As I sit and gradually go blinder from staring at a computer screen, I search my brain and motivation for one more ounce of "oomph." I seem to be out of oomph, but I do have plenty of cynicism stocked in the back. Working 40 hours a week, teaching two online classes (one just wrapped up this week, thank God), and teaching for the University...hello, my bologna has a first name, and it's E-X-H-A-U-S-T-E-D. Never mind cooking, painting the house, and planning a wedding.
I know that there are some of you women out there who have like, energy jet-packed breasts, and you can just go-go-go-go and you're, like, super motivated about everything you do. If you're one of those super motivated happy 24/7 go-getters. Please, don't talk to me...unless it's to refer me to your dealer.
It's clear from the wrinkles under my eyes that I'm aging at mach speed. Despite being only 28.5 (marathon woman) years old, I look like I'm 150. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I see your ID?" Seriously? Just count the rings below my eyes and multiply by 4. Heaven forbid a student ask me my age. My planned response is, "Old enough to die from stress." I have three jobs and I rake in less than $40k annually. Did I mention I have two degrees? Thank God for Sean and the Jeep and the cats.
That is something that kind of cheeses my goat about Americans. How in the Hell can you not find a job you lazy worthless fart-monkeys? If I can find three jobs, your sorry camel-toe flaunting butt can find at least one. Seriously, the economy needs to improve so I can get a raise. Oh...wow, the word really does revolve around me. Wait...was that my first bridezilla moment? Awe...someone take a picture.
Oh, you didn't know I was getting married? Yep...October 8. Then Italy. I wish I never had to return to the crumbling U.S. of A. Yeah, I'm getting married...I'm just so busy working that I keep forgetting I get to plan a wedding, too. Jeepers and funking fun! (Yes, I meant to write 'funking.') So, the countdown is building up to the wedding, not my pending attempted suffocation via chloroform and pinot grigio.
What's left for the wedding? Glad you asked!
Bustle my own gown
Print wedding programs
Seriously, figure out the decorations
Reserve / pay for tables for wedding
Order table cloths and runners
Get ring cleaned
Get letter from parents saying I can get married to Sean at Catholic church
Bag almonds
Finish paying for a lot of stuff
Finish selecting music for reception
Finish selecting music for church
Scream
Scream louder
Hyperventilate
Cry about not getting any help
Get hair cut
And I'm low maintenance.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Toot, Toot, Jeep, Jeep
Blazing down the road along a craggy mountain-side coastline...sapphire blue mingles with shades of sulfur and white foam as I speed by in my* (*our, whatever) Jeep Wrangler, my hair whipping in whisps out of my pony tail, and every driver on the road in their crappy Sebrings jealous as Hell.... (In the longest run-on since Joyce ever! (said the fragment. Still a fragment. Still a fragment. D'oh!)
This is what I think of when driving my Jeep. Even that time in the Bruno's parking lot when I had the e-brake on and couldn't figure out why 2nd gear felt soooo sluggish and syrupy (until I figured it out, obviously). ...That was today.
I think about it even when all I'm doing is passing an X-Terra or chilling behind a jacked up Honda Accord that's about to turn without signalling into The Grove at the University (go back to Mississippi, you no-driving, son of a bitch!...no really, according to his tag, he was from Mississippi).
The Jeep is beautiful. It's like Belle, the cat. It's my baby, Man. It's the thing that makes me forget that at some point, I'm supposed to be slinging hash and learning a foreign language as I go to scrape by while staying somewhere random. (All right, given my antisocial tendencies, I would never be able to "stay somewhere random" as I have a freakish preference for my personal time.) Still, the Jeep makes me feel like its a holiday every time I get in! Even when I'm motoring to work.
Today was the first day in for ages where I haven't "had" (mind, no one has to do anything) to run errands during lunch in lieu of consuming precious calories or just (perish the thought) relax.
No, no, I suffer from American-itis. Even the Italians know we have it according to Liz Gilbert's friends in Eat, Pray, Love. They recognize the weight of the American guilt for when we're not busy. We're ashamed of ourselves when we're not productive or getting something done. God forbid you take a day off without having at least one gold star to put on your "Do Work" chart. It's a freaking illness, Man!
I totally see it. My mom is a glowing example of Americanitis. She worked out of high school, went to college, earned a PhD with babies while teaching, then taught for 27 years. She promptly felt ashamed of being lazy after retiring and opened her own store (well, after she independently sold Avon/killed herself for a couple of years).
Based on the fact that only 45% or some nonsense like that pay taxes, I just assumed this disease was localized to my nuclear family. Nooope. It's a national epidemic. Americans are ironically the hardest working laziest SOBs on Earth. We work ourselves to the grit until we have nothing left to offer, then we collapse in a poop-pile where we recover by marinating into our couches, smoking and drinking whatever is within reach, and eating sugary or salty chemicals out of a paper bag. Delicious.
I recognize my genetic tendency toward Americanitis. What's worse, is I'm already experiencing the onset of this debilitating disorder. Today, during lunch, when I didn't have anything "to do," I was confronted by confusion and fear. What will I do with myself without obligation? I can't enjoy myself outside of pre-scheduled, quarantined pleasure-periods. That would be downright...nice. Perhaps I could take a walk in the 90+ degree heat. Yes, that would be positive for my body and it would fulfill the delicate "to do" criteria. With no groceries to get and little money to spend on "junk," it was hard to determine how to waste my lunch hour.
I did indeed waste it. I feel ashamed, but at the same time, I feel angry. How dare you, America? How dare you work me too many hours and underpay me, and then make me feel guilty about possibly relaxing on my lunch hour? You bastards! Honestly, if lunch were an hour or two longer, I would go home, thus using twice as much gas, thus pumping additional funds into the economy. I digress.
We should adopt a European model...not just for our workdays (shorter, fewer, longer lunches = more productivity, more money spent by citizens) but for our legitimate relaxation, too.
Only on days "off" do I eat two or three times a day. I want to be Italian every day. I want to spend hours lazing over a meal while reading or staring at scenery or pondering life. I want to not worry about stuff or feel bad if I got nothing done when in my own house. Thankfully, I have learned to do these things when out of town.
And, the Jeep helps me do them in town (and thus a way to tie in this random, rambling, running theme). The Jeep helps me relax. It takes me away (without mentally singing a Natasha Beningfield or whatever her name is song). Perhaps one day, we'll live in a country where citizens can relax without shame. Where they don't take their work home or make their home work. Where lunch is a meal and not a marathon. Where we have time to run our errands without bursting into tears at the super market line because it's late and we're tired and we just want to go home! Please! (I have felt this way more times than I would care to recall when having had to stop on the way home from work.)
I pledge allegiance to the Jeep and all that it represents....
This is what I think of when driving my Jeep. Even that time in the Bruno's parking lot when I had the e-brake on and couldn't figure out why 2nd gear felt soooo sluggish and syrupy (until I figured it out, obviously). ...That was today.
I think about it even when all I'm doing is passing an X-Terra or chilling behind a jacked up Honda Accord that's about to turn without signalling into The Grove at the University (go back to Mississippi, you no-driving, son of a bitch!...no really, according to his tag, he was from Mississippi).
The Jeep is beautiful. It's like Belle, the cat. It's my baby, Man. It's the thing that makes me forget that at some point, I'm supposed to be slinging hash and learning a foreign language as I go to scrape by while staying somewhere random. (All right, given my antisocial tendencies, I would never be able to "stay somewhere random" as I have a freakish preference for my personal time.) Still, the Jeep makes me feel like its a holiday every time I get in! Even when I'm motoring to work.
Today was the first day in for ages where I haven't "had" (mind, no one has to do anything) to run errands during lunch in lieu of consuming precious calories or just (perish the thought) relax.
No, no, I suffer from American-itis. Even the Italians know we have it according to Liz Gilbert's friends in Eat, Pray, Love. They recognize the weight of the American guilt for when we're not busy. We're ashamed of ourselves when we're not productive or getting something done. God forbid you take a day off without having at least one gold star to put on your "Do Work" chart. It's a freaking illness, Man!
I totally see it. My mom is a glowing example of Americanitis. She worked out of high school, went to college, earned a PhD with babies while teaching, then taught for 27 years. She promptly felt ashamed of being lazy after retiring and opened her own store (well, after she independently sold Avon/killed herself for a couple of years).
Based on the fact that only 45% or some nonsense like that pay taxes, I just assumed this disease was localized to my nuclear family. Nooope. It's a national epidemic. Americans are ironically the hardest working laziest SOBs on Earth. We work ourselves to the grit until we have nothing left to offer, then we collapse in a poop-pile where we recover by marinating into our couches, smoking and drinking whatever is within reach, and eating sugary or salty chemicals out of a paper bag. Delicious.
I recognize my genetic tendency toward Americanitis. What's worse, is I'm already experiencing the onset of this debilitating disorder. Today, during lunch, when I didn't have anything "to do," I was confronted by confusion and fear. What will I do with myself without obligation? I can't enjoy myself outside of pre-scheduled, quarantined pleasure-periods. That would be downright...nice. Perhaps I could take a walk in the 90+ degree heat. Yes, that would be positive for my body and it would fulfill the delicate "to do" criteria. With no groceries to get and little money to spend on "junk," it was hard to determine how to waste my lunch hour.
I did indeed waste it. I feel ashamed, but at the same time, I feel angry. How dare you, America? How dare you work me too many hours and underpay me, and then make me feel guilty about possibly relaxing on my lunch hour? You bastards! Honestly, if lunch were an hour or two longer, I would go home, thus using twice as much gas, thus pumping additional funds into the economy. I digress.
We should adopt a European model...not just for our workdays (shorter, fewer, longer lunches = more productivity, more money spent by citizens) but for our legitimate relaxation, too.
Only on days "off" do I eat two or three times a day. I want to be Italian every day. I want to spend hours lazing over a meal while reading or staring at scenery or pondering life. I want to not worry about stuff or feel bad if I got nothing done when in my own house. Thankfully, I have learned to do these things when out of town.
And, the Jeep helps me do them in town (and thus a way to tie in this random, rambling, running theme). The Jeep helps me relax. It takes me away (without mentally singing a Natasha Beningfield or whatever her name is song). Perhaps one day, we'll live in a country where citizens can relax without shame. Where they don't take their work home or make their home work. Where lunch is a meal and not a marathon. Where we have time to run our errands without bursting into tears at the super market line because it's late and we're tired and we just want to go home! Please! (I have felt this way more times than I would care to recall when having had to stop on the way home from work.)
I pledge allegiance to the Jeep and all that it represents....
Monday, June 6, 2011
Low Maintenance My Fanny --And, We're Back
I've had more near-panic attacks and secretly wished my bottle of Glaceau Snob Water would turn into something from the Terlato vineyards more times than I care to remember since the last time I've updated this blog...on October 20 of last year.
Okay, so here's a flash in the pan of life since then.
--The Mister was deployed, so I hit 'pause' on wedding planning shy of a few moments of hysterics regarding where to have the reception.
--Divine intervention...the Saturday after The Mister returned from The Sandbox, we found a reception site. Thank. God.
--Plans are now in tact for a wedding on 10/8 (the perfect number according to Eat, Pray, Love) and a honeymoon in Italy after (I'm already mooning over the prospect of it)
While my busy mind has been preoccupied working and planning a wedding, less busy minds and hands have been preoccupied planning the MHS 2001 high school reunion (similar to a wedding in many ways)...our first 10-year reunion. Awe.
I list each planned activity along with my interest level and the reason for said interest level...
Tour of high school on Saturday morning of reunion
1
I have two days off each week. I live in the city where I attended high school. I have not opted to tour the high school in 10 years. Why would I do so now with 200 perfect strangers?
Pep rally at high school on Saturday morning of reunion
3
I skipped (most) pep rallies in high school. The score was a 3 because I'm marginally curious to see if the C/O 2001 cheerleaders will be leading cheers/wearing old uniforms at age of 28 w/ all of the "fun" of aging (i.e., stretch marks, cellulite, etc.). It would be like a nostalgic train wreck as skirts that short should be prohibited by law after the age of 22.
Dinner at hotel with former classmates
7 dropped to 0
The cost of dinner is $75. The menu consists of designer meat and little else. Beverages must be purchased separately. Furthermore, there will be no one who will or might attend the reunion who I am just oh-so-excited to run into and "catch up" with. We didn't do it on Facebook, why would we do it now? I can assure you, these people feel the same way about me. There isn't one kid from AP English going, "I hope that delightful Amy Brown shows up! I haven't seen her in years!" What will really happen (if anyone remembers my existence), "Where's the girl with the back brace?" For $75 per person, the incredible and disturbingly sexy Mister and I could have a really nice dinner somewhere (drinks included).
Slide show at some point during the evening
-20,000
I do not pilfer people's photos on Facebook (and yes, I'm "friends" on FB with the majority of the people I knew in high school. Why would I want to pay $75 ($150 if the Mister goes) to have someone else push the clicker on photos of classmates' pasts lives when I could do it at home for free (drinks included)?
I'm not trying to be negative. I'm happy that all of the cool kids from high school who have fond memories that they'd like to relive with long-lost friends have this opportunity. There's just nothing about this party that's for me. Maybe I've squashed some memories of people and events from high school...who knows? Maybe I'd have a great time if I went. The thing is, I'm not a betting woman. Seventy-five bucks is a lot of swag to put down on -19,996 odds. I could buy shoes with that money. Or go to dinner with my Mister...possibly to celebrate finding a reception site? Odds of the latter two suggestions being a good time? Positive 20,000+.
Hmmm...
(Yes, the provocation behind mentioning the reunion would be the fact that the former MHS C/O 2001 class president who is organizing this fun-like-a-frozen-fishstick affair keeps sending menacing e-mails reminding people to pay lest the reunion be canceled. I understand some people are forgetful or just plain stupid. I know this because I work in higher education both as faculty and as staff and constantly fear for the great likelihood that humanity will soon be sustaining itself on an advancement level akin to clubbing a giant cat to cook over a fire. So, a weekly reminder for some is expected.
Here is where our former little Commandress in Chief needs to do a little math, though.... There is a 100% chance that at least 75% or more of the people who haven't paid by this point are not going to shart out the moolah for the reunion at the last minute. Why? Because they're not going. Hmm...I wonder if clicking "not attending" on Facebook is an option. Either way, I'll be happy (though somewhat less entertained) when the menacing high school reunion e-mails stop coming. I guess this does give me insight into the "excitement" and pedestrian events that will be planned in the next 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years and so on.... :)
With love...(for my Mister!)
Okay, so here's a flash in the pan of life since then.
--The Mister was deployed, so I hit 'pause' on wedding planning shy of a few moments of hysterics regarding where to have the reception.
--Divine intervention...the Saturday after The Mister returned from The Sandbox, we found a reception site. Thank. God.
--Plans are now in tact for a wedding on 10/8 (the perfect number according to Eat, Pray, Love) and a honeymoon in Italy after (I'm already mooning over the prospect of it)
While my busy mind has been preoccupied working and planning a wedding, less busy minds and hands have been preoccupied planning the MHS 2001 high school reunion (similar to a wedding in many ways)...our first 10-year reunion. Awe.
I list each planned activity along with my interest level and the reason for said interest level...
Tour of high school on Saturday morning of reunion
1
I have two days off each week. I live in the city where I attended high school. I have not opted to tour the high school in 10 years. Why would I do so now with 200 perfect strangers?
Pep rally at high school on Saturday morning of reunion
3
I skipped (most) pep rallies in high school. The score was a 3 because I'm marginally curious to see if the C/O 2001 cheerleaders will be leading cheers/wearing old uniforms at age of 28 w/ all of the "fun" of aging (i.e., stretch marks, cellulite, etc.). It would be like a nostalgic train wreck as skirts that short should be prohibited by law after the age of 22.
Dinner at hotel with former classmates
7 dropped to 0
The cost of dinner is $75. The menu consists of designer meat and little else. Beverages must be purchased separately. Furthermore, there will be no one who will or might attend the reunion who I am just oh-so-excited to run into and "catch up" with. We didn't do it on Facebook, why would we do it now? I can assure you, these people feel the same way about me. There isn't one kid from AP English going, "I hope that delightful Amy Brown shows up! I haven't seen her in years!" What will really happen (if anyone remembers my existence), "Where's the girl with the back brace?" For $75 per person, the incredible and disturbingly sexy Mister and I could have a really nice dinner somewhere (drinks included).
Slide show at some point during the evening
-20,000
I do not pilfer people's photos on Facebook (and yes, I'm "friends" on FB with the majority of the people I knew in high school. Why would I want to pay $75 ($150 if the Mister goes) to have someone else push the clicker on photos of classmates' pasts lives when I could do it at home for free (drinks included)?
I'm not trying to be negative. I'm happy that all of the cool kids from high school who have fond memories that they'd like to relive with long-lost friends have this opportunity. There's just nothing about this party that's for me. Maybe I've squashed some memories of people and events from high school...who knows? Maybe I'd have a great time if I went. The thing is, I'm not a betting woman. Seventy-five bucks is a lot of swag to put down on -19,996 odds. I could buy shoes with that money. Or go to dinner with my Mister...possibly to celebrate finding a reception site? Odds of the latter two suggestions being a good time? Positive 20,000+.
Hmmm...
(Yes, the provocation behind mentioning the reunion would be the fact that the former MHS C/O 2001 class president who is organizing this fun-like-a-frozen-fishstick affair keeps sending menacing e-mails reminding people to pay lest the reunion be canceled. I understand some people are forgetful or just plain stupid. I know this because I work in higher education both as faculty and as staff and constantly fear for the great likelihood that humanity will soon be sustaining itself on an advancement level akin to clubbing a giant cat to cook over a fire. So, a weekly reminder for some is expected.
Here is where our former little Commandress in Chief needs to do a little math, though.... There is a 100% chance that at least 75% or more of the people who haven't paid by this point are not going to shart out the moolah for the reunion at the last minute. Why? Because they're not going. Hmm...I wonder if clicking "not attending" on Facebook is an option. Either way, I'll be happy (though somewhat less entertained) when the menacing high school reunion e-mails stop coming. I guess this does give me insight into the "excitement" and pedestrian events that will be planned in the next 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years and so on.... :)
With love...(for my Mister!)
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Hell's Belles
Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, they all fall down.
I don't do well with disappointment or confusion. I live the way I drive. I know where I want to go. I know how to get there. Detours are not welcome, but thanks for playing.
So, here's the truth. Last spring, I applied for an online PhD program with Texas Tech. I wasn't accepted, most likely because my application information was not research oriented enough. The deadline to reapply was September 1 of this year (as I just found out). Oh, for the love of God. My stupid numb mouth just dripped my drink. Sod it all. I digress...
Anyway, I found an online PhD program (or so I thought) with Utah State. I sent an e-mail to a program adviser today...the supposed PhD program is a Master's program.. I swear everything I read indicated it was a doctoral program. So, I found all of this out when I read my e-mail this evening...after I shot out $55 for the application fee plus $23 to GRE to send my most recent scores to Utah. Epic suck. Really, there aren't words. The feeling of accomplishment I felt today at having gotten my application off was euphoric. The disappointment of reading that e-mail. Crushing.
This also comes at the same time I notice The Mister left his ice cream in the microwave --melted for having sat for just under 24 hours along with an ant infestation spawned by the stupid rotted back door frame thanks to water gathering on the back porch.
No, I'm not going to blaspheme in typical Amy-esque style. I'm going to regroup and figure this crap out. Okay, God. I get it. You don't want me to get a PhD. He and I both know I have what it takes to get a PhD. And okay, I'll say it, my heart's not in it, but I need it. I need it for my career...don't I?
Really, I don't. I have the wits and the balls (most of the time) to succeed on every level I ever imagined. To be completely frank and to reveal some of my less-than-savory qualities, I feel like I need so everyone else will know these things about me, too. Also, I have this terrible fear that my job at USA will be short-lived if I don't have a PhD to bolster myself.
And no, I will NOT do something that sucks...like get a degree from some frivolous online University that commercializes degrees like some sick assembly line. Don't get me wrong, if there was a traditional academic setting in or near my home town that offered what I wanted, I would do it. But, I'm enfianced. We can't leave. We just got a damn house. He's got dreams, too, and quite frankly, dreams much more important to him than this is to me. I refuse to be that selfish person.
The closest program is in Tuscaloosa, and truth be told I could make the three hour drive once or twice a week, providing work permitted the time off. It would be awful, but it would be worth it. That drive and I are one in the same. Impossible, frustrating, difficult, but somehow, so worth it.
How do you know when to let it go? When disappointment and rejections pile up? I feel like I get much better at things each time I attempt them. I only had the nerve to submit queries to children's fiction agents once. I got nothing but rejections. 2006 was a helluva year.
Looking back at my query, I realize, it sucked. Sucked like that fish that supposed to clean the mold off aquariums. I'm floored by the sucking and my charming, youthful naivety at submitting such drech.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Sorry, but I'm distressed. I'm so stupid for complaining, too. I have SO much going for me. I can write. I just killed another ant. I can draw and paint. I can think. My jaw is no longer numb. And I have. Oh, how I have. I have a house larger than my parents could have dreamed when they started their lives together. I have beautiful espresso colored furniture. I know that the word is espresso and not expresso. I love tea. Two beautiful, spoiled cats. A wonderful family. An amazing fiance with in-laws, all of whom I love dearly.
I do say, life is a funny thing, and it will be interesting to see how it all plays out.
On a nuptial note, I think I shall accessorize my gown with 3/4 length gloves. My dress is so simple and elegant that veils, tiaras, and other adornments won't do. So, gloves, a bracelet with my grandmother's rings on it, and some kind of earrings and maybe a baby white lily in my hair will be all there is for my outfit.
My, how vain does that sound!
I've also decided something else...after spending the previous weekend in Louisiana, my favorite state, hands down, although I do love my sweet home Alabama, I want to do cajun food for the wedding. Yes, I think that's my aspiration. We'll see.
I can't wait to go to Italia. Do we have to come home...?
I don't do well with disappointment or confusion. I live the way I drive. I know where I want to go. I know how to get there. Detours are not welcome, but thanks for playing.
So, here's the truth. Last spring, I applied for an online PhD program with Texas Tech. I wasn't accepted, most likely because my application information was not research oriented enough. The deadline to reapply was September 1 of this year (as I just found out). Oh, for the love of God. My stupid numb mouth just dripped my drink. Sod it all. I digress...
Anyway, I found an online PhD program (or so I thought) with Utah State. I sent an e-mail to a program adviser today...the supposed PhD program is a Master's program.. I swear everything I read indicated it was a doctoral program. So, I found all of this out when I read my e-mail this evening...after I shot out $55 for the application fee plus $23 to GRE to send my most recent scores to Utah. Epic suck. Really, there aren't words. The feeling of accomplishment I felt today at having gotten my application off was euphoric. The disappointment of reading that e-mail. Crushing.
This also comes at the same time I notice The Mister left his ice cream in the microwave --melted for having sat for just under 24 hours along with an ant infestation spawned by the stupid rotted back door frame thanks to water gathering on the back porch.
No, I'm not going to blaspheme in typical Amy-esque style. I'm going to regroup and figure this crap out. Okay, God. I get it. You don't want me to get a PhD. He and I both know I have what it takes to get a PhD. And okay, I'll say it, my heart's not in it, but I need it. I need it for my career...don't I?
Really, I don't. I have the wits and the balls (most of the time) to succeed on every level I ever imagined. To be completely frank and to reveal some of my less-than-savory qualities, I feel like I need so everyone else will know these things about me, too. Also, I have this terrible fear that my job at USA will be short-lived if I don't have a PhD to bolster myself.
And no, I will NOT do something that sucks...like get a degree from some frivolous online University that commercializes degrees like some sick assembly line. Don't get me wrong, if there was a traditional academic setting in or near my home town that offered what I wanted, I would do it. But, I'm enfianced. We can't leave. We just got a damn house. He's got dreams, too, and quite frankly, dreams much more important to him than this is to me. I refuse to be that selfish person.
The closest program is in Tuscaloosa, and truth be told I could make the three hour drive once or twice a week, providing work permitted the time off. It would be awful, but it would be worth it. That drive and I are one in the same. Impossible, frustrating, difficult, but somehow, so worth it.
How do you know when to let it go? When disappointment and rejections pile up? I feel like I get much better at things each time I attempt them. I only had the nerve to submit queries to children's fiction agents once. I got nothing but rejections. 2006 was a helluva year.
Looking back at my query, I realize, it sucked. Sucked like that fish that supposed to clean the mold off aquariums. I'm floored by the sucking and my charming, youthful naivety at submitting such drech.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Sorry, but I'm distressed. I'm so stupid for complaining, too. I have SO much going for me. I can write. I just killed another ant. I can draw and paint. I can think. My jaw is no longer numb. And I have. Oh, how I have. I have a house larger than my parents could have dreamed when they started their lives together. I have beautiful espresso colored furniture. I know that the word is espresso and not expresso. I love tea. Two beautiful, spoiled cats. A wonderful family. An amazing fiance with in-laws, all of whom I love dearly.
I do say, life is a funny thing, and it will be interesting to see how it all plays out.
On a nuptial note, I think I shall accessorize my gown with 3/4 length gloves. My dress is so simple and elegant that veils, tiaras, and other adornments won't do. So, gloves, a bracelet with my grandmother's rings on it, and some kind of earrings and maybe a baby white lily in my hair will be all there is for my outfit.
My, how vain does that sound!
I've also decided something else...after spending the previous weekend in Louisiana, my favorite state, hands down, although I do love my sweet home Alabama, I want to do cajun food for the wedding. Yes, I think that's my aspiration. We'll see.
I can't wait to go to Italia. Do we have to come home...?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Will of the Tiger --Strength of a Kitten
My arms are sore. From taking out the trash. Admittedly, it was two bags of trash the majority of which were Great Value brand spices (I shudder to think). Still, this does not bode well for the pending move on Saturday. I'm already having cringe-worthy fantasies that involve the washing machine bouncing down the cement stairs of my apartment like a rogue pinball.
It's enough to make me start a bit of a fuss...I just texted The Mister: "Are any of your boyfriends going to help us move Saturday? They kind of owe you...", which they do. The Mister helped one of his now en-fianced friends move from Mobile to Biloxi and then to another town in Mississippi (opinion withheld). I know one of those days I was writing my thesis; for the life of me, I can't remember the other time I wasn't free to help The Mister move his friends further into the wilderness.
His other friend, The Mister packed and moved all of his stuff when he deployed to the desert for a few months back in September. Considering this desert trip didn't appear out of nowhere like a 10 lb fatsplosion, I think it's uber generous of my fiance to take care of his mate like that. If it had been me...well, I'm a woman, I probably would have thrown his things down stairs before putting them in a bag. Although, if I had power of attorney, I could treat myself to a massage after that work...hmmm...yes, this is why women just "do it themselves"...they know there are other women who think the same way.
So, The Mister's best mates owe him a helping hand. Will he get it? We'll see. In the meanwhile, I'm moving boxes to and fro. I've got linear bruises flanking my "biceps" and my arms are so sore, you'd think they were string cheese. I'm not sure how you're supposed to make that physical connection, but then, here we are.
It's enough to make me start a bit of a fuss...I just texted The Mister: "Are any of your boyfriends going to help us move Saturday? They kind of owe you...", which they do. The Mister helped one of his now en-fianced friends move from Mobile to Biloxi and then to another town in Mississippi (opinion withheld). I know one of those days I was writing my thesis; for the life of me, I can't remember the other time I wasn't free to help The Mister move his friends further into the wilderness.
His other friend, The Mister packed and moved all of his stuff when he deployed to the desert for a few months back in September. Considering this desert trip didn't appear out of nowhere like a 10 lb fatsplosion, I think it's uber generous of my fiance to take care of his mate like that. If it had been me...well, I'm a woman, I probably would have thrown his things down stairs before putting them in a bag. Although, if I had power of attorney, I could treat myself to a massage after that work...hmmm...yes, this is why women just "do it themselves"...they know there are other women who think the same way.
So, The Mister's best mates owe him a helping hand. Will he get it? We'll see. In the meanwhile, I'm moving boxes to and fro. I've got linear bruises flanking my "biceps" and my arms are so sore, you'd think they were string cheese. I'm not sure how you're supposed to make that physical connection, but then, here we are.
Monday, September 13, 2010
In a Galaxy Far, Far Away...
I knew the last vestiges of sanity were leaving my body last night as I --in a concentrated attempt to stop my mind from whirring obsessively over what was left to do before moving next week, focused all of my mental energy on likening The Mister's and my moving situation to Star Wars. Would we be moving from Alderon to Tatuine or the Millennium Falcon? (And, I don't care if I misspelled anything as I am very tired.) Naturally, The Mister would be Hans Solo and I would be Princess Leia...yes...
I managed to eventually drift into the land of nod where I dreamed about polygamous marriages. I clearly have a very misguided understanding of Star Wars. Admittedly, it was less traumatic than dreaming about incestuous ones. I digress...(was I ever really here?)
The house is coming along nicely. I see more and more of my mother's neurosis in myself every day as I insist on painting the baseboards in the most meticulous fashion possible. I should be done by 2012. The end result, however, is well worth the tedium as the baseboards look shiny, pretty, and new.
Most unfortunately, I do not have until 2012 to move, in fact, The Mister and I are moving my apartment (and the kitties!) next Saturday. As I got ready for church on Sunday, this reality hit my like a sack of bricks. Oh. My. Gaw. With the exception of the addition of about 30 Avon boxes, my apartment did not look as though it would be ready to be moved anytime in the near future.
I started packing my closet last night and finished it early this morning. Tonight, I plan to buck up and pack the kitchen (it's just so hard to see all of my beautiful cookwares sealed unceremoniously into boxes). I'm also going to the house to clean the kitchen so I can rescue my beloved cookware from cardboard purgatory ASAP.
Thus far today, I've warded off the urge to curl up under my desk and sleep like a baby kitten (when I get tired while I'm painting at the house, I just lay back on the floor and close my eyes...an hour later, I feel better) with energy drinks. Mmm...synthetic. Two Red Bull's and a Starbucks Doubleshot of espresso later, I don't feel any more awake...just a dull headache.
Needless to say, I can't wait for this month --and everything that will invariably go with it, to be over.
I managed to eventually drift into the land of nod where I dreamed about polygamous marriages. I clearly have a very misguided understanding of Star Wars. Admittedly, it was less traumatic than dreaming about incestuous ones. I digress...(was I ever really here?)
The house is coming along nicely. I see more and more of my mother's neurosis in myself every day as I insist on painting the baseboards in the most meticulous fashion possible. I should be done by 2012. The end result, however, is well worth the tedium as the baseboards look shiny, pretty, and new.
Most unfortunately, I do not have until 2012 to move, in fact, The Mister and I are moving my apartment (and the kitties!) next Saturday. As I got ready for church on Sunday, this reality hit my like a sack of bricks. Oh. My. Gaw. With the exception of the addition of about 30 Avon boxes, my apartment did not look as though it would be ready to be moved anytime in the near future.
I started packing my closet last night and finished it early this morning. Tonight, I plan to buck up and pack the kitchen (it's just so hard to see all of my beautiful cookwares sealed unceremoniously into boxes). I'm also going to the house to clean the kitchen so I can rescue my beloved cookware from cardboard purgatory ASAP.
Thus far today, I've warded off the urge to curl up under my desk and sleep like a baby kitten (when I get tired while I'm painting at the house, I just lay back on the floor and close my eyes...an hour later, I feel better) with energy drinks. Mmm...synthetic. Two Red Bull's and a Starbucks Doubleshot of espresso later, I don't feel any more awake...just a dull headache.
Needless to say, I can't wait for this month --and everything that will invariably go with it, to be over.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Where Were We? --Still Alive! Still Alive!
So much has happened. Okay, not a darn thing with the wedding, but life has been an absolute whoosh since the last time I blogged!
For one, The Mister closed on the house. There was a bit of an unsavory snafu when the keys to the house weren't presented at closing (The Mister's dreams of that first-time-home-buyer photo-op were dashed...to bits...you do not want to know how long it took for the keys to finally be popped into his perfect nail-bitten hands.)...but, the point is, the house was CLOSED UPON. There is a house. In the Mister's name. I am so proud of him! And, by the time he was allowed into the house the night he closed, I think he was pretty happy, too.
The full-on giddiness didn't commence for The Mister until the next day when he took a full day off of work to mow the lawn. I gave him my credit card that I paid off with teaching money (what, I'm proud of paying that ho off!) to purchase a (what he assures me is) fabulous Honda motored lawn mower.
So, in the meantime, I started teaching my first-ever in person college class. Go. Me. My students are darling...all cute, no really, and I'm ridiculously enthused about teaching grammar to them (I think I'm channeling one of my favorite professors ever and a member of my thesis committee on that one!). I have one kid who falls asleep in his hand, so I'm sure he's equally excited. Que Sera, Sera. At any rate, my Tuesdays and Thursdays and gone from keeping me from home for eight hours to eleven. Balls, Man.
A week later, I started teaching an online class for extra swag. Busy as a bee my arse. More like, "What does a stroke feel like again?" busy, if you ask me! At any rate, my online kids are adorable, too...so motivated (most of them).
Over Labor Day weekend, instead of anything that even remotely hovered in the realm of fun, the Mister and I started painting the interior of the house. Well, on Saturday, I helped by painting the exterior around the door frame. Then, we moved inside...not before his (wonderful) family dropped by for a visit.
They all met my daddy (one down...three to go...that's mom, Oma, and the Boy, my brother, mind), which was a delightful time, especially for me, as I giggled myself silly over the fact that my fiance's family could just not get over my daddy's likeness to former President Clinton. And yes, for the record, Dad does look a lot like Clinton. Same hair type / style, piercing blue eyes, and a muscular build. In fact, I learned that random strangers will approach my dad and ask for a photo because he looks so similar to Clinton. Wow.
We painted, painted, and painted allllll weekend. Well, let me back up...the Friday before our alleged holiday, I booked the tickets for our HONEYMOON! Yes, The Mister and I are going to CIAO Italia for our post-nuptial celebration.
Because tickets are cheaper, we are flying in to Milan. We will leave Mobile in the afternoon on the day after our wedding and go to Dallas to Madrid and finally, to Milano. We will leave Milano and take a three hour train to Roma. By the time we will be in Roma, it will be March 28, the Mister's 26th birthday. We will enjoy Tuesday and Wednesday in Roma (Wednesday, the Pope usually appears)...that will be the substitute celebration day for my then-husband (but he doesn't know that yet...don't worry, he doesn't read these blogs unless I send them to him!...I plan to make plans!). Thursday, I would like to see Pompeii...our subsequent plans involve a day in Tuscany (my birthday gift to myself!), two to three days in Florence and the same in Venice. We will most likely spend the Friday before we return home in Milano so we can catch our flight back to London and then the U.S. of A. on Saturday morning. What a whirlwind! My heart races at the thought!
So, anyway, not to be a Debbie Downer (in the words of The Mister), I booked the tickets, and the travel agent charged me twice. BAAAAALLLLLS. Who has that kind of money just laying around!? I know I don't! Grrr....
A long weekend later and Tuesday night, the evil extra charge dropped off, so all is finally right with the world.
Tonight, I'm meeting with a volunteer agency to work on a grant with a feral / homeless cat spay/neuter program (please, pray Mobile gets this grant...these poor kitties need to be fixed so they don't continue to breed wild, homeless cats!) and then, finish painting the casa!
Life is good, ladies and gentlemen. The Mister is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on (honestly, I tell him all the time that there just isn't enough time in the world to just look at him), we're going to get married, we'll be hopping a plane to Italy in no time, and it's practically the holiday season...sorry, but I get pee-my-pants excited for the holis! Nothing like a delicious cinnamon apple or spiced cider scent to set the mood...a freshly carved jackolantern on the front porch...and then, I can unleash the Bath and Body Works fresh Balsam scent for Christmas. Yes, I am a nerd. Send money.
For one, The Mister closed on the house. There was a bit of an unsavory snafu when the keys to the house weren't presented at closing (The Mister's dreams of that first-time-home-buyer photo-op were dashed...to bits...you do not want to know how long it took for the keys to finally be popped into his perfect nail-bitten hands.)...but, the point is, the house was CLOSED UPON. There is a house. In the Mister's name. I am so proud of him! And, by the time he was allowed into the house the night he closed, I think he was pretty happy, too.
The full-on giddiness didn't commence for The Mister until the next day when he took a full day off of work to mow the lawn. I gave him my credit card that I paid off with teaching money (what, I'm proud of paying that ho off!) to purchase a (what he assures me is) fabulous Honda motored lawn mower.
So, in the meantime, I started teaching my first-ever in person college class. Go. Me. My students are darling...all cute, no really, and I'm ridiculously enthused about teaching grammar to them (I think I'm channeling one of my favorite professors ever and a member of my thesis committee on that one!). I have one kid who falls asleep in his hand, so I'm sure he's equally excited. Que Sera, Sera. At any rate, my Tuesdays and Thursdays and gone from keeping me from home for eight hours to eleven. Balls, Man.
A week later, I started teaching an online class for extra swag. Busy as a bee my arse. More like, "What does a stroke feel like again?" busy, if you ask me! At any rate, my online kids are adorable, too...so motivated (most of them).
Over Labor Day weekend, instead of anything that even remotely hovered in the realm of fun, the Mister and I started painting the interior of the house. Well, on Saturday, I helped by painting the exterior around the door frame. Then, we moved inside...not before his (wonderful) family dropped by for a visit.
They all met my daddy (one down...three to go...that's mom, Oma, and the Boy, my brother, mind), which was a delightful time, especially for me, as I giggled myself silly over the fact that my fiance's family could just not get over my daddy's likeness to former President Clinton. And yes, for the record, Dad does look a lot like Clinton. Same hair type / style, piercing blue eyes, and a muscular build. In fact, I learned that random strangers will approach my dad and ask for a photo because he looks so similar to Clinton. Wow.
We painted, painted, and painted allllll weekend. Well, let me back up...the Friday before our alleged holiday, I booked the tickets for our HONEYMOON! Yes, The Mister and I are going to CIAO Italia for our post-nuptial celebration.
Because tickets are cheaper, we are flying in to Milan. We will leave Mobile in the afternoon on the day after our wedding and go to Dallas to Madrid and finally, to Milano. We will leave Milano and take a three hour train to Roma. By the time we will be in Roma, it will be March 28, the Mister's 26th birthday. We will enjoy Tuesday and Wednesday in Roma (Wednesday, the Pope usually appears)...that will be the substitute celebration day for my then-husband (but he doesn't know that yet...don't worry, he doesn't read these blogs unless I send them to him!...I plan to make plans!). Thursday, I would like to see Pompeii...our subsequent plans involve a day in Tuscany (my birthday gift to myself!), two to three days in Florence and the same in Venice. We will most likely spend the Friday before we return home in Milano so we can catch our flight back to London and then the U.S. of A. on Saturday morning. What a whirlwind! My heart races at the thought!
So, anyway, not to be a Debbie Downer (in the words of The Mister), I booked the tickets, and the travel agent charged me twice. BAAAAALLLLLS. Who has that kind of money just laying around!? I know I don't! Grrr....
A long weekend later and Tuesday night, the evil extra charge dropped off, so all is finally right with the world.
Tonight, I'm meeting with a volunteer agency to work on a grant with a feral / homeless cat spay/neuter program (please, pray Mobile gets this grant...these poor kitties need to be fixed so they don't continue to breed wild, homeless cats!) and then, finish painting the casa!
Life is good, ladies and gentlemen. The Mister is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on (honestly, I tell him all the time that there just isn't enough time in the world to just look at him), we're going to get married, we'll be hopping a plane to Italy in no time, and it's practically the holiday season...sorry, but I get pee-my-pants excited for the holis! Nothing like a delicious cinnamon apple or spiced cider scent to set the mood...a freshly carved jackolantern on the front porch...and then, I can unleash the Bath and Body Works fresh Balsam scent for Christmas. Yes, I am a nerd. Send money.
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