Ever since I can remember I have always used inappropriate humor in uncomfortable situations. I talked crap about my grandpa at his funeral, I made fun of the orange jumpsuits in juvenile hall, but since I met my husband with heart problems, it has gotten really funny.
It all started with the first time he went to the ER after we got together. I started telling the doctors they couldn't let him die until he got life insurance with me as the beneficiary. I mean, if I'm going to put up with a sickie for any length of time, I should get paid at the end, right?
Oh, then he went to the ER for dizziness incurred after I accidentally kicked him in the mouth during sex. (An overly ambitious position change for a sick person and someone who isn't a current gymnast. I try to be interesting.) The nurses kept asking how he got the injury and we kept telling them the honest truth, they just thought it was inappropriate humor.
Then he went to the hospital for what we thought might be internal bleeding. He had a huge bruise over an artery and he's on blood thinners, so it was a little concerning. The funny thing about this visit was how we noticed it. It was on his inner thigh right where it goes from being leg to being naughty. You can use your imagination, the gay nurse who was treating him did.
Side note about the gay nurse: this guy was at least 6 feet tall and 200 pounds with a well gelled Latino fro, neon bracelets and a vibrating tongue ring. He had an effeminate lisp and was staring way to hard at my baby's junk. Now, you know I love the gays, I'm a fag hag, but this guy was a little to much. I mean, you don't check out a patient's penis in front of his wife.
So now he's getting surgery that we hope is going to be a cure and I say to you, "When you marry a guy with a chronic and life threatening illness, you go in prepared. I had myself all worked up thinking that he might die in 5 to 10 years, and now he might live for 30 or 40 or more. Now he's put me in the position of having to re- evaluate this whole commitment and marriage thing. I mean, it's really easy to make a lifetime commitment when life will end in 5 years, now what do I do!?"
This is an example of inappropriate humor. Just in case his family reads this, I'm obligated to say that I really do want him to live forever and am completely prepared to spend the rest of my life, regardless of how long his is, loving him unconditionally.
But really, what is a girl to do when a superficial short term commitment turns into life?
(Seriously, I love my husband.)
Such is the life I lead
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The World of Dating
Bobby and I have never had good luck with real dating. We became friends mostly because he tried to date my best friend and she shut him down. Then we played the 'do you like me?' game. I asked him out on St. Patrick's Day. He said yes and was going to come all the way down from Grass Valley, until he realized he didn't have the gas. So I went up there. We saw a crappy movie and talked until the wee hours of the night. By the end of the night, it felt like we were good friends, and that is just how it ended. No kiss, no holding hands. As it turns out, we were both waiting for the other one to make a move. I thought he should make the move because I asked him out, he thought I was an aggressive girl and I would make the move if I wanted to date him.
We went on like this for a while until finally, while ignoring a movie at my house and petting my new kitten, he moved his hand over to mine (on the cat) and grabbed my pinkie with his pinkie. It was safe, if I didn't want to hold his hand, he could just say the cat was to small for two hands. All very cute and shy. I told him it was ok to hold my whole hand. Now I thought we were finally going to have a romantic evening, but we had gone out to Ethiopian food earlier (very spicy) and ended up spending much of the night in the bathroom hoping the other wouldn't know what was happening in there.
Then we went on our first real date, or we were supposed to. We were going to go to an all night coffee shop that plays live music after I got off work. He was supposed to pick me up at 11pm. I called at 11:30 wonder where he was.
I called at 12am.
I called at 12:30am.
I called at 1am and told him that I considered this an official stand- up and that it was rude and if he didn't really like me the least he could do is tell me.
Because of the chronic illness he suffers from, Bobby had fallen asleep at 9pm. He called back at 2am, hoping to still come over. He was already on his way, and when he got to my house I had been asleep for a 1/2 hour. We talked for about an hour and then both fell asleep, waking in time for school with no real date happening.
When we finally got to go on a real date, we decided to go to a nice restaurant. We chose Aioli downtown. We went and got the most horrible service ever. The waiter was rude, he didn't bring us the right food, our glasses were almost always empty, he didn't ask if we'd like dessert. He visited all the tables around us numerous times and then completely ignored us. We think because we're young, he thought he wouldn't get a good tip. Self fulfilling proficy. It made for a bad date, but a good story to tell at culinary school the next day.
Six months later, after we'd moved in together, our apartment had burned down, and we'd obtained furniture jointly, we had the time and money to go on another real date. Bobby was working at one of the finest restaurants in the Sacramento area, and he got a discount.
I showered, put on make- up, wore heals and a leather jacket. (I'm kind of low maintenance, this is a lot of gussying up for me.) Bobby wore slacks and a shirt with no stains or holes anywhere on them. (Again, he's kind of low maintenance, this is a stretch for him.)
We went to dinner at Hawks and it was beautiful. The water came in goblets made of crystal, the plates were bone china. The dining room was beautiful and dim, lit mostly with candles. The waitress was attentive, and let the chef know a fellow employee was there. We ordered three courses, but were served 7 with all the complementary dishes they gave us. We had salmon mouse on a waffled potato, patrole sole with reduced beet sauce, duck confie, fua gua (I don't think I spelled that right, but it's duck liver), and much more. By then end we were so full we just wanted to lay down and digest.
Back at home the plan was to 'get busy.' We layed down and put on a movie and began to digest and regain energy for the exciting night ahead. While he was feeling better by the minute, ready to go, I was feeling worse. Suddenly, I ran to the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the night spewing out of every orephus of my body with such force I probably could have knocked over the ducks from that carnival game with the water gun. I layed on the bathroom floor in fetal position groaning while my date (not husband yet) brought me changes of garments and held my hair back. When he cleaned up the bathroom later he almost got sick himself. So romantic.
This is the night he says he knew he'd spend the rest of his life with me. If he could look at me with love and desire after seeing all that come out of me, he knew it was the real thing.
We now choose not to plan dates, but just play it all by ear. Planning makes me sick.
We went on like this for a while until finally, while ignoring a movie at my house and petting my new kitten, he moved his hand over to mine (on the cat) and grabbed my pinkie with his pinkie. It was safe, if I didn't want to hold his hand, he could just say the cat was to small for two hands. All very cute and shy. I told him it was ok to hold my whole hand. Now I thought we were finally going to have a romantic evening, but we had gone out to Ethiopian food earlier (very spicy) and ended up spending much of the night in the bathroom hoping the other wouldn't know what was happening in there.
Then we went on our first real date, or we were supposed to. We were going to go to an all night coffee shop that plays live music after I got off work. He was supposed to pick me up at 11pm. I called at 11:30 wonder where he was.
I called at 12am.
I called at 12:30am.
I called at 1am and told him that I considered this an official stand- up and that it was rude and if he didn't really like me the least he could do is tell me.
Because of the chronic illness he suffers from, Bobby had fallen asleep at 9pm. He called back at 2am, hoping to still come over. He was already on his way, and when he got to my house I had been asleep for a 1/2 hour. We talked for about an hour and then both fell asleep, waking in time for school with no real date happening.
When we finally got to go on a real date, we decided to go to a nice restaurant. We chose Aioli downtown. We went and got the most horrible service ever. The waiter was rude, he didn't bring us the right food, our glasses were almost always empty, he didn't ask if we'd like dessert. He visited all the tables around us numerous times and then completely ignored us. We think because we're young, he thought he wouldn't get a good tip. Self fulfilling proficy. It made for a bad date, but a good story to tell at culinary school the next day.
Six months later, after we'd moved in together, our apartment had burned down, and we'd obtained furniture jointly, we had the time and money to go on another real date. Bobby was working at one of the finest restaurants in the Sacramento area, and he got a discount.
I showered, put on make- up, wore heals and a leather jacket. (I'm kind of low maintenance, this is a lot of gussying up for me.) Bobby wore slacks and a shirt with no stains or holes anywhere on them. (Again, he's kind of low maintenance, this is a stretch for him.)
We went to dinner at Hawks and it was beautiful. The water came in goblets made of crystal, the plates were bone china. The dining room was beautiful and dim, lit mostly with candles. The waitress was attentive, and let the chef know a fellow employee was there. We ordered three courses, but were served 7 with all the complementary dishes they gave us. We had salmon mouse on a waffled potato, patrole sole with reduced beet sauce, duck confie, fua gua (I don't think I spelled that right, but it's duck liver), and much more. By then end we were so full we just wanted to lay down and digest.
Back at home the plan was to 'get busy.' We layed down and put on a movie and began to digest and regain energy for the exciting night ahead. While he was feeling better by the minute, ready to go, I was feeling worse. Suddenly, I ran to the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the night spewing out of every orephus of my body with such force I probably could have knocked over the ducks from that carnival game with the water gun. I layed on the bathroom floor in fetal position groaning while my date (not husband yet) brought me changes of garments and held my hair back. When he cleaned up the bathroom later he almost got sick himself. So romantic.
This is the night he says he knew he'd spend the rest of his life with me. If he could look at me with love and desire after seeing all that come out of me, he knew it was the real thing.
We now choose not to plan dates, but just play it all by ear. Planning makes me sick.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Fragile Heart
I think I may have mentioned in a previous blog that my husband has congestive heart failure. If it is a tiresome recurring theme, please forgive me. It is an all consuming fact of my life that a man who I am so completely devoted to has such a serious illness.
Bobby got sick when he was 15 years old and has been sick ever since. He was actually stable for a while until our apartment burned down. When our cat bit his thumb that day, it got infected. It was three times it's normal size and oozing out of the teeth marks. He spent 4 days in the hospital getting IV antibiotics while the doctors tried to avoid amputation of the thumb. An infection of this magnitude will screw with anyone's body, but in Bobby's case, it aggrivated his heart condition. My sick man got even sicker.
So, now he's going to have open heart surgery. It is happening in less than two weeks. They are going to remove his paracardium, the sac around the heart. Basically, the doctors want to peel his heart like an orange in order to give it some room to relax. All of this isn't really important, what I care about is after. I care about if he's going to get better.
Now is the time when you can see inside my head, devoted reader, because on this subject all words go straight from my brain to the computer. I am TERRIFIED! What am I supposed to do? I have always defined my self as a strong, independent, non- conventional woman. I never thought I'd put myself into the role of trying to be a good wife, until I met Bobby.
The thing about Bobby is that he doesn't want me to be a good 'wife', he wants me to be a good person. He doesn't expect me to cook or clean for him, in fact he does it for me. He has always given me the support I needed to be a good cook, a good student, a good employee, a good daughter, a good person. He's always encouraged me to follow my dreams and I've always known he'd go wherever my goals and aspirations too me.
Until now, that was the case. Now it really is my turn to be a good wife. He needs me to be there for him. He can't work, I have to earn the money. He won't be able to get out of bed on his own. I have to be there to cook for him, clean for him, help him move, shower, potty, walk, everything. How can I do this and earn the money? I'm overloaded.
My biggest worry, though, is that something will go wrong on the operating table. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my guy. He's sweet and loving and caring and wonderful. He's perfect inspite of all of his imperfections, and because of them. I always thought of myself as a single entity and if I found a guy to share life with, it was just icing on the cake. But now I find that I need this relationship. I need for the man I love to be safe and healthy and I don't know what I'll do if he's not.
I feel myself wanting to scream in the middle of the day. I stay awake all hours of the night to watch him breath, because it is comforting to know that he's breathing. I want to cry but I can't because my role is to be strong and supportive. How can I be scared and in pain in front of a man that is potentially facing death. What am I supposed to do? I search for things to annoy me about him so that if something goes wrong I can focus on how I didn't really need him, but I can't find enough to annoy me.
I'm swirling around in a tornado that no one and nothing created trying to find the way out of the eye. I'm lost and I'm scared and the 'right thing to do' just doesn't exist here. The lights inside my head flicker on and off and I have no control over the switch. I'm in foreign territory and I want to go home to my safe, solitary world where there is nothing and no one to worry about. Nothing is real when you're alone, you are the only person your actions effect and you can effect yourself in any way you choose. The obligation of my duty as a wife is crushing and I feel myself breaking, but I can't imagine doing anything else anymore. I long for a life devoid of meaning, yet I have no desire to walk away.
The few moments of the day when I get to sit and clear my head and Bobby and I are just sitting, just taking eachother in and looking at eachother, I am elated. The lights are on and flooding everything with brightness. These are the moments I live for. I am addicted to this feeling. The feeling of knowing, beyond a shadow of a dought, that I am loved and have love to give back. The sensation of the world floating away and nothing matters because right now, this instant everything is perfect. These are magic moments that make anything I go through worth it.
I live in fear of these moments being ripped from my grasp. My happiness being stolen from me like it is a nice bike I left unlocked in a bad neighborhood. I feel blindly into the darkness for something to hold onto, a room with a locked door where I can put my happiness for safekeeping. The room doesn't exist. Bobby has my heart. I gave it to him freely. If his physical heart breaks, if he dies, I don't think I will get my heart back. He will take it with him wherever it goes.
How can I live without a heart?
Bobby got sick when he was 15 years old and has been sick ever since. He was actually stable for a while until our apartment burned down. When our cat bit his thumb that day, it got infected. It was three times it's normal size and oozing out of the teeth marks. He spent 4 days in the hospital getting IV antibiotics while the doctors tried to avoid amputation of the thumb. An infection of this magnitude will screw with anyone's body, but in Bobby's case, it aggrivated his heart condition. My sick man got even sicker.
So, now he's going to have open heart surgery. It is happening in less than two weeks. They are going to remove his paracardium, the sac around the heart. Basically, the doctors want to peel his heart like an orange in order to give it some room to relax. All of this isn't really important, what I care about is after. I care about if he's going to get better.
Now is the time when you can see inside my head, devoted reader, because on this subject all words go straight from my brain to the computer. I am TERRIFIED! What am I supposed to do? I have always defined my self as a strong, independent, non- conventional woman. I never thought I'd put myself into the role of trying to be a good wife, until I met Bobby.
The thing about Bobby is that he doesn't want me to be a good 'wife', he wants me to be a good person. He doesn't expect me to cook or clean for him, in fact he does it for me. He has always given me the support I needed to be a good cook, a good student, a good employee, a good daughter, a good person. He's always encouraged me to follow my dreams and I've always known he'd go wherever my goals and aspirations too me.
Until now, that was the case. Now it really is my turn to be a good wife. He needs me to be there for him. He can't work, I have to earn the money. He won't be able to get out of bed on his own. I have to be there to cook for him, clean for him, help him move, shower, potty, walk, everything. How can I do this and earn the money? I'm overloaded.
My biggest worry, though, is that something will go wrong on the operating table. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my guy. He's sweet and loving and caring and wonderful. He's perfect inspite of all of his imperfections, and because of them. I always thought of myself as a single entity and if I found a guy to share life with, it was just icing on the cake. But now I find that I need this relationship. I need for the man I love to be safe and healthy and I don't know what I'll do if he's not.
I feel myself wanting to scream in the middle of the day. I stay awake all hours of the night to watch him breath, because it is comforting to know that he's breathing. I want to cry but I can't because my role is to be strong and supportive. How can I be scared and in pain in front of a man that is potentially facing death. What am I supposed to do? I search for things to annoy me about him so that if something goes wrong I can focus on how I didn't really need him, but I can't find enough to annoy me.
I'm swirling around in a tornado that no one and nothing created trying to find the way out of the eye. I'm lost and I'm scared and the 'right thing to do' just doesn't exist here. The lights inside my head flicker on and off and I have no control over the switch. I'm in foreign territory and I want to go home to my safe, solitary world where there is nothing and no one to worry about. Nothing is real when you're alone, you are the only person your actions effect and you can effect yourself in any way you choose. The obligation of my duty as a wife is crushing and I feel myself breaking, but I can't imagine doing anything else anymore. I long for a life devoid of meaning, yet I have no desire to walk away.
The few moments of the day when I get to sit and clear my head and Bobby and I are just sitting, just taking eachother in and looking at eachother, I am elated. The lights are on and flooding everything with brightness. These are the moments I live for. I am addicted to this feeling. The feeling of knowing, beyond a shadow of a dought, that I am loved and have love to give back. The sensation of the world floating away and nothing matters because right now, this instant everything is perfect. These are magic moments that make anything I go through worth it.
I live in fear of these moments being ripped from my grasp. My happiness being stolen from me like it is a nice bike I left unlocked in a bad neighborhood. I feel blindly into the darkness for something to hold onto, a room with a locked door where I can put my happiness for safekeeping. The room doesn't exist. Bobby has my heart. I gave it to him freely. If his physical heart breaks, if he dies, I don't think I will get my heart back. He will take it with him wherever it goes.
How can I live without a heart?
The Fire
So, last September my apartment burned down. Tragic, I know. I do have, though, a great story out of it with ongoing mini skits in court every couple of months.
It was a Monday and I had quit smoking. I made it through the whole day at school without a cigarette and even managed to fall asleep. I was in culinary school, my last semester. In that semester, I was working in the kitchen of the on campus restaurant as part of my training. My now husband had just moved it, his congestive heart failure did not appear to be active, our three cats were getting along. Life was good.
At about 5am I heard a loud banging at the door. I went to the door and shouted through that whoever it was needed to wait for me to get dressed. (I sleep in just underwear. I wouldn't ordinarily divulge that kind of information, but it is pertinent to the story.)
So, I was in my living room searching for a light and a shirt. I didn't have my glasses on and I'm half asleep. The man at the door shouted through "Don't worry about clothes! Your house is on fire!" Meanwhile, Bobby heard the door banging and thought someone was trying to break in. He ran out into the living room with his antique, family heirloom pistol. This gun hasn't been fired in at least a generation, but it was loaded. Who knows what kind of 'protection' it really could have provided.
So, I RAN out of my apartment and down the stairs as is. I was clutching my boobs like they might fall off to prevent them not only from being seen, but to keep them from hitting me in the face as I bounced and ran. (I'm a little chesty)
Bobby ran behind me with a blanket. He is so sweet, even in the face of a house fire he thinks about my comfort.
Not even acknowledging that there was another person near me, I realized that the cats were still in the apartment. I ran back in calling their names frantically. I probably scared them as much as the fire itself did. So I SCREAMED their names,
"Anastasia! Siafu! Emily! Where are you kitties?! Time to go outside!"
sob, cry, scream
Then I heard Bobby cough. The appartment was filled, and I mean filled, with smoke. All of a sudden the cats didn't exist. My baby was sick! He couldn't be in a smoke filled apartment! I literally grabbed him by the arm and forced him outside, still calling for our cats.
Somewhere in the maylee, I was able to grab a t- shirt and my glasses. (Of course, it was an ugly t- shirt I'd been meaning to give to good will.) We ran outside and finally had a clear thought. Fire extiguishers! They were all over the complex! I started running to each extinguisher, at the top of each set of stairs and HURLING them off the steps in the general direction of the fire. Bobby was standing, in his boxer briefs, at the site of the fire ready to use the extiguishers. My neighbors started helping and there were fire extiguishers being used by the twos and threes. My feet wer cut and bloody from the broken glass of the fire extiguisher cases. I'm sprinting like a madwoman in purple panties and a pink t- shirt with bed head accross the complex and throwing fire extiguishers at the fire as though if I hit it it will stop hurting us.
Finally, the firemen came. They asked us if there was anyone inside and we told them about our cats. They went in and saved the day. They brought down our cats one by one. First was Anastasia. She was in shock, just lying in my arms limp and afraid. Second was emily. She was terrified and flailing with a kind of panic you only see in this kind of situation. The fireman handed her to Bobby and she bit his thumb right into the joint. I took her, still holding Anastasia, and she scratched my chest trying to run from the flames. Last but not least was Siafu, the youngest of the bunch. He had taken to the cat carier as his hiding spot. The fireman brought the whole set- up down and we put anastasia in with him. A neighbor brought out something to put Emily in.
The fire was out. I noticed my apartment manager was out, fully dressed with her hair done and her make- up on. She was very calm and I thought, 'when did she have time to get dressed? I want to get dressed.' I was cold and just realizing that all of my neighbors and a good number of city employees had seen me in my purple panties. I needed to pee but I didn't have a bathroom anymore. I was hungry and nautious and scared. I was homeless. I've worked since I was 15 years old, I've always had a place to live. Even if I was just barely making it, I always had a place to live until that day. What was I going to do?
A month later, after being told that a cause of fire had to be determined before my deposit could be returned, I got a letter saying that more than half my deposit was being kept by the property management company for 'heavy cleaning' charges. Mind you, the fire was not my fault and the report reflects this information.
I have now sued and won, and am in the process of fighting the appeals of the property management company. The important thing is that I have a place to live. I went to family for help and recieved it. This was the most rediculous experience of my life. When I returened to school, my classmates and I made a cake that showed me in purple panties running toward a giant fire extinguisher. As crappy as all this has been, the image of a chunky woman with short, stubby legs 'sprinting' to fire extinguishers in order to fling them at her boyfriend will always be a funny one.
It was a Monday and I had quit smoking. I made it through the whole day at school without a cigarette and even managed to fall asleep. I was in culinary school, my last semester. In that semester, I was working in the kitchen of the on campus restaurant as part of my training. My now husband had just moved it, his congestive heart failure did not appear to be active, our three cats were getting along. Life was good.
At about 5am I heard a loud banging at the door. I went to the door and shouted through that whoever it was needed to wait for me to get dressed. (I sleep in just underwear. I wouldn't ordinarily divulge that kind of information, but it is pertinent to the story.)
So, I was in my living room searching for a light and a shirt. I didn't have my glasses on and I'm half asleep. The man at the door shouted through "Don't worry about clothes! Your house is on fire!" Meanwhile, Bobby heard the door banging and thought someone was trying to break in. He ran out into the living room with his antique, family heirloom pistol. This gun hasn't been fired in at least a generation, but it was loaded. Who knows what kind of 'protection' it really could have provided.
So, I RAN out of my apartment and down the stairs as is. I was clutching my boobs like they might fall off to prevent them not only from being seen, but to keep them from hitting me in the face as I bounced and ran. (I'm a little chesty)
Bobby ran behind me with a blanket. He is so sweet, even in the face of a house fire he thinks about my comfort.
Not even acknowledging that there was another person near me, I realized that the cats were still in the apartment. I ran back in calling their names frantically. I probably scared them as much as the fire itself did. So I SCREAMED their names,
"Anastasia! Siafu! Emily! Where are you kitties?! Time to go outside!"
sob, cry, scream
Then I heard Bobby cough. The appartment was filled, and I mean filled, with smoke. All of a sudden the cats didn't exist. My baby was sick! He couldn't be in a smoke filled apartment! I literally grabbed him by the arm and forced him outside, still calling for our cats.
Somewhere in the maylee, I was able to grab a t- shirt and my glasses. (Of course, it was an ugly t- shirt I'd been meaning to give to good will.) We ran outside and finally had a clear thought. Fire extiguishers! They were all over the complex! I started running to each extinguisher, at the top of each set of stairs and HURLING them off the steps in the general direction of the fire. Bobby was standing, in his boxer briefs, at the site of the fire ready to use the extiguishers. My neighbors started helping and there were fire extiguishers being used by the twos and threes. My feet wer cut and bloody from the broken glass of the fire extiguisher cases. I'm sprinting like a madwoman in purple panties and a pink t- shirt with bed head accross the complex and throwing fire extiguishers at the fire as though if I hit it it will stop hurting us.
Finally, the firemen came. They asked us if there was anyone inside and we told them about our cats. They went in and saved the day. They brought down our cats one by one. First was Anastasia. She was in shock, just lying in my arms limp and afraid. Second was emily. She was terrified and flailing with a kind of panic you only see in this kind of situation. The fireman handed her to Bobby and she bit his thumb right into the joint. I took her, still holding Anastasia, and she scratched my chest trying to run from the flames. Last but not least was Siafu, the youngest of the bunch. He had taken to the cat carier as his hiding spot. The fireman brought the whole set- up down and we put anastasia in with him. A neighbor brought out something to put Emily in.
The fire was out. I noticed my apartment manager was out, fully dressed with her hair done and her make- up on. She was very calm and I thought, 'when did she have time to get dressed? I want to get dressed.' I was cold and just realizing that all of my neighbors and a good number of city employees had seen me in my purple panties. I needed to pee but I didn't have a bathroom anymore. I was hungry and nautious and scared. I was homeless. I've worked since I was 15 years old, I've always had a place to live. Even if I was just barely making it, I always had a place to live until that day. What was I going to do?
A month later, after being told that a cause of fire had to be determined before my deposit could be returned, I got a letter saying that more than half my deposit was being kept by the property management company for 'heavy cleaning' charges. Mind you, the fire was not my fault and the report reflects this information.
I have now sued and won, and am in the process of fighting the appeals of the property management company. The important thing is that I have a place to live. I went to family for help and recieved it. This was the most rediculous experience of my life. When I returened to school, my classmates and I made a cake that showed me in purple panties running toward a giant fire extinguisher. As crappy as all this has been, the image of a chunky woman with short, stubby legs 'sprinting' to fire extinguishers in order to fling them at her boyfriend will always be a funny one.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Grandmas
My whole life I've grown up with only one grandma, but now that I'm married I have two. I have now come to the conclusion that old women with children are insane, all of them. I have enough experience now to establish a pattern.
My grandma is crazy. There is no question. When I was around 5, my grandma had brain surgery. She had an aneurysm and needed the blood clot removed. She was in a coma and there didn't look like there was much hope, so my family was going to 'pull the plug'.
(Did you know that there isn't really a plug to pull? There might be a feeding tube to get out or something of that sort, but there is no master plug that controls if a person lives or dies.)
Back to the point, my grandma always blames her craziness on the brain surgery, but I have it on good authority that she was crazy well before this happened.
My grandma was raised a good Catholic girl. When I say good Catholic, I mean it. She did whatever she wanted, judged everybody, cussed and sinned with the best of them. Then she confessed and was absolved according to the priest, a very good Catholic. She went into the hospital a loud, liberal Catholic woman and came out of it an equally loud, but now conservative Baptist woman. Weird, huh?
My grandma likes to weird people out. She says things completely out of left field. Her favorite joke is to tell about how her pussy ate Micky Mouse (I know, creepy.) My grandma has hit on every guy I've ever brought to meet her, she lies about the oddest things. She's funny and a nice lady, but she's crazy. No doubt about it. When I got married she pulled me aside and told me that the secret to making it last would be to give a lot of blow jobs. She counseled me to practice on a banana, gagging is bad. The reason she got divorced was because she got sick of doing it, she didn't like the taste. That's my grandma, and I love her.
I have a new grandma now, and she's psycho. Lets make that distinction, crazy vs. psycho. Crazy is an endearing, though sometimes frustrating quality. Psycho is a nerve wracking, sometimes volatile affliction. My new grandma is psycho.
My new grandma is a confused Catholic. Similar description to good Catholic, but not quite. She still does whatever she wants and sins and judges people, but she doesn't cuss. She doesn't go to mass, she watches the bible channel instead. She thinks this is good enough, but I know any priest would tell her she needs to receive communion and confess in order to be absolved. This information is in my secret arsenal of passive aggressive weaponry against her. There is only one problem: she doesn't think she ever does anything wrong, so she doesn't need to be absolved of anything.
Last weekend there was an incident which I like to think epitomizes the psychoness of this woman. I will now commence the telling of the New Family Drama.
Bobby and I went to new grandma's house last weekend. I work near her house and we haven't moved yet, so staying with someone who lives there on the weekends is a good situation for us. Usually we stay with his Aunt Linda (I love that woman, more on her another blog). New Grandma has been bugging us to stay with her on the weekends for weeks. She misses her grandson. So we went there last weekend instead of Linda's.
So, we arrive at her house around 10:30 at night. (We got there late because of my school.) When she opened the door, we knew immediately that there was going to be a problem. She asked if we planned to come there 'every damn weekend to work' because that is just not going to work for her. Bobby told her that if it was problematic, we'd go to Linda's. This really set her off, because she is in competition with her daughters. She doesn't like to think that we like her kids better than her (I know, psycho).
So, New Grandma starts yelling and screaming, telling us we are not going to Linda's. She told us to stay there that night, she would not allow us to go to Linda's. Of course, we left.
Now, the psycho as opposed to crazy comes next. We gather up our stuff and begin to leave. New Grandma follows us around the house and tells us "If you pick up that bag, you're never welcome in my house again!" We picked up the bag.
"If you walk out that door, you're never welcome here again!" We walked out the door.
"If you get in that car...!"
"If you start that car...!"
"If you leave this driveway...!"
Of course we left, and left howling with laughter. New Grandma was trying her best to do what she does, scare us into her control. She likes to think that she is the most important person in the family, and use this as leverage to control every move the family makes. However, I had a hard time being intimidated by this woman. She is 81 years old and 85 pounds, hunched over and almost doubled with back issues. That night in particular, New Grandma was in pink curlers with a ratty blue bathrobe on, standing on her front porch and screaming and shaking her fist at us in the middle of the night. She looked like a comic madwoman. I could be making this up, but I think I saw some warts spring out on her nose as it began to turn green.
That's my new grandma for you. She also called after we left to tell us we couldn't get on the freeway. Now it is as though nothing happened. She didn't apologize, she just didn't recognize the incident at all.
Psycho.
I do appreciate my crazy grandma a bit more now, though.
And remember kids, a good fart is just like a suddenly appearing and slowly dissipating warm spot in a pool, kinda nasty but it feels good.
My grandma is crazy. There is no question. When I was around 5, my grandma had brain surgery. She had an aneurysm and needed the blood clot removed. She was in a coma and there didn't look like there was much hope, so my family was going to 'pull the plug'.
(Did you know that there isn't really a plug to pull? There might be a feeding tube to get out or something of that sort, but there is no master plug that controls if a person lives or dies.)
Back to the point, my grandma always blames her craziness on the brain surgery, but I have it on good authority that she was crazy well before this happened.
My grandma was raised a good Catholic girl. When I say good Catholic, I mean it. She did whatever she wanted, judged everybody, cussed and sinned with the best of them. Then she confessed and was absolved according to the priest, a very good Catholic. She went into the hospital a loud, liberal Catholic woman and came out of it an equally loud, but now conservative Baptist woman. Weird, huh?
My grandma likes to weird people out. She says things completely out of left field. Her favorite joke is to tell about how her pussy ate Micky Mouse (I know, creepy.) My grandma has hit on every guy I've ever brought to meet her, she lies about the oddest things. She's funny and a nice lady, but she's crazy. No doubt about it. When I got married she pulled me aside and told me that the secret to making it last would be to give a lot of blow jobs. She counseled me to practice on a banana, gagging is bad. The reason she got divorced was because she got sick of doing it, she didn't like the taste. That's my grandma, and I love her.
I have a new grandma now, and she's psycho. Lets make that distinction, crazy vs. psycho. Crazy is an endearing, though sometimes frustrating quality. Psycho is a nerve wracking, sometimes volatile affliction. My new grandma is psycho.
My new grandma is a confused Catholic. Similar description to good Catholic, but not quite. She still does whatever she wants and sins and judges people, but she doesn't cuss. She doesn't go to mass, she watches the bible channel instead. She thinks this is good enough, but I know any priest would tell her she needs to receive communion and confess in order to be absolved. This information is in my secret arsenal of passive aggressive weaponry against her. There is only one problem: she doesn't think she ever does anything wrong, so she doesn't need to be absolved of anything.
Last weekend there was an incident which I like to think epitomizes the psychoness of this woman. I will now commence the telling of the New Family Drama.
Bobby and I went to new grandma's house last weekend. I work near her house and we haven't moved yet, so staying with someone who lives there on the weekends is a good situation for us. Usually we stay with his Aunt Linda (I love that woman, more on her another blog). New Grandma has been bugging us to stay with her on the weekends for weeks. She misses her grandson. So we went there last weekend instead of Linda's.
So, we arrive at her house around 10:30 at night. (We got there late because of my school.) When she opened the door, we knew immediately that there was going to be a problem. She asked if we planned to come there 'every damn weekend to work' because that is just not going to work for her. Bobby told her that if it was problematic, we'd go to Linda's. This really set her off, because she is in competition with her daughters. She doesn't like to think that we like her kids better than her (I know, psycho).
So, New Grandma starts yelling and screaming, telling us we are not going to Linda's. She told us to stay there that night, she would not allow us to go to Linda's. Of course, we left.
Now, the psycho as opposed to crazy comes next. We gather up our stuff and begin to leave. New Grandma follows us around the house and tells us "If you pick up that bag, you're never welcome in my house again!" We picked up the bag.
"If you walk out that door, you're never welcome here again!" We walked out the door.
"If you get in that car...!"
"If you start that car...!"
"If you leave this driveway...!"
Of course we left, and left howling with laughter. New Grandma was trying her best to do what she does, scare us into her control. She likes to think that she is the most important person in the family, and use this as leverage to control every move the family makes. However, I had a hard time being intimidated by this woman. She is 81 years old and 85 pounds, hunched over and almost doubled with back issues. That night in particular, New Grandma was in pink curlers with a ratty blue bathrobe on, standing on her front porch and screaming and shaking her fist at us in the middle of the night. She looked like a comic madwoman. I could be making this up, but I think I saw some warts spring out on her nose as it began to turn green.
That's my new grandma for you. She also called after we left to tell us we couldn't get on the freeway. Now it is as though nothing happened. She didn't apologize, she just didn't recognize the incident at all.
Psycho.
I do appreciate my crazy grandma a bit more now, though.
And remember kids, a good fart is just like a suddenly appearing and slowly dissipating warm spot in a pool, kinda nasty but it feels good.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Day I Met The Infamous Bobby
I met Bobby, my now husband, through some mutual friends.
Cheryl is one of my best friends and also has known Bobby for some time. She had a crush on him but then got bored of chasing him and moved on, never forgetting the unrequited love she had for him. This eventually turned into a more sibling oriented love, becoming somewhat creepy when analyzed to deeply.
Kindra is another one of my best friends. She met Bobby through Cheryl. Kindra is one of these girls who is out to enjoy life at any cost. She plays hard and works not at all. She flirts with anything that moves, male or female, human or not. This is just her way, she makes each individual she meets feel special, even if only for the few moments at climax. (Most people achieve climax within one week of meeting her.)
We were all at school one day. I needed an oil change. Kindra was flirting with Bobby (poor guy didn't know he wasn't the only one.) Cheryl had a break between classes. Bobby needed a smog check. We all went to the mechanic's together.
Now, let me just tell you that I am a loud and colorful woman, before I go any further. It is very difficult to overshadow me. That being said:
While waiting for our cars, the four of us decided to go for a walk. I attempted to get to know Bobby a bit. At this point, seeing his interest in Kindra, I had no interest in him. I don't like guys that like girls that like guys too much. This, however, was not to be done on that day. Kindra had other plans.
Kindra in her ever charming way, began yelling at cars and mooning them as we walked. She was wearing a rather skimpy dress, so this was not difficult to do. I must say, if I had a tiny little butt like hers with perky little boobs, I might show them off, too.
She hitchhiked and then ran away when cars pulled over, she flashed her panties and just a bit of crack, she ran into the street and had to be pulled back. She monopolized our attention in the captivating manner that only she can possess. We laughed so hard we thought we were going to pee.
Class was going to start before Bobby's car was ready, so I drove him back to school and Kindra stayed to take his car back.
Halfway through class, Bobby got a call and left. He and Kindra went on their first date that night. They had sushi and smoked a doobie. They told us they were gone so long from class because his car had issues.
One week later, Kindra was bored and Bobby was still calling her. He asked me what the deal was, seeing as I was her best friend. I told him I wasn't going to play junior high middle man and he needed to grow a pair and talk to her himself.
That night, I invited him over to watch a 'Sex in the City' marathon. Kindra was spending the night. I wanted to force her to talk to him, poor guy was so confused. Instead, we completely ignored her and talked the night away. I made him put the seat down on the toilet when he left it up, he promised to find me a kitten to keep me company, he told me about his health and his hopes and dreams and disappointments. I told him about my exes, which will be another two or three books by themselves.
This is the night that I asked Kindra if it was OK to hit on him.
14 months later, we got married.
AWWWW; smarmy sentiments
Kindra was my bridesmaid.
I told this story at the alter.
Picture her face.
Until another blog, America, laugh well.
Cheryl is one of my best friends and also has known Bobby for some time. She had a crush on him but then got bored of chasing him and moved on, never forgetting the unrequited love she had for him. This eventually turned into a more sibling oriented love, becoming somewhat creepy when analyzed to deeply.
Kindra is another one of my best friends. She met Bobby through Cheryl. Kindra is one of these girls who is out to enjoy life at any cost. She plays hard and works not at all. She flirts with anything that moves, male or female, human or not. This is just her way, she makes each individual she meets feel special, even if only for the few moments at climax. (Most people achieve climax within one week of meeting her.)
We were all at school one day. I needed an oil change. Kindra was flirting with Bobby (poor guy didn't know he wasn't the only one.) Cheryl had a break between classes. Bobby needed a smog check. We all went to the mechanic's together.
Now, let me just tell you that I am a loud and colorful woman, before I go any further. It is very difficult to overshadow me. That being said:
While waiting for our cars, the four of us decided to go for a walk. I attempted to get to know Bobby a bit. At this point, seeing his interest in Kindra, I had no interest in him. I don't like guys that like girls that like guys too much. This, however, was not to be done on that day. Kindra had other plans.
Kindra in her ever charming way, began yelling at cars and mooning them as we walked. She was wearing a rather skimpy dress, so this was not difficult to do. I must say, if I had a tiny little butt like hers with perky little boobs, I might show them off, too.
She hitchhiked and then ran away when cars pulled over, she flashed her panties and just a bit of crack, she ran into the street and had to be pulled back. She monopolized our attention in the captivating manner that only she can possess. We laughed so hard we thought we were going to pee.
Class was going to start before Bobby's car was ready, so I drove him back to school and Kindra stayed to take his car back.
Halfway through class, Bobby got a call and left. He and Kindra went on their first date that night. They had sushi and smoked a doobie. They told us they were gone so long from class because his car had issues.
One week later, Kindra was bored and Bobby was still calling her. He asked me what the deal was, seeing as I was her best friend. I told him I wasn't going to play junior high middle man and he needed to grow a pair and talk to her himself.
That night, I invited him over to watch a 'Sex in the City' marathon. Kindra was spending the night. I wanted to force her to talk to him, poor guy was so confused. Instead, we completely ignored her and talked the night away. I made him put the seat down on the toilet when he left it up, he promised to find me a kitten to keep me company, he told me about his health and his hopes and dreams and disappointments. I told him about my exes, which will be another two or three books by themselves.
This is the night that I asked Kindra if it was OK to hit on him.
14 months later, we got married.
AWWWW; smarmy sentiments
Kindra was my bridesmaid.
I told this story at the alter.
Picture her face.
Until another blog, America, laugh well.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Adventures in Education
So, I find myself overwhelmed in my educational career and life in general and I thought perhaps I might cyber bitch about it.
You see, America, I wear many hats. I'm a student, a wife, an employee, a daughter, a feminist, an activist, a cook, a baker and a candlestick maker. Just kidding about the candle sticks, but the rest is true.
Lets start with my most newly acquired status as a wife. I'm the wife of a man with congestive heart failure, and it is a full time job all by itself. I'll tell you, if you ever want to know what the truly fail safe birth control method is, become intimately involved with a chronically ill man. You will find that you have so little time for yourself even with an adult in the house you can't even wrap your head around the idea of changing a small person's diaper.
Yes, I've changed big people's diapers. No, they did not belong to my husband.
But I digress.
So, Bobby (the husband) and I started dating early last year. I've been unlucky my entire life, and so has he, as I'm sure you could imagine a 25 year old with heart failure would be. Earlier this month, we decided to legally combine the giant crap storms that are eachother's lives, until death do we part. He has been in and out of the hospital since last semester, when our apartment burned down ( a story for another blog) and has been deteriorating more rapidly ever since.
I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester to be with him in the hospital. Nothing I do seems to be good enough, you see. He's working with a special cardiology team in the bay area, so I decided we could move there for his care. He can't work, so I started hunting for a job in the neighborhood. He went to the ER for having such low blood pressure they could barely draw blood 2 days before I had my interview. We weren't near his special doctors in the good hospital and he could have died because of it. I wasn't quick enough to get the job and move.
After he got out of the hospital, he seemed to be feeling better. We proceeded with our wedding. Oh, didn't I mention that this happened one week before our wedding? We thought he might be an absentee groom. Anyways, we got married, beautiful ceremony. It was on a baseball field, I wore blue, he wore an 80's tux with sneakers, and his Italian Catholic grandma wore a frown.
We went on our honeymoon and were in wedded bliss, for a few days. Then we went on a whale watching trip and, oddly enough, I got sick! That's new for us. When we returned to the condo (on loan from a friend's boss) we discovered we had been robbed! See, almost missing our wedding because of almost dying wasn't good enough, because it was just almost. Life likes to give me stories to tell where I can say, "this really happened", not almost.
The very next day, we were back in the hospital. What fun! This time we had lights and sirens and a big show of it (and we honeymooned close to his special doctors in the good hospital). Bobby convinced them to wait to admit him until the honeymoon was over, and they did.
I went back to school, he seemed to feel better, again, and life went on for about a week. Then he had his follow up and his kidney's failed. They admitted him and now we are scheduling open heart surgery.
How does this relate to the title? As I said, I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester. My classes are only 2 days per week, that means a total of 3 weeks of school missed. I missed an entire week this last time in the hospital, and the timing of the surgery puts him coming home during finals week.
You see, my faithful readers, all four of you, I don't know what to do? I have pulled 'A's in all my classes, on the work I've done, but I can't get attendance points if I'm not there, and I can't make up in class activities. I am being a crappy student in order to be a mediocre wife. I still haven't been able to secure a place for us to live near his doctors and we will have to spend his recovery at his grandma's house. (The one who wore the frown. More on her soon.)
I promise to try to keep this correspondence to all you random strangers out there light and funny, but today it's just not in me. I'm stretched to thin, like so many of my fellow egg carriers out there, and I'm floundering. I never thought I'd identify myself as a good wife, I'm not big on gender stereotyping, but I at least want to be a good friend. I am supposed to be my husband's best friend, and I will be leaving him alone as he gets his sternum cracked open and his most important life giving organ artificially manipulated on a large steel table. And if I don't leave him alone, I will be giving up my education, abandoning all that I held dear before I met him, and sacrificing (or at least delaying) a future of higher earning potential that could provide for, you guessed it, the husband.
Post comments if you have any advice, world. I hope that my experiences will be inspiring for the most part, but tonight I just need to get the words out of my head.
You see, America, I wear many hats. I'm a student, a wife, an employee, a daughter, a feminist, an activist, a cook, a baker and a candlestick maker. Just kidding about the candle sticks, but the rest is true.
Lets start with my most newly acquired status as a wife. I'm the wife of a man with congestive heart failure, and it is a full time job all by itself. I'll tell you, if you ever want to know what the truly fail safe birth control method is, become intimately involved with a chronically ill man. You will find that you have so little time for yourself even with an adult in the house you can't even wrap your head around the idea of changing a small person's diaper.
Yes, I've changed big people's diapers. No, they did not belong to my husband.
But I digress.
So, Bobby (the husband) and I started dating early last year. I've been unlucky my entire life, and so has he, as I'm sure you could imagine a 25 year old with heart failure would be. Earlier this month, we decided to legally combine the giant crap storms that are eachother's lives, until death do we part. He has been in and out of the hospital since last semester, when our apartment burned down ( a story for another blog) and has been deteriorating more rapidly ever since.
I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester to be with him in the hospital. Nothing I do seems to be good enough, you see. He's working with a special cardiology team in the bay area, so I decided we could move there for his care. He can't work, so I started hunting for a job in the neighborhood. He went to the ER for having such low blood pressure they could barely draw blood 2 days before I had my interview. We weren't near his special doctors in the good hospital and he could have died because of it. I wasn't quick enough to get the job and move.
After he got out of the hospital, he seemed to be feeling better. We proceeded with our wedding. Oh, didn't I mention that this happened one week before our wedding? We thought he might be an absentee groom. Anyways, we got married, beautiful ceremony. It was on a baseball field, I wore blue, he wore an 80's tux with sneakers, and his Italian Catholic grandma wore a frown.
We went on our honeymoon and were in wedded bliss, for a few days. Then we went on a whale watching trip and, oddly enough, I got sick! That's new for us. When we returned to the condo (on loan from a friend's boss) we discovered we had been robbed! See, almost missing our wedding because of almost dying wasn't good enough, because it was just almost. Life likes to give me stories to tell where I can say, "this really happened", not almost.
The very next day, we were back in the hospital. What fun! This time we had lights and sirens and a big show of it (and we honeymooned close to his special doctors in the good hospital). Bobby convinced them to wait to admit him until the honeymoon was over, and they did.
I went back to school, he seemed to feel better, again, and life went on for about a week. Then he had his follow up and his kidney's failed. They admitted him and now we are scheduling open heart surgery.
How does this relate to the title? As I said, I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester. My classes are only 2 days per week, that means a total of 3 weeks of school missed. I missed an entire week this last time in the hospital, and the timing of the surgery puts him coming home during finals week.
You see, my faithful readers, all four of you, I don't know what to do? I have pulled 'A's in all my classes, on the work I've done, but I can't get attendance points if I'm not there, and I can't make up in class activities. I am being a crappy student in order to be a mediocre wife. I still haven't been able to secure a place for us to live near his doctors and we will have to spend his recovery at his grandma's house. (The one who wore the frown. More on her soon.)
I promise to try to keep this correspondence to all you random strangers out there light and funny, but today it's just not in me. I'm stretched to thin, like so many of my fellow egg carriers out there, and I'm floundering. I never thought I'd identify myself as a good wife, I'm not big on gender stereotyping, but I at least want to be a good friend. I am supposed to be my husband's best friend, and I will be leaving him alone as he gets his sternum cracked open and his most important life giving organ artificially manipulated on a large steel table. And if I don't leave him alone, I will be giving up my education, abandoning all that I held dear before I met him, and sacrificing (or at least delaying) a future of higher earning potential that could provide for, you guessed it, the husband.
Post comments if you have any advice, world. I hope that my experiences will be inspiring for the most part, but tonight I just need to get the words out of my head.
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