Thursday, August 31, 2006

200 posts later....

Happy two hundredth post, Blog!

I recently re-read the novel Crow Lake, and unfortunately, I don't have it here with me and I forget who the author is. If you get it, you should read it.

But first let me spoil some of the parts for you.

Essentially it's about a girl who grew up in Northern Ontario. She is from a farming community and she was 'the one who got away'. She left her family behind to study and become something great, all the while feelng sorry for the people she left behind because they couldn't get away to school.

All my life, I've been a reader. I love books. My shelves are full of them. I can't count the times that I've been so enthralled with a book that I couldn't put it down and when work or life forced me to, it was the only thing on my mind.

I've always despised when people won't see beyond what exists in their own back yards. I've never really had the opportunity to go outside my back yard. Travelling and seeing the world isn't exactly an option when you grow up on a diary farm. In fact, I've never been anywhere. I've never been on a plane or smelled the ocean. I've never been to Disney Land and really? I don't have that great of a desire to go.

I do, however, have a gift for feeling and seeing the things that I read about. Case in point: last winter I had the opportunity to go to Niagara Falls. I was dreadfully disapointed because it was exactly the way I saw and felt it in books and on television. A bunch of water. Yep, it was a whole Hell of a lot of water and it certainly was pretty to look at. But it was exactly the way that I'd read about or seen in commercials.

I digress. I've never been out of my back yard and my whole life I've read books and pored over novels. Sure, I got outside to play with the boys, hang out in the barn, work on the farm and outside. But I would always be with my light on at two, poring over a book that I couldn't put down. My whole family is this way, in fact, and I' m glad for it.

One thing I've read about my whole life is further education. Novels seem to romanticize becoming educated in ways that I can't really describe. They talk about the professors, the books, the knowledge that is at your fingertips, all there for the asking. My pastor at church said he loved university for the lively intellectual debates and the fact that no matter how outrageous your ideas are, someone is there to listen to them. Novels I've read speak of how important getting educated is and how those of us who are fortunate enough to go can change the world.

I've yet to encounter a group of people who have a genuine craving for knowledge. It seems that we are all there in class, tired and somewhat cranky, just going through the motions. I've also yet to come into contact with people who know exactly what it is we can do with this knowledge we've gained or where it can take us.

I feel duped. I feel as though all the novels I've pored over my whole life that promised me so much out of going to school have lied. They didn't tell me about the crappy living conditions. They didn't tell me that my professors would all be bored old people who are putting in time while they pay attention to the papers that they really care about getting published. They didn't tell me that rather than spending long hours studying late at night, I would need to devote all of a few hours to every term paper I've written.

The girl in Crow Lake is forced to go back to her family at one point, all the while looking down her nose at the poor sods she left behind without an education. They are farming, doing janitorial jobs, building furniture, and she is the heroic sister gone off to do great things.

And of course, as it happens in most novels, an event in her life occurs that has her looking at things in a different light.

I won't say that I'm unhappy that I chose pursuing a degree as an option. I think that if you want to get a degree you should. I think that if you don't want one, you shouldn't. I will say that no one ever told me the truth of the matter. I'm glad that my whole life I grew up, from the first time I read Anne of Green Gables and wanted to go to school, I had an idyllic view of it.

The thing that Crow Lake did for me was make me look beyond my own back yard. All two hundred acres of it. Because I see these people with their fancy cars and their McMansions, living piled one on top of the other for going on three years now. And I've thought, how absolutely stupid of them. I've wondered why in Hell anyone would want to live this way. I've looked down my nose at people who I've thought were thinking that they were happy in their suburban or urban landscapes, thinking that deep down I'm the one with the answers. Thinking that I'm the one who has it right.

When really, I'm not. I'm just me. Living the way I don't want to live, piled quite literally in my city apartment on top of a group of other people who I'll never have contact with even though we share the same roof. It boggles my mind to think that within miles of the family ranch live a number of families whose children I know and who's lives I've had a part in. It boggles my mind that I live in the city on top of a larger number of families and I've no idea who they are or how they can stand my presence under their roof.

I guess my point is that no one is necessarily right, and no one is necessarily wrong.

We are all just being, and that's ok too.


Wednesday, August 30, 2006

I'm at home right now...

Finally back at the ranch, which is exactly what I've wanted for weeks now.

My reason for visiting has not been so great as my grandfather has become ill.

My Grandad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in the summer of 2002. So, we've known for a while that something like this has been coming. But you can't really prepare for something you don't want, no matter how much you know it is coming.

I try as much as I can to keep personal family business off my blog. Oh, sure, I occasionally post little tidbits such as the fact that we're all insane, but the really juicy details don't go on the blog.

My grandfather has always been a very personal person. I'm not sure if it's his generation or his personality, but he has always had the attitude of putting on a happy face and liking it. You shouldn't wash your laundry in private and all that; and, in fact, he kept his outdoor clothesline behind the house in the corner of the lawn that no one could see from the street.

I don't know if my Grandad even knew what the internet was before his illness got severe; I don't know if he even knew what it was for. I have strong doubts that he has the foggiest clue as to what the hell a blog is, or why you would write one. So I somehow doubt that he would like his condition discussed on the internet.

So, Grandad is sick and I'm not sure what to do with myself. Being at the hospital with him all day is hard... I've started helping out with his care a little bit, keeping him clean and his outfit tidy and such. He always liked everything neat and tidy. I dare anyone to find a weed in his lawn, and I'll pay you every penny I have, because there would not be a single one. So it makes me feel better when I can wash his face for him and tidy his hair, and that sort of thing.

I'm so surprised at myself, as well. I've never been one to enjoy being around people who are remotely sick. When SuperNan has a cold with a runny nose, my reaction is to stay away at all costs. So I was pretty scared when I saw my big, strong Grandad in a hospital bed and shocked the first time that I tidied him up and told him I would try and make him look like a million bucks.

He winked at me for that.

It was more rewarding than anything ever has been in this world.


Saturday, August 26, 2006

It's a Baby!!

A wonderful, tiny, cute, six pound nine ounce baby!

Induced by Castor Oil! Hurrah Castor Oil!

The events leading up to my meeting of the baby were like some wild and crazy adventure. Except that I think for Davey it was a bit wilder and crazier, what with the pink room we slept in and the many small children leaping on him in the morning.

The good think about the Berry Babies is that they've known me long enough to not try and touch me, or be in my general vicinity, early in the morning. I hope to one day have my own children so well trained.

Davey came to get me at around ten at night, and we made it to BerryLand by eleven.

Berry Baby the Fifth was born just after eleven ... or perhaps just before? But it was no avail because the oh-so-wonderful doctors at the hospital gave the Berry Queen lots of nice medicine that made her like Sleepy from the Seven Dwarfs. Only taller. And prettier. And with more children.

Davey and I were now faced by a dilemma: Stay the night, or turn around and go back to the city without seeing the Berry Baby? The thought of leaving crushed me, but the thought of making Davey sleep in a strange house was also disconcerting because not everyone is comfortable with that kind of thing.

Berry King came home from the hospital and announced the arrival of the baby and his lovely wife's ensuing unconsciousness. We chatted about the horrors of modern day small animal vets (Fifteen hundred dollars for a bout with feline leukemia for a barn cat? Sorry Dude, but we're farmers. We have a much more reliable 'cure' for diseases like these). We discussed screwing up on stage and ways to get around it. We discussed how good the Berry Queen is at having babies.

And then the Berry King said we can discuss sleeping arrangements.

Now I don't know how well you know me, or if you even know me at all... But I'm not smooth at all and I usually say things that make most people fairly uncomfortable.

So, me, in my ultimate smoothness, said to the Berry King "Oh, no worries! Dave and I can sleep in the pink room! We sleep together all the time. I mean, usually we're loaded because we've been partying... but this is fine! Good night!"

Slightly stunned, the Berry King wished us a good night.

In the morning we awoke to the smell of coffee and the squeals of the other Berry Babies.

And then we got to go to the hospital.

And meet Berry Baby the Fifth.

She is perfect and wonderful. She was wearing one of those little hats that they put on babies and she has a little smudge of blonde hair on her tiny little head. (I commented on how tiny her head was and the Berry Queen had nothing but good things to say about that. I suppose she has a point.)

Then I couldn't get the hat back on her because she is just so new and breakable! I held her and rocked her and she just slept and slept and yawned. At one point she even sneezed on me.


Who would have evern thought that falling in love could be so easy?

Congrats to the Berry Family!


Friday, August 25, 2006

Guess what day it is?

It's Baby Day!!

Two weeks early, Berry Baby the Fifth has decided to join us in the land of milk and honey!

Or, the land of fruit and older siblings.

I'm on my way to the hospital RIGHT NOW as soon as Davey gets here to drive me there.

Updates to come.


Wednesday, August 23, 2006

And I realize....

Today is August the twenty-third.

I realized this at about nine this evening.

Does it make me a terrible person if I missed my cat's birthday by fifteen days?

And that I never even bothered to buy her the name brand cat food in celebration?

And that the day of her actual birthday, I forgot to even feed her at all?

My life may suck, but my cat's life sucks more.


Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Time for a new outlook...

I had a near nervous breakdown at work today.

I was ready to pick up the phone and call SuperNan. I was going to tell her to meet me after work with SuperDad's pickup truck, pack up all my stuff, and take me and my Copperni-Kitty back to the Ranch. Forever. I was ready to cry, and scream, and beg. I was sure that if I begged long enough, she would meet me. She would save me, because it is SuperNan's and SuperDad's calling in life to save me when I am unhappy.

And I realized how stupid this is.

I have a measly eight months left of city life.

There is nothing in my life worth hating. I have two jobs that pay me to work for them. I have a rockin' roomie who's willing to put up with me when I have hysterical conniption fits about my computer not working (Of which I had one last night... Sorry Roomie.....). I have a Kitty who doesn't love me, but who at the very least, yowls at me when she's hungry. I have awesome guitars and awesome family members....

SuperNan is a lot like Dr. Phil. Its uncanny. She tells me, and others, who are unhappy, that happiness is a choice. So make it.

I need to make it.

Right now I'm making everyone in my life unhappy. My roommate is scared to talk to me lest I blow up in a conniption fit. People I talk to online are scared to message me lest I flip out at them. I've been hysterical over nothing for weeks now.

And it's time to stop.

It's time to make the decision to be happy.

Starting tomorrow, it's the new me.

No more moping.

No more crying.

No more poor me, because there is no poor me.

It's time for a new outlook on this life. I have everything I've ever wanted in my life.

And I will be happy.


Sunday, August 20, 2006

An open letter to the world....

Dear World:

I am fine.

I hate my jobs.

But I love my coworkers.

I hate my body.

But I just bought five new Tshirts in size XL and they fit me quite nicely.

I hate my life.

But I have so much to look forward to.

I hate that I am so far away from my nephew.

But I can talk to him on the phone any day that I choose.

I hate that this weekend, I missed the county fair; I missed witnessing my neice learn to walk; I missed an opportunity to play guitar while inebriated with SuperNan (Not that SuperNan ever gets inebriated... but I quite enjoy various states of inebriation and she is willing to put up with it)....

I hate that I cna't actually play Rockin Red or my new Precious Gibby.

But I love that I have them

Tonight I even sat on the balcony with my trusty first ever guitar and played some tunes....

And you know what?

That rocked my socks as well.

In sum, I know that I will be fine.

Even though I have no idea what direction this life will take; even though I have no idea what exactly it is that I'm planning on doing with a degree in Sociology...

Even though I have no idea where I will be twelve months from now; or even if I don't know where my next month's rent will come from....

I know I will be just fine.


My new job is wildly interesting....

So, working my new job at the drugstore is wildly entertaining.

First, I have to say that I pity the fool who marries me.


Well, I've made it no secret in my life that I'm a terrible prude. I pity the fool who marries me because he'll spend the rest of his life in the "Feminine Paper" section of the drugstore. (Yes, that's what my drugstore calls the aisle that sells all girly-related things. Feminine Paper. Nice.)

I can't buy these things.

I still make my mom buy all Tampax related necessities.

I'm 22.

I know how sad this is.

To make matters worse, I make her buy these products at Costco, so she can get them in bulk.

I currently have enough "Feminine Paper" products in my hall closet to stop up Niagara Falls. Because SuperNan is gracious enough to buy them in bulk for me.

Today a man came to my checkout with a full supply of "Feminine Paper" products. He was grumbling about how he hates to make such purchases.

I found it hilarious, because a few short years from now, this will inevitably be my husband. The poor sap.

Among my other favorite sales to make are those involving Prophylactics. I'm all for safe sex. But there is really nothing more amusing to me than some patheitc fifteen year old coming in to buy studded condoms.

Because, you know, there's nothing that his equally inexperienced girlfriend would rather experience than having sex with something textured like sandpaper.


In other news, SuperNan is much like Dr. Phil.

She says things all the time like "Happiness is a choice. Make it."

And you know, she's so right.

There is nothing about my life worth hating. I have a wonderful family. I wouldn't trade one single member of my family for all the love, tea, and money in China. I really wouldn't.

I have a roommate who is willing to put up with me when I sit on our communal couch and cry about my life. She feeds my cat when I forget (Because, apparently, I've been so out of it the last few days that I've forgotten about my precious Coperni-kitty). She lists all the ways that I cna make my life better for me when I'm so pissed off about a bad day at work that I cna't think straight.

And, she recommends cases of Buck-A-Beer on nights like tonight.

And I accidentally drank the whole case.


One more thing that's been on my mind lately: The tenses of the word "drink'.

Like, did I just "drink" a case of Buck-A-Beer? Or have I just "Drunk" a case of Buck-A-Beer? Or have I "Dranken" a case of Buck-A-Beer?

Sigh. These are the thoughts that plague my mind.


Saturday, August 19, 2006

If my mother were here, she's slap me....

As you know, this summer SuperNan invested many dollars in a SuperCool Highly Sexy Retainer for me.

It's mostly just to keep my jaw in the right place while I'm sleeping and to protect my teeth from being ground down to nubs while I compulsively grind the crap out of them during slumber.

Yes. I'm insane even when I'm sleeping.

Well, last night I was tired. Cranky. Upset.

And I just fell into bed without putting on my SuperCool Highly Sexy Retainer.

I woke up with my jaw clenched.

And now I have a terrible headache.

And I have to go spend eight hours at work.

Life just keeps getting better!


And this is what it's come down to

Tardiness is one thing that I can't stand in my life.

You'll all remember the Boy of spring 2005? Surely you'll remember that lovable little foreign car-driving brown-eyed guy who was ALWAYS LATE. (And by late, I mean he'd call five hours after her was supposed to be somewhere to tell me he wouldn't make it after all. Sigh).

I'm sure you'll also remember the ensuing hives.

And SuperNan suggesting, ever so gently, that perhaps it had to do with the Boy? Or, even more gently, perhaps it had to do with the fact that I am a fucking crazy person.

Because he was ALWAYS late? I think I spent more time during the brief fling that was our dating time crying on the living room floor than I did actually dating him.

And I'm not making this up.

It was then that I realized that lateness, quite literally, makes me insane.

The same thing goes for changes in my plans. I've made plans TWICE this week and been fairly interested in pursuing those plans, and now TWICE they have been changed.

I only had the energy to lay in my new living room crying for an hour over one of those events, for those of you who are wondering. I take this as a good sign.

All this leads me to believe: Perhaps something is not right?

Perhaps having a near-nervous breakdown over... well, over nothing, is a sign that perhaps something is off with me?

Add to that the fact that I've been having nothing but incredibly disturbing dreams lately... crying at the drop of a hat... hating my life in general...

I'm the first to admit that I'm a hysterical person. I'm the first to admit that my emotional reactions to events should not be taken seriously by any person at any time: because, mostly these reactions have no bearing in real life.

It takes nothing to send me into a screaming fit of tears and sobbing that can last for hours. A simple look or an ill-timed comment from someone can have me running for the buck a beer faster than most mortals can say "Is she having another conniption fit over nothing?"

Disturbing dreams... crying at the drop of a hat... hating my life in general... You know, I try to keep upbeat over things. I try to not dwell on the fact that I don't want to be where I am; on the fact that I don't really like either of my jobs; that I'm spending thousands of dollars that I don't have on a degree that I don't particularly want.

But sometimes it all comes to a head and I need to sit and stew. I need to hate. I need to cry and be angry.

I'm in an incredible funk. I don't know what to do. I generally hate everything right now.

But it will pass. I'll be fine.

I always am.


Thursday, August 17, 2006

A letter to my beloved boss.....

Dear Berry Queen.

I got my first paycheck today since coming back to the city.

So I say this:

My job in the city is not nearly as fulfilling as my job at your berry ranch and my bosses here never make sure there is a cold beer in the fridge at the end of the day.

On my first day back at the SubShack, a customer threw fast food at me. At least when customers at the berry farm throw things, I have a largely pregnant, swollen-footed mother of four to laugh it off with. (Or, in most cases, cry it off with).

Working at the berry farm is also highly rewarding financially. I get paid at the end of every day and I get to watch the stack of money add up. I got paid for a week's worth of work today and it was the same amount of money I would have made working two weekdays and one weekend day at the berry farm. This disheartened me to no end and, in fact, reduced me to tears in the back room.

Only because it's the SubShack and not the Berry Ranch, there was no one standing by to hand me some ciggies and an Ice Cole Coca-Cola and hives cream. Which disheartened me even further.

Nor was there anyone standing by waiting to take me out for an Ice Cap at the end of ANY of the days I worked. Not a single one of the days that I worked this week (Which has been all of them, for those of you who are counting) ended with nice people bringing me fattening beverages in environmentally-unfriendly packaging. Did you hear me?? I said not one.

Berry Queen, I write to you now not in an effort to depress you with news of my pathetic life. I write to you tell you that you are, bar none, the best employer that anyone could hope for in this life. Not only does getting paid working for you leave me with a feeling of satisfaction, I actually get enough money to pay for things at the end of the season.

I wish every part of the year was a part that had berries in it. As much as I hate fruit, I can honestly say that I miss nothing more right now than having a job that pays and comes with the benefit of spending my time with you.

With much love and anticipation of next season,


Wednesday, August 16, 2006

In which I go on stage and utterly fuck up....

Ok, so, now that sobriety has hit, I'll give you a more in depth view of the happenings of last night.

First, I'll say that it wasn't really that bad. It could have been a lot worse. In fact, I've seen a lot worse.

Fucking up on stage is all in the recovery part of it. If you can manage to keep playing something, keep playing anything, you'll be fine.

First things first though. I had to tell the sound guy that I don't actually know how to use any of the knobby things on my guitar.

So I went up to him before I got called up and explained my predicament. I said "This is kind of embarassing, but I don't know how to work any of the knobs on my guitar. It's brand new and I've never had an electric before".

Sound Guy: Well, bring it out, we'll see what we can do

Me: *Hands over guitar*

Sound Guy: Uhmm....

Me: *Blinks*

Sound Guy: Uh... well, now. Do you ... uh...

Me: *Prays he doesn't ask me any technical questions*

Sound Guy: You do know that this is a pretty sweet guitar? Uhm, like, it's a Gibson?

Me: Yeah. I just got it for a present. Pretty neat, huh?

Sound guy: *into the mic* Hey, Other Sound Guy! Get up here and check this out!

Me: *Blinks*

Sound Guys: Whoa. *Look at me.* *Look at guitar*

Me: *Blinks*

In a matter of minutes I had a crowd there admiring Gibby. I felt like snatching her back into my arms and saying "Hey now! Paws off!" But I couldn't very well do that. A couple of the other players came around and looked from the front of the stage.

Then the Sound guy fiddled with my knobs (I only let the cutest sound guys fiddle with my knobs, don't worry) and introduced me.

Then he spent about five minutes introducing my guitar.

The guitar got more attention on stage than I did.

But, as Bylak pointed out to me, getting applause over the guitar is better than not getting any applause at all.

So I started out by playing Scarborough Fair. A beautiful song. If only I had remembered how the last verse went, I would have done fine.

Alas, the lyrics left my head. I stood on stage blankly staring and strumming for a minute, then went back to the first verse over again. Then I gave up when I forgot that verse and stopped playing all together.

Me: Man! I hate forgetting the lyrics in front of a whole crowd of people!

Crowd of people: Polite chuckles.

Next, I did one of my own. I screwed up the lyrics to it as well, but the beauty of screwing up your own lyrics is that no one knows it but you. It's like walking around with no undies on. No one knows it but you.

Then I did Ring of Fire. And when I did that, the Other Sound Guy came up to do something with the sound (Because, you know, that's his job) and I managed to flub mid-line. Seriously. The words just stopped coming out of my mouth. I managed to recover though.

At this point I was feeling pretty flustered. I was also kinda wishing I had taken that shot of Jack my co-worker had offered me. Apparently sobriety doesn't help my playing any.

I finished the song and was thinking fast of what the hell to play next when another co worker hollered out: Hey! Play a song about your brother! (There are many pluses to playing in front of a largely intoxicated crowd. One is that the requests make less and less sense as the night goes on. Another is that they start to forget what a complete and utter mess you're making of yourself. )

So, I played my original called Big Brother. It was well received. Then I played another original and left the stage.

Or, I tried to. The sound guy came up and said to give me some more lovin', which I thought was fine since I like some lovin' as much as the next chick.

Then he held up my guitar, again, and said "And one more round for Amanda's awesome Gibsons semi-hollow body....." And proceeded to spout out more information about my guitar than I'm aware exists.

Who is this guy and why does he know what kind of wood my guitar is made out of?

And the sad thing?

The rounds of applause for the Gibson were louder than the rounds of applause for me!

At any rate, as usual, I had a grand time playing and I still love being on stage. Hey, I'm the youngest in the family: I live to be the centre of attention.

And if my guitar gets to be the centre of attention before me, well, Hell, at least it's something of mine that made it to the centre of attention.


Oh, Dear Heavens...

Ok, so blogging while tipsy is generally a no-no.

Here goes:

Picture me.

On stage.

With my sexy new guitar.

Singing Scarborough Fair.

Forgetting the lyrics.

Forgetting how to play my sexy new guitar.

Guess which got more applause when the sound guy introduced us?


Or the Guitar??

The guitar.



Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Sleepy, sleepy me...

My night on the balcony with beer was grand. I bought a small package of ciggies and planned on smoking all of them at once.

But I couldn't.

At the end of the night I had to do something with them because I knew, I just knew, that if I woke up and had them near me I would be a full fledged smoker once more.

So I heaved them off the balcony.

I feel bad for polluting, but I figure one of the homeless men seeking massages likely found it and decided that it is worthwhile to live at the mission on my street for a little while longer; or, at least until it stops raining free cigarettes.

In other news, a random icky looking man showed up at our door today demanding a massage. Apparently he thought we were running a massage parlour out of our apartment.

Which means one of two things: Either a prostitute used to live here OR someone thought it would be funny to make up posters with our adress on them advertising massages.

Life in the city. It's grand.


Monday, August 14, 2006

It's Sunday....

Ten hours of work.


Five King Cans and a pack of ciggies; together in harmony on my balcony.

Life is good.


(P.S: Thanks for the extra bucks, SuperNan. You rock.)

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Back in the City...

And there is nothing quite like getting back and realizing: Dude, life in the city sucks. I have no beer. I have no cigarettes. And no one is here save for the suicidal cat who doesn't like me.

Smoking for me? Is a choice. It's a choice that I'd like very much to make right now. I would love nothing more than to run down to the liquor store and pick up a bottle of wine, and the corner store for a pack of ciggies.

And then I could sit, peacefully in the deafening noise of this smelly city, drink myself into oblivion, happily sick down a pack of cigarettes, and be guaranteed a great night's sleep tonight.

I'm not sure what's holding me back.


Friday, August 11, 2006

The Battle with My BackFat Continues...

Well, not so much my backfat.

It's just a general fatness problem.

Now. Before I continue, I have to say this.

I'm not actually that fat.

However, having gained several pounds several times over the last few years, I have become more self conscious about my figure. It's more... jiggly these days. And it drives me berserk.

I had to go to a wake today. So, I needed something halfway decent to wear. I was thinking that perhaps WalMart jeans and a Suzy Shier top weren't going to cut it. So I hauled my Rhinestone Cowboy pants out of my closet before leaving the big city and figured that, come Hell or high water (Perhaps even both) my newly gigantic ass would be going into them.

My newly gigantic ass did go into them this morning. However, once I was dressed and involved in the long and aruous process of applying makeup I had to bend over and pick something up.

At which time I felt that oh-so-familiar popping sensation that would inform me of the fact that the button on my pants had flown from its location at my waist.

And was now dangling in front of my zipper like an old fly strip.

Only without the dead flies stuck to it.

Imagine driving down the dirt roads of CowTown with a needle and thread trying to get pants sewn back together in time for the wake.

Kill me now.

I managed to succeed without piercing myself a new belly button.

I got to town with SuperNan, got out of the SuperVue, and the other button left it's home at my waist.

So then I was sitting in a parking lot, rather than driving down a dirt road, sewing my pants back together for the second time that day. It was an all-time new low, even for me.

At this point I happened to notice a discount store advertising incredibly low prices on everything.

And I went in and found some pants that would manage to wrap their way around my enormous ass without worry of pieces of them becoming projectiles.

So, into the dressing room I went.

Now, I realize that buying pants in a size twelve is not the end of the world. I realize that there is no need to shed tears over a thirty two inch waisted pair of jeans.

But I still feel incredibly depressed at the thought. I used to have a great body. A bathing suit body. One of those bodies that people would look at and think "Huh. Not bad."

So, I went to the wake in my hastily sewn together Rhinestone Cowboy pants and upon getting back to where we started at, I removed the Rhinestone pants and put on some new jeans.

SuperNan and I had to hit up the grocery store. I was wearing my new jeans.

And as I wandered around the grocery store I realized that the odd sensation coming over my ass was not the result of sitting on it in the car for hours on end.

It was the result of my stupid new jeans falling off my fat butt and hanging around the bottom of my fat butt as though I was some sort of Wannabe White Chick Gangsta.

And of course, it was at this time that I realized that me? Buying pants? Under stress? When I was pissed off about my other pants falling apart (quite literally) at the seams? Is not a good time to be shopping.

The jeans are washing and drying on the hot setting as we speak in an attempt to make them not fall off me any more.

But, Hell, it's a small thing to take comfort in and for now? I need all the comfort I can get.


Three whole hours of emergency room fun!

Aaaah, the emergency room.

Since berry season, I've had this funky ear thing going on.

First I will say that I hate all things related to bodily functions. You'll notice how rarely I post about them on my blog.

Because I hate them. I hate the mention of anything related to anything that bodies do. Except, of course, things like drinking beer and making music. These are things that bodies do, only... they're not gross. I'm thinking more along the lines of involuntary things that your body does.

Well, involuntarily, my body has turned on me. It does this from time to time. Like when it strikes me with hives. Or a sinus infection.

Or an ear infection.

Of all the things, the ear infection has been the grossest. (I don't think that grossest is a word. Anyhow.)

My ear has been bothering me for weeks now. I should have seen a doctor when it started. But the nasty ear thing started mid way through berry season, and my boss, lovely though she is, is NOT a fan of giving her employees sick leave.

If I didn't love her so damn much, I'd take her largely pregnant, edema ridden self to the labor board. But she's one of those bosses who makes sure that there is a cold beer and a fresh pack of ciggies awaiting me at the end of the day, so I really can't complain.


So, tonight I called the ER and asked it I could come in because my regular doctor is on holidays. He is always on holidays.

I went in.

And waited.

And waited.

And watched some ambulances come in.

I watched a man with a fishing lure stuck in his head come in.

I watched a boy with a large gash in his face come in.

I watched an elderly lady with something undescribed come in.

And I waited.

Patience is a virtue.

When I got called before the guy with the fishing lure, I felt really bad. Because I somehow think that a case of "Funky Ear Thing Going On" is slightly less important than a fishing lure firmly implanted in one's skull.


The doctor didn't think anything was really wrong with me. No fever, not a lot of pain. He looked at me and blinked.

I looked back and blinked.

And meekly explained that I hate body things and that it's grossing me out.

I don't think that he thinks that a mild case of insanity is worth waiting three hours in an ER over.

However. I can not function with a case of "Funky Ear Thing Going On". And SuperNan looked at it when I got home tonight and said "Ew. That's gross."

And so then I could no more function.

I mean, what was the doctor thinking? I told the triage nurse how much Luvox a put back in a day. Surely this should mean something to him.

He blinked at me.

I blinked back at him.

And explained that I can't function with gross things going on in my ear. He stuck a thingy in my ear which almost led to convulsions. He asked if it was hurting and I said that no, it wasn't hurting, but it was making me feel.... icky.

He blinked at me.

I blinked back at him.

And he explained the Funkiness that he saw.

I fought off the urge to faint, throw up, and scream in unison, ecause throwing up and fainting at the same time as screaming would have been difficult and inevitably would have led to a nasty case of hives.

He gave me some eardrops.

I can't do eardrops. I hate having things in my ears. (Which, in case you were wondering, was what led me there in the first place.)

SuperNan administered my first dose of drops. She dealt with my quiveriness.

I wonder how my roommate will feel once I explain to her that by sharing a dwelling with me, she has also inherited the responsibility of feeding my cat when I'm away, dealing with my outbursts of insanity, and now, helping me put things in my ears every four hours for a week.

At least I was upfront about the fact that I'm a raving lunatic when we met.

Honesty is key.


Thursday, August 10, 2006

Almost famous....

But not quite.

Not even a little bit.

It's hard.

I saw a band on stage tonight. A clear case of stage envy ensued. I couldn't stop staring at them. Bastards. How come them and not me?

Probably has something to do with the fact that they actually know how to play their instruments.... And with the fact that they know some songs that the rest of the world knows... and with the fact that they probably went somewhere and asked someone whether they could play at that particular bar....


I need to get off my ass.

I love being on stage. I love being in front of people. I love singing my heart out.

But I never do. Sigh.

It's a hard life.

So, stage envy it is. Time is running out and I need to ge tmy act together.

I'm not sure which step is first: Calling my mom or learning how to play my sexy red guitar?

Decisions, decisions.


Wednesday, August 09, 2006


Sixteen hour workdays make my feet hurt....

The good news? I started my new job at eight this morning!

The bad news? I didn't finish working until almost one the following morning.

So, my feet hurt.

I LOVE my new job. I would like nothing more than to go on and on about how wonderful it is.

As I expected, I do feel some mild guilt because I sort of feel like I've betrayed the SubShack. Like it was somehow wrong of me to try and find new work. But so far so good. It's not rocket science and I get a great discount on EVERYTHING in the store.

Now, so far most people have been like: Sweet! Cheap Makeup!

But that's not what I had in mind. We sell EVERYTHING. I'm thinking: Sweet! Cheap milk! Cheap Cat food! Cheap groceries!

Seriously. I feel like I NEED to keep this job so I can save money on groceries and such.

Anyhow, hopefully there will be a more thorough entry tomorrow. I have to be up in six hours and I feel like I"m going to keel over.

Sweet dreams!


Monday, August 07, 2006

I'm not sure what this world wants from me...

I went in for a shift at the SubShack tonight. I was called in when someone else called in sick. So I went.

I did not want to go.

But I did. And when I got there, I was thrilled. I saw my old co-workers and let me tell you, I love every one of them. They are fun, enthusiastic people, full of laughter and gossip. It was really great to catch up with everyone.

The shift was going fine, and I thought, Man! I'm really looking forward to the extra hours the Bossman is giving me. I was happy to be back, joking around, catching up on what's been going on...

And then it happened.

The customer came in.

He was hostile from the get go. He was unhappy, dissatisfied, demanding extra cheese, a lower price...

It's my first night, so I'm thinking, let the bastard have it. Fuck him. This asshole is not going to ruin my first day back.

And he left and I went back to being happy.

And my co-worker and I were sitting down having a break.

And the fucker came back and threw his frickin' sub at us. I swear. I'm not making this up. Some asshole threw food at me on my first day back and I'm thinking: What do you want from me?

The other day I was discussing with a certain Redneck Man (Who is definitely not a boy) the state of humanity in this world. And he said he'd given up on the human race.

And I thought, you know, that's a little severe.

But today I learned that I live in a world where it is acceptable for some irate asshole to throw food at someone making seven dollars an hour. (His reason? There were cucumbers on it. Cucumbers. That's right. Inoffensive little green circles that can be picked off with great ease. Cucumbers)

And you know, maybe not having any faith in humanity in this day and age is not such a ridiculous a concept.

A very unhappy,


Sunday, August 06, 2006

Well, My mother says...

I'm not sure if any of my trusty buddies in blogging are aware, but I am a co-moderator on a blog board. It's top secret, so I'm not allowed to say any more than that. (Actually, I'm simply not going to say any more than that because I don't need any more internet stalkers than I already have. If I gave you all the addy of my favorite internet hangout, you could all stalk me. I prefer my stalkers to hang out outside my bedroom windows; follow me through shopping centres; put viruses in my computer, and such like that).

Well, one of my duties as a co-mod is to come up with a blog challenge. Thankfully, I have a co-mod with me who is doing every second blog challenge, because I have no idea what a blog challenge is or how to run it.

So I, being the dinkus that I am, decided to start the first blog challenge. And I gave the others on my blog board a list of five challenges to choose from: Each challenge is the title of an entry. I made up things like "Well, My Mother says" and "I'm Slightly Insane and You'll Just Have to Deal With It".

A number of the ladies from my board have already completed the challenge and I can't htink of a damn thing to write. And come on, I chose "Well, My Mother Says" as one of the topics?

Have you met my mother? She never quits saying things! She says things all the time. Right now she's a million miles away from me and she said the following things to me:

"If you go fishing without your license, the Ministry of Natural Resources will take possession of Redneck Boy's truck and give you a ten thousand dollar fine. Look for your license!"

She said "It's your table cloth! Why are you calling me from Wal-Mart to ask me how big your table is? It's... well, I have no idea how big it is! Look at the picture on the package. What? What!? I'm fishing on the river by your brother's house and I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!"

"Where's your black filing box? Isn't the license in your black filing box? Now, I really don't want you to call me from jail again, saying..."

My mother has some other really great things to say.

One of my all time favorites is "You FuckShit".


I'm aware that a woman of class using a word like FuckShit is not particularly classy.

That's the great thing about SuperNan. She is a woman of many talents. In some groups she is the uber-classy former college professor; in some groups she is the head of the Cattleman's finances; in some groups she is my nephew's Granny who volunteers with the school to take all the kids skating on Wednesdays.

And in one other group (That would be my group) she is a super cool chica who can say things like "You FuckShit". It's a talent.

My mother says things to me all the time. One of the things she says is "Let it go".

Because sometiems I physically can not let something go. Then the something turns into hysteria and the hysteria turns into hives and really, if I would just let all the somethings of the world go before they even get a chance to register in my brain, I would never have hives. Ever.

One of my alltime favorite SuperNan-isms is the famous "Get your crap out of my house!"

I have a lot of crap. I mean, like, I really... well, I just happen to own a lot of crap.

And when I go back and forth from the city to the ranch, it all comes with me. And generally, when I get to the ranch, the first thing I want to do is drop all my crap on the floor and pick up my nephew and get the biggest squeeze I can from him; until my eyeballs hurt and I fear that fluid will start draining from my ears.

This would work fine, in theory, if I bothered to pick up any of my crap after I was done saying hello to the Precious Boy. But generally by the time we've finished our Hellos, he is dying to get the hell away from his batshit crazy Auntie who sings things like "I wish that you would be my love-y Bun-ny!" (To the tune of Oscar Meyer, no less); and I am ready to sit down at the table with a beer stolen from my dad and a ciggie stolen from Big Brother.

The crap always remains on the floor until the Precious Boy gets a hold of it and starts driving it around the kitchen on his tricycle. Thankfully, he's learned of late to ask me if my laptop is in any of the bags before he starts using them as jumps for his obstacle course. He's so clever. I could just burst!

Of course, what would a post about SuperNan be wihtout sharing her advice when I start dating something new. I wish that through blogging I could show the inflecion of her voice, because that is what really makes the things she says come from her.

Probably the most common thing I hear from my mother on dating is "Oh, Honey. Please don't date him." The unfortunate part of this is that it is so painfully true that it has become hysterical. Every time I date somone, she imparts that it's a bad idea and inevitably, I end up sobbing on her living room floor in a half drunken stupor for weeks to follow.

It's almost like she's psychic!

And if she could see me? Right now? This very minute? She would say "Put down those mints and go to bed, you nutjob."


Saturday, August 05, 2006

Fat Pants...

So, I have a new job. Which, of course I'm thrilled about.

But I have a problem.

The size of my ass has expanded considerably over the last few months. I'm getting bigger and bigger by the minute.

Which presents a problem in wearing clothes.

Now, I make it a point to not spend money on work clothes, because I make like seven dollars an hour.

So, having not bought any pants in months, and having an ass that is expanding by the minute makes working difficult, since all of my pants that I wear to work are from first year.

How do you get them done up, you ask?

Well, I don't. When I work at the SubShack, I have an apron.

I was discussing this with my roommate in the presence of a Redneck Boy yesterday.

Me: I don't know what I'm going to do! Like, go out and spend fifty bucks on clothes for a seven dollar an hour job? I'll have to work two shifts before I've made any money!

Roomie: Well, what do you wear at the SubShack?

Me: Well, my black pants...

Roomie: So, wear those!

Me: I know, but I can't do any of them up! I'm too fat!

Roomie: So....?

Me: I have an apron. I wear it and no one can tell that I'm so fat that I can't do up my pants!

Redneck Boy: Wait a minute

Me: **

Roomie: **

Redneck Boy: Does this mean to say that when you see a girl at the SubShack, she's not wearing pants that are done up?

Me: No.

Redneck Boy: But you just said...

Me: Well, it's true. There are girls at the SubShack without their pants done up.

Redneck Boy: *Stupid Grin* Nice!

Me: But that only pertains to the fat ones, so move on.



Friday, August 04, 2006

Hotdogs for everyone!

It's time to celebrate!


All beef ones!!


I have TWO jobs!


Break out the Buck-A-Beer, because life is worth living!!

I can afford to eat! (Well, I can afford to eat after my first paychecks come in. Which means I won't be eating for a while... but still, eating in the future is better than never eating at all).

Like all good things, this good thing can be attributed to Davey and his infinite genius. He is the one who suggested that perhaps, just maybe, calling up the SubShack wouldn't be a bad idea since no one was calling me last week, and then I could have two jobs if someone did call me. I'm not sure if he said it out of genius, or because he's dreading the day I call him and say "Yo, good buddy: I'm broke. Can you drive in with five hundred bucks and a side of beef?"

Which, of course, he would do. But it would make me feel bad.

Until I sunk my teeth into a side of beef.

At any rate, I start my training on Tuesday. I need to wear dark pants and a light shirt.


As if I own either.

There is a shadow behind every cloud, I suppose.


I have a problem...

My problem is that I'm hungry.

Most normal people, upon realizing that they are hungry, would go and get something to eat.

My roommate and I went grocery shopping the other day, so we even have a ton of food in the house. It's heavenly.

The problem? Lies in the fact that I neglected to buy any breakfast food.

I have some leftover oatmeal from last year, and I would eat that... But I have no milk.

So I'm thinking.... since I've lived in this apartment, I've done very student-like things: I've had a party, gotten my cat high, and found a coffee table in the dumpster.

Should I take my student-ness one notch higher and eat some ravioli from the can for breakfast? Or would that be taking matters a little too far?

I went on a job interview earlier this week and really felt that I had nailed it; the call is supposed to come in today as to whether or not I got the job. So I hope I did... I could really use some cash at this point!

ALSO, I called my SubShack boss and asked for my job back.

Know what he said? He said: "Anything for you, my friend! Anything for you!"

Which makes me feel really bad about hating my job. Because my boss and the people I work with are so great; it's unfortunate that the public has to go and be all snooty and ruin my good time at work. That's the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.


Thursday, August 03, 2006

Wow, that was ambitious....

The house is clean.

When I say clean, I mean it is swept.




Bathroom? Scrubbed. Rinsed.

Dishes? Washed. Dried. Put away.


I found the floor! And then I swept, swiffered, and washed it.

I made the bed. I fluffed the pillows.

I washed all my laundry. I was economically intelligent and hung most of it to dry.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need a nap.


Wednesday, August 02, 2006

A new addition to our little family....

A new addition arrived in out little apartment early yesterday morning.

His name is Big Al. He's the poor cousin of Big Tom. But I love Big Al despite his cracked case and dysfunctional VCR player.

Big Al was scared about facing life in the city, so he brought with him a friend who I named Herbert. Unfortunately, Herbert was an arachnid who had to die shortly after his arrival. I'm not sure if Big Al noticed that I killed his only memento of country life or not....

Because I had some Yoshi to play.

On a full sized screen.

And let me tell you, it was love at first sight.

Big Al is now prominently displayed on our little red TV stand, because we are proud to have him as a member of our family.

In other news, Coperni-kitty is back! She's a little bit pissed that she's living on the sixth floor in a heat wave. She tried to commit suicide through my roomie's window once last night, but we managed to talk her down.

Here's hoping she can find happiness here in the end.

And if not, my next cat will be orange.

Here's where I give a heartfelt thanks to BigMan, for providing me with all the little things that make life in the city worthwhile... my version of Office 2000, my TV, my cat, comic relief every time I need it .... You are the best Davey!!!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Exploring me and who I am...

Deciding why a person has certain likes and dislikes is really tricky.

I have this newfound love of mints. The other day I found some of those round pink ones that dissolve into a wonderful minty powder in your mouth when you crunch down on them and I was in seventh heaven. Seriously. I thought I would die of happiness. And then I thought, Dear God, they're mints. No person in her right mind should be that in love with mints. But I am and I can't say why.

White sport socks. You all know about my obsession with white sport socks. I can't go into WalMart without buying white sport socks. I probably have over fifty pairs, and they won't fit into my sock drawer so they are strewn about my bedroom. Initially, I tried keeping them in a neat and tidy pile, but that went out the window and so socks are strewn about like clothing on the set of a porn flick, as I like to say.

I hate feet. Feet are icky. I don't even really like my own feet. The other day my roommate left a pair of her shoes in my bedroom and I had to pick them up and carry them out and I was horrified that my hands were touching the place where she had kept her feet all night.

Money is another thing that I have trouble with and Lord knows I can't tell you why. I've turned down a few dates lately based on money. I hate even the mention of it. Mentioning anything related to money on the first date, or even for several subsequent dates, is beyond hideous in my books. Mention of money has me heading for the hills faster than you can say "Would you like some Grey Poupon?" Seriously. It makes me flee.


My roomie and I were exploring this today: Why is it that a person with an excess of money totally turns me off? She thinks I'm crazy, of course, because it's silly to not want to date someone who has money. Because, if I never date someone who has money, I'll never marry someone who has money... and who doesn't want to marry someone who has money?

Apparently only crazy people don't want to marry someone who has money.

We also explored the fact that at one point in my life, I was wildly in love with a certified millionaire. The cars, the clothes, the lifestyle... it was all so foreign to me. His father had a very prominent job and from that it's not hard to guess that someone has some pretty decent coin laying around. Perhaps I only ever loved him because I knew I'd never have him, and so money never had a chance to come into it; perhaps it was his blue eyes and his accent; perhaps it was because he said things like "Your soul is beautiful": Who knows why money was never an issue with him?

What's even more wierd are my dreams of having money. Because I lay around and think all the time of the things I'd do with all the money in the world. I dream about the people I'd give it to. I think about the Berry Queen and all her Berry Babies and the opportunities they could have with a few extra bucks. I think of my nephew and my neice and the Tommy Hilfiger wardrobes they would have. My mom really wants a Mercedes station wagon, LOL. And she'd have one. I think of all the ridiculous hunting gear and toys I would buy my dad.

So for someone who spends so much time thinking about money, it's really odd that I avoid money on the basis of not liking it.

Sometimes you realize things about yourself that you can't pinpoint, and that you don't understand. And this big ol' world is full of things that I don't understand. Hell, my own self is something I occasionally don't understand. (Keeping in mind here that I never fully understood the Protractor and I still managed to become a fulfilled person, so maybe understanding isn't the basis of everything in the Free World.)

This is just one of those things about myself that I either need to make a concerted effort to change, or make a concerted effort to accept. Which makes the next decision deciding which of those two I'll be doing.

Well, in reality I'll probably be Napping, eating Mints, and organizing my sport socks, but in my spare time I'm sure I'll scrounge up some brain cells to devote to personal reflection.