Adventures with: Art

I call it "Duckface with Oven Mitts"

Adventures with: Disturbie

I have a new friend. He gives me ideas and gets those creative juices going for me. I think he's going to start hanging out with me. A lot.

Meet Disturbie.

Isn't he precious? Yes, it is a "he". I know because he has a penis. (No, that's his belly button in the picture.) This was my cousin's doll when she was a little girl. I thought he was creepy then, but after twenty years of wear and tear, he's downright revolting. I like him now. *smiles*

Why did I name him "Disturbie"? My aunt saw that I had taken a picture of him and told me that it was disturbing. I thought she said, "It is Disturbie." You know, like "Look! It's Chucky!" Well, that's not what she said, but his name is Disturbie now. I think it's a good name for a twenty-plus years old baby doll, and he's going to be moving in with me. I even have one of Bug's doll beds in my room that he's going to sleep in at night. We're going to make stories, even if they aren't always about him.

Gosh, he's just fantastic!

So, I think I've found my muse, even if he's plastic. With a penis. And missing an eyeball.

Sweet Disturbie, we are going to have adventures!

Don't you just want to kiss and love on him? Come on, don't kid yourself. You know you do.

Adventures with: Bug & the 80s

As my readers know, I am the single mother of a fantastic kindergartner named Bug. The people that know us personally know what a strange creature my child is. Everyone who knows her bombards me with questions, mostly along the lines of, "What has she come up with lately?" Because of her shenanigans, she is a mini-celebrity at the local ER (I am keeping her teenage years in mind by NOT telling you that story).

Ever since she was a baby, she has always had the strangest obsession with stuff from the 80s. For example: her favorite movie is Labyrinth. She is currently on a Pee Wee Herman kick. She has stolen my Rainbow Brite DVDs. The list could go on all day. Anyways, she is convinced that I am going to marry the Goblin King (David Bowie circa 1986), and refuses to believe that he has aged in the past 25 years.

My Husband-to-be

All of this I can handle. It's cute, even. Hell, I wouldn't even mind marrying David Bowie because I respect a man in guyliner, and I wouldn't have to work unless I wanted to. My problem of late is this:



EVERY time we get into the car, my child demands that I play this song. She knows every word. My five year old can sing this song with more emotion and force than most grown people that I know. It is outstanding. I just cannot help but crack up when she belts it out. She is off key through its entirety and she sounds like a munchkin. The song is cheeseball hilarious and she gets pissed when I laugh at her. What can I do?

Heaven help me if she decides to obsess over Bryan Adams.

Adventures with: Photographs

I found a picture album with a lot of old photos of myself yesterday. It had been heaped into a pile of other things, and I was quite surprised to see them. Many of them I have not seen since before Bug was born.

I'll share one of them with you.

This is one of my favorite pictures of myself. (No, his face is not blacked out in the original photograph.) I was young and pretty, with my hair the shade of red that it's supposed to be. Look at me smiling - I look very happy and in love, don't I?

There is a secret behind the picture. Two nights before this was taken, the guy on the right beat the crap out of me. After an evening of verbal abuse, admissions of cheating on me with multiple other women, and drinking, he decided that I was being disrespectful to him. It started with him dragging me out of a bar and backhanding me in the cab. The highlight of the evening was me bleeding on the sidewalk in front of his cousin's town house. The neighbors called the police and what I remember as a SWAT team trying to haul him off to jail while I hid under his cousin's bed because I felt like I had done something wrong. The night wrapped up with us in a motel room in another state that he made ME pay for because his cousin kicked him out. I woke up that morning with him on the phone with his ex-fiance telling her how much he missed her.

No, you're not reading this incorrectly. That all happened before this picture was taken. The girl in that picture was completely ruled by the guy next to her from the way her makeup is done, to the clothes she is wearing, to the way she is standing. Needless to say, that guy is no longer in the picture, figuratively and literally.

The woman I am now would say that I would give up everything I possess in that picture - youth, beauty, clothes, etc. - to never be in that picture again. In a way, I have. I may not be as young or pretty or dress in stylish clothes, but I am now strong enough to break things off with a guy who respects me and treats me kindly (that I also care about) as opposed to being someone to stay with an abusive, hateful twat for a month after he gave me a concussion.

I think being who I am versus who I was is a fair trade.

Adventures with: November

The world is out to get me. The Universe hates me. Murphy's Law is operating to its fullest extent, barring great bodily mutilation or some other incident of excessive horror. Something that cruel would only serve to shut me down completely. The Powers That Be only want me to be irritable, depressed, and insane.

Meet November.

This is what the second to last month in the year holds in store for me annually for as long as I can remember. It is a big nasty ball of Suck, and there is nothing I can do about it. I have grown used to it, and I accept it as part of my life. Is it terrible that Life takes a shit on me for an entire month every year? Absolutely. However, it helps to know that it is going to happen, and I can just resign myself to it. Luckily, I realized that November had set in by the 7th and got the toilet paper handy.

I do not know why I always forget about the coming of November. I swear every year that I will be ready the next time that it hits. That is never the case. I am a die-hard optimist (deep down, ok?) and the month always plays the defenseless and cute card in the beginning. This year, the month started out as easy as it always does. I was able to get some of my NaNoWriMo project done, and all other aspects of my life were in their normal mode of mediocrity. Then November slowly started rolling out the attack.

Last week, I had a law official come into my place of business to question Bookboy and I regarding a crime that was committed at my workplace, in a sense. Thank Bob we were not faced with the Prisoner's Dilemma, as we naturally turned upon each other as soon as the cop walked out of the room. If we had been arrested for a crime (we were not and we have not done anything illegal), we would have been clawing each other's eyes out in order to get a better deal. Yes, we would turn on each other in a heartbeat, but that is the nature of our relationship. We are coworkers. A little backstabbing and self-servicing is demanded. Anyways, in terms of November, that is not so bad. That is something that one could easily expect from April or September.

It was not really until Sunday that I began to see the pattern of terrible that is November. I blogged about Sunday's Gossip issue a few days ago, but that was not the whole of the awful for that day. There was a gross miscommunication between the Gingerman and myself. We are the same in a lot of ways, but we have some major differences in others that make things very difficult for me (and for him because when things are difficult for me, I make life difficult for everyone). That being said, I ended up being very pissed off at him, and I am quite sure that he is completely disgusted with me. I do not know for sure - we have not spoken since then. Even better - my mother called to talk about what was going on with me. Bless her heart for caring, but when I am in the middle of an emotional meltdown, I only want to discuss things with the others involved (and maybe break the noses of the gossipy offenders). Glorious November rolls out the goodness!

It is not paranoia. This is Every. Fucking. Year. No exceptions. Let us head over to Monday so you can see. I ran away from the world to my friend Un-Nicknamed's house on Sunday night. She is mean enough to hold the evils of November at bay - which is also why she is Un-Nicknamed Friend. The terrible got right back on track when I left her house. Bug did not want to go to school and had a complete meltdown when I tried to drop her off that morning. I do not need to go into details. All of the parent readers know and those without children will not understand what I am saying until they are parents. It sucks to put it that way, but that is just how it is. The most I can say is that November was not pulling any punches when my child turned and chased me to my car, tears streaming down her face, begging me not to leave  her there. A tear-stained, snot-nosed child is not the main ingredient to a fantastic day - just so you know. Work was not really memorable except for a patron telling me that I looked like I had "bedroom hair" which translates to "you look like you just got done having sex" (which is never the case in November), but Bug was an emotional terrorist for the evening when I got home. Hooray!

Tuesday was the day November chose to pelt me with paperwork and bills and letters. None of it was anything good. I got a letter from the school board saying that paperwork that I sent in over a month ago was not there and bad things would be happening within two weeks if they did not get it. I got a letter from the DMV stating that my insurance had lapsed and my presence at their fine facility would be required - and soon. Then there was the most fun thing of all - a questionnaire for jury duty. It is November, so I am going to be selected for the pool. That is fairly awful, but if I am summoned for the pool, it will be the fourth time this year. Yes, you read that correctly - FOURTH. Honestly, I have given up. I hope they pick me so I be done with the nonsense. Somehow, I doubt they will so I can be summoned again. And again. And again. And again.

I chose the Ninth of November to be the day to take care of All The Things that was set upon me the day before. I had the foresight to ask Un-Nicknamed Friend (UNF)) to accompany me on my quest against the Evil Paperwork. I am not saying the day was not riddled with greatness. I had a morning coffee date with my favorite mommy friend, and there was much giggling and snark involved. It was a lovely November refueling point, and I paid for it later. After the coffee date, I decided that I would stop by my credit union before meeting up with UNF. I only had to deposit a check into my account, and I wrongfully assumed that November would turn her vindictive eye the other way. Almost immediately upon me sending my deposit slip and check through the drive-thru's Magical Sucking Tube, the teller told me that she would be unable to deposit it without the branch manager's approval. Would I like to go in and speak with the manager? Not particularly, but I resigned myself to it. After half an hour of waiting in the lobby, one of the loan officials invited me into  her office to assist me. She took a quick look at the offending check, and told me that I would have to speak to the branch manager. Apparently, requesting to speak to the branch manager does not really sink in until a person has seen everyone else in the branch first. I imagine that it is like a video game where all other enemies must be defeated before advancing to the Big Boss. After another fifteen minutes, the credit union's Big Boss stepped forth to do battle with me. For whatever reason, sometime in the past few months my credit union decided that it would no longer take perfectly good third party checks unless the person the check was made out to was a member of our credit union. Are you incredibly bored with this description of events? Of course you are. I am bored with writing it. November won and I left with my check. Game Over.

Getting right down to the point, I also lost to November with my insurance agency and the DMV, despite having UNF with me. (As a side note, she thought I was in need of medication at the beginning of my November explanation, but after I outlined it all for her, she agreed that I was in trouble until December.) I had to pay a fifty dollar reinstatement fee because of my douchebag, irresponsible agents. Did I have the fifty dollars? Well, hell no. I did not get to deposit my check. UNF was able to cash it at her bank, which everyone is boycotting and bashing right now for 99% reasons. I do not mind them because they can cash a fucking check! Try that one on for size, small business America. I paid the money, and got things done. The only part of all of that where I came close to coming unglued was when I was on the phone with an idiot from the main insurance company who accused me of speaking in riddles when I asked her to tell me the dates of which my coverage had lapsed. I am sorry America, but when my period there is up, I am going back to AIG. They may be crooks in public opinion, but they got shit done when I needed it. Simple questions also do not astound their operators. If small business wants to beat out corporations - hire non-idiots. But this is about November... I will tell you the worst part of the DMV. I had my number, and I asked UNF to hold on to it for me while I went to the restroom. My body is still actively rebelling against the removal of its cousin, Gall Bladder, and my number was called mid-attack. I knew that it was going to happen - it is November.

Yes, I am a big ball of stressed-out crazy. That is only because I do not know what November has in store for me next. I know bad things are going to happen. I am braced for the impact. I look forward to it. I would love for every bad thing that I have left built up for this year and the first part of next year to come at me right now. Why, do you ask? Because it is November and I am ready for it.

Adventures with: Lederhosen and Lip Wax

This was a busy weekend for me. I had to get Gingerman through the bar, do battle with a migraine, shuffle work and motherhood, and go to the Red River Revel with Bug & friends. I could tell you about any of that. You would be bored. I was bored writing it (mostly because I was leaving out the best stuff), so I'm skipping to the good parts. That's right, we're going straight to the lederhosen.

Lederhosen

Do we all know what lederhosen is? No? Okay, here you go:

Now imagine that you've been seeing someone who you really enjoy for a few months. You've never met anyone really important to said person, except the Best Friend and Best Friend's Spouse. That is where we were in our whatevership last night. After I took Bug to the Revel and then to my mother's apartment, I asked GM if he would like to spend some time with me after his family function. He was agreeable, and I went to pick him up with a friend (who doesn't have a nickname yet).

GM met us outside with a stein in his hand. I was immediately jealous because this man has been bragging about his "wheat" for weeks. He then proceeded to invite us inside after I brought up the fact that he was trying to get in the car with an open container. I. Was. TERRIFIED. Not about the illegal quality of having the beer in the car, but about meeting people! I had just left the Revel, which took up my month's People Quota, and this man wanted me to go into his house! I wasn't at my best by any stretch, but I was glad I took the time to smear a little makeup on after work.

We get inside and EVERYONE is dressed in traditional German garb. GM just had on a lederhosen t-shirt, but everyone else there had on either one of those or lederhosen proper - men and women! And they were dancing to polka music! I hate the early stages of a whatevership, but lederhosen definitely makes meeting folks rather enjoyable. Maybe next year I'll bring an accordion.

Lip Wax

 At the Revel on Saturday, my friend took me a little off to the side. Apparently, the sun was hitting my sweet ginger peach fuzz on my face in that special way that Western women learn young to dread. 

I never had this problem before I had Bug. Yes, I have bushy eyebrows, but I think shaping them is silly. I don't have a unibrow, and even the most groomed of women begrudgingly admit that the shape is not terrible. If I get a wild hair (hardy har har), I'll even do a little plucking. Honestly, I am well-stocked in the chest department, so I doubt very many people even realize that I have eyebrows. Yeah, I said it. Yet the other facial hair slowly turning darker is all Bug's fault. I strongly believe that each time you're forced to yell at your child for something, it turns one little hair follicle black, or brown in my case. I usually just pluck it because I hate waxing, and if it has to be done, I pay someone else to do it. I am a wimp.

I was feeling a little cheap tonight. I remembered that I had a home waxing kit in my bathroom that had been up there since the last time I decided to do something stupid. I ended up chickening out and subjecting the poor children at Guy's Academy to my sweet ginger peach fuzz after I bought it. I'm flattered that they always laugh at my two or three dark hairs, but I digress. (Side note: Why the Hell am I writing this?! Why are you still reading it?!) Anyways, eyebrow waxing is the Most Terrible Awful Thing, and I didn't need to do that. It's been a few months since I've waxed, I'm tired of plucking, I have the goods, so why not wax my own lip?

In case you don't know, there are people out there who say that I am an intelligent woman. You can be the judge on this one. I don't care much for pain, and I know how much I hate waxing. Taking both of those things into consideration, I went ahead and put the hot wax everywhere that needed some touch up work. I slathered it on good and thick, so I couldn't change my mind about it.

I pulled off the first section. I did not feel like an intelligent woman. I felt like a hobbit getting locked in Moria - there was no turning back and the worst was yet to come. Hell, I was feeling as hairy as a hobbit because there's nothing like wax to make you aware of every single follicle.

After the second section, I was cursing Sally Hansen and all things dealing with American female beauty. I have a brain damnit! Why am I pulling off the skin of my face?! I am of Slavic descent, for the most part, and I was crying out for Perun (as he is portrayed in Hammered by Kevin Hearne because he is very fun) to save me from my foolhardiness because he loves a good hairy woman! He didn't. I didn't expect that he would. I was on my own.

I swear to Bob, this whole thing ended with a pair of scissors. I won't go into much details. I'm sure most of you lady-folks know exactly what happened. Or not. I am a bit strange. Either way, it was done. I got all of the wax off of my face, along with most of the offending hair and a good bit of skin. It would've even been okay if my grandmother hadn't burst into laughter when I came into the living room.

*sigh*