Bonus Tuesday Night Post: I'm Drunk!

There are some nights when a fastidiously cooked meal by one's dear husband requires a glass or wine.
Or two.
Or three (give or take).

And here we are.
It's a Tuesday night and I'm three (give or take) glasses deep and I'm thinking, "Why not write a fucking blog?" Because, yanno, I'm on the computer ALL DAY LONG, so the natural thing would be for me to log in on my time off and write.

You guys...I think I might have a problem.

Hello, my name is Lily and I'm addicted to staring at computer screens.

Or maybe I just like to blog, and hell-ooo, I think blogging is a preferable way to spend one's time as compared to, say, playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.

Because I definitely did not just spend the last two hours playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.

Moving on...

Some shit went down tonight. Between certain individuals and me, but found out through a third party.
High-school style.
And I now have a knot in my stomach and am worrying about this ridiculous drama.
High-school style.

If I was in highschool right now, I'd throw myself on my bed and call my best friend and eat a pint of ice cream and write sad, moody poetry.
But I'm not in highschool, my bed is covered with laundry that needs folding, my best friend is sleeping on account that she has to work tomorrow, ice cream will make me fat, and poetry ain't my gig no mo'.

So I blog.
And drink wine.
And try to be exostential and shit, because I'm an adult.

This drama will likely be last weeks' news soon enough.
But for tonight, I'm all worked up.
And drunk.
Let's not forget about that. (it's the best part)

Oh, you guys...
I've been having a rough go of things.
I know it's kind of hard to tell, what with the retarded posts and goofiness and general merriment that my blog is known for. But it's true.
I've been finding myself in unfamiliar territory in several very large aspects of my life.

So I'm kind of wobbly, like a table with three legs, or a hooker with a broken stiletto (beause that image is not only way funnier, it's also more appropriate).

Sometimes I wish I could just pour my heart and soul out on this blog. To let loose and stop trying to be so god-damn entertaining and just be ME, yanno?

But this thing - this blog - has morphed into something else. And as grateful I am for it, sometimes it's not quite enough.

But it's all I have right now, so it'll have to do.

I'll continue with the song and dance because honestly, 9 times out of 10, it makes me feel better. But let it be said for the record that despite what I'd have you believe, there is more of me behind the curtain, and some seriously heavy shit weighing me down at times.

And tonight?
It's definitely dragging me down a bit.

Okay, I'm flagged. Three glasses (give or take) and five paragraphs later, I think I've shared enough for one evening.

Thanks for listening.
It means more to me than you'll ever know...

Awards, And A Shitty Novel Excerpt

You know what?
You guys fucking rock.

Once again, I’ve been awarded with a couple of very fine awards, and because of this, I’m happier than a pig in shit (or milo, unsupervised, with no muzzle on).

I got this beaut from Adrienzgirl over at Think Tank Momma.

And really, I couldn’t think of a more accurate award. I AM bad-ass. And how do I know this? Because I was sitting in the tub on Sunday night and I remember thinking to myself, “It takes a special kind of woman to read the SAS Survival Guide while taking a bubble bath.”

I’m not even making this up.

So thanks to Adrienzgirl for this bad-ass award. From one bad-ass to another, I salute you (in my pants).

I was also the recipient of this lovely little gem from Travis over at I Like To Fish.


Am I a scribbler?
Perhaps, before everything went all techno and we used to use things like pencils and paper. Jesus, you guys, remember pencils? Hand-writing essays? Having to trek to the god-damn library on a Tuesday night to research a report because there was no such thing as the internet?!?!
Aaahh, those were the days. But you know what? Scribbler or not, I’ll take it, ‘cause mamma likes her awards.

And as a thanks for receiving these two wonderful awards, I’m going to really put myself out on a limb for you guys.

Like, seriously out of my comfort zone.

Although I’m not officially participating in NaNoWriMo, (underachiever, anyone?) I fancy myself a writer with loftier aims than educating physicians on proper ways to treat hospital-associated diarrhea

(again, I’m not making this up, people. This is my life)

So I’ve been ever so slowly working on a novel, which I’m finding that A) I’m not suited for, because my writing style changes drastically from day to day, and it reads like the author has multiple personality syndrome, and B) I’m my own worst critic, because I’ve probably scrapped three times what I’ve kept.

Regardless.

Below is one short excerpt from my book. Go ahead and read it, but I warn you, I’m sensitive as shit about it, so if you try to make a joke about it, I’ll probably cry.
And then hunt you down.
You know that saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
Yeah, that kind of applies here.
Constrictive criticism?
Okay.
Telling me that a third grader can write better than me?
Not okay (and probably hazardous to your health).
Are we all clear on the rules?
Good.
Here goes…

When she steps over the doorframe, the air hits her face like a cold, wet blanket. It seeps past her collar and wraps itself around her legs and slings itself under her nose so that each breath is icy and smothering. It makes her eyes water and her head ring and she instantly regrets the decision to leave the reassurance of her bedroom.

It has become winter overnight. Or, what seems like overnight in the timeless chasm of her grief. When she buried her husband, it had been a brilliant, dazzling autumn day, much as it had been on the day he collapsed. The sky had been a bare, raw shade of indigo, and the leaves, freshly liberated from their limbed captors, scurried on the pavement ahead of crisp breezes. The weather had tormented her, joyous and playful when she was suffering so wretchedly. She was indignant; outraged at the lack of empathy displayed by nature. The affront seemed intentional, and she seethed with insult. Now, it is as if the entire earth has been stripped of its life by the rain that taps persistently on the windows and renders the ground spongy under foot. Her porch is strewn with dead leaves, most from the maple that guards the front walk, but others—aspen, birch, oak—that were at one point ensnared by the rough wood while riding the wind. They lend the impression of a porch ill used and long forgotten, of silence beyond the windows, and of mourning deep within.

The tandem wooden rocking chairs balance as they always did, about three feet apart, and tilted slightly towards each other, like lovers indulging in a scandalous secret, afraid that others might hear of their desires and indiscretions. They had sat in these chairs often on gentle summer nights, rocking mechanically, sometimes full of conversation, other times barely speaking. These chairs have born witness to their most fanatical dreams and ridiculous banter, their loving, casual caresses and their heated lively debates, ever pitching, forward and back, warming placidly to their rear ends and shoulder blades.

Sitting in these chairs, one is afforded a view the front yard. Beyond the porch rail, an expanse of tentative, spotty lawn descends gradually to the little-used street, potholed and all but forgotten by the township, save for thrice-weekly deliveries from the mailman. Their drive is little more than two parallel ditches that tend to puddle in low spots and threaten to steal the traction of tires during rainy spells. The truck sits impassively, barely used since that day, serenely enduring the rain that beats incessantly on its pocked and dented frame. Dark slate hints at a walking path towards the front porch. It is losing a battle against the roots of the maple, and is thrust at awkward angles where the root system is expanding to meet the nutritional demands of a flourishing tree. The steps of the porch are worn and sag a little more each year. One is held aloft on a brick; a yet unfinished project.

It is in one of those battered rocking chairs that she now lowers herself, carefully guarded, as if the chair might bow under her weight. Without thinking, she begins to rock. The chill is invasive and she wraps her arms around herself, rubs her shoulders half-heartedly, and wishes she had brought out a blanket. A brown leaf scratches across the boards in front of her foot, and instinctively she reaches out a toe and crushes it against the wood grain, the skeleton crunching satisfyingly against the planks.

She tries to remember the last time they had sat in these chairs together. Her brain is slow to ignite, but she finally unearths a time, earlier in the season, when the air was still soft and kind, where they had shared a glass—a bottle, in the end—of cheap wine and talked about the varied, inconsequential frustrations of his job. He was having a hard time keeping his men to task; wondered if others in his field dealt with the same level of incompetence that he endured day in and day out. He had been bristled and agitated when he first sat, rocking hard and bitter until the first glass blunted his sharpest edges. By the time they stumbled to bed, he was pliable as a kitten. She had listened, sympathized, even offered a quick suggestion or two as he hashed through the day’s minutia. That night, like so many nights, she was his confidant. She was his compass. And in return, once his blood had slowed and his speech had thickened, he courted her. He cooed out praises and spoke hotly of past moments of pleasure. His touches became firm and insistent, and, heads heavy with alcohol, they retired to the bedroom to satisfy the urges that had crept up between them.

And there she sits still. The same chair that she had occupied on that night of drunk romance and hasty pleasure.
And still she rocks.
And still she breathes.
But the chair beside her sits immobile and empty.

Yep.
There she is.
Copyrighted and shit, although the concept of someone stealing this passage is utterly ridiculous.
(See how I’m fishing for a compliment here?)
So now that that’s over and done with (and I've just lost half my readers because they no longer respect me as a writer or even as a person), let me pass on these bad boys.

I pass along the scribbler award to the following people for updating every single mother fucking day, and we all know that shit is hard work.

My Masonic Apron
How? Why? And Other Abstract Questions
The Daisy Chronicles

And I give the bad-ass bog award to the following people for being…well…bad-ass.

Island of Reality
Brick City Love
Stacie's Madness

[Sidenote: I had a dream that I showed up at Stacie's house because I happened to know her address. So I introduced myself and we ended up hitting it off. It was a weird dream. Stacie, if you're reading this, I apologize for stalking you in my dreams, although you seemed very nice and we probably could be friends if I wasn't so busy dream-stalking you.]

Okay, I hope you all enjoy your awards.That’s it for today. Have a good one!

The Devil Ain't No (Facebook) Friend Of Mine

Does anybody else think that Bridal Showers are the less preferable alternative to a fiery eternity in the depths of hell? Because I swear to god, when I sat through a bridal shower this weekend, I totally would have sold my soul to Satan himself if I could have jus t gotten up and walked out of that thing.

And if I could have punched the Bride-to-Be in the face on the way out? Not only would I have sold my soul to the Devil, I would have gift-wrapped that beeyatch in a basket with some overly-priced chocolates and a smoked salmon.

But I guess that’s another story for another day, involving an honest, hard-working man and a woman who is, literally, ruining his life (but maybe I’ve said too much)

In fact, I distinctly remember a point during the shower when I squeezed my eyes shut and conjured up Beelzebub and said, “Now’s your chance, big boy. Take it or leave it.”
And then I felt this draft of air behind my right shoulder and I was SO CONVINCED that he had taken me up on the offer.

But instead of the Devil, it was the creepy maid of honor. She caught me with my legs crossed, and according to the game, that means she gets to “steal” my gift.

Damn, I really could have used that crappy hand lotion.

You see, for those of you who are not aware, at a Bridal Shower you are forced to play games.

Horribly stupid games like, “if you get caught with your arms or legs crossed, the person who catches you gets your gift.”

At this particular shower, this game was followed by “guess how much toilet paper it takes to wrap around the bride.” Which was trailed by “I’m going to call out an item, and the first person who digs this item out from their purse and gets it to me wins.”

Me? I didn’t play the games.

I sat in the back and drank mimosas and attempted to make a pact with the Devil to trade my soul for freedom and possibly an opportunity to physically assault on the guest of honor.

And when they handed me a card to write advice for the Bride-to-be, it was all I could do not to write, “Don’t throw any more stupid bridal showers, or I will cut you, bitch.”

Of course I didn’t. I wrote something along the lines of “treat your husband how you want to be treated” in a thickly veiled attempt to accuse her of taking advantage of him.

Because if have to play nice, I should at least be able to throw in some coded messages, right?

Thankfully, I had come with the baby.
Not my baby – the baby of my friend, who thankfully was invited too or I might have stabbed myself in the eye with a salad fork.
And when the baby needs a nap, you HAVE to leave, right?
And if they’re my ride, then I have to leave too.

What a shame

So I managed to leave just as she was settling in to open the 43095433492094387 gifts that she had received for doing nothing other than forcing a good man to support her fat, lazy ass for the rest of her life.

Wow, congrats on being a piece of shit. Here’s a toaster.

So that was my Saturday.
Being surrounded by adult women playing childish games and oohing and aahing over the crappy Bride and not once – not ONCE – did the Devil show up to bail me out.

Wow, I knew he was mean and all, but that’s just CRUEL man.

Dear Satan,
Good job dropping the ball on that one.
Don’t bother leaving me a Facebook message – I already deleted you as a friend. And I blocked you phone number too.
So the next time you need help harvesting your tomatoes on Farmville, find someone else to do it.

Yeah, that’ll show him.

How you like THEM (rotten Farmville) apples?!?

The Dust Bunnies Might Be An Indication

Hey y’all.

My apologies for not posting yesterday. I had a sicko husband at home to care for, a fire that needed tending, and a couch that needed sitting on.

Apparently there was a house that needed cleaning too, but this little fact was lost on me until Milo so graciously pointed it out.

***********************************

So, Brian and I are in the bedroom.
Don’t get all Bow-chicka-bow-bow on me, we weren’t doing the horizontal polka or anything scandalous like that.
We were just…yanno…gearing down to go to sleep. Brusing the teefers, changing into jammies, and talking about how much it’s gonna cost to get new tires on WonderBread Ted.

Because our relationship is a magical.

So we’re hanging out watching TV – I think it was some show on the ocean, because I recall commenting that sperm whales look like giant pickles.

What?
They do!

…and suddenly, we hear some sort of clunking and snuffing going on in the other corner of the bedroom.
Noticing that Milo isn’t on the bed (aah, so THAT’S why I don’t have giant paws digging into my kidney), Brian immediately jumps up to see what he’s getting into.

“What’s he doing?” I ask
“I dunno. I can’t see – it’s too dark”
“Well turn on the light, then”
“Hold on, let me go over there”

So he stumbles over the laundry basket full of clean clothes that has been sitting in our room for 2 months now and the suitcases that have been 90% unpacked since our honeymoon to get a better look.

“Milo, what the hell are you doing?”

He bends over to inspect the situation, and I’m waiting for him to tell me that yet another shoe has lost its mate, when suddenly Brian starts chuckling.
And chuckling harder.
And then he’s full out laughing.

So I sit up and am all, “WHAT is so funny?”

He turns on the light and points to the ground.

Milo, it seems, was trying to hide his bone.
That, in itself isn’t terribly funny – he does it all the time.
He shoves them in couch cushions and jams them under piles of clothes constantly.

But this time?

He was trying to hide his bone by covering it in…

Wait for it…

Dust bunnies.

DUST BUNNIES!

Yes.
Apparently, we have enough dust bunnies floating around our bedroom for Milo to gather up and use as camoflague for his bone.

Am I embarassed?
Sure.
Am I a little proud of Milo for being so creative?
You bet.

And THAT, my friends, is when you know it’s time to clean your house.

Happy Friday everybody!

You Call It Lazy, I Call It Patriotic

So I hear it’s Veterans’ day.

I was reminded of this little bit of trivia this morning, when I woke up and Brian was still in bed. Because Brian is off today, as are most government employees.

Of course, it is difficult to celebrate one’s veterans when one is seething about the fact that she has to get up and go to work when her husband, who already works a meager 4-day-per-week schedule, has yet another free day to do as he pleases.

In his defense, he has to finish moving all of that wood today.
Plus, he made me coffee.

But still…yanno?

And now that I’m at work, I’m finding it even MORE difficult to honor our veterans. And by “honor our veterans,” I mean “read a book and possibly take a nap in front of the fire.”

Because, really, I can’t think of a better way to honor our fallen soldiers than napping.
After all, isn’t that what they fought for?
For the right for us to nap when we please?

And by that logic…

Isn’t my job - by not allowing me to nap – actually violating those very rights for which our brave veterans gave their lives?

So one could argue that by coming to work today, I’m essentially disrespecting every veteran, dead or alive, who fought for this country.

And you know what?
That ain’t right.
Clearly, this company is run by terrorists.

So I’m going home, lest I stay here and continue to disregard our local heroes. Because I’m an AMERICAN, dammit, and these colors don’t run.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go home and change into my jammies.

I think the veterans would want me to.

Got Wood?

Oh, yeah, baby.
I got wood.
Lots and lots of big, hard wood
Wanna see a picture of my wood?
You know you do…

What?
Were you expecting something else?

Yesterday, on his day off (because Firefighters work less than trust fund babies), Brian ordered 3 cords of wood to be delivered to the house.

If anybody is unsure how big a cord of wood is:

A full cord is a large amount of wood. It measures 4 feet high by 4 feet wide by eight feet long (4' x 4' x 8') and has a volume of 128 cubic feet.

In other words, we had 384 cubic feet of wood dropped off in our neighbor’s driveway yesterday that needed to be moved and stacked.

Of course, I was at work, stickin’ it to the man in between facebook visits and coffee refills. Brian, suddenly realizing that he might have bitten off more than he can chew, was faced with the task of moving all this wood by himself.

Needless to say, when I got home last night, he was sore, exhausted, and 4 beers deep.
Poor baby.

Having a fireplace insert is a great thing. We went from spending about $600 per month to heat our house (oil heat), to spending $600 in wood to heat our house for the entire winter. Seriously, think about it. One month’s heating expenditure now gets us through the whole winter.

Awesome-sauce.

Of course, there are some drawbacks. For one thing, the front of the house, where the insert is, gets sit-around-in-your-underwear toasty, while the back of the house is akin to a nuclear winter. To solve this dilemma, Brian and I are planning on literally cutting a big hole in the wall that separates the living room from the hallway to the back of the house, so the hot air can mosey along to the back bedrooms.

Another drawback is that fire requires a great amount of attention to start and a moderate amount of attention to maintain. But then again, it’s kind of a cool chore to have. I’d rather come home and be faced with the task of lighting a fire than, say, emptying the dishwasher or cleaning the bathroom. Kind of makes me feel like a pioneer or a caveman. It’s a welcome change from staring at a computer screen all day.

The thing about a fireplace insert is, you kind of start obsessing about wood. Like, you stand in front of a beautiful oak tree, which has probably been around since the revolutionary war or some shit, and all you’re thinking is, “I bet that tree could heat my house for a long time.”

And then you kind of stare at it creepily with Deliverance eyes and push your fingertips together and calculate ways to chop it down, and all I can say is it’s a good thing that trees can’t A) read minds, or B) move around, because I would have been squashed SO FAST by the first mighty oak I encountered since installing that bad boy.

It’s also kind of comforting to know that, no matter what goes on in the world, we will always be warm. Like, the power could fail and we could run out of gas and society could cease to exist as we know it, but we would still have a way to heat our house through the winter. Granted, we’d probably be eating the pets at that point, but I’m willing to bet that Milo would actually be pretty tasty if roasted over an open flame.

(All kidding aside; seriously, Milo, get your shit together or I’m totally going to eat you)

So with this latest delivery of GINORMOUS proportions, we will have enough wood to heat us through the winter, and then some.

It feels good.
VERY good.

But then again, I wasn’t the one who had to move it…

A Story That Has Absolutely Nothing To Do With Me

It’s hard to be funny when you’re surrounded by idiots.

I want to laugh today – I really do.
But I can’t. Because there are so many stupid people in this world, I can only assume that Natural Selection up and quit this bitch a long time ago.

That, or Darwin was wrong.
Which, really, would explain the duckbilled platypus.

And of course, I have to speak in these vagaries, because if I got all specific and shit, certain people might have my head on the chopping block.
Because that’s the problem with having a public blog, and as much as I sometimes want to make this thing private so that I can have a safe venue for ranting and raving, it’s just not going to happen.

Because I love you guys.
And I love the people who haven’t discovered my blog yet, but one day will. And they too will follow my ridiculous path through life, and it will inevitably make me feel a little less alone.

Which is what you guys do, and for that, trust me, there is much love.

So I guess today is kind of a wash, because I’m full of rage, but not in the fun way.
More in the defeated, throw-your-hands-up-in-the-air kind of way that Condy Rice must have felt when she was trying to have a conversation with Dub-yah.

“So, that meeting with Iran went pretty badly”
“What d’ya mean? Ah think it went fine. Jus’ fine”
“They refused to let us tour their nuclear facilities.”
“Oh, what’s the harm in a few nuke-u-lar plants anyway? They SAID they weren’t gonna make no weapons or nuthin’”
“It’s just that…oh, nevermind.”
“Besides, that Iraq leader guy seemed pretty nice to me.”
“Iran. We were speaking to the president of Iran”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. Look! Something Shiny!”
“Ooooohhh!”

So instead, I’m going to tell you a story.

It’s about a squirrel who works in a nut factory.

You see, Squirrel works in the Acorn department. His job is to find acorns and bring them to the factory to be processed. He’s always been good at finding acorns, and even went to school to learn how to find them better and faster than most of the other squirrels around.
So Squirrel is running around, finding acorns, and bringing them to the factory. He is doing a good job, and is content in his work.

Problem is, the foreman, Raccoon, doesn’t really understand what Squirrel does. He knows that the Squirrel works with other squirrels in the Acorn department, but beyond that, he doesn’t have a clue. To him, it seems like the acorns just appear out of thin air.

One day, and order comes to the factory. It’s for twice the amount of acorns that the Acorn department usually brings in.
Of course Raccoon, believing that the acorns just appear out of thin air, agrees to supply this order. He tells the Acorn department to produce twice the normal amount, and they protest, saying how they can only collect so many acorns in one day. Raccoon tells them to “figure it out” and goes home, leaving the squirrels to work though the night collecting acorns until they are exhausted.

One day, a few weeks later, the Raccoon goes to the Acorn department. He proudly announces that he has finally brought some help for the Acorn department, and introduces Rabbit.

Unfortunately, Rabbit has never collected an acorn in his life.
In fact, he’s never even SEEN an acorn.
And he’s certainly never been to Acorn Collecting School.

So they send Rabbit out on his first day, and by the end of the day, he has returned with a carrot.
The squirrels show him what acorns look like and try to describe the best places to get them, but Rabbit doesn’t understand the difference between acorns and carrots.
In addition, he doesn’t have the right kind of paws to dig up and transport acorns.
Because he’s not a squirrel.
He’s a rabbit.
And no matter how they try to teach Rabbit to collect acorns, he continues to bring back carrots.

Raccoon, noticing that acorn production has not increased and has, in fact, decreased slightly, furiously marches to the Acorn Department and demands an explanation.

The squirrels try to tell him that the Rabbit doesn’t know how to collect acorns, and in trying to teach him, they’re losing valuable daylight in which to search for acorns.

But Raccoon doesn’t understand why.
He doesn’t understand that squirrels are designed to collect acorns and rabbits are not.
He tells them to work harder and train Rabbit better, and then goes home for the day.

But all the training in the world won’t make up for the fact that Rabbit is not a squirrel, and will never be able to collect acorns as well as the other squirrels.

So, if you were Squirrel, wouldn’t you be pretty pissed off?

Yeah, I would be too.
In fact, I would be pretty damn sure that Squirrel needs a new job.
Good thing that I’m not a squirrel, right?….