Fading Grace

Last Tuesday, I made an appointment for something that I'd been talking about doing and fraught with guilt over for months and months now. The week previous, I'd stood in front of the phonebook, staring at a certain number with phone in hand, trying with all my might to dial. Each day I'd manage to push one more number than the day previous, but then I'd hang up and walk away crying... completely unable to go through with it alone.

The week previous to that one, my dog Gracee... a dog I've had for nearly 14 years now and who has been suffering from severe arthritis for several years now... began to lose control of her bladder and bowel. I knew it was something completely undignified for a girl who'd gone her entire adult life without ever having an accident (save for a couple of times when she'd been ill). But at this point, she'd been looking longingly at me, my mother, and anyone she'd see... with almost a "help me" request in her eyes. Everyone asked her, "What's wrong? Do you want something?" It was obvious that she did.

I knew she wanted to be released from the pain and from her failing body. Unfortunately, she was healthy in almost every other way... except that she'd been losing her vision to cataracts... but otherwise, she was eating and drinking and going about her life as usual. This made the decision to put her down all the more confusing to me.

Gracee was a therapy dog to me, as pretty much all of my dogs have been. When I'd realized in early 1993 that I was accidentally pregnant and had made the decision to start a family, I had an additional moment of panic about 2 months into that decision... it was the realization that I knew absolutely nothing about taking care of babies. Sure, I'd babysat before... but those were older children. I'd not even so much as held a new baby in my arms, however... and I hadn't really had too much responsibility as an art student at that point, except for my 3 cats and one guinea pig. Those don't count all that much, and I knew it. I hadn't even had a puppy in a decade at that point, so I couldn't imagine what ways I might screw up an infant.

As the next couple of weeks of this line of thought progressed, more panic continued to set in... that's when I found myself at the Humane Society, as would often happen whenever I was stressed. I always found that playing with puppies was a great way to lift my mood.

So there I was... 22 years old and about 3 months pregnant at that point... and terrified. As I played with the puppies and put them back in their cages, I began to realize that I had to take one home. If I could house train a puppy and keep it from hurting itself or choking on anything, then I figured that I should be able (with slightly more vigilance and time, of course) do the same for a baby human.

I'd been playing with one very energetic eight-week-old with a fawn and black brindle coat, but I could tell she might be too much for my small apartment... so as I kept her out of her cage and took another, calmer puppy out of its cage to compare the two, that's when I felt a tug. I looked down and saw that the brindle pup had a mouthful of my skirt and was pulling me towards the adoption offices. I pulled the skirt out of her mouth and tried to get her to play with the other pup, but she wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, she went right back to pulling me by the skirt in the direction of the door. I think one of the workers there said something to the effect of, "Looks like she's chosen you!" That's all I needed to hear. An hour later, I was walking through the door of my apartment with my newest family member... much to my cats' and guinea pig's dismay.






A couple of weeks after my first child was born, we got some bad news about Gracee. First she went completely lame at home... a dog who could bounce and leap and never sit still for a moment was suddenly crying in a heap on the floor. She was still just a 9 month old puppy, but the vet was telling me that she would suffer in pain for the rest of her severely shortened life... she had patellar luxations, a condition in which the knee joints aren't deep enough to support the musculature and ligaments of a dog of her size, causing the bones to slip out of place. She was given a maximum of 10 years to live before needing to be put down, and that she'd always need to be kept from running, jumping, or bouncing. I remember crying for her for days, thinking she might have a horrible life of confinement.

She did have to be confined quite a bit, but she had a much longer and fuller life than the vet could have predicted back then. At 11 years, she stopped being able to climb stairs... but with glucosamine and fish oil and the occasional baby aspirin added to her diet, Gracee managed to get around okay. She also helped to raise all 3 of my children and was great at babysitting... taking on drool and clean-up duty with complete devotion. She also helped to raise countless kittens and puppies, who came and went from our house over the years. Despite her deep bark and rather menacing looks, she never met a stranger she didn't like.

As far as looks went, she wasn't a beauty queen, by any means. Although the Humane Society had labeled her as a German Shepard mix, there was no way that was true. By the time she was an adult, I could tell exactly what she was mixed with... Pit Bull and Golden Retriever... a combo that mottled her long coat into somewhat of a hyena look. Combine that with her bear-like shuffle and... well... see for yourself:




A shaved Gracee, 1994... looking like her Pit Bull half and cradling the newest baby of the house.




Gracee au-naturale... junkyard dog exterior, sweet as pie interior.

Last week, I knew her life had come to an end and she needed to be given her dignity. I asked Dean on Monday if he would come with me on Wednesday and help me through it. He'd offered previously and at that point, after spending a week trying to get up the courage to do it alone, I knew I needed him. The next morning, as if Gracee knew that her time was up, she stopped eating. Since the weather was nice, I allowed her to stay outside that day and her last day... she didn't eat that day either. I'd been giving her table scraps for weeks already, but on her last day, I began giving her chocolate truffles and brownies... she loved chocolate, but of course could never be allowed them otherwise.

I'd called the vet on Tuesday and set up the appointment for the next day at closing time... they would only do euthanasia at the end of the day, so not to upset the animals or the clients as much. After making the appointment, however, I couldn't stop crying... and not just crying, but sobbing. I lost an hour of that morning just staring at the phone in my hand and sobbing... then when I had to drive across town to work, I continued to sob... not good in Atlanta's traffic, but it couldn't be helped.

Dean and I took a leisure day on Wednesday... not accomplishing much of anything... taking a long nature walk and talking... those kinds of things. Eventually I had to return home and get Gracee for her appointment. You might think that I would have wanted to spend the last day with her, but I couldn't do it... I had to keep myself preoccupied in other ways rather than wallow in what was to come.

When we got home, I went over to my neighbor's house and told her what was about to happen. My neighbor is an angel of a woman, who always treats my animals like they're human members of my family. She talks to the dogs when they're in the yard, actually coming over to the fence and asking them how their day is and occasionally giving them a treat. My dogs, in turn, think she's their other grandmother (my mom being their first grandmother, of course). As soon as I started getting the words out to her, I began to well up with tears and she did too. She ran to get her shoes and come with me so she could say goodbye. We stood talking to Gracee for a while, with my neighbor crying and telling her how beautiful she was and what a great girl she'd always been and how glad she was to have known her. She even went home and came back with big chunks of chicken to give Gracee from her own dinner and to see her into my vehicle. I thought briefly about driving Gracee to my mom's house for a last goodbye, but I knew that it might upset my mom even more than it would upset me... so I passed on that idea.

We arrived at the vet at exactly 5:30 and they showed us to a room right away, giving us time to say goodbyes there... which seemed too sterile for me to do. Gracee was pacing and panting, where she'd normally be wagging her tail and happy to see everyone. She knew... and I felt the wait was almost too cruel.

Ten minutes later, they came in to do the injection. Unfortunately, Gracee's vein blew in the process and they had to start over... leaving her loopy, but still very much alive and conscious for several minutes. In the time when they were injecting her, I was having my final moments of panic. I couldn't cry at that exact moment, but inside I was wanting to tell them to stop. I couldn't say anything at all though... I just held my hand on Gracee's head and wished for something... anything different at that moment.

Very quickly, however, Gracee's head drifted down and her eyes half-closed as the anesthesia took effect... that's when the tears started to roll down my cheeks. As the vet techs went to find a stethoscope, I leaned down to Gracee's ear and whispered, "It's okay, Gracee. It's okay. You can go now. You're a good girl." When the tech came back an listened for a minute, she finally nodded that Gracee was gone. They gave us the room to stay with her, and although I wanted to and I didn't want to leave her, there was a part of me that wanted to run home... and another part of me that wanted a time machine to go back to 1993 when I first took her home, so that I could give her a whole life again.

With her body still and doll-like, I couldn't stay. It had only been a few minutes, but I needed to leave. By the time I'd gotten back in the vehicle, the clock said it was only 5:50pm, but it felt like a lifetime had passed in that little room.

I know it seems odd to schedule something like that before a holiday, but I felt it would be the only way that I could be truly thankful this year. I was thankful for the life that Gracee gave me while she was here, and for her no longer being in pain. I was also thankful for the support and understanding that Dean gave me at that moment... and for my neighbor's shared love of my dog and her shared tears over saying goodbye.

And even though I knew it would be painful to hear, I called my mom immediately afterwards and told her that Gracee was gone, so that she could weep and share her thoughts with me, too... she could only manage to repeat, "She was a good dog," through her own tears. But the next day at her house, there were no more tears for any of us. We had a good holiday... probably the best Thanksgiving that I've had in years... in a moment of connection that seemed all the more sweeter and profound somehow.

Although I've lost 2 of my dogs in just 2 months time, I have a lot of good things to be grateful for right now and the future feels filled with hope in many ways. I still cry easily thinking about the moment of Gracee's death, but I do not shed a tear for her life. She gave me so much... she taught me how to love unconditionally and how to be responsible for another... how to never give up on something so beautiful... and in those last moments, she also taught me just how precious and short life is and that we all have to let go sometime.


You were a good girl, Gracee.
January 16, 1993 - November 22, 2006

NO EXCUSES, PEOPLE!!!

Every year when it gets close to my birthday, I start to make my "list of demands," and every year one demand goes unfulfilled. Maybe you don't think I'm serious? Maybe you think that I'm just being whimsical? Maybe I need to start taking hostages? I mean, what's it going to take, people?

I WANT A GOD DAMN PONY, DAMMIT!!!

Today, Leila and I went to get manicures and pedicures again, having one of our decadent moments while the rest of you fools were toiling away behind desks or inside ditches or whatever it is you do. I'm starting to enjoy this newly discovered habit a bit too much, I think. This is only my second time ever in my life, but I don't see me giving it up any time soon.

Anyway, as I dropped her off at home while you were probably suffering from your 3:00 comas, she mentioned this new toy from Fur Real Friends called Butterscotch the Pony. As soon as she started talking about it, I knew that I had to have one!

Butterscotch is about 3 feet tall, it responds to your voice, your strokes of its fur, it eats, neighs, blinks, swishes its tail, and if you're under 200 pounds (which luckily I still am!) you can even ride her, while she bounces up and down and makes trotting sounds... she doesn't actually move, but she also doesn't POOP either... so no mess!



Who is this brat with my pony?



Get away from my pony, bitch!



I'll cut you!


Anyway, I couldn't believe my ears when Leila told me. I began fantasizing right away, but nevertheless, I ultimately hoped to God that I'd never see a Butterscotch in person, for fear of never being able to leave the store without one. A few hours later, I was making lists of stuff in my head to get for my other animals that do poop... food to make poop, litter to poop on, poop cleaners, etc... all while strolling through Target.

And that's when it happened: I saw her... in all her glory. Well, sorta. This Target's Butterscotch was running low on battery juice or carrot juice, and rather than neighing, she sounded more like she was slowly dying of some internal injuries. But still... she was beautiful.

If you don't believe me, watch this:



See what I mean? Now I bet you wish you had a pony, too!

Too bad, because she's mine. MINE, I TELL YOU!!! MINE!!!

Um... diarrhea pants?!?

The kids came home last night from their typical weekend with their father and immediately my ADHD-addled 11-year-old middle child pulls out a plastic bag full of clothes and goes, "Diarrhea pants." I shoot a look at my ex-husband as he's trying to sneak off the porch and I firmly ask, "Um... diarrhea pants?!?" My ex freezes, shrugs, and says, "Uh, yeah. And I didn't get a chance to rinse them out yet." While cringing and feeling myself grow nauseated, I ask anyway, "And when exactly did this happen?" My ex sheepishly replies, "Yesterday morning, so I have no idea what state their in by now," then he walks off with this "oops" expression.

Forget even being angry about that anymore... I know from 7 years of experience of kid weekends that my ex NEVER washes out anything... diarrhea, puke, milk, mud, food, whatever... I've had him hand me back things after being sealed up in a bag for half of Xmas break. No, anger is no longer an option there. Instead, it's a tennis match, as I whip my head around to turn my attention to addressing the waiting nightmare in the bag. I tell Malachi --who is startlingly just about to reach into that bag in the middle of the livingroom to pull out said "diarrhea pants" with his bare hands!-- to take the whole bag to the washing machine and without touching the clothes, dump them in, so I can deal with the washing part... and off he went downstairs to do just that.

Or so I thought.

From where I'm still standing and shaking my head, I hear the sickeningly wet-sounding "thud" of the soiled clothes hitting the metal drum of the machine, but it's the next thing that I hear that really turns my stomach... it's the sound of the dryer door slamming shut, which has a very different sound than the falling lid of a washing machine.

So in a panic, I jump up shouting, "No! Don't tell me you just put your diarrhea pants in the dryer!?!" And with the exact same expression as his father, Malachi freezes in his tracks and goes, "oh crap." As he slowly opened the dryer, there they sat... diarrhea pants and underwear, not rinsed at all, sticking to the inside of the dryer.

Other than cleaning up after the Jackass guys, I don't imagine people usually have to figure out how to get diarrhea out of a dryer.

My reaction changes to resignation at this point, "I can't believe you still don't know the difference between a washing machine and a dryer."

That's when my oldest chimes in with the well-timed quip, "Not only that, I can't believe he still craps in his pants!"

This blog entry writes itself.

I just learned tonight that I can no longer check the "caucasian" or "white" box when filling out forms for myself. From here on out, it's strictly "other" for me.

Why? Because I just came from the whitest of white events I've ever been to in my life... a Bare Naked Ladies concert here in Gwinnett County, GA... and I can honestly say that I have never felt insufficiently white in all my life.

What the hell was I doing there, you ask? The reason is quite simple: because for a Puerto Rican boy raised in a primarily black neighborhood in the Bronx, my boyfriend apparently has the most whitest of whitebread taste in music I've seen in a long time.

Regardless of that, and even though I'm not into the band, I wanted to go... no really, I wanted to go... because when you're in a relationship, you do things with your partner that you normally wouldn't be caught dead doing, just because it makes the other person happy. And when he saw that the Bare Naked Ladies were coming and shrieked like a giddy school girl that we had to go, I never questioned it... because that's what you do.

Thank god it wasn't Dave Matthews... which I discovered tonight is also another favorite of his (don't hate the player... hate the media... or something). I draw the line there... D's on his own if that one comes to town.

But back to the concert... since the music isn't my cup of red rooibus tea, I amused myself with watching the dance displays of the locals. Wow. I mean, WOW. I never realized until tonight that there were so many ways that one can dance so badly! This was the whitest audience I have ever seen and not a one of them had any sense of rhythm or timing... from the rows upon rows of heads down in the standing section all bopping around like a giant box of bobblehead dolls being driven across a gravel road... to the "dancers" in the seats who could only bend at one set of joints in their bodies at the same time... you know, the ones only bending their knees or their elbows and nothing else, for instance... it was simply amazing to behold. And when they managed to get more than one set of joints moving along with the bobbly heads, it generally looked like that much talked about Michael J. Fox commercial in his full-twitchy glory.

The "best" dancer of the night had to be the guy from the band who sings most of the songs... I don't know his name... the fat one with glasses, that's all I know. When he took off in full dancing throttle, he looked like the special ed kid after someone told him there'd be ice cream. If you ever see me sitting there just silently shaking and trying not to snort, don't worry... I'm not choking... I'm just thinking about that fat dude with his arms flapping doing some sort of skipping with his knees bending at angles that aren't normally seen in humans. Oh, the giggles I'll have for years to come thanks to that sight!

I'm sure I had more to say, but really... the thought of all those white folks dancing is keeping me from typing. I just keep giggling and giggling. Actually, all I want to do is race upstairs and imitate them all in front of a mirror, just to see if I can.

Oh, fuck it... I can't wait! I gotta do it now!

Skull Kingdom

How could I forget posting a picture of the place our Orlando hotel was next to?



Skull Kingdom
(no, we didn't go inside)

Happy weekend and Halloween parties everyone! We're going off to Athens tonight to catch Patton Oswalt, Zach Galifianakis, and Elf Power. Have a good 'un!

Take the Cake and Eat Me, Too

An open letter to Sophia Coppola in reaction to her film Marie Antoinette, seen at the Universal Studios Cineplex in Orlando, Florida on October 21, 2006 around 9pm...

Dear Ms. Coppola,

You talentless whore. If your daddy ever lets you make another movie, I will personally hunt him down and kill him... and then you. Or maybe I'll just gouge my own eyes out with a melon baller instead of ever having to sit through another one of your debacles.

Don't get me wrong. I love, love, love Lost in Translation... but I'm beginning to think that rather than that film being an example of your maturing into your own filmmaker after your sophomoric attempt at The Virgin Suicides, I now simply believe that Bill Murray made that film and you were just lucky to have him.

Oh sure, there will proabably be some film snob out there who is going to label your work as "pure genious" and compare it to the likes of such films as Vivre sa Vie (My Life to Live) or L'Avventura. Yeah, you could get away with that with your ending to Lost in Translation, but even Goddard and Antonioni can BORE THE SHIT OUT OF ALMOST EVERYONE!

Puh-lease don't bother pointing to the fact that you were using children of Hollywood "royalty" (like Asia Argento, Jason Schwartzman, Danny Huston, and yourself) to highlight how ridiculous such a lifestyle of the Hollywood elite really is. Is that why you seemed so utterly bored on screen during The Godfather III? Phfft. Whatever.

And never, ever, ever think for a minute that in order to portray a main character's boredom, you need to bore your audience equally with the tedium of the minutia of such uninteresting moments. All I know is that when the montage of pastry porn and shoes hit the screen, I was about to stab someone. I can't even say that you're fit for directing music videos, because I think you've ruined the already overused soundtrack pieces forever.

Don't anyone tell me how the damn thing ends... aside from the history of the real queen, that is... I don't need to know. I walked out about an hour into the blasted thing, but not before I imagined 50 different ways to end that film better than you probably did... and every one of them involved some sort of injury or death to the director... or burning an effigy, at least.

I am done with you, Ms. Coppola. You can just go choke on a montage of pastries, for all I care, because I'll never get that bad taste out of my mouth.

Blech.

Sincerely,

The She-Creature

Always a bridesmaid's date...

So the whole "trip to Orlando" thing came about when D asked if I'd like to be his date to a wedding.

Okay, so although I first said no, because he asked before we'd ever actually met... after we'd spent a week together, I was swayed and asked, "Do you still want a date to that wedding?" Now, really... I gotta tell you, for me to go to a wedding, first of all, full of people I don't know, second of all, AND in a town I've been avoiding for 7 years, well... I must truly like this guy. This is true.

I even got a very fancy beaded outfit for the affair, had a manicure and a pedicure for the first time in my life, did battle with the toiletries police at the airport, and sat on the tarmac in that fancy beaded outfit on a plane full of screaming babies for 2 hours with no air conditioning (the previous summer long-fought battle with my own a/c was training for this moment, apparently). Being that the plane was delayed for so long and I'd been on it for 3.5 hours, my nerves were shot when I got to Orlando... I did get there, about 2 hours later than I was supposed to get there, which cut things really close to the wedding.

Because I was late, and D had gone to the airport already to pick me up when I told him what was happening with the delays, he decided to secure a shuttle pass for me to get to the hotel, because he needed to be there for the mysterious whatever they do before a wedding ceremony.

I arrived at the shuttle depot by about 3:30, where I was told to wait on a bench in the blazing Orlando sun... still in that beautiful black beaded thing. I sat there for 20 minutes before my driver arrived -- a man who moved so slowly and spoke like his tongue was tied in a fancy giftbox bow. He looked at my destination and spouted something that sounded like, "Which Hyatt?" When I said, "It says on the ticket... Grand Cypress." He just rolled his eyes and said again, "Wishighah? Washighah? I saya wha's fah?"

"Are you asking 'what for'?" I asked, and he nodded like I was a retard. So I told him. "For a wedding."

Then he spewed out, "Don't make me barf," in that special language of his, but for all I know, he could have said, "Do you like my scarf?" I figured it was the first one though, by the way he threw his head backwards and then forwards, mimicking a barfing action. Plus, it was hotter than the face of the sun and he wasn't wearing a scarf.

Did I mention he was slow? It took him 15 minutes to load 10 people's pieces of luggage into the van, before he took off at 4:05. The drive took FOREVER and seemed like it would never end. The wedding was starting at 4:30 and I was watching the clock and ever red light that fucker hit... 4:10... 4:15... 4:27... please drop me off first!!!

He did, thank god.

I raced into the hotel with my luggage in tow (not the hotel that we were staying at though) and had to check it with the bellhops... and luckily, the ceremony was running late. Apparently the photographer was waiting on the sun, which had decided to finally hide behind clouds once my black-beaded ass was finally out from under it.

So there I was... alone... at a complete stranger's wedding. Dean was up in the bride's room with the other bridesmaids... yes, remember, this is MY boyfriend we're talking about... so he's not a groomsman, he's a bridesmaid. This was an endless source of amusement for other members of the wedding party... everyone but Dean, of course.

One of the actual groomsmen escorted me to my seat and asked which side... "Bride, I suppose... but I don't know either of them, so if you need filler, I'll take either side."

"How do you know the bride then?" he asked, totally perplexed.

"I don't. I'm the date of one of the bridesmaids."

At that point he stopped in his tracks and just looked at me like, "Ah ha."

"It's not as weird as that. My date is the GUY bridesmaid... you know, D."

The groomsman finally resumed our walk and didn't really talk to me much after that, except to say that he thought D was just filling out the brides' side, since there were like 7 groomsmen and only 2 bridesmaids. That was odd too... aren't those things usually balanced?

Anyway, it was a beautiful and swelteringly hot ceremony. The Hyatt Grand Cypress really is grand... a Shangri-la compared to the nightmare that D had experienced the day before. In his relief of seeing the difference, he made sure to send me another cell phone photo when he arrived at his destination:



When I was finally able to catch up with him, it was during the pre-reception drink-up session, where I was finally able to get a hug for my horrible day and learn how D was feeling.

"Like a member of the mafia," he said. The pinstriped penguin suit didn't help.

The reception was filled with lots of dancing, of course, and assloads of bad music... like every song used in The Wedding Crashers was used without the slightest hint of kitsch factor or irony. Truly amazing to behold, I tell ya.

I was trying to get cute shots of the happy couple and this adorable baby girl who was swaying back and forth to the music... when suddenly a hand came out of nowhere and a voice said, "Put the camera down. Put the camera down. You're dancing with me."

Next thing I knew, D was sweeping me away to the crowded dance floor for the slow dance portion of the night. While we were on the floor, the husband of one of the other bridesmaids decided to snap a picture of us with my abandoned camera.



Notice those orange streaks? That's not my crappy camera... those are passion's flames. Tsssssssss! Listen to that sizzle! Either that, or it shows that weddings are actually pure hell for two dating divorcees.

Anxiety Loves Company

I have got to blog this, because it's too good to keep to myself.

On Wednesday night, I was on the phone with my boyfriend as he was driving down to Orlando for the wedding that he would be part of and I would be attending on Friday. Since it was getting rather late (close to midnight) and he had plenty of time the next day to continue the drive before the rehearsal fun began, he decided to stop over in a hotel for the night.

Without telling me where he was, he just happened to pick Lake City, Florida... which also just happens to be where all of my ex-in-laws live. For those who don't know, Lake City grew out of basically just a truck stop along the way between Orlando and Atlanta. Somehow over the last decade or so, Lake City realized that it could cash in on more than just trucker pit-stoppage and several hotels and restaurants sprung up right around the interstate to reap some coins from road-weary vacationers.

Another little side note that I should add right about here is that my guy just happens to be, in many ways, the male me. Murphy's Law follows him around just as much as it follows me, which has endeared us to one another in a way that other people might find only mildly amusing.

This exit, you see, was not his first choice. No. His first choice was a few miles back and much less populated. He wondered aloud whether it was a good idea to check into a place where only one car seemed to be parked... something about the movie Hotel Hell came up... but then he saw the "VACANCY" neon sign lit up and deemed it quaint... that is, until I said, "Oh, just like in Psycho." That was all he needed to hear and he was turning his car around and driving to the next exit... which, as I've already stated, just happened to be Lake City.

Figuring "What could go wrong with Holiday Inn," probably because it was a name brand (unlike Psycho), he checked in and prepared himself for a restful night in a sleepy North Florida town. Trying not to spook him, I didn't bring up all the "sleepy town" horror movies that were popping into my head at that moment. He continued to talk to me as he opened the door to his "executive suite" and then, suddenly, he went completely silent. After a few seconds, he spoke again, but nothing above a whisper.

"Sherri, I'm in someone's apartment. I can't sleep here. This is someone's apartment!"

"What are you talking about? It's a Holiday Inn... a hotel, not an apartment," I tried to assure him, though I was thoroughly confused at that point.

"No no no no no no. THIS is an apartment. It has three rooms, but almost no furniture. This one room, it has only a coffee maker alone on a stand against one wall. And this other room has two small chairs with a window looking in on the ironing board in this other little room. I can't sleep here. This is too creepy."

I was trying not to laugh at this point, as well as not at all picturing what he was talking about, offering suggestions to make it better, but none were working. Finally, he says:

"I'm going to send you some pictures."

So he hung up with me and I waited... after about 15 minutes, the pictures started coming in, and I could not stop laughing from the very first one. Because not only did the rooms look EXACTLY as he described them, the pictures also had this eerie fog to them, due to his camera phone. By the time he called me back to exclaim, "See," I was laughing too hard to stop. Here's what I saw:















The reason I was laughing so hard, was because I was thinking about why there was so few pieces of furniture. Of course, the real reason is that it's Lake City, Florida... and to those folks on a redneck's shoestring budget, that probably looks like a classy executive suite. To me, however, it looked like it was called "the executive suite" because one time some road-weary executive stayed there and was hacked up into a million pieces while he slept. The other thing I was imagining was that there used to be much more furniture in there, but at night, some of the pieces come alive and they've been eating all the other furniture there.

I didn't say any of this to my boyfriend, because he was already freaked enough as it was. I know him well enough to know that even though the rooms looked empty in those photos above, he was imagining all kinds of scary shit hidden in there... so my mind raced to those images too. Here's my little rendition of what his fears might resemble:













I didn't share these thoughts with him until the next day, of course. He did stay all night, but he never slept... he kept the tv on and every light on in the place, but there was no way that sleep ever happened.

I love that I've now got someone else's neuroses to blog about along with my own crazy shit. I've been worried that if I ever found happiness, I would sacrifice my anxious and/or angsty blog material... but little did I know that I'd find a whole new motherload!

This Mortified Coil

My life is one big blooper reel... full of the outtakes that you'd see at the end of a movie... only that IS the movie. Case in point:

I'm dating someone again. Yes, it's true. I also have a job, that is also true. And these two wonderous new finds just happen to overlap, but not in any kind of icky way. All of this is grand perfection... hooray for me!

But this is my life, so there's gotta be a laugh coming, right?

About an hour or so ago, my new boss/boyfriend had just arrived at his parents' place in New York for a week-long visit, and he decided to show them, along with one of his brothers, our trip to the Georgia Aquarium in my Flickr photos. That's all well and good, and many "oohs" and "ahs" filled the room. If it had stopped there, it wouldn't be my life.

Instead, he decided to show them my gallery of self-portraits on Flickr as well, so that they could get a better view of me. And rather than just clicking the thumbnails here or there, he decided to utilize the "view as slideshow" option for some reason. By about the 4th photo in the group, he realized that he'd made a gigantic error. There, frozen for all to see in an extended delay of a slideshow, made slower by a tedious dial-up connection, was an "art" picture of... wait for it... my bare breasts.

Okay, so they weren't completely exposed, but they were exposed enough and in such a way that, even though there was artfulness to the image, no one... I repeat, NO ONE... would want their boyfriends' (or their bosses') parents to see. Nevermind the fact that the brother was there... I can handle a brother seeing that, but not the parents!

So he called me, giggling as he told me the story, but all I had to hear was, "So I decided to show my parents your photos on Flickr..." and I instantly launched into, "Oh... no. No. No. No, no, nonono. NO. NONONONONONO. Oh God, oh God, oh God, NO!" I knew immediately where this was going.

He proceeded to tell me the details of the moment, while laughing profusely, and the story only got worse. With the picture frozen there on the monitor, refusing to advance, the room fell into a dead silence as he tried to block the image with his hands, followed shortly by his parents clearing the room entirely, and his brother muttering something about "not being able to sleep for weeks now," or something of that nature.

(Don't try to go looking for the photo now, friends. That ship has sailed. The site is completely rated G now. I ran straight to the computer and I made sure of that.)

Earlier today, while discussing our trip to Orlando in 2 weeks for a friend's wedding, he asked if I'd ever been to NYC... and hearing that I hadn't, he said, "Then that will be our next trip." After hearing this story of his tonight, however, I had to say, "You know what this means, don't you? It means that I can never show my face in New York now... or at least not in the Bronx, and definitely not around your family."

What will likely happen --because this is my life I'm talking about-- is that I'll end up married to him and hearing this story told and retold, forever and ever... and I'll live, of course, mortified ever after. That's why I'm writing it out here now, so I can get accustomed to the telling of the tale. And when the movie of my life is made, I promise you this scene will make it to the big screen. You heard it here first.

Gainful

I started a new job today, something that is not only rewarding for the present, but also appears to have a far greater payoff down the road. In a moment that is not too typical of me, I'm not going to give any further details (don't want to jinx a good thing!), except to say that it's not some cruddy office 9-5 sacrifice that would leave me empty at the end of a day, thank God. This opportunity is actually creative, in my field, and has me working for someone very talented. Yay! I get to be productive again!

Welcome to my world... part 2

Here's what I have been waiting to write about... it's been eating away at me and I'm still not ready to tell the tale, but I'm going to let if flow anyhow.

Last Thursday evening, my father came up from Orlando specifically for 2 things: (1) to talk to my mother and apologize for things he did wrong in their marriage (they've been apart for nearly 20 years now); and (2) to talk to me and apologize for things he did wrong in parenting me.

Sounds great, huh? Only, that's not really how it went. What really happened was that he got to unburden himself of a few of his self-perceived issues and that's that. He never really came to listen, or to actually hear what the real issues were.

Why would he choose to do this now? God only knows. Literally... God. Because my dad only said, "It was in my heart to say these things now," which is religious babble-speak for, "I'm trying to become a deacon in my church and I have to atone for my sins in this part of the 12 steps before I can accept that position," or whatever they do there.

In my mother's 20 year relationship with my father, she felt on several occasions that he was most likely cheating on her. No matter how much she asked him though, he always made her feel that she was only paranoid and overly jealous, and he would belittle her with that line of accusation until she believed it. Trust me when I say that my mother's self-esteem suffered greatly because of that. And when he told her that he wanted a divorce --on the day that I was graduating from high school, mind you-- he only said that he wanted his freedom... never giving her any real reasons why.

Interestingly enough, the man who "wanted his freedom" was remarried just 11 months after the papers were finalized, though he claimed that he didn't even know the new wife when he asked for the divorce. In these nearly 2 decades since, my mother has never remarried... but her drinking problem has gone from being a weekend binge drinker to being an extremely unhealthy daily drinker.

So my father came up here, feeling somewhat responsible after all these years, to finally admit to my mother that he did in fact cheat on her... and not with one woman, but multiple women. He ended it there and wouldn't tell her with whom he'd had the affairs, leaving her obsessing over all the other women she'd wondered about over the years.

Basically, my dad just dumped his baggage to feel better about himself, and left the onus on her. Nice one, Dad. Always so helpful.

Then on Friday afternoon, he came to pick me up for lunch... presumably to help me work on my resume so that I can get a boring office job. That never happened. Instead, he talked about how he'd gone wrong as a father... except that he stated everything in religous terms, of course, just as he had with my mother. He admitted to me that he'd cheated on my mom, too, but he managed to leave out the "multiple women" part... that info came from my mom later when she was finally able to talk to me about it without bursting into tears.

In his long, religious-based, occasionally teary apology-of-sorts, the man actually compared himself to Moses... stating that his life went wrong around the age of 14 and for 40 years he was "in the world" (religious speak for the comparison of wandering in the desert, and being tempted by evils), and apparently he didn't have things go right again for him until he was "born again" 3 years ago.

To tell you the truth, I do not see anything terribly different about him, except that every other sentence is about Jesus or God or Satan. Otherwise, I still see him as the same self-centered, egotist that he always was... plus I always felt in my gut that he was a liar. He's a salesman by trade, has been my whole life, and whenever you talk to him, you can't help but wonder if he's trying to sell you something you don't really need. And he is... usually it's his perspective of how everyone else is living their life all wrong. But now that he's got Jesus on his side, he can tell people with much more conviction that they're living their lives incorrectly, and he manages to peddle the Bible everywhere he goes, in every conversation he has.

I had to sit and listen to him bring up arguments about why his church is so great and not a scam, like he knows that I think it is... and these are things that I've never talked to him about, because, unlike my father, I don't think it's my place to try and tell people that their beliefs system is faulty. I was a little perplexed by how he knew that I felt that way, but I assumed at the time that maybe this had come up in conversation with my mother and him the night before.

I also had to listen to him talk about how great it is that he gives 10 percent of his income to the church, that it's not going to his pastor's big home or fancy cars, but to building new programs, adding to the church, converting others in foreign lands, and helping single mothers like myself (funny that his own daughter, the single mother, doesn't see one-tenth of one percent of the kind of scratch that his church sees from him).

Then he went into how wonderful it is that the Lord blessed him with a $13,000 tax refund this year, which is helping him to pay for his second home that he bought before selling the one he currently has, but luckily the people he bought that house from are still residing there and giving him $1,000 a month for rent until they move. He went on about job bonuses and this great new house he'll be moving to (the 4th new house in the last couple of years) and all kinds of wonderful things that "the Lord" has bestowed upon him since getting born again, as he wrote checks out to my boys for their birthdays for $25 a piece, adding that he didn't want them blowing it on video games... I thought to myself, "Is he nuts? You can't buy a video game for that little anyway."

And of course he went into how God hates divorce and how it says so in the Book of Malachi... which he thought the coincidence was funny. (A) He was divorced. (B) I'm divorced. Doesn't he ever think before he speaks to someone? And the reason why I'm divorced is that my ex-husband had an affair. I almost blurted out, "You know what God hates even more? Adultery." I held my tongue about that and just answered with, "Have you ever read the Book of Malachi? There's some crazy, backwards thinking shit in there that doesn't belong in this time. I didn't name my son after that book... I just liked the name. Had I actually read that whole section beforehand, I would have chosen something else. Trust me."

He also when into my film and interpretted every statement that was said to be related to him, somehow... and he thinks that I titled the film FOUND because I am lost right now, like he was before he was "saved" and "born again." Yeah, Dad. Everything is about you somehow, isn't it?

Then, after one truly weird afternoon that left my dad feeling like he'd purged himself of his sins and left me feeling like I had to hold my tongue over what I really think he did wrong in raising me (and "failing to give me religion" is so NOT one of the myriad of things)... my dad quickly scurried back to Orlando and chose not to stick around to see his grandkids, who were getting off the bus about 15 minutes later. Not to mention is it was his grandsons' birthdays and he should have wanted to give them their cards in person, at least.

But he didn't leave until he hit me with one last f'ed up blow... a brief conversation that started, "So I've been reading your Myspace blog for a while now..."

At that moment, all the blood drained from my head as thoughts flooded me of every blog I've ever written... especially the ones that say all the things that I think about his religion. It was that moment on the beach in JAWS where the camera simultaneously zooms in and dollies out all of a sudden while in close up on Roy Scheider's face. THAT is why I've either deleted some entries or put them to "FRIENDS ONLY" and why I'm going to continue doing that.

He claimed that he decided to Google me one day and that's how he found my blog and has been reading it ever since without ever telling me that he was. He laughed a little when he talked about how shocked and surprised he was to find that I'm such "an extremely talented and funny writer," as he said. But he also had plenty of criticism for me, too, mostly about my lifestyle, of course. I'm sure that the "same sex marriage supporter" banner on my profile also pisses him off, though he never brought up that bit.

The reason he doesn't know that I can write, however, is the same reason he doesn't really have a clue about who I really am... he's never seen me for me and he likely never will.

There you have it... why my weekend was so screwy from the start... long before the boys arrived for the slumber party, and long before my dog died... and why I had to update so many of my old blog entries.

I think I could have written this better if I was in a better mood, but my full sense of humor hasn't returned yet, as things keep getting in the way... like my father calling me a couple hours ago and telling me more stuff that he thinks is wrong with me and how disappointed he is in me. I put myself through college and through grad school without a dime of help from him and he couldn't muster a real congratulations on that effort, but he sure can "pick me up" on any old day to tell me how bad a job I'm doing.

To that I'd just like to say, "Thanks, Dad, for helping to shape me into who I am today. Who knows where I'd be without you in my life."

But once again, I held my tongue instead.

Oh yeah... almost forgot: He didn't leave without giving me something "useful" ... yet another New Testament that's been interpretted for those who like to think for themselves EVEN LESS than their church leaders already allow. I'll just put that on the shelf next to the collection of other versions he's given to me over the years. Maybe I'll use them as weapons to throw at Satan, if he should ever show himself... seeing as how he's so ever-present in my life.

Top 10 things heard at the boys' slumber party

10. "Aw man, who farted?!" --Kenny

09. "Me. Heheheh!" --Beau

08. "Don't you think it's awesome how pee smells funny after you eat beats or asparagus?" --John

07. "I think I'd like being a pothead one day." --unknown

06. "Don't you hate it when girls look at you and start laughing?" --Asif

05. "Yeah! It makes me think I've got a booger hanging out!" --Aidan

04. "Gross! Who farted this time???" --Peter

03. "Me, again. Heheheheheheheheheheheheheheheheh!!!" --Beau

02. "I think I'm gonna be sick... *urp-urp-URP! SPLAT!*" --Malachi

01. "Dammit, Malachi. Why did you have to have that large Cherry Arctic Blast?" --Me

If life's a bowl of cherries...

I just had to have my mother drive one of my dogs to the emergency vet to have him put down, right in the middle of my boys' 11th and 13th birthday parties here at my house. Although there's never a good time for these kind of events, the timing couldn't have been worse with my house packed with so many kids. And there, right in the middle of my kitchen, the dog starts walking backwards, falling down, tongue goes all white and his eyes rolled back in his head... they said it was congestive heart failure, which is all too common in his breed.






Taken on the day I brought him home in Sept '98.

He's not even the one I've been expecting to put down; Gracee is literally on her last legs and I've just been keeping her mobile with Glucosimine for the last couple of years, but she'll be having to be put down soon enough, because now she's not able to get up on her own anymore. I got her about a week after my ex-husband moved in with me back in April 1993... she'd been discovered as a wee pup wandering around in the ice storm that struck here that Spring and somehow she managed to survive. She's definitely a fighter.

Chaucer, on the other hand, was a different kind of fighter... he'd attack any strange dog in sight and even attack the ones he lived with fairly often, which was how one of his eyes wound up getting popped out of his head, leaving him half-blind 5 years ago (and cost me $1200 for the vet fees). He also happened to be the only dog of mine actually from a breeder. All of my other dogs and all of my cats were rescues, but Chaucer was different. He was my $1500 engagement ring.

Back in 1998, my ex-husband and I had been together for over 5 years and had created 3 kids together, but had only just gotten married the previous October. I was feeling a sudden need for a puppy to bring some more joy into my world, but I was worried about what risk it would bring to the puppy... see, my ex was a dog abuser. Just dogs, not any other creatures. And I never turned him in, because I was afraid to... but I also felt that I could help him overcome his aggression. Oddly, then Chaucer turned out to be an aggressor of sorts.

Please try not to judge me for living with an animal abuser. I had been a PETA member for years before I met him and never imagined that I'd ever be with such an abusive person, much less have babies with one. It's not a time that I am proud of... I was just in survival mode and until you've been there yourself, you can't really know what it's like.

So that summer, I located a breeder nearby raising Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, a breed that I'd been in love with since I was 10 years old. I knew that the adults looked like puppies, which would work in the dogs favor, and that such a steep price tag would make my ex think twice about laying a hand on the dog. He met with the breeder and admitted that they were too cute to hate, and because he'd never bought me a ring or anything really in all that time (other than the house we lived in), he agreed to pay half. (Yeah, I paid the other half. Romantic, huh?) Chaucer's breed is used as therapy dogs in hospitals, and whatever it was about him did work... my ex never laid a hand on him.

I just discovered recently that it was his own littermate who'd given birth to a Westminster Dog Show all breed winner... you know, the dog that wins for his breed and the whole enchilada... then sadly his sister got hit by a car a few months later. Now my Chaucer is dead too... he was just 8 years old.

The timing of all of this makes me wonder though... I've been saying for some time that I must've broke a mirror when I met my ex, then broke another when we split... due to all the bad luck that I've had in those 7 years during our relationship and in the years since. I'm now closing in on the end of my 7th year A.D. (After Divorce) and that's why the timing of "losing" my engagement ring/therapy dog strikes me as a bit ironic.

Cyclical things are coming back in mega-doses right now. I still haven't told you why I had to change most of my blogs to "Friends" only... this was so immediate, I had to write about it right now. The other thing... also big and emotional, though somehow not as much of a shock... is still marinating.

More soon... bear with me.

FYI

I have so much to say about a certain visit/event that happened today, but at the moment I am speechless. Stay tuned. I'll explain why in the coming days...

Welcome to my world...

As several of you have read before, when the kids leave for their weekend at their dad's house, I often take off immediately for the movie theater. Last weekend, I'd caught The Illusionist and then Lassie back to back, which I was happy to report were both slow but enjoyable enough, but the two bags of grease-laden popcorn that I ate, also back to back, got a great big "two thumbs down" from my stomach.

Do stomach's have thumbs? I'm getting off track.

So tonight, I applied the "everything in moderation" approach and only went to one movie and thus only consumed one oily bag of popcorn. The movie was Hollywoodland... I'm not recommending it if you're bored, because it'll only worsen the mood. Although, if you're really REALLY bored, perhaps it would seem exciting to you... like watching paint dry.

Now if that were it for my evening, I'd have nothing new to write here. But that wasn't the only event of my evening, no, of course not.

When I got out of the theater, I noticed that I had a couple of missed calls, all of them from my mother. When I listened to the message, she sounded like she had been crying or she was sick, and the message seemed to cut her off mid-sentence, so I really didn't know what to make of it. I called her back immediately, but got no answer. I called a couple more times, because sometimes she doesn't recognize her own phone ringing (it rings with music and she keeps thinking it should ring like a phone, but she thinks that the traditional phone ring setting is annoying). She never answered, so I just figured that it wasn't that important.

I drove home and when I turned onto my street, there were a dozen or so cars parked all over the cul-de-sac as if someone was having a party... and just as quickly, I spotted that someone was parked in my driveway, which pissed me off for a second... until I realized it was my mother's car.

Since it was about 10:00, I thought it was weird that my mother would just be stopping by. Perhaps she'd been out shopping and found something she wanted to decorate my house with and just stopped over while I wasn't there and went inside to install whatever whatchamacallit she bought? That's what I was thinking as I opened my car door... and then I saw what was inside the car.

"Mom?" I tapped on the windshield to get her attention. She was sitting in her car, seat fully reclined, and completely unconscious. I instantly thought she might be sick or something. She groggily looked up at me and replied, "Yeah, what?" ...like it's normal to find your mother napping in your driveway on a Friday night.

I went around to her driverside door and opened it. That's when I was hit with the wall of alcohol odor. It just got more loony tunes from there:

"You're totally wasted."

"No, I'm not. Why would you say that? I'm just tired."

"I can smell the liquor from here."

"You can't smell anything. It's vodka... *giggle*."

"Whatever. Why are you sleeping in my driveway?"

"I got mad at Mike and decided to come over here."

"If you're not drunk, then why didn't you answer your phone when I called you several times?"

"I must not have brought it with me."

At this point, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed her. She's watching me hold my phone and call her, and her phone rings right next to her, of course. She says, "Oh, that must be Mike calling me."

"No, mom. It's me seeing if you've got your phone on you."

"No, it's Mike. I've gotta go home."

"No, you're not going anywhere. You're in no condition to drive. Come inside and you can take a nap in my bed."

While she was protesting, she was getting out and following me up into my house. She walked upstairs to my bedroom, muttering something to herself. I went up there after I let my dogs out and she seemed to be fast asleep already. I turned off the lights and got on my computer to see what messages I had.

Suddenly, from upstairs, I hear a big "THUNK!" like someone hitting the floor. I figured she just needed to run to the toilet and puke, so I didn't bother to go check. Next thing, I hear my dogs barking and the front door getting pulled shut. I went outside in time to see my mom closing the door of her car and about to drive away.

"What are you doing?" I yelled.

"I'm going home. I can't sleep here. Everything smells different."

"How can you smell anything over all that vodka? You're in no shape to be driving. Get out and come back inside now."

"Nope," as she started the car and put it in reverse. "Going home."

This conversation was going on through her window, because she locked herself in and wouldn't let me get at her to take her keys away. All I could do was beg her to be careful and at the very least not hit the cars that were parked right across from my driveway. She gave a last, "I'm fuh-ine," then backed out of the driveway... well, backed out into my lawn, I should say. Then she drove off.

I called her boyfriend and told him she was driving back and if she wasn't back in 15 minutes, he needed to call me. He slurred back at me, "Okay, I'll call you back."

A few minutes later, he was calling me to tell me that she made it. Actually, he just let me say hello when I answered, said hello back, then sat there saying nothing else... just waiting... this was because he apparently thought I called him. I had to say, "Is she there?" To which he answered, "Yeah, she's just pulling in now. You called at the exact moment."

Uh huh.

When I was going through my divorce 7 years ago, I bought a t-shirt that says, "This is not the life I ordered," thinking that I'd show a little humor towards cruel fate... laugh off the pain. Now I think that dumb shirt could be tempting fate and just perpetuating the circumstances. I think I'm going to ceremonially burn that blasted thing tomorrow.

Off the record...

Why do I seem to attract the damaged boys? In particular, I'm talking about the liars and freaks... especially the freaks who lie to get a girl to like them, but the truth always surfaces.

The good news is that I think I'm getting better and better at being a human lie detector.

The bad news is I'm still a great big freak magnet.

My biggest problem still stems from when I get a gut feeling about a guy, then I second-guess that feeling and think I'm just being paranoid or overly nitpicky... 9 times out of 10, I eventually discover that if I'd just listened to that gut feeling in the first place, I would have saved myself a lot of time, drama and/or grief.

Here's a very recent (as in: not quite dumped as yet) situation...

I met someone and he seemed very nice: lots in common, a little far away with a few too many health issues, but I can overlook those things when I really like someone, especially if they're a genuinely good soul.

The problem is that on our first date, I think I stumbled upon the discovery that he has a Sex, Lies, and Videotape fetish, of a sort... only rather than interviewing girls about their sexual experience, he secretly videotapes the girls he likes when he's making out with them (or more).

Here's how it went down and why it's been eating away at my gut ever since:

We were hanging out on the couch at his place for a couple of hours, watching a dvd, talking, a little bit of making out (nothing too serious), and more talking. In the middle of a sentence of I don't know what at this point, I paused as something shocking in the corner caught my eye... it was a small video camera sitting on a table, angled directly at me, and the record light was on!

I blurted out, "Holy... Is that camera on?!"

He quickly jumped up and stammered something about, "Oh, wow. I guess it is. Maybe the button accidentally got pressed when I set it here or when it was in my backpack earlier?" He turned it off and then walked it over to another part of his living room, where I don't really know if it remained off or not.

At that time, I felt weird about getting mad at him, not wanting to seem like I was jumping to conclusions, so I good-naturedly continued with, "Don't tell me you're one of those videotape fetishists. I have a friend who is into that..." and I wound up telling him about that person and how everyone had seen one of his "sex tapes" and how boring it was. But after I replayed some things in my head, it doesn't seem to bode well.

For instance:

1) He didn't deny that he might be one of those fetishists. As a matter of fact, he didn't say anything at all... he just stayed quiet, until I mentioned the boringness of the other guy's tape and his only comment at that point was, "Boring? Oh, that's the worst."

2) The camera uses miniDV tapes, which only hold an hour's worth of footage... after that, it would turn itself off, and the light on the front of the camera would also shut off as well. As I previously said, we'd been sitting there for a couple of hours at that point. That says to me that he probably turned it on when I'd last gotten up to use the bathroom.

3) He didn't let me see what was on the tape. I suggested we rewind it and look at what it "accidentally" captured, but he'd already put it away at that point.

4) A week earlier, he'd posted a blog about some new photos that he'd put up on his professional site for people to see of some bands. At the end of those photos were about 5 pictures of girls backsides, like they were taken on the sly (see below).

all rights reserved to the anonymous voyeur in question

When I commented to him that I thought the "stealth" photos were the funniest, he commented rather defensively:

Just for the record, those pictures that you speak of can stand on their own artistic merits:) In other words, the backsides are not necessarily the point of the photo. Sometimes, it's a good picture even if the subject seems predictable or trite. Of course, I could be wrong; after all, it's just my opinion.

In trying to sort this out, I recalled two things that this guy said previously... one in email to me and another in an old blog entry of his.

First, he'd asked me about developing 8MM movies at home. I told him that would be a real headache and why would anyone want to do that when labs will do it for you. (Why, indeed? Hmm.) To which he responded that he had just developed an interest in moving pictures (he's an amateur still photographer), but mostly of the "security cam, surveylance video varieties thus far." For some reason, that didn't send up any immediate red flags... but I can't shake that answer of his now.

The other thing he said that gives me pause comes from a blog entry he wrote last fall, entitled "TELLER OF USELESS, INSIGNIFICANT LIES":

I think it started when I was a small kid. The only one in the family with a calm, quiet demeanor. The completely quiet wheel that never squeaked. The middle child, lost in the mad scramble of being poor. Why not lie to the point of hyperbole, so everyone can tell? The small things leave people with a feeling that something is wrong, but nothing concrete... Why would he lie about *that*? What would there be to gain from it? The answer is attention. It's a now-unnecessary vestige from my past that has remained nonetheless. I haven't lied for gain. Mostly just for attention. Just like cutting, and cigarette burns, and all the rest of the manifestations. I'm going to go and try to NOT be full of shit from now on.

He posted that just a few weeks before a girl he was dating for some months broke things off with him. According to him, she'd made him give up all forms of his photography little by little during the course of their relationship. When I asked how that could happen, he claimed to be baffled by her control issues, and yet he tacitly agreed to them. To me, people who claim to be clueless about these things often tend to be in denial of (or consciously hiding) something much deeper to their own core. Perhaps the girl picked up on this sexual fetish of his, was frightened by it on some level, and wanted to keep it under control? Whatever the real reason, it is odd... and his lack of insight into it is even odder to me.

My other issue regarding the video camera incident is boundaries... he didn't ask if he could videotape me and then lied about it to cover his butt when I discovered it. That tells me that he doesn't respect anything but his own urges. Not cool.

As you can tell, I've pretty much made up my mind about this one... just too many peculiar and unsettling things for this girl. I'm sure there's an exhibitionist out there somewhere who'd be the right match for him, but I'm definitely not her (not counting those things I did on webcam once upon a time!).

For the record, I'll state that "odd" and "peculiar" are not in and of themselves such bad things in my book. I just know what my limits are. I respect boundaries ...*sigh*... if only everyone else did, too.

**********

ADDENDUM: As an example that my sense of humor remains firmly in tact, I'd like to add these links to two classic stories from THE ONION:

Harsh Light of Day Falls On One-Night Stand's DVD Collection
- and -
Voyeur Concerned About Lack Of Sex In Neighbors' Marriage

Come down from where?

Yesterday I traveled to Athens and, on my journey there, a large falcon flew across my path, directly in front of my windshield and narrowly missing my vehicle. As it passed, it turned its head to keep its eyes directly on me. It was so close that I could see its individual feathers and hear the beat of its wings.

While in Athens, I met several kindered spirits and felt as though I had the easiest time just being me... easier than I've possibly ever felt around other living souls... all of it natural, comfortable, beautiful. A dozen hours spent in places I'd never been before and every last second of it was just so... easy.



On my way home less than an hour ago, I had been driving along a darkened highway for quite some time when I suddenly spotted a deer standing by the side of the highway, alone in the darkness. I have no idea how it caught my eye, as it blended in so well that it appeared as a ghostly contrast of its outline and the glisten of its eyes and nose. I was traveling at 65 mph and had no chance to think, but instinctively I veered slightly to give it some space and attempted to slow down as I passed. Rather than being startled, the deer made eye contact with me and held it in the serenest of ways.

A minute or so later along that same highway, I spotted a billboard... although out of the corner of my eye it only appeared as white letters floating against a black sky. And in that same instant, I laughed aloud.



And to think, some people keep going to church every week in hopes of feeling this way.

Be afraid... be VERY afraid...

By now, everyone knows of my tales of woe over living without air conditioning for several days, followed by no water for another couple of days.

The part that I left out was that in that time, I really didn't do any dishes. First of all, it was too fucking hot to stand up and wash anything. Then I just didn't have any water, so it's not really my fault that ants streamed in through the kitchen window to get at the various things fermenting in the sink.

What probably is my fault, however, is the baking pan that I left sit in the oven since... well... probably since the kids left for the summer... 6 or 7 weeks earlier.

Let me just back up a moment and tell you all that I fully admit my lack of domestic abilities. And when the kids are gone, it's true, I live like a bachelor... a retarded bachelor in serious need of a helper monkey, that is.

This summer, as I'd done the summer previous, I tried to subsist for as long as possible on just whatever was in my fridge and cabinets. I like a challenge, and making things like "un-hummus" or "umm-tuna?-surprise!" is what makes my life interesting... or makes for many trips to the bathroom.

Let me show you some examples from last year's 5-week kid hiatus...


At first glance, my fridge makes me appear as a doting mom...



...until you notice that: (a) the calendar is 7 months out of date, (b) magnets are messed up from when the kids did that 4 months earlier, (c) emergency phone number list is about 3 years out of date, (d) mom keeps photo of herself with gay high school sweetheart in prominent view, (e) complex calculations on dry erase board are for tipping pizza guy, (f) cabinet next to fridge still not attached to wall and raised up on visible shim, among other things.


Inside isn't much better...



...on the door, we see: (a) expired and nearly empty milk container, (b) an embarrassingly huge array of condiments, (c) far too many pickled things (all of which are still there a year later, mostly untouched), (d) and a soy milk container that's just there to fool any lookeeloos into thinking I'm actually healthy.


Yes, it's clean... but only just before the photo was taken (wiped about 7 years worth of build up out of there) to make it slightly less embarrassing for me.



Notice all the empty space. Wanna know what's in the meat drawer? I bet you don't!




Last summer, I lived off of weird things, like: Diet Coke, a large supply of Buffalo Summer Sausage (mmm), and more eggs than have ever been thrown at the Bush motorcade. Those last 2 sausages were gone that same evening, most likely.


Do cheeses go bad?



FYI, the date these photos were taken was July 2, 2005.



Amazingly, a year later and that parmesian block on the right is still in there right where I left it. Yeah, I suck. I know.


Anyway, that was last year. This year, the fridge isn't much different, so I didn't bother documenting it. However, there was a whole different kind of surprise awaiting me in the oven.

Now it's true that once during final exam week, while cramming for several tests along with writing 4 different research papers, I left a pot sitting in the sink for about a week before I noticed the foul odor and investigated, only to find that it contained fuzzy, gray circular shaped objects... which upon scanning my memory banks, I realized had once been steamed carrots. It was the frightening alien color along with the gut-wrenching scent that threw me off track at first. Who knew such tiny, harmless veggies could end up smelling like rotting cadavers?

Last night's find was just as terrifying.

I knew it would be bad news when I pulled the pan out of the oven, covered by a baking sheet, with me unable to remember what I last may have cooked in such a pan... and lifting the cover didn't help me to remember.

Instead, what I found was a new world forming and life of about a dozen different varieties teeming inside.



Welcome to New Gondwanaland



view facing East




view facing West




directly overhead


details of the future continents (and a Tribble or three)











I'm guessing that hair will form future Yetis.


Removal of the science experiment required an assistant.



Honora fetched the masks...


...while I averted my eyes...



...in an attempt not to provoke it.


As suspected, its underbelly was far scarier...



...like brains growing in cat puke.




I'm not as disgusting as it would seem by these photos. The only difference between me and the rest of you is that I embrace my embarrassing moments and share them for your amusement, so that you may feel better about your own lives... and possibly make some queasy someone out there vomit a little.

A girl can dream, can't she?