Calistoscript
It's always Something
Profile
I'm 43 years old, in a long term committed relationship and write fiction in my off time. I've been writing since I was a little kid and look foreward to getting something into print and onto a shelf at Chapters! It'll happen! Just watch!
Age: 45
Gender: F
Location: Ontario, Canada
Favorite Food: Everything attached to my hand. Lately its been Kraft Dinner drowning in Ketchup - yeah I know, gross... I also eat a lot of hummus and veggie chicken nuggets - which by the way are pretty darned good!
Favorite Sounds: Waves and water against the shoreline; little kids laughing; leaves in the wind; rain on the roof
Favorite Seasons: Fall and Thanksgiving; Christmas and family
Favorite time of Day: The time between sleep and wakefulness, when the world is quiet and I'm snuggled under the duvet thinking
Favorite thoughts: That at the core all people are kind; That we are all the same regardless of the colour of our skin or how much is in our bank accounts; That children are adults under construction; that there is more to poverty than an empty piggy bank
Favorite People: My dad for teaching me to be kind without expectation and my mom for her inredible strength; the man who has taught me to ask for what I need; my kids who have taught me everything else about life I really needed to know
Favorite Colour: pink, purple and red
Favorite Quote: "Don't just try, DO" - my friend Anne; "Is it nice. is it necessary. is it true?"My son Jay, on the merit of thinking before we speak which I'm still trying to get the hang of
Favorite Books: Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood; Pilgrim by Tim Findley; Fall on Your Knees by Anna Marie MacDonald, Any Given Day by yours truly and 300 Miles, also by yours truly
Favorite Daydreams: The man, a sandy beach, Corona & lime; Sunset in Venice and a glass of Cianti
Favorite things: My father's singing; Volcano bread; jammies and hot chocolate
Favorite Scenery: Canadian forest at dusk; Mist over an undisturbed lake at dawn; sunset
Favorite Smells: Turkey cooking, pumpkin pie, fresh bread, apple pie, cinnamon - yeah yeah I know - theres a visible trend and I see it too!
Favorite Artitsts: Jann Arden - Love is the Only Soldier; Andrea Boccelli - Sentimento; Anna Nalick - Wreck of the Day; Diana Krall - The Girl in the Other Room
Favorite Song: From this moment - Shania Twain; Breathe - Anna Nalick; Oh Holy Night - the Celine Dion version and no kidding The Hockey Song - Stompin' Tom
Favorite Idea: That one day I'll realize how to save myself from the perils of being me! Also that no matter what, I'll keep bouncing skyard when I hit the bottom - which has happened a few times, I might add!
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Life's little irritations
God-dammit!
The man and I
Say it isn't so
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Fatso
Oh my aching bod!
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Life's little irritations
God-dammit!
The man and I
Say it isn't so
Princess Daisy
Fatso
Oh my aching bod!
The inlaws
The man brain
Archives
Life's little irritations: Brain Fog
Posted 10/15/2007 10:01:35 AM
My brain has turned into a giant blob of liquefied cells. It is non functional, or perhaps, may even be missing altogether after running away one night while I was sleeping and unaware.
I have lost my bi-focals and am typing this through squinted, blurry eyes.
I have no idea where my cell phone is, but I do know for sure that before losing it I forgot to turn it off – which means that wherever it is right now, it has basically morphed into a shiny pink paperweight.
I have also misplaced my earrings – not a big deal for most folks but since I only possess one pair, well, it’s an issue. I remember the morning of my surgery taking them out and tossing them onto the mans dresser, but now, God only knows.
I honestly don’t know what’s going on here. I used to have an excellent, fully functional brain with exemplary neural attachments. Good mitochondria, operational dendrites. No thought was too big or overwhelming to engage, no concept to confining to ponder at length.
Maybe my brain has stalled and needs to be boosted, or has succumbed to a mystery post anesthetic meltdown of some type. Putrefaction of the Pons perhaps, or crispification of the Corpus Calosum.
Who knows?
For lack of a better explanation, I’m attributing the apparent blow out of my both right and left frontal lobes to the assorted pharmacological Molotov cocktails which were pumped into my body following surgery two weeks ago.
Seems a reasonable assumption to make since I had no idea what was in any of the chemical concoctions which were shot into my IV bag by a series of blurry, out of focus faces who appeared at my bedside at ridiculous times of the night to ask how I was feeling.
“Jan?”
I hear a feeble little voice echoing through my skull. I can’t open my eyes. I have a morphine pump button crushed into my hand and have been self medicating all night. I am sleepy, warm, comfortable and blissfully unaware that at 2 am I am apparently in need of a suppository.
I feel something brush against my arm. “Jan?”
With difficulty, and perhaps a tad of resentment I peel back one eyelid. “Uh?”
“Hi there” the floating ghost says. “How’re you feeling?”
I answer and she leans towards me to hear. Except nothing comes out of my mouth but bad breath.
“What?”
I try again. With difficulty, because my gums and tongue are firmly cemented to my cheeks. “I’m okay” I whisper. Satisfied, my eyelid flonks closed and I immediately begin to move backwards to the warm, comfy dark place where I was before the bedside light was snapped on.
“Good good.” She chirps. “I need to get you to sit up on the side of the bed.”
“Now? ”I wheeze. In another life I would have had more to say about this, and none of it would have been polite. Just thinking about the act of sitting up makes me break out in a cold sweat. My stomach feels as if there is a giant squid sloshing around in it. “I can’t.”
She slams the bedrail down. “Sure you can ”she says “and I’ll help you.”
I want to say “Are you outta your GOD DAMNED mind? It’s two oçlock in the fricking morning? No-one is sitting on the edge of their bed at 2 am in Canada? Are you fricking mental?”
But I say nothing. This floating orb with the stethoscope and cold hands is the bringer of ice chips and ginger ale and I – even stoned out of my mind on pain killers and anti nauseants - am too smart to bite the hand that feeds me.
I exhale and clutching my incision, jerk to a wobbling semi-sit.
The room begins to spin at warp speed. My arms and legs begin to shake and my stomach prepares to launch a single handed biliary missile attack on the world. “I think I’m going to be sick ”I tell her in a small, pathetic little voice.
She hands me a plastic dish that looks like a giant kidney bean. “That’s because you sat up too fast “she says as I retch over it with both eyes closed because I’m certain my insides are about to fling out onto the floor. She takes the pan away and dumps it out. And returns with a cold facecloth for my forehead. I’m ecstatic about the facecloth - I mistakenly think she feels sorry for me and has decided to leave me alone and harass the woman in the other bed instead.
“Okay now ”she says demurely, “you need a suppository so roll over onto your side.”
Oh for the love of God, I think to myself.Leave me alone!
I struggle to the side of the bed. Scrunch into a ball. Press the pain pump button. She asks if I would like a sleeping pill. “Sure”I feebly respond although I want to scream “For CHRISSAKES! are you INSANE or WHAT?!”
She brings the pill and I take it although I doubt it had time to take effect before I passed out from all the other medication I’d been given.
Now it’s two weeks later. And my brain still feels like it is wrapped in a sock.
Soon I will have lost every tangible item I own. Maybe even find myself at the corner store in my PJ’s – oops! Sorry. Have already done this.
I need to return to the real world. With genuine human beings - not the TV tube variety.
Soon.
Posted 10/15/2007 10:01:35 AM
My brain has turned into a giant blob of liquefied cells. It is non functional, or perhaps, may even be missing altogether after running away one night while I was sleeping and unaware.
I have lost my bi-focals and am typing this through squinted, blurry eyes.
I have no idea where my cell phone is, but I do know for sure that before losing it I forgot to turn it off – which means that wherever it is right now, it has basically morphed into a shiny pink paperweight.
I have also misplaced my earrings – not a big deal for most folks but since I only possess one pair, well, it’s an issue. I remember the morning of my surgery taking them out and tossing them onto the mans dresser, but now, God only knows.
I honestly don’t know what’s going on here. I used to have an excellent, fully functional brain with exemplary neural attachments. Good mitochondria, operational dendrites. No thought was too big or overwhelming to engage, no concept to confining to ponder at length.
Maybe my brain has stalled and needs to be boosted, or has succumbed to a mystery post anesthetic meltdown of some type. Putrefaction of the Pons perhaps, or crispification of the Corpus Calosum.
Who knows?
For lack of a better explanation, I’m attributing the apparent blow out of my both right and left frontal lobes to the assorted pharmacological Molotov cocktails which were pumped into my body following surgery two weeks ago.
Seems a reasonable assumption to make since I had no idea what was in any of the chemical concoctions which were shot into my IV bag by a series of blurry, out of focus faces who appeared at my bedside at ridiculous times of the night to ask how I was feeling.
“Jan?”
I hear a feeble little voice echoing through my skull. I can’t open my eyes. I have a morphine pump button crushed into my hand and have been self medicating all night. I am sleepy, warm, comfortable and blissfully unaware that at 2 am I am apparently in need of a suppository.
I feel something brush against my arm. “Jan?”
With difficulty, and perhaps a tad of resentment I peel back one eyelid. “Uh?”
“Hi there” the floating ghost says. “How’re you feeling?”
I answer and she leans towards me to hear. Except nothing comes out of my mouth but bad breath.
“What?”
I try again. With difficulty, because my gums and tongue are firmly cemented to my cheeks. “I’m okay” I whisper. Satisfied, my eyelid flonks closed and I immediately begin to move backwards to the warm, comfy dark place where I was before the bedside light was snapped on.
“Good good.” She chirps. “I need to get you to sit up on the side of the bed.”
“Now? ”I wheeze. In another life I would have had more to say about this, and none of it would have been polite. Just thinking about the act of sitting up makes me break out in a cold sweat. My stomach feels as if there is a giant squid sloshing around in it. “I can’t.”
She slams the bedrail down. “Sure you can ”she says “and I’ll help you.”
I want to say “Are you outta your GOD DAMNED mind? It’s two oçlock in the fricking morning? No-one is sitting on the edge of their bed at 2 am in Canada? Are you fricking mental?”
But I say nothing. This floating orb with the stethoscope and cold hands is the bringer of ice chips and ginger ale and I – even stoned out of my mind on pain killers and anti nauseants - am too smart to bite the hand that feeds me.
I exhale and clutching my incision, jerk to a wobbling semi-sit.
The room begins to spin at warp speed. My arms and legs begin to shake and my stomach prepares to launch a single handed biliary missile attack on the world. “I think I’m going to be sick ”I tell her in a small, pathetic little voice.
She hands me a plastic dish that looks like a giant kidney bean. “That’s because you sat up too fast “she says as I retch over it with both eyes closed because I’m certain my insides are about to fling out onto the floor. She takes the pan away and dumps it out. And returns with a cold facecloth for my forehead. I’m ecstatic about the facecloth - I mistakenly think she feels sorry for me and has decided to leave me alone and harass the woman in the other bed instead.
“Okay now ”she says demurely, “you need a suppository so roll over onto your side.”
Oh for the love of God, I think to myself.Leave me alone!
I struggle to the side of the bed. Scrunch into a ball. Press the pain pump button. She asks if I would like a sleeping pill. “Sure”I feebly respond although I want to scream “For CHRISSAKES! are you INSANE or WHAT?!”
She brings the pill and I take it although I doubt it had time to take effect before I passed out from all the other medication I’d been given.
Now it’s two weeks later. And my brain still feels like it is wrapped in a sock.
Soon I will have lost every tangible item I own. Maybe even find myself at the corner store in my PJ’s – oops! Sorry. Have already done this.
I need to return to the real world. With genuine human beings - not the TV tube variety.
Soon.
Fatso: One Way Ticket OUT!
Posted 4/13/2007 6:26:12 PM
Today I learned an important lesson about life I needed to know...
I learned never to underestimate the ingenuity of one fat, dieting beagle terrier to think up interesting ways to obtain forbidden food items while I am at work and inhale every one of them before I return.
Today, when the front door swung open, sprawled out across the living room carpet was a shredded, gutted box of Laura Secord chocolates and a trail of slippery spit-laden gummie teddy bears.
Ď scanned the carnage beyond the coffee table and into the kitchen. Puddles, puddles, as far as the eye could see.
Puddles of differing colour.
"Julie!"I wailed, unloading my coat and side stepping a pool of mangled multi coloured teddy bears who, without my glasses, appeared to be back stroking through an ocean of stringy, yellowy dog drool. "Goddammit! Jules," I groaned thinking of the stain I'd be trying to hide later, "Get down here!"
I flung my bag onto the couch and stepped across the puddle and headed into the kitchen. Past what had once been a pretty green box, past the pink mangled ribbon, past the chewed plastic container which that very morning had housed the mutilated teddy bear family. At the bottom of the stairs was another gigantic puddle with a mutilated box of ritz bitz floating around in the center of it with both ends splayed open.
One of the cats, sitting two steps up shot a thoroughly and utterly disgusted glance towards the upstairs hall. "Jules!" I hollered, "Get your ass down here!"
As if.
I flicked the light on at the top of the stairs. She was there alright, our canine Rita McNeil, our resident hairy Jenny Craig drop - out. Her eyes were sunken into her head like two hard boiled eggs punched into a ball of dirty dough.
"You're bad!"I snapped, heading up the stairs towards her. "No wonder you feel sick, you bloody idiot!"
Herein is the lesson I learned today:
When your dog has gone on a diet-fueled feeding frenzy / eating rampage inhaling everything but the kitchen sink just to spite you and then gone on to guzzle gallons of water from the tiolet, never ever allow yourself to be at a lower vantage point than the dog with the nausea hurricane in it belly....
halfway up the stairs, mongo mutt opened her little snout and launched an incredible typhoon of watery, rainbow coloured vomit into the air.
I ducked, but it was too late.
The stream of ritz bitz, gummy teddys, hunks of slippery chocolate, and a few bits and pieces of what looked like chewed crayon splattered onto my chest with the force of a garden hose which had suddenly been unkinked.
"Julie!"I screamed, flinging myself up the stairwell and into the bathroom to strip off and climb into the shower.
She waddled towards me, looking sad and biliously repentant.
I knew the look.
"You big dope"I sighed, leaning towards her to scratch her head, "when'll you ever learn?" She lowered her chin and flopped onto her side, wheezing with the effort. I stroked her forehead and she closed her eyes. Her mouth dropped open and a giant dog burp slid out.
Dial. I could distinctly smell Dial soap.
I flicked the bathroom light on and scanned the edge of the tub for the bar I had left there that morning.
$@%%$@&^%@$#@ !!
Gone.
I shot a hateful look at the dog I had once rescued from the center lane of highway 28, the routine household rule breaking, burping, farting, pee leaking, crotch sniffing, garbage can raiding life force who now, had eaten the last goddamned bar of soap in the house.
I stripped off and climbed into the shower, thankful that she for the moment at least, lacked the dexterity to manipulate a straw into the neck of the bottle of Pantene Pro V to drain it, too.
"Out!" I bellowed as I twisted the water on, "Get out you little fart!"
With that, the cat slinked past and jumped onto the edge of the sink.
"Not a word outta you, Mr.Smart ass." I said. "I'm gonna get myself a one way ticket outta this winky ward "I added, tearing the shower curtain closed and leaving him sitting beside the sink " before you little buggers drive me insane!"
As I stood there under the spray, bitching and moaning to the cat and soaping myself up with shampoo, I suddenly realized.
It was too late... I'm already there.
Posted 4/13/2007 6:26:12 PM
Today I learned an important lesson about life I needed to know...
I learned never to underestimate the ingenuity of one fat, dieting beagle terrier to think up interesting ways to obtain forbidden food items while I am at work and inhale every one of them before I return.
Today, when the front door swung open, sprawled out across the living room carpet was a shredded, gutted box of Laura Secord chocolates and a trail of slippery spit-laden gummie teddy bears.
Ď scanned the carnage beyond the coffee table and into the kitchen. Puddles, puddles, as far as the eye could see.
Puddles of differing colour.
"Julie!"I wailed, unloading my coat and side stepping a pool of mangled multi coloured teddy bears who, without my glasses, appeared to be back stroking through an ocean of stringy, yellowy dog drool. "Goddammit! Jules," I groaned thinking of the stain I'd be trying to hide later, "Get down here!"
I flung my bag onto the couch and stepped across the puddle and headed into the kitchen. Past what had once been a pretty green box, past the pink mangled ribbon, past the chewed plastic container which that very morning had housed the mutilated teddy bear family. At the bottom of the stairs was another gigantic puddle with a mutilated box of ritz bitz floating around in the center of it with both ends splayed open.
One of the cats, sitting two steps up shot a thoroughly and utterly disgusted glance towards the upstairs hall. "Jules!" I hollered, "Get your ass down here!"
As if.
I flicked the light on at the top of the stairs. She was there alright, our canine Rita McNeil, our resident hairy Jenny Craig drop - out. Her eyes were sunken into her head like two hard boiled eggs punched into a ball of dirty dough.
"You're bad!"I snapped, heading up the stairs towards her. "No wonder you feel sick, you bloody idiot!"
Herein is the lesson I learned today:
When your dog has gone on a diet-fueled feeding frenzy / eating rampage inhaling everything but the kitchen sink just to spite you and then gone on to guzzle gallons of water from the tiolet, never ever allow yourself to be at a lower vantage point than the dog with the nausea hurricane in it belly....
halfway up the stairs, mongo mutt opened her little snout and launched an incredible typhoon of watery, rainbow coloured vomit into the air.
I ducked, but it was too late.
The stream of ritz bitz, gummy teddys, hunks of slippery chocolate, and a few bits and pieces of what looked like chewed crayon splattered onto my chest with the force of a garden hose which had suddenly been unkinked.
"Julie!"I screamed, flinging myself up the stairwell and into the bathroom to strip off and climb into the shower.
She waddled towards me, looking sad and biliously repentant.
I knew the look.
"You big dope"I sighed, leaning towards her to scratch her head, "when'll you ever learn?" She lowered her chin and flopped onto her side, wheezing with the effort. I stroked her forehead and she closed her eyes. Her mouth dropped open and a giant dog burp slid out.
Dial. I could distinctly smell Dial soap.
I flicked the bathroom light on and scanned the edge of the tub for the bar I had left there that morning.
$@%%$@&^%@$#@ !!
Gone.
I shot a hateful look at the dog I had once rescued from the center lane of highway 28, the routine household rule breaking, burping, farting, pee leaking, crotch sniffing, garbage can raiding life force who now, had eaten the last goddamned bar of soap in the house.
I stripped off and climbed into the shower, thankful that she for the moment at least, lacked the dexterity to manipulate a straw into the neck of the bottle of Pantene Pro V to drain it, too.
"Out!" I bellowed as I twisted the water on, "Get out you little fart!"
With that, the cat slinked past and jumped onto the edge of the sink.
"Not a word outta you, Mr.Smart ass." I said. "I'm gonna get myself a one way ticket outta this winky ward "I added, tearing the shower curtain closed and leaving him sitting beside the sink " before you little buggers drive me insane!"
As I stood there under the spray, bitching and moaning to the cat and soaping myself up with shampoo, I suddenly realized.
It was too late... I'm already there.
Life's little irritations: The Brain Cell - or lack thereof
Posted 3/6/2007 7:17:38 PM
I know this is the year 2007 not 1907
I know I was born in 1963, not 1903 as my biological creations have from time to time accused.
I know that I did not grow up in Amish country and have had the benefit of being exposed to the conveniences of modern technology... although Im beginning to suspect that I may belong in Amish country hiding under a straw hat, limiting my exposure to technology'...
And I also know, without trying to sound like a complete and utter narcisst,that Í'm a reasonably intelligent person with a fully functional brain.
Yep I am, fundamentally, an average person who navigates life reasonably well and with a minimal amount of asstance yet...today....
I was so glad to get home today that I was taking off my coat before the front door had even even swung all the way closed. I bypassed the drooling furrballs and hurdled the foot high pile of Princess Daisys discarded shoes and got ready to collapse onto the couch.
Nope, I thought - I better check for messages before I crash and burn.
Just in case only God know who has called about God only knows what.
The kitchen phone was missing - as it always is - so I slammed my index finger onto the pager button and cocked my ear towards the stairs. Towards the gateway to hell that is the door to my daughters room. Where there's supposed to be a bed, and a dresser, and a TV...
From somewhere inside the mountain of clothes on top of her bed I heard the suffocated beep of the phone and tore it out of the heap.
I headed back down the stairs, grinding my teeth with each step. Mid way down the stairs I pounded the voicemail password into the phone and waited for the slew of messages to launch into my ear.
But there was nothing. Only two clicks.
And dead air.
Now, now.
God dammit! Do I ever hate that.
I pounded my index finger against the keypad to dial *67. "You little bastard!"I thought, "Call my house and hang up on me twice, ha! Take that!" I punched the number into the phone and waited to give the person who answered a blast, but before anyone did my cell phone started to ring.
I dropped the phone, lurched across the living room floor, across the dog, cats, plants, shoes and vacuum cleaner, dug around in my work bag and hauled out my cell phone. As I swung the blasted thing open, the ringing stopped. "Hello? "I wheezed,"Hello? Hello?"
Click.
"$%*@#%&@^%#@&^!!" I screeched, snapping the cell phone shut and pitching it onto the couch. I went back and grabbed the house phone from the pantry, determined now more than ever to call the stupid imbecile responsible for leaving the hang ups on my machine.
Again I smashed the persons number into the keypad. I was ready, really ready to give this person a blast that would blow their eardrum out the side of their head. Again, the call rang though at the other end, once... twice...
Bloody hell, again my $^@%&@%@ cell phone began to ring. This time I dove through the air with the house phone still in my hand, across the coffee table, over the Christmas cactus and onto one of the cats."HELLO?!"I shreiked into my cell phone once I ripped it open, "WHO THE HELL IS THIS?"
Bloody hell, was I annoyed. I could feel the blood swooshing through my brain.... I was going to call that sonofa bitch back and hang up in HIS ear!
I froze.
I pulled the cell phone away from my left ear and withdrew the house phone from my right.
Suddenly I remembered.
Remembered that I had called home from the car to check the message while en route. Remembered that I had hung up on my own voicemail message twice so that the man - who is a cell phone minute watching Nazi - didn't blow a gasket when the bill came in.
I had reached the stupid nimrod responsible for leaving the hang ups on my machine after all.
Oh buggers.
I had called myself.
Posted 3/6/2007 7:17:38 PM
I know this is the year 2007 not 1907
I know I was born in 1963, not 1903 as my biological creations have from time to time accused.
I know that I did not grow up in Amish country and have had the benefit of being exposed to the conveniences of modern technology... although Im beginning to suspect that I may belong in Amish country hiding under a straw hat, limiting my exposure to technology'...
And I also know, without trying to sound like a complete and utter narcisst,that Í'm a reasonably intelligent person with a fully functional brain.
Yep I am, fundamentally, an average person who navigates life reasonably well and with a minimal amount of asstance yet...today....
I was so glad to get home today that I was taking off my coat before the front door had even even swung all the way closed. I bypassed the drooling furrballs and hurdled the foot high pile of Princess Daisys discarded shoes and got ready to collapse onto the couch.
Nope, I thought - I better check for messages before I crash and burn.
Just in case only God know who has called about God only knows what.
The kitchen phone was missing - as it always is - so I slammed my index finger onto the pager button and cocked my ear towards the stairs. Towards the gateway to hell that is the door to my daughters room. Where there's supposed to be a bed, and a dresser, and a TV...
From somewhere inside the mountain of clothes on top of her bed I heard the suffocated beep of the phone and tore it out of the heap.
I headed back down the stairs, grinding my teeth with each step. Mid way down the stairs I pounded the voicemail password into the phone and waited for the slew of messages to launch into my ear.
But there was nothing. Only two clicks.
And dead air.
Now, now.
God dammit! Do I ever hate that.
I pounded my index finger against the keypad to dial *67. "You little bastard!"I thought, "Call my house and hang up on me twice, ha! Take that!" I punched the number into the phone and waited to give the person who answered a blast, but before anyone did my cell phone started to ring.
I dropped the phone, lurched across the living room floor, across the dog, cats, plants, shoes and vacuum cleaner, dug around in my work bag and hauled out my cell phone. As I swung the blasted thing open, the ringing stopped. "Hello? "I wheezed,"Hello? Hello?"
Click.
"$%*@#%&@^%#@&^!!" I screeched, snapping the cell phone shut and pitching it onto the couch. I went back and grabbed the house phone from the pantry, determined now more than ever to call the stupid imbecile responsible for leaving the hang ups on my machine.
Again I smashed the persons number into the keypad. I was ready, really ready to give this person a blast that would blow their eardrum out the side of their head. Again, the call rang though at the other end, once... twice...
Bloody hell, again my $^@%&@%@ cell phone began to ring. This time I dove through the air with the house phone still in my hand, across the coffee table, over the Christmas cactus and onto one of the cats."HELLO?!"I shreiked into my cell phone once I ripped it open, "WHO THE HELL IS THIS?"
Bloody hell, was I annoyed. I could feel the blood swooshing through my brain.... I was going to call that sonofa bitch back and hang up in HIS ear!
I froze.
I pulled the cell phone away from my left ear and withdrew the house phone from my right.
Suddenly I remembered.
Remembered that I had called home from the car to check the message while en route. Remembered that I had hung up on my own voicemail message twice so that the man - who is a cell phone minute watching Nazi - didn't blow a gasket when the bill came in.
I had reached the stupid nimrod responsible for leaving the hang ups on my machine after all.
Oh buggers.
I had called myself.
The man and I: Of mice and Men, er, of Men who are Mice
Posted 11/27/2006 5:55:57 PM
I learned an important lesson this weekend about cars and men.
Okay,okay - not really all men or all cars.
Just my car, and my man.
After conducting an experiment involving the man, our car and a 4 ˝ hour trek to visit his parents, in the hither and yon town of Noelville, I’ve come to the following conclusions:
a) if there are to be any long trips together in our future, hwy 400 is to be avoided like the Bubonic plague and
b) I will never again travel without a copy of “Livin’ la Vida Loca” in my travel bag.
I know this is a silly position to take.
Immature even.
But after this weekend’s performance which was even by his standards pitiously revolting, it may be the only option left since it appears - despite his being an intelligent man- that he is incapable of riding in the passenger seat without assaulting my ears with a litany of stupid complaints about my driving.
“Oh Goddddd,” he groaned after checking the speedometer, “Can’t you get this thing going any faster?”
“It’s dark.” I said, “Plus it’s raining.”
“So?”
I stared at the road. “So I can't see. So I don’t feel like getting killed because you’re an impatient moron."
The air hisses out of his chest like a bike tire being deflated with a screw driver.
"Besides," I added "Didn’t you promise you wouldn’t comment about my driving if I agreed to take the 400?”
“But you’re going soooo slow!” He whined, using a tone I’m sure his kindergarten and grade one teachers must have known well. “It’s going to take us 50 years to get there!”
I stared ahead and imagined swerving onto the soft shoulder and unloading him Mafia style into the murk of lake Couchiching.
Suddenly I felt an affinity for Tony Soprano that I hadn’t believed possible.
“HEY!” He hollered a few minutes later, “Pass this transport, would ya? Geeze! What are ya doin? Driving Miss Daisy?”
I bit down on my tongue. Wondered how much damage would be done to the car if I sheared his side of it off against some roadside rock outcropping but decided against it.
The impact would cause the air bag to deploy and then the complaints would really pour in.
“Turn your @%#$%^# high beams off!” Captain air bag yelled, “You’re blinding traffic!”
“Who are you?” I snorted, “Hitler?”
“Well if you’d get it together I wouldn’t need to say anything, would I?’
I ground my teeth, raised my foot off the gas and watched the speedometer begin to slip backwards.
Over and over again the complaints flew out.
Over and over again I yanked my foot off the gas pedal.
“You know, “I finally said after we’d been traveling 20 kilometers below the posted speed limit for half an hour, “If you’d just shut up and leave me alone we’d get there a lot faster.”
He shook his head and growled like a rabid dog.
And then, he gave me the one finger salute.
No kidding.
My driving had reduced the man into a whiny, growling, one finger waving maniac.
Now that, that was the last straw.
I reefed the car onto the shoulder and motioned towards the passenger side door. “GET OUT!” I hollered.
One finger Willie clamped onto his seat belt for dear life. “What?”
“You heard me” I said, “Get out.”
The cars whizzed past.
The rain poured down.
“Are you out of your bloody mind? Look at the traffic! I’ll be killed!”
“You got it.” I replied,imagining the silence which would immediately result from his being pressed into a pancake by a Mack truck, “but it’ll be less painful than what you’re going to have to endure to stay in this car.”
A sigh of relief ripped out of him.
And then I smiled.
And reached for my bag and Ricky Martin, who the man has nicknamed “the devil on a disc.”
Let the suffering begin.
Posted 11/27/2006 5:55:57 PM
I learned an important lesson this weekend about cars and men.
Okay,okay - not really all men or all cars.
Just my car, and my man.
After conducting an experiment involving the man, our car and a 4 ˝ hour trek to visit his parents, in the hither and yon town of Noelville, I’ve come to the following conclusions:
a) if there are to be any long trips together in our future, hwy 400 is to be avoided like the Bubonic plague and
b) I will never again travel without a copy of “Livin’ la Vida Loca” in my travel bag.
I know this is a silly position to take.
Immature even.
But after this weekend’s performance which was even by his standards pitiously revolting, it may be the only option left since it appears - despite his being an intelligent man- that he is incapable of riding in the passenger seat without assaulting my ears with a litany of stupid complaints about my driving.
“Oh Goddddd,” he groaned after checking the speedometer, “Can’t you get this thing going any faster?”
“It’s dark.” I said, “Plus it’s raining.”
“So?”
I stared at the road. “So I can't see. So I don’t feel like getting killed because you’re an impatient moron."
The air hisses out of his chest like a bike tire being deflated with a screw driver.
"Besides," I added "Didn’t you promise you wouldn’t comment about my driving if I agreed to take the 400?”
“But you’re going soooo slow!” He whined, using a tone I’m sure his kindergarten and grade one teachers must have known well. “It’s going to take us 50 years to get there!”
I stared ahead and imagined swerving onto the soft shoulder and unloading him Mafia style into the murk of lake Couchiching.
Suddenly I felt an affinity for Tony Soprano that I hadn’t believed possible.
“HEY!” He hollered a few minutes later, “Pass this transport, would ya? Geeze! What are ya doin? Driving Miss Daisy?”
I bit down on my tongue. Wondered how much damage would be done to the car if I sheared his side of it off against some roadside rock outcropping but decided against it.
The impact would cause the air bag to deploy and then the complaints would really pour in.
“Turn your @%#$%^# high beams off!” Captain air bag yelled, “You’re blinding traffic!”
“Who are you?” I snorted, “Hitler?”
“Well if you’d get it together I wouldn’t need to say anything, would I?’
I ground my teeth, raised my foot off the gas and watched the speedometer begin to slip backwards.
Over and over again the complaints flew out.
Over and over again I yanked my foot off the gas pedal.
“You know, “I finally said after we’d been traveling 20 kilometers below the posted speed limit for half an hour, “If you’d just shut up and leave me alone we’d get there a lot faster.”
He shook his head and growled like a rabid dog.
And then, he gave me the one finger salute.
No kidding.
My driving had reduced the man into a whiny, growling, one finger waving maniac.
Now that, that was the last straw.
I reefed the car onto the shoulder and motioned towards the passenger side door. “GET OUT!” I hollered.
One finger Willie clamped onto his seat belt for dear life. “What?”
“You heard me” I said, “Get out.”
The cars whizzed past.
The rain poured down.
“Are you out of your bloody mind? Look at the traffic! I’ll be killed!”
“You got it.” I replied,imagining the silence which would immediately result from his being pressed into a pancake by a Mack truck, “but it’ll be less painful than what you’re going to have to endure to stay in this car.”
A sigh of relief ripped out of him.
And then I smiled.
And reached for my bag and Ricky Martin, who the man has nicknamed “the devil on a disc.”
Let the suffering begin.
Life's little irritations: Canada's most wanted - Ministry of Health Style
Posted 11/27/2006 5:33:40 PM
I’m going into hiding until 2011.
Until then, I’m keeping my head down and flying under the radar.
I’m going to walk carefully, drive carefully and do everything possible to keep my new health card exactly where it is now, buried in my wallet where no-one, oh please God, will ever see it.
Until the miserable thing expires.
Just last year I filed into the Ministry of Health office to renew my card and update my address after the last moving box had been unpacked. For the first time ever, when the new card arrived, I was pleased. In fact, it was such a huge improvement from the previous one, in which I boasted olive skin, after five shadow and an expression better suited to an episode of America’s Most Wanted, that I said out loud, “Wow! I can’t believe it! This is the best one I’ve ever had!”
Words of advice: Never lose control of yourself and make comments like these.
Ever.
Do not acknowledge that you think you look pretty good, or even better than pretty good in your shiny new health card. Do not share your fabulous photo ID with pals while you’re sloshing back a few cold ones. Do not circulate it over the water cooler at the office or wave it around during girls’ night out.
In short, don’t be a show off, no matter how gorgeous the Ministry of Health has made you look.
Keep your plasticized wonderfulness to yourself.
Or you’ll be sorry.
Really sorry.
The folks you show it to will hate your guts, and before you know it you’ll be cut off and spending every Friday and Saturday night slumped on the edge of the couch alone, eating cold spaghetti out of the can with a spoon.
Because your friends have health cards, too.
And they’re ugly.
Really ugly.
Every person in the province has a hunk of plastic hidden in their wallet with their name printed beside a face resembling the bottom of a boiled boot.
Fact is: While my friends appeared to like my card, knowing that the Ministry of Health had personally turned them into winking one eyed gargoyles made them somewhat, well, irate.
Soon my phone stopped ringing, friends stopped dropping by and I was unceremoniously banished from Oprah’s Book Club.
Word it seemed, traveled fast.
When the notice of Expiry forms for my Health Card finally arrived, a wave of relief flood through me.
Freedom from social Siberia was just one click away!
While waiting for my turn at the Ministry of Health wicket, I ran through a range of facial expressions caught on film over the years in which I resembled Yoda or maybe better, Shrek. After scaring the living daylights out of the little boy standing next to his mommy just ahead of me in line, I finally settled on one sufficiently awful to resurrect my social life.
The agent behind the counter – who was sporting impressive Elvis Presley style sideburns and a handlebar moustache – smirked as she yanked my Health card out of my hand. After punching a hole through my left eyeball she tossed it back. “Stand against the screen,” she hissed.
I backed up and squinted madly until the flash went off, blinding me.
I stumbled past flapping both arms until I collapsed into a display of brochures.
When the new photo Id arrived I had to sit down after I looked at it, it was that bad.
The rest as they say is history.
My friends have returned with a vengeance after determining that my Health card is far worse than anything they’ve ever seen in their lives.
I’ll be hiding my shiny new government issued boiled boot snapshot until 2011.
When I’ll try again, with less bravado.
Posted 11/27/2006 5:33:40 PM
I’m going into hiding until 2011.
Until then, I’m keeping my head down and flying under the radar.
I’m going to walk carefully, drive carefully and do everything possible to keep my new health card exactly where it is now, buried in my wallet where no-one, oh please God, will ever see it.
Until the miserable thing expires.
Just last year I filed into the Ministry of Health office to renew my card and update my address after the last moving box had been unpacked. For the first time ever, when the new card arrived, I was pleased. In fact, it was such a huge improvement from the previous one, in which I boasted olive skin, after five shadow and an expression better suited to an episode of America’s Most Wanted, that I said out loud, “Wow! I can’t believe it! This is the best one I’ve ever had!”
Words of advice: Never lose control of yourself and make comments like these.
Ever.
Do not acknowledge that you think you look pretty good, or even better than pretty good in your shiny new health card. Do not share your fabulous photo ID with pals while you’re sloshing back a few cold ones. Do not circulate it over the water cooler at the office or wave it around during girls’ night out.
In short, don’t be a show off, no matter how gorgeous the Ministry of Health has made you look.
Keep your plasticized wonderfulness to yourself.
Or you’ll be sorry.
Really sorry.
The folks you show it to will hate your guts, and before you know it you’ll be cut off and spending every Friday and Saturday night slumped on the edge of the couch alone, eating cold spaghetti out of the can with a spoon.
Because your friends have health cards, too.
And they’re ugly.
Really ugly.
Every person in the province has a hunk of plastic hidden in their wallet with their name printed beside a face resembling the bottom of a boiled boot.
Fact is: While my friends appeared to like my card, knowing that the Ministry of Health had personally turned them into winking one eyed gargoyles made them somewhat, well, irate.
Soon my phone stopped ringing, friends stopped dropping by and I was unceremoniously banished from Oprah’s Book Club.
Word it seemed, traveled fast.
When the notice of Expiry forms for my Health Card finally arrived, a wave of relief flood through me.
Freedom from social Siberia was just one click away!
While waiting for my turn at the Ministry of Health wicket, I ran through a range of facial expressions caught on film over the years in which I resembled Yoda or maybe better, Shrek. After scaring the living daylights out of the little boy standing next to his mommy just ahead of me in line, I finally settled on one sufficiently awful to resurrect my social life.
The agent behind the counter – who was sporting impressive Elvis Presley style sideburns and a handlebar moustache – smirked as she yanked my Health card out of my hand. After punching a hole through my left eyeball she tossed it back. “Stand against the screen,” she hissed.
I backed up and squinted madly until the flash went off, blinding me.
I stumbled past flapping both arms until I collapsed into a display of brochures.
When the new photo Id arrived I had to sit down after I looked at it, it was that bad.
The rest as they say is history.
My friends have returned with a vengeance after determining that my Health card is far worse than anything they’ve ever seen in their lives.
I’ll be hiding my shiny new government issued boiled boot snapshot until 2011.
When I’ll try again, with less bravado.
Life's little irritations: Cat - astrophe
Posted 8/19/2006 2:59:13 PM
I've had it.
I can't hack it any more.
I'm sick and tired of it waiting down in the dark depths of the basement like the boogey man ready to spring up smack me in the face and knock me onto my ass.
What lives in my basemet?
Two standard sized litter boxes and when our three fatso, furr faced lazy bastards outgrew them - two three by two foot versions came to reside there which by all rights should be housing clothes or anything else of utility.
But here, where the cats have us trained to run screaming to Wal Mart every time their needs are not met, they contain mountainous piles of clumping kitty litter and an exponentially larger quantity of cat unmentionables.
I am so sick of being screamed at by an enraged orange faced furrball to get down the stairs and start scooping that I would almost like to leave the back door open a crack - except he's so dumb that he'd instantly be converted into a kitty pancake and dumb or not, he's part of the family. I mean, everybody has a few burping, farting relatives who can be counted on to routinely get juiced up at Thanksgiving and do a few face dives into Aunt Dora's cleavage - but what the hell? You can't kill 'em and you can't give 'em away because nobody else in their right mind wants them. What're you going to do?
It's the same damn thing with Captain Orange face -the dumbest, mouthiest cat in the world, and queen teeny weeny leaky bladder. Princess Jaqueline's only contribution is the thick, inescapable layer of fur that she leaves everywhere she goes...and that I'll complain about a later date when the hair is ticking me off.
I scoop those bloody boxes over and over and over and am running out of steam not to mention nasal hair. I resent them showing up as I've finished cleaning the last box and standing watching me, their bowels and bladders contracting and quivering with glee.
With three of them in and out of those boxes, the scooping is endless, endless, endless.
Scoop, empty, refill, scoop, empty, refill...
This process makes me insane! If I wait too long to take my paint stir stick and scooper - because somebody's ( I'm not sure whose) pee is so acidic that it melts the litter into a foul grey slop which dries into concrete - they start launching piss missles into the chair, the couch whatever. If I try to ignore their complaints about the litter box conditions or attempt to boycott the process, a thick, oderous fug of stink will start creeping up the stairs and into the livingroom which is more than I can take.
If I leave it too long, they'll launch a sneak attack on my clothing and personal objects! Last week I got all the way to work before I realized that one of them had done it's thing on my shirt. How fricking embarrassing! Home I went to change, grinding my teeth and making comments about whther or not there is a Ho Chi Min Wok in town where I might send the three of them. Since they've spent their entire lives grazing and resting from their long exhausting trips back and forth to the food bowls and then down to the beach in the basement to let 'er rip, they've grown into super fatties who might generate enough revenue if sold by the pound to cover the cost of the new lungs I'm going to need after some scientific genius discoverd that inhaling too much dust from clumping cat litter causes some terminal dread disease!
Posted 8/19/2006 2:59:13 PM
I've had it.
I can't hack it any more.
I'm sick and tired of it waiting down in the dark depths of the basement like the boogey man ready to spring up smack me in the face and knock me onto my ass.
What lives in my basemet?
Two standard sized litter boxes and when our three fatso, furr faced lazy bastards outgrew them - two three by two foot versions came to reside there which by all rights should be housing clothes or anything else of utility.
But here, where the cats have us trained to run screaming to Wal Mart every time their needs are not met, they contain mountainous piles of clumping kitty litter and an exponentially larger quantity of cat unmentionables.
I am so sick of being screamed at by an enraged orange faced furrball to get down the stairs and start scooping that I would almost like to leave the back door open a crack - except he's so dumb that he'd instantly be converted into a kitty pancake and dumb or not, he's part of the family. I mean, everybody has a few burping, farting relatives who can be counted on to routinely get juiced up at Thanksgiving and do a few face dives into Aunt Dora's cleavage - but what the hell? You can't kill 'em and you can't give 'em away because nobody else in their right mind wants them. What're you going to do?
It's the same damn thing with Captain Orange face -the dumbest, mouthiest cat in the world, and queen teeny weeny leaky bladder. Princess Jaqueline's only contribution is the thick, inescapable layer of fur that she leaves everywhere she goes...and that I'll complain about a later date when the hair is ticking me off.
I scoop those bloody boxes over and over and over and am running out of steam not to mention nasal hair. I resent them showing up as I've finished cleaning the last box and standing watching me, their bowels and bladders contracting and quivering with glee.
With three of them in and out of those boxes, the scooping is endless, endless, endless.
Scoop, empty, refill, scoop, empty, refill...
This process makes me insane! If I wait too long to take my paint stir stick and scooper - because somebody's ( I'm not sure whose) pee is so acidic that it melts the litter into a foul grey slop which dries into concrete - they start launching piss missles into the chair, the couch whatever. If I try to ignore their complaints about the litter box conditions or attempt to boycott the process, a thick, oderous fug of stink will start creeping up the stairs and into the livingroom which is more than I can take.
If I leave it too long, they'll launch a sneak attack on my clothing and personal objects! Last week I got all the way to work before I realized that one of them had done it's thing on my shirt. How fricking embarrassing! Home I went to change, grinding my teeth and making comments about whther or not there is a Ho Chi Min Wok in town where I might send the three of them. Since they've spent their entire lives grazing and resting from their long exhausting trips back and forth to the food bowls and then down to the beach in the basement to let 'er rip, they've grown into super fatties who might generate enough revenue if sold by the pound to cover the cost of the new lungs I'm going to need after some scientific genius discoverd that inhaling too much dust from clumping cat litter causes some terminal dread disease!
God-dammit!: Welcome to Smokesville! Population.... TWO!
Posted 7/28/2006 7:49:14 PM
Well, here we are again. At precisely the same place we were yesterday! Yep, you got it. Smokesville, Ontario - except the two residents of this little town are not exactly linking hands to maintain their carcinogenic environment ( also known as "the yard" where they are forced to inhale their scrunched up incinerating leaves to save my asthmatic lungs from further damage in sleet, snow rain or stifling heat).
It amazes me, this scenario.
Both of them are pretty frugal and would under no circumstances respond very well ( or politely, I suspect)to ANYONE possessing enough nerve to strut up to them, point to the nearest sewer and instruct them to turf a hundred dollars a month into it. I also seriously doubt that either of these two ridiculous perpetually warring parties would react very positively to someone making the following request, " Okay, you give me a hundred bucks a month on an ongoing basis and I'll dig around after you in a few years and when you're not expecting it, I KILL ya!"
My word, how stunned would that be?
I was not a happy camper to discover that the new man in my life was not, as he had disclosed in his personal information, " trying to quit", er, uh, which I mistakenly interpreted to mean ACTIVELY reducing his intake of burning weeds so that the firestorm in his lungs would be squelched because this tapering off would ultimately lead to - guess what? - That’s right, you got it!
QUITTING!
As a non smoker I put up with the behavior because this was something I was advised he was "working on."
Well, well.
Two and a half years later he is working on his oh, I dunno, hmpf, maybe 200th package? God only knows, maybe its even more for God's sakes.
As a non smoker I was exponentially upset to learn that Princess Daisy had taken up the habit. It's such a frivolous and stunned thing for her to have done, all obsessed about her image and physical appearance to be doing this - given that it doe not exactly enhance her femininity and the smoke ring around her head makes it difficult to see her at all. Plus, and this I add most strenuously..
THIS CHILD IS TOO CHEAP TO SMOKE!
I have personally observed her bartering some poor street vendor to get his wares at the lowest price possible, a price which almost seemed like robbery without the assault... for what? so that she could keep those quarters for another pack of ciggies.
Grrrr!
My issue is that now, once again those two bartering buffoons are into each others hair over who owes who cigarettes! The man hates it when she asks (she is perpetually bankrupt and ten seconds away from a nicotine fit) so her mooching has him eyeballing his emptying carton like a paranoid maniac concerned about his carcinogen bath possibly running out of steam, or should I say, smoke.
So, I who have to endure the stink of their smoke, their smelly hair and grungy clothing also have the luxury of listening to them spat it out over the allocation of the cancer sticks available which apparently, cannot be shared - Oh for Gods sakes children! - GROW UP!
Take your stupid ass, ridiculous, wasteful, argumentative, brain dead arguments somewhere that they can be appreciated.
Like the local psychiatric ward where they have people waiting with cigarettes and lighters ready and waiting to flick their Bics every time you squeak!
Or better yet.....
QUIT!
For my sake.....
Posted 7/28/2006 7:49:14 PM
Well, here we are again. At precisely the same place we were yesterday! Yep, you got it. Smokesville, Ontario - except the two residents of this little town are not exactly linking hands to maintain their carcinogenic environment ( also known as "the yard" where they are forced to inhale their scrunched up incinerating leaves to save my asthmatic lungs from further damage in sleet, snow rain or stifling heat).
It amazes me, this scenario.
Both of them are pretty frugal and would under no circumstances respond very well ( or politely, I suspect)to ANYONE possessing enough nerve to strut up to them, point to the nearest sewer and instruct them to turf a hundred dollars a month into it. I also seriously doubt that either of these two ridiculous perpetually warring parties would react very positively to someone making the following request, " Okay, you give me a hundred bucks a month on an ongoing basis and I'll dig around after you in a few years and when you're not expecting it, I KILL ya!"
My word, how stunned would that be?
I was not a happy camper to discover that the new man in my life was not, as he had disclosed in his personal information, " trying to quit", er, uh, which I mistakenly interpreted to mean ACTIVELY reducing his intake of burning weeds so that the firestorm in his lungs would be squelched because this tapering off would ultimately lead to - guess what? - That’s right, you got it!
QUITTING!
As a non smoker I put up with the behavior because this was something I was advised he was "working on."
Well, well.
Two and a half years later he is working on his oh, I dunno, hmpf, maybe 200th package? God only knows, maybe its even more for God's sakes.
As a non smoker I was exponentially upset to learn that Princess Daisy had taken up the habit. It's such a frivolous and stunned thing for her to have done, all obsessed about her image and physical appearance to be doing this - given that it doe not exactly enhance her femininity and the smoke ring around her head makes it difficult to see her at all. Plus, and this I add most strenuously..
THIS CHILD IS TOO CHEAP TO SMOKE!
I have personally observed her bartering some poor street vendor to get his wares at the lowest price possible, a price which almost seemed like robbery without the assault... for what? so that she could keep those quarters for another pack of ciggies.
Grrrr!
My issue is that now, once again those two bartering buffoons are into each others hair over who owes who cigarettes! The man hates it when she asks (she is perpetually bankrupt and ten seconds away from a nicotine fit) so her mooching has him eyeballing his emptying carton like a paranoid maniac concerned about his carcinogen bath possibly running out of steam, or should I say, smoke.
So, I who have to endure the stink of their smoke, their smelly hair and grungy clothing also have the luxury of listening to them spat it out over the allocation of the cancer sticks available which apparently, cannot be shared - Oh for Gods sakes children! - GROW UP!
Take your stupid ass, ridiculous, wasteful, argumentative, brain dead arguments somewhere that they can be appreciated.
Like the local psychiatric ward where they have people waiting with cigarettes and lighters ready and waiting to flick their Bics every time you squeak!
Or better yet.....
QUIT!
For my sake.....
Oh my aching bod!: My new tattoo!
Posted 7/28/2006 8:58:16 AM
Well, I finally did it!
After years of pondering it and procrastinating, I got my tattoo!
I wish I had a digital camera or a scanner- It's SO beautiful! It's a spray of pink and purple flowers with shaded leaves and vinery and underneath it says, "Calistoscript"
It takes up almost the entire top of my foot and is incredibly detailed and ornate with beautiful shading.
I love it!
But it reeeeeally, really hurt! Since I have a pretty high pain tolerance I was surprised to have found myself white knucking it through the last half an hour or so.... whew!
Who would have thought?
I watched Jayson get his first tattoo - had to be there actually because he needed parental consent and after making him wait an entire year I felt that I should be there anyway but I had no idea that it hurt as much as it did!
Posted 7/28/2006 8:58:16 AM
Well, I finally did it!
After years of pondering it and procrastinating, I got my tattoo!
I wish I had a digital camera or a scanner- It's SO beautiful! It's a spray of pink and purple flowers with shaded leaves and vinery and underneath it says, "Calistoscript"
It takes up almost the entire top of my foot and is incredibly detailed and ornate with beautiful shading.
I love it!
But it reeeeeally, really hurt! Since I have a pretty high pain tolerance I was surprised to have found myself white knucking it through the last half an hour or so.... whew!
Who would have thought?
I watched Jayson get his first tattoo - had to be there actually because he needed parental consent and after making him wait an entire year I felt that I should be there anyway but I had no idea that it hurt as much as it did!
The man and I: Whatsa matter with you,anyway?
Posted 7/19/2006 6:36:58 PM
Okay, so here's the deal.
Yesterday evening, while we were lounging around eating salad, it started to pitch outside - I mean, sheets and sheets of hammering rain - and in the process of racing like two deranged lunatics to get the lawnmower in and deployed to the dryness of the basement, something went "pop" in the mans back.
Well, well.
Now the logical thing to have done - okay, so he is after all a man and not always tuned into logical process requiring more than a worm, fishing hook, and a boat - would have been to have let me know about the aforementioned snapping effect he had experienced in his spine so I could have made a quick escape to Wal-Mart to get to some Robaxicet to keep things under control and prevent the painful inflammation blah, blah....
Did this happen? In fact, did he say a word about the spine decalcifying jolts of pain racing up his back so that something could be done about it?
Hell no!
But this morning, when he woke up he had a monumentous epiphany.
He couldn't bend. Or sit. Or stretch. Or walk. Or breathe. Or fart or do any of those things that make his life, well, enjoyable.
At 5:30 am I woke up to him standing beside the bed.
" Whatsa mater?" I asked, stifling a yawn.
" I can't go to work" he said, whincing, " I threw out my back."
I had absolutely no idea what the hell he was talking about, since I had personally watched him inhale a barbecued side of beef, a ginormous salad and then collapse into a drool puddle on the couch to watch the poor Canadian Idol bastards wait for someone to be eliminated.
" How?"
" When we were bringing the mower in" he says, gimping off down the hall to call in sick at work.
Oh Jeezus, I think. He's the world's worst, most resistant patient.
" Have you taken anything?" I ask, throwing the duvet off and starting down the hall after him.
" Nope." He whimpers, his face contorting with each word.
" Why not?"
" I just haven't gotten around it to yet."
What're you waiting for, I think to myself, a paramedic? I don't ask this, because I know injured or not it will turn my little friend into an enraged silverback.
" You need the hot bag on it." I say instead.
Down the stairs he goes. And out into the yard for a cigarette. Goddamned these bloody cigarette smoking feeble minded fools! I storm into the kitchen, grab the hot bag and turf it into the Nuker. Call Wal - Mart to see when they are open.
" I'm sorry " He says sheepishly when he returns from accelerating his collision with lung cancer." I shoulda told you."
No kidding. " Too late now" I retort, guzzling my coffee and calling my boss to let him know that I will be late compliments of my trip the Wally-Magoos for pills.
Fast forward.
Past the big lecture about taking responsibility for his own health issues and not being such a child with his health and the only body he is ever going to get.
Past my trip to Wally and back again, stopping along the way to pick up for smokes - oh bloody hell! -
Past my handing him the box of Robaxicet and tapping my toe while he ate the breakfast I made for him.
To the phone conversation we had when I called him around 10:30 to see how he was feeling after the medication had kicked in. " Oh, I just took it"
" What?" I yelp
" Yeah, I just took it"
I want to slide through the phone cord and cause him additional pain in a somewhat lower region. " But?"
" Don't worry about it hon," He says, " It'll be okay."
I hung up the phone and dropped my head onto the desk.
"Whatsa matter with you, anyway?"
Posted 7/19/2006 6:36:58 PM
Okay, so here's the deal.
Yesterday evening, while we were lounging around eating salad, it started to pitch outside - I mean, sheets and sheets of hammering rain - and in the process of racing like two deranged lunatics to get the lawnmower in and deployed to the dryness of the basement, something went "pop" in the mans back.
Well, well.
Now the logical thing to have done - okay, so he is after all a man and not always tuned into logical process requiring more than a worm, fishing hook, and a boat - would have been to have let me know about the aforementioned snapping effect he had experienced in his spine so I could have made a quick escape to Wal-Mart to get to some Robaxicet to keep things under control and prevent the painful inflammation blah, blah....
Did this happen? In fact, did he say a word about the spine decalcifying jolts of pain racing up his back so that something could be done about it?
Hell no!
But this morning, when he woke up he had a monumentous epiphany.
He couldn't bend. Or sit. Or stretch. Or walk. Or breathe. Or fart or do any of those things that make his life, well, enjoyable.
At 5:30 am I woke up to him standing beside the bed.
" Whatsa mater?" I asked, stifling a yawn.
" I can't go to work" he said, whincing, " I threw out my back."
I had absolutely no idea what the hell he was talking about, since I had personally watched him inhale a barbecued side of beef, a ginormous salad and then collapse into a drool puddle on the couch to watch the poor Canadian Idol bastards wait for someone to be eliminated.
" How?"
" When we were bringing the mower in" he says, gimping off down the hall to call in sick at work.
Oh Jeezus, I think. He's the world's worst, most resistant patient.
" Have you taken anything?" I ask, throwing the duvet off and starting down the hall after him.
" Nope." He whimpers, his face contorting with each word.
" Why not?"
" I just haven't gotten around it to yet."
What're you waiting for, I think to myself, a paramedic? I don't ask this, because I know injured or not it will turn my little friend into an enraged silverback.
" You need the hot bag on it." I say instead.
Down the stairs he goes. And out into the yard for a cigarette. Goddamned these bloody cigarette smoking feeble minded fools! I storm into the kitchen, grab the hot bag and turf it into the Nuker. Call Wal - Mart to see when they are open.
" I'm sorry " He says sheepishly when he returns from accelerating his collision with lung cancer." I shoulda told you."
No kidding. " Too late now" I retort, guzzling my coffee and calling my boss to let him know that I will be late compliments of my trip the Wally-Magoos for pills.
Fast forward.
Past the big lecture about taking responsibility for his own health issues and not being such a child with his health and the only body he is ever going to get.
Past my trip to Wally and back again, stopping along the way to pick up for smokes - oh bloody hell! -
Past my handing him the box of Robaxicet and tapping my toe while he ate the breakfast I made for him.
To the phone conversation we had when I called him around 10:30 to see how he was feeling after the medication had kicked in. " Oh, I just took it"
" What?" I yelp
" Yeah, I just took it"
I want to slide through the phone cord and cause him additional pain in a somewhat lower region. " But?"
" Don't worry about it hon," He says, " It'll be okay."
I hung up the phone and dropped my head onto the desk.
"Whatsa matter with you, anyway?"
The man brain: Are You Nuts?
Posted 7/18/2006 7:56:11 PM
Okay.
So I'm confused.
Help me.
How is it that the guy who appeared at my side door, goregous, impeccably dressed, white shirt, black pants, clean shaven and smelling wonderful has morphed into the burping, farting, cussing, unshaven, nicotine saturated person downstairs watching oh God love us, another tedious installment of Canadian Idol?
I see him at the office, again, clean shaven and tucked in, yet a spontaneous regression of personal hygeine and behaviour begins, I guess the second he escapes from the confines of the building and explodes onto the street in a pewelling ball of cigarette smoke, griping and bitching about the heat, the cold, the wind, the sun, the cars, the beggars, ( insert any complaint, valid or not because some day they will be realized - it's just a matter of time)oye, vey! Is there no end?
I miss the days when he was trying to look all cute and loveable just for me, not a whacked out group of co-workers and could maintain some verbal decorum for my sake - by this I mean not using the F-bomb as a noun, verb, pronoun, adjective and suffix.
I don't know how this happened. It doesn't seem like long ago when I would stare at him dreamily and think, " My God! How did such an old geezer like me end up with a gorgeous hunk like you?" I know I'm not perfect. I know I do things which no doubt - because I can be pretty godamned irritating - must drive him to the very brink of homicide. I certainly never took it upon myself to sit him down, look him in the eye and say," Honest honey. All this Mr. Clean stuff can stop. I'm really into the redneck look so please, only shave when your growths long enough to scrape my skin off. And definately hold up on that Tommy Hilfiger cologne. It smells too good to inhale, why waste it? "
I know I've changed in a few areas. But I still bathe every night and will NEVER announce my bowel blow outs by raising my buttocks off the couch and grinning like I'm on the verge of expelling the Hope diamond out of my colon. I never go to bed with greasy hair and I shave my legs every day! Really!
I don't know.
I suspect it's the work of the man brain. The one that steers male behaviour and says, " Ha! Patsy! You got 'er! Now all that other ridiculous shit can stop! Woo - Ha!Bring on the beer and beans and forget the Beano!"
So the mushy stuff we girls love fades away behind a cacophonous cloud of burps, farts, noxious bodily odours, cusswords, nicotine smoke and the question invariably gets asked of us, of me, " What the hell is wrong with you anyway?"
" Are you nuts?"
Posted 7/18/2006 7:56:11 PM
Okay.
So I'm confused.
Help me.
How is it that the guy who appeared at my side door, goregous, impeccably dressed, white shirt, black pants, clean shaven and smelling wonderful has morphed into the burping, farting, cussing, unshaven, nicotine saturated person downstairs watching oh God love us, another tedious installment of Canadian Idol?
I see him at the office, again, clean shaven and tucked in, yet a spontaneous regression of personal hygeine and behaviour begins, I guess the second he escapes from the confines of the building and explodes onto the street in a pewelling ball of cigarette smoke, griping and bitching about the heat, the cold, the wind, the sun, the cars, the beggars, ( insert any complaint, valid or not because some day they will be realized - it's just a matter of time)oye, vey! Is there no end?
I miss the days when he was trying to look all cute and loveable just for me, not a whacked out group of co-workers and could maintain some verbal decorum for my sake - by this I mean not using the F-bomb as a noun, verb, pronoun, adjective and suffix.
I don't know how this happened. It doesn't seem like long ago when I would stare at him dreamily and think, " My God! How did such an old geezer like me end up with a gorgeous hunk like you?" I know I'm not perfect. I know I do things which no doubt - because I can be pretty godamned irritating - must drive him to the very brink of homicide. I certainly never took it upon myself to sit him down, look him in the eye and say," Honest honey. All this Mr. Clean stuff can stop. I'm really into the redneck look so please, only shave when your growths long enough to scrape my skin off. And definately hold up on that Tommy Hilfiger cologne. It smells too good to inhale, why waste it? "
I know I've changed in a few areas. But I still bathe every night and will NEVER announce my bowel blow outs by raising my buttocks off the couch and grinning like I'm on the verge of expelling the Hope diamond out of my colon. I never go to bed with greasy hair and I shave my legs every day! Really!
I don't know.
I suspect it's the work of the man brain. The one that steers male behaviour and says, " Ha! Patsy! You got 'er! Now all that other ridiculous shit can stop! Woo - Ha!Bring on the beer and beans and forget the Beano!"
So the mushy stuff we girls love fades away behind a cacophonous cloud of burps, farts, noxious bodily odours, cusswords, nicotine smoke and the question invariably gets asked of us, of me, " What the hell is wrong with you anyway?"
" Are you nuts?"
Who the hell am I anyway?
Posted 7/15/2006 8:57:49 AM
Well Well.
The things you find out about yourself that you didn't know before!
It's no secret that I am not exaclty in love with my nut-bar of a neighbour who regularily a) speaks to her cats in the schmultzy motherease which should be reserved for infants, b) has made it her personal priority to crank her goddamned awful music up so loud that it makes the pictures on our walls vibrate, c) hang her disgusting bedsheets out on the line in view of everyone in the complex and d)make sure that her aforementioned shitty, ear shattering noise bangs away at top volume until two seconds before eleven...arghh!
Anyway. You get the idea. She's a right royal pain in the ass who miraculously arrives out in her yard every time I get comfortable in my chair, on my side of the fence, slathered in tanning lotion intent on doing and thinking about, you got it, NOTHING!
To continue... after my plants were overtaken by some army of insects who chewed them down like pretzels I spritzed them all off with Raid - NOTE: this was a bad, bad idea which resulted in every single impatient bloom "melting" for lack of a better word, right off the stems into little multi coloured puddles of goop. I realized that the fumes must have been carried by the breeze ( honest to God! there was no malicious intent on my partI am just, well, an idiot who's brainstorms often result in some demolition or disaster which the man needs to fix) down to her big hanging basket of crap and melted those too!
Surveying the damage, I have to admit, I felt a little well, kidlike and sickeningly excited at the blops of purple which used to be her pansies.
This was of concern to me, so I tried to stifle it since it just isn't appropriate to do a happy dance when your idiotic decisions cause another persons property to be damaged or defouled in some way.
Two weeks ago I was spraying the garden down with the hose, still trying to suck up to my poor flower beds which were struggling to regrow after their nightmarish ordeal with the Raid and inadvertantly shot a stringer of ice cold water over the fence which generated a blood curdling wail of shock from, you got it, the neighbor who was, I'm sure, eaves dropping on what I was doing while barbecuing on her side of the world.
Well. Well...
Despite having had great parents who taught me right from wrong...despite having gone to kindergarten where all the basic social rules were pounded into my skull...despite being a parent who taught her kids about needing to fess up to wrong doings and take responsibility for the outcomes...
I stood on my side of the fence, listening to her hoot and holler with the hose in my hand...
And laughed my ass off!
Posted 7/15/2006 8:57:49 AM
Well Well.
The things you find out about yourself that you didn't know before!
It's no secret that I am not exaclty in love with my nut-bar of a neighbour who regularily a) speaks to her cats in the schmultzy motherease which should be reserved for infants, b) has made it her personal priority to crank her goddamned awful music up so loud that it makes the pictures on our walls vibrate, c) hang her disgusting bedsheets out on the line in view of everyone in the complex and d)make sure that her aforementioned shitty, ear shattering noise bangs away at top volume until two seconds before eleven...arghh!
Anyway. You get the idea. She's a right royal pain in the ass who miraculously arrives out in her yard every time I get comfortable in my chair, on my side of the fence, slathered in tanning lotion intent on doing and thinking about, you got it, NOTHING!
To continue... after my plants were overtaken by some army of insects who chewed them down like pretzels I spritzed them all off with Raid - NOTE: this was a bad, bad idea which resulted in every single impatient bloom "melting" for lack of a better word, right off the stems into little multi coloured puddles of goop. I realized that the fumes must have been carried by the breeze ( honest to God! there was no malicious intent on my partI am just, well, an idiot who's brainstorms often result in some demolition or disaster which the man needs to fix) down to her big hanging basket of crap and melted those too!
Surveying the damage, I have to admit, I felt a little well, kidlike and sickeningly excited at the blops of purple which used to be her pansies.
This was of concern to me, so I tried to stifle it since it just isn't appropriate to do a happy dance when your idiotic decisions cause another persons property to be damaged or defouled in some way.
Two weeks ago I was spraying the garden down with the hose, still trying to suck up to my poor flower beds which were struggling to regrow after their nightmarish ordeal with the Raid and inadvertantly shot a stringer of ice cold water over the fence which generated a blood curdling wail of shock from, you got it, the neighbor who was, I'm sure, eaves dropping on what I was doing while barbecuing on her side of the world.
Well. Well...
Despite having had great parents who taught me right from wrong...despite having gone to kindergarten where all the basic social rules were pounded into my skull...despite being a parent who taught her kids about needing to fess up to wrong doings and take responsibility for the outcomes...
I stood on my side of the fence, listening to her hoot and holler with the hose in my hand...
And laughed my ass off!
Say it isn't so: The Weight is Over
Posted 6/15/2006 6:51:06 PM
Here's the terrible reality:
If, in the portion of your life which you willingly dedicate to creating and raising children, at first you generously overfeed yourself under the misguided impression that massive quantities of food will create a healthy child and then, once they arrive you allow yourself to become a human scavenger fish, slipping all their "perfectly good" wasted food items into your mouth - you will undoubtedly swell beyond the borders of your clothing. As they grow and become pickier and your scavenging continues unchecked increasing to the point where you begin to eyeball food items not yet rejected, you can be sure of this - in a few years you'll be the size of a Clydsedale, the Cinesphere, Skydome. I know this firsthand. Picking off my kids plates lead to a horrible food addiction which inevitably morphed into a perpetual food seeking habit. Midnight raids on the fridge kept me fed during the portion of the day when the rest of the world was sleeping. I was up, scrounging, eating all sorts of crap that I absolutely did not need. By the time Princess Daisy was born I weighed in at a whopping 317 lbs! Yikes! You'd have thought I would have had my jaws wired and then hurried home after the C-section to start onto Slim Fast or had a gastric by-pass. Did I? Well hell no! I sank into the couch and flopped into a massive funk. Complete with buckets of chocolate ice cream, triple cheese pizza and gallons of Pepsi. For years my eating and funky mood were totally codependent. The fatter I got, the funkier I felt the more I ate, the fatter I got and so on and so on. So heres the thing. Eventually, many many many moons later the light inside my head clicked on and I realized I was the size of a whale. Or house. Or bus. Whatever I was it certainly was not the human shape I wanted. In a state of panic after my second marriage crashed and burned and a new man entered my life who was (to me anyway) a gorgeous hunk I eliminated all the crapola I loved to eat and replaced the pop with water (ewwwww!)Amazing thing. The weight literally flew off. Oh wow! I was overjoyed about the new shape, the throwing out of all my cruddy sheet sized moo-moos and jogging pants (Brain teaser: why are size 44 cotton pants called "jogging pants" anyway? since anybody whos fat enough to fit them can barely make it up the stairs to the loo let alone jog anywhere)and could not believe it was so amazingly easy. So here I digress back to my original comment: Yep, the weights gone ( well most of it) and you'd think well, how wonderful! So heres the terrible reality: my body is a science project and I almost think it would be better to be a fatty again. I have flaps of skin under my arms I could rent out as flags. My breasts no longer resemble the perky little entities they once were, they now resemble deflated airbags and my buttocks, once just to damned big are now flat and saggy like crushed couch cushions. It's all terribly atttractive as you can imagine. Today after work I threw my office togs off and scrambled out inot the yard in my bikini. As I hustled past the living room window I caught a quick reflection of myself. Up until that moment I had been feeling pretty damned good about myself! Yes, the weight is gone and for this I'm truly grateful! However, my breasts are also missing. The empty residuals are not even decent enough to be called boobs. They're more like boo-boos. And while my rear is a more reasonable size, it's all so saggy and baggy and loose that I think I'd better keep it covered up so I'm not offered any money to rent myself out as a tent.
Posted 6/15/2006 6:51:06 PM
Here's the terrible reality:
If, in the portion of your life which you willingly dedicate to creating and raising children, at first you generously overfeed yourself under the misguided impression that massive quantities of food will create a healthy child and then, once they arrive you allow yourself to become a human scavenger fish, slipping all their "perfectly good" wasted food items into your mouth - you will undoubtedly swell beyond the borders of your clothing. As they grow and become pickier and your scavenging continues unchecked increasing to the point where you begin to eyeball food items not yet rejected, you can be sure of this - in a few years you'll be the size of a Clydsedale, the Cinesphere, Skydome. I know this firsthand. Picking off my kids plates lead to a horrible food addiction which inevitably morphed into a perpetual food seeking habit. Midnight raids on the fridge kept me fed during the portion of the day when the rest of the world was sleeping. I was up, scrounging, eating all sorts of crap that I absolutely did not need. By the time Princess Daisy was born I weighed in at a whopping 317 lbs! Yikes! You'd have thought I would have had my jaws wired and then hurried home after the C-section to start onto Slim Fast or had a gastric by-pass. Did I? Well hell no! I sank into the couch and flopped into a massive funk. Complete with buckets of chocolate ice cream, triple cheese pizza and gallons of Pepsi. For years my eating and funky mood were totally codependent. The fatter I got, the funkier I felt the more I ate, the fatter I got and so on and so on. So heres the thing. Eventually, many many many moons later the light inside my head clicked on and I realized I was the size of a whale. Or house. Or bus. Whatever I was it certainly was not the human shape I wanted. In a state of panic after my second marriage crashed and burned and a new man entered my life who was (to me anyway) a gorgeous hunk I eliminated all the crapola I loved to eat and replaced the pop with water (ewwwww!)Amazing thing. The weight literally flew off. Oh wow! I was overjoyed about the new shape, the throwing out of all my cruddy sheet sized moo-moos and jogging pants (Brain teaser: why are size 44 cotton pants called "jogging pants" anyway? since anybody whos fat enough to fit them can barely make it up the stairs to the loo let alone jog anywhere)and could not believe it was so amazingly easy. So here I digress back to my original comment: Yep, the weights gone ( well most of it) and you'd think well, how wonderful! So heres the terrible reality: my body is a science project and I almost think it would be better to be a fatty again. I have flaps of skin under my arms I could rent out as flags. My breasts no longer resemble the perky little entities they once were, they now resemble deflated airbags and my buttocks, once just to damned big are now flat and saggy like crushed couch cushions. It's all terribly atttractive as you can imagine. Today after work I threw my office togs off and scrambled out inot the yard in my bikini. As I hustled past the living room window I caught a quick reflection of myself. Up until that moment I had been feeling pretty damned good about myself! Yes, the weight is gone and for this I'm truly grateful! However, my breasts are also missing. The empty residuals are not even decent enough to be called boobs. They're more like boo-boos. And while my rear is a more reasonable size, it's all so saggy and baggy and loose that I think I'd better keep it covered up so I'm not offered any money to rent myself out as a tent.
Princess Daisy: Princess Pain in the Ass
Posted 6/14/2006 7:13:27 PM
Another blow out with Princess Daisy. They don't tell you when they're just a dream inside your brain that one day, perhaps sooner than you think that this child you could hardly wait to have will look you in the eye and tell you that you suck, or that you don't understand,or even worse, that you're a dithering nincompoop who doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. So another trip to the photographers studio where I sit like a dithering nincompoop watching her - or shall I say trying not to watch/listen - preadult brain misfiring and ticking away like a malfunctioning widget in a machine on meltdown. "Uh," I say, mustering up enough balls to say the unmentionable, " It may be a good idea to be a little more mature during these meetings. I mean, this is his profession and you want him to know you're taking it seriously, too."
She looks at me like I have a snake slithering out of my nose and slams on the brakes, " Hmmpf!" She snorts, "There's a reason they call me princess!" I really have no idea what the hell she's talking about but try not to be offended by the icy and uncomfortable glare she sends my way. I cannot relate to her behaviour. Princess? Really? Princess who?I watch her stomp away into the street grinding her teeth trying to identify one characteristic aside from self absorption that might connect her to any member of the British monarchy apart from her footwear obsession. I honestly can't find anything else. And that look! What's up with that? And the stinging and incomprehensible blast of sarcasm. Wha?Yes I realize that I'm nearly as old as sand, I know I need glasses to key in my PIN code everywhere I use my debit card, and I realize that well, I'm not as nubile as I used to be - if I ever was - but holy geeze!If I had ever tried to make my mother dissolve by shooting her one of Princess Daisy's special vaporizing glares I would still be walking with a limp and my eyeballs would still be doing laps around the interior of my skull. My response? Silence. What would be the point. I wait until we get home and try to get up the stairs ahead of her. " Hey! " She yells from the living room where she's preparing to do a full body flop onto the couch, " What's the matter?" I stop on the stairs, ponder my response. Carefully. " I need a break for a second." I answer, " I can't talk to you about it right now." She processes my answer. Deems it wholly unacceptible. " What?!" She yelps, " What're you talking about?" Again I plan my reply and carefully send it her way. Again it is intercepted mid flight, crushed like a bug on the hood of a car and stomped into the ground. Rejected. I have again hurt her feelings, though I have really said nothing offensive, rude, sarcastic or untrue. Again I have managed to push all her classic blast off buttons and the shit is ready to really hit the fan. I consider formulating a response that may stop the onslaught. But really, what the hell? Why bother? I know now why mother rats sometimes go whacko and eat their baby rats. To avoid having to go through the hell of watching them grow into adult rats,while being tortured and tormented in the process. She says one day when she's become a famous model that she's going to take care of me. I can just imagine it. Hand and foot manacles, a geri-chair and four point restraints. Jello and pureed liver for the rest of life taped into an Attends....
Posted 6/14/2006 7:13:27 PM
Another blow out with Princess Daisy. They don't tell you when they're just a dream inside your brain that one day, perhaps sooner than you think that this child you could hardly wait to have will look you in the eye and tell you that you suck, or that you don't understand,or even worse, that you're a dithering nincompoop who doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. So another trip to the photographers studio where I sit like a dithering nincompoop watching her - or shall I say trying not to watch/listen - preadult brain misfiring and ticking away like a malfunctioning widget in a machine on meltdown. "Uh," I say, mustering up enough balls to say the unmentionable, " It may be a good idea to be a little more mature during these meetings. I mean, this is his profession and you want him to know you're taking it seriously, too."
She looks at me like I have a snake slithering out of my nose and slams on the brakes, " Hmmpf!" She snorts, "There's a reason they call me princess!" I really have no idea what the hell she's talking about but try not to be offended by the icy and uncomfortable glare she sends my way. I cannot relate to her behaviour. Princess? Really? Princess who?I watch her stomp away into the street grinding her teeth trying to identify one characteristic aside from self absorption that might connect her to any member of the British monarchy apart from her footwear obsession. I honestly can't find anything else. And that look! What's up with that? And the stinging and incomprehensible blast of sarcasm. Wha?Yes I realize that I'm nearly as old as sand, I know I need glasses to key in my PIN code everywhere I use my debit card, and I realize that well, I'm not as nubile as I used to be - if I ever was - but holy geeze!If I had ever tried to make my mother dissolve by shooting her one of Princess Daisy's special vaporizing glares I would still be walking with a limp and my eyeballs would still be doing laps around the interior of my skull. My response? Silence. What would be the point. I wait until we get home and try to get up the stairs ahead of her. " Hey! " She yells from the living room where she's preparing to do a full body flop onto the couch, " What's the matter?" I stop on the stairs, ponder my response. Carefully. " I need a break for a second." I answer, " I can't talk to you about it right now." She processes my answer. Deems it wholly unacceptible. " What?!" She yelps, " What're you talking about?" Again I plan my reply and carefully send it her way. Again it is intercepted mid flight, crushed like a bug on the hood of a car and stomped into the ground. Rejected. I have again hurt her feelings, though I have really said nothing offensive, rude, sarcastic or untrue. Again I have managed to push all her classic blast off buttons and the shit is ready to really hit the fan. I consider formulating a response that may stop the onslaught. But really, what the hell? Why bother? I know now why mother rats sometimes go whacko and eat their baby rats. To avoid having to go through the hell of watching them grow into adult rats,while being tortured and tormented in the process. She says one day when she's become a famous model that she's going to take care of me. I can just imagine it. Hand and foot manacles, a geri-chair and four point restraints. Jello and pureed liver for the rest of life taped into an Attends....
The neighbour
Posted 6/10/2006 6:51:29 PM
Okay, so the woman next door is driving me insane. She plays music that I'm sure no-one else in the universe listens to so goddamned loud that it rattles the pictures on my living room wall. When I finally have a day off that's decent enough to sit in the yard she immediately hauls her weirdo cats out on their leashes and then spends the next little while talking to them in some foreign kitty cat language that I'm sure the cats are really hot for. " Oh now, pooky wookie,are you glad to be out side in the nice sunny wunny?" Are ya new? They're CATS man! And stupid cats at that! Every Friday night it's the same old crap. Get home from work. Collapse onto the couch thankful that my tedious ridiculous job has not yet disabled what used to be a pretty fantastic brain. Close my eyes and think about dinner. Drift off....should I watch Dr. Phil? Loaf around in the yard? Eat something bad before the man gets home and I get caught red handed with my hand in the cookie bag? Hmm... so many big decisions, so little time... and then BLAM~! There goes the music, or whatever the hell it is at top crank until the pictures are vibrating and my teeth are chattering inside my skull. BOOM BOOMA BOOM! BLING BLINGY BLING BLANG! On and on and on until 10:59 pm when this crap clicks off. Today I finally managed to get the nerve to take my bank card out of hiding and buy the summer plants for the yard since it needed some serious sprucing up. After stuggling like a bastard with 5 25 pound bags of dirt under my arms through the visitors parking lot since soome schmuck had parked his shit box in my spot I arrange myself out in the yard to get things done and immediately there she was. On the other side of the fence doing God only knows what with those two stupid furrballs of hers. I tried to ignore her and think happy thoughts while I screwed up a few plant hangers. " Oh foozie woozie, do you have an upset tummy wummy from eating too much grass?" I decided I'd dig up the flower bed and yank weeds. It was the most socially acceptible act of violence I could manage without hurdling the fence and impaling her with my three toothed digging instrument - whatever the hell it's called. "Awww, mummy doesn't like to see her babies with sick tummies!" Again, I have to ask ARE YA NEW? Reality 101 dipshit: YOU are a human being and THEY are cats. Fat, no, corpulent little furry bastards who get more attention that the Pope but cats none the less! You and the hairball twins are driving me outta my mind! Now that its quiet I'd love to blast some music your way! But I don't have anything weird enough to aggrivate you sufficiently to make you implode, or explode or whatever it is that lunatic cat ladies do when they overheat.
Posted 6/10/2006 6:51:29 PM
Okay, so the woman next door is driving me insane. She plays music that I'm sure no-one else in the universe listens to so goddamned loud that it rattles the pictures on my living room wall. When I finally have a day off that's decent enough to sit in the yard she immediately hauls her weirdo cats out on their leashes and then spends the next little while talking to them in some foreign kitty cat language that I'm sure the cats are really hot for. " Oh now, pooky wookie,are you glad to be out side in the nice sunny wunny?" Are ya new? They're CATS man! And stupid cats at that! Every Friday night it's the same old crap. Get home from work. Collapse onto the couch thankful that my tedious ridiculous job has not yet disabled what used to be a pretty fantastic brain. Close my eyes and think about dinner. Drift off....should I watch Dr. Phil? Loaf around in the yard? Eat something bad before the man gets home and I get caught red handed with my hand in the cookie bag? Hmm... so many big decisions, so little time... and then BLAM~! There goes the music, or whatever the hell it is at top crank until the pictures are vibrating and my teeth are chattering inside my skull. BOOM BOOMA BOOM! BLING BLINGY BLING BLANG! On and on and on until 10:59 pm when this crap clicks off. Today I finally managed to get the nerve to take my bank card out of hiding and buy the summer plants for the yard since it needed some serious sprucing up. After stuggling like a bastard with 5 25 pound bags of dirt under my arms through the visitors parking lot since soome schmuck had parked his shit box in my spot I arrange myself out in the yard to get things done and immediately there she was. On the other side of the fence doing God only knows what with those two stupid furrballs of hers. I tried to ignore her and think happy thoughts while I screwed up a few plant hangers. " Oh foozie woozie, do you have an upset tummy wummy from eating too much grass?" I decided I'd dig up the flower bed and yank weeds. It was the most socially acceptible act of violence I could manage without hurdling the fence and impaling her with my three toothed digging instrument - whatever the hell it's called. "Awww, mummy doesn't like to see her babies with sick tummies!" Again, I have to ask ARE YA NEW? Reality 101 dipshit: YOU are a human being and THEY are cats. Fat, no, corpulent little furry bastards who get more attention that the Pope but cats none the less! You and the hairball twins are driving me outta my mind! Now that its quiet I'd love to blast some music your way! But I don't have anything weird enough to aggrivate you sufficiently to make you implode, or explode or whatever it is that lunatic cat ladies do when they overheat.
FeedBack
magicalmysterytour
9/10/2008 9:53:40 AM
happy birthday
who_am_i
1/4/2008 6:15:30 AM
hey just dropping by to see if your still around.
Jkrapture
4/13/2007 5:45:51 PM
Hey Calistoscript, Vote for the Bloggers of fame award Click Here
9/10/2008 9:53:40 AM
happy birthday
who_am_i
1/4/2008 6:15:30 AM
hey just dropping by to see if your still around.
Jkrapture
4/13/2007 5:45:51 PM
Hey Calistoscript, Vote for the Bloggers of fame award Click Here
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