6 Random things about me...

1. I absolutely CANNOT deal with talking about normal, bodily functions. Although I like to think I hide it well, I get as embarassed as the time I heard my mom talking about sex with my dad. I also think one should whisper when discussing such things so one will not be overheard.

2. Making lists and parenthetical references are seriously some of my best/worst writing habits. Take your pick. (FYI, I used the word seriously waay before Grey's Anatomy became popular.)

3. I am afraid to put my blog on my facebook page for fear that one of my facebook friends (or people I used to know 10+ years ago) or family members might see it and realize I'd been writing about them every now and again. Oops. Must compartmentalize.

4. I never use up anything, ever. I always throw it away when it's almost completely empty because I can't wait to open the new thing (i.e. lotions, shampoo, hair products, etc.).

5. I got in another person's argument over the validity of Kanye West at a New Year's Eve party and I cannot. let. it. go.

6. I can tell you the number of stairs in almost any building I frequent. My house? 14. The boy's apartment? 44 (actually it's 43 but I add a fake 44th step because you can't have an odd number of steps or the building will fall down). Parking garage at work? 20 (technically 21 if you count the first step/landing thing but I don't count it because, again, odd numbered stairs make the building come crumbling down). Stairwell at work? 11 for each staircase and there are 2 staircases per flight, so 22.

I'm tagging Blondie at PinkHondaCivic and LK at Pieces on the Ground. My tagger was blooming wildflowers.

The guidelines: Link to your tagger, share 6 random things about yourself, tag a few others (be sure to tell them). And of course, post the rules.

God how I hate BBQ...

How much food does it take to feed a party of 22? In my mom's world, it takes 6.5 lbs of cow, 4 half birds, and 10 lbs of miscellaneous pork parts wrapped in edible condoms. Not to mention sides and desserts.

If you ever wondered why Texas is top 5 in obesity it's because of the above. That's basically a pound of meat (just meat!) per person plus sides plus desserts. I say desserts plural because there will be many cakes and pies, as a southern family is want to do. (Technically we're west, not south, but we eat like poor, southern people so that works better for description's sake.)

I scoured the internet for the proper amount of food per person for a party. I came up with 1/4 lb of meat (or 1/2 lb if it's boned meat). Basically my family eats 4 x what the normal person would eat. It's quite gross actually.

I will not eat any of it, of course. I don't eat cow; I try to avoid sausage parts; and meat on a bone grosses me out. I thought about going to a local place and getting some wheat roast (fake meat) to see if anyone would notice, but I knew they would and I'd never live it down. Once your good food reputation is lost in my family, it's lost forever. (They still talk about the time my mother tried to make Stouffer's Stuffing at Thanksgiving one year and that was over 30 years ago!)

I tried to find a picture of 20 lbs of meat but the images grossed me out so bad I had to take a moment. So no pics.

Meat is gross.

I'm off to holiday at the Cape.

Aren't you jealous of my poser self? I've never been to Cape Cod. Or anywhere on the East Coast other than NYC and DC, although I do firmly feel if I had to choose, I'd be an East Coast Woah-man. But you know, I'm landlocked currently. Unless I drive a couple of hours away that is. I digress.

I'm off to vacay and have a wonderfully long weekend with a bunch of excellent, intellectually stimulating women. (Actually I've never met most of them but whatever. It's best to start with bright expectations.) I'd be happy with a good joke and a free-flowing bottle of wine actually. I'm not terribly hard to please.

I'll be hitting up Provincetown and seeing the infamous Varla Jean (I hope I got that right) from the drag queen Project Runway ep. She was the winning model, at least in the sense that she was wearing the pink pantsuit that won. I'll also be stopping by the Marc Jacobs store because I'm a sucker for "special items" found only in-store. Plus there are no stores here in ATX.

I purchased some very naughty items for a certain lingerie shower that shall remain to-be bride nameless. I bought (don't read past here B if you've found the time in your busy schedule to actually read this dribble!) an awesome riding crop thing that makes me want to hit everyone I know. With the riding crop, that is. And only when I'm holding it in my hand. Which I haven't done so very often, really. I mean, it is at my house and all. And I wouldn't be a very good friend if I gave her faulty goods, would I? I should really make sure it works well...

I haven't used it any kind of dirty way, unless you count slapping the couch with it and telling Hillary to "get in line" right before she spoke last night at the DNC. But I don't count that. Speaking of HRC, sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits? How awesome was that line? When she started in on sisterhood, I was weary, when she got to traveling I was audibly groaning, waiting for the shitty punchline, but when she came to pantsuits, I laughed out loud at both myself for expecting the worst and HRC for making a funny.

I've always been a HRC fan. Until the last few months. And I'm pretty sure I'm no fan of Bill's anymore either. I defended his bad behavior when it was helping me but I'm pretty sure he's a big, fat asshole who can't keep it in his pants. I have enough ego to satisfy my entire world. I don't need it from him too. BUT. I fell in like with HRC all over again last night. It was if the prior devious and dirty months were erased. I didn't put on my pink, rosy glasses or anything and I'm still suspicious of motives, but she done good. Good job, Hills. You deserve the praise.

Long way of saying, I'll be out for a few days. Try not to cry and if the empty comment section is any indication, I'm sure all the varied and many people out there who read this blog (um rambling?) will manage just fine.

See you next fiscal year! (Oh my. Too nerdy?)

I'm sad and random dribble about vehicles.

My new car? Stopped working yesterday for a brief period of time. Apparently it's a battery issue, although all the lights still worked and it's working now. But really. How much is it to ask for a car that doesn't break down every five seconds? I thought shelling out my spending money each month (i.e. shopping now = car payment) would solve the problem but I guess not.

And now I'm driving a Prius rental car (for work, not because of my car) and it's plain 'old weird. I couldn't figure out how to control anything for the first 10 minutes or so (a/c, radio, rear windshield wiper, etc.). Finally, after changing the language on the computer screen thing to French I realized all the controls were on the steering wheel. While it's convenient for the driver, the passenger has no control whatsoever, which I don't like. Not because I want my passengers to have control over temperature or radio controls but because I like to have control over those things when I'm a passenger. I'm totally one of those people who changes your radio station and points all the air on you, the driver. But if any of my friends drive a Prius, I'm shit out of luck.

I really like riding in my mom's car, for instance, because it has a seat warmer. Sometimes I have to vacate my seat for my grandmother and she gets all freaked out because her ass is hot. She always thinks the car is about to explode or she's having some kind of butt attack. I, in the backseat, giggle uncontrollably like a 4 year-old kid. I do love seat warmers.

Explain god's people to me.

How can a person (or people) go around quoting scripture and be WWJD all over the place and still get the big stuff so fucking wrong?

I'm not into god or all that spirituality stuff (although if I keep getting scared by ghost shows I might have to revisit some things), but I'm down with Jesus.* He was a cool enough guy I guess. Or, at least, the version people created was cool enough. So why do certain people spend their lives memorizing bible verses, decorating their houses with crosses, making cookies for church groups, and all that good "christian" stuff but still not get what the whole thing is about?

Here's what I have to say about it all: I'm rubber and you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Bastard.**

*I'm referring to Christian gods in this post because I'm specifically referring to Christians. I'm down with some of the other dieties as well.

**I can't say all the details I really want to say because there's a very slight chance someone might read this. And although I'm right about the thing I'm right about, I'm nice enough to not destroy certain people over it.

Since I need it and this is a horrible post to end the week on:



You're welcome.

And it's out.

I have a new niece. Her name is Chloe Grace. J has enlightened me on the problems that arise from naming a kid a virtue, so there's that. But the Chloe part is nice. And I'm fairly certain my brother and SIL don't know who the Kardashians are - another good point.

She weighed in at 8 lbs, 14 oz. She's huge! And she's 21" long. That's long, right? I mean, I wouldn't want an almost 2 foot long thing inside of me. (I wouldn't want any kind of "thing" inside me but that's another topic altogether.)

She was all puffy and stay-puff-mashmellow-manish and she had an eerie purple glow about her, but by the time we started to leave the hospital in the evening she was beginning to look like a normal baby.

FYI: don't go look in the nursery when the baby makes their first trip there. The mean nurses stick utensils up the baby's butt, poke them with sharp needles, and scrub their poor, little head with a loofa. Boo to mean baby nurses! I wonder what they shoot them with? Rana - any help? I never knew babies got a shot immediately after they were born.

My brother has 5 kids now. Take a moment to ingest that. 5 kids. It's completely bizarre. They were all there at the hospital for pictures and introductions and what not. It was a nice scene.

And then. I won't go into the details but suffice to say that I love my mother and she is a much better person than I will ever be. Don't get me wrong, she's completely batshit crazy sometimes, but I know I can never have the patience and strength that she has. She's a much better person than me. As I sat in the backseat of our car (filled with my mom, my dad, my oldest nephew, and my grandmother), completely filled with rage and practically bruising myself to keep my mouth shut, I gained a whole new level of respect for my mom. My dad better not give her cancer with his goddamned cigar smoking. (That last bit was a completely unrelated aside.)

So there were some highs yesterday and there were some serious lows. I'm choosing the forget the lows and focus on the highs. Yea a baby! Yea a newfound respect for the mom! Yea a baby!

And um, is it wrong that I want to hug and kiss the baby and make her love me more than anyone else? I don't want to breastfeed her or buy her clothes or anything but unadulterated, compulsive love? Yeah, I'll take that.

Apparently I only hear what I want to hear.

So sayeth the mother.

Background: my brother is about to have his 5th kid. Typo? Nope. He's on wife #2 and this is her 3rd kid with him. Alot of numbers? Yep. They're due Wednesday. (They? When did pregnancy become his and hers? She's the one pushing a disgusting, covered-in-all-kinds-of-bodily-fluids thing out of her special place. How does he get to lay claim to this?) This pregnancy has created all kinds of hilarity and um, other stuff, some of which I've posted about. For instance I was home for Mother's Day the other weekend and my dad was talking to my brother on the phone. I hear: "She lost her what?" and then my dad abruptly hands the phone to my mother. I asked him what my brother was talking about. My dad tried to act like it was no big deal but I could see the involuntary shudder as he repeated: "She lost her mucus plug." I don't want to be 12 or anything but... ewwwwwww!!!! (My dad is not Hank Hill but it's the closest cartoon character out there that comes close to describing him, so you can imagine what it took for him to repeat the phrase "mucus plug" to me.)

Anyway. Back to my original story.

So Sunday night my mom calls me about 10:30 (middle of the night for her) to tell me my SIL is having contractions and all that jazz. We decide to reconvene in the morning (because my mom doesn't want to sit at a hospital all night) to see how things are going. In my mind contractions = birth, so I'm thinking they're having the baby that night.

Monday morning rolls around and I speak with my mom around 7:30 a.m. I specifically ask her if she's talked to my brother. I want to know if the baby's born yet or what. She says she has not talked to him since the night before but to get my stuff together and meet her at my grandmother's house (a halfway point where we'll rendezvous before going to the hospital). I repeatedly call her over the course of the early morning asking if she's heard from my brother. Everytime I call she tells me she has not talked to him. I call in to work and tell them I'll be out because the bro is having the baby and all that (I prepared them ahead of time that I travel to family events like these). As I'm in my car driving towards my grandmother's (over an hour away), I decide to call my brother myself to see if he'll answer my call.

He does and he tells me they're still at home because the doctor won't see them until they meet "criteria," whatever the hell that means. Oh, okay. So they're not at the hospital and they haven't had the baby yet and for all that, it could be days before the baby comes (or at least until Wednesday when they'll induce if necessary).

All of that is fine except that I've already taken off work and I'm on my way out of town. I decide I'll turn around, head back to work, and explain the situation to my boss. He won't care. I also decide I should call my mom and let her know what's up so she doesn't rush off to the hospital. I call her and her reaction? "Oh yeah, I knew all of that." Me: How did you know that, Mom? Her: I talked to your brother this morning.

WTF??? Why the fuck was she telling me to travel over an hour to meet her to go to the hospital when she knew nothing was happening? And why did she keep telling me she hadn't spoken with my brother and knew absolutely nothing when in fact she'd talked to him and knew absolutely everything? And why the fuck (did I mention that word already?) was she telling me to waste my precious, precious gas to come meet her when I'd have to turn around and go home when there was. no. baby.?!?!

Her reaction to my outrage? To tell me that she had indeed told me she talked to him. And not only had she told me she'd talked to him but she'd told me what he said (i.e. no baby yet). I very politely (ahem) disagreed with her and she informed me that she wasn't going to argue with me, because I only hear what I want to hear.

You know what? I'll tell you about 5,000 things I did not want to hear: 1) I did not want to hear that I had to call in to work when in fact I did not; 2) I did not want to hear that I had to drive halfway out of town when I did not; 3) I did not want to hear that I had to get up early out of my comfy bed to go to a hospital where a baby was not coming; 4) I did not want to hear that I had to put on make-up on a Monday morning (a task I usually leave until Thursday) when in fact I did not. (Because, see, if there was a new baby there would be pictures.); 5) I did not want to hear that I had to wear contacts on a Monday morning, which I usually don't wear due to the overuse they get on weekends, when in fact I did not. (Again, pictures. And a lot of driving in a lot of sun = sunglasses = need for contacts.); 6) I did not want to hear that I had to coat my entire body with spf because I was going to be driving in the sun all day and I can't afford to have any more cleavage wrinkles (thanks again J) when in fact I did not have to wear spf on my boobs at all, given the short, short drive to my work on normal mornings; and 7) I did not want to hear that apparently my mother is completely, out of her mind crazy, because she doesn't have long term healthcare insurance and I do not want to take care of her ass.

*brushes sweat and furrow off brow* I feel better now.

Too many gifts to buy in May!!

I have a ton of occasions this month. Since everyone else gets away with lists, here's mine:

1. B's bday - bird theme: bird necklace (by the Naughty Secretary's Club - they're not naughty, just crafty) and a parrot beer bottler opener (opens bottles with its beak).

2. Cousin's college graduation - umm.... necklace? I have no clue. She's getting a trip to Hawaii from her parents and she really doesn't like anything material, so what? I have no clue. She's a recently converted Dem and has no clue what to do with her life, so maybe Colbert's book? Her graduation is on Saturday. I'm totally stalling!

3. Mother for Mother's Day - DVDs. She was easy and very specific. Now I just have to buy one more to complete her list. Apparently she's decided she likes musicals. I threw out a couple of choices and she hadn't ever heard of them. Musicals indeed. Translation: The Sound of Music.

4. Grandmother for Mother's Day - an umbrella. Sounds bizarre but she wants one. A "cool one" as she put it. I'm pretty sure my definition of cool and hers are not at all the same. I got her some other summer/outdoorsy things to go along with it.

5. Brother's Bday - inflatable moose head. He's big into hunting (although the only thing he's ever killed was on a hunting ranch thing, comparable to a loaded lake for fishing). He has two deer heads hanging in his living room. I can't believe his wife let him put them in there (haha! once a bird flew in their house and perched/shit on the antlers of one of them), but maybe she has pregnant brain and wasn't coherent enough to put up a fight. Anyway. I'm always giving him shit about having dead animals on display (I think it's vulgar, tacky, and plain old disgusting), and an inflatable moose head is just what he needs.

6. Brother's 5th kid, bday tba - she's due this month so I have to come up with a gift. I already bought a couple of onesies in newborn, 3 months, and 6 months sizes. What else? I can't afford anything on her registry (see earlier post) and one of her friends already got her all the bath stuff I was planning on buying. She'll have a new baby when I give it to her. She won't care about gifts. Right?

7. JM's bday - oh god. I have no clue what to buy. I think pretty much everything he likes is crap (sorry JM but it's no secret), so what should I get him? See he's into toys. All kinds of annoying, blinking, drive-you-to-drinking toys. I guess I'll go to the local toy store and buy the thing that's most likely to give me a seizure. That ought to work.

8. Nephew's hs graduation - my aunt gave me $100 when I graduated high school. I thought I was rich. Hell, I'd still think I was rich if someone gave me that for a gift. I cannot afford to give my nephew that much $$$ for a gift. I'm poor. I'd volunteer to pay for half of his books when he registers for college (thus delaying the gift-giving although it would be substantially more than $100), but given his desire to do absolutely nothing (legal), it might be a crappy gift. 'Cause he wouldn't use it, see? 'Cause he might not go to college? I suppose I'll just give him cash but I'm afraid of what he'll use it on. Oh well. Not my business I suppose.

Great. Now I'm depressed.

On Chesil Beach

I just finished reading On Chesil Beach. (I don't know how to accentuate book names so I'm italicizing. Forgive me if I'm wrong. I feel like it should be underlined but that looks dumb.) It's a short novel by Ian McEwan (of Atonement fame). It was on the NYTimes list of 100 greatest books in 2007, so I picked it up on my last trip to the library. Of course I haven't finished reading any of the books I checked out, but when I went to renew them online I realized someone else requested OCB and I can't renew it! So it's due back Thursday. Today is Tuesday. Guess what I did over lunch? Read OCB. It's that short.

It's really quite good. I read Atonement and saw the movie but I never really got the hype. Obviously McEwan is a great writer but it wasn't really my cup of tea. There was too much of modern lit in there for me to fully appreciate it. I can't stand all the sacky, emotional, whiny crap that goes into most modern fiction. (By sacky I mean balls and their apparatus/containers.) But I really enjoyed OCB. Maybe it's because it's about sex, maybe it's because it's short, or maybe it's because it's good. I'm not sure. Either way, I highly recommend it if you're into two virgins doing it for the very first time on their wedding night, a night which ends very disastrously due to the above description.

It just goes to prove that you really should do it for the first time in high school when everything is awkward to begin with. It saves everyone a lot of trouble.

I learned something new on Saturday night.

I saw Baby Mama - or is it Mamma? - Saturday night and I learned what a "taint" is. I had to ask but that's what asking is for, no? My friend J tried to tell me it was your perineum but I didn't know what that was either. I am stoopid. But a little more thorough explanation helped me figure it out. I call it the "you've missed" spot but apparently that's what taint means anyway (an ineffectual stab with a lance).

Don't say I never taught you anything. Or maybe you already knew. Oh well. Consider yourself refreshed.

It must be Monday.

Guilt!!!!!!!!!! Is a horrible thing. Brief story some of you already know: Sis-in-law's 3rd kid + baby shower + invite came a week ahead of time + she lives in town 2 hours away + I'm not going + big fight with mom = GUILT.

I wasn't feeling the guilt, only righteous indignation at the aforementioned big fight with mom, but when I sent out all the emails RSVPing in the negative and apologizing to SIL, my mom's shitty ass guilt trip is starting to work. She apologized for the nasty words said in the fight and she's even picking up the flowers I ordered (in lieu of attendance - I try to be nice) and taking them to the shower. But even her good deeds are laced with guilt. See? She's the good family member - going to the shower and even picking up my pseudo-gift to bring along with her. *sigh* My boobs are starting to sweat. Apparently guilt-induced cleavage sweat. Gross and gross.

To add to the gloriousness of today I just now realized I have my cardigan on inside out. Nice. I've talked with lots of people today and no one has pointed it out to me. I'm going to wear it like this for the rest of the day in defiance of all the fuckers who don't tell you you have spinach in your teeth. Fuck those people. (I'm displacing anger here, in case you needed an explanation.)

Parents just don't understand...

In the immortal words of the Fresh Prince of Bellaire and DJ Jazzy Jeff, "so to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand." Doo do doo do, zingy fun noise, doo do doo do.

So I was talking to my mom on the phone the other day. She randomly interrupts that she meant to tell me I have x dollars in some account somewhere. Me: wha? Her: A letter came for you and it said you had x dollars in a retirement account. Key points: retirement account (gives me a clue as to what she's talking about) and in letter format (i.e. she opened my mail).

Apparently my mother does not understand that she is not supposed to open my mail, even though we've had many civilized and not so civilized conversations about that very action ever since I was old enough to start receiving mail. (One not so civilized occasion occurred when she opened an acceptance/rejection letter in high school. I won't go into details but rest assured the neighbors stayed far away from our part of the street that night although she still refuses to admit she was wrong. That's the kind of mom I have.)

I pointed out to her, rather politely, that she shouldn't open my mail and her response was that she knew it was a federal offense but she didn't care. Apparently the fact that my head emerged from her vagina gives her the right to do what she wants regarding my mail. Or so she says. Whatever. Fine. So mom, when did this letter come? Oh weeks ago. Really? Why haven't you given it to me? Wrong question to ask. Next comes the lecture on me visiting her more often. Did I mention I'd seen her less than 24 hours earlier at my grandmother's for Easter dinner? But apparently that doesn't count because she puts my mail (that she's already opened) in my bedroom at her house and she can't be expected to go in there and pick it up to bring to me, can she? And of course if I visited her, I'd see for myself that there's something sitting on the bed I'm going to be sleeping in. See? It's all my fault.

Ignoring the above genius logic I ask her with whom might the retirement account be? And how should I retrieve the funds? (I figure these are safe questions since she's already read the fine print. But that's what I get for thinking.) Guess what? She doesn't know and she's slightly offended that I would ask her something she doesn't know the answer to. Please don't ask why she can't get up from her recliner and go pick up the offending piece of mail and let me know what it says, because god knows if she can't mail it to me or give it to me in person, she's certainly not going to get up from her chair and do actual moving around. Insanity!

I accept all of the above with no small amount of grace, if I do say so myself. I only point out the absurdity of the entire conversation two, maybe three times. But where I draw the line is today. I get an email from my mother with the subject line: "our conversation from the other evening." Here is her email, with only small edits to protect the innocent:

Tina,

When we were talking about the mail you had received from x, with some balance in an account, I couldn't remember what the name was on the account. Could it have been from xyz company?

Love you!


Regards,
Tina's mom

*bangs head on desk* I don't know Mom. Could it have been from xyz company? How the hell would I know? YOU HAVE THE LETTER!!! Again, I politely mentioned that it might behoove us both for her to retrieve the piece of offending mail instead of trying to guess back and forth, considering a) she'd read the mail and b) she freaking HAS THE LETTER!!! breathing, breathing...

So I repeat again, "so to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand." Doo do doo do, zingy fun noise, doo do doo do.

Forgive me if this post is all over the place. Parental love, eh?

My "Dying Instructions" List

I figure if I can obsess about retirement, I can lay out the specifics of dying, death, my own in particular.

First thing to do if I die or am close to dying: read this blog entry.

Regarding being hooked up to machines: Don't unplug me! I hate to be a drain on the environment and someone's electricity bill (charge it to my Visa, they won't care), but damn! give a girl a moment, ya know? I'm slow in most things I do, especially if it involves physical activity like, say, coming back to life. So give me a few months to sort things out. If I'm not awake in oh, 3 months, you can put a dimmer on my switches. Turn me down low at night and see how I cook. If in another 3 months I've shown no improvement and instead show obvious signs of distress when I'm on the "low" setting, I concede that it's probably time to start planning the funeral.

Regarding the funeral:

1. Open casket.

2. Pin my butt and thighs back, maybe even some stomach, and push my boobs up. I want everyone to admire my post-mortem body.

3. Put me in something cute. I don't want to wear any black or yellow or red. I'd be happiest with a dress in peacock blue (favorite color and all), because it makes my eyes look good. I have a great one from Anthro that you can use if no one wants to have it after I'm dead.

4. Can you open eyes on a dead person? If so and if they look halfway decent, prop those babies open. It's my best asset. Everyone might as well enjoy it.

5. Get a real makeup artist to do my face. I don't want one of those clown, funeral home people. I'm cool with eyeliner as well. Just be sure to apply it like I would. No red lipstick.

6. I want tears. I don't want any of this laughing through tears, telling funny stories junk. I want honest-to-goodness sobbing.

7. If you put a cross on or near me, I will rise up and haunt you. Not kidding. I'll accept a flask though.

8. I want everyone to stand up and tell a story about me. I prefer it to be inspirational in a way that will encourage people to cry more. If you can't think of a story where I acted in an upstanding, moral way, make one up. No one will know and it will greatly decrease your chances of the aforementioned haunting.

9. Song choice - sad songs. Yesterday (Beatles), O Danny Boy (any old Irish guy), It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday (Boys II Men), My Wild Irish Rose (Hank Lucklin), Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley), Tiny Dancer (Elton John, although the Foo Fighters version is also acceptable), Sitting on the Dock of the Bay (Otis Redding - don't fuck with this one), Rio (Duran, Duran), and Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain (Willie Nelson). I reserve the right to add to and/or change this list at any time.

10. Burial or cremation? Couldn't care less. But only cremate me after the open casket if that's the choice. Make me into diamonds or amber, keep me above the fireplace, vacuum me up, or throw me off a cliff. I don't care. Just make sure there's a marker out there somewhere that's bigger and better than all the other grave markers. Make it interesting enough so that classes of kids will want to come over and do grave rubbings on my headstone/marker thing. Put swirlies and ridges and stuff.

Oh and the most important bit: if and when I am getting to that point, run to wikipedia (or whatever the future equivalent is) and create some entry calling me the inventor of cold fusion or some such thing. Make sure all the newspapers know the inventor (creator?) of cold fusion just died and the whole scientific community (or whatever community it is that I'm a part of) is in mourning. Call it a loss for the Nobel Prize Committee. (I'm open to true songwriter of all Beatles songs, muse for Jackson Pollack, or whatever other really significant thing you can think of that would be hard to prove.)

Oh and G? When you go to my house to remove anything incriminating? Don't forget the, er, things that are in the strawberry shortcake tin.

The Joys of Living Alone.

A post on Jezebel got me thinking about the joys of living alone.

Joy #1: getting to watch Golden Girls all I want. It's kind of annoying when the boy comes over and I don't get to have my regular midnight viewing of Dorothy and the gang.

Joy #2: morning rituals that don't involve being courteous to someone else. I hate to wake up the boy in the morning so I don't turn the tv on when I'm getting ready (again to watch Golden Girls) and I close the bathroom door so the light doesn't bother him. I don't mind being nice every once in awhile but if I had to be that curteous every single day? Madness.

Joy #3: dishes get done on my schedule. I'm actually pretty good about keeping my dishes in the dishwasher, put up, etc. (mainly because I have like 3 plates/bowls/spoons that I adore), but if I want to be lazy and keep some plates in the sink for a week, I totally can.

Joy #4: I get to put my shoes wherever the hell I want!!! That last one is directed at my old roommate who used to (rightly) complain when I left my shoes by the front door. But when I'm the only one tripping over them? I can keep them wherever I want.

Joy #5: my DVR is my own. If I want to fill my DVR with 30 Rock episodes and an occasionally trashy reality show, I can. No one can chastise me for taking up too much room with stupid shows. Because I'm the only one who cares. So I can record Heathers when it comes on at 3 in the morning and watch it over 3 days time.

Joy #6: I can use the dining room table for mail if it's the most convenient place to put it, which it is.

Joy #7: I can feel zero guilt if I come home after the gym and do absolutely nothing until it's time to go to bed. (I add the gym part because that's necessary to the zero guilt part - it's a cause and effect type thing.)

Joy #8: I can wear nothing but a t-shirt when all my other pjs are dirty and I don't have to worry about any weird looks or offending hands.

Joy #9: my beautiful, striped, thrift store find chair is displayed in all her glory and I don't care if anyone else likes it.

Joy #10: I can talk on my cell as long and as loud as I want without worrying about disrupting anyone else. And I can talk about whomever I want. Hee. (It's hard to talk about a boy when he's sitting next to you.)

Joy #11: I can eat ice cream at 2 in the morning if I want and completely forget that it happened. I'm not an ice cream-in-the-wee-hours type of person but I could do it if I wanted to.

Joy #12: I can wear my ugly glasses all the time because they're the comfiest.

Joy #13: my home outfits are only seen by me. I have a tendency, when cold, to wear capri pants with really tall socks and about 3 shirts. I'm cold often. It's not a look one would like others to see.

Joy #14: as Jezebel put it, my floordrobe. Mine's really a chairdrobe but same diff. No one can tell me to hang up my clothes, thank god!

Joy #15: I can decorate as I please. Case in point: I'm a bit of a mirror fiend. I have a tiny place and I happen to believe that strategic mirror placement helps with the illusion of space. But seriously, if I didn't point it out to a visitor, I'm pretty sure no one would notice. At least I think that way.

Joy #16: I can call in sick and no one will know that I'm not really sick.

Joy #17: no one has to know that one of my sincerest hobbies on the weekends is to lay in bed for multiple hours.

Joy #18: if I drop something on the floor in the middle of cleaning or cooking or bringing mail in or whatever, I don't have to pick it up. At least not before I trip on it or squish it.

Joy #19: my bathroom is my own. I never have to move away from the mirror so someone else can brush their teeth and I do not have to put my eyeliner on in a room that doesn't have as flattering light as the bathroom.

Joy #20: (last but not least) everything is mine, all mine!! If I hate the way a book is stacked, I can move it. If I love a candle, I can display it. If I want a lamp on 24/7, it's on. If I want to randomly change my bedroom linens and curtains, I do it. If I want my bouncy, workout ball thing to be a prominent part of my everyday life, it is. If I want to move a painting 2.5 inches to the left, it's moved baby. Everything I own is precious and beautiful to me. I agonize over placement of the smallest votive holder. And my Kim Possible doll? she's perfectly placed in the kitchen to tell me I can do it! No one gets to have an opinion on my magnet collection of refrigerator hodge-podge because I pay the rent.

I stopped at 20 but I could list 5,000 reasons to live alone. But really, #1 is the most important. I have my priorities.

To guilt or not to guilt?

Where is the line between being a total sociopath and not giving a rat's ass about people and actually not caring because caring about stupid shit is stupid? Furthermore, where is the line between not giving a damn and the guilt that comes when you realize you don't give a damn about things like old people and diabetes and what not?

For instance, I just recently read that this old American Idoler has Type I diabetes and has had it for I don't know how many years. My reaction? Click. My thoughts? I wish TMZ was more interesting lately.

A second shining example of my extreme apathy for the cares of humankind came yesterday when I was talking to my grandmother. My great-aunt (her sister) bought some bedside tables for someone who didn't want them. They thought the tables would look good in my bedroom so suggested I come and take them. Not only did I not take them last weekend when I was there (although they would look good), I was annoyed at having the tables pawned off on me, which is an especially wrong attitude to have since I'm poor and cheap. So I thought about the tables when I got home, evaluated my bedroom furniture, and called my grandmother to tell her I'd take the tables next time I came to visit. The whole point of this long diatribe is that after our table discussion she just kept. on. talking. I was done, but she wasn't. She talked about the local news (for which I care not), her friends, the weather, etc., etc., etc. I kept saying, "okay, well, I'll see you in couple weekends..." only to have her talk more.

It was excrutiating and now I'm feeling the pangs of guilt over being such a bad granddaughter. I mean it seriously would not hurt me to talk on the phone for 10 minutes, would it? No. And do I think my disinterest is not immediately interpreted by my grandmother? No. I'm a lame, lame, lame (3 lames, George Clooney would object) person. And I will probably pay via bad karma (I had to change my word usage there because I couldn't figure out how to put karma into adverb form). Sigh.

And yet. I'm really adept at pushing guilt aside for the more literate argument of "oh well." Who does that? Now I'm feeling guilty over my ability to avoid guilt. Geez. It's a never-ending cycle. Ah well. I'll just drink an extra glass or two of water from the faucet tonight so I can get some extra pharmaceuticals in my system.