Welcome to my wonderful, terrible, soap opera sit-com world.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
For the LOVE OF GOD can people GROW A BRAIN already?!My (cellular) phone rings.
I do not recognize the number.
Me: Hello?
Lady: Uh - who is this?
Me: Uh, you're the one that called me. Who is THIS?
Lady: Well, I was trying to reach my husband.
Me: *silence*
Lady: John, at 555-1212.
Me: Nope, I think you have the wrong number.
Lady: Uh. Okay. Sorry. *click*
I fucking HATE IT when someone calls me in my home and says, "Who is this?"
If I call a BUSINESS and someone answers the phone and does not give me their name, I will sometimes say, "Hi, who am I speaking with please?"
But don't call MY house and ask me who I am.
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I know we've had it here since we moved in, which is even stranger. We don't recall loaning it to anyone. I don't know where it is, where it could have possibly ended up, and I'm very frustrated about that.
The other thing?
It's a hard-sided rolling cooler, which is looking like it is semi-hard to replace because I don't need one big enough to feed an army.
I just want my little hard-sided Igloo back. To bring back fish in. From Mexico.
Goddammit.
S. keeps telling me not to worry, but what that means is, "I will buy us another cooler!" I don't want to buy another cooler, I want the one that's lost.
Because that's the purpose.
It's lost.
*grumble*
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Monday, May 29, 2006
A happy Memorial Day to everyone. Please take the time today to open your mind and heart to the memories of those who have come before us, who fought for our freedoms and who tried to make our world a better place.I know I will.
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Friday night, the client who was going to send me more work didn't send me work. So instead of having to have something back to them on Friday night, we were instead freed up to go out! As I may have written, we went and cashed in our freebie Mexican dinner at the little place up the street. And our service was so good that we tipped the server $10. He hunted us down to thank us before we left the restaurant. That was a good feeling.
I've worked a few hours each day this weekend, and today is going to be basically a regular work day for me. I've got to get this plate cleared off before we head out on the trip! Yikes!
Yesterday, though, we went and got me some sandals, my first pair of Tevas. Where have you people been hiding these? I pretty much love the Tevas. I am not a sandal person. I have never been a sandal person. But, since it's shorts-and-capris season and tennis shoes are not always the footwear of choice for the fashion maven, it's time for me to branch out. Oh, I have a few pair of sandals I can wear to "look cute," but I do not consider them at all to be functional footwear. It's just a matter of finding something that could do double duty.So, I now have a pair of functional sandals that I can wear in Mexico, and I shall. Wear them. Every day.
I also got my hair "trimmed" (read: it all is the same length now in the back) and got my nails done AND a pedicure. S., also, enjoyed a pedicure. It is a fine excuse for him to be able to get his feet and legs massaged by a lady other than his wife, and worth the $25.00.
And today, I am back to work.
BUT THREE DAYS UNTIL WE GO. YAY!
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Saturday, May 27, 2006
I participate in a writing project called Weekly Anamnesis.. I have been slacking off and haven't written in a while. This is this week's entry. Our cue word is, "Stagnant." Here is my submission.--------------------
Last night, as I was trying to wind down from my work day, little things started to occur to me.
S. messaged me -- as in, INSTANT messaged me from the bedroom.
"You know," he said, "there are other rooms in the house. You should come out of the office."
I wrote back, "yup, just finishing up."
What he claims was 10 minutes later, he wrote:
"Seriously. Come out of the office, now."
I wrote back, "Just one more minute."
That is when it started to occur to me. I know it has been on the minds of all the people who know me, for real, but it just started to hit me. I am in a rut.
I haven't been blogging. I haven't been writing. I haven't been having much fun. I haven't been doing anything particularly interesting. I have been in the throes of a workaholic fit, actually.
I'm about to go on vacation. And the truth is, since every day of the week CAN be a work day for me, that means I am technically going to be on vacation for 20 prospective work days. I have never done that before, as long as I have been working. And I have been working since I was 16. That's a long time.
Thinking back over the last two weeks, I can find so many signs that everything was going stagnant for me. For us.
I have not been eating right. I have not been sleeping right. I have been sitting in front of the computer doing a weird dance of farting around and freaking out, working and what I tell myself is playing. Dreading vacation. Not knowing WHAT I am going to do with myself while I am away from work and blog and regular life.
But as I remember and look back on things, I realize this is how I am all the time to some extent. Vacation, leisure time, they are all foreign to me. even when we were on the cruise last year, S. told me he wished we had another 5 days because I did not start to really wind down until we were on the second-to-last day.
For some people, stagnant means not changing, not moving, not growing. For me, in this case, stagnant is all about not changing, but the not-changing means there's too much going on. That I NEED to move more slowly.
I just need to disappear for a week. or two.
I need a change. A change to something less. Not something more. That sounds backwards. I guess I'm working on it.
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I am in a coffee shop.
And I am in love.
I sit here at the little local espresso joint, listening to the soft hipster tunes coming over the speakers, with my husband. We are each enjoying an iced caramel mocha (SKIM, thankyouverymuch) AND I was flipping through an old Vogue Magazine. Not old-old, but old like a month old.
I was just commenting how happy I am that the bare midriff appears to be "OUT" and how the big chunky belt and blousy top appears to be "IN".
There is a young man to my right sitting on a big squishy leather couch. He is using his laptop and sipping something that looks non-caffeinated. I can hear him typing, just as I wonder if he can hear me typing.
S. sits across the table from me reading a book. And I am almost out of caramel mocha.
This was our way of forcing me to take some leisure time. Getting out of the house for a while, relaxing somewhere public but quiet, and just kind of soaking it in. Whatever "it" is.
So I got the bug to write, and here I am.
I think I am going to try to catch up on my Weekly Anamnesis now. Good idea, Rose. Good idea.
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Thursday, May 25, 2006
The Art Of The Handwritten Scribble
Yesterday, I found the perfect reason, which made it time.
I was reading my friend Jeckles, and found a short piece he had written about the art of writing letters, and how it's long gone and long passed, and how we don't do it any more.
One of the examples that he used in his post was ,"Soldiers who missed their families." And I thought, "Hey, there are a lot of those right now."
During the holiday times, lots of people think of the men and women of this country's armed forces who are thousands of miles away from those they know and love, from the PLACES they know and love, and from all things Home.
Just because it's almost June doesn't mean there are any less of them than there are at Christmas or Thanksgiving when we really think of a lot of these people.
Mother's Day has come and gone, Father's Day is right around the corner, and so many of those folks are parents who are on the other side of the world, away from their families. Even if they aren't parents, they have parents. And even in the unlikely event that they don't qualify for either one of those two groups, I can tell you they all long for a little bit of home, and it's important for them to hear how much we appreciate what they do.
So, thanks to Jeckles for his post about letter-writing and our subsequent IM conversation, I've decided it's time for me to plug one of my favorite resources for sending letters and care packages to the troops.
ANYSOLDIER.COM is a great resource. On the front page of the website, they have a bunch of different options for how you can find military folks stationed abroad who would love to receive a card, a letter, a postcard, something to connect with them and make their day. You can find lists on ANYSOLDIER.COM (Army), ANYAIRMAN.COM (Air Force), ANYSAILOR.COM (Navy), ANYMARINE.COM (Marines) and ANYCOASTGUARDSMAN.COM (Coast Guard). The men and women who put their names up on the list also post a list of the little things they'd like to receive if you can spare a care package, but mostly they're there to be the point of contact. Then, packages and letters addressed to "Any Soldier," "Any Airman," etc., go to that person and are distributed equally and evenly among the individuals who aren't getting any mail or who are in need of the items that are sent.
Postage to send a letter, card or postcard to a servicemember is the same as domestic postage. It's really only going to cost you the gift of your time.
Over the holiday season, I know we were all responsible for a lot of cards that were sent to the Walter Reed Military Hospital to troops who were recovering there and couldn't be with their families for the holidays. (By the way, that is also an option if you wanted to send a letter to "Any Service Member," you could send something to WRMH). But now it's the middle of the summer, and I know whether they're recovering stateside or they're in the thick of things in the "sandbox," there are lots of men and women who'd love to hear from you.
Please visit ANYSOLDIER.COM and give the gift of your time and uplifting words to a military member abroad.
You guys rock my socks. Thanks for reading.
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Sunday, May 21, 2006
My gun -- Wee Willy Walther -- and I, we are now bound together for all eternity. We are one. We share the same spirit. My gun, Willy, has tasted my flesh.Not as cool as if say, I were a "Gun Whisperer" or anything, but far more entertaining. I promise.
We were down at the gun range and I was trying Willy out. He was doing pretty okay. He needed some sight adjustments and things, and we were getting to know each other. Everything was going as well as could be expected, frankly. We weren't doing too bad.
But, I was frustrated that the sights weren't quite right, and we couldn't get them adjusted on-the-fly. So, I mouthed off and suggested that poor Willy wasn't doing the job well enough.
S. suggested that I should pick up the 9mm and shoot it for a few rounds just to remind myself that it wasn't my marksmanship that was less than desireable, it was that we just hadn't gotten Willy all set up quite yet, and so I did. I ended up shooting poor blue-skinned target guy right in the head a bunch of times, and even shot a cluster of three bullets close enough together right through blue target guy's brains that they looked like one big hole instead of three little holes.
I popped a cap in his ass. Or his head. Or something.
So then I was feeling better. I backed up, let S. shoot for a minute, talked to myself a little bit, reminded myself that I just needed to practice my fundamentals and focus on improving my own skills, and soon Willy would follow behind me. I'm just learning about the whole gun thing, so I have to try not to be so hard on myself -- but I am hypercompetitive, and if I am pointing the gun somewhere, I just want the bullet holes to show up there. Poor Willy.
Well, Willy must have heard me having these conversations. Either that or he got jealous that I shot the 9mm. Because he got pissed off.
I put a new magazine into Willy with a soft click, released the slide, lined up my sights and pulled the trigger. BANG. Hit the target. BANG. BANG. BANG. 3 more on the target. BANG. Hit the target.
And that's when he exacted his revenge. (Click on the pictures to embiggen and see my second degree burn wounds in all of their disgusting glory)My beloved Willy spit out a hot brass casing. Oh, sure, he'd thrown one at my head earlier, and he had bounced a couple of them off my arm, but apparently he hadn't gotten my attention.
He spat one out and it landed -- flat side first -- on my right boob. This is my TIT we're talking about, people! SEARING PAIN as high velocity hot brass met with the sensitive skin of my boobie. Ow.
So of course, I do what anyone would do, and I say something like, "Oh ow, shit!" That's when it got fun.
The brass casing then fell flat against my breast and ROLLED down my breast, and lodged in my bra. That's the paintbrush-looking pink stripe that you see on my boobie there. (Please, PLEASE disregard the fact that I am in DESPERATE NEED of a manicure. I haven't had the time to get them done, and playing with Willy made the nail salon take a back seat).
So anyway, the casing ROLLS down and sears my skin, and gets stuck UNDER MY BRA. I started yelling. "Ooh! Ooh! OOH! OOH HOT HOT HOT OOH HOT HOT HOT CRAP CRAP CRAP HOT HOT HOT HOT FUCK FUCK HOT." Picture if you will, me. In a lane at a shooting range. With a LOADED FUCKING GUN in my hand. Waving it around like a crazy person having a manic seizure and doing the potty dance, while screaming about something hot in my bra. Yup, that's me. Not one of my finer moments.As I was flailing around like a deranged postal worker, my eyes met S.'s eyes, and he had this look of absolute horror. It is then I realized that I had my finger on the trigger of the loaded gun, which did not have the safety on, and I was waving it around while trying to reach inside my bra and find a hot piece of brass that was searing my flesh.
Yep.
He reached in, pushed my arm down relatively gently and slid the safety on poor Willy. I then jumped and bounced and hooted and hollered to the back of the shooting range room, there, where I continued to dance a jig and say stuff like, "I'M NOT LYING, IT'S HOT. I FEEL IT. IT'S HOT."
All of this happened in about three seconds, but it seemed like three minutes.
In tears from the pain and convinced that the shell was still somewhere in my shirt, I was now bending over, reaching into my shirt, reaching into my bra, and attempting to flash all of the kind patrons of the shooting range. S. suggested I retire to the restroom in a ladylike fashion to take care of my personal problems, and I did so. When I got to the bathroom, I lifted and shook my shirt. No casing. I reached underneath the underwire of my bra when voila -- ting! Ting ting ting ting. The sound of (now cooled) brass on tile.
I reached down and found the brass, which I kept (and I present to you in one of the photos as Exhibit A). That's the shell that burned the perfect little round weeping blister into my right tit.
As a side note, then I used the toilet to take a tinkle and found no toilet paper in the stall. It wasn't my day at the shooting range.
I went back in, wiped my tears, commented that my right boob was going to fall off, showed my battle wound to S., made my peace with Willy and apologized profusely for suggesting he was acting in a subpar manner, and shot off another magazine of bullets. But by then, I was ready to go.
We packed up, checked out, and headed to Walmart where we proceeded to buy a box of pregnancy tests, a bottle of prenatal vitamis, a box of tampons, and a .22 pistol cleaning rod.
That's what I call ladylike.
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, yeah. Feel the hottness.
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I'm armed and dangerous, mofo.
I've said this before, but I was not raised around guns. I didn't have guns in the house. We didn't go to the range as recreation when I was a wee one. I'm sure my father HAD a gun, but I don't remember ever seeing it except for the shotgun which never did anything but sit, in the closet, in its shotgun bag.
It was a very big shotgun, at least to me then.
Then, I married S. and subsequently became a part of his family.
His stepfather is a gun collector, is retired Air Force, works part-time (for fun more than money) at a local gun range, and has new guns, old guns, guns that work, guns that don't, guns that look cool, guns that shoot great, big guns, small guns, and every gun in between. His mother, married to his stepfather, has her concealed carry permit and packs a 0.40 caliber Glock in her purse.
His father is a hunter and gun afficionado as well, so an extended trip to visit family in Texas in the fall is almost assuredly going to include some type of animal hunting.
When S. and I first started dating and he was "given" a "new gun" by his stepfather, he asked me if I wanted to come out to the gun range with him and try it out. I was afraid of guns. Scared to death of them, actually. He couldn't take every bullet out of the 9mm pistol, clear the chamber and take the thing half-way apart without me freaking out at every click and clack of the weapon. I couldn't hold his shotgun without shaking. I could NOT hold the 9mm pistol in my hand without shaking so badly I would have to put it down.
So what did I do? I said, "Sure, let's go to the gun range."
That was probably close to 3 years ago now. And, on that day, I did shoot the 9mm pistol. I also nearly peed my pants when someone fired off a HUGE hunting rifle in the next lane over from me at the range. To the point that I was getting ready to fire the gun, my hand was shaking a little, I took a deep breath, and BOOM.
I freaked out, let go of the weapon, put it down, and backed up from the table, nearly plowing my ass right into someone in the process.
The weekend we went to the shooting range and I posted pictures of me shooting a gun, I not only shot my husband's S&W 9mm pistol but also got a chance to shoot a Walther P99 Desert Sand pistol. It's a 0.40 caliber pistol, which is bigger than the 9mm, and I was scared to death. But then I picked it up. It was made out of composite resin, not all metal like S.'s 9mm. It was light. It fit in my hand. It also made a very, very, VERY VERY VERY big boom compared to what I was used to or expecting. But it felt good in my hand. Big gun. Rose go boom. I then switched back to the 9mm (which is what I was using in the other pictures) and found it to be heavy but functional and more manageable.At another time, I had also shot a .22 pistol in San Antonio, although it was a heavy marksmanship pistol with fancy sights and blah blah blah blah, so I liked it but it wasn't something I would have wanted to have all the time.
Fast-forward to this weekend. S. did not think I heard him when he was on the phone with his parents earlier in the week, when he said to them, "Well, we're going to the gun show so you never know what we'l come home with for Rose." I did, I heard him. I TOTALLY HEARD HIM. And I was all, "There's no effing way we're coming home with a gun for me, yo." I said it. Well, I probably didn't say "yo." But I said there was no way I was going to get a gun.
We went down to the gun show and we were looking for a holster for S., and maybe some nick-nack thingamabobbers for my father-in-law, who is always interested in All Things Guns. And then I saw it.
It was so cute. And it was little. And it was composite. And it was a Walther. And it was a .22.
"Hey. You'd never let me get a .22, would you," I said to S.
"No way," he said.
"But it's so little," I said.
"That's why," he said.
I touched it. I pointed to it. But we just kept walking.
Then, down another row, we saw another one of them, and S. picked up the phone. He called his stepfather The Gun Man and said something like, "Hey, this little [blah blah blah, he was now speaking Gun Language which I did not understand at all], would that be a bad gun for Rose?" I didn't hear the rest of the convo, but when he got off the phone he ended up basically saying, "The Gun Man thinks that would be a fun little gun for you to have."
Holy crap.
One vote for the little gun.
We went over to another vendor and I held it. For real, without a lock or chain or any kind of weird, space-alien-powered security device on it. I actually got to hold it as if I were holding a real gun. And it was so cute.
Then we saw ANOTHER one. "Ma'am, you know, your deep red fingernail polish would be the perfect accompaniment to this little gun, I think it would be perfect for you."
Holy crap, this was gonna be my gun.
We ended up settling on the vendor who was selling this gun for $30 less than anybody else in the room (closer to $100 less than most). And I held it again. And I touched it and I monkeyed with it, and we talked about it. And we talked and talked, and walked around some more, and talked, and talked, and walked around some more.
And then, I signed my name on the dotted line and became a Gun Owner.I would like to introduce you all to Willy Walther. Yes, that's his name. Willy. Shut up.
Willy is a "P22 Military" .22 caliber Walther semi-automatic pistol. He is made of kind of a olive-drab green composite polymer with a "blued" metal slide. (They keep telling me it is "blued," but it just looks black to me.)
Willy came to me new in box. As in, wrapped in plastic and never touched by human hands. Which as we know, is very important to a chick with her new toy, it really should be new-new. Right? Right? Am I right?
Willy is also small enough to fit in my purse should I ever choose to pursue my concealed carry permit. And he holds 10 rounds per mag. He came with 2 magazines, all the tools to take him apart, and there is even a space inside his little carrying case for the laser sight. That's right, I SAID LASER SIGHT.
Willy weighs 480 grams including the magazine. That ain't a whole heck of a lot.
S. is now standing over my shoulder telling me how I will end up counting the days until my next major "gift day" because I will start asking him for the laser sight. THAT'SRIGHTISAIDLASERSIGHT. (It was $100.00, I priced it)
I have a gun.
I am Rose. This is my boom stick.
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Friday, May 19, 2006
Well, my darlings, I just got back from lunch with the absolutely fabulous aka_monty at what ends up being our mutually favorite little Chinese place.And it was awesome to get out of the house for a little while, take a work break, and have some face to face conversation with a new friend.
Ma'am, thank you for the wonderful 2 hours. Made my Friday.
PS: If you haven't read her yet, you should.
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Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Pull up a chair, let me tell you about my dinner out last night.We went up the street to the little Mexican restaurant we like so much. The service there has been going downhill lately, mainly due to having new servers hired. So we try to cut them a break.
We got there, and here's how it went.
Had to wait five minutes to get seated even though the restaurant wasn't even half full.
Immediately got chips and salsa and queso dip, but no server, and no silverware, and no plates.
Read our menus, figured out what we wanted, sat there for a few more minutes waiting for server. Server shows up and says, "You guys need plates and silverware, I'll be right back," comes back with plates, but no silverware.
Server asks if we're ready to order, starts with me, recommends the Enchilada Plate, so I say yes please, I would like the Enchilada Plate.
Then S. orders us an appetizer, and his own entree.
Server disappears.
Chips run out.
Server shows up with a new basket of chips, drops it on the table inside the now-empty old basket, disappears, doesn't say a word to us.
I put the salsa and queso bowls on the outside of the table, so she can see them. She does a "drive-by," drops off our drinks (we've now been drink-less for an entire basket of chips) and snags the salsa bowl and queso bowls and says, "You guys want some more queso?" Does not wait for a response, just walks away. So I say:
"Uh, actually, we don't need any more queso but if you could bring some more salsa and a little bowl of relish (jalapenos, carrots, and onions) that would be awesome. And some silverware, please."
She comes back with one bowl of salsa and one bowl of relish and drops them on the table, disappears.
Then she comes back with silverware, drops it on the table, disappears.
She then delivers the dinner order for the guy sitting behind me, who ordered 10 minutes after we did. I say to S., "I think she didn't put in our order."
We don't touch the second basket of chips. We still haven't seen our appetizer.
Then I see our appetizer plate appear at the kitchen. Along with another plate. I say, "Oh no, there's our appetizer. But there's something else with it, she's bringing all the food at once."
She eventually (2-3 more minutes) goes and picks up our food and brings it to the table. She puts S.'s entree in front of him. She puts the appetizer in the middle of the table.
She says: "Okay, is there anything else you guys will need?"
I look at S., I look at her, I kind of start to chuckle (frustratedly) and I say, "Um, well, if we're getting all the food at once, then I guess I'm missing my dinner."
She says, "No, that's all that was on the ticket. What, did you want something else?"
I try not to yell. I say, "Um, this *pointing to appetizer* is an appetizer. It was supposed to come out first. Then that *pointing to S.'s entree* is his dinner, and I also ordered a dinner. I ordered an enchilada plate. You recommended it."
She says, "So do you want that, then?" I say, "Yes, please." "I'll get that right out for you," and disappears. No "I'm sorry," no nothing.
We pick at the appetizer, talking frustratedly about the situation. S. then tries to eat his dinner which is almost cold by the time we get through the appetizer.
She brings my plate. She says, "This is hot." She puts it in front of me and disappears. She comes back and refills S.'s half-empty iced tea but does not offer to refill my Diet Pepsi, which is empty and only ice. We ask her for a box. We pack up my (entire) entree in the box. We have to ask for the bill.
She brings the bill and my enchilada plate, which was on special since it was Monday night, is on the receipt for full price.
We get her attention, she acts frustrated that we are bothering her, we point out that she has charged me 2x what she should have for the enchilada plate. She takes the bill and fixes it and brings it back.
S., for some ungodly reason, still tipped her 10%.
This morning, I called the restaurant to complain. We had no intention of ever going back in there. The manager told me he's written her up for it 2x before and he's going to talk to her again, might even fire her but "can't today as we're shorthanded," apologizes and offers to buy us dinner.
So, we are on the "get hooked up by the manager" list. And he groveled and apologized.
I wasn't calling there to get anything free, and I told him. If I wanted my dinner free I would have raised a stink last night when we were paying the bill. But, at least it means we might have a free dinner in a couple weeks when we can get a free night out together.
*fingers crossed*
Now. Take this dining experience and mishmosh it all together, and that's been the last 2 weeks for me. Just different versions of getting mistreated by the server, each day. Heh.
Thankfully I think I'm coming out of it.
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Sunday, May 14, 2006
Happy Mother's Day to all you wonderful and amazing women who fill this most important role in a child's life. Blessings to you for having enough love to go around, for putting your life on hold so their lives can progress, for sacrificing for the betterment of them, for all of the wonderful and amazing things you do to shape your little ones into who they are. For every skinned knee, every broken heart, every lullaby, for every moment you soothe and comfort them whether they are wee or grown. You women are the most amazing women on the planet. And this is your day.
Happy Mother's Day.
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Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Two or three weeks without any real substance, and now I'm gonna hit you with it hard. Hard, baby. Hard. That's right, I said hard.Well, S. came through his oral surgery just great. And then he was looped up on Codeine and wanted me to go meet some friends of ours from the car club up at Steak & Shake. That way, you see, I could bring him home a milkshake (after supposedly finding some kind of healthy meal to eat there for myself).
As I was getting dressed, I noticed I have behind-the-knee fat. What the fucking hell is that about? When did that get there? It's probably always been there, but you know, when you couple my discovery of some behind-the-knee fat with the conversation I had with my fat-phobic mother earlier in the day about how I am probably hosting some kind of alien disease that lurks within me ready to jump out and kill me at any moment purely because I am lugging around some extra weight, well, it pissed me off. Because, as I was telling Joelle the other day, my mom treats me as if I sit around all day and do nothing but eat twinkies and ice cream. You know, I'm doing this to MYSELF, right? TWINKIES AND ICE CREAM. Yes, she said that to me, my mom, who adores me. I should just throw away the twinkies and the ice cream.
So anyway. Where was I? Oh yes, behind-the-knee fat. So then we go to Steak & Shake where I eat a grilled chicken sandwich, dry, and a salad. And no milkshake, except the one that I got to-go for S. to nurse his boo-boo.
And I get home and someone sends around photos, it seems when one guy was "playing with his new camera" he was actually TAKING FUCKING PICTURES of us. And what do I see in the pictures?
Elbow fat.
I have elbow fat.
Peter Griffin from Family Guy said it best. "You know when fat people get that little roll behind their elbow that looks like a schwa?"
Yes. I have that. Or I do in those pictures, apparently.
I have been in a weight rut, and now I am dreading going home to see my family because I haven't lost a pound since they saw me about 18 months ago. I may have even gained a little weight. And so I am filling myself up with this massive amount of dread.
That and, as I was telling my friend Daryl this morning, when I see pictures of myself like that, I "see myself how other people see me." And that makes me also very sad. Because I don't FEEL fat. I don't FEEL FAT. I don't FEEL older. I don't FEEL any of these things that come through in photographs of me.
It's like I'm looking at a totally different person.
I can put myself together to go somewhere, and think I am looking cute and smart and sexy, get complimented by people on how great I look, and then see pictures like the ones I saw this morning that make me want to vomit.
That's why I'm going to start taking part in a very important project with my friend Shanna, I just haven't gotten around to doing it yet. I'll post more about it at that time.
In the meantime, I am back to counting my Weight Watcher's points diligently, figuring out if I actually AM cheating myself out of some kind of health, and it's back to the gym for me.
I fucking hate fucking days like this one. I fucking hate them.
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Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I lurves me some oral surgery.
Sideways, out his cheek.
It's just barely starting to break the surface of the gum on the right hand side, at about molar-root level. Subsequetly, it's pushing on every tooth on that side of his head, causing awful headaches, and his jaw is now swollen so he can hardly open it.
Emergency oral surgery! Da-da-da!
We go in at 1:00 today, if you guys could just send us some happy mojo. I'm sure it's going to be a fairly straightforward procedure, but they told him not to drive himself, blah blah blah, so we're gearing up.
Meantime, I get an afternoon off work which is more than I would have been able to say for the last uh, two months. So maybe I will blog about it this afternoon!
Keep us in your thoughts if you would, guys, we could use it!
XOXOXOXOXO
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Monday, May 08, 2006
That's it for right now. Just *yawn.*
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Thursday, May 04, 2006
Meh.Okay. So, the good news is I finished my HUGE translation project and had it back to the cilent by about 1pm my time yesterday.
At that point, I went and laid down and slept until I drooled, for two hours. S. woke me up as he was on his way out the door to work.
I finished my chicken stock, watched American Idol, played some EQ, cleaned the kitchen, and went back to bed.
My life is amazingly boring. But at least I had a half day off and I am back on track.
S. is back supervising swingshift for a while becuase they are short-manned. And I am counting down every freaking day between now and the day we leave for Mexico.
TEQUILA!
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Wednesday, May 03, 2006
ZOMBIE, I say.All right. So. This week, like last week, is giving me a righteous ass-kicking. I've been talking to Joelle about the joys and trials and tribulations of working from home -- seems I push myself harder than any boss has ever pushed me. In some ways that's good. In other ways, not so good.
So today, I am bound and determined to finish up the translation project that has been plaguing me for two days, and then I am going to try to relax a little bit. S. has been absolutely fabbo in the meantime, doing laundry, got my kitchen totally spic-and-span for me since I didn't have the time to "get in there and work it out," and he's been very supportive.
Right now? A pot of caramel coffee is on for me. A pot of chicken stock (S. is a fan of the roasted chicken, so I save the carcasses and when I have a couple of them ready to go, I make soup) is on the stove. And it's 8am and I've been working for a half an hour already.
My goal: done by lunchtime so I can take an effing nap.
*yawn*
How are YOU doing this morning, my pretties? Have I thanked you lately for still coming and reading me even though I have been nothing but random babbles and bullshit about work for about a month? Oh, and funny pictures?
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My job as a military wife is
to make it as easy as possible
for my beloved husband to do his job.
Where he leads, I will follow.
Name: Rose
Age: 36
Religion: Pagan
Husband: SSgt, USAF
Current Location: Tinker AFB, OK
Job: Self-Employed Transcriptionist
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