Music?

Testing.... Lemme see if I can get the songs in my blog, here

[Listening to: El Matador - Los Fabulosos Cadillacs - (4:32)]

I died, I think

Laying in bed this morning (early afternoon...) with my eyes shut tight, spread eagle on my back, gripping the bottom sheet because I didn't want to fall off the room, and praying for someone to cut my throbbing thumping head off. I learned what hell is. I was certain that I died of alcohol poisoning, and had gone straight to drunkard's hell. Which is amusing in its own right, because I don't even believe in hell.

I made this drink last night:

2 cups of half and half
1 and a half cups EACH of kahlua, vodka, and creme de cacao

shaken in a half gallon bottle, served over lots of ice, with a squeeze of chocolate syrup.

The problem lies in the drink itself. It's more than half alcohol, you see. But it TASTES exactly like chocolate milk, innocent, sweet chocolate milk. I managed to drink the greater part of two batches of it, last night.

I learned some very important lessons, though. Lesson one: One pitcher is usually enough. Two is definitely overkill. Lesson two: Never swap out any piercing jewelery, because disasters are bound to happen. I arbitrarily decided that I needed to change my nipple rings, from the curved bars, to the shields. The right one didn't get tightened properly, and now it's gone. I think it got loose in my sleep. When I can look down, without puking, I shall commence the search. They're my favorite shields.

Never never never never again. I'm serious. I mean it.

Till next time, anyway.

Wow

Awful.

NJ has a lot of crazy teachers. Last year there was the teacher caught partying with her students, having sex with them, and getting them drugs. Now this.

I really want to homeschool Alden. Every day, I want to more and more.

I love being girly

I was so antigirly, when I was a teenager. I abhorred any sign of femininity, anything with pink, or a frill, or...well, anything. I did my makeup, when I was younger, with an eye for shock-rock. Not to enhance my features, but to scare people off, and look as shocking and evil as possible. I wore dresses. but of the black and tattered kind, with holey fishnets, and combat boots. My clothes were my armor. They were my shell, almost. I felt safe, behind band logos and black, spikes and leather, and rips and chains. I still do.

I feel good, still, when I go full-bore metal. I do it now, though, when I need some strength. Not every day. I don't have the energy to go the full measure, these days. When I'm feeling particularly vulnerable, these days, I'll don a Gwar tee, and some spiky jewelry. I'll smear the eyeliner across my eyes, black, smoky and sneering. Just like when I was a kid.

Mostly, these days, though, I'm embracing my girlyness. Chimele and I went, today, to get our nails done. We went to a trendy luncheonette, and then, to get our nails done. Had you predicted this for us 8 years ago, we would have laughed at you, barked at you, made threat poses, and tried to run you off.

But it's all about feeling good, and pampering myself, these days. The yoga is paying off in strength, and flexibility (Lisa at 17: "Yoga?! Yoga is for pansies!") The nail salon visits, and pedicures not only make me look good (I'm such a stickler for detail, even my pinkie toenail must look good) but they're directly related to how I feel about myself. If my nails look raggedy and chipped, I feel raggedy and chipped. These days we exfoliate, (we even got the Vikings to exfoliate :O ) shave, trim, wax, preen, and trade tips on doing the same. We spend hours browsing upscale cosmetic stores, looking for the perfect lipstick, for the best smelling stuff, or the lushest soap. (Lisa at 17: "Shampoo...soap, *sniff* I smell good. Lipstick, black. Eyeliner, black. What, this shirt doesn't have holes, I look ok.") I still won't let anyone lay a finger on my hair. A girl's gotta have some sacred cows.

I wonder what this says for my evolving character. I was more confident when I was younger, but only because I knew I scared people. I got off on having them cross the street to get away from me. Now, I'm regaining confidence, but it's because of my person, not my shell.

Wacky new net hobby

Since quitting the VN boards, my internet time has gotten, well, rather empty. Right around that same time, this neat little bar popped up, on top of the screen (look up, you see it...the one with the search box and next blog buttons). So, I hit "Next Blog" to see where I would go. Who are my neighbors, here, on blogger?

It's addictive, let me tell you. Next. Angsty teenager. Next. Angsty adult. Next. Boring person talking about how boring their life is. Next. Something in Arabic. Next. A blog about food. Next. Someone really friggin fascinating *bookmark*. And so it continues. Like potato chips, I just can't stop myself at one. It's a joyride through people's lives! Some of which I don't understand, some bore me to pieces, some piss me off...but it's all entertainment!

I feel so nosy, like when you go trick or treating, and you peer in people's houses, when they open the door to give you candy. Oh, I'm not the only one who's ever done it, so shut up.

I'm learning all sorts of interesting facts, too. Like, Asian girls like take their names from American pop stars. I've seen Avril, Ashley Simpson (is that a pop star, even? I don't even know...sounds like it...), and others. There are a lot of angry Christian teens, at conflict with the world, too. And, many world travelers. Getting loads of cool info about far away lands. Like, a bamboo ear cleaner in Singapore costs the equivalent to $0.24. Who knew?

I love these dumb little things

Which internet subculture do I belong to? [CLICK] You are a Conspiracy Theorist! Holy cow! You actually did an online quiz? Little did you realise that the information you gave us is being sent to an unknown government agency for evil use against you! Don't try to leave, we are already watching. More Quizzes at Go-Quiz.com

Added a new link:

Xan's blog ==>

Perhaps he will update it more, now ;)

It's called Wasted Time.

Pets and travel

I was thinking about this today, because I'm desperately in the mood to go camping, and well, pets have been on my mind a lot.

It sucks that pets aren't allowed at more places. I know, I know, liability, property damage, people leaving poop around, I know about all that. I'd like to think that pet ownership is evolving, though. Instead of having a dog, just to have a dog, I think more people are having companion animals. To me, that means a more sure sense of responsibility, concerning your pet. We train our animals more conscientiously, and with an eye toward blending well with humans. My dogs never chew, snap, bark unreasonably, (ok, we're having housebreaking issues, but shit can be cleaned up. If she poops at the campground, I certainly wouldn't leave it there. Like a house, you clean it up asap.), etc.

I know loads of pet owners that have great, well mannered, totally socialized dogs. It's a shame that not everyone who wants to bring their pets traveling, or camping, train them to be good. If everyone's dog was well mannered, and well behaved, and every owner was responsible enough to leash the animal, and clean up after it, I think we'd have less pet restrictions.

I'm still looking for the perfect pets-allowed campsite. So far we have the perfect one, but no dogs :( Or, this really crummy one, with all sorts of bizarre rules...but they allow pets.

Cute list, stolen from Chimele

Firsts
[First job]: I volunteered at the Navy Youth Center, when I lived on Guam, as an assistant counseler. My first paying job was working in a small, family operated pork rind factory.

[First screen name]: sisdeth13 (I know! 6 years, and I still use it!)

[First funeral]: I've been to a few, but I never really knew the people, my very first one was Earl's father, Cliff, but I met him twice. The first (and only) one that really impacted me was Tom's.

[First pet]: besides goldfish? Zukey, the most ignorant Peke in the universe

[First piercing]: My ears, when I was a baby.

[First tattoo]: crescent moon and star on my right breast, I got it when I was 16.

[First credit card]: Visa. I still have it, too.

[First kiss]: Joe Downey, when I was 14. Snuck out of the house, in the summertime to hang out with my friends (I was grounded, and the middle of the night is when we could all hang out and see each other). He was like "c'mere", and dragged me around behind the garage, and started making out with me. I didn't even know what to do. He had an enormous tounge, and he was a smoker, so it was all very strange.

[First enemy]: I remember getting into a scuffle with this kid Mike Hogan, when I was in third grade. That was my first fight, I think. His whole crew became my nemesis(es?) over the years...till, like 8th grade, then we all got hormones and started hanging around each other, making out, and stuff. See above. Yeah, I wound up fooling around with him too.

[First favorite musician]: Prince

Lasts...

[Last car ride]: Driving home from my mom's house.

[Last kiss]: Irv, like, an hour ago.

[Last movie watched]: Mask was just on, and I watched it...for the millionth time, and yeah, I got all weepy.

[Last beverage drank]: hot apple cinnamon tea, from Quick Check

[Last food consumed]: dinner, which was stuffed pork chops with bleu cheese, and spinach sauteed with garlic and olive oil

[Last phone call]: Irv, bitching about the fact that one of his mowers is on it's last leg

[Last time showered]: about 3 hours ago

[Last CD played]: Pearl Jam 10

[Last web site visited]: Cao's ghetto boards (i.e. the new Cantina)

[Lesson learned]: when the dog runs around whining, she really does have to go out, but she doesn't necessarily feel like shitting when she's out there taking in all the sights, and will, in fact, save up her shit, till she finds a nice pile of clean clothes to deposit it in :

Now...

[Single or Taken]: taken, mostly ;)

[Sex]: yes please

[Birthday]: 5-13-78

[Sign]: Taurus

[Siblings]: my half-brother Chris

[Hair color]: red

[Eye color]: green

[Shoe size]: 9.5

[Height]: 5'8"

[Mood]: insomnia-twitchy

[City you're in]: HAH you call this a city!? Union Beach. The puddle with houses in it.

Right now what are you...

[Supposed to be doing instead of this]: sleeping

[Wearing]: yoga pants and a wifebeater

[Drinking]: my own saliva

[Thinking about]: my empty spider tank, and all the crap I gotta go do
tomorrow, which includes returning the iPod AGAIN...

[Listening to]: All in the Family, on TV

[About to do]: take the dog out for her final pee of the night

Slings and T's

I've been obsessed with spiders for a long time, right. Ever since I can remember, I've observed them, studied about them, been fascinated by them, doodled them all over the place, and all that. I even have a spider themed tattoo.

I was never allowed to keep one as a pet, when I lived at home, but I sorely wanted one. Bill's an arachnophobe, so, he put his foot down, early on. 7 years of mentioning it once in awhile, and wearing him down has taken it's toll. I'm poised and ready for my first pet tarantula. I've purchased a nice enclosure, decorated it, and made it ready for my prospective pet. I'm very excited about it.

I spend hours poring over The Arachnoboards, and various pet invertebrate websites. I'm so ready, I just don't have one. Only one of the pet stores around here even sell them, and they haven't had a g. rosea in, which is what I want. They have a Mexican Redleg, but it's rather pricy. They're very nice with me, though, I've spent a good deal of time lurking around the store, talking with the guys about spiders. Half of them are T owners, and are enthusiastic to share their knowledge and love of the hobby. Saturday night, one of the guys popped the top of the redleg cage, plunked down on the floor, and let me handle the T. We sat there on the floor talking about them, letting the little guy walk back and forth across our hands. It was one of the coolest things, ever.

It's a good hobby, getting me away from spending so much time on gaming. Gives me something new to love, learn about, and take care of, as well. I need it, at this point in my life.

If one doesn't fall into my lap, soon, I'm planning on sending out for a sling, mail order. Sling is short for spiderling. If I do that, I'll choose one of the more colorful and less common types. I sort of don't want to, though, because I want to see what I'm getting, and I want to get an adult, or sub-adult, for starters. They're less fragile. I can abide. Hopefully Petland Discounts will come through for me.

One more update, and that's it

I'm not going to keep revisiting this, but (especially because Tito mentioned it, commenting) this is where we're at now, regarding the incident last week:

Thursday afternoon, the head law enforcement officer for the Monmouth County SPCA called me. He told me that the boxer was seized, and turned over to the Humane Society, for quarrantine, and would be euthanized in 5 days. That was yesterday, I guess. He knew Pixie personally, because he handles all the cruelty cases, and she came to the SPCA 6 years ago, from a cruelty incident. He was very nice to talk to, and I felt much better.

He questioned me about the nature of the situation over there, if the owner had malicious intent, what sort of environment the boxer was kept in, etc. Because the dog had a history of attacking (my husband, my other dog, and now this, not to mention the dozens of times it lunged for one of us, and barely escaped getting whomped with a bat, or shovel, or whatever) it was considered dangerous, already. They're facing crazy fines, for neglect, letting a vicious dog roam free, etc etc. When I explained that we learned the owner of the dog is a 16 year old kid, and when we confronted him later that day, he was all smug and laughed about it, the officer tacked "malicious intent" to the laundry list, and his charges are leaning toward criminal. Because he laughed. At his dog killing mine. Well, laugh it up, kid, yours is too. Only, his dog got euthanized, peacefully. Bah, I'm not gonna go through this again, it still kills me. Either way, the officer revisited the house, looking for more violations.

The other thing that came of that phone call (we were seriously on the phone for an hour)...he told me about my rights to compensation. Like Tito said, we are entitled to something. Now, at first, I thought "no way, we're not the suing type. Putting a monetary value on her life almost cheapens the whole thing" But, the more he spoke, and told me how firm this case is, and how so badly our rights were violated, the more I got to thinking. If this is open and shut, this kid can go on with his life and forget, the family can pretend it never happened. If I make it a point, to make them go to court, and pay fines, fees, and now compensation, it will be in their faces every day. Let them live through so much bullshit. Let them deal with this, what they caused. I have this victim anger thing going on. I want to wave her picture in their faces. I want to scream, " She was sunning! She was old, and arthritic! She had half of her teeth left! She probably couldn't get up fast enough to run away!!"

I'm digressing. I want them to pay. Not me, though. I would feel just, filthy, if I profitted from this situation in any way. I'm going to split whatever we get in half. Half goes into a trust fund for Alden, since he's entitled to it. He loved Pixie, he saw the whole thing happen. The other half, I'm going to donate directly to the Monmouth County SPCA. I love those people, they're all so good. They've blessed us with Pixie, and were there for me at the end. They've spayed/neutered so many of my animals, for cheap. Just, good people, and I want to help them. Pixie would probably approve.

I've been mulling it over, and I've decided to call a lawyer tomorrow.


My feelings: I'm coping with two things, right now. The scene keeps repeating in my head. I just drift to it. It's getting better now, less frequent, and I can push it away faster. It's still there. The other thing, is just this hollowness. There is a real sense of emptiness. Something I loved dearly isn't here to love anymore. I have Pookie, and all of us are positively lavishing her with attention (we used to, anyway, but now even moreso) but she's polar opposite of Pixie. Plus, we're a two dog house. It's hard to say "hey, I'm taking the dogs, uh, dog...for a walk" It's painful.

Alden is coping in his own weird way. He keeps asking questions about the event, and rehashing it. I know it's good to vent, but, we had to put a stop to it. He's starting to use it as a crutch, and as a point of casual conversation. Not acceptable. He's better now, that we've talked a lot about grieving, and how it's not like telling someone about your trip to the zoo. He's learned that it's a very sensitive subject, to be approached with care. He misses her, I can tell. Sometimes I think he "goes through the motions" because he thinks it's the proper way to be. This time, he's really grieving. He visits her little mound, daily, when he thinks we're not watching, and leans down and talks to her. He pats the dirt. It's the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life.

We can all still laugh, and carry on with life normally. We're all doing just fine, working, talking, doing the routine thing. We barely talk about it. There's no reason to, really. We're considering adopting another dog. Not to replace her, but because we need that two-dog routine, Pookie's lonely, and I need something to nurture. I've totally engrossed myself into the whole tarantula hobby thing, it's given me tons of diversion, something worthwhile to obsess over, to keep my mind off of darker things.

This weekend was actually good. Saturday was shaky, I was having major problems with three old friends, involving my plumber. I was ready to sever ties with three wonderful people, that I've been great friends with since I was 16. That, on top of everything, and I was a basket case, Saturday. I had that "can I handle this? will I crack? if it gets any worse, will I be able to take it?" feeling. Very overwhelmed.

Sunday helped exponentially, we visited Aunt Lynne, my favorite aunt in the universe. We're not really related, even, but, she's probably still one of my favorite people, ever. She's a fellow dog person, and a great source of comfort and understanding. Driving all the way down there, and spending the day with her, and her mother and brother was an excellent break from routine. We left last night feeling relaxed, and good.

Today was Alden's birthday. We packed up and went up to Space Farms, in Sussex Cty. Long ride, but, again, like a small vacation. Spent the day checking out history, feeding animals, lounging in the shade, meandering around. Great day, just perfect.

It feels good to smile again.

Last Night

I cried myself to sleep last night. Everything was ok, I thought I was doing better. I laid there on my back, trying to force myself to stop thinking about it. My feet were cold, though, and I didn't realize why. Then it hit me, I always poke my feet out from under my blankets, no matter what the weather, because Pixie used to sleep between them. I would pet her with my toes before I fell asleep, and often, she'd rest her head on my ankle, or calf. When I realized that my feet were freezing, and she wasn't coming to bed, to warm them up, I started sobbing.

I can't stop replaying that awful scene in my mind. Those dark moments in bed, before sleep comes, I can't help it. The whatifs come in. What if I got out there 2 minutes sooner, what if that dog got Alden, what if I had gotten her to the vet sooner, what if what if what if.

This morning, when the alarms went off, they woke me up. Irv went off to work, and kissed me goodbye, as usual. I tried slipping off to sleep, as usual, too, but sleep wouldn't come. I kept drifting off, a little, then waking myself up patting the bed, where she used to move to, after he left. She would always migrate up the bed, to his pillows, when he got up.

I'm driving myself crazy. I don't know what to do, but I have to get over this.

...

I'm beside myself. I have to write this down, maybe it'll clean me out.

The facts: Today, around one p.m. the neighbor's boxer got into our yard, and killed my dog, Pixie. I let the dogs out, as usual, a little after lunch. I heard Pookie barking, and sent Alden to open the door for them, as that's Pookie's signal to come inside. She came tearing in, Alden right behind her. He was very flustered "The big dog's out there! It has Pixie trapped against the wall!" I rush out to the back, and the boxer had my Pixie by the back of the neck, and was shaking her like a ragdoll. Flipping her around, up in the air, smashing her against the wall. My little girl doggie, my angel. I screamed and ran for the dog, it dropped Pixie and fled. Pixie looked very dead, I was hysterical, screaming. I ran back toward the house, to the fence, where my neighbor was standing, peering over, at the commotion. I screamed for him to come get his dog, that it just killed mine. He came and got his dog, and he was stammering apologies, telling me that he would pay for a new dog, etc. I wasn't paying attention to him, I was trying to figure out what to do. At this point, I assumed my babygirl was dead. There was blood spattered all over the side of the house, and the basement door, from the ground, up the walls about 3 feet.

I ran for the phone to call Irv, and ran back outside to see about Pixie. The phone was dead. Pixie was filthy, covered with mud, and blood, laying there in the corner. Her eyes were bulged out of her head, she had puncture wounds all over the back of her neck. Her mouth was agape, and her tounge lolled out. Her whole face was greyish, and she had bloodspots blooming around her eyes. But, I felt her body, and she was still breathing, her heart was still beating. I whispered to her, and smoothed her fur, and her lips twitched. She was moving her mouth a little, and her eyelids, but, I don't think she could close them. I ran into the house to find the vet's number, to tell them I had an emergency that I was gonna bring her in. I couldn't find it, so I grabbed a towel, and placed her so gently on it. I yelled for Alden to grab my keys and phone, and I sorta made a hammock out of the towel, to carry Pixie to the car. I made her as comfortable as I could, on the floor of the passenger seat, and we rushed to the vet. Her heart was still beating, when I placed her in the car. I had this great surge of hope, maybe she was just in shock, maybe it was all surface wounds, maybe I got out there in time!

We get to the vet, and they rushed her to a room, the nurses performed CPR on her, while someone rushed to get a doctor. She looked so bad, there, so dirty and bloody and small. The vet rushed her to the operating area. That was it. Fifteen minutes, he came out, and broke the news. They did all they could, but she was dead. Her heart wasn't beating when we got there, and they couldn't ressucitate her. She died on the way to the vet, right there on the car floor.

All sorts of shit happened after that, the whole day was spent deep in shit, but I don't even want to go into it. Suffice to say, Irv showed up at the vet, we decided together that we would bring her remains home, and bury her in the yard. Alden didn't really understand, I don't think. He didn't internalize it till much later. Irv came in his work truck, so he called Mom to come drive me home, because I was in no shape to drive.

He buried her out by the front of the yard, near the flagpole, where she used to like laying, and sunning to watch traffic go by. While he was doing that, Mom took me to the police station to file a complaint. Blah blah blah, legal shit, I was in there for three hours giving a statement. They were incredibly sympathetic.

The vicious dog was seized by the Humane Society, then later turned over to the SPCA, for quarrentine. I'm not sure what's gonna happen to it, but by all the gods if they don't put it down, if it shows back up next door, I will take matters into my own hands.



Now, my feelings: I've never witnessed such a random, senseless act of violence in my entire life. I don't even want to get into it, except it will be a long time before I can get over seeing it unfold, like that. Knowing my son saw the same thing. I know, from where she was killed, that she was sitting on her favorite concrete pad, sunning, like always, when she was attacked. I keep seeing it over and over, her blood everywhere. Her getting tossed around like a toy. Everyone said, thank god, it could have been Alden. I know, and they're right, but it wasn't. I don't even want to think about that, right now. I couldn't begin to handle that.

My little Pixie. She weighed eleven pounds, she had about 5 teeth left. She wasn't ancient, but she was getting up in years. Turned 7 this year. She was the sweetest, gentlest dog I've ever seen. Calm, benign, loyal, motherly, just a fucking great dog.

I adopted her from the SPCA when I was 4 months pregnant. She was 9 months old, and she was horrendously mistreated. She and her sister were abandoned in a vacant house, locked up for two weeks. They drank out of a toilet, and ate garbage to survive. Her sister was already adopted, but she was still there. She was thin as a rail, most of her hair was gone, you could practically see through her. But she was so beautiful, so I don't know, just...just her, I had to have her. I made Irv take off of work so he could come down and adopt her with me. I loved her so much from the moment I saw her, I can't even explain it. Her eyes were so soft, so incredible. One was blue. I'm crying so hard right now, I can barely see the screen.

Anyway, it was a rocky first year or so, she wasn't housebroken at all, she was a submissive pisser, so any time anyone leaned over her, she pissed all over the place. She was a nervous wreck all the time, she wouldn't eat anything except shit food, which gave her the shits, and she shit all over the house, all the time. It was very hard, but god, I loved her so much.

When Alden was born, she was so protective of him, she slept in his room every night. When he was on the floor, she laid near him, in her lion pose. She was such a great momma dog. We'd go walking, or to the park, and she'd never take her eyes off of him. When we got our cat, it was the same way, Momma dog, she mothered that kitten so hard, she would lick her clean, herd her to the water dish, curl up with her to sleep. Everyone was Pixie's puppy.

Pixie was so intuitive. She was the first one there, if someone was crying, she was patient enough to let me bundle her up, and cry into her fur, when I was going through something. She would snuggle around my head, when I was sick. She hated being picked up and messed with, she got so tense, but when someone was upset, she was right there. She was never a lap dog, either. Very content to lay pressed up against your leg, but as soon as you pulled her into your lap, she got fidgety.

Besides the early years, she never once gave me a problem. Never dug in the garbage, never chewed anything up (except lipsticks, for some reason), never ran away, nothing. Once she was housebroken, that was it, no more messes. She was so peaceful, she hated noise. Quiet as a mouse. She wasn't barky, and when she did bark, she had this soft rolling howl, like "hou-ou-ou-ou-ou" God, I miss her so much already.

I've already gotten the retarded "well, it was just a dog" statement from a few people. She wasn't just a dog. I've had pets that were just pets. Pixie, she was another family member, she was almost a part of me. I feel like it's part of my heart, lying out there under the ground. I've never been so attached to an animal (I'm not even this attached to most people), I can't even explain it, but, a little of my heart broke today.

She's out there in the yard, in the dark now, and I just want to sit out there with her. I feel like I shouldn't be leaving her alone out there, she hated being alone. She slept with us every single night. I'm going to plant a rosebush, on her little mound out there. A white one, the kind that are tinged pink. She was white, but tinged a little pink.

I can't write anymore, I'm all writed out. I don't know if this will help me or not, because right now I'm crying really hard. I do feel better getting down all the good things about her, I feel like I had to document what an excellent dog she was.

The Card, or lack thereof

I thought hard about why I hate greeting cards (and, omg I do, you have no idea how much I hate them) Not recieving, that's no biggie, but, giving. I simply don't do cards, not for holidays, not for birthdays, not for events, no cards. Till now, I never really examined the whys of it, but it's been a fact as long as I can remember.

I really hate trite shit. I can't do the "Best Wishes!" bullshit. If I congratulate someone, it's a genuine congratulations. If I want to say how overjoyed I am, that they're having a kid, I will tell them, or write a letter about it, in a blank card (because sometimes ya gotta do cards, no matter what...where else are you gonna stick money) I feel awkward and cheesy writing a line of overused token sentiment. I feel even awkwarder and cheesier if I DIDN'T write it, and just gave someone a card saying whatever.

I came to this epiphany, when signing this little booklet card thing, Michele had at her shower. Everyone signed it with 'Best Wishes' or 'Congratulations' I wanted to say more, something meaningful. I could've written a paragraph.

I'm going to get her wedding card, very soon, and I'll start writing it, now. It'll be a book, I'm sure, so I gotta get a huge one, or one with some pages in it, or some shit.

Waiting

I hate this. It's almost time to jet, for Michele's shower, and I'm in that twilight between going too early, and leaving too late. All dressed up, and agonizing.

I didn't get her a card, but, I suck at cards. I can never think of anything meaningful to write in them. Maybe I'll go now, get a blank card, and sit in the car, letting the thoughts come. It'll come off as cheesy and unrefined, though. Bah. But, not having a card is cheesy and unrefined, too.

I'm also having a moment, because I *hate* going to parties, gatherings are a minor phobia of mine (for some reason that phobia doesn't extend to having them, I love throwing parties). I'm going by myself, so no Bill to cling to. Now I'm all wondering did Lisa get my email RSVP? I sent it last minute, like July 30... I never got an email back. Will there be room for me? Do I look like a hobo? Am I overdressed? Agony agony agony.

It's time to leave. I'm cardless. Michele, I hope you'll understand. Maybe I'll just tell you the things I'd put in the card.

Oh yeah...

...that's why I don't watch the news.

I turned on ABC, to catch the full McGreevy thing (All I can say about that is wow, but, you know he only came out/resigned/etc, because of the upcoming sexual misconduct suit. Smart move, he put things out in the open, himself, didn't wait for all the skeletons to come out of the closet in trial. Still bummed, though, he wasn't a bad gov. Now who knows what's gonna happen. I digress...) Anyway, so after the big gov. news, there were a few more stories, before the weather. A young couple getting electrocuted in their car, a 5 year old boy and his mother getting hit by a truck, which killed the kid, left mom in critical cond. and someone dying in a freak freight elevator crash. Then comes the weather and flood warnings.

Wee. I hate TV. I'm crawling back into my cave 'o ignorance.

Mom

I haven't blogged about my parents much, but, I feel like I want to. I think the thing that's been holding me back is that I have a whole lot to say about both of them.

I'm going to start small, and with the most immediate thing.

Today, I went to go get my nails done. My mom had Alden, so, perfect opportunity. She said, "oh, that's cool, I was planning on going Monday, too, with Carrie (her friend)" I was like, "oh, hey, I'll tag along with you, so I have someone to talk to" . By her response, I could tell that she didn't want me along, for whatever reason, so I went later on. That's cool. What was really cool, is that they were just leaving, as I got there, and I found out that she paid for my manicure/pedicure, already. How sweet was that? My mommy hooks me up. I never ask for a thing, from them, but she's free with the treats. It's always been that way, though. I can honestly say, we were poor, when I was growing up, but pretty much, when she had it, I never wanted for anything, ever.

I think it's her way of making up for all the really awful things. More on that, another time. But, it's like her apologizing, without having to say "I'm sorry."

So, this evening, we talk on the phone. I made the offhand comment, that I wish Alden would clean his room here, the way he takes care of his stuff there. She goes on and on about how tidy he is, and how well he cleans up after himself. I mostly think she's bullshitting, but that's her way. So, I said "I wish I could get him to do things like that at home!" sorta joking, y'know.

She says this "Well, his room HERE isn't a tiny little shithole." I was like "Excuse me? Shithole?"

Then, further..."well, the dogs shit in there, right? Isn't it all covered with dog shit, and stuff?"

"his room?!" (I was literally gaping, at the phone. I mean, who the fuck says that?)

"yeah, the dogs sleep in there, right?"

"You think Alden's room is the house litterbox, and all the animals all shit in there? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, it sounds bad when you say that..."

"Um."

The conversation continued. She was feigning honest cluelessness at what she was implying. Like people go around saying that kind of shit, every day. His room is smallish, and cluttered, but it's because it's filled with toys and clothes. The animals are only in there to stand on his bed and bark out his window (it overlooks the front porch). She must see them there every time she comes over, and assume that they live in there (I really don't know where she gets the whole shit thing, except that when we got Pookie, she wasn't housetrained, and shat all OVER the house, occasionally on his rug.) But, to her, dogs=filth. So, she sees the dogs in his room, and assumes that it's filthy.

It isn't. What kind of mother would I be, if I let my son lived in filth? Just her implying it, like, stings me. I don't know why, but she really hits those buttons. She makes these offhand comments about how she dissaproves of my mothering, how I keep my house, my abysmal taste, etc etc etc. Before I became a mother, she would make snide digs about the house, the husband, etc. When I lived at home, she attacked my appearance, constantly, my intellect, just...my existence. Then, 3 seconds later, she gives this wide-eyed look and says (This makes me so angry, I can't even express my feelings about it in words) "Why, I'm sorry you FEEL that way, I don't really know why you're getting so upset..." She never ever says "I'm sorry"

She's not sorry. I don't think she's been sorry for anything in her life. She's sorry that you aren't taking her "constructive criticism" and bettering yourself with it.

It's this daily dance. She says things that are totally volatile, she's a pushy, catty, nasty bitch 80% of the time (she's even taken it upon herself to 'decorate' Alden's room, in the new house. We're letting her, but we're gonna take it all down, when we move in. It's just easier...) But, the other 20% she's giving, supportive, etc. She's never honest. Never reliable. And, I'm never sure what percent I'm gonna run into when we talk.

I'm counting my blessings that I moved out of there early on, because I am very sure that we would kill each other. I'm also lamenting, sometimes, that we live 9 blocks apart. Because sometimes, that feels way too close.

Well, it started out good...

This morning was beautiful. The sun is shining, it was in the high 60's low 70's, perfect. Perfect. I got up early, set Alden up with a nice breakfast of waffles and fruit, talked to my mom on the phone for an hour, and decided to go take a nap. The perfect napping weather. All the windows open, sun warming the pillows.

Alden seemed ok, eating, watching a little TV. All was right with the world.

15 minutes into my nap. "The dog puked in the bathroom, mommy" He's a capable boy. They're his dogs, too. Not one to give up the nap so easily, I said "go clean it up, with paper towels" And that was that.

He comes in a little later and says "I'm waiting for it to dry, it's too slimy." I told him to just clean it up, and make sure he washes his hands really good, after.

After the phone ringing about 6 times, all the interruptions, I decided it was time to give up the ghost, and say fuck the nap. Dissapointing, but I'm ok with it.

The very first thing I noticed was a looooong trail of paper towels leading out of the bathroom (or into) all still hooked together. I counted 14. Followed the trail into the bathroom, where I was greeted by a the sight of a small mountain of paper towels. Every square inch of the bathroom floor is covered in paper towels, some, inexplicably, have clothes pins clipped to them. Topping off the whole scene, is the empty roll standing on end, on the toilet lid. The layers thicken around the middle of the floor, creating an almost plateau-like effect.

"what's this?"

"I didn't want to touch the puke"

"You know, most people can get the job done with one or two paper towels."

*silence*

"pick them all up, put them in the garbage, and I'm taking $3 out of your bank, to pay for a replacement roll. Make sure you clean up the puke, underneath. Wash your hands when you're done, and then come talk to me"

"ok"

No yelling. No voice raising. He's a good boy, a smart boy. I thought we handled it well.

Then I walked into the living room. Background: My living room carpet is a very deep hunter green. Not today, though. Today, it was white, with some green poking through it.

I'm not a screamy mother. I seldom raise my voice. This time, I think I just gasped, and maybe let out a little screech.

"What is all over the floor?" (still calm, though, strained)

"um. powder."

That's when the smell hits me. It's rather mentholated. He dusted the entire living room with Gold Bond.

"WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!"

"It smelled good, and I wanted to trace my toys on the floor."

Oh yeah, look at that, there's outlines of trolls and GI goes. Huh, cool.

"WITH GOLD BOND?! THAT SHIT COSTS 10 bucks a bottle!!!! LOOK AT THIS MESS WHAT THE FUCK POSESSED YOU!?!" (I'd pretty much ditched calm, by now)

*silence*

"*sigh* When you're done with the bathroom, you can come in here and clean this shit up. I'm taking another $10 out of your bank, for the cost of the powder, and when you're done in here, you can spend the rest of the day in your room. You can't seem to be trusted today."

"but..."

"go. now. before I start yelling again."


That wouldn't be bad, if that were it. I wish it were. He finished the bathroom, then I help him in the living room, moving my stuff around, so he can clean better. Then I had to pee.

Bathroom looks pretty good. I disinfected the floor, though, just to be extra clean about it. The kitchen garbage is filled with the spent roll of paper towels, all is well.

Till I opened the lid of the toilet.

Picture if you will, a solid wet mass of paper towels, coming halfway up the inside of the bowl. No water, but, only paper towels. There's more. Perched on top of the paper towels is a neat little pile of poop. So well arranged, you would think someone sculpted it there. The poop was entirely out of the water. It looked like it was drying, there.

I didn't scream. I might have let out a half-barking whoop. Shut the lid. Walked into the living room.

"did you put paper towels in the toilet?"

"yes" (he's such an honest kid)

"knowing the toilet was clogged, did you then poop on top of the paper towels?"

"I had to go"

*erk*

I closed the lid, closed the door and walked back into the living room. He resumed toiling away at the powder, but he wasn't doing so well.

At this point, I was at a juncture. Don some rubber gloves, and handle the situation, without getting too worked up. Then pee in peace. OR Walk past the closed up bathroom, and go pee in the yard. Or, pee in the bathtub. I did what any one of you would do. I sat down at the computer, and bitched to a friend about it. He confirmed that I should, indeed leave the door closed, and probably sell the house. I was getting desperate. I went back there, and stood in the doorway, staring maniacally at the tub.

Just then, the door opened up. Bill to the rescue!!! He noticed the strange look on my face. He came over, to see what I was looking at. I pointed at the toilet lid.

The situation basically took care of itself, from there. He's a screamer. He ranted and raved, and yelled at poor Alden. He screamed, but while he screamed, he threw on the trusty rubber gloves, and took care of the situation. He made Alden stand there and watch while he pulled a full 300 lbs of sodden, shit covered paper towels out of the bowl. He made him tie the bag, and drag it outside. All the while, I was sorta telling the morning's events, backwards.

The toilet got taken care of. I redisinfected the floor, toilet, walls, etc... I got to go pee. Alden was in his room, crying. Bill made some lunch for us.

I had to stick Alden in the shower, after lunch, though. All that shit, puke, and powder, god knows what was on him. He's clean, and calm. I'm calm and relieved. The living room still looks like it snowed.

I'm, like, tired again.

Maybe I should go take a nap...

A few little changes

Some color changes, whaddya think? Good? Bad? Indifferent?

Thanks ArtE, he's artsy and fabulous.

Ohh yeah

I was gonna sum up that ridiculously long road trip story, with this insight:

Harriet is one of those friends. Bill called her a pork chop. You gotta trim off a lot of crap, before you get to the good part. It's good, but, a lot of work. She couldn't hold out her act for so long, so when it tapered off, and all that was left was the true person, she's good, and a good friend. Take her away from the audience, and, everything normalizes. We still laugh together, at those times, cry on each other's shoulders, etc.

We have a lot of deep down stuff in common, and I know my stability is good for her to be around. Her outgoingness is probably good for me, saves me from being a total hermit.

Despite all my bitching, and all her bizarre personality flaws, they're not without reasons, and she's still an alright person.

Huh

ArtE just pointed out that, "Sphinx of black quartz judge my vow" is every letter.


That is so much better than that stale quick brown fox phrase.

Road Trip

Scroll down and read Dread first, if you haven't already. I broke this one into chapters.

She pulled up and honked. I was busy slamming tequila shots, and lamenting to Cao and Xan, on what a suckass night this was turning into, and trying to figure out a way to make some fun for myself. I took my sweet ass time getting out there too, I lingered over a book selection, had to find my missing hairbrush, count the cash that was in my pocket, double checking all the stuff in my bakcpack, etc.

When I got outside, I noticed that she wasn't in the Durango, she brought her uncle's car, the Merc. Clean, nice, huuuuge backseat, etc. That was the first plus. The second thing was, no kids! Just DJ, her 14 year old nephew, whom I like. He's a good kid, funny, sharp sense of humor, pretty quiet. If I could tune her out, this looked like it would be a decent road trip. I like going for car rides, in general. With the right people, it's a cool way to spend time together, see some sites, etc.

The first 40 minutes, she ranted about having to go out at rush hour, on a Tuesday night, and that she was gonna miss her shows, and it was gonna rain, and how much DJ's dad is a bastard for making her take this trip, blah blah blah. DJ was just like "hey, whaddya gonna do" .

I busied myself making phone calls, ignoring her, reading, joking with DJ, and demanding that we stop for some coffee and food. Since she was on the phone for most of that time, the music was blessedly off. She talks on the phone so much, it's awful. Bitching to her sister, bitching to her husband, bitching to Don, her sister's husband, bitching to her aunt and uncle, that were taking care of the kids, bitching at her kids, bitching to her other friends, etc etc etc. Once she dried up all her avenues of phone calling and bitching at, she quieted down, and the music went up. Bill alternately snoozed, commiserated with her bitching, and chatted with me. He could sleep on a picket fence, I swear it.

We stopped for pizza at a rest stop halfway there, and I insisted on eating in the place. I hate eating in the car, I get carsick. We lingered over pizza, salad, dessert... till she got so antsy, she started pacing. The rest of the trip up there was mostly cool, she finally calmed the fuck down, and settled into a nice driving groove. Stopped being ragey, stopped screaming at everyone, and we were having normal conversation, for once. It was pretty nice. She even put on the radio, to a mix easy listening type station, so that we didn't have to endure one more goddamned Toby motherfucking Keith song.

We weren't driving the kid all the way home, she and her sister visit so often, and take each other's kids so much, that they have a planned halfway point. This gas station smack in between their two houses. That is where we were going, I didn't even know it, till we were almost there. We were supposed to be there at 8, to meet Don, but we got there at 9:15 (hehe, oops). Get there, and no Don. Turns out Don had to work late, and he had only been on the road for an hour. He'd be there in another hour. Shit. So, she started driving all over the area, looking for something to do. Place called New Paltz, turned out to be a little college town, SUNY was right there, and there were tons of cool little stores, sorta like a New Hope, but, in NY. Only, at 9:30, they were all closed. The only thing open was our gas station, a strip club, and a laundromat. We serisouly debated popping into the strip club, and leaving Deej in the car. I couldn't do it, though, shoot, the kid is only 14.

We wound up going back to the gas station, and waiting around till 10:30, for Don to show up. Uneventful. She paced around and whined about waiting, but that was nothing, really.

The trip home was interesting. I sat in the front (and controlled the volume knob ;) It was late, no one around to call, no one to put on a show for. Like, she stopped 'acting' her scary monster persona, and started being a normal, nice person. We had a deep (two way, for once, rather than me listening) conversation about our similar childhoods, she didn't know how similar, till last night. She didn't know that I went through, growing up. I'd heard bits of her story, but now I know more. I think she takes me a little more serious, now that she knows stuff. Bill listened, added his insight to stuff, and it was very cool. We got home after midnight, and I was in a decent mood. The trip went well, I was reminded more of why I choose to be her friend, and it was a productive evening. More on that, later.

Dread

Yesterday took a weird turn. Started out normal and slow, changed up midway.

Went to Target with my mom in the early afternoon, normal. Pulled into the driveway, and Bill's on the phone. He said "here, ask her" as I hop out and start grabbing my bags. I took the phone, thoroughly confused, and it was Harriet. You guys remember Harriet...

She was going to upstate NY, to take her nephew home. He was visiting, and his dad needed him home a few days early, to work. She called, because she was looking for a ride partner, so she didn't have to come back alone. 4 hour round trip.

First thing that struck me: Why didn't she call my number? Why did she call Bill? Any other day, he'd have been at work, or driving from the county job, to his first batch of lawns. He'd have been busy, wheras, around 4 p.m. I'd be just getting home from running around all morning. Seemed illogical.

Second thing: I've invited her to hang out about 6 times, since the end of the school year. She's bailed almost every time, save for 4th of July, when we all went and saw fireworks, together. I felt a little used. Don't call to hang out, but call when you need something. I wouldn't normally be so suspicious, but that's the nature of her way, I've seen her do it to people before, and now it was my turn.

Third thing: The woman's ego. She's been a monster to be around, lately. She's a chain smoker, she listens to loud country music, when she drives, and she won't stfu for three seconds. When she's not on her phone, she's talking about how this guy thinks she's hot, or how she flirted with that pizza guy. Her kids are screamy, and I hate them, pretty much. Whenever we go anywhere in her car, it's insta migrane. Between her mouth, smoking, the music, the cartoons blasting on the DVD player in the back, the air conditioner drying out my eyeballs, and the kids screaming to compete with the rest of the noise...yeah, that's an accurate picture of my private hell. Plus, she's road ragey, and drives like a fucking lunatic.



I told her, I'd call her back when my mom left, and I'd had a chance to digest the info.

Now, I had promised to take Alden to this town picnic thing, the National Night Out, on the beachfront, he was looking forward to it. I told Bill, to call her back, and tell her we couldn't go, we were taking Alden out. My mom wanted to take him, also, but I figured since Bill was home, we'd go as a family instead. He balked. He said "But I hate those things, I don't want to go, plus I told her I'd go with her already."

Enter: Suspicion. He HATES going places with her. For the same reasons I mentioned. He's the worst complainer, he's the one that pushes for seperate cars, whenever we'd go anywhere. So, add "why the fuck would you want to go?" to "why the fuck didn't you call my phone?" and you have this growing ball of suspicion.

I did the only thing I could think of. Call him on it, then invite myself. Hustled the boy off to Nana's, and set myself up for a roadtrip to hell. He didn't even realized how the situation looked, but you take this voraciously sexual predator of a woman, angling to be with my husband (whom she thinks is attractive) alone for at least two hours, and you have something that just doesn't look right.

I trust him, naturally. We have this perfect love, perfect trust, thing. Hell, I'd probably let him go along with anyone else, even if I knew for sure they were gonna do something...buuuut, this is personal. I've got it in my mind that this woman is trying to steamroll me, and go after Bill. She's just that kind of girl.

See, I'm normally not suspicious at all, about anything, but she makes me wonder. She calls him sometimes, for landscaping advice, car questions, etc. Sometimes she shows up where he gets his coffee in the AM and buys. Stuff like that. Add to that, we already had a Situation, a few years ago, where a woman was actively pursing him, and trying to cut me out of the picture...and, well, you can see why I would worry a little.

He realized what he had accidentally done, by being so amiable. He just said yes, without even thinking about what it was gonna be like, or that we had plans (admittedly, I hadn't really enforced the whole town picnic thing, he thought my mom was taking Alden). He's very good natured like that, though, one would call him a pushover. Shirt off his back kinda guy.

So, we both went.

Poor Bill

Bill, as Caoilin has arbitrarily titled The Mister (which I like, because it's more concise), is a disaster.

First of all, let it be known, that he is the rashiest mo'fo on two legs. If he were a female, we could call it "sensitive skin" but he's not, so, he's just rashy. In the 7+ years we've been together, I don't think a week has gone by, where he didn't have some kind of poison ivy, or plant infection, or reaction, or something.

He used my Dial Antibacterial wash, the other day, the stuff I keep around to wash all the piericings. Apparently he didn't rinse well enough. Sunday morning, he had an outbreak of faint pink bumps across his chest, and arms. It got worse, throughout Sunday. By Sunday night, they were getting red, and they were on his arms, back, neck, legs, ass, and...everything in between. The only spot he didn't have it, was the middle of his back, which is why we think it was the soap. You can almost see where he swiped the washcloth. Monday morning, he left for work, and I didn't get to examine him, but when he came home last night, he was bright, angry red, from head to toe. The bumps melted together, till he was a walking puffy hive. His face was puffy and swollen, and he had a raging fever. Poor spotted man. I made him soup, made him take Benedryl, and some Tylenol, made him shower with baby wash, and I used an entire bottle of Caledryl on him, and made him lay down and go to sleep.

He looked like a tomato, left out in the sun to go over. He took off of work today, but insisted on working in the house. He's feeling better, the bumps are fading, and the fever is gone, but now he pulled his back out, moving the range hood. *roll eyes*

Sometimes I wish I could encapsulate him in a plastic bubble, so he doesn't fuck himself up too much.

That

That took me two hours to write, down there. I slept like the dead, afterwards, though. It wasn't some confession, or message to the world, it was what I do with this blog, which is try to align my own thoughts and record my feelings about shit.

Body

I tried to sleep, but I have this blog entry forming in my head. It's nagging and keeping me awake. I'm afraid if I sleep on it, it'll be distorted by tomorrow morning.

I've been thinking about this for some time. Probably since that really unflattering picture of me went up on ACF. This whole being fat, thing. Lets just get this right out in the open, if it was a mystery before. I am. I'm big, heavy, thick, rubenesque, lush, curvy, fat, however you like to describe it, I'm it. I wear a size 20. I can't shop in normal stores, I have to go to the plus size sections. I have a 38" waist. My measurements, in fact, are 40DD, 38, 42. I'm 5 foot 8. Try and add all that up in your head, and try not to hurt yourself doing it.

I wear good clothes, and I make extra sure theyr'e flattering. I spend a lot of time thinking about clothes. I love clothes, and I really hate to see people poorly dressed. Clothes really can make a person.

Lets take this a step further, and really pull out some imagery. I've got wide football player shoulders, big upper arms, and big tits. I'm young and I have great posture, so they stand up, and point forward still, I get a lot of compliments about them, and I like showing them off. I have a faint waistline, and hips...well, no hips. If I was thin, they'd be described as "boyish" but, I'm not. So, the overall effect is rather columnar. Well, a column with huge tits. My lower legs and thighs are still tight, and I like to think of them as powerful. They're not covered in cellulite, and you don't have to look to hard to see muscle definition. In fact, my calf muscles ripple when I walk. I like looking at my legs, when I walk, I think it's pretty sexy. I keep them tanned, tattooed, and tight, and I like to show them off. In the past few years, though, I'm developing a nice layer of fat, around the back of my thighs. I can't see it, so no biggie, but, it's there. I have a round, ample belly, which is my second least favorite area (we'll get to my least favorite in a sec) It's a point of issue for me, because they design girl's shirts, so that the hemline bisects it, and you get this nice roll of flab, hanging out. I combat that, by wearing a lot of skirts, which skim right over the problem area, or, men's tee shirts, which cover it up. My ass is strange. Out of clothes, it's cute, little, and round. In clothes, it's totally flat. I have a few pairs of jeans that do it justice, but mostly, it's forgettable.

My face, though. I talked about that a little before, but, my face really pisses me off. I feel like that "two faced chick" from Seinfeld. I look good in one light, but not the other. I have good face days, and bad. I have long straight hair, that reaches my lower back, and short little bangs. I have a widow's peak, and a very pointy little chin, with a slight cleft, that make a perfect heart shape. In between, are some nice arched eyebrows (I get complimented on my eyebrows a lot, for some reason) almond shaped green eyes, a rounded pug nose, huge full cheeks, pouty soft lips with a very defined bow, and my pointy chin. Framing all that is a nice layer of fat. That I hate. I really really hate it. It shows up when I don't want it to, in pictures. I can work on my abs, and keep that ample belly high and tight. I can do lunges and leg lifts to keep my shit toned. I can lift, and stuff for my arms, but what the fuck am I gonna do about all this face fat? Even when I was thin, I had face fat.

So, there we go, there's an honest, in depth description of myself. Take it without bitterness, without conceit, without self deprecation, without neediness. It's observation, inventory, and acceptance.

Accept it, or don't, but that's what this entry is about. My acceptance, and the things that shake it.



Lemme start with being a fat kid. I wasn't fat till about 5th grade. As a matter of fact, from when I was born, till about 2nd grade, I was severely underweight. I weighed 3 lbs 8 oz, when I was born. I have very fine bones, and a small frame. I was downright angular, when I was a kid. We moved to NJ, when my dad and mom got divorced, and my mom stopped being Mrs. Domestic, and started being Miss Catch-Me-A-Man. She stopped cooking all together, and I subsisted largely (pun! HAH!) on grocery store brand frozen dinners, generic canned pasta dishes, ramen noodles, government subsidied food (gub'ment cheese stains your teeth yellow.) and, the occasional Polish meal from my grandmother.

I am not going to be one of those blame laying fat people, but it is what it is. I would go days without meat and vegetables, and eat whole pots of mashed potatoes with butter, for dinner. I developed deplorable habits, and food addictions when I was a child, and I'm only just getting over them now.

So, where was I...5th grade, right. That was when I first started getting teased about weight. Before then, I got singled out, because of my accelerated learning, and being in the G&T classes (gifted and talented). Add fat to bookish, and you have a kid's worst nightmare. I got bullied daily, from 5th grade on. I would sit on the playground, reading, and certain kids would mosey on over, and pick a fight with me, just because of what I was wearing, or, shit, for no reason at all.

Let me share a few horror stories, for posterity. I've never committed any of this to print, before, but I think I'm ready to. Once, I was at the local park, (I used to live there, just about, it was a block away from my house, and sprawling acres of alone places...digressing) and, I was by myself on a tire swing, standing up, and leaning on the chain, sorta swinging lazily. I didn't hear them, but this whole group of kids from my school came up behind me. I thought I was alone. I one swift motion, they knocked me off the swing, and whipped my pants down. "PANTS" they did it to everyone. Only, that day...I was wearing these special underwear my mom got me, to hold my tummy in. They were these huge granny panties. I've never worn huge underwear since. It took me (and them) almost a year to get over it. I feel shamed, and choked up typing it out now. I was 11. There was the name calling, the comments, the bullshit. Kids would look for things to insult me about.

In 8th grade, I went through the classic scene. One day at lunch, Popular Hot Guy came over to me, and was like "hey, are you going to the prom?" (we had an 8th grade prom) I was like "probably" He said "wanna go with me?" I flushed...because he really was good looking, and I thought, one of the nicer people around. He'd never given me a problem before, he generally ignored me...so, I'm thinking, ooh, lucky break, right? "Sure, I'd like that" He said (and I'll never forget it to this day, so help me god) "I bet you would, haha, but what makes you think I'd want to go with your lardass?" He moseyed back to his friends, and they all had a good chuckle. (semi-related side note: He spent time in jail, later on. He now lives with his baby momma, in her daddy's house, and get this, she's a porker. Gogo karma! I love living in a small town.)

That's enough torturing myself. There was a lot. I got into about 14 fights between 5th and 8th grade. All over stupid nonsense. I was such a doormat, too.

Toward the end of 8th grade, I started evolving, though. I started hanging out with the boys. The really smart boys, the fucked up ones, the poor kids, the metalheads, the nerds, freaks, etc. We all started listening to metal around the same time. My best buddy Phil had tourettes syndrome. This guy Artie that I used to hang with, was voted 8th grade validictorian, but, he got busted smoking pot on school grounds a week before graduation, heh. 8th grade. So, yeah, we all sort of developed a rep. I did wind up going to the prom, with this kid, who later became my first boyfriend. We all stood in the hallway in our socks, and bare feet, them in their rented tuxes (for some reason they all wore tails. Pretty hot, and strange) and drank out of a shared stolen pint ofJack Daniels. Slagging on the popular kids, getting drunk, and requesting Metallica songs. Good times good times.

That summer was awesome, I lost my virginity, ran wild, and took ownership of my self. I started winning fights. I started dressing like the boys, in flannels and denim, and I learned how to skate. I stole a Mongoose, and learned how to work on it. I biked, and skated, and fucked around. By the time 9th grade rolled around, I was a full on asskicking metal chick. I went to high school, with a new attitude, and new identity. I grew a few inches, and leaned out. I sprouted breasts, and got (meager) hips. My hair grew out (in 8th grade, I had a bowl cut) so, I stopped looking like a boy, and started playing with them. When I left 8th grade, I left the insults behind. I swear to god, I never was insulted about my weight after that. Just didn't happen. I barely got into fights, and, our crowd was considered "scary". So, yeah, I outgrew the fat insults, and I lived it up.

Went on like that for all of my teens. Starting at 13. Fast forward to age 20. I settled down, and gained weight. Worked nights, ate at a diner every single night, at 10 p.m. Shit food, too, gravy fries, cheesesteaks, just, the worst shit. I gained 40lbs in 2 months. The first time I couldn't get my size 14 jeans to button, I was hysterical. I cried all night, we didn't wind up going out, I hid in the bedroom sobbing. The mister convinced me, that all women mature, and he assured me that my body was just changing, as I evolved into a woman. Yeah, bullshit. I got pregnant 2 months later, and by then, I gained fully 80 lbs. After I had my son, I was all but bedridden for a few months, due to major complications, and I never lost that weight. Two years later, I had pneumonia, that went untreated, for a month, and bronchitis for over a year. Long story short, major scar tissue in my lungs, and I couldn't walk between rooms, without getting winded. Hello another 40 lbs.

I've always been active. The health problems laid me up, and I went into the worst depression of my life. During all this weight gain, the mister assured me that I was still his goddess, etc, still beautiful, but I was very hard on myself. God, I was so depressed. Right around that time, too, Tom killed himself, and the whole 9-11 thing, I just wasn't happy for a whole year. Just thinking about it is making me want to cry. I was a size 24.

Somehow, I got out of that, did two more semesters of school, then the house thing happened. I didn't have time to wallow in my own self pity, after that, I was too busy worrying about being homeless. The beginning of this year, the mister and I decided to make some changes. He went on a full on diet. Lost almost 90 lbs. I didn't go on any diet, but I started eliminating poisons from my own regimen. No junk food, no refined sugar, hydrogenated shit, no more crap. No more shit food. Not a diet, but, a descision. I woke up, one day, at my mom's house, after I tested my blood, on her diabetes thing. My blood sugar level was astronomical. Up there around "borderline diabetic". I dropped 40 lbs, like *that* without even trying. I'm still not trying. I'm training myself, though. I work out now, I do basic yoga and pilates, and I can do 3 miles on treadmill at 5 mph, without wheezing. It's a good feeling, to be out of breath, but not ready to collapse and die, seeing stars. I do dozens and dozens of reps with 15 lb weights, daily.(I know, sounds like nothing, but I couldn't go get the mail without having to catch my breath. Thank you pneumonia.) I love the control of pilates and yoga, I love feeling my body elongate, and controling myself that way. I like the power involved, and the concentration. When I first started, I felt like an akward oaf, now I'm getting more graceful.

I still eat, I don't deny myself much, but the difference is (and there's a big one) food isn't like IT anymore. My day used to revolve around meals. Now, I make other stuff more important. Food addiction is a hard one to kick, because you have to eat to live. People don't need to smoke to live. You have to go out of your way to get cigarettes. Food, there's food everywhere. I have to cook three meals of it, a day, at least. I used to work in kitchens professionally. I LOVE FOOD. I read cookbooks, for LEISURE. Food science and chemistry is a major hobby of mine. It's unavoidable, so I had to change my mindset. It's working, slowly. Slowly.

So, this is where I'm at now. Acceptance, progress, change. I'm sort of meeting myself half way here. I was sick of being a slug, so I'm changing that. I'm less about losing weight, and more about getting healthy. I've accepted my size, and for the most part, how the world views me. Frankly, I think fat is sexy, on me, and on other people. I love the way my skin feels, and the generousness of my hips. I run my hands over my belly, and like that roundness. I feel fertile, and lush, and goddesslike. I'm adding grace and strength to that, and I feel good, and I feel like I look good. I'm owning my fat, once again.

They saw my picture a few weeks ago, on ACF. First time I've heard nasty, bullying barbs about my weight, since I was 13. Thirteen years, and the insults have come full circle. It doesn't hurt, anymore, though, not like it used to. It used to lessen my self worth, when I was young. I felt like a lesser person. It hurt, it made me hate, and it made me want to isolate myself, and fight, and I did. Now, I'm a fighter, and I hate, still. I look down on those people, like they looked down on me when I was a kid. It feels, now, though, that these "grownups" have to insult my appearance, because they have nothing else. They can't touch my logic, or my personality. They have to go for cheap, easy shots, and attack my size. How...8th grade, of them. I wonder, though, would they do it in a real life setting? Would they attack someone they worked with, in such a way? Do they yell at the girl behind the counter for screwing up an order, and call her a fat bitch? Some people do, actually. When I got into that brawl with my contractor, the first insult out of his mouth was (again, till the day I die, I'll never forget this) "fat psycho cunt" then "fat dike bitch"

Now, though, it's less about me, and more about society. Is this what it's about? Is that all people see? That's one thing I'm still having a hard time coping with. What people see, when they see me. The fat is always a first impression, I see it in people's eyes, in the split second, when we first meet. It's like "hello fat, hello Lisa" Fat first, Lisa second. I make up for that, though. I look eccentric. I try extra hard to be 'different' in other ways. I try to be extra learned, and extra super witty. I have a great sense of humor. All these things, I do to eradicate that first impression. It's my arsenal of self-protection, my way of standing out.





This entry was a long time coming. I've been dancing around it, for awhile. It feels good to pour it all out. I think I can sleep well, again.