On Books & Life ~ Part Three (A Conclusion)
March 22, 2012
Continued from On Books & Life – Part One and Part Two
The book combination noted throughout this 3-part entry could probably be used as Exhibit #1 in a competency hearing re:
schizophrenia.
The shiny bow on this package is
“Arguably Essays By Christopher Hitchens.”
At least 2/3 could have been written in another language, full of history & esoteric literary references. Let me say it first, I’m not a deep thinker. I glance. I peruse. I skip to the last chapter.
But the essays on VietNam, Agent Orange, North Korea & the Kennedys left my mouth an open invitation to flies. There are books and then there are BOOKS. There are authors and then there are THINKERS and DOERS.
Christopher Hitchens left me with a broadened sense of my own egotism and self-obsession, the fantasy that my “problems” are even worthy of the word. Compared to the big picture I should be giggling and tossing my head with happy abandon.
VietNam now has generations of chidren born so monstrously affected by Agent Orange their pictures will never be printed in American magazines. He knew this beforehand, the reality was so much worse. The ground is so saturated with dioxin there is no answer as to when it will end.
THIS while I’m still pissed about my MOMMY for God’s sakes. (Oh, it’s shameful.)
Satellite photos show an actual line of demarcation between South Korea and North Korea at night, due to the fact that the North Korean government shuts off all electricity when the head bastard deems it’s time all citizens are in bed.
THIS while I’m sitting here so pissed off I could spit over my husband eavesdropping on my phone calls. If only we’d been having an*l all these years so he’d have room to stick his head up my ass. I would like to ship him in a box to North Korea.
SEE?! There I go again. Me, me, me! It’s all about me!
It shames me that I had no real idea regarding such conditions but can tell you Beyonce’s daughter was named Blue Ivy AND have memorized most of the words to all the songs in the Broadway show Rent.
Hitchens also included a piece on the way we borrow sorrow from such twisted places. The uproar over Princess Diana’s death versus Ugandan women tortured for lifetimes.
We boo-hoo about the most ludicrous things.
We are, unfortunately, akin to sheep. Not even particularly sheep of good stock.
* * * * *
When I was about 3 my aunt knitted me an afghan and filled the rest of the box with small books.
JOY!
This is how I want my son to feel!
So I’m going to leave his adult male counsel to that intellectual author Tucker Max.
I’m going to give him the best gift ever, a mother who doesn’t embarrass or interfere or overreact or preach.
I wish I’d started doing so a very long time ago. Hopefully it’s never too late.
On Books & Life ~ Part Two
March 20, 2012
Continued From On Books & Life ~ Part One
Nothing about parenting children prepares us for parenting adults.
I did not want to accept that I’m no longer even a consultant unless my son asks for my opinion. He’s an adult male, more successful & responsible than I’ve ever been. It’s his life, not mine.
Yes, I considered discussing this with him; however, he views my cautionary remarks as something an old female hunchback would say to preface a hex. “Be safe“ translates as:
“You’re a moron so be extra careful.”
Or in this instance:
“To avoid destruction via your penis, here are pointers on how I handle mine.“
It’s not as if I’ve never instructed him to protect himself. More than once.
He was about 9 when we had a discussion about the wonders of masturbation and how it could save him from all kinds of difficult entanglements, including women who would steal him blind, neglect his children & spend his child support on cocaine.
Perhaps I was a little extreme but, considering his genetic make-up, not entirely. He does not appreciate my dramatic flair these days.
In my own defense, his maternal cousin spends Saturday nights in a McDonald’s play zone. His wife is bi-polar. Jealousy is the glue that holds them together but they’re sparring for a take home prize no one in their right mind would want to win.
Typical Maury Povich Americana.
This would not make him happy.
But living like Tucker Max in “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” makes me cringe a little, no matter how much I loved the book.
Typically I hear the devil’s advocate in my head say, “There are things so much worse.”
F*cking voices make me nuts.
* * * * *
I was way more comfortable when I thought money was my little geek’s #1 motivator & the computer was his girlfriend’s only real competition.
It never fails though, parenting is a competitive sport.
I was ashamed by the realization that the neanderthal part of me is a little proud
my son’s penis is popular.
“He says I’m perfect but he needs to sleep with other girls for the experience or he feels like he’s missing something.”
Honestly, I love this girl but I totally get that thought (she does not). The drudgery of repetition is like a pillow smashed upon my face. As much as I enjoy filet mignon and chocolate truffles, eventually I would suffer from the desire for peanut butter and jelly.
Twenty-six is way too young to sign a contract of ownership (even with a pre-nup).
But what’s a good age? 60?
None of us know what’s going to happen tomorrow, how it will change us, who we will become because of it.
I can’t even commit to MYSELF, to saving my own life.
* * * * *
I used to be so f*cking proud of my desire to own someone, expressed through intense jealousy. There have been times when I even loved the idea of being owned, of living up someone else’s ass. However, lucid and rational thought make it clear both are character flaws.
Still, just one stray emotion can so quickly become
“Ofukthatshit.”
I’m never proud of myself afterwards, I almost always regret it.
Emotional me versus intellectual me, it’s always a struggle. I could argue the case for either.
But I want to get to the place Lynn Grabhorn describes in the aforementioned “Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting.”
She states that “the first step in forgiving (and you’re probaby not going to like this) is releasing the resistance that caused the blame in the first place, meaning the ability to say . . . and mean, “Who cares? Who gives a hoot? Maybe the idiot did do something awful, something really tasteless. So what?”
Reality is I’ve done so many incredibly stupid things myself.
And it could always be so much worse.
(To Be Continued)
Twisted Dipshit
January 11, 2012
Either I do nothing or I do everything at once.
Every once in a while I will wake up and schedule myself and/or my daughter for 12 classes and 7 appointments that reach far into the future. But most days I do nothing.
So last week I purchased 30 days worth of Isagenix to try and get my eating on track. I had the option of ordering 11 days worth, but went all the way. What could I have been thinking?
The lovely & extremely thin woman who is my “counselor” has provided me with all kinds of directions. Oh my do I dislike being directed. Tell me I have to eat a certain thing and not to eat other certain things and you will find me at 7-11.
Although I’m mostly harming myself this way, I slip into child mode and hide the fact that I’m cheating. I find great joy in “getting over” on . . . who? Me, myself and I.
Nothing really brings me more joy than lying to my husband. He apologized last night for making chicken & mashed potatoes because he assumed I could not eat the meal.
Oh.my.God did that ever tickle me. I’d just had a Slurpee, an ice cream bar and a package of donuts. I thanked him for the chicken as I surreptitiously slipped mashed potatoes and gravy into the bowl.
Today I am following the fasting procedures, now that I’ve made it clear I have choices and options and “You’re not my mother! You can’t tell me what to do!”
I just read a great book entitled: “You are Not so Smart.”
Clearly, this is true.
The Great Book Escape &/or Skip This One, It’s Not Very Funny
August 25, 2010
“I entered the obedient limbo of the inauthentic life whose main reward is not to be attacked or rejected by the narcissistic parent . . . “
For most of this summer I have had no less than 50 books checked out from the library, usually a few more, along side the piles I call my own. (Those bitches at the library who give me dirty looks can suck my dick.)
I continue to read flippant & easy escapes, but cart home dozens of non-fiction and self-help books. Robin Cook’s Contagion gave me 2 days of delirious happiness last week, while focused on the Plague.
Yesterday I opened “The Intimacy Factor” and read: “My essential reason for writing The Intimacy Factor is to acknowledge the role of spirituality in intimate relationships.” Well, fuck me, if I’d read that in the library I’d never have checked out the book. The original issue of intimacy is enough of a drag, throw in spirituality and I’d just as soon be alone.
I have yet to open “How I Made My First Million On The Internet.” I’ve kept “Creating Websites” for so long it is now costing ten cents a day to sit on the floor of my den amidst crumbs and dusty hairballs.
There was a single book I read cover to cover this week: “Trapped In The Mirror: Adult Children of Narcissists in Their Struggle For Self.” Believe me, I know, I have to be a complete asshole to have been drawn in to such a subject. But I’ve always wanted to know WTF is wrong with my mother and this book nailed it.
BAM, that bitch is a narcissist.
She may very well be other things too, but this one is a clear-cut diagnosis that gave such perfect examples it made me want to get in the car, drive to Kentucky, and kill her. Like not clean kill, but nasty, dirty, drag it out, torture her for 18 years sort of thing.
“There is no rational explanation for what a completely self-centered person will do. The adult child must wean from compulsive need to understand or drown.”
You’re supposed to have pity for certifiable people with “diseases,” but I evidently . . .
don’t.
I took 20 pages of handwritten notes regarding things in the book that affect me directly, stories that made my pulse beat like a drum with the thought “That’s me.” It can be summed up with this statement:
“When we ask ‘Am I worth it?‘
the answer from our internalized parent is
‘No, you’re not.’”
My husband, more and more, has proven himself to be the original devil’s advocate. I can’t talk to him about shit like this, not even a little bit, or I hate his guts.
“The mother shows no interest in her daughter. Self-absorption is non-negotiable. Showing interest would only be an act.”
He repetitively tells me I am my own worst enemy and there is “nothing wrong” with me. This negates my existence, the anger I feel over becoming an essential orphan at age 10. I have tried to explain that my tapes are warped, that they were instilled like a lop-sided racetrack owned by a crooked bitch, that I can fight against negative urges but will always be at war with myself. I can’t completely replace the original framework of my life, built by my mother.
He ignores the evidence & prefers not to notice that I am disintegrating to some extent. He doesn’t show any kind of reaction to my failure to accomplish anything, anything at all, some days.
“Feeling unworthy we lack motivation to improve our lives.”
I think he’s okay with that because it keeps me dependent. I can’t decide if I would be better or worse on my own. (Although last week he pushed me in a particular direction when he said diabetes is “the kind of thing that improves with proper diet and exercise” as he held ice cream in one hand and a Cherry Pepsi in the other. I was so enraged I could not speak.)
Angry? Do I sound angry?
I’m not only angry but scared. I am certain that if I continue in the current situation I will eventually push myself to the kind of diabetic complications that make people lose their feet, go blind & need dialysis to pee.
“It is easy to fall into a self destructive lifestyle after being treated as expendable & worthless. Destroyed by parents, we now destroy ourselves.”
It’s completely fucking freaky to watch yourself reach a point where it seems a Sugar Daddy is worth the possibility of a heart attack because your addiction to sugar is so great it deems resistance as futile. I have transferred huge globs of sadness into grief over my inability to fully enjoy a box of Sour Patch Kids (you can keep the green and yellow.)
I can walk down the candy aisle and get tears in my eyes. In a 24-hour day I can ruin my blood sugar levels in mere seconds of self-pity.
“The idea that achieving great heights can be dangerous may relate to the grandiosity it simulates. Narcissism lurks within the psyche of every child of a narcissist since we had such a parent to identify with.”
Oh great, this explains why I, too, am often such a fucking asshole!
It’s easy to put such thoughts out of my mind when I’m laughing with my daughter and being a goofy idiot. I begin thinking I am ridiculously dramatic, complaining about stuff that’s so much less important than what other people experience daily. Yet, I am killing myself all the same. I don’t care for me, but I do for my daughter. She would be left with this big goofy Pittsburghian whose grammar makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a dirty fork, who reminds me of my grandfather (a man I did not get along with well as a teenager).
” . . . a person with a negative introject [that fucked up voice] reacts to loved ones as part of the self. There is a merging of ego boundaries . . . this initiates aggression of the introject, who begins criticizing & reforming the loved one, who is now subject to one’s personal self-hatred.”
Last night after writing a funny e-mail to a niece regarding the naming of her second child, my husband said, “You really missed your mark.” I said, “What?” although I already knew what he’d said. He repeated, “You missed your mark as a writer.” I think he thought it was a compliment.
My favorite line in the whole book was confirmation I am not crazy:
“The hope that one can leave behind what one carries within one’s mind is usually quickly dispelled.”
At least Elan Golomb completely fucking understands me. Typical that we’ve never even met.
Off To Great Adventure with Control Freak and DD
July 9, 2009
My daughter is perfectly happy sitting in her room 12 hours a day on the computer (she sleeps the other 12, mostly during daylight hours.) She is a content little carbon copy of moi. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, believe me, but it works.
She’s become such a book reader that she hit me and called me a bitch when I took her book off her bed last weekend when she wouldn’t get up. I was quite impressed with her ethusiasm and commitment, considering the girl wouldn’t read a single page a year ago without sighing and twirling her hair and rolling her eyes. My relief is palpable. It just would not do for me to have a child who didn’t love books, completely unacceptable. I don’t care that she’s reading the “Clique” series and the “It Girl” collection instead of “Little House on the Prairie” or Nancy Drew.
A book store salesgirl attempted to steer us in a direction of something where “these girls really care about ISSUES and not just SHOES and PURSES.” Rachel rolled her eyes and I dropped the book by the wayside somewhere in the non-fiction area. I couldn’t care less if she was reading Enquirer magazine as long as there are words on the page. I mean, she’s an emotional wreck over whether one of the characters is going to be suspended from school, ready to burst into tears. YES!
Yesterday I did convince her to leave the house for a Disney beach party and a hip-hop class. It started at 8 p.m. How perfect for our schedules. Who ever decided that the early ours of 6, 7, 8 a.m. are when the day should begin . . . well, I don’t like those people. We sit up and laugh at 2 and 3 a.m. and that doesn’t happen when pulled from bed at an early hour, doing fine imitations of fire breathing dragons. Would I like to see a sunrise on the beach this summer? Yes. I plan to make it happen by staying up all night.
So our new “friends,” the control freak and her daughter, are coming to our house today for the first time. Purposely, I have not cleaned it. There are dishes in the sink. However, the yard looks great! They are obsessive-compulsive about cleaning and organizing.
I am doing my best to disgust them in the hope that phone calls will cease. (The ringing of the phone is like an air raid siren for me. I just hate it. Recently I left a message on my phone not to leave voice mails, either, because I don’t listen to them. I had such fun creating this crazy recording about how you might want to send me a text or an e-mail instead.)
We will be headed off to Great Adventure to see Raven Symone in concert. They want to stand in line for an hour and a half before hand to get great seats. I want to walk in at the end and take the left overs. We’re leaving the house and I guess that’s a good thing, so I have to remember that fact. Even though Big Brother starts tonight and I am an obsessed fan extraordinaire. DVR has improved my life beyond belief.
Monday is the wax museum in NYC. This chick canceled an MRI so she could go on a day we were free. I’m not happy about that. It seems utterly ridiculous. On top of that, NYC can be difficult with the best of people. We shall see how it goes. We’re taking the train in. No doubt, I’ll have a story for you.
37 minutes to go and I haven’t showered yet. Yes, this is how I roll.
The Absolute Best Twisted Book I’ve Ever Read
April 2, 2009
Various and sundry things take me away from blogging, like collecting 294 Flair on Facebook. Now that’s dedication!
I’m into philosophical sh*t, too, & humanitarian aid (for chocolate rabbits).
Also included in my busy days are book sales. I hoard books & place them in piles around the house, a kind of eccentric decor that’s welcoming to those who like dust & eau de musty. Occasionally I rearrange just for fun, taking extra care not to confuse mine with the library books, of which I rented 21 just yesterday.
I sit and peruse books while watching the big screen TV, with my laptop — where else — in my lap. Multi-tasking is a joy to the scattered Gemini brain. (My husband, in direct opposition, enjoys commercials & re-runs, watching with the glazed eyes of a bloodhound observing a Milk-Bone commercial. He dozes off, then wakes himself with a snort.)
Sometimes, I get frustrated. We have quite a heavy viewing schedule. The person in charge of the remote control is expected to hit the button as fast as possible whenever fast forwarding is an option. (We’ve had actual altercations. What is the proper waiting time (in seconds) before the person without the changer is allowed to derisively suggest the fast forwarding option?) It’s a heavy burden.
When the television schedule is weak we have Blockbuster movies. (For example, The Changeling with Angelina Jolie last week scored a 9.5 with all of us. Milk, for me at least, was a full 10. Sean Penn was outrageous!) If the movies have run dry, we turn to recorded shows on the DVR.
The kitchen is nearby for snacking purposes.
Momentarily moving away from the original subject at hand, recently my bowling partner, Lynn, informed me that she has seen “less than 100 movies in her entire lifetime.” I’d have been less shocked to hear of a vine extending from her vagina, eating away at her leg.
She is 50 years old & computer literate, not visually unusual in any way I can surmise. She is not Amish. Mathematically speaking — and I’m no genius — we’re talking fewer than 2 movies PER YEAR. Surely Patty Hearst was allowed more than that even while kidnapped.
* * * * *
Anyway, my point is I recently found
THE BEST BOOK I’VE EVER READ:
Emergency!: True Stories From The Nation’s ERs
Mark Brown, M.D., collected these stories from around the country. It’s truly fantastical. I’ve always abeen a fan of reality, but this is super-charged.
WARNING: Read no further if you lap up milk with your tongue & frequently make meowing sounds . . .
Let me give you just a sample from a piece titled “The Wish” on page 14:
“In an upper-income community hospital Emergency Department, a fifty-year-old matron complained of mild abdominal pain and fever. The patient was on an antidepressant, but she had no other significant medical history. Her physical exam was unremarkable. Lab tests did little to further the diagnosis. I decided to proceed with a pelvic exam. . .
“The pelvic exam revealed that the patient’s labia were pinned together with three large, rusty safety pins.
“The patient apparently had a long psychiatric history, including obsessive behavior focused on her inability to bear children. Two weeks earlier, the patient had purchased a small chicken at the market and had inserted it, piece by piece, into her vagina. She had pinned her labia to keep the chicken in place and was waiting for it to develop into a baby.
“The patient was subsequently admitted to the psych unit, but not before she was washed out with two liters of Betadine douche and the entire chicken carcass was accounted for.”
GREGORY DAVID POST, M.D. New York, New York
* * * * *
Here’s one more that explains the previously mentioned “vagina vine.” It’s entitled “The Human Vineyard” (pages 72-73):
“An elderly female comes to the Emergency Department complaining: ‘I got the green vines in my virginny.’ The patient reports a two-week history of a vine growing from her vagina. On physical examination it is discovered that she does indeed have a vine growing out of her vagina, about six inches in length. A pelvic exam reveals a mass which is easily removed from the vaginal vault, vine still attached. Upon extraction, the patient reports that her uterus had been falling out and that she ‘put a potato in there to hold it up’ and subsequently forgot about it.”
JOHN RIORDAN, M.D. Charlotte, North Carolina
The book gets better with each page.
* * * * *
I am so completely jealous of ER nurses now. The germ factor would be an issue, but I think I’d be willing to get over it.
A Complaint Has Been Lodged . . .
November 12, 2008
I’ve been informed by my ridiculously successful and normally complaint-free cousin, Tara, that it’s a drag to look at Ted Danson’s head every time you come to visit this blog and realize nothing has changed. I’m not surprised that this is the case and so I’m here to fix it.
What happened to my desire to blog?
I’ve got no flipping idea.
I guess I’ve been trying to live life somewhere other than in front of the computer screen. It eventually becomes lonely here, hour after hour, re-writing words in an attempt to reach utter perfection. Besides, it’s not even possible.
So, I shall quickly update with ten things currently going on in my life, try and pull it all together as simply as possible, thus erasing Ted Danson’s head:
1.) Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. I’d like to thank Bud & Joyce for creating their splendid son just for me. I made him a meat loaf & mashed potatoes. He is easily pleased & I work hard to keep his expectations low. No jumping, cooking, cleaning, or serving nonsense. Sometimes my total lack of movement could signify actual death to a less secure man.
Still, he gets more attention when I don’t blog; whether he wants it or not is the question. The more affection he receives, the cockier he gets. Now that I think about it, maybe he’s just not sniffing at my ass like a dog? No matter. The lack of cold nose at my twat makes me feel needy.
Sperm makes women weak-kneed and doe-eyed; release of sperm triggers thoughts of lawn tractors & leaf bagging in the male species. It’s a sick dance.
(WTF is with men & their obsession with fallen leaves?)
The other day I was in the library & suddenly imagined him walking in with another woman holding his enormous man hand. (Not that he’s ever willingly set foot in a library, to my knowledge.) It was both devastating & thrilling because I suddenly remembered how wonderful he is & how insane I am (plus completely unwilling to share).
It’s bizarre: the more dependable a person is, the more you tend to take them for granted. I forget he’s a big shot when he’s folding my clothes.
Anyway, I looked at him this morning & realized that I love him so much I can’t allow myself to really feel it because if I ever acknowledge how lucky I am then I’m afraid he will immediately drop dead. Fear sucks. It also rules my life.
2.) I’ve joined a group of local chicks, pseudo-heathen moms who bonded when a couple of nutjobs decided to push their extreme-o religion & homophobia a step too far. It’s been a wacky girl’s dream come true. We had a rough spot over the election but came out the other side better than ever. Currently we’re discussing things like the taste of vagina juice (some like it better than others) and masturbation. The lesbians were uncomfortable with all the talk about blow jobs, so we switched off & went a different direction.
3.) I talked to my sister’s boyfriend today, Mike, and he filled me in on the family. I haven’t spoken with anyone since returning from the wedding. No real surprises, the twisted antics continue.
My mother has sent me some terroristic e-mail forwards though, things like this:
“You’ve probably seen this before, but I think it’s so CUTE!!!
Send this to six of your friends and let them know you love them, including me. Because there is no promise or insurance that anyone you love WILL STILL BE ALIVE TOMORROW!”
4.) My niece’s face is now displayed on the Illinois Department of Corrections website, two versions, front and side view. It’s very exciting. According to reports, my sister is still mad at me for admitting that I am the one who reported my niece to authorities from 1,000 miles away. My brother Scott, with a laugh, says it may take her 20 or 30 years to get over it.
At first I felt bad about that & wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Then I started thinking about how I used to longingly look at the phone book, thinking “Surely there’s someone we could call to come & save us from this scary bitch named Mom.” But I didn’t know how to find the number. My niece’s kids are just babies & this time I would have been the negligent adult who chose to look the other way. I knew it was bad. So fuck my sister’s ignorant ass.
5.) We survived Halloween. It’s been confirmed, I still hate holidays. The girl had three costumes: Ballerina, Witch & 50′s Girl. Here are two favorite pictures:
Below she’s with the lovely & newly ordained High Priestess Roxanne & her two perfect sons Riley & Griffin. Roxanne is the kind of mother who makes chocolate-covered strawberries just for snacks, decorates with abandon & allows her children to TeePee their own yard. It’s a hard act to follow.
6.) One of my four favorite days of the year was last Saturday, the local library book sale. I purchased $47 worth of paperbacks at 25 cents per and hard-covers at 50 cents each, plus a couple high-priced $2 items. It is a multi-orgasmic experience, a joy to behold. Except for the part where you’re stuck in a tiny room with heavy wheezing mouth breathers who purposely avoid deodorant, mouthwash &/or Head’n Shoulders for a full week before attending the extravaganza. Yes, I love cheap books just that much.
7.) A local family officially has bedbugs. This wonderfully eccentric mother continues to greet others with a hug & a kiss. I have been told that I over-react to such things & I’ve been trying my best to maintain, like not screaming in public. However, when I spoke with my excellent friend, Mary, she completely went the other direction & I love her for it. During her teen years she still lived in Ireland & spent some time with members of the IRA. I believe she’d call them in for a special deployment if anyone ever came near her family with such hideousness. She is a bright spot in my life, a safe port in a storm.
8.) I reached a total weight loss of 56 pounds last week & immediately gained back three. My right knee continues to swell up like a football & makes exercise a questionable endeavor. My flabby ass still blows my mind when I can grab globs of gelatinous blubber on either side of the toilet seat. WTF?
I hate my fat now more than ever, much more than when there was so much more of it. I love being able to buy clothes anywhere, any time, with no giraffes or beads or boats decorating the hem lines. I still love 3X sweatshirts, including the orange one that says “Krispy Kreme Donuts,” but they look kind of silly & now I can wear my son’s old mediums. I am obsessed with fiber.
9.) I am overwhelmed by blogging, reading & commenting on blogs & commenting on blog comments. I don’t know how to do it all and still have a life, i.e., play the game Book Worm for six hours in a single night and score over a million points, save it & play again the next day. Does anyone else love that game as much as I do?
10.) My favorite new shows of the season are: Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinsky (it makes me high), The Office (Dwight & Angela should totally make a porno), Survivor (could a strong player win just once? How is Krystal possibly an Olympic medal winner?), ER (Neela & her love interests leave me breathless), Redneck Weddings on CMT (A guy took his teeth out for a hot dog eating contest – OMG), WifeSwap (the obsession continues), Housewives of Atlanta (an utter train wreck, so hideous I can’t stop watching), and America’s Next Top Model (How could they possibly keep that gangly chick over the Russian?).
* * * * *
My life in a nutshell!
Blog Whore
October 24, 2008
If there was ever a group dedicated to being a “BlogWhore” I’d want to be a part of it all. Since there’s that stupid law making prostitution illegal, we’d have to keep it under the table, no advertisements except on CraigsList. No flashy bullshit.
The stuff about kids would all have to be on the dysfunctional side, no “I’m a great mommy” nonsense. I’d prefer it if most of the chicks were a little rough looking.
I’m not a big fan of “BlogHer.” Something about it seems too slick, when I prefer the “World Wide Web” to be more like the “Wild Wild West.”
Like, I would so completely hate it if the FCC ever decided to control the language on blogs the way they do on TV & radio. If it wasn’t for those fuckers, Howard Stern & Robin Quivers would still be making me laugh for free.
Last weekend I was determined not to post because my numbers always suck on Saturday and Sunday. (Why do I care? I assume it’s because I’m a blog whore.) I was going to think about breathing fresh air or, more likely, reading a book.
Instead, the stats went up and I had a new “highest ever.” WTF? For three days they stayed there, no clear reason why. The only thing that can make me crazier than a day where less people visit is a day where more do. Could there possibly be a link between the Legos & Star Wars reference?
I love checking stats, but sometimes I think I’d be better off if I didn’t know the details. When the numbers go up, I want to keep them there. But since I have no idea what incites anything, I don’t know how to maintain it.
I’ve got one entry that gets more hits than all the rest combined. How did it make its’ way to such a prominent place in a search engine? I haven’t got a clue.
I actually went so far as to sign up for a review by Ask and Ye Shall Receive, but they never followed through. I even sent a follow-up, a second request, and got no response. If you’ve ever checked out their site you already know why there’s an element of relief.
I’ve checked out books on blogging from the library. They sound like Greek with Chinese subtitles. I’d like to recommend computer books to any insomniacs out there.
Anyone understand this stuff better than I do? Any books or specific web articles you can suggest? (Unfortunately I already spend so much time on the computer that geeky websites make me feel like I’ve fallen into quicksand.)
Is there anything about this blog that you think needs improvement, something you would change? (Probably asking me to change my entire personality is a lost cause.)
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Fantabulous Favorite Photos
September 21, 2008
Perfectionism Ad Nauseam
August 9, 2008
The more I find fantastic blogs to read, the more intimidated I am about posting abject shit. So I write nothing.
On the other hand, today I sent out an e-mail to a Yahoo group and didn’t proof it properly. I misspelled a couple of words, including “teachers.” OMG. I could forgive myself perhaps for “antidisestablishmentarianism.”
I guess I could pretend that I really did mean “techers,” maybe a new fangled type of employment that deals with technology.
If you had any idea what a spelling snob I am then you would know that this faux pas made me want to take my skin off with a dull carrot peeler.
More and more I realize what a hideous bitch I am. The thoughts I’ve had about the poor spelling I’ve seen on numerous e-mails over the past couple of years would lead you to believe I must be perfect in every way.
Well, that issue has now been fixed.
I will, however, continue to pick apart everything else in life until I’m forced to notice my own reflection once again.
You know all those books out there that talk about loving yourself? Honest to God, sometimes I think you’ve got to be a stupid jackass to pull that off.
However, the guy who made millions off of such a lame & ridiculous idea is probably touching himself right now, while looking at his own face on a book cover, thinking about his bank balance.
Maybe I should write a diet book. It could be full of abject shit, written by a stupid jackass, & make millions.
Even spelling errors would be forgiven in the insane push to lose weight. If I accidentally called apples “bapples” and bananas “fananas” there would be women running to produce managers looking for new-fangled fruit.
Problem solved.
Currently Offering Pre-Teen Classes in OCD
June 27, 2008
We went to Atlantic City this week for some kind of convention or another. I had no idea there were hot bosomy chicks dressed in skimpy clothing on the product display floor, obviously lying in wait for my honey. You can certainly bet he wasn’t the one who told me about them. Nope, it was my partner in crime, the 10-year old. She had gone along to scope out any wayward 3-year old fossilized Tootsie Rolls that managed to escape her rigid grip during last year’s session.
I was completely comfortable with the situation. If any of those harlots had come near my sweetie she would have beaten them with a Blow Pop & tied their thongs in a twist. Although Daddy wears the holster, she’s more aggressive & protective of him than a pit bull posse. You do not want to find yourself facing down that icy stare or she may immediately insist you drive her to the nearest Taco Bell.
She’s also a super sleuth, just like I was at this age. Harriet the Spy was my mentor as I slunk through the grocery store writing down what various people put in their carts: “1.) Woman with hairy mole on left cheek – Two Gallons Butter Pecan Ice Cream. 2.) Old man in black jacket shedding dandruff – Banquet Salisbury Steak TV Dinners.”
But times have changed. My little girl’s surreptitiously written list is more likely to say things like, “Cute ashe blonde dye job in beautiful red slingback shoes, left breast so-o-o-o-o much bigger than her right. Obvious plastic surgery victim, possibly the nose, too. I want those high heels!!!”
It’s a strange stage she’s in, alternating between running for candy jars like a 6-year old boy and standing sedate & still where she’s likely mistaken for 16. She’s already 5’5″.
They give away other free stuff at the convention, too: squeeze toys, rulers, pens & oddities, anything to fill a bag. Just the day before my husband had come back to the hotel room and told us he had a special bed bug light that could check the sheets & confirm their cleanliness. I ignored him as he looked around the bedding, shining the light in corners and under sheets, shamelessly mocking my fears. The girl child seemed impressed & looked like she was believing his line of nonsense. I refused to give him the reaction he was looking for.
24 hours later we met back for dinner, after spending the day apart. My focus was on other diners at the buffet, many driving scooters. People were clawing their way to the crumb-filled pan labeled “Fried Chicken.” I was only barely paying attention to the conversation at our table. Suddenly my daughter pulled an item out of her bag and said, ”Look, Mom, I got a bed bug light, too!” With no hesitation whatsoever, my ears perked up & I fell for it:
“(Gasp) You mean it’s really . . .”
They both began to laugh like jackals. She’d set me up perfectly for the fall. My mouth was hanging open like a Shih-Tzu expecting an atomic dog biscuit, so hopeful was my dream of total & complete bed bug eradication. It was all I could do to fork down a piece of sugar-free cheesecake just to shore up my dashed serotonin level.
It’s not only bed bugs I’m a freak over.
Coughing sends shivers down my spine. I swear I walked around a children’s clothing store yesterday as a man followed me while leaving a lung in the aisle; he was insistent that his germs cover me in a full-fledged scatter pattern. If one of the babies there had been mine you’d have believed it was O.J. Simpson running through an airport, dressed as a white woman clutching an infant to his chest, clearing clothing racks in a single leap. Incredibly, the idiotic mothers continued to shop as they offered their children to the gods of tuberculosis & meningitis.
So I left the store alone. I held my breath until I was completely out the door. Before breathing again I followed my usual pattern: snort harshly & blow air out as forcefully as possible, making sure I’ve knocked away any potentially deadly spittle that might be sitting near my mouth or nose, fluttering my lips in the defensive motorboat position.
I also make every effort possible to avoid touching door knobs.
I’ve come to hate the handles on grocery carts.
Movie theater seats hardly allow me to relax to watch a film, they’re usually so riddled with stains. You’d think it was a vasectomy re-attachment clinic.
It’s gotten to the point where my daughter and I will argue over who must sit in a restaurant booth with her back to other diners; neither of us wants our hair near that of a stranger.
My little girl is growing up, learning to dance to the refrain of the OCD shuffle.
Two Movies & A Book
May 31, 2008
We had videos waiting to be watched, sitting for days, and finally viewed two this evening:
1.) Peaceful Warrior with Nick Nolte. This was a really interesting film. I’ll give it 3.5 of 5 stars. I would have liked a little more background into the characters. It’s based on a true story about a gymnast and an old man he meets, lessons learned along the way. Some parts are completely weird and unexplained. There are incredible scenes of gymnastic feats on the rings and pommel horse.
The movie surprisingly dovetailed ideas in the new Eckhart Tolle book, as mentioned frequently on Oprah.
I tried to read the book, A New Earth – Awakening To Your Life’s Purpose, but couldn’t even finish a single page. Way too heavy for me to wade through.
Then I borrowed the book CD’s from the library to listen to in the car. Wow! A totally different experience.
I think the intriguing part for me deals with quieting the ego and emptying the mind to be in the present moment, the idea that your thoughts are not who you are.
Most importantly, Nick Nolte looked way better in this movie than he did in that awful mug shot that’s gone round the world.
2.) The Great Debaters with Denzel Washington, produced by Oprah Winfrey’s company, Harpo. Is she everywhere? I believe the answer is yes.
My rating of this film is 4.5 out of 5 stars.
It was also based on a true story, wherein a tiny black Texas school, Wiley College, has the first interracial debate against Harvard, in 1935. I found it both fascinating and heart-wrenching.
Denzel, of course, has yet to make a single bad movie. There are four young actors who play the parts of the debate team, each of whom is magnificent. My favorite was a guy named Nate Parker. Wow! Forest Whitaker also plays a lead role and the scenes in which he acts opposite the character of his son are some of the best.
I wanted to stand up and cheer during the debates, but would have woken my husband. (He slept through most of both movies. His job really gets in the way of late night viewing.)
The detailed acts of racism were realistic and painful to watch. Even more than a lynching, the scene of a beautiful young black girl standing near a bus bench that said “Whites Only” made me shake my head with incredulity. It’s unfathomable to think anyone could not love her like their own daughter, sick & tragic.
We’re still not where we should be, not even close.
It made me think about how much I hate that I still can sometimes experience fear related to the color of someone’s skin. I force myself to speak and suddenly am face to face with fellow human beings, lovely individuals, helpful souls. But I notice the fact that they are black first.
I was brought up to believe there is a difference, we are different, and it’s just not true. I have to fight that reaction in myself. Ignorance is not bliss, it’s just pitiful.
Movies like The Great Debaters are important, keeping this issue fresh, striking at the heart.
* * * * *
More movies this weekend!
I Don’t Handle Stress Well At All
May 16, 2008
I haven’t blogged for a week, as you may have noticed. My perfectionism is in full bloom and the idea of writing something that I will then edit for 7 hours is too much to bear.
So I’m going to try and just let it rip, uncensored, uncut. In other words, this is a lengthy mess, a trip inside several of my brain farts.
I think it may have something to do with next week’s college graduation. The boy below is the graduate, sitting with his great-grandmother, Nanny:
If you watched Oprah’s show on hypnosis and past life regression last week – FANTASTIC - you know Nanny will be attending the graduation ceremonies even though she’s dead.
We have actual live family coming in from out of state for this event. They are the normal part of my family, better than average, practically perfect, funny & smart.
And since it’s important to me that I look normal, even exciting & fantastic – which I’m really not — I am catatonic.
Instead of cleaning my house or scheduling restaurant reservations, making picture collages or buying graduation gifts, I read two books yesterday and watched twelve television programs. It actually may have been more than 12, maybe 18.
The Reader by Bernard Schlink was my favorite of the books, better than Jodi Picoult’s Picture Perfect. What does it say about me that I’m in the mood for a book about a 15-year old immersed in a sexual relationship with a woman who he later discovers is on trial for her time as a Nazi guard in a concentration camp?
Since I fully intended to lose 15 pounds before this brouhaha, I have been eating things I should not eat like brown sugar from the bag & greasy garlic knots, followed by psyllium & prunes. To simplify, I’m a fucking genius.
Since I knew I was completely out of controI, I made the mistake of taking two prescription diet pills in two days. The initial serotonin flash was impressive; the depression that hit on the third day, when I didn’t take one, was immense. 48 hours later I realized the diet pills were the culprit in my incredible malaise.
I was thinking that perhaps it was a simple case of MENOPAUSE, since it seems that might be happening, too. I keep pretending I’m just pregnant.
The psyllium caused my stomach to blow up like a hot air balloon. Gas pains were shooting through my body like bullets. Just craziness.
I’m a bit of a mess.
Next, my in-laws let me know that they expected me to drive 30 miles south, then backtrack another hour north, delivering them to the graduation like a limo driver in NJ traffic. Why they cannot drive to my house is unknown. I was so floored that I could not speak, thus did not ask the question.
It’s bad enough that we’re not having a family party because a couple of the cousins are such criminals I don’t want them in our home. I get the impression some relatives think I’m a hyper maniac because I believe it’s a big deal for one cousin to rip off another in a drug deal for $1,700.
My mother-in-law did not realize that I knew about all of this. She couldn’t understand why I’ve been distant. I was finally completely honest. Her answer? “Well, I don’t think they’d come anyway.” Her denial is alive and thriving.
This is my mother-in-law with her favorite son, about 23 years ago in San Francisco:
Next, I got a call from my father-in-law, Poppy, the one male blood relative who you’d expect might attend the graduation ceremony of his only namesake.
However, the reality is a different story. He’s been completely fucked up since the guy in the picture above died, my son’s father.
Poppy will not be attending graduation, I learned from his voice mail. Something about having no bottom teeth, a dentist who’s willing to do all the work but only on the same date as the graduation. Of course he does not want to attend with no teeth.
His wife made him make the call because she’s too angry about the situation to speak. The voicemail itself, the sentence about having no teeth, was the highlight of my week. I played it more than once, becoming more hysterical with laughter each time.
I’m hoping my son won’t be disappointed; he wouldn’t express it if he was.
I’m actually relieved that Poppy’s not coming because he’s ridiculously intense. While he’s speaking — which may go on for 20 minutes or more without pause for breath — it’s necessary to look at him as if you know what in the hell he’s talking about. He’s easily offended, sharp as a tack at 75, and too much for me sometimes.
As an added bonus, their entire family thinks nothing of mentioning that I need to lose weight, discussing how attractive I used to be. Poppy himself will go on about how he used to train me and what a set of calves I had, what a body, as if I’m not in the room and he’s not an old man talking about his previously sexy daughter-in-law. It’s all really gross.
And did I mention that the entire graduation process costs money? Money, money, money. In my base monkey brain I believe that I should be showering my kid with cash & prizes to show my happiness, to directly express congratulations and pride in his princely self. My husband is drowning in my monkey brain desires.
To top it all off, my mother expects us to show up in Kentucky at the end of the month. This is my mother, stepfather & myself at my own college graduation:
So my focus throughout all this, as I read, eat and watch TV, is whether we disappoint my mother, stay at her house full of dog hair, or reserve rooms in a hotel which could quite possibly be infested with bedbugs.
I’m a little bit stressed out and not handling it very well.
P.S. My husband insists I make it absolutely clear & understood that the in-laws I speak of are NOT his parents. Obviously there is no possibility of an accidental or misinterpreted association, due to the fact that he is a normal, centered, well-mannered, well-behaved, disciplined individual who never mentions the size of my ass, never requests that I drive him anywhere, and has yet to ask me for a loan.
My Augusten Burroughs Moment
April 30, 2008
Augusten Burroughs’ new book, A Wolf At The Table, was released yesterday. Months ago I was reading his website and noticed that an event would be held at the Union Square Barnes & Noble in NYC. I put it on my calendar.
I imagined a simple book signing, but discovered it included a reading by the author himself. And my heart began to pitter-patter.
I’m not crazy for concerts. Autograph hounds and paparazzi turn me off. The idolization factor all seems so gauche.
Augusten is different.
He’s like my beloved sibling, the one willing to talk about the damage, past and present. He doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen, he doesn’t act like it doesn’t matter.
Books are my first love, my thing, and he has written five of my favorites. And since four are memoirs it feels like I know him. I love words and he uses them in indescribable ways, fantastic ways. He’s captured my heart & head, all in one, which is nearly impossible. I adore him.
So I traveled by train to the City, reading excerpts of his other books beforehand. I hurriedly walked the 20 blocks from Penn Station to Union Square so that I could arrive by five, two hours before the event would begin.
I scored front row aisle, the best unreserved seat in the house. HOLY SHIT!
There were 300 seats, probably 100 filled upon my arrival. I would like to thank them all for not stealing my chair before I got there.
The dude who came out and spoke to the crowd several times kept pronouncing the author’s name wrong and I wanted to yell, “It’s Uh-GUS-ten, you ass! Show some respect for the greatest author of our time!” He did it like three times. Incredible.
I read half of the new book before Augusten Burroughs took the stage. I will not try to describe it, as I would fail miserably.
As I read, the seats filled up behind me. Once they were all taken, a line began to form in the back. This is part of what it looked like:
I’m guessing there were minimally 300 more people standing in line at the back. We were allowed to bring as many as TEN books for autograph purposes, which seemed a bit much to me. I’m not crazy about people taking advantage of my Augusten like that.
Promptly at 7:00 the star of the show came around from the back and took the stage. And this is what he looked like:
Beautiful, indeed. But then I love him a ridiculous amount.
At times his voice shook a bit. He was very nervous and mentioned it up front. This is the first time he’s written a book that’s not intended to be funny, not at all. He read a chapter and took a few questions from the audience. He gave very long answers, quite entertaining.
One of the subjects mentioned had to do with the fact that the press appears to be out to turn every memoirist into a liar, particularly since the whole James Frey incident. As I search the internet today I’m sick to see that the average moron apparently feels free to question and mock Augusten’s authenticity. Motherfuckers.
I had a question, but was too nervous to ask it. I would like to know how he handles the schizophrenic experience of being a little boy who received very little attention or love, then a man who so many complete strangers adore beyond all reason. It has to be weird. And difficult.
My own personal dislike of intimacy makes me cringe, just thinking about it.
Since I was in the front row, when he began to autograph books I was one of the first 15 people in line.
I could probably write 5,000 words per day easily, yet I am a verbal idiot. There was not a single appropriate thing I could think of to say during my 30 seconds with my author hero.
I am completely embarrassed that by the time I was about fourth in line I began to cry. How fucking hideous is that?
When my time came I mumbled, “I love you, Augusten,” as tears streamed down my face. I don’t know if he even heard it. He looked at me with questioning eyes, like “What the fuck?” Only it was a very nice “What the fuck?” I’m sure I’m not the first or last to exhibit such insipidly stupid behavior in his presence.
I can’t exactly put my finger on a specific thing that makes me feel this way. My favorite of his essays is called Tiny Crucifixions. My favorite of his books is entitled Dry. After viewing the movie Running With Scissors I was depressed for days, his experience is all so real to me, crazy as it is.
I adore the story of how a locksmith came into his apartment and thought he’d been robbed because of the mess inside, leading him to finally deal with his alcoholism and write his first book in a week’s time.
I cry for his best friend/lover Pighead, who died of AIDS. I completely identify with his love of Dennis, his partner, as their relationship reminds me so much of my own. The before and the after.
*****
As I walked back through the crowd I felt a little stupid, my tears were noticeable and initiated a few giggles as I took off for the escalator. A middle-aged chick showing her hormones right there on her face.
Aw, fuck it. Augusten is my Beatle, he’s my John, Paul, George & Ringo all rolled into one.
It was great.
Encapsulated Weekly Entertainment . . .
February 24, 2008
I could not wait to get my hands on Jodie Foster’s film “The Brave One.” Sadly, I only give it an 8 out of 10. It was not beautiful, it was not a great story line. But I love vigilantes. I dream of being a vigilante. And rarely do you get to see a woman in that role.
There are also some gratuitous sex scenes, if you’re into that. A bloody naked breast. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one of those before.
Then last night we watched “American Gangster.” Very cool just because it’s a true story and in the bonus features the actual people are on film talking about it all. I’m giving it a 9 out of 10.
I never would have thought that it would score higher than Jodie Foster, but it did. It’s really long, too, which is great. You’re pretty satisfied that you’ve gotten the whole story at the end. The criminal dude, played by Denzel Washington, had balls of steel. Incredible character, and real life, too.
As for this week’s television, Trump is kicking ass with the celebrity season. I love this guy Trace Adkins. I never knew I could like a country boy. His voice is incredible.
Rock of Love with Brett Michaels is a favorite this time just because the girls are so freaking crazy. He clearly could not give a shit about any of them. How do they not see that?
Big Brother is okay, but not great, even though the participants are kookier than ever. Am I too old to enjoy these idiotic 20-somethings?
And I’m reading another Lee Child book, “The Hard Way.” It started out a little weak, but yesterday it actually got me through a half an hour on the eliptical and 1.5 miles on the treadmill. Damn, that’s good.
In a strange twist, Trace Adkins has become Jack Reacher (the main book character) in my head.
Think I may be going to see Juno today.
So much entertainment, so little time . . .
I’m currently creating my all-time favorite movie list. Any suggestions?
Confrontations Unlimited . . .
February 23, 2008
What’s the deal with bitchy librarians who treat the books like they come from their own expensive and exclusive collections? I notice it’s a recurring theme.
This morning I was returning a large pile of checked out items and the troll behind the counter, wearing huge white bumpy gloves, told me I would have to pay for one of the books. She said it had water damage. Her demeanor was quite unpleasant.
I told her I checked it out in that condition.
She told me they would never send out a book looking like that.
Now, I’m telling you that I’ve borrowed numerous books that were either 1.) Falling apart at the seam or 2.) So yellow & dirty I thought I might need to wear a face mask while reading them or 3.) Embedded with enough food particles to make a meal.
In reality, the book got a little wet in the trunk of my car. I brought it in the house and used a blow-dryer on it. A couple pages in the back are a little wrinkled. But no way in hell is the book so damaged that it needs to be thrown out or replaced. If it was, that would be a different story entirely.
So I threw the book back into my bag and said, “Well, I’ll bring it back later. It’s not due yet.” She called on her supervisor. I could feel the walls closing in.
I should mention here that my utmost goal in slipping into this place was to remain unobtrusive. I did not shower beforehand, my hair was atrocious and I had a sweatshirt hood hiding it. I had on sunglasses. I was basically incognito. It was the wrong outfit and look for confrontation. Perhaps the right outfit for holding up a bank.
I need to at least be wearing the veneer of a normal person, coiffed hair and a bit of lip gloss, to remind me who I am today. I am not a little girl and the person behind the counter is not my mother.
Any kind of attack upon my person, whatsoever, and I am frozen with fear. And that fear leads me to react like a wildcat.
The book is in my bag now. And she’s telling me I have to let her see it again so she can note the title in my file and make sure I pay for the damage.
So I said to the woman, “I’ll come back when I can deal with someone more pleasant than you,” and I ran out the door.
I expected to see police lights and siren behind me all the way home.
I left without even picking up the book I was there to obtain. Sigh. But I was really afraid of what I might do, of my own reaction to this confrontational, sour woman in front of me. It was on the tip of my tongue: ”Does your husband wear those gloves when he’s forced to touch you?”
My husband thinks that is really unnecessary, that I immediately went to the gutter. I know that’s true and it’s why I had to get away from the library.
A piece of me screams to stand up for myself. Another piece is afraid of going to jail for an altercation that included calling the local librarian a c-u-n-t. That was also on the tip of my tongue.
The smart part of me ran.
Thank goodness I was alone, since I’m not sure I could have pulled it off with a clumsy or dim-witted partner.
These stupid escapades of mine do not reflect appropriately upon my lovely core family.
And, believe me, I know the thing about blaming my mother is repetitious. The problem is it’s true. I was trained to back down and I did that for 25 years. Learning to stand up for myself at such a ridiculously advanced age, I sometimes go overboard.
At least once a day I have to deal with the fact that I am wired chaotically, that I do not deal with simple situations in any kind of normal way.
All I can do is keep pretending. And hopefully it will one day be true that I am a mature average woman who is married to a wonderful & successful man, living the good life.
As long as I don’t get arrested first.
Multi-Media Entertainment . . .
February 17, 2008
I’ve been watching a lot of the big screen, reading a lot of books, and loving the new DVR so completely!
A quick review . . .
There is a scene in Wedding Daze that is so funny I could not catch my breath. It happens while they’re riding the bus. I was hee-hawing like Minnie Pearl.
And when did Jason Biggs become so much better looking? Did he have plastic surgery or just grow into his own? Anyone seen it yet? Isla Fisher is adorable. The writing is so much better than your average goofy movie. It’s outrageous.
And Who’s Your Caddy is worth watching just to see the enormous black dude do a naked rap in the locker room. He’s fantastic! I really love big guys.
If Blockbuster does not find me an available copy of Jodie Foster’s The Brave One some time soon I am afraid I will lose my mind. I have become obsessed, due to the fact that it is so completely unavailable.
I read another Lee Child book over the weekend, entitled Bad Luck & Trouble. Loved it. So I went to the library and checked out 35 more books. I have no impulse control whatsoever.
Last week I read Dark Harbor by David Hosp and highly recommend it.
Evidently I am in a fantasy phase. Give me a book or a movie and I will lose myself with glee.
On April 29th I’m going into NYC to a book signing scheduled by none other than my fave, Augusten Burroughs, whose new book comes out that day: A Wolf At The Table. I can’t wait.
And has anyone else read any Armistead Maupin? I read his entire Tales of the City series 20 years ago and recently picked up his newest, Michael Tolliver Lives. It was rather amazing how I was able to just fall back into the story again.
American Gangster comes out this week and I’m going to try and hit the video store before it gets picked off the shelves.
As for the new television programming: Big Brother is back! I’m not in love yet, but hoping it’ll happen. The big dude with the crazy eyes is fascinating. What a strange guy!
Survivor is interesting, fans versus favorites. I was so surprised that Johnny Fairplay punked out so quickly. The fans are a great looking group.
Trump’s show was so crazy last week it was unbelievable. Piers and Omarosa were more hateful than any two people I’ve ever seen on any show. Let’s just say I’m not an Omarosa fan! I don’t know how he managed to control himself.
I’m very happy that Chris is still in the running on Project Runway. The scene of him taking a nap was very entertaining last week. I am not a huge fan of Jillian, who has so little personality she barely breathes.
I can only hope The Office returns to the air soon. My life will then be complete and the world will be turning properly on its’ axis.
Upside Down Life
January 11, 2008
Last night I stayed up reading Lee Child’s book Die Trying. It was tantalizingly wonderful. I was disappointed to realize that I’ve already read two of his others, Tripwire and Killing Floor.
Maybe I should just read them again? It’s not like I remember all the details about anything, ever. Maybe it’s just my antagonistic attitude toward repetition of any kind.
The funniest part? I bought the book because I believed Lee Child was the same as Lincoln Child, who was recommended by www.trixfiend.wordpress.com Evidently all authors named Child will do.
So when my husband got up for work this morning, I was still sitting in the same chair I was in when he kissed me good-night. He looked at me like there was a bobcat sitting in our den.
There is absolutely nothing in the world that could make him choose to skip a night of sleep; he would only do so under cataclysmic circumstance.
The reality is that staying up all night turns my life upside down, which of course affects the entire family. But sometimes I do it anyway. I don’t particularly like always viewing my world from the same vantage point.
25 Unrelated Tidbits
December 31, 2007
1.) When my sister and I were little we found it hysterically funny to sing “Jesus Loves Me” during bouts of the hiccups. One of the few things we ever enjoyed doing together.
2.) As teenagers we would purposely go to lunch at Steak ‘n Shake and eat onions on our hamburgers before going to the dentist.
3.) When I worked in probation I once entered a girl’s bathroom during a home visit, sat on the toilet, and realized the walls were moving with tiny cockroaches.
4.) I could never love another car more than a Volkswagen Bug. I have had two, one very old and one very new. I loved them equally.
5.) I really hate going to the dentist. When I was a little girl my father heard me crying in the chair, picked me up and left.
6.) When I worked in a runaway home a boy named Ron flashed me. I looked over and realized his penis was sticking out of his pants, standing straight up. I said, “Put that away!”
7.) When I worked in a group home, a girl named Lolita scratched my face and the scar remains, more than 20 years later. She got angry once and covered her head with Nair.
8.) While working the night shift alone in that same group home, a boy named Michael freaked me out so bad that I spent the night under the dining room table holding the clothing iron for protection.
9.) Two boys in that same house climbed into the ceiling rafters through an opening in their closet. After crawling a bit, they fell through onto the kitchen floor right in front of me.
10.) A boy there named Todd had a 57 IQ and he could meow and sound exactly like a cat. He called me “Mother.” He was so afraid of not getting enough to eat that he hid the frozen Thanksgiving turkey in a pan underneath his bed.
11.) My older brother, Scott, once told my younger brother, Jim, that when he grew up he was going to get his period and bleed to death because he was so fat. Jim began to cry. We all laughed.
12.) Jim and Scott would take baths in an old cast iron tub. They would wet the rounded sides and slide around it, then splash into the water, allowing a marble they had implanted in their butt cheeks to fly out.
