Where We Don't Slap Our Weiners At The Table...

Tonight was a Thursday night, one of the better nights for me here at The Ranch because the Precious Boy comes over to spend some quality time with his Auntie (And Granny and Grandpa, but they are secondary to me unless I'm napping. Because I'm the shining star in everyone's life unless I'm napping. And even when I am napping, I still manage to be the shining star in many people's lives. Like Dixie's.)

The last several Thursdays I have found to be quite trying because by the time Thursday rolls around, I'm getting kind of CRANKY from working and going to school and maintaining my status as a well-functioning human being. As a result, I've found myself over-correcting my precious little nephew on many occasions; like last Thursday when I gave him a quick reprimand for talking about the farting noises the Ketchup bottle made when he squeezed it.

And really, come on. Who reprimands a seven year old for talking about THOSE kinds of noises?

So tonight, I let everything slide. I was the hip and cool Auntie (Who was only asleep on the couch for forty five minutes of his night. Tops.) I didn't tell him to sit up straight and properly, or remind him to use his 'proper table manners' when dinner was served; I didn't remind him to put his milk glass at the top right of his plate or any of the other inane things that I remind him to do in a night.

And it was amazing, because I wasn't stressed out and the world didn't stop turning at any point in the evening. And when he started whacking the weiner on his plate with his fork, I didn't bat an eye until my mother told him that in this house, WE DO NOT SLAP OUR WEINERS AT THE TABLE.

And I quietly finished my Kraft Dinner and weiners, and I drank up every last drop of my milk and left the table. I made my way to the living room where the laughter that was held deep inside of me through dinner let out, and my stomach ached and tears rolled down my cheeks because my MOTHER said that we don't slap weiners at the dinner table.

Only in this house, I swear, would such a statement pass anybody's lips.

Oh, Dropping the Ball, How I Love Thee...

I dropped the ball at work tonight, and as a result I had an assload of paperwork to do before my shift ended.

Usually when I drop the ball, when things happen that could have been prevented, I come home and cry into my pillows before breaking out in a nasty case of hives that takes four days and a case of beer to get rid of.

But not THIS TIME!

This time, I'm taking it as a sign that I am learning. It wasn't a huge error, just an error I shouldn't have made, and now I know that, hey, next time, I can't do that!

My, it is amazing how a person grows in time.
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Because I mentioned hives just now, I feel it is time to talk about my skin a little bit. A week or two ago, my mother was examining my face in rather close proximity to my person. I can't stand it when people get near my person, in case I have to breathe out of the same air that they are breathing into. And so, I inquired as to why she was peering at my face, and she said "Your skin. Your skin looks lovely!"

And I said "Yes, I thought it had cleared up quite a bit."

And she said "A bit!? No, Dear, it looks WONDERFUL!"

And yes, my skin has been looking much better as of late.

You see, I recently broke up with a boy, and when I do ridiculous things like date boys, my skin breaks out. Sometimes a hive or two will pop up, but mostly I break out in hideous acne that makes me look like a hormone-ravaged twelve year old.

And now I'm broken up, and I know that everything is well and good in my life. I watched the final disc of ER's Season Eight, and I was right. It cured me of my break-up.

I was talking to someone of the male species online the other day and my mother happened by the computer, inquiring as to who I was chatting with. When I told her it was a Boy, she told me that she didn't think she could take it.

And I was all like, "But MOM! This one might make me break out in SHINGLES and I haven't had those yet! Imagine the possibilities!!"

And then she had no words to say, and exited the computer room and sat down in front of the television, and I could hear her wondering in her head: What will get me through my daughter's next break-up now that ER is over?!

A Day for Coffee and Beer....

Today I got to spend the day with two of the kids from work, and they were so wonderfully behaved that I allowed them to come back to the farm to pet the horses. Zydo was a perfect gentleman, and didn't bite either one of their arms off, for which I am ever grateful. After that, I went back to the house and played my guitar while they played a modified game of baseball in the basement. All in all, it was a wonderful shift, one of those shifts that makes you want to keep your job rather than move into a cardboard box on the street and take your chances with the local bums.

While I was out and about today, I had a mad craving for a cup of coffee. I went to the Tim Horton's nearest to where I was, and because I AM PENNILESS, I was using the Tim's card that I receieved for Christmas. BUT THE TIMS CARD MACHINE WAS BROKEN.

I briefly contemplated ending my life, right there in Tim Horton's in front of all those innocent people, and I smiled at the lady behind the counter and told her that I understand, I'm a farmer and when you depend on machines for stuff, THEY BREAK AND FUCK YOUR SHIT UP.

And then, this elderly gentleman beside me said "Oh, you know, I knew those machines would ruin someone's day. I'll buy you a cup of coffee." And I was all flustered and horrified, because only homeless opiate addicts beg cups of coffee from random strangers. And I assure you, I am addicted to NOTHING (Excepting cigarettes and coffee and oversized sweatshirts washed with Gain) and I live with my PARENTS. Therefore, not homeless, not addicted to opiates. Read: I should not be begging cups of coffee from strangers.

Just then, the manager came out and the gentleman explained that he was buying my coffee because of the mix-up with the Tim's Card machines, and I was all like "No, I really don't need a coffee that badly, really, you're too kind..." And the gentleman said "Of course I'm buying you a coffee. It can be your Valentine's day present." And I was all like, "Oh, that's the only one I'm going to get today!"

BUT THEN, the manager was all like, No, I'M buying her a cup of coffee, dammit! And then the two proceeded to argue over who got to buy me a coffee, and the woman made me my triple triple, and I made a hasty exit with many thanks, and the twelve year old I work with was like "HEY! THAT GUY WAS HITTING ON YOU AND HE'S LIKE EIGHTY!!!" for all the world to hear.

And then? My shift ended and it was time to go home and I got home and not only was the Precious Boy here, but my mother had purchased me a case of Valentine's Beer!

And now my day is complete, and I know that random strangers still do have good in their hearts, and that my mother loves me most when I'm slightly inebriated.

Because that's when its easiest to get me to clean the kitchen.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Let's Go... Time's A-Wastin'...

Oh, June Carter Cash, how I love thee.

This week is another hellacious one that involves three days of double shifts and two days of school. Of course, I can't really count that one day because I skipped it like the slacker that I am. There's just something about getting into my car and spending fifteen dollars in gas with five in parking that makes my mind scream SLEEP MORE, DAMMIT.

My financial situation of late has been atrocious, such that I've stooped to the level of so many twenty-something university graduates living with their parents, and I asked my mother for money to fill up my car the other day. And then, miracle of miracles, I ACTUALLY used that money to FILL UP MY CAR.

What happened to the good ol' days, when I could fake some need or another in order to run out and pick up a 2-4?

Of course, those were also the days when I made no effort to control my drinking; when there was no pretense that I should be a human being capable of living in a sober state for longer than twenty four hours. Now that I'm pretending to be a grownup with a car and a job and such, there isn't nearly as much time for beer drinking and revelry.

MY GOD, how I miss beer drinking and revelry.

Believe it or not, I kind of miss university. Lord knows how I passed any classes... Especially that last semester, living in filth, surrounded by cats in Mal's appartment.

Of course, I don't miss tripping over the homeless folks in my foyer, or that creepy building superintendent who tried to see me naked. I also don't miss the Depths of Hell, where the walls were so thin you could hear your neighbors sneeze and the water so rusty it turned your hair orange.

Oh, wait. That was MY HAIR THAT TURNED ORANGE. No one else's hair turned orange from pursuing higher education.

Bastards.

At any rate, I'm so poor right now that the Little Chevy may just die of thirst in the parking lot and there is nothing that I can do. I'm sure that my bank account balance is going to drop to below zero at any moment, and that the next time someone asks if I want to go for coffee, I'll burst into tears because I've already ravaged my coffee savings. And that bowl of change in the kitchen.

And the console of my mother's car.

It is a sad, sad life that I live indeed. I haven't been making frivolous purchases or going to clubs and needing new attire or anything like that, either. I've just been trying to pay some damn bills here and there, and apparently, in the real world, PAYING THE BILLS CRAMPS YOUR STYLE.

Consider whatever style I ever had to be officially cramped.

Just Another Day In Paradise...

I had a day and a half at work today. And I mean that in every sense of the word, that the day and a half that I spent there actually felt like it really was thirty six hours long... even though it was only a shift and a half.

I can't post about the work that I do here, mostly because I work with children in a group home whose privacy must be protected at all costs. Needless to say, there are some shifts that leave me without words, without a way to describe how I am feeling because there has not been, thus far in history, enough words created to show how I feel.

Tonight was a shift without incident, without a single issue or swear word spoken in my direction. I suppose you could say that from everything today, I have been deeply affected.

And I know that the burnout rate in this field is around four years. Less, even. And I know that I've been at it for about six months now. Tonight was one of those nights that really makes me wonder, why am I doing this at all?

The good thing is that I'm bubbly and resilient. I know that the next time I show up, I'll be back to my chipper old self, having faith in what I do, and be able to do my job without question.
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Sometimes after a bad shift (Or any shift, for that matter) my mother and I sit at the computer and look at pictures. Between her, myself, and my oldest brother, we must have thousands upon thousands of pictures at our disposal. Lately, we've been spending time reviewing the pictures of us riding Zydo this summer.

There are a very few perfect pictures of me on Zydo, partly because I am still far from being a perfect rider. But a few of those pictures that make my heart swell do exist, where I look put together as though I'm someone who belongs atop a wonderful Thouroughbred like him.

Looking at these pictures so frequently has given me a case of spring fever like I've never had before. I want the weather to be warm; I want the days to be long so that I can come home from school and have enough time to tack up my horse and head out. I'm anxious to try crossing the path of the Ostrich once more, to see if I've improved in my abilities enough that my knees don't shake when Zydo tears me through all the bush he can in an attempt to escape the freakishly large bird. I want to put up jumps again and feel myself fly through the air on his back, knowing that he is so trustworthy that I could do anything while I'm riding and he would never try to hurt me.

I love the time that I spend with him in the winter; I go down and pet him, kiss his nose and let him nibble on the collar of my plaid jacket. I carefully remove the frost from the whiskers on his nose and clean his feet out of frozen mud and dirt. I love to just stand beside him and smell his horse-y goodness.

But all of that is just not ood enough. I want enough daylight to ride after school; to feel him beneath me; to feel the ache and pain after a good, long lesson with him.

Warm weather can't come fast enough.

Happy Five Hundredth Post, Blog!

Five hundred entries on this blog later, and here we are.
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Life has been throwing some punches at me lately which is why I haven't exactly been profficient with the blogging. Oh, sure, part of it is due to the fact that I can't get off my lazy butt long enough to type out a word here or there... But other parts have to do with the rest of my life.
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I fully intended to post something long and interesting today, for example, but because my bedroom resembles a landfill after a natural disaster, I spent a large portion of my day gazing at it wistfully. After that, I enlisted the help of my mother to deal with the hideousness that is the filth that I live in.

It was a little bit fun, though, after my mother reamed me out for creating a fire hazard in her house. Once that was over, it was kind of like playing a harmless game of '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall', except that the beer bottles were strewn about the floor, intermingled with dirty blue jeans and no less than sixty five pairs of socks. Because I love socks.
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Some nights I come home with the intention of posting, but instead I sit on the couch watching television reruns that my mother and I have purchased on DVD. My sister in law gave me the first to seasons of Road to Avonlea, a show I loved as a six and seven year old child, for Christmas. And it was funny, when I opened it, I was thrilled, and the first thought that entered my head was that these seasons would get me through my latest breakup. I automatically knew that I would rely on them to get me through this tough time.

Unfortunately, they didn't work completely, and we've had to turn to the Eighth season of ER. I'm hoping that by the time the sixth disc is completed, I'll be back to my chipper self.

If nothing else, Dixie makes a wonderfully cuddly companion to sit on the couch with, and she is always willing to lick the orange stuff that Cheezies leave behind off my fingers. If that's not true love, then I don't know what is.
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SuperDad has been having some health concerns of late as well. Its odd, but the man has never had a problem until now. He landed himself in the emergency room twice and was told not to drink a single drop of alcohol until the problem was fixed. And you know what that means? Yep, I got a free case of beer out of the deal.

The problem he's dealing with now has to do with his pancreas, and we're awaiting a consultation with a surgeon and a battery of tests until we know exactly what the problem is. The good news is that this is not the same surgeon that my mother had for her last bout of medical issues, which means that I'm not going to have to don another bellaclava to do any more gas tank sugaring. Praise God.
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College is making me want to stab myself in the eye with a pitch fork. Everything about the classes I'm taking make me want to SCREAM, loud and long, until I have no oxygen left in my body, so that I simply crumple to the floor and lay in an unconscious stupor until the school day ends. I already have a frickin degree in most of the stuff I'm taking, and the process of getting exempt from courses is long and arduous, so I'm just going through them as best I can.

If only I didn't have such an aversion to paperwork, my life would be that much easier. As it stands now, I DO have an aversion to writing my name on pieces of paper beside course codes and handing them to official-looking people in the office. So I suppose the only thing I have to be angry at is myself. Sigh.

Other than that, life is grand, as usual.