Archive for April, 2006

A weekend of purging.

Published
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untitled
on April 30, 2006
in Life and untitled
. 10 Comments

What a fucking weekend. I spent the better part of Saturday wretching and heaving from what I suspect was food poisoning. What’s that? You’ve never had food poisoning before? Well let me tell you — when you’re not pissing out your rear end or yakking up your intestines (a sequence that occurs at least every half hour for a 12-hour period), you are lying under blankets, chilled and praying that you don’t shit yourself for a fourth time in one day. Some say that such an ordeal often brings one closer to god. And to that, I couldn’t agree more. At one point, I was fairly certain that I saw a silhouette of the Virgin Mary in my puke bucket. But alas, it was merely lettuce from the offending chicken burrito.

Before all was said and done, I soiled not one, not two, but three pairs of underwear. I can only imagine what sort of nasty bacteria I had ingested for my body to revolt in such a way. untitledhusband thinks my sour cream must’ve gone south. I’m thinking the restaurant cook harvested the guacamole from his asscrack. Aye caramba!

On the upside, I did lose five pounds. Not the easiest way to cut weight, but it’ll do in a pinch. Thank god my Weight Watchers weigh-in is today. There’s got to be some silver lining in this cloud of liquified shit. Now, I’m coping with a puker’s hangover — my entire thoracic region feels like it went through a blender.

In a show of mercy, the demons within allowed me consume some Diet Sprite and crackers on Sunday. And believe me, this was a huge step. The nutrition gave me enough energy to take on what was to be my big project for the weekend — cleaning out our bedroom closet. This is something we do every couple of years, yet I was still able to cull $1300 worth (Goodwill calculations) of clothes. Anything not worn in the past two years went. I said goodbye to several pairs of “mom” jeans (what was I thinking?), some sweaters that prominently display my backfat and three pairs of shoes that looked better in the store than they did on my pudgy feet. untitledhusband ridded himself of his “big” pants and some shirts that make it look like he has man boobs (this is a very sore subject, and he’d be mortified if I knew I was discussing this with you). Yes, this was the weekend where everything went, including an afro wig, a dusty silk ficus tree and my digestive system, for I’m fairly certain I shat out my lower GI in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

Strangely enough, I still love pancakes.

Published
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untitled
on April 28, 2006
in Family, Life and untitled
. 6 Comments

I don’t quite understand it, but untitledmother wants nothing to do with this new house business. She doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t want to hear about it. I’ve gently brought up the subject a few times, and she shuts down right away. It bothers her, us moving into this new house. She was much more comfortable with us ten years ago, when we were poor. She’d come for a visit, and treat us to breadbowl salads at Perkins. “My dad always took me out to eat when I was your age,” she’d say. It felt so good, having untitledmother mother me, even though I was 24 years old. More than the food, I needed to feel protected and cared for.

Back then, untitledhusband and I had just graduated from college, and we had moved to the big city, where we lived off of approximately $25,000 a year, if that. We had these mammoth student loans and stoopid college credit card debts to pay off. Whatever possessed me to buy a $350 mountain bike with a credit card? Here I was, still paying for it at 11 percent interest, and I didn’t even have it anymore. I ended up selling it to my roommate, so I could pay rent.

During those years, I learned that yes, it is possible to feed yourself on $15 a week (egg salad, pancake mix, ramen noodles and Kool Aid). We weren’t poor. We were po’. But we never asked for money from our parents. Every time we came back home, we were thinner than the last visit. I remember wondering “Is this what four years of college gets you? Will it always be this hard?”

Back then, we dreamed of one day buying a brand new Dodge Neon. That was as far as we would let our imaginations run. We had no health insurance, which was pretty scary when untitledhusband came down with mono. I thought he was dying — seriously — so I took him to the free clinic. I remember being amazed that the free clinic was actually free. No one had ever helped us out like that before.

For Christmas one year, we gave everyone a plate of homemade holiday cookies. We also signed up for a book club, so we could give all these free books as presents. My tactless sister-in-law still makes fun of us for that. We had one TV - a 13-inch jobby. There was a drug dealer down the hall, and an old lady above us that insisted we turn our TV volume down after 10 p.m. and use the close captioning. Somehow, she had convinced our landlord that we were rowdy kids. Fuck, we were too poor to be rowdy. That would’ve required a 12-pack of Red Dog and some shred of hope for the future - and we had neither.

Knowing this was not how we wanted to live, we made some life changes. I went back to grad school. We made strategic career decisions. I clearly remember talking with untitledhusband about refocusing his career to something web-related. He was in the bathtub, I was on the toilet. That moment, that decision, changed our lives.

Ten years later, here we sit, with jobs we kinda sorta like and paychecks we most definitely don’t deserve. So when I talk about this new house, please know where I’m coming from. In my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d set foot in, let alone live in, a house like we’re building. I just about shit myself when I think about it. Growing up, I remember eating government cheese. I remember my parents sitting me down and telling me “Christmas is going to be tight this year, kids.” I remember getting a pair of Lee jeans and a $25 Wal-Mart suitcase for my high school graduation. Building this house means that untitledson will never have to ask himself if we are poor. He’ll never have to spend his own money on clothes. And he will never, ever feel guilty for going farther and doing better than Mom and Dad.

Moooovin’ on up… to the east side.

Published
by
untitled
on April 26, 2006
in untitled
. 8 Comments

untitledhusband and I have decide to move into a bigger home and impale our monthly budget with a completely ridiculous mortgage. Cause what kind of people would we be if we weren’t pushing the boundaries of our budget and tap dancing on the edge of financial disaster? It’s the American way, people. The only way I could be more patriotic would be by slapping a “Let’s Roll” bumper sticker on my earthfucker alongside my “Support Our Troops” ribbon.

One of the reasons we’re moving is to gain more backyard privacy. Right now, we can look out our sliders while eating our Fruity Pebbles and see our neighbor running around in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his open-ass chaps and Carmen Miranda fruitbowl hat. Even more troubling is the fact that all our neighbors were able to witnes untitleddog pooping out that tampon in our backyard a while back. They probably thought he was giving birth, with his body wretching and contracting like a Boa Constrictor digesting its prey.

The other reason we’re moving is that untitledhusband and I both grew up rather poor. We remember watching movies like “Poltergeist” and “Home Alone,” and we’d wonder if most other children grew up in houses like that. I just knew that if I woke up to a pink and white princess bedroom and banana pancakes cooked on a Viking range, by god, I would be more than happy to do water aerobics with Native American corspes in the unfinisehd backyard pool every night. This house, it’s going to be our Poltergeist house, and we’re fucking psyched. untitledson is going to grow up in this house and think this shit is standard. And that is exactly how I want it to be.

Now everyone I talk to says building a house is a nightmare. I think to myself “How bad could picking out kitchen cupboards and carpet really be?” But now, I see they are referring to the financial and legal side of things. Today, I swung by my attorney’s office to have him review our lot purchase agreement. I have a hard time digesting legal mumbo jumbo, so he proceeded to dress me down as if I were Gomer Pyle. Well GOLLLLLLYEE! Dude, you may be a lawyer. But right now, you are on MY dime, so do that little circus monkey dance and shut up. I’m not stupid — I just don’t care to engage my mind in legal drivel and indecipherable jurisprudence. In fact, I would rather pierce my own clit with a potato peeler than read this stuff. Now Cliff’s Notes this schtuff for me, and let me get back to my desk so I can expend my mental capacities reading Celebrity Baby Blog, for fuck’s sake.

Last dance.

Published
by
untitled
on April 24, 2006
in Family, Life and untitled
. 13 Comments

From today until about, oh, Wednesday, I need everyone out there to think fertile thoughts and cosmically send them my way. These next few days are our last chance at conceiving a baby. No pressure, though.

Now, if you’re not feeling particularly sexy, may I suggest locking yourself in the handicap bathroom stall at work (come on, you know you use it when no one else is looking) with a pocket rocket or the latest issue of Juggs or something. This is no time for modesty, people. Like I said, it’s my last chance, and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to break out the crazy voodoo shit to make this happen.

untitledhusband has had to overcome his crippling fear of needles and blood to inject my backside with a fertility drug called Repronex (hormones that stimulate ovulation) every month. Sounds painful, but it’s hurt our pocketbook more than my rear end. Much of what I have read online says that if the injectibles haven’t worked after three months, they probably are not going to work. Month one I had a good-sized follicle, but for some reason, it did not fertilize. Second month, same thing. Some infertility bulletin boards suggest shooting room temperature egg whites up your cooch before intercourse — somehow, that makes the little swimmers survive longer. The first two months, I refrained from such stitch witchery. But at this point, I’d shove the entire chicken up there if it would result in a pregnancy.

If things don’t take this month, I won’t say that I won’t be frustrated and a little bit angry. Because I’m sure I will be. But I’m fully aware that there are many women out there who cannot have any children. For me to be all pissy because I can’t have a second, well, that’s not right. So all I ask for now is strength — strength to get me through whatever this month’s outcome will be. Strength to deal with the fact that life is rarely fair, and that undeserving assholes win the lottery, get promoted and more often than not, walk away with the free salad spinner at the Tupperware party.

All this makes me question who exactly is at the helm up there. untitledhusband believes it is no one. My scientific mind agrees with him, but my desperate heart so wants to believe that someone, somewhere is looking after me, making sure that I get a little somethin somethin for letting people into traffic and saying hi to the Wal-Mart door greeter. If no one is driving this car, well then, life is just a bunch of coincidences and consequences. Now is that a downer or what?

So in lieu of remaining confused and let down, I choose to give my doubts a rest and find some hope and faith. At least for a few more weeks. I desperately need to believe that god or whomever is not going to pass me by this time. So I am officially taking my sadness and my shrivelled old eggs and passing them off to god. But by doing so, I damn well hope that she’s going to book it to the end zone and do the funky chicken when she gets there, cause sista girl needs the Hail Mary right now.

Six weird things about me.

Published
by
untitled
on April 19, 2006
in untitled
. 10 Comments

Sue over at Red Stapler has tagged me to unveil six weird things about myself… to which I say “Why stop at six!” For the sake of brevity, I have narrowed it down for y’all.

1. I’ve customized the lyrics of the Oscar Mayer weiner song for untitledson, and I sing it to him on a daily basis. (Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy baby has a first name — it’s XXXXX. Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy baby has a second name — it’s XXXXX). He is soooo going to hate me when I bust this one out when I’m driving him and his friends to soccer practice in a few years.

2. I am a tad bit obsessive about clean floors. I do not let anyone wear shoes in my house, and I obsess about carpet stains and my ugly-ass white vinyl kitchen floor. I recently spent five hours on a Saturday night stripping and re-sealing my kitchen floor. The manual labor had me sweating like a whore in church. I hear there is this new device called the Spot Bot. You plug it in and set it on top of a stain and it goes to work, cleaning until the mess is gone. We might as well be talking about a six foot sonic vibrator, as hard as this makes me.

3. I take great joy in tweezing. I do think this one is heriditary, as untitledmother has tweezed herself out of a perfectly normal pair of eyebrows. She claims that once you tweeze down your brows, they simply cannot grow back. That’s a crock of shit — we all know that the seedlings sprout up, but she is powerless to stop the self-deforestation. All I can say is thank god for my Maybelline brow pencil. I’d totally look like a chemo patient without it.

4. and 5. I take great joy in popping zits. In college, I had a silver dollar-sized zit on my leg. I swear to god, a tablespoon of ooze came out of that bitch. I still think about it from time to time, the pleasure I gleamed from popping that beast. How sick is that? It was 13 years ago! This one right here is so fucked up, I think it qualifies as two, people.

6. I’m starting to listen to the oldies radio station. When exactly did THIS happen? Oh, about the time that The Cure, The Go-Go’s and The Human League qualified as oldies. Don’t get me wrong — I listen to new stuff (untitledhusband has impeccable taste in music, and he keeps me current). But sometimes, a little Squeeze sounds good when driving home from work on Tuesday night.

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