Bonanza Jellybean

I Have Hit a New Low... Thank God for Britney

When I first started blogging, I made a definite decision to remain pretty anonymous. No full names, no exact cities beyond Columbia, etc.

I did this mostly because of my unending fear of Google and its powers of "let's go look up so-and-so" mixed in with a healthy dose of wondering if that guy who showed up in my front yard in college with a shotgun threatening to shoot himself if I didn't love him. (And how did that end you might ask? I said "No way in hell, but I wish you wouldn't shoot yourself" and he said "Well, I'm going to if you don't change your mind" and I said "Then I guess we're both going to be disappointed then, AREN'T WE?"-- handled that WELL, didn't I? And the sorry shit's still alive as far as I know. Which just goes to show how dishonest he really was.)

And let's not mention the other guy who showed up in my front yard drunk years later. Same reason. Not the same outcome, though. The frat guys who lived across the street saw what was up and came over and threatened to kick his ass if he didn't sober up and go home. He didn't sober up but he did go home, and thus robbing me of an evening's entertainment, but whatever. At that point, I really kind of WANTED to see him get his ass kicked. Call it "tough love."

Needless to say, my past keeps me somewhat restricted. At least in my own mind. Because REALLY... am I SOOOOOO wonderful that either (or the others I didn't mention) would still be PINING AWAY in their mother's basements YEARS later? Do pathetic little male boogereaters harbor grudges THAT long?
Well, yes. But again, only in my own mind.

So here I am. I tell the most personal shit possible sometimes, but no one really knows exactly who I am, so it's OK. No one really knows what I look like because I'm stingy with photos. I mean, I could have a post-KFed meltdown and shave my head, but no one would really know when they passed that pissy-looking bald girl at Target that it was me. Because they don't even know what I look like.
It could be Britney, for all anyone knows. It is the south, after all.

Thank god/goddess/moon/sun/Zeus/Hera for foresight.
Seriously.

In the whole maelstrom that has been my post-husband-torn-ACL-flipped-meniscus life, I have very little time to do anything other than what needs to be done. Which I'm managing.

I have some serious split ends.

I have a few neurons here and there out of place, and the result is that when I begin obsessing about something, it has to be taken care of immediately before I drive myself nuts. I CANNOT STOP MYSELF.

The previous three statements add up to one very horrible truth.

With no time AT ALL to schedule a hair appointment, I had a mini-meltdown and cut my own hair this morning. Not just a bang trim, because who doesn't do that, right?

No. Not just bangs.
Whole head of hair.
I attempted to trim ALL of it myself.
Because I could breathe no longer while those scruffy ends were attached to my head. It was a crisis.

Did I consider the risks of such a foolhardy action? Ummmmm, no.
Do I have any training whatsoever in the cosmetological arts? Not a bit.
Did I even try to fool myself that it would turn out OK? Not really.
Did I even bother to call my stylist to see if he had an opening today? No.

Thankfully, all seems OK (I curled it after just in case). Long hair with layers can be very forgiving. I now understand why Jennifer Aniston has had the same hairstyle since the Cretaceous- so she can get all wacky with her own scissors from the beauty supply and no one will notice. Like I kind of did.

And no one has noticed. Yet.

HOLY SHIT. I actually got desperate enough to cut my own hair.
I'm kind of having that relieved sick feeling you get right after you almost have a wreck.

But like I've said before, we all must bow down in eternal thanks to little miss Spears these days, because no matter what fucked-up shit we do, she does worse. And looks worse. And dresses worse.
MY GOD, CAN I JUST PROCLAIM MY ETERNAL THANKS FOR THE WOMAN? CAN I?
(And PS, if some trendy people out there clean her up and get her all respectable again, I'm flying out there to whip some ass. We need her in all her skank glory to remain AS IS.)

Besides, if there was no Britney, what in the hell would I read about at all these doctor visits? Field & Stream? I THINK NOT.

Who Knew There Were THAT DAMN MANY "CL"s?

Explanation of Absence:
I have been running my ass off for the last few days, trying (and mostly failing) to take care of the entire family all by myself. And trying to work. And get someone to all their appointments.

Why?
Dunk has blown his OTHER knee. Not the one he had surgery on in December.
The OTHER ONE.

Judging from his MRI films taken yesterday and my oh-so-expert interpretation of said films based on comparison with pictures on the Internet, he has torn his ACL, at least partially torn his MCL, and fucked up a whole bunch of meniscus.
I can't even get an idea about the meniscus, because his doesn't look anything like any picture I found. So honestly? He could be fine and Google just failed me.

Considering the amount of swelling and lack of motion, the "fucked up a whole bunch" statement works better. I doubt that will be the clinical diagnosis on Wednesday when he goes back. Or on Friday when they most likely cut him open and put dead people's ligaments in to replace his crappy ones.

The good news? We already met the deductible during the first surgery. Every cloud and its silver lining, right?

Hopefully I can get a moment to myself and actually WRITE SOMETHING soon.
Don't forget about me.

If I Hit "Cancel" One More Time...

Since I have been SO FREAKIN' PREACHY lately, and because with all the mind-blowing shit going on in the world a little light-heartedness couldn't possible hurt...

On Monday, I was going to post something funny and witty and wonderful. I opened the screen, looked at its ASTOUNDING blankness, and...

CANCEL

On Tuesday, I was going to wipe Monday from my mind, relate something clever that someone in my family said and have a good chuckle myself. I opened the screen up, got all comfortable, had fingers poised above the keyboard ready to strike, and...

CANCEL

Because let's face it, when the diary of your days would include some bad coffee that caused an acidic stomach meltdown, a soccer game where I only scored one because I couldn't really motivate myself to run, a headache that lasted 24 hours and a radiator flush complete with "you're going to need new tires soon" warning, all following a weekend filled with 16 straight hours on the computer helping Soccer Chick finish her HUGE school project...
You'd just do better to leave well enough alone.

Fuck it. I Like Myself Just the Way I Am, and Everyone Else Can Just Go Suck Rotten Hippo Balls

Because you know, "donkey balls" has SO been done already.

I kind of had a MAJOR realization yesterday while I was home waiting on the delivery of the wonderful, glorious massage chair (of which RAPTUROUS prose will soon certainly come, but I am still too wrapped in the disbelief that such a wondrous thing landed in my house that I have yet to believe that I will come home and it will still be there). I was sitting on my couch, thumbing through my new Glamour that came, watching Dr. 90210 (for the FIRST and LAST time, I will add) on E!, and a line from Glamour hit.

"We don't compare ourselves to Albert Einstein when we think about how smart we are, so why do we compare ourselves to Giselle Bündchen when we look in the mirror?"

WHAM. Lightning bolt through the brain kind of WHAM.
Not the I-can't-believe-I-never-thought-George-Michael-was-gay-when-I-was-young kind of Wham.
I also refused to believe Nick Rhodes was gay, and he's still sticking to that story, so maybe I was right.
And we won't even discuss that in their "real bodies" issue they still only had one or two women in there who looked like they knew the joys of macaroni and cheese. It's a start, I guess.

This went through my head while I was watching a woman on Dr. 90210 have her vagina redone by laser by a plastic surgeon so it could look like "before I had children." This went along with her butt lift and boob job. So she could "feel better about herself." And the surgeon's going on about how he's really a feminist, because he's helping women take care of a problem that's been ignored and if men had that problem it would have been addressed ages ago.
Gloria Steinem would have been SO proud, I'm sure.
I just wanted to hurl something at the TV.

Because, short of Britney Spears, that's not the first thing about a woman people usually see. But now women will spend thousands to change something that looks just the way nature intended, and surgeons will drive Bentleys because of it.
And NO ONE is getting near my hoo-hoo with a LASER. Didn't they see Real Genius? Lasers can be DANGEROUS. And make a lot of popcorn. Not that, you know, popcorn would emerge from anyone's hoo-hoo or anything... Well, maybe Lindsay Lohan's or Paris Hilton's, but I imagine it wouldn't be the good "movie butter" kind.

Ladies, worrying about your looks this much is CRAZY.
And having someone cut up your body just for looks is ANOTHER MUCH BIGGER BAG OF CRAZY.

And it's not just looks, is it? We constantly compare ourselves to shit we can't possibly meet. And then get all depressed about it when we fail. We should, we should, we should because she does this and she does that and she has this and she has that... all the damn day long.
And we never once stop to think that the reason these people we compare ourselves to are famous is because they are THE EXCEPTIONS.

Not for me. Not anymore.

This is my personal list. The ones you use might be different, but you get the point.

When I look in the mirror, I will not think of Elle MacPherson.
When I cook dinner or rearrange the living room, I will not think of Martha Stewart.
When I try to exercise, I will not think of Linda Hamilton or Angela Bassett.
When I play my soccer games, I will not think of my husband. Or the college girls who play in the other league. Or Mia Hamm.
When I get dressed in the morning, I will not think of Sex and the City and feel guilty for jeans and a t-shirt.
When I ride my horses, I will not think of any of the trainers I have to compete against.
When I look around my house, I will not think of my friends with their cute, clean houses that they get to work on every day because they are actually HOME. And single.

Make your own list if you like. You can even do it in the comments, which would make for interesting reading.
Try it. It's very freeing.

The Wall of Disposable Man

Dear Construction Workers,

I understand that you are toiling in the rain (probably making more than me per hour to stand and look pensively at a big hole in the ground, a task of which it obviously takes five of you wearing mirrored sunglasses to do) to make me a new fancy office, so I've tried to sit here and not ridicule you so far. Even though you were kind of asking for it. But I didn't.

But today, things got a little crazy around here, and I felt compelled to say something.

You know, since you've all been introduced to the crazy yelling woman who came flying out the front door at you already in a towering temper before one of you even had the nerve to look up in the most puzzled fashion possible. You knew what you were doing, and NO ONE was fooled. Especially the 10 little biddies standing at the front window watching you who kept coming to report JUST HOW CLOSE TO SOMEONE'S CAR YOU WERE GETTING.

First, that irate woman who just stomped outside and informed you that (considering you were in an employee parking area while you were trying to load your muddy bulldozer onto a trailer mere INCHES from someone-not-to-mention-any-names's car) she would sue your fucking ass off and buy herself a brand new car if there was so much as a scratch? She wasn't kidding.

And repeatedly saying "Yes ma'am. We understand," did not help matters considering that when she went back inside you went right on about your business. "Take your ass back down the hill where you are ALLOWED" was not a REQUEST.

Oh? And that whole "No comprendo, ma'am" from your little coworkers? Won't work. She can cuss your ass out just as easily in Spanish. Don't look so shocked when a sweet little southern girl calls you a "pendejo." It's GLOBALIZATION, BABY.

Now, I'm sure you've figured out by now exactly who "she" is, right?

SHE would not have been so quick to jump all over you people without the OTHER incident that happened today, honestly. THAT ONE caused her to believe that all you were, in fact, irretrievably stupid and needed to be guided into proper behavior in ALL somewhat questionable situations.

You know, the one that required police, fire, and ambulance support.

Because FRANKLY, if you can't figure out that standing in the middle of the road flapping your arms at an oncoming Lincoln Town Car piloted by a 93 year old woman with her Yorkie on her lap IN THE RAIN might not be a good idea, I have NO FAITH that you can manage not to hit my car when moving heavy equipment in the mud. Especially because, as the woman DRIVING FIVE FREAKIN' MILES PER HOUR approached you standing in the road, YOU DIDN'T MOVE. You stood there LONG ENOUGH for Miss Daisy to HIT YOU.

Darwin awards, anyone?

Now that I have gotten all that off my chest, I do appreciate the "wall of disposable man" that you seemed to deem necessary between my car and your truck after I shouted at you, where you apparently made four of your workers stand in the inches between my car and the trailer in an effort to provide padding, but considering you have already lost one employee today to a vehicular exercise in stupidity, maybe you should just consider parking somewhere else tomorrow. JUST A THOUGHT.

Oh, and you didn't have to abandon the entire worksite after I yelled at you. My boss might notice if you quit, you know, BUILDING THE NEW BUILDING, just because a girl yelled at you. Babies.

Sincerely,
Dink

Why I Don't Love My Work Husband Anymore

It's that time of year again.

Every time I go outside to have a smoke, these cute little fuzzy caterpillars are EVERYWHERE. I love little fuzzy caterpillars, so I do my best not to step on them, which includes corralling them onto leaves that I can move into the bushes (and talking to them about the merits of staying off the patio and doors and in the bushes, which a- they ignore and b- make me sound like a raving idiot). I spend at least 30 minutes a day now in "Caterpillar 911" mode, which I'm sure they would mock me for if they could, as they seem to do their absolute best to crawl off of the bush, drop to the ground, and scurry right back across the patio where I got them from in the first place. While I watch. Talking to them.

Little shits.
But rescue them, I must. Call it Animal-Specific-OCD.

We won't even discuss the looks construction workers building your new office will give you when they see you talking to caterpillars and walking slowly with a leaf in your hand. I bet they're recalculating the budget RIGHT THIS SECOND to include padding of the walls of the crazy caterpillar woman's office.

Did you know that you can coax 8 of them onto one stick? That's my personal record.
I can't believe I just typed that for the Internet to share. Jesus.

Which led to the following LOVELY exchange between Work Husband and myself.
LOVELY Work Husband, who normally pretends to ignore my ummm, QUIRKS and go about his business with me 10 feet away on a daily basis while pretending that I am perfectly normal and nothing to raise an eyebrow at...
He's not lovely ANYMORE. He's a CATERPILLAR HATER. And a SHOE MOCKER.

And he's learned to make fun of me without me noticing until I am too far into the conversation to get out of it.

As I came back inside from YET ANOTHER smoke break...

Work Husband: You need to stop trying to help those caterpillars. Just SQUISH 'EM, I say.

Me: Ass. I can't squish them. They're cute. And I don't want to step on them.

Work Husband: They're a freakin' nuisance and need to go. They're going to grow up and turn into moths and eat all of your clothes.

Me: They WILL NOT. They will remember my charity and goodness and purposely miss my clothes.

Work Husband: I bet they'd eat your shoes.

Me: See, that's just CRUEL.

Work Husband: They would. I promise.

Me: They absolutely WOULD NOT. Those are SOUTH CAROLINA CATERPILLARS- they only like shoes from Wal-Mart and Payless, not Italy and London.

Work Husband: They'd think they were a delicacy, I bet.

Me: No, they'd think they were being unpatriotic and start calling it "Freedom Leather." And then they'd go buy some BBQ and chewing tobacco.

Work Husband: They're coming for your shoes. I promise.

Me: I hate you now. I know you're mocking me on MULTIPLE fronts, and I don't appreciate it. I'm not even sorry we won't be sharing an office anymore. You can take your caterpillar-hating, shoe-mocking ass into your own new fancy office where you'll die cold and alone, and I'll LAUGH when they find you after two weeks when the smell creeps into the hallway.

Work Husband: (snickering) Okay. But you'll miss me.

Me: Probably. But I won't admit it.

How a Fishing Tournament in Missouri Can Put Life in Perspective in South Carolina

Last night, Drummer Boy, my longtime best friend who abandoned me to move to Iowa for a WOMAN (yeah, I know), called. He had not had a good weekend.

http://www.maryvilledailyforum.com/articles/2007/04/01/news/news2.txt

What the short article doesn't tell you?
That the boat also had his wife and four children in it.
That the weather instantly turned nasty on everyone on the lake.
That the man's last act was to attempt to get his two daughters to safety.
That the man and his wife weren't wearing lifevests, but the kids were.

That fishermen who were heading in from a tournament to avoid the weather saw it happen.
That the fishermen pulled all of the other family members from the water and got them into their own boats and to shore.
That the fishermen got a first-hand look at what terror really is. In a child's face.
That the fishermen tried their best to get the man into the boats also, but he was just too heavy.
That the fishermen saved most of a family in freezing water under horrid conditions without a thought for themselves or their own safety.

That the fishermen who couldn't save the man now have to figure out a way to deal with what they went through and accomplished, and yet, did not accomplish.

That one of the fishermen was my best friend.

That my best friend, despite how he feels right now, is a hero.
The RIGHT kind of hero.
The kind that will most likely get no recognition, no reward, no acclaim, but instead got a long drive home afterward in freezing wet pants (take dry PANTS next time, sweetie- not just shirt and shoes) with a heavy heart and overloaded mind.
And doesn't care.
He's just an average guy who wanted those people to live.

I hope if something ever happens to me or my family, there's an average guy with a good heart nearby.

And honey, you are a hero. The average kind.
Which is the best kind.

And now for the PSA...
If you're going to be in a boat, WEAR A FREAKIN' VEST. It doesn't matter how good a swimmer you are or how nice the day is- shit happens FAST. Don't think everything will be OK. So many parents, at least in my experience, have the sense to put vests on their kids but then don't bother for themselves.
Somewhere in the midwest today there is a family who would be totally different had the parents worn them. Four kids might have their father, and a young wife wouldn't be a widow.
A vest is a small, somewhat uncomfortable price to pay to watch your kids grow up, don't you think?