needs to put on a sweater, so he does a jigglejoggle dance in place to keep all of the weird inside. He's a good kid, my kid. He has clung to "His Bubba" (my dad, his grandpa) like glue this entire day, wanting nothing to do with me or my mom, really. It's good, I think my dad needs it the most. I've never seen the man so broken-looking and lost in my life, and something has changed to where he is able to say "I love you" more easily and all of the burred edges have laid back until he's more like a hedgehog in his prickliness than a thistle. It makes me feel very young and too old too fast at the same time. I am not ready to see my dad be old, but he's aged over night and I finally see him as less a "dad" and more a "grandpa" in a warped phallocentric "mother / maiden / crone" trine.
It's all getting too weird. I edge up to the coffin, suspended above a cement hole (which is surprising to me, cement, really?) and a small, dark, solidly built man appears out of nowhere and very tenderly kisses the lid. I stop my snail crawl in mild shock and stare after him. Out of everyone here, he is the most visably affected. I don't remember talking to him or seeing him speak to anyone, and I don't see him again.
As we drive home, I am worried about that man more than anything or anyone else.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
well harumph. not so fun, this one.
So much for being in the habit of posting... as soon as life picks up, I forget about everything on the ol clickernet except for email and things like thisiswhyyourefat.com and failblog.com. I am a sucker for cheap thrills on the fly, what can I say?
These past two weeks have been nicely hectic, I've attended two parties (a beer tasting fete and a housewarming shindig) and hosted a couple of dinners for friends, had a midwife appointment or two, planned our July vacation to Vashon Island (we are staying in TEPEES OMG TEPEES YALL), finished packing our birthin supply box, unpacked clothes in Bumblebee's room, and started the final baby shower planning shizz. I figure I had best get all the socializing in that I can before I am a fucking mess of sleep deprivation, spit up, eye crusties and spilled coffee. It's gonna be a long few months of adjusting, and Domo-Kun (aka manwife) only gets two freakin weeks off. Though, at this point, we are just glad he is still employed... and that we have benefits... le sigh.
Also, there is the not so fun thing where my favorite grandparent died last week. Which pretty much trumps all at this point, in terms of being motivated to do stuff and say stuff. If you read Firstnation's blog, you already know, and yeah, I am doing ok. I am not one for pretending to be all stoic and stuff, I kind of break down a little and get all sniffly in the middle of doing something mundane... even moreso while acting as fetal tupperware. So there have been lots of times where I like, make toast? chop tomatoes? look outside?, and I start crying a little.
I am glad I have so many memories of my Grandpa, he was the raddest. It is weird to hear other people's takes on him - to me, he was my sweet, bald, bowlegged, cookin' demon Grandpa. He used to grow tomatoes and plums and dahlias and he is the only person I met who grew currants and *liked* them. He drove around in a tiny porsche 912 around downtown while wearing a greek fisherman's cap and always wore birkenstock-style clogs (which are my faves, too!). Like my dad, Gpa always, always, always had to roll up or hem his pantlegs, due to a 31" inseam at 5' 8" lol. My Grandpa used to travel to Greece and would come home with armloads of decorative pots, engraved platters, textiles, and jewlery and bake baklava and dolmathes for us. Every year he would work at our local heritage festival and hand out ribbons to members of families who had been here the longest. Every time I went to his house as a little girl, he had cookies tucked away in a tin on top of his fridge - the red one, with sailboats, and had Andes mints in the milk glass candy dish on the coffee table and I could always take as many as I could get away with. I remember staring at his beautiful china cabinet filled with ornately decorated eggs, painted dishes and colored glass, and how thick the shag carpeting was in the dining room. Oh, and how terrifying the dog demon mask from Thailand was... he kept it in the bathroom, right above the damned toilet! Ack!
So now that he is gone, everyone wants to talk about how he "really" was, i.e. his personal life. I wasn't a part of that life, and that is ok, I respect that still. I am his granddaughter, I don't NEED to know who he was dating. I do not care about the wild shit he did, nor will I ever, EVER judge him for any of it if I do find out someday. Grandpa took a lot of care to cultivate very separate private and social and romantic lives, and I respect that. I have no interest in prying or hearing gossip, and I am a little upset that some of his old queen friends think it is appropriate, funny, or cheeky to do so now... ESPECIALLY to my Dad. My Dad and Grandpa never talked about the fact that Gpa was gay. They had their own relationship, and while it was not always easy or entirely honest, it was good and sweet and they loved each other very much. It is unfair for people to go and try and shit on that by sniggering around about my grandpa's young lovers and stuff. What about that seems appropriate to them, I wonder? It seems cruel, even if they are just trying to get a rise out of my Dad. I understand that part of his life even if he never came out and said anything about it. He knew we all knew, so I don't think it bore mentioning. It was fine, there is no need to "freak out the straight folks" (which...have they MET my mom? straight folk? really?). It's not like my dad ran to grandpa to dish on HIS love life. I don't get it, Ma and I are a bit queerish and it's well-known. Do they expect us to gasp in shock and clutch the pearls? Good lord. It is none of my business or anyone else's for that matter, and I hope people STFU soon.
Anyhow. Had to vent. It's a weird thing, to lose someone you were actually close to. I took the weekend to cry and hide out and be clingy with my dudes. I drank a lot of tea and ate lots of cheese and jam, and laid in bed reading a bit. This week I am mostly baking and watching old movies - lots of Garbo (apparently I *like* to be sad?), wizard of oz, etc. If you've got a sweet, kinda funny old movie that you love, hook it up! I even love the shit out of It's a Wonderful Life. It's just about my favorite classic after The Quiet Man.
Phew. I wasn't expecting to vent. I am just worried about MY parents. As Grandpa's caretakers, I am sure they are glad to see him out of pain and feel happy for him... he passed in a very lovely, calm way. He had his wits and his friends and family around ALL the time, he was well-loved and got to go without a lot of fuss or muss or hospital bullshit. On the other hand, they are busy feeling relieved and glad in a sad way, but I think they need to just go be very sad. Or see a movie and have some comfort food and go see a show and have a beer. Or have a weekend trip out of town. They deserve it, after all this time and pain and sad stuff. They are my heroes, they did this so well, and they always treated my Grandpa with the utmost respect and dignity - even when it was difficult, painful, or frustrating to do so. It was incredibly tough for them to "parent" my hyper-independent Gpa, and they did a damned good job. They deserve some time to go and do what they need to. I love you, mom and dad, and I know Grandpa did more than anything.
Ok. I have a dire need for cocoa and Amelie and a butt-snuggle after all that. I feel a bit better, thanks for the venting and grieving.
These past two weeks have been nicely hectic, I've attended two parties (a beer tasting fete and a housewarming shindig) and hosted a couple of dinners for friends, had a midwife appointment or two, planned our July vacation to Vashon Island (we are staying in TEPEES OMG TEPEES YALL), finished packing our birthin supply box, unpacked clothes in Bumblebee's room, and started the final baby shower planning shizz. I figure I had best get all the socializing in that I can before I am a fucking mess of sleep deprivation, spit up, eye crusties and spilled coffee. It's gonna be a long few months of adjusting, and Domo-Kun (aka manwife) only gets two freakin weeks off. Though, at this point, we are just glad he is still employed... and that we have benefits... le sigh.
Also, there is the not so fun thing where my favorite grandparent died last week. Which pretty much trumps all at this point, in terms of being motivated to do stuff and say stuff. If you read Firstnation's blog, you already know, and yeah, I am doing ok. I am not one for pretending to be all stoic and stuff, I kind of break down a little and get all sniffly in the middle of doing something mundane... even moreso while acting as fetal tupperware. So there have been lots of times where I like, make toast? chop tomatoes? look outside?, and I start crying a little.
I am glad I have so many memories of my Grandpa, he was the raddest. It is weird to hear other people's takes on him - to me, he was my sweet, bald, bowlegged, cookin' demon Grandpa. He used to grow tomatoes and plums and dahlias and he is the only person I met who grew currants and *liked* them. He drove around in a tiny porsche 912 around downtown while wearing a greek fisherman's cap and always wore birkenstock-style clogs (which are my faves, too!). Like my dad, Gpa always, always, always had to roll up or hem his pantlegs, due to a 31" inseam at 5' 8" lol. My Grandpa used to travel to Greece and would come home with armloads of decorative pots, engraved platters, textiles, and jewlery and bake baklava and dolmathes for us. Every year he would work at our local heritage festival and hand out ribbons to members of families who had been here the longest. Every time I went to his house as a little girl, he had cookies tucked away in a tin on top of his fridge - the red one, with sailboats, and had Andes mints in the milk glass candy dish on the coffee table and I could always take as many as I could get away with. I remember staring at his beautiful china cabinet filled with ornately decorated eggs, painted dishes and colored glass, and how thick the shag carpeting was in the dining room. Oh, and how terrifying the dog demon mask from Thailand was... he kept it in the bathroom, right above the damned toilet! Ack!
So now that he is gone, everyone wants to talk about how he "really" was, i.e. his personal life. I wasn't a part of that life, and that is ok, I respect that still. I am his granddaughter, I don't NEED to know who he was dating. I do not care about the wild shit he did, nor will I ever, EVER judge him for any of it if I do find out someday. Grandpa took a lot of care to cultivate very separate private and social and romantic lives, and I respect that. I have no interest in prying or hearing gossip, and I am a little upset that some of his old queen friends think it is appropriate, funny, or cheeky to do so now... ESPECIALLY to my Dad. My Dad and Grandpa never talked about the fact that Gpa was gay. They had their own relationship, and while it was not always easy or entirely honest, it was good and sweet and they loved each other very much. It is unfair for people to go and try and shit on that by sniggering around about my grandpa's young lovers and stuff. What about that seems appropriate to them, I wonder? It seems cruel, even if they are just trying to get a rise out of my Dad. I understand that part of his life even if he never came out and said anything about it. He knew we all knew, so I don't think it bore mentioning. It was fine, there is no need to "freak out the straight folks" (which...have they MET my mom? straight folk? really?). It's not like my dad ran to grandpa to dish on HIS love life. I don't get it, Ma and I are a bit queerish and it's well-known. Do they expect us to gasp in shock and clutch the pearls? Good lord. It is none of my business or anyone else's for that matter, and I hope people STFU soon.
Anyhow. Had to vent. It's a weird thing, to lose someone you were actually close to. I took the weekend to cry and hide out and be clingy with my dudes. I drank a lot of tea and ate lots of cheese and jam, and laid in bed reading a bit. This week I am mostly baking and watching old movies - lots of Garbo (apparently I *like* to be sad?), wizard of oz, etc. If you've got a sweet, kinda funny old movie that you love, hook it up! I even love the shit out of It's a Wonderful Life. It's just about my favorite classic after The Quiet Man.
Phew. I wasn't expecting to vent. I am just worried about MY parents. As Grandpa's caretakers, I am sure they are glad to see him out of pain and feel happy for him... he passed in a very lovely, calm way. He had his wits and his friends and family around ALL the time, he was well-loved and got to go without a lot of fuss or muss or hospital bullshit. On the other hand, they are busy feeling relieved and glad in a sad way, but I think they need to just go be very sad. Or see a movie and have some comfort food and go see a show and have a beer. Or have a weekend trip out of town. They deserve it, after all this time and pain and sad stuff. They are my heroes, they did this so well, and they always treated my Grandpa with the utmost respect and dignity - even when it was difficult, painful, or frustrating to do so. It was incredibly tough for them to "parent" my hyper-independent Gpa, and they did a damned good job. They deserve some time to go and do what they need to. I love you, mom and dad, and I know Grandpa did more than anything.
Ok. I have a dire need for cocoa and Amelie and a butt-snuggle after all that. I feel a bit better, thanks for the venting and grieving.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Twenty eight weeks, two days. God, let it be over soon.
I am done with this whole baby-Tupperware situation. Don't get me wrong, I honestly don't mind the baby rolling around my guts, nudging my bladder (usually...sometimes she jumps on it repeatedly, and I pee a little... so not cool), bizarre internal bellybutton pokes, or even the frequent peeing and waddling.
I will tell you what I am done with.
I am done with only having one pair of jeans that fits.
I am tired of the bottom three inches of my belly sticking out of almost every shirt I own.
I am sick to death of wearing the same Birkenstock clogs every god damned day because my feet are too swollen for all of the others save my favorite Keen sneakers which I cannot wear unless someone is around to do up the laces for me.
I am tired of hearing about what I should and shouldn't eat or drink - yes, I have about 4 oz of lager or a brown every now and then. Yes, I have a tiny glass of wine (think the portion of what you get during Hanukkah or a Mass as a kid) occasionally but it gives me wretched heartburn. I also still eat the occasional soft cheese and cold cut! I still eat salmon voraciously! I drink coffee! I eat hollandaise and over medium eggs and aioli and LOVE IT, nay crave it insanely! And anyone who wants to give me shit about it can shove it - if I crave it, I am eating it.
I am missing rummaging around at Goodwill or the local consignment shops for clothes - it's more the thrill of the hunt I miss. Finding a five dollar pair of converse sneakers is fun if they're for Sweetbean, but I only feel truly victorious if they're MINE!
I want to be able to get up off the couch without getting myself rocking for momentum's sake first.
For that matter, I miss being able to get up out of a nice warm tub without hollering "HALP" to my husband, who always comes running like the house is on fire even if forewarned I am just getting out of the bath.
I want so very badly to sleep on my back - sleeping on my side causes my behemoth mammaries to collide with my throat, kind of slowly choking me at night.
I am very sad that there is no real nookie for the next four and a half months... I mean, there are alternatives... but come on.
I am very, very tired of being treated like a cripple, or as impossibly irrational / hormonal / etc. I am still me. Yes, I cry at the end of Cold Case and yell at my roux for thinning too quickly. I am much more passionate in my rants. I have freezer cleaning needs at odd times of the day and night. Every disagreeable or confusing thing I do is not directly attributable to my pregnancy. It really isn't. Just the reeeeeeeeeaally weird stuff.
Also, heartburn, wtf? You can go right to hell and DIE, heartburn. I hate you so much.
I will tell you what I am done with.
I am done with only having one pair of jeans that fits.
I am tired of the bottom three inches of my belly sticking out of almost every shirt I own.
I am sick to death of wearing the same Birkenstock clogs every god damned day because my feet are too swollen for all of the others save my favorite Keen sneakers which I cannot wear unless someone is around to do up the laces for me.
I am tired of hearing about what I should and shouldn't eat or drink - yes, I have about 4 oz of lager or a brown every now and then. Yes, I have a tiny glass of wine (think the portion of what you get during Hanukkah or a Mass as a kid) occasionally but it gives me wretched heartburn. I also still eat the occasional soft cheese and cold cut! I still eat salmon voraciously! I drink coffee! I eat hollandaise and over medium eggs and aioli and LOVE IT, nay crave it insanely! And anyone who wants to give me shit about it can shove it - if I crave it, I am eating it.
I am missing rummaging around at Goodwill or the local consignment shops for clothes - it's more the thrill of the hunt I miss. Finding a five dollar pair of converse sneakers is fun if they're for Sweetbean, but I only feel truly victorious if they're MINE!
I want to be able to get up off the couch without getting myself rocking for momentum's sake first.
For that matter, I miss being able to get up out of a nice warm tub without hollering "HALP" to my husband, who always comes running like the house is on fire even if forewarned I am just getting out of the bath.
I want so very badly to sleep on my back - sleeping on my side causes my behemoth mammaries to collide with my throat, kind of slowly choking me at night.
I am very sad that there is no real nookie for the next four and a half months... I mean, there are alternatives... but come on.
I am very, very tired of being treated like a cripple, or as impossibly irrational / hormonal / etc. I am still me. Yes, I cry at the end of Cold Case and yell at my roux for thinning too quickly. I am much more passionate in my rants. I have freezer cleaning needs at odd times of the day and night. Every disagreeable or confusing thing I do is not directly attributable to my pregnancy. It really isn't. Just the reeeeeeeeeaally weird stuff.
Also, heartburn, wtf? You can go right to hell and DIE, heartburn. I hate you so much.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
again with the flakes
Oh, if only the flakes I had in my life were just happy little corn flakes (these are my favorites, three ingredients, eat that Michael Pollan...no, really, do! I think you'd like them, Mr. Pollan. I'm a big fan of them AND you).
Unfortunately, the flakes mentioned two posts back indeed did as I expected and flaked out on me. Because they are flaky hippies and it is their nature. It wasn't malicious, it was just...lame and very rude. I had a whole dinner done - honey lemon roasted chicken, veggie salad, potato and veg au gratin and black bottom cake - and when 5 pm rolled around, they were nowhere to be found. Nor at 5.15. Nor 7. There was no call, no text, no email. Just a simple no-show. Needless to say, my pregnant ass bawled like a little six year old, and then ate all the roasted honey-crusted chicken skin out of spite.
So today (five days after said dinner was scheduled and bailed on), I get a facebook wall post: "Oh I am so sorry, I'm so horrible, I just couldn't handle going out for a while, I guess I should've at least called, can we hang out". Now... from Sunday night (when Ma and Pa came over for carbonara made out of the roasted chicken and to "help out" with the cake) until today, I thought I was okay with this situation - my friend is a fucking flake, she's always been a wishy washy flake, and she will continue to be as such and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. We're not bff or anything, but we've been pals for about ten years at this point in time. Flakiness was manageable, nay, expected, back then in our high school years, but now.... No. Now it's time to have manners and a capacity to plan. SO. I am mad all over again now, because she apologized.
It's conflicting, I feel like a dick, but I am so mad that I don't care, but then I would like to graciously accept the apology and move on. I know it's not my place to reprimand or lecture her, she's an adult. I don't do passive-aggressive punishments, but OH MAN am I tempted.
So do I wait until I've simmered down to accept, or do I give her a quick "we're cool" and wait until I'm calmer to try to make plans? I understand she is how she is, and so in being her friend and knowing/expecting that, do I even get to be mad here? I don't know how to proceed. I like her a ton, but I am fumed, big time.
Being a gracious adult is tough work, man.
Unfortunately, the flakes mentioned two posts back indeed did as I expected and flaked out on me. Because they are flaky hippies and it is their nature. It wasn't malicious, it was just...lame and very rude. I had a whole dinner done - honey lemon roasted chicken, veggie salad, potato and veg au gratin and black bottom cake - and when 5 pm rolled around, they were nowhere to be found. Nor at 5.15. Nor 7. There was no call, no text, no email. Just a simple no-show. Needless to say, my pregnant ass bawled like a little six year old, and then ate all the roasted honey-crusted chicken skin out of spite.
So today (five days after said dinner was scheduled and bailed on), I get a facebook wall post: "Oh I am so sorry, I'm so horrible, I just couldn't handle going out for a while, I guess I should've at least called, can we hang out". Now... from Sunday night (when Ma and Pa came over for carbonara made out of the roasted chicken and to "help out" with the cake) until today, I thought I was okay with this situation - my friend is a fucking flake, she's always been a wishy washy flake, and she will continue to be as such and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. We're not bff or anything, but we've been pals for about ten years at this point in time. Flakiness was manageable, nay, expected, back then in our high school years, but now.... No. Now it's time to have manners and a capacity to plan. SO. I am mad all over again now, because she apologized.
It's conflicting, I feel like a dick, but I am so mad that I don't care, but then I would like to graciously accept the apology and move on. I know it's not my place to reprimand or lecture her, she's an adult. I don't do passive-aggressive punishments, but OH MAN am I tempted.
So do I wait until I've simmered down to accept, or do I give her a quick "we're cool" and wait until I'm calmer to try to make plans? I understand she is how she is, and so in being her friend and knowing/expecting that, do I even get to be mad here? I don't know how to proceed. I like her a ton, but I am fumed, big time.
Being a gracious adult is tough work, man.
Friday, February 6, 2009
sand in my asscrack
There are some things in life that annoy me greatly. Clingwrap, dogs sniffing my crotch for far too long or often, useless people, and dog hairs in my bedside water glass, for instance.
A big, big thing with me, that can enrage me on my less tolerant days is wishy-washiness. This will not stand. I do not abide by this at all.
No, the Dude does NOT abide by this aggression, which will not stand. Even though the Dude was pretty flaky. This Dude is not.
One major perpetrator of this crime of inconvenience (and, let's face it, rudeness), unfortunately, are the clump of ladies known as my "hippie girlfriends". My other girlfriends....no, not so much. However, the hippies outnumber the non about 12 to 1. Linz and Ricki, jeebus bless, I love you. You are bastions of organization and orderliness.
I love my other girlfriends, but they are frustrating to peg down for a specific date, time, and activity. It can take over a week of emails and calls to finally chase down the elusive playdate or shopping date or party. It's worth it, and is not so much a statement of our relationships as it is their upbringing (homeschoolers, they had no schedules...), and I get that. I am a planner. I have a framework with sufficient wiggle room built in, and I run with it, improvising when necessary. My ladies...they are not so much this way. The worst is trying to get them ALL in one big group and plan something. POTSMOKING, it addles your brain after a while. There is such a thing as being too laid back and loosey goosey. Luckily, things get done because I have no issue being the "heavy" or subjecting myself to being the leader and all of the potential criticism or lame times that may come with that. Otherwise, all we'd do is sit around, drinking beer, discussing WHAT to do until it was time for everyone to go home.
The biggest thing with me is the awkward situation one finds themselves in when trying to arrange a dinner or get together..."Saturday works for me, call me at the very last minute and let's see how we all feel about it and what to do"...."gimme a call ten minutes before I leave to go do something and we'll try to plan while I get ready"..."yeah! let's see how we all feel about what to do when we get there, depends on everyone's mood"... I'm sorry, what? Do you eat food? Do you like to have someone cook FOR you at their house? Yes? Then why do we need to pussyfoot around and "wait and see" with some indecisive hour-long discussion about WHAT to eat.
If I invite you to dinner or a get together at my house, I am cooking for you. Barring food allergies or specific tastes (oysters are a never, pumpkin mousse is a maybe for most folks I know), you will eat what I cook. There will BE NO DISCUSSION about what I am making. I am inviting you to kneel at the altar known as my dinner table and leave a drool sacrifice to my mighty seasoning and meat-moistening prowess (ohhh dirty). We will not be talking about what everyone is in the mood for, because I planned the fuck out of a meal about a week in advance, bought groceries, make a cheesecake to let sit and set up, defrosted a slab of meat, and stocked up on everyone's favorite beers. You will eat it, you will love it, and you will thank me and sing its praises for months on end. It's not conceit speaking here, it's the truth.
But waiting around, discussing what everyone wants to do (this smacks of too much touchy feely feelings discussing, which is a bad idea when I am hungry and wanting to eat NOW), you end up with mac and cheese in front of the tv in a big heap. Which is cool sometimes. But when I tell you I am making food, you should understand that you have little to no say after voicing concerns on food allergies and specific tastes. NO. Chickens do not magically defrost themselves because we all sat around and decided that's what we felt like eating 10 minutes ago and are now ravenous and cranky. That is not how that works, nor is it how hosting works. There will be no takeout, frozen dinners (I don't buy them), or leftovers. I am inviting you over for a nice meal because none of you cook that well and live on beer and takeout.
I think perhaps I should take my Dad's tack on inviting folks over, I will INFORM them what is being served and when they should show up. In the friendliest way possible. I've really got to figure out how he does that... Maybe I should leave the baseball bat and crowbar in the shed. And use a nice voice? Maybe. Mayyyybeee.
A big, big thing with me, that can enrage me on my less tolerant days is wishy-washiness. This will not stand. I do not abide by this at all.
No, the Dude does NOT abide by this aggression, which will not stand. Even though the Dude was pretty flaky. This Dude is not.
One major perpetrator of this crime of inconvenience (and, let's face it, rudeness), unfortunately, are the clump of ladies known as my "hippie girlfriends". My other girlfriends....no, not so much. However, the hippies outnumber the non about 12 to 1. Linz and Ricki, jeebus bless, I love you. You are bastions of organization and orderliness.
I love my other girlfriends, but they are frustrating to peg down for a specific date, time, and activity. It can take over a week of emails and calls to finally chase down the elusive playdate or shopping date or party. It's worth it, and is not so much a statement of our relationships as it is their upbringing (homeschoolers, they had no schedules...), and I get that. I am a planner. I have a framework with sufficient wiggle room built in, and I run with it, improvising when necessary. My ladies...they are not so much this way. The worst is trying to get them ALL in one big group and plan something. POTSMOKING, it addles your brain after a while. There is such a thing as being too laid back and loosey goosey. Luckily, things get done because I have no issue being the "heavy" or subjecting myself to being the leader and all of the potential criticism or lame times that may come with that. Otherwise, all we'd do is sit around, drinking beer, discussing WHAT to do until it was time for everyone to go home.
The biggest thing with me is the awkward situation one finds themselves in when trying to arrange a dinner or get together..."Saturday works for me, call me at the very last minute and let's see how we all feel about it and what to do"...."gimme a call ten minutes before I leave to go do something and we'll try to plan while I get ready"..."yeah! let's see how we all feel about what to do when we get there, depends on everyone's mood"... I'm sorry, what? Do you eat food? Do you like to have someone cook FOR you at their house? Yes? Then why do we need to pussyfoot around and "wait and see" with some indecisive hour-long discussion about WHAT to eat.
If I invite you to dinner or a get together at my house, I am cooking for you. Barring food allergies or specific tastes (oysters are a never, pumpkin mousse is a maybe for most folks I know), you will eat what I cook. There will BE NO DISCUSSION about what I am making. I am inviting you to kneel at the altar known as my dinner table and leave a drool sacrifice to my mighty seasoning and meat-moistening prowess (ohhh dirty). We will not be talking about what everyone is in the mood for, because I planned the fuck out of a meal about a week in advance, bought groceries, make a cheesecake to let sit and set up, defrosted a slab of meat, and stocked up on everyone's favorite beers. You will eat it, you will love it, and you will thank me and sing its praises for months on end. It's not conceit speaking here, it's the truth.
But waiting around, discussing what everyone wants to do (this smacks of too much touchy feely feelings discussing, which is a bad idea when I am hungry and wanting to eat NOW), you end up with mac and cheese in front of the tv in a big heap. Which is cool sometimes. But when I tell you I am making food, you should understand that you have little to no say after voicing concerns on food allergies and specific tastes. NO. Chickens do not magically defrost themselves because we all sat around and decided that's what we felt like eating 10 minutes ago and are now ravenous and cranky. That is not how that works, nor is it how hosting works. There will be no takeout, frozen dinners (I don't buy them), or leftovers. I am inviting you over for a nice meal because none of you cook that well and live on beer and takeout.
I think perhaps I should take my Dad's tack on inviting folks over, I will INFORM them what is being served and when they should show up. In the friendliest way possible. I've really got to figure out how he does that... Maybe I should leave the baseball bat and crowbar in the shed. And use a nice voice? Maybe. Mayyyybeee.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Shoppin for small ladies
And I don't mean little folk.
My little sister (and by no means my youngest, that one is...3?) has a birthday coming up, her fifth. I was stymied about what to get her until a friend suggested over facebook that stickers were the way to go, or better yet a sticker book...because we've all seen the unfortunate family cars with the rear passenger windows COATED in peely, sticky paper backing of shapes of dinosaurs and butterflies and the like. I can't in good conscience inflict that on *anyone*, even my step mother and her *snicker* audi station wagon *snicker*. So sticker books it is.
And then I remembered the sticker books I had, that ended up mostly on my dresser as oppossed to the family car or in the sticker book. I had everything from dinos to astronauts to large smiling teeth (ikr?) and pretty glittery pixies. And then there was......LISA FRANK.
FTW.
This was THE thing to have back at my grade school, next to RL Stine books and YIKES! pencils (both of which I was the queen of, that and Babysitter's Club books). Yikes pencils were the bomb, you'd get a neon pencil that was a WHOLE DIFFERENT COLOR when you sharpened it and had zaaaaany erasers. It came very close to making cursive practice in 3rd grade interesting.
I was not the hugest Lisa Frank girl, there were far too many puppies and unicorns and shit like that for my taste, but they DID make neon dolphins jumping over rainbow stickers, so how could I refuse? That, and next to those light up LA Gear shoes, you could be no cooler in school than if you had those...until pogs... :( good god, what was wrong with my generation?
Anyhow, enjoy the trip, I read today that "flourescents are making a fashion comeback", let's just hope this time they leave the hypercolor t-shirts out of it!
My little sister (and by no means my youngest, that one is...3?) has a birthday coming up, her fifth. I was stymied about what to get her until a friend suggested over facebook that stickers were the way to go, or better yet a sticker book...because we've all seen the unfortunate family cars with the rear passenger windows COATED in peely, sticky paper backing of shapes of dinosaurs and butterflies and the like. I can't in good conscience inflict that on *anyone*, even my step mother and her *snicker* audi station wagon *snicker*. So sticker books it is.
And then I remembered the sticker books I had, that ended up mostly on my dresser as oppossed to the family car or in the sticker book. I had everything from dinos to astronauts to large smiling teeth (ikr?) and pretty glittery pixies. And then there was......LISA FRANK.
FTW.
This was THE thing to have back at my grade school, next to RL Stine books and YIKES! pencils (both of which I was the queen of, that and Babysitter's Club books). Yikes pencils were the bomb, you'd get a neon pencil that was a WHOLE DIFFERENT COLOR when you sharpened it and had zaaaaany erasers. It came very close to making cursive practice in 3rd grade interesting.
I was not the hugest Lisa Frank girl, there were far too many puppies and unicorns and shit like that for my taste, but they DID make neon dolphins jumping over rainbow stickers, so how could I refuse? That, and next to those light up LA Gear shoes, you could be no cooler in school than if you had those...until pogs... :( good god, what was wrong with my generation?
Anyhow, enjoy the trip, I read today that "flourescents are making a fashion comeback", let's just hope this time they leave the hypercolor t-shirts out of it!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
toooo early for thinkin
Is it February yet? No? Then you mean I DON'T have to hear about Sweetbean's birthday EVERY SINGLE DAY and that it is still like three weeks away and ohmygod am I going nuts discussing cakes and bicycles and knight's shields to play with YES YES I AM. The flip side of that is Manwife's birthday is the day following Sweetbean's, and I have yet to hear one peep out of him about what he wants aside from "yellow cake with vanilla frosting and enchiladas divorciadas". ew, yellow cake and vanilla. Bland! I asked if I could at least draw on it with colored frosting and add a million candles and sprinkles or sugared flowers, but got shot down. Oh well, on my birthday I will make a huge cake filled with candy bars and decorated with flowers and tinsel and sparklers or some shit.
I think I may just do that for Bumblebee's womb-emergence day. Or make someone else do it. Last time I pooped out a kid, I got triple fudge chunk brownies. It was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth, ever, and it even got the taste of puke out. Because...puking, baby crapping out, they tend to go hand in hand. Boo to that.
So, it's early, I'm rambling, and I can't have coffee because baby Bumble will knock around my innards like a giant boney pinball for three hours. Her favorite place to stomp thus far seems to be the join of ligaments and muscle between my lower belly and left hip. And when she gets caffinated...well, she can jump pretty high in there. Lung-high. With smacking them and knocking into my solar plexus. So I have to suffer being brain dead until about 11 am, and missing out on sweet co-op dark roast.
I think I'm just posting to keep in the habit...I actually posted on my craftin' blog, the first entry with pictures and whatnot! And because I got so much shit about it...and it's all people could focus on, I changed the name. See, when you mention you start a craft blog in order to possibly sell shit, the last thing you want to hear is OMG that reminds me of this obnoxious kids' book! No, you want to hear "oh, what do you do?" or "good luck", along those lines.
So now it's another obnoxious name - Mama-llama-rama. Booyakasha.
Mostly I just like llamas. And goats. But I couldn't think of a good goat rhyme, so there you go.
I'd better return to the real world...between the boxes of old Sweetbean baby stuff Manwife dug up for me at Dad's house (which I in no way wanted to go near, unfortunately, so now I miss my Dad more than anybody, boo), the boxes from my girlfriend's 1 year old daughter and a whole boatload of clothes from my stepmom I am swimming in laundry and tiny pink things. Hopefully I can sort things to where they are a good mix of girly and not-girly-at-all (lots of hippie boy stuff from Sweetbean), and then share the rest with my other two friends who are girlier than I and ALSO pregnant with girls. Good lord. So much pink. I really am sick of it. That and this "Princess" or "Spoiled Rotten" type of shirt you see so much in girls' departments of stores...you don't get that with boys so much. It's kind of more than a little appalling. Ick. TOO. MUCH. PINK. And lace. And princess bullshit. PLZ HALP SEND METAL SHRT ASAP SOS - preferably tool or deftones or anthrax kthx.
Off to the pink heap of doom.
I think I may just do that for Bumblebee's womb-emergence day. Or make someone else do it. Last time I pooped out a kid, I got triple fudge chunk brownies. It was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth, ever, and it even got the taste of puke out. Because...puking, baby crapping out, they tend to go hand in hand. Boo to that.
So, it's early, I'm rambling, and I can't have coffee because baby Bumble will knock around my innards like a giant boney pinball for three hours. Her favorite place to stomp thus far seems to be the join of ligaments and muscle between my lower belly and left hip. And when she gets caffinated...well, she can jump pretty high in there. Lung-high. With smacking them and knocking into my solar plexus. So I have to suffer being brain dead until about 11 am, and missing out on sweet co-op dark roast.
I think I'm just posting to keep in the habit...I actually posted on my craftin' blog, the first entry with pictures and whatnot! And because I got so much shit about it...and it's all people could focus on, I changed the name. See, when you mention you start a craft blog in order to possibly sell shit, the last thing you want to hear is OMG that reminds me of this obnoxious kids' book! No, you want to hear "oh, what do you do?" or "good luck", along those lines.
So now it's another obnoxious name - Mama-llama-rama. Booyakasha.
Mostly I just like llamas. And goats. But I couldn't think of a good goat rhyme, so there you go.
I'd better return to the real world...between the boxes of old Sweetbean baby stuff Manwife dug up for me at Dad's house (which I in no way wanted to go near, unfortunately, so now I miss my Dad more than anybody, boo), the boxes from my girlfriend's 1 year old daughter and a whole boatload of clothes from my stepmom I am swimming in laundry and tiny pink things. Hopefully I can sort things to where they are a good mix of girly and not-girly-at-all (lots of hippie boy stuff from Sweetbean), and then share the rest with my other two friends who are girlier than I and ALSO pregnant with girls. Good lord. So much pink. I really am sick of it. That and this "Princess" or "Spoiled Rotten" type of shirt you see so much in girls' departments of stores...you don't get that with boys so much. It's kind of more than a little appalling. Ick. TOO. MUCH. PINK. And lace. And princess bullshit. PLZ HALP SEND METAL SHRT ASAP SOS - preferably tool or deftones or anthrax kthx.
Off to the pink heap of doom.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Blahs are over, January sucks, and I just want it to be May alfreakinready
Wow, I haven't hit the ol blog in a couple of weeks, my bad! I have been trying to get in the habit of blogging more this year - hopefully whenever I get my craft blog going (Dee Bee Sea is defunct until baby having is done with) and someday that big, shiny etsy shop hoppin, I will be awesome about updates and uploading stuff and whatnot. YEAH!
Let's see, what's been going on?
Well, for the past week, the weather here in Acme, WA has been fucking G L O R I O U S. I mean, clear, high, cold blue skies, frost tipped greenery, clean breezes down from the mountains, and best of all, no rain OR snow! MAN I am so done with snow. For serious and true. But the weather has def. made me antsy for spring, I keep looking at Ma's lawn and looking for the little jonquils and crocuses and snowdrops I know should be popping up in a couple of months...hurry UP, flowers. And then there are the plum blossoms and cherry blossoms and (best of all) apple blossoms around here, which are all lovely and smell like sugar-heaven. So I have basically fooled myself into thinking spring is just around the corner. Which means I thing that my house is a dump and that everything needs to be cleaned, polished, painted, and aired out. DID YOU KNOW that if you air linens out on a January day in the the Cascade foothills, no matter how sunny it is, they will come in crackly with a 1/4" of frost? It is TRUUUUE. but they smell lovely.
In related sprucing news, I have been (slowly) painting a large, acrylic mural on the baby's room wall in our loft area. There is a purple sea that will be populated with chubby mermaids, a big silver tree on top of a periwinkle hill, set against a pink, swirly sky. I've never painted on quite that large of a scale before, so it's been...rough...to keep motivated. Especially after my armpits (wtf!) get sore and I get paint up my nose for the millionth time. But I have been keeping motivated by doing three other baby-realted projects (I have to do a lot at once to keep focused, what is wrong with my brain). I am also knitting a wee sweater to go with the pointy elf hat I made, finishing up a baby quilt started last January, and making baby wipes out of old flannel sheets and random pieces in my stash. So it's been good, my fingers and wrists are holding up and not being little bitches about all of the work I force them to do and things are turning out pretty good-looking. Usually my fingers are all "wah, my little girly muscles hurt" and my wrists are all "ohhh I am too limp to knit for hours" but after a year of conditioning them, they are BURLY and I can craft and sew and paint all the live-long-day. At this rate, when I am an old lady, I will look like a body builder from the elbows down. RADNESS!
Related to crafting, I hate Etsy shops. I wanted to like them, but MAN. The all seem to have elected to sell a piss-poor product with unfinished fabric edges and hanging thread ends and and and UGH it drives me nuts. And they always charge far too much for said mediocrity, you know? It's galling, as someone who has been sewing for over ten years, to see such shabby work being proferred for sale to the masses as a quality product worth twenty times the cost of materials and labour. It is such bullshit. I've been at it for a long time, and half the time, I would rather give things away as they are not up to MY standards. Maybe that's why I'm still not making money at it, but I couldn't in good conscience sell something I felt to be a piece of shit, what with it coming from my brain and hands and all. So that was an irritating experience. One of those times I had to keep my mouth shut and smile politely, I know people who sell there but won't look. I hate etsy crafts. there. I said it.
Ummm.
Other than that, I watched the Obama inauguration and decided to attend Unitarian Universalist services (I'm a taoist liker of Jesus the dude, not the bible though, and many other ideas of peace and love and service). Nothing too exciting, right ! HA!
Let's see, what's been going on?
Well, for the past week, the weather here in Acme, WA has been fucking G L O R I O U S. I mean, clear, high, cold blue skies, frost tipped greenery, clean breezes down from the mountains, and best of all, no rain OR snow! MAN I am so done with snow. For serious and true. But the weather has def. made me antsy for spring, I keep looking at Ma's lawn and looking for the little jonquils and crocuses and snowdrops I know should be popping up in a couple of months...hurry UP, flowers. And then there are the plum blossoms and cherry blossoms and (best of all) apple blossoms around here, which are all lovely and smell like sugar-heaven. So I have basically fooled myself into thinking spring is just around the corner. Which means I thing that my house is a dump and that everything needs to be cleaned, polished, painted, and aired out. DID YOU KNOW that if you air linens out on a January day in the the Cascade foothills, no matter how sunny it is, they will come in crackly with a 1/4" of frost? It is TRUUUUE. but they smell lovely.
In related sprucing news, I have been (slowly) painting a large, acrylic mural on the baby's room wall in our loft area. There is a purple sea that will be populated with chubby mermaids, a big silver tree on top of a periwinkle hill, set against a pink, swirly sky. I've never painted on quite that large of a scale before, so it's been...rough...to keep motivated. Especially after my armpits (wtf!) get sore and I get paint up my nose for the millionth time. But I have been keeping motivated by doing three other baby-realted projects (I have to do a lot at once to keep focused, what is wrong with my brain). I am also knitting a wee sweater to go with the pointy elf hat I made, finishing up a baby quilt started last January, and making baby wipes out of old flannel sheets and random pieces in my stash. So it's been good, my fingers and wrists are holding up and not being little bitches about all of the work I force them to do and things are turning out pretty good-looking. Usually my fingers are all "wah, my little girly muscles hurt" and my wrists are all "ohhh I am too limp to knit for hours" but after a year of conditioning them, they are BURLY and I can craft and sew and paint all the live-long-day. At this rate, when I am an old lady, I will look like a body builder from the elbows down. RADNESS!
Related to crafting, I hate Etsy shops. I wanted to like them, but MAN. The all seem to have elected to sell a piss-poor product with unfinished fabric edges and hanging thread ends and and and UGH it drives me nuts. And they always charge far too much for said mediocrity, you know? It's galling, as someone who has been sewing for over ten years, to see such shabby work being proferred for sale to the masses as a quality product worth twenty times the cost of materials and labour. It is such bullshit. I've been at it for a long time, and half the time, I would rather give things away as they are not up to MY standards. Maybe that's why I'm still not making money at it, but I couldn't in good conscience sell something I felt to be a piece of shit, what with it coming from my brain and hands and all. So that was an irritating experience. One of those times I had to keep my mouth shut and smile politely, I know people who sell there but won't look. I hate etsy crafts. there. I said it.
Ummm.
Other than that, I watched the Obama inauguration and decided to attend Unitarian Universalist services (I'm a taoist liker of Jesus the dude, not the bible though, and many other ideas of peace and love and service). Nothing too exciting, right ! HA!
Friday, January 9, 2009
WOOHOO Until about 9 years from now, that is.
baby bumblebee is a GIRL bumblebee, as it turns out.
well dang! slap me with a pair of ruby slippers and give me a tutu....or twenty. with barn boots. and millions of hair doodads. and teeny tiny little tights and pixie wings. OH HECK YES.
sadly, she is a taurus, but there is naught I can do about that except hold it back like a prarie-doggin' poo until after May 22. You KNOW I'll be trying. Those damned Tauruses, they're just plain weird and smelly and stubborn and they take too long in the bathroom but then scream in fear when you knock softly on the door to check if it is occupado. NOT THAT I KNOW ANY TAURES LIKE THAT EH MA
also I am pretty sure I am going to have to ship Bumblebee off in 9 years, what with the hellraiser to the degree I am sure will put my entire family to shame that she will be....yeah. It's just better this way :P Oh man, now I am dreading puberty SO HARD. I am imagining me at that age, times about twenty, and I am just going to start calling talk shows NOW about my rebellious teen who smokes and deals illegal Opies and lutefisk and calls her grandmother's dog a whore. Oy gevalt.
well dang! slap me with a pair of ruby slippers and give me a tutu....or twenty. with barn boots. and millions of hair doodads. and teeny tiny little tights and pixie wings. OH HECK YES.
sadly, she is a taurus, but there is naught I can do about that except hold it back like a prarie-doggin' poo until after May 22. You KNOW I'll be trying. Those damned Tauruses, they're just plain weird and smelly and stubborn and they take too long in the bathroom but then scream in fear when you knock softly on the door to check if it is occupado. NOT THAT I KNOW ANY TAURES LIKE THAT EH MA
also I am pretty sure I am going to have to ship Bumblebee off in 9 years, what with the hellraiser to the degree I am sure will put my entire family to shame that she will be....yeah. It's just better this way :P Oh man, now I am dreading puberty SO HARD. I am imagining me at that age, times about twenty, and I am just going to start calling talk shows NOW about my rebellious teen who smokes and deals illegal Opies and lutefisk and calls her grandmother's dog a whore. Oy gevalt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)