Shalom...

Note: Though I swear I looked it up and you can find it all over the Internet spelled 'yamaka', I've been corrected by two very smart (albeit obnoxious) people. It would seem that 'yamaka' is (very possibly) meant to be spelled (by picky people) 'yarmulke'. Damn it.

Ryan got this very cool fashion design kit for Christmas, full of all sorts of fabric and embellishments. She's been creating scads of slinky evening gowns and pretty sundresses from yards of silky, satiny, lacey material. A few minutes ago, she came in here with a piece of pink lace cut into a circle. She put it on Sundance’s head (and no, he was not pleased).

Me: A pretty fancy hat for Mr. Man, don't you think?
Ry: It’s not a hat. It's a Yamaka (Yarmulke).
Me: Really. I’ve never seen a pink lace Yamaka (Yarmulke).
Ry: It’s what all the fancy, French, Jewish dogs are wearing.

Have I mentioned that my kid is weird?

And how did I not know my dog was Jewish? Or French? Or, very possibly, gay?

Somebody's Lyin'...

(Note: If you didn't read yesterday's post, you might want to, otherwise this one probably won't make any sense. Of course, I don't always make sense and you might be used to it by now, so whatever works for you...)

(Also note: for those of you who don't reside in the US and might not know their names, Mary Matalin and James Carville are very outspoken and well-known politcal analysts... she's a Republican and he's a Democrat. They also happen to be married...)

How do Mary Matalin and James Carville do it?! Bipartisan, my ass. I think somebody's lyin' in that house. How can two people whose views are so diametrically opposed -- and held with such passion -- have a solid marriage? How can they raise children in a world they see so differently? I get that there are some simliarities in conservative and liberal views... I do. And I suppose if you both feel similarly about religion and faith in general, you can find some common ground (admittedly, I don't know the Matalin/Carville views on religion). But damn... how do you find the common ground otherwise? Maybe if there's enough chemistry between you, there's an incentive to try. I guess I've just never encountered that sort of chemistry with a Republican. Well, I did once, actually, but when he told me that my half-Hispanic (i.e. 'mixed race') daughter was a difficulty he didn't want to have to deal with in a relationship, the chemistry was Shot. To. Shit.

All I know is that I want someone who feels the same (or similarly at least) as I do about some pretty major social issues. And it's not about politics or being Republican or Democrat (I don't label myself in that way). It's about what I believe... about the world, about people and their rights, about me. And while I accept that not everyone will see the world the way I do, and while I truly respect everyone's right to their beliefs and opinions, I've discovered I'm not willing to compromise my own or give my heart to someone whose heart isn't in the same place as mine. Period.

PS... I also re-discovered my love for raspberry margaritas last night (especially when they're made by bartenders who really know what a tequila shot is!).

PPS... The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was very good, even with Brad Pitt (when you're not ready for a nearly-3-hour movie to be over, you know it's special). It's worth a go and full of reminders that life, no matter what direction it's moving, is something to be lived fully and not experienced half-assed.

PPPS... Thanks for your very funny (very visual) comments on yesterday's post! You guys are the best and you totally crack me up! Oh, and Jane!, yeah, I'm pretty sure he had a penis. A Republican penis. And he's a really nice guy (I'm sure his penis is nice, too)... but nice doesn't equate to compatible. Oh well. Back to the drawing board.

Friday Night Fright...

So... I'm going out tonight. For dinner. At a restaurant that doesn't provide crayons or chicken fingers (I didn't even know chickens had fingers until I had Ryan). And then to a movie. A movie that doesn't have animated characters or talking animals. OK, so Brad Pitt is in it and he's not much better than a talking dog, but I heard the movie was good, so I'm giving him a chance. And I'm going with a boy. OK, he's not a boy exactly, 'cause he's older than I am (and according to my charming, ever-complimentary daughter, anyone older than I am is nearly ancient), so he definitely no longer qualifies for 'boy' status. But he has a penis. OK, so I won't actually see it (or do anything else with it), but it still makes him not-a-girl. What's that? Why won't I see it, you ask? Well, first, because I'm not that easy (even though this is the first time I've been out with a grown-up since the possible-prince-who-turned-out-to-be-a-frog-after-all-damn-it) and also because he's a... Republican. I know. I am a little insane, thank you very much. But I've decided this year I'm going to take my beloved Eleanor Roosevelt's advice and 'do one thing every day that scares me.' Going out with a Bush-lover (the President, you gutter-minds!) scares the bejeebies out of me. But I'm nothing if not open-minded and, Republican or not, he's a nice guy. As long as we can avoid talking about politics, religion, national healthcare, the war... hmmmm... this isn't looking too good, is it? Well, hopefully we'll have a nice time. He will, anyway, 'cause I'm fabulous... and clearly not full of myself at all! OK, really, I'm not full of myself at all. You know that... right? You do, don't you? Yeah, you do.

Off to a Good Start...

Happy 2009! As I sat here last night, waving good-bye to 2008 (with my middle finger), I offered up a little prayer to the Universe that 2009 would be a better year… for the whole world, not just me (I’m not totally self-centered).

So… this morning I woke up to gloriously blue, sunny skies and big hugs from my little girl. I happily hiked around in the woods with my equally happy dog, which is one of my favorite things to do. I found a completely unexpected $25 in the pocket of my jeans when I was doing laundry (no clue how it got there). I made a huge pot of my fabulous chicken-veggie soup that’ll see us through the next couple of days. I spent a couple of hours browsing around the bookstore this evening, spending a gift-card I got for Christmas (and I bought 5 books, all of which sound great). My niece came over to spend the night and there were no 9-year-old arguments (miracles do happen). And they went to bed on time! And I’ve spent the rest of the evening reading wonderful blogs, written by bloggy friends who are incredibly talented and insightful and funny (yeah, I mean all of you… duh).

All in all, I’d say my 2009 started out pretty damned well. Hope yours did, too!

Writer's Workshop: I Find it Interesting How "Mother" and "Bother" are Only 1 Letter Off...

It's time for the weekly writing assignment from Kathy over at Mama's Losin' It. I chose 'Things You Do That Bother Your Mother'. Because there are so friggin' many things, I opted to write them in my standard 100 Things format. Before you read the list, though, I will tell you two things... first, I love my mother. I do. Honest. Second, I hope she doesn't choose today to start reading my blog.

So... Things I Do That Bother My Mother...

1. I am me.
2. Which means I am not her.
3. And that bothers her.
4. I disagree with her.
5. About almost everything.
6. Name it.
7. Any subject.
8. Yup, we disagree about that.
9. And that, too.
10. The list is endless…
11. For one, I don’t vote Republican.
12. Of course, she doesn’t either.
13. Since she’s not a US citizen.
14. But she would vote Republican if she could.
15. Not me.
16. I say mean things about George Bush.
17. Very mean things.
18. I said worse things about Sarah Palin.
19. Which bothered her.
20. It also bothers her that I say ‘fuck’ on occasion.
21. Especially when I say it in reference to George Bush.
22. Or my brother.
23. I don’t like my brother.
24. He’s not nice.
25. My mother admits this.
26. But she likes him anyway.
27. She kind of has to.
28. I don’t have to.
29. So I don’t.
30. That bothers her.
31. It also bothers her that I don’t go to church.
32. Note that she doesn’t either.
33. But she believes.
34. I don’t.
35. She thinks I don’t believe just to piss her off.
36. That’s not the case.
37. It’s just a nice little perk.
38. I don’t let my kid take religious education classes.
39. That bothers my mother.
40. But I don’t care.
41. That bothers her even more.
42. I don’t discipline my kid enough.
43. Or I discipline my kid too much.
44. And I don’t discipline my kid the right way when I do it.
45. Yes, that means my mother's way.
46. I don’t think using physical punishment works with kids.
47. I wonder, however, if it might work on mothers...
48. I explain things to my kid.
49. Things my mother thinks she shouldn’t know.
50. You know who told me about sex when I was a kid?
51. My dad.
52. It was the worst 10 minutes of my life.
53. I remind my mother when she forgets things.
54. You’d think that would make her happy.
55. But it doesn’t.
56. I probably shouldn’t smirk when I do it.
57. She also doesn’t like it that I don’t use much salt when I cook.
58. I don’t really use salt at all.
59. I don’t like salt much.
60. She thinks that’s just wrong.
61. But I don’t have high blood pressure.
62. And she does.
63. I cook things she doesn’t like.
64. But she cooked things I didn’t like for 18 years.
65. So I think it’s fair.
66. She doesn’t like it that I don’t make my kid eat potatoes.
67. My kid doesn’t like potatoes.
68. Or rice.
69. My mom thinks that’s bad.
70. It doesn’t bother me in the least.
71. That bothers my mother.
72. I guess it should bother me.
73. I just can’t figure out why.
74. Which also bothers my mother.
75. Sometimes I drink too much.
76. That bothers her, too.
77. But I do it anyway.
78. Which bothers her more.
79. I date.
80. That actually doesn’t bother her.
81. That I don’t often date the same guy twice bothers her.
82. She thinks I’m too picky.
83. I don’t care what she thinks.
84. And that really bothers her.
85. I also don’t tell her about my dates.
86. That bothers her a lot.
87. Which is part of the reason I keep quiet.
88. It bothers her that I’d rather live in the UK than here.
89. She thinks I don’t like America.
90. That’s not the case at all.
91. I just like the UK a lot.
92. But I’m not very nationalistic.
93. Or terribly patriotic.
94. And that bothers her.
95. I don’t know why, though.
96. As she still isn’t a US citizen.
97. And she’ll likely never become one.
98. You know what her citizenship is?
99. Yup.
100. British.

On Rambling Aimlessly... Oh, and Goals, Too...

I’m blog-blocked. Again. Damn, but I hate blog-block. I can’t think of a thing to post about. Of course, I should be doing some work and not thinking about blogging anyway. I even cleaned my disgustingly messy desk yesterday so I could sit at it and work, instead of deepening the crater my ass has made in the sofa lately (laptops are grand, aren’t they?). I’ve found that when I work (also known as blogging, emailing, and tramping around the Internet) from the couch, I wind up slouching, down and to the left, until I’m in an incredibly uncomfortable position from which I have difficulty extracting myself. I don’t know why I can’t just sit up straight. Oh, and I put my feet up on the coffee table, usually with my left leg crossed over my right… then I find that my right knee locks and unlocking it is excruciatingly painful. And when I finally unlock it and cross my right leg over my left, my left knee locks. My body hates me. So working from the couch is really not good for me. If I keep it up, I’m going to look like a crippled Quasimodo.

After I cleaned my desk yesterday, I made a list of things I want to accomplish in 2009. Note that they are not resolutions. I hate resolutions. Mostly because I tend to break every single one of them about a week into the new year. I suck. So this year I’ve made a list of goals. Goals are better, I think, because you don’t feel like a complete failure if you take a detour from your path to the goal… the goal is still in sight (or you can leave a trail of breadcrumbs… or dog treats, which I always seem to have in my pockets). But falling off the resolution wagon bites.

So, back to my list. I stopped writing when I got to my 43rd goal. Since I only accomplished, oh, about 3 goals last year (and one of them was to drink a lot of wine... because it's good for the heart, you know), I got to thinking that maybe I was being just a tad overly ambitious. Anyway, one of my goals for this year is to take my work more seriously. I’ll start that on the 1st. Another goal is to improve my financial situation… which could be helped by taking my work more seriously… on the 1st (you know those resolutions at which I suck? One of them is always to procrastinate less... go figure). Another goal is to make my body hate me less… or was that for me to hate my body less? Anyway, I want to look less like a crippled Quasimodo and more like Rebecca Romijn. Oh, wait… we were talking about goals here, right? Not miracles… my bad.

I narrowed my list down to about 15 things… some of them will be easy, like taking Ryan camping over every holiday weekend between Easter and Thanksgiving (and we’re even thinking about maybe taking a camping trip to sunny climes over Christmas next year). Some will be less easy, like training Sundance to walk off-leash nearly 100% of the time. Some will be downright difficult, like losing the baby weight (shut it… like I said before, even if she is 9, she’s still my baby). But I don’t think I listed even one goal that's unattainable… with a little work and focus... which is clearly not my forte. So wish me luck! You know I’ll keep you posted on my progress (or lack thereof). Because rambling aimlessly is the best way to cure blog-block. Obviously.

My Kid is Weird, Part II...

Before I explain how my kid is weird, I should tell you that in our house, ‘weird’ has no negative connotations whatsoever. When Ryan was about 6, she called me the ‘w’ word. I asked, “Is that a bad thing?” She said, “No, Mama. I would rather you be weird like you are than be boring. You’re not boring at all!” It was at that moment I knew she was getting it. And it was cool.

I should also explain (to people who don’t have children under the age of 12 in their lives) what Webkinz are. Picture a wide array of the cutest stuffed animals you’ve ever seen… all priced at $10 or $15 each. Attached to each animal is a tag with a special, one-of-a-kind code (like a social security number). Buy the animal and you can log the code into Webkinz.com, where you then obtain a virtual version of your pet to play with online. It usually comes with its own room, which can be decorated in various themes. It’s actually a pretty cool, creative, safe, FREE (after you buy the stuffed animal, that is) website. Ryan loves it and she’s got a crapload of these critters. Here are 3 of them…Meet Stuart, Tucky, and Sweet Pea.

So, I passed by the computer this afternoon while Ryan was playing in Stuart’s virtual room.

Me: Hey, Stuart has a menorah in his room.
Ry: Uh huh.
Me: Is he Jewish?
Ry: No. He just thinks Christmas isn’t the only important holiday.
Me: Does he?
Ry: Yes. He thinks it’s important to learn about other cultures.
Me: Oh. Well, he’s right. Plus, he gets 8 more presents!
Ry (looking stern): He’s not in it for the stuff, Mommy.
Me (looking chastised): Oh. Sorry. And good for him for not being materialistic.
Ry: Tucky and Sweet Pea celebrate Kwanzaa, you know.
Me: Really? Are they black?
Ry: Mommy, do they look black?
Me: Well, no. That’s why I asked. The only people I know who celebrate Kwanzaa are black.
Ry: Well, they’re not but they feel like Stuart. They think different is good and we should learn about different cultures because they’re interesting and it helps us to understand each other.
Me: Do they? Well, you know I think different is good, too. And I think they’re all pretty cool.
Ry: Yeah, I raised them well.

It’s weird to hear your own words come back at you from the mouth of your child. It’s weirder still to hear them applied to a mouse, a cocker spaniel, and a duck. Weird… but good… very, very good. There are days when Ryan’s just completely rotten and I think I’ve got this whole ‘mother’ thing all wrong. But then there are those days… good days… when I realize my kid is weird (in the best possible way) and I’m just so grateful and proud.

My Kid is Weird...

Last night, Ryan was asleep about 3 minutes after she went to bed. I remember lying awake for hours on Christmas Eve. This morning, I had to wake her up... at 7:30! No one ever had to wake me up on Christmas Day. And she made me open my present from her before she would even look at her packages. How weird (and cool) is she?

After the weirdness, we headed out to serve Christmas dinner at the community center near here. It was the first time we'd volunteered there and it was really great! There was a standing-room-only crowd and everyone was feeling festive and grateful. I was so proud of Ryan, who just jumped right in and helped out anywhere she could. She delivered pie, served up drinks, and cleared tables. Though she's a bit shy around people she doesn't know, she was friendly and chatty (even though some people were "a little scary-looking"... but she also told me she realized how important it is not to assume people will act a certain way based on how they look. Have I mentioned how proud I am of her? I'm so proud of her!). Anyway, it was a nice way to spend a day that's usually very stuff-oriented, especially for a 9-year-old.

After cleaning up at the center, we headed to the movies and saw The Tale of Despereaux, which was adapted from one of our favorite books (by Kate DiCamillo), about a mouse who believes himself a gentleman; who faces life head-on and lives with a gargantuan sense of honor and responsibility. It was wonderful and if you have little kids (or even if you don't), you have to catch it! We gorged on popcorn and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

It was a different sort of Christmas for us, but a really good one, too. We'll be heading back to the community center on Monday, to help out in the weekly soup kitchen. I've committed to going as often as possible and Ryan has offered to come with me whenever she's out of school. It sounds like a good way to start the new year!

Hope you all had a great holiday!!

Long Day... Cold Day... Good Day...

I spent the day in DC with Ryan today... we checked out the newly-remodeled American History Museum (pretty cool); we ran into the Natural History Museum to quickly peruse a new ocean exhibit we've been waiting for; we watched the really balance-challenged skaters hobble their way around the fountain-cum-skating-rink in the Sculpture Garden; and we finished up at the National Christmas Tree, which was pretty. It was cold as crap, but a great day overall. Here are some photos... Loved this one of the Washington Monument. The light was great...
Oh Christmas Tree... My Christmas Elf...
Though you can't see it in this photo, if you zoom in close, there's a figure standing in the middle window, dressed in what looks like a maid's uniform. Ryan and I decided she's a ghost that haunts the White House. I hope she gives W nightmares.

Welcome Back, Mr. Sun!

Today is the Winter Solstice. Happy Winter Solstice! This is one of the days I actually like to celebrate. The tradition of welcoming back the sun feels right, especially during a time that, for me, is usually a bit dark and somewhat less-than-pleasant. This day always feels more like the beginning of a new year to me than January 1. And today, fittingly, dawned sunny and bright - much welcomed after the weeks of grey skies and gloomy weather we've been experiencing. The sky is bright blue; it's crisp and cold (but not the damp, biting kind of cold of yesterday); and the sun is shining! Yay Mr. Sun! Welcome back! I spent the morning outside with my fuzzy boy, tramping around the woods, watching the sun glint off the ever-moving waters of a mountain lake, and generally feeling happy to be alive. After lunch out with my girl, we'll be spending the afternoon doing creative, crafty things. And this evening we'll each write 3 lists...

1) Our hopes for the coming year
2) Fears, hurts, and regrets we want to let go
3) Everything we're grateful for

Then we'll start a fire in the firepit outside and burn those lists... we'll send our hopes, our fears, and our blessings out to the Universe... and we'll see what comes back to us in the next twelve months. Good things, I expect... I hope.

So, Happy Solstice to you! I hope your day looks and feels as sun-filled as mine!

Ode to Christmas...

Shopping’s done
Wallet’s empty
Packages wrapped
Boxes plenty
Santa can sit
On his big old hiney
I’ve done it all
Now I’m feeling whiney
I’m sick of the carols
And Rudolph’s red nose
Of egg nog and ornaments
This holiday blows
Just one more week
And that’ll be it
‘Til then call me Grinch
As I holler Bah Hum Shit!

Writer's Workshop: Dear Santa

If you don't know about the Writer's Workshop, head over to Mama's Losin' It and check it out...

Dear Santa,

Dude. This is totally a break-up letter. We’re through. You’ve had 43 years to get it right. But year after year… W.R.O.N.G. I know you’re busy making your list and checking it twice and all, yadda yadda. I know you have all those pesky kids to see to first. What.Ever. Even when I was a kid… you got it all wrong.

Remember the year I asked for that cool, sleek 10-speed? I wanted a boy’s bike, I know, but there’s no hard and fast rule about that, is there? I wanted it to be blue and white, like my brother’s. Remember? I was very specific. Remember what I got? A girl’s bike. A yellow girl’s bike. A very bright yellow girl’s bike. Do you know what it’s like to spend your tween years riding a banana with wheels? It’s not cool, Santa. Not cool at all. And yes, I know my mom liked it better than the blue and white boy’s bike. And yes, I know she’s a scary little tyrant. But you’re Santa, for Christ’s sake. The Big Guy. You could’ve overruled her. You should've overruled her. Just like you should’ve done the time I got the bright green duck shoes instead of the nice L.L. Bean navy blue ones I asked for (you know, so I wouldn’t stand out from all the preppy princesses in my high school like Kermit the Friggin’ Frog). She liked the green ones better, too… I know. The power of VETO, Santa. You had it. You didn’t use it. Dude. Not cool.

But I forgave you for the bike. And the duck shoes. And all the other things that were similar but not quite what I (very) specifically asked for every year. But still… you failed. Remember the year I didn’t ask for anything except for my ear infection to go away so I could fly pain-free? Yes, I know you did it. And I appreciate it. But I totally didn’t ask for the yeast infection I got in its place. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to explain to a hard-of-hearing pharmacist in another country, who doesn’t have the same regard for patient privacy as the pharmacists here, exactly what a yeast infection is? Do you know how pleasant it is to hear him holler all the way across the (very crowded) store for the clerk to bring something for vaginal itching? Well, I can tell you from experience, Santa. It’s not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

But even if I could overlook the yellow bike and green shoes and yeast infection incidents, I can’t forget or forgive the husband incident. I know it was a tall order. I know. But Santa… Rob? Really? Really, Santa?! Rob? He was seriously the best you could do? What? You didn’t have a gimpy elf with a wall-eye and a flatulence problem lying around somewhere? Rob?! So much for the friggin’ magic of Christmas, eh? I guess I didn’t deserve my miracle on 34th Street (or Oakhurst Lane… whatever).

Do you hate me? What did I do? I was a good girl, wasn’t I? OK, yeah, I remember the Rhonda Incident, but I didn’t ask for anything that year either, did I? Or the year of the Big Lie. But I was good most of the time. I left you cookies and milk… chocolate milk, even. I left carrots and oats for the reindeer. I was never greedy. I wrote my letters in my best penmanship and checked the grammar and spelling twice. But still… you let me down. Over and over. So I’m ending our relationship. Severing ties. We’re done, Fat Boy. Kaput. Finis. Shot. Go peddle your ho ho ho's to some other schmuck. Have a nice life. Have a nice banana-riding-green-shoe-wearing-yeast-infection-scratching-Rob-marrying life. You’re off my Christmas card list, Dude. Permanently.

Love Always,

Diane

Because It's Easier Than Thinking Up a Real Post...

1. I’m still sick.
2. Being sick sucks.
3. Know what doesn’t suck?
4. Sick dreams.
5. No, I’m not a perv.
6. Mostly.
7. I mean the dreams you have when you’re sick.
8. They’re bizarre.
9. And kind of cool.
10. Like Stanley Kubrick on acid.
11. Or 3rd graders on speed.
12. Me on NyQuil.
13. Cool.
14. Not cool is coughing ‘til you see stars.
15. Or ‘til you pee.
16. The effects of natural childbirth.
17. That no one tells you about.
18. Damned No One.
19. ‘No One’ is like ‘They’.
20. Of ‘They say’ fame.
21. My mother believes everything ‘They’ say.
22. She believes nothing I say.
23. Sometimes I make up things ‘They’ say.
24. And I tell her.
25. And she repeats them back to me.
26. Weeks later.
27. Beause she can’t remember where she heard it.
28. Only that ‘They’ said it.
29. So it must be true.
30. And I laugh.
31. And laugh.
32. Yeah, I’m mean.
33. The apple didn’t fall far from that tree.
34. And yeah, I’m so going to Hell.
35. If there is a Hell.
36. I’m not so sure.
37. If there is, I’m betting it looks a lot like my brother’s house.
38. Only cleaner.
39. And more tastefully decorated.
40. I told you I was mean.
41. But truthful.
42. I always try to write the truth.
43. But I acknowledge that it’s my truth.
44. And no one else’s.
45. Why would I write someone else’s truth?
46. Duh.
47. Sometimes I write erotica.
48. It’s shockingly hard.
49. To write.
50. What were you thinking?
51. Lots of the names for genitalia make me laugh.
52. Or cringe.
53. Including the word ‘genitalia’.
54. It sounds like a varmint you should kill with a rake.
55. It’s hard to write about sex when you’re imagining killing varmints.
56. Or when you’re snorting.
57. Or wincing.
58. Wincing usually isn’t good during any sort of sex.
59. Not when you’re writing it.
60. Or reading it.
61. Or especially having it.
62. The first boy I ever had it with was the first boy I ever kissed.
63. But I didn’t do both in the same night.
64. I was 11 when I kissed him.
65. And 19 when I slept with him.
66. He was my boyfriend.
67. When I was 11.
68. Not when I was 19.
69. But I loved him.
70. Still do.
71. Just not in a naked way.
72. Anymore.
73. I’m sure his wife is relieved.
74. I’ll be relieved when the holidays are over.
75. And when they stop playing carols on the radio.
76. If I hear The Christmas Shoes one more time, I’m going to hurl.
77. Shoes.
78. At children.
79. Jesus Take the Wheel is almost as bad.
80. Ryan and I change the words.
81. Ours are really rude.
82. But very funny.
83. Yes, I’m teaching my child sacrilege.
84. And I’m cool with that.
85. Though I think what we do is more offensive to Carrie Underwood.
86. Than to Jesus.
87. I’m betting that song gets on his nerves, too.
88. WWJD?
89. Make Carrie Underwood shut the hell up.
90. That’s what he’d do.
91. If he was my kind of savior.
92. Oh, yeah.
93. Hell.
94. It’s where I’m going.
95. In a hand-basket.
96. What does that mean?
97. Anyway, I’m cool with it.
98. I already know the floor plan.
99. And the gatekeeper.
100. We’re related, after all.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot...

OK, so you guys know that I now live in the same town in which I sort of grew up, right? I say ‘sort of’ because I moved here when I was about 10 and moved away in my very early 20’s. Though I never, ever thought I’d (ever) come back, come back I did, 20 years later, after my marriage ended. Coming ‘home’ is always a weird thing, I think, and this experience has definitely proved so for me. This place is very different than it was in many ways, but it’s still very much the same in others (which is sometimes good... sometimes not). Occasionally I’ll run into old classmates or kids I used to babysit or the parents of old friends… and I always (stupidly) expect them to look the same as they did the last time I saw them. And sometimes they do… sort of.

So, on Friday I went to the Rec Center to sign Ryan up for ski lessons. I’m standing at the desk, looking like holy hell, as I have the flu and haven’t showered. I’m not 100% sure I’d even brushed my hair (or my teeth… yeah... I know), but the ski package is a Christmas present and my neighbor told me there were only 9 spaces left, so I had to run over there quick. So, I’m holding onto the counter, trying to keep from passing out (as my temperature is about 102), when this guy comes up beside me to check in to use the gym. He gives his last name, “D****t”. It’s a very unusual name. And one I recognize immediately. I look sideways at him and realize that I’m standing next to one of the very first boys I ever loved. And by ‘loved’ I mean ‘I wrote Mr. and Mrs. Chris D****t on all my notebooks, circled by hearts and flowers, and kissed my pillow pretending it was him, and imagined going to prom and then getting married when we were old, like 25’... that kind of 'loved'. Yeah, you know it. We met at summer camp when I was 12. And he was CU-UTE. I was NO-OT. But he thought I was. And that made him even better.

I can honestly say he’s not someone I ever imagined I’d see again. And he’s still pretty cute (not CU-UTE, but that’s hard to maintain when you’re in your 40’s... and I'm hardly one to talk, given the crap-fest that was Diane that day... oh hell, lots of days). Of course, his cute factor could have been influenced by the fever-induced haze through which I was seeing the world on Friday. Not sure. Oh, and you know I was totally sick because I didn’t check out his ring finger, which I never miss. But... I might find a reason to go back to the Rec Center this Friday, around 3:30 or so… you know… just for old time’s sake. And yeah, don’t worry… I’ll be sure to brush my hair… and teeth... and wear make-up... and heels... and my skinny jeans. OK, just kidding. They'd have to be magic jeans... sigh.

All Aboard...

So... there I was, minding my own business, trudging my slow way home from Woe Is Me Land, when I was abducted by some nasty bugger and flung aboard the S.S. Flusitania for a 3-day trek around Fever Penninsula, where temps hovered around a balmy 101 degrees. We docked in various ports of call over the next couple of days, including the infamous Saint Ill Islands (St. Cough, St. Wheeze, and St. Sneeze), and the bar was open, with NyQuil cocktails flowing freely. Even still (or maybe because of), delirium and general out-of-itness were the overall (and overwhelming) moods of the trip. We finally broke free of the Fever Penninsula around 3:30 this morning and are currently docked in What The Hell Hit Me Harbor, having a cuppa in the Weak Knee Cafe. I'm hoping to be home tomorrow, coherent and wheeze-free.

So, how was your weekend?