If I Had a Rocket Launcher...

Dell's tech support sucks: Let me count the ways.

1. Their hold music sounds like they stole it from a bad eighties, movie soundtrack. The kind with overwhelming saxophone played over a moody synthesizer. It's usually on during the romantic scene just before the lights go out.

2. I was on hold a lot.

3. The gentleman "helped" me for way too long, (where I was mostly on hold) just to figure out my warranty had run out and I needed to be transferred to the expired warranty tech support area.

4. The gentleman couldn't figure out how to transfer me and for the first five minutes we sat in silence, and after that he felt obligated to make small talk with me. "So, how's the weather there?" Was his first question and it went downhill from there.

5. The gentleman got his supervisor and after five more minutes, he told me that everyone at the other office were at a meeting, and gave me a number to call them back in an hour.

6. When I called back to the new number, it got me to the same office I called before, but thankfully, to a different representative. The woman who answered seemed much more competent. She figured out right away that I needed to go to the other office, and was also aware that other office was only open during the day, (what about the meeting?) right when I would be at work.

7. Since Dell can't help me, I had to call my friend Bob. And you know how hard it is to me to ask my friends for help.

My friend Bob was at work, but his wife thinks I might need to do something called a "hard start". Hopefully, Bob will be able to help me with this.

The saga continues...

I Feel That Ice is Slowly Melting

Hey, Lookee here, I'm embracing minimalism:

BAD: I tried cleaning the hell out of my computer as Booda Baby suggested, and it's still pulling the same crap. I'll try the Dell tech support tonight.

GOOD: With all the extra time I saved not obsessing on the internets, I was able to watch Wife Swap and Supper Nanny. I also increased my vocabulary, by reading my violent novel that's full of swears.

GOOD: The February thaw finally arrived and I spent as much time outside as possible.

BAD: The snow melting suddenly exposed the carnage of car wrecks and a season's worth of dog shit in my neighborhood.

GOOD: I've been able to run outside for two days in a row now. At some point both times, I've found myself thinking, "Dude. I am sooo high right now."

BAD: Uh, yeah. I can't think of one bad thing to say about endorphins.

Somethin's Happenin' Here

Okay, kids, let me put it to you straight - my computer died. It makes me so sad because she was only a year and half old. Is that normal for a Dell, or do you think it was a virus? She was fine on Saturday night, but then when I woke-up on Sunday and turned her on, she shut-down before she ever got going. On the fourth try she actually worked for about fifteen minutes. I read and responded to comments, and then, boom. Everything closed down and she shut-down. Now, all she'll do is get me to the first Dell page before she closes.

Obviously, I know nothing about computers, but I do know that Dell wants to extend me lots of credit, I get a discount from my place of employment, and I've become increasingly dependent on the internets. So, unless I want to actually go out and talk to people in person, (and lord knows, I can't have that) or try to fight with the homeless guys at the public library looking at porn to use the computers there,I'm going to have to buy me a new one.

I can only get on the internets at work during lunch and breaks, so my reading and commenting on blogs, will be a little sparse and my posting should happen at some point everyday during the week, but the content will be on the anorexic side until I can get me a new, tall silver crack pipe. Sorry, for the lameness, but that's kind of how I am.

I Know This Much is True

This is a picture of the creek across the street from me.

Now, here is a list of some truths I hold to be self-evident.

1. This first one occurred to me this morning when I woke-up still sick, at 5 am, had to curl and spray Coadster's show choir hair up, it was cold and snowy out, oh, and what the hell, let's just throw in a liberal dose of PMS in the mix: A long hot bubble bath will cure about 80% of what ails you, both physical and mental.

2. This truth was given to me by a co-worker who heard it from her seven year old daughter: Another bad thing about the wind and the cold is that it really makes you feel the boogers in your nose.

3. This truth came to me while viewing Coadster's choir concert (regular, as opposed to show choir) on Thursday night: There is no better way to suck the soul out of a spiritual, than by letting Iowa high school students sing it.

4. This one I'm experiencing right now: The best way to spend certain Saturday nights in February is to plant your pale, doughy ass on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eating Chinese take-out and watching cheesy movies. (I would have added alcohol in there, but I'm on migraine watch 2007 and have to lay off the hooch)

Eyes Without a Face

I did a bad thing tonight. I read over a few of my posts from the last week. I know better than to do that. It's like looking down at my thighs when I'm running for the first time after a hiatus. It's too much. It makes one want to stop running and writing altogether. Just in case you were wondering, yes, I do own a thesaurus, I actually know how to spell, and at one point in my life, I at least knew some basic grammatical rules. In my defense, I have to choose between sleeping and a well crafted blog post, and I don't want to make my daughters' lives any harder than they already are. So, all I can say is, I'm sorry, but you can expect more of the same in the future.

Tonight, though? Tonight, I will give you a break. I haven't done one of these in a while, and with Stinky around, the material is piling up. So, in the interest of purging, I'm doing another "More of Stinky's Self-Portraits" posts.

These first few are more typical of a thirteen year old girl.

These last three are kind of creepy in that dark, purposely over-exposed, noirish way.



Funky.

Gimme Danger

Stinky forgot to fasten her seatbelt the other day, and it made me a little nervous. Not just for the fine that we'd get if a cop spotted it, but for what would have happened if we had been in an accident. Then, I had to laugh at my spaz, because I don't think I ever wore a seatbelt until sometime in the late eighties. People always say that cars were bigger and safer in the seventies, but we had a little Toyota Corolla back then and now I have a Subaru station wagon. And honestly, I'm still not very good about making the girls wear bicycle helmets. I'm not saying it's bad that we're safer with our kids now, I just wonder how me and my friends made it out of childhood alive with all the dangerous shit we did. Here is a list of things we did the back then, that probably would cause DHS to maintain an active role in our lives now.

1. Not only did we not wear helmets when we rode bikes, we also didn't even wear shoes. My bike was red white and blue and had one of those big banana seats, (it was called the Liberty Bell, and you can start being jealous right now) so I could usually fit one friend on the seat with me, and one on the handlebars. I sure couldn't see very well, but no one ever seemed to worry about that.

2. When I lived in Mesa, during monsoon season we would lie in the gutters in nasty, dirty puddles of water on Horn Street ( a very, very, busy street) and wait for cars to drive by and splash us. I never heard of even one kid getting their legs run over. Weird.

3. We played in construction sites almost every day. In Mesa, during the seventies, you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a building project, and that's exactly what we did. We threw rocks at new windows, climbed around in half-built houses with bare feet and pretended they were ours. I do remember one kid stepping on a nail and having to get a tetanus shot, though.

4. When we lived in Chicago, we used to play this game called frisbee tag. It was basically like dodge ball, but with a hard plastic frisbee, so it would do more damage. Did I mention that we played this quaint game in the middle of the street?

5. We used to go up to a relative's summer cabin on Paw Paw Lake on the weekends. My Uncle and his brothers would get drunk and take us kids water skiing. After a while they'd get bored and think of imaginitive ways to make us fall, so they could drive the boat back to the cabin and get more beer. My two favorites were; cranking the boat up past 30 miles per hour and making the sharpest turns possible, and then taking us right up to the ski ramp so that if you didn't let go of the rope, you'd be forced to jump at neck breaking speeds. I wish I had been drunk at the time so I could have appreciated it. Come to think of it, it was really funny when they did it to my cousins...

6. My Uncle's mom used to give us a lunch bag full of M-80's on the Fourth of July to play with. Is it four or eight of those that equal a stick of dynamite? We liked to blow them up in the big pipes that were used for irrigation in the ground. (explosive gases? What gases?) One year, my cousin Teddy thought it would be fun to explode all the toys in his sandbox with M-80's. I have to say, there is nothing more satisfying than watching metal trucks blow-up and knowing you were responsible. The next morning, I found my six year old cousin on his knees in the sandbox, lamenting the demise of all his Tonkas. He must not have finally realized that when you obliterated something into tiny pieces, there was no putting it back together.

Here is me and a cousin on an inner tube at Paw Paw Lake in 1980.

I Love My Sunny Day, Dream of Far Away

Damn! I’m sick again. I don’t know what’s causing my weakened immune system these last six months. It could be that I’m not running as much as I’m used to, and my toxins aren’t getting released, or it could also be all the leftover stress from the tornado and my inflated water bill and the fact that Blogger acts up on me almost every other night. Mostly, I think I’m spending too much time worrying about the possibility of finding out that Zha Zha (Zhazha, Zha-Zha?) Gabor’s husband did, in fact, sire Anna Nicole Smith’s child.

Whatever’s causing it, I had the flu two weeks ago, a bad cold right now, and I’m tired of being sick. I’m sure at this point, you’re all smart enough to see what I’m leading up to. That’s right – a big lame excuse to do a random thoughts post. Now, it’s at least thirty percent lamer, because Blogger’s out of whack again tonight, so I’m writing this all out on Word and I’ll be cutting and pasting tomorrow morning if Blogger’s working then. So, let’s start embracing the randomness, shall we?

1. February 14th was my mom’s birthday. Had she lived, she would have turned 75. I can’t imagine how she would look at that age. I do know that my daughters would have loved her. My mom would have introduced Coadster to as many cheesy Broadway musicals as she could handle. My mom would also have let Stinky draw and paint all over her walls and probably even do it with her.

2. Today is Dex’s birthday from Degrees of Grey in Iowa City. Feel free to stop by and show him some birthday love.

3. At work, we answer all the e-mails for our particular business, which means, we see a lot of Spam. Today, the ex-nun called out from her cubicle, “Hey, I got an offer for Viagra at $1.59 a pill. Can anyone beat that?” Sadly, the lowest offer on my Spam was $1.79, so the ex-nun won again. It’s got to be rigged, she has Jesus on her side.

4. The girls had a snow day on Tuesday. Of course, I still had to work. I don’t even think the threat of nuclear war would close our offices down. When I got home, I asked the girls what they did, and they said they watched two movies and had a dorked-out dance party in the living room. I was so incredibly jealous.

Now, I must go and open Blogger so I can flip it the bird.

Ain't Talkin' 'bout Love

Ah, love. Whatever. By the time most of you read this, it will be Valentine's Day. In the comment section of one of the blogs I read obsessively, (Citizen of the Month?) someone renamed this holiday, "Singles Appreciation Day", and I'm all for that.

I don't get all weird about Valentine's Day. I don't feel like I'm missing out, or particularly lonely, or any more bitter than I normally am. (and have been since I was in junior high) It's just one of those holidays like Father's Day, Flag Day, or Gay Pride Week that really don't apply to me. I'm all for people celebrating as many holidays as they possibly can, but in the past, Valentine's Day has been just another day when all of the women in my office decide to wear novelty sweaters. (believe me, this happens on many different days at my job)

"Singles Appreciation Day" is a holiday I could totally get behind. It would be a day where you revel in all of those weird things you do in the privacy of your own home, that you might not be comfortable doing if you had a boyfriend or girlfriend hanging around - of course, masturbation would be optional. You know, like you could slip into your biggest, holiest sweats, eat popcorn and ice cream for dinner, obsessively watch YouTube, read blogs, Google all your past sexual partners, (not because you're still into them, but just because you're nosy) or watch movie trailer after movie trailer on the Apple website. The possiblities are endless. Of course, for those of you who aren't quite so nerdy and weird, you could probably actually leave your house... Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Those of you who aren't quite so nerdy and weird, are probably in relationships and don't need to create your own special holidays.

Waiting for the Break of Day

Hey, I think it's time for a nostalgia post. Feel free to make the Wayne's World dream sequence noise and hand motions if it helps.

It is weird here during the day because it's not our home, but we live here now. It's my grandma's house that she owns with my Aunt Lee and Lee's kids. They are my cousins, but besides Paula, they are much older than me. While we stay here, we have to be extra good. We should try not to be messy or fight or yell or ask for too much. We are guests and good guests behave.

What if my dad comes home and we're not there any more? Will he know where to find us?

My mom says, he will come to his mother's house and we'll be here waiting... If he comes back, but we shouldn't get our hopes up.

What if we move away from grandma's? How will he find us then?

He will still go to his mom's house, and she will tell him where to find us. But remember, it might be easier to think that he won't come back. You don't want to get your hopes up.

My grandma is different than my mom. My older sister calls her stern, but my mom says she is regal. She thinks it sounds more respectful. My mother is not stern or regal. My mother is funny and messy and she can mimic any voice she hears. She talks back to the TV if she thinks it's being stereotypical, or just wrong. I don't know what a stereotype is, but I laugh when she does it, because I think it's funny to talk to the TV. My mom doesn't do these things at my grandma's that much. She also doesn't cry here like she did at our house, when our dad stopped coming home. Here, she is respectful and helpful. She is a good guest.

At night it is scary instead of weird. Me and Moira sleep in Paula's room and my brother sleeps in the top bunk of my cousin Jeff's bunkbed. At our old house, we only had one palm tree and it was was close to the street, where it couldn't leave scary shadows that looked like bad people racing across the wall to get me. Here there are several regular trees, and they sway and moan like ghosts. When I wake-up late at night, I remember I'm not at home. I want to run and find my mom, so I can sleep with her, but I know her pull-out sofa bed is full with her and my oldest sister, so I close my eyes and try not to see the shadows.

One night, I am already awake when I hear the thud in the next room. My brother has fallen off the top bunk and onto the floor. He's okay, but my mom tries even harder to find us our own place after that. She's done expecting my dad to come back. She's finally laid her hopes back down.

These photos are of my cousin, Paula and my sister, Moira at the Phoenix Zoo in the late sixties.

Where's December's Happy Crew, With German Bikes and Sidecars Too?

Here is a picture that is not at the Mill, but at the Picador, instead.

I went to The Mill tonight to help my friend C. celebrate her 40th birthday. The restaurant/bar was full of people I've known and worked with from the mid-eighties. Some of those folks, including the old owner, had been there back in the sixties and seventies. They are a deliciously odd crew who all still smoke and drink whiskey and work jobs, whether they be lawyers or social workers, or juvenile probational officers, where they can help people and/or be creative. They are awesome.


I was lucky to have started working at the Mill the day after I turned nineteen. Not just because I got a free meal and unlimited free beer any shift I worked, but because I felt very, very angry and alienated and the crowd there was a perfect combination for me. Even in the eighties, there were still a lot of employees and patrons who were all bluegrass, hippies who taught me how to mellow the fuck out. There were also many young, angry, kids just like me who helped me to channel my anger into taking drugs and going to shows. (an essential part of burning-out so you can start fresh again) It's the first, and maybe the last time I have met so many weird people all at once.


Now, even after all these many years, I still have to pay my daughters distraction money, so they can go off and play pinball while I have extremely intimate (read crude) conversations with my old cohorts. I'm so glad that I didn't work at an office when I was that age, or I never would have found so many freaks with which to create such a happily dysfunctional family.

You'll Have to Stop Me If I Get Too Big

Me and Stinky when she was still shorter than me.

Me: Ouch, ouch, ouch, Shit.

Stinky: What's the matter? Are you okay?

Me: Yeah. My foot just slipped and I stubbed my toe on the washing machine.

Stinky: (After she came over to give me a sympathy hug) Holy cow! I'm taller than you now.

Me: I know. It makes disciplining you seem kind of silly, doesn't it?

Stinky: Yeah. I could totally step on you if I wanted to.

Me: Um, maybe. But I do hold all the power when it comes to the use of your cell phone.

Stinky: Oh, yeah. Nevermind.

I Have Done All That I Could, To See The Evil and The Good Without Hiding

Here is a picture of a tree on the Pentacrest. I think it might be dying, which would make me sad because it's a great climbing tree. I like walking past it in the summer and seeing little monkey children hidden in its foliage.

So, I got off work at four to go to my dentist appointment yesterday. My dentist's office is quite quaint. It's in an old house and inside, it's all hardwood floors and lace curtains and they pipe in mellow, adult contemprorary, Sting-Dave Matthews kinds of music while they're diligently drilling your teeth. I have to say, though, that one of the dental hygenists is a little odd. I wrote about her last year on my old blog here.

Yesterday, while she was scraping nasty stuff off of my teeth, she said, "This is what your tarter looks like." And she held an instrument with a tan colored chunk on it right in my face.

"Ew," I said. I don't know how else I was supposed to respond. Has anyone else been to a hygenist who made them look at the crap she scraped off of their teeth? I guess I would like to be asked first, so I could politely decline.

Before you start thinking I'm not "Our Bodies, Ourselves" enough for you, I used to go to Emma Goldman clinic for my annual appointments when I was younger and didn't have insurance or a regular doctor. I've been asked and have agreed to take a peek at my cervix. Since, as far as I can tell, it hasn't changed any since I was nineteen, I don't really need to see it again. I worked in an ob/gyn clinic long enough to see more inner-parts and bodily secretions to last me a lifetime. So, I've decided to contact any dental or healthcare facility at which I may be seen, and ask them to kindly put something in my chart that says I decline any offers to view anything - including any earwax, kidney stones, or cyst fluid that they may extract from me. There. I think that should cover it.

Shine on Me Sunshine Walk With Me World It's a Skippity-Dooda day

Because it's the weekend, I thought I'd help you navigate your way to a bar.

I know I've told you several times already, that I'm a sucker for false hope. Well, tonight I'm full of it. (and false hope too) Now, please allow me to count the things that make me stupidly hopeful.

1. I got an e-mail at work from Stinky's reading teacher today. It doesn't appear that she ever got her hands on my fake e-mail, because she was all effusive about how wonderfully behaved Stinky has been of late. She even thanked me for keeping her in line. Of course, Stinky came in with a splint on her arm after the weekend, so she probably thinks I used physical force and is grateful for that too.

2. This is another show choir competition weekend for Coadster. It means I have to get up at 5:30 am to get Coadster to the high school, but she loves it so much, it's totally worth it.

Coadster came home after choir class this week and told me she just found out she had a four octave vocal range. Being completely ignorant about such things, I asked, "Oh. Is that good?"

"I think it is."

"Well, then I think it is too." God, I sound like such a douche bag when I write down these conversations with my daughters. At least Coadster will have plenty of fodder whenever she applies for legal emnacipation.

What I'm trying to say here, is that I'm glad that Coadster is really good at the thing she loves the most. Ever since she was little, she has loved to sing. Once when she was in first grade and completely unaware that she was crooning all over the house, I asked her, "So, do you sing like that at school, too?"

"Not anymore I don't," but I know even now, she forgets she's doing it, she loves it so much.

3. Yesterday, someone got to my blog by googling, "Shut-up with the I'm a single mom bullshit" and I can't imagine anything more perfect.

4. I might actually get my tax refund direct deposited into my account tomorrow. I think it was downloaded to the IRS last week on Wednesday, which means I should see it tomorrow. It was originally rejected because the drop down box with my birth year slipped to the year behind and it didn't match what the IRS had. I corrected it and resubmitted it, so hopefully, tomorrow I will be as giddy as a 41 year old school girl.

Because I'm nothing if not a woman with a back-up plan, I'm going to try to distract myself if my refund doesn't appear. On Saturday, I was thinking I'd eat some comfort food, (I'm taking suggestions of anyone's favorites) drink some of my bottle of cheap Shiraz, and watch two African movies that should be really good, but will inevitably make me cry. I kind of like these frigid temps when I don't have to leave my house.

Oh Well, Whatever, Nevermind

Here lies Freddy Funk. I love his name. That is all.

I've been doing this weird thing lately. In my head I've been using the same catch phrase in answer to everything I experience. As far as I know, I've never said it aloud, but I'm kind of Turretsy that way where I'll be thinking something, and all the sudden I find myself voicing it outloud. It's not like I yell, "Cocksucker!" or anything. (but don't think I haven't been tempted) It's more like I'll be thinking about what I need from the store as I'm walking to work, and I just spew out, "Oh, toilet paper."

The catch phrase I've hopefully just been saying in my head is, "Whatever, bitch." It is not reserved for women, either. Lately, the whole world is my bitch and judging by the "Whatever" that preceeds it, I have total diregard for every single one of its inhabitants or inanimate objects, for that matter. If an old man pulls out right in front of me when I'm driving and then crawls along very slowly, he gets a "Whatever bitch". If my computer starts getting really slow and kicking me out of the system, my brain sends out the "Whatever, bitch" signals too. If I heard anyone say that appropriate but none the less annoying catch phrase as often as I think it, I would have to give them the "Whatever, bitch" vibe too.

Now that I've recognized my latest affliction, I'm trying to work really hard on curbing it. I don't want to finally let it fly for real, at an innocent seven year old girl who accidentally walks into me at the library.

There Ain't No Tellin' Who You Might Meet

Hey, check this out. Mr. Atrocity of Renaissance Monkey reworked my cartoony photo and made it very, as he says, "A Scanner Darkly". It is so much more comic booky than it was before. When it comes to photos of myself, as far as I'm concerned, the more cartooned-up, the better. Mr. Atrocity has also worked on the special effects of some of my favorite movies, so that just makes it even cooler.

Now, for the post:

It's weird how going to the ER last Friday made me a little nostalgic about working in the health care industry. There are parts about it that I really miss. Yes, at my current job, I get paid a lot more money to sit on my ass all day and not expose myself to bloodborne pathogens, but it is also so boring that I can feel a little bit more of my soul disintegrate inside my cubicle everyday.

At least when I worked at the clinic, I felt like I was helping people. I put so many scary patients on birth control that I think you all owe me money. At my job now, the only thing I really do is make it possible for more overly entitled rich kids from the Northshore Chicago Suburbs to come to town in really expensive SUV's and pee right in front of me downtown on football weekends. Okay, now I owe all of you some cash.

At my old job, I got to ask people totally inappropriate questions and not only did they answer them, they also told me way more than I ever wanted to know. It's always fun to be able to ask a complete stranger how many sexual partners they've had or how many times they were pregnant or if they were feeling any itching or burning at that moment. These are things you'd get slapped for asking some schmo on the street.

At the clinic, I had the feeling that I was on the cutting edge of information and technology. We got to play around with colposcopes and cystoscopes and any kind of Tischlers you would want to try. I also got to teach med students all of these technologies and watch them be all cocky at first because I was a lowly nursing assistant, but then kiss my ass after I taught them how not to put their grubby paws all over the sterile field. At my current job, I talk to people on the phone and tell them they need to order supporting documentation. Yawn.

It was also the best freak watching I've ever experienced. Since it was a state hospital, we saw every homeless, crazy or special case from here to Chicago. I felt so at home there. I even assisted with a woman who was there for a liver transplant and was completely yellow - her eyes, her skin, and even her hair. It was so eerie. It's not like there aren't any freaks at my current job, it's just that they're the same crazies I see everyday, and I seem to need a little variety with my nutjobs.

The weird thing is, I didn't realize how much I missed it, until I heard the med student walk into the room of the guy who had been retching violently and ask if she could feel his stomach. See? That's another thing you can't just go ask someone on the street without getting jacked. Sigh.

Don't Let it Bring You Down

I just found out a guy I know died this weekend in a plane crash. He was a great husband and father to his wife and three kids and he was also just an all around good guy. I don't think I ever even heard him talk shit about anybody. He always made me look really bad in comparison.

The weird thing, is that his death was almost one year to the day of the awesome history professor's last February. Both men were amazing and worked hard at raising great, healthy kids. Of course, those kinds of deaths always beg the question: why, when there are so many nasty people fucking up kids on a daily basis, do the good dad's die before they have a chance to finish, or in this case, barely begin their job?

I read a blog post last year, (I have no idea which one it was, or I would attribute) where they talked about being able to trade one living asshole, for a great person who was already dead. I wouldn't even have to go that far. I'd be happy to just prevent the good ones from dying young in the future. I'd also be willing to trade some other jerk to die in their stead. In fact, I think we could easily work out a two for one deal. Give me five minutes to write a list of possible jerk candidates that I'd be willing to sacrifice, and it would stretch all the way down to the end of my very long street.

Okay, I'm done being all depressing for now. Tomorrow I promise to make more dork-ass cartoon pictures of myself, or go on ad nauseum about how crunk I was because I drank my gin and juice out of a sippy cup at the mall or whatever heinous nonsense I usually write on here. However it turns out, I'm dedicated to making my next post more Churlita-lite.

Don't Know What I Want, But I Know How to Get It

Here is a cartooned-up photo of me. I didn't draw it myself or anything. Instead, I used my little Kodak program on my computer, just to prove how punk rock/hardcore/extreme I'm not. It kind of looks like I'm eating the magnetic fuzz stuff from that Wooly Willy toy.

I know I'm old and a mom and shit, but on Friday I crossed so many different party genres, I could put you all to shame. Yes, even you, you seventeen year old blogger girl who breezed on here just to leave a snotty comment about how funny it was when old people drank. You couldn't have kept up with me for even a second.

To begin with, the way I kicked my flu's ass on Friday morning, was totally punk rock. It was just as if I had worn safety pin earrings and three inches of black eyeliner all the way around my eyes and stomped the shit out of it with my biggest, most bad-assest, combat boots. By noon, it was pretty much gone.

Then I got super hardcore, because I was broke until the first and couldn't afford to buy my migraine prescription until Thursday, but then got the flu and couldn't safely leave my house. I had me one violent headache by three o'clock. The hardcore part was all of the out of control shit I had to do while entertaining my migraine. You know, like how I drove Stinky and four of her closest male friends home from Rock and Skate, with their overwhelming combination of stale sweat and dirty hair smells. I also had to listen to them talk, which made me sad and then want to laugh and then get kind of angry all within about two minutes.

Once we spent almost an hour driving all the smelly boys home, I found out that Stinky had fallen hard on the ice and we worried away another hour debating whether or not her hand was broken and we should go to the ER, or not. Around 1:30, we drove to the hospital and honestly, there is nothing at all more hardcore than going to the ER at bar close on a Friday night. My migraine withstood, flourescent lights, the sound of someone continually and violently retching, and the eye tearing alcohol fumes of the whiny, surly, drunken college kid sitting next to us who had been punched in the nose. Hard. Core.

At four a.m. when we finally got to leave the ER, (Stinky's arm wasn't broken, just really swollen) I changed my partying status from hardcore, to X-treme. The winds had kicked up and made the already ridiculously low temperatures feel like thirty below zero. Both Stinky and I had to hold onto each other so we wouldn't get knocked down on our way to the car. Yeah, I know dude - wicked X-treme.

So, to all you kids who think you're so much more intense than me because you're young and you can stay up for several days straight with the help of a bottle of tequila and a few lines of coke, step back. You couldn't hang with me for more than an hour or two. I had to do all of my partying completely sober. Suck on that!

In Her Hand Was a Bottle of Wine

So, yeah. I just got back from drinking wine at 126. It was fun and wonderful, but you know it means I can't be counted on to make much sense. I know, I know, I always have an excuse. Either I have a migraine, or the stomach flu, or I'm drunk, or I've just fed my ravenous heroin addiction - there's always something preventing me from writing a proper post. Maybe the "about me" section should just contain a huge dislcaimer where I don't hold myself responsible for the content or quality of the writing here. Whatever. I was going to rely on an old photo and intelligently, forego any text that would embarrass me later when I was sober, but I just couldn't shut my pie hole, so there are words written under the photo. As usual, read at your own risk.

Here is a picture that came in that box from my sister. I think the woman in the green shorts is my mom and I don't know who the woman is wearing the white head scarf. This photo was taken in 1954. I have no idea where they were either. (Bermuda?)

My mom went through a period after she graduated from art school and before she went to Loyola to finish her BA., where she lived at home with her folks and worked at someplace called Utilities Engineering Institute. (I got that off of an old resume. The same one where she listed her weekly salary in 1975 at $159.60) She did paste-ups, layouts, illustrations and stripping for visual effect printing. (hmmmm) She saved up her money and would go on trips to South America, Mexico and Bermuda with her friends until it ran out and then would come back to Chicago and start again. It was an odd lifstyle choice for a woman back in the mid-fifties when women didn't really know they had a choice in lifestyles. Though, I certainly went on adventures when I was in my late teens and early twenties, I wish I had been smart enough to leave the country like my mom did.

In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone

Yesterday Rel tagged me for a meme. I'm almost always up for a meme, because they're all about me,me,me and then I don't have to come up with something to write about on my own. Okay, here goes:

Things That Scare Me

1. suffocating - I can't even face someone I'm sleeping with, (no, it hasn't been a big problem for a while, thank you) for fear they might suck all my air.
2. Controlling and angry people.
3. Rush Limbaugh - I prefer to think of him as a thing.

People that make me laugh

1. my daughters. (sometimes even on purpose)
2. David Sedaris.
3. Rush Limbaugh. (until I cry)

Things I love

1. My family - I totally stole this answer from Rel.
2. Running - that is, if by "things I love", you mean "things I'm addicted to".
3. Words and images - yeah, I know those are two things. I never read anywhere on here that I wasn't allowed to cheat a little.

Things I hate

1. Poverty.
2. Hate.
3. Rush Limbaugh.

Things I don't understand

1. Men.
2. Why so many people Google various forms of the lyrics "Who's Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?" It was about the worst Cars song ever. Most of the searchers must speak English as a second language because they're usually actually asking the Google gods for "Who gonna home tonight?", and my personal favorite, "Who gonna drive your home tonight?" (they must be big RV'ers)
3. Hormones

Things on my desk

1. Computer- another answer stolen from Rel.
2. messiness
3. Dust, spores, and allergens

Things I'm doing right now

1. Answering a meme
2. Feeling my arms get really heavy due to the effects of my migraine meds
3. Playing with my hair, as usual.

Three things I want to do before I die

1. Wish my girls happy eighteenth birthdays, so they won't have to live with anyone else but me.

2. Own my own home.
3. Learn to paint and draw really well.

Things I can do

1. Run a chainsaw.
2. phlebotomy.
3. Run - a direct consequence from my childhood conundrum of being a smart-ass and a horrible chicken shit after pissing off so many people.

Things you want to listen to

1. Whatever the hell you want.
2. the sounds of silence.
3. Your mom - this is directed specifically at my girls.

Things you should never listen to

1. Michael Bolton.
2. The voices in my head - trust me on this one.
3. Rush Limbaugh.

Things I would like to learn

1. Yoga - Shut-up. I know.
2. How to play the guitar
3. How the other half lives.

Favorite Foods

1. Navratan curry.
2. Chicken Parmesan.
3. Scallion pancakes with peanut butter sauce.

Favorite beverage

1. Thai iced tea - almost any kind of tea, really.
2. beer.
3. Cranberry/raspberry juice.

TV shows I watched, books I read as a kid

1. Land of the Lost and any other Sid and Marty Krofft shows - Lidsville, H. R. Pufnstuf, The Bugaloos, Sigmund and the Seamonsters...
2. The Little House on the Prairie series on TV and in book form. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder crazy.
3. The Changeling. I wanted to say, A Hero Ain't Nothin' but a Sandwich, because I love the title, but even though the book was good, it wasn't my absolute favorite.

People I would like to tag:

As most of you know, I don't believe in tagging people. I think people should do their own thing. So, if you want to, let me know, I'd love to read it. If not, that's cool too. I'm all seventies that way.

You Know, There's Nothing Goin' Down at All, Not at All

I have no idea who this is standing in front of the saguaro, I just needed to be reminded that there are places in the world where the temps are not below zero right now.

Here's the deal, I was overcome by the stomach flu early today at work. I've been home, sleeping ever since. This will be a quick post, because this thing seems to be coming in waves. Which means, I feel okay now, but I have no idea when I'll suddenly start feeling dizzy and salivating and have to get up from the computer very, very fast. Also, my thoughts are even more disjointed than normal. If you're smart, you've never come to my blog looking for order or meaning, so you probably won't be disappointed today either.

It is still very, very cold outside. I think I'm feuding anew with that little bitch everyone else calls Winter. Even after I said all those nice things about her a week ago, she still won't let up. I'd almost rather be stuck at home puking all day then have to go outside and face her nastiness.

Now, here is something else totally unrelated: When I drove to the junior high tonight to pick up Stinky from her basketball game, I saw a man running down Glendale Street, (which is a very suburban/normal people type neighborhood) with his thumb in the air like he was trying to hitch a ride. Even though I used to hitch hike myself, I have a very strict policy about not picking up other hitchers...Unless, of course, they're really hot.

I guess that's it for me on here tonight. I have a date with my futon. We've been inseparable lately. I think I might actually have found my soulmate.