One man's old shit is some 25 year old's treasure.

I have always had the bad habit of infusing inanimate objects with emotions and memories. Whether it's a certain smell that takes me back to laying on those blue mats in Pre-K at Kids Kondo (my childhood daycare), or coming across a book that I adored and ending up transported back to the bedroom I had

This may not be a good thing....
My 6 year old bedroom was kind of horrendous.

when I was 6 years old, or going to Gram and Gramp's house for dinner, and having Gram's homemade shepherds pie, I am very easily sucked back into my past.

For some strange reason, I found myself confronted by a memory earlier today. It was of Gram's older than god Kirby vacuum. She got rid of it several years ago, and upgraded to a Dyson (I adore my Dyson, so I can only imagine she was happy with the decision... of course, I'm one of those weird people that really, really loves to vacuum).

Anyway, I found myself remembering Gram's old Kirby today. I'm guessing it was from the mid-70s. It was this monstrous thing that had to weigh a billion pounds, at least. It had this steel head with a light built into it, and a giant, itchy, uncomfortable, wool-like plaid vacuum bag. The rest of the damn thing was either steel or thick burgundy plastic.

Gramps, me, and my tiny, adorable Gram. 

The most hysterical thing I remember about this giant, heavy, monstrous thing was watching my 90 lbs, 5' nothing grandmother whip it around the house like it was nothing. She would flail it around, gathering crumbs that my grandfather scattered around the house like he was the guy that taught Hansel and Gretel everything they knew.

Not only would Gram vacuum like a boss, but she would haul that giant thing upstairs, to hit the bedrooms and hallway, and then down two flights of stairs so she could vacuum the den (they lived in a 2.5 story house).

Does anyone else ever just remember some random fixture of their childhood, for no apparent reason?

That random, unsuspecting nostalgia is always a bit off-putting, but entirely welcome.

Love to you, dears.

-L

From what I can recall, this is the giant Kirby that Gram had.
However, I haven't seen it since I was a kid. I had to go on memory,
and a Google Image search for "old Kirby plaid bag". 

One hell of a tail....

Oh, puns....

The past couple weeks have been trying, at best. For Labor Day weekend, I ended up going to Charleston on a last-minute trip. I stayed at a dog-friendly hotel, and had Lucy (my Dane) and Regan (my cattle dog foster) with me.

On the second day there, the huge, heavy door slammed shut on the end of Lucy's tail. She flipped her shit, jerked her tail out of the door, and screamed like a woman being stabbed. The door was still cracked because the skin she ripped off of the end of her tail was holding it open. I could see the bone of her tail, through the blood, and I thought I was going to be sick or pass out.

I took her back into the room, put her in the bathtub, and searched for an emergency vet. Then I walked her down the stairs (I didn't want her bleeding all over the elevator), and got her in the back of Honda. Every time she touched anything with her tail she screamed. There's still blood on the rear window of the car.

It took forever for the vet to actually see Lucy, only because it was a holiday, they were understaffed, and they just had a dog come in that was hit by a car. I ended up sitting on the cold floor, with Lucy, holding a rag on her tail and trying to comfort her. There was an older woman and her husband sitting nearby. They had their three-legged cat with them. She had to have a leg removed because of cancer, years before, and they were worried that the cancer was back. The woman was crying softly, as was Lucy, and the whole thing was tragic.

As freaked out and upset as I was about Lucy bleeding everywhere, and having her bone exposed, I was so grateful at that moment that she just had a (severe) flesh wound, and not dog cancer.

The woman and I chatted for a while. I managed to make her smile, and even laugh a bit, and I complimented her adorable three-legged cat. She told me Lucy was darling, and we kept one another company while we waited to have our babies looked at.

Once in the exam room, the vet tech tried to inspect Lucy's tail. She had a hard time of it. Then she wanted to take Lucy to the back, in order to give her a shot for her pain, etc. She ended up holding Lucy's leash with one hand, and leaning over at a 90 degree angle so she could also hold a hand towel on Lucy's tail with the other. It was kind of hysterical, actually... despite the circumstances.

When Lucy came back, she was high as a kite. She was wagging her freshly wrapped tail, and drooling, and just enjoying her drugs. Silly dog has never really been drugged, so I'm sure she was on cloud nine.

I had to leave her there overnight, because the surgeon wasn't going to be in until the morning. When I picked her up on Tuesday, she ran to me and just shoved her face into my leg. She wouldn't move or let up for several minutes, and was just so happy that I was there to get her that she even wagged her tail.

She's spent the past week being really mopey, and generally depressed. I had a trip planned for this past weekend, to the Georgia mountains, and I had to leave Lucy with a friend. I was so upset that I had to leave her behind. But I knew it was what was best for her. So I took Regan, and we had a phenomenal time. It was even better because the Broncos kicked the SHIT out of the Steelers on Sunday.

Lucy seems to be feeling a lot better, and isn't really chewing her nubbin anymore. And that's what's been going on.

Hope all is well, lovies.

-L

I believe it was Eb, double-style, extra fortissimo, don't you know.

One film that I have loved since before I can remember is called The Point. It's a crudely animated movie that was released in 1971. It stars a young boy named Oblio, and his dog Arrow. Oblio ends up banished to the pointless forest, only to learn amazing life lessons that go unacknowledged in this day and age.

My favorite character of all time, and the voice I hear in my head that tries to calm my nerves when I'm being over-analytical and nervous (aside from the voice of my darling father), is that of the Rock Man. In fact, while I've designed several tattoos for myself that I've yet to get, the Rock Man is one that I consider a priority. Even revisiting this old film, whether it's Rock Man's scene, or the miscellaneous songs written for it, or just having it in the background while I go about my life, catching occasional glimpses of the animation style and listening to the characters I've grown up adoring, always leaves me with a sense of calmness that my personality normally lacks.

The entire movie is on YouTube, if you feel so inclined. But, if you don't, no worries. I'll still implore you to spend a few minutes listening to the Rock Man, in all his infinite wisdom.

Totes inTERESTing... maybe.

This was a conversation I had with a friend of mine as we tried to uncover the mystery behind slang. 

Him: That’s totally interesting…. Totes interesting… totes terest? 

me: (I just stare at him with the most confused face I could muster.)

Him: Yeah, "terest" isn't going to catch on… I have a feeling.

me: Wait, what the hell are you talking about?

Him: You know! Terest! As in, “Hmmm..I find that in-TEREST-ing.”

me: Uhh.... nope. I don’t think that’s an actual slang term.

Him: That is because I just made it up. Obvs.

me: Plus, it has too many syllables. Slang has to be simple so you basically HAVE to use it. All slang is like that, right?

Him: Maybe. Some slang just doesn't make any sense, though. 

me: Of course it does! For example, people say, "Fuck," instead of, "I accidentally dropped those scissors on my foot and it hurt quite a bit, and I'm probably bleeding and going to end up losing a toe." 

Him: Well, not always....

me: Or they'll say something's, "ridic'," instead of "Well goodness! That isn't quite preposterous, but it IS certainly quite ridiculous." 

Him: You seem to have very specific definitions surrounding your use of slang. What else?

me: .... I'm trying to think of more, but aside from "fuck" and "ridic'" I can only come up with old slang... like, "color me excited!" and, "Sit on it!"

Him: Wow. That says a lot. Though I can't decide if it's that you're really old, or you spend the majority of your time around really old people..... Wait, are you calling me old?!?

me: Not at all. I'm the old one, and also, according to the evidence, pretty lame. Oh!!!!! Wait!!!! Lame totes counts as slang! People say "lame" instead of "that's awfully stupid, I'm feeling bored, and I wish you would just shut up." 

Him: (Laughs at my excitement over coming up with a slang term that's even vaguely contemporary.)

me: Hey, you know what? You can just... go... SIT ON IT. Yeah, that's right, Giggles McGee. What have you got to say to THAT?!

Him: (Still laughing) LAME!

-L

Summertime... and Atlanta is sticky.

Summers in Atlanta are the worst. I loathe being too hot. Every year I think to myself, "Don't worry, self. There's no way this year will be as wretchedly hot and humid as last year." Every year I'm wrong. Blech.

It doesn't help that today has been a particularly stressful day. Work is getting the better of me, and I find myself frustrated and bothered. I'm also feeling impatient, because there are a few projects I'm handling that I can't really do anything with until the other parties involved get back to me. Patience is not my strong suit.

The whole thing is horrifically tragic.

I should probably let my boss know that I'll be spending the rest of my day throwing and attending a pity party for one. He'll be invited, of course, but who wants to go to a crappy party like that? No one, that's who. I don't even want to go, and it's MY party, for and about and planned by me. I'll even be serving... um... water and sunflower seeds. Sorry, self. That's all I've got. 

It's raining cats and dogs. And rain. Minus the cats and dogs.

That's right. Atlanta is getting soaked. I love the rain, mostly because it cools everything off. I get really pissy when I'm too hot. It makes me lazy, too. And feel all gross and sticky. When I'm too cold, however, it motivates me to get up off my ass (until I find a big, fluffy blanket and a giant sweater that is in no way attractive but is so comfortable I don't give a shit, and then snuggle up with Lucy and nap).

And there's your Atlanta weather report.

In other news, work has been interesting as of late. It's great, because work is always going to be interesting. It's owned/run by open-minded, easy going, unconventional people, and they're all stellar. I take for granted the fact that I don't have to worry about saying, "shit!" if I drop something on my foot, and that I can bring my 130 lbs Great Dane to work to play with the owners' basset hounds, and that everyone here (well, the Fab 5 at least) supports and encourages everyone else. Plus, the damn place is a zoo, and there's always something going on at the complex.

All of this hilarity is creatively motivating for me. I haven't been painting as much anymore, but I have been trying to sketch and play with color and all that nonsense. And when I say "nonsense," I really mean it. My random little doodles are in no way the work of... well... I wanted to say "a master", but they're really not even student-caliber.

Despite the amateur nature of my little doodles, they're occasionally amusing. So it was no surprise the other day when I had a spark of inspiration, and grabbed my pen for a 5 minute sketch break.

What happened next was terrifying. For some reason, what I imagined in my head was WAY less bizarre and creepy when in my head than it was once on paper. I swear to god that there's a story surrounding this, um, thing. But that's not important. What is important, is that you say hello to MissBeard.

The Beatles sound nothing like a flat tire.

I suddenly realized that I promised to share the story of my first flat tire here. So here you go.

I was maybe 18 years old. My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It was champagne colored (which is a fancy way of saying "old lady gold" colored), and it was a manual. It took me far too long to learn how to drive the bastard, so once I figured the transmission out I was constantly driving somewhere.

It was a lovely day in Atlanta. There was a cool breeze, and my senior year of high school was coming to a close. I was driving down Briarcliff Rd, headed away from school and toward home, more than likely. I had a Beatles song ("I Want You" from Abbey Rd) playing louder than my now 25 year old self would be able to enjoy. I love that song because of the bass line, and as I was listening to the bass kick in I heard an unfamiliar, "WHUB WHUB WHUB."

I listened for a minute, and then begrudgingly turned the song down. The "WHUB WHUB WHUB" continued.

I turned off onto a side street, pulled the E brake, and got out to investigate. The rear passenger tire was so flat ("How flat was it?") that it could be confused for Calista Flockhart's chest. Or pancakes. Or Otto after K-k-k-Ken c-c-c-came to k-k-k-kill him.

Being the little go-getter that I am, I decided to change the bastard myself. I had a spare tire in the trunk, and all the tools I would need to handle the job (despite the lack of a smartphone to coach me with its incredibly useful internet access).

As I pulled all the crap I would need out of the trunk, I suddenly figured out why a spring/summer day in Atlanta had such a lovely breeze. It was bringing rain. Or, rather, it brought the rain, which chose to pour down upon me at that very moment.

I looked up, scowled at the asshole clouds and their shit timing, and continued to search the trunk for the jack. I found it, went around to the side of the car, and started to try to change my tire.

I positioned the jack, figured out how to lift the tail end of the car with the hooked, hangar-esque rod I had, and raised that flat tire off the ground. Then I went to actually remove it, and realized that the lug nuts had last been put on the car by the Hulk. It was physically impossible to get them off.

Believe me. I sat crouched there for what seemed like hours, in the flash-thunderstorm, trying to convince myself that I just needed to twist a little harder. I was so determined to prove that I could handle a simple flat tire, and prove that I was an "adult" at 18, and prove that I wasn't afraid of a little rain, that I would've succeeded were it not for those high powered drills that shops use to put the lug nuts back on wheels.

I eventually gave up, frustrated, and managed to half-trip over the curb. Which then caused me to step in the most poorly-placed anthill in the history of ants. In flip flops, no less. And (still) in the rain.

I escaped the anthill with only a few bites on my foot. I got back into the car (gently, so as to not disturb the jack that I had entirely forgotten about/given up on), and searched for my old, flimsy flip phone.

I called my dad's office (he refused to have a cell phone, so it was the only way to reach him), and got his voicemail. So I called home, and got the answering machine (I assume Bec was out picking up Mara from school). I then sat in my car, in the rain, scratching the new ant bites on my foot, and I cried tears of frustration that rivaled those of a 3 year old coming down from a sugar buzz.

After a few minutes, I forced myself to put an end to the itchy, soaking wet pity party I was in the midst of throwing. I grabbed my shitty Samsung and called my grandparents.

Grandpa and Gram lived outside of Atlanta by anywhere from 30-45 minutes (depending upon the time of day.... You know, Atlanta traffic and all that). But they had always shown me that I could call on them no matter what. When my mother would promise to show up and then just find something better to do... when I was confused and emotional and needed to spend a night or two away from Daddy and Bec... when I needed to learn how to drive and Gramps would pick me up at 8am on Saturdays, trusting me to drive his truck around the city... when all I wanted was to build a couch fort and have chocolate malts and watch movies all night with Gram and Ida... they were always in my life, picking up any pieces that I dropped and making me feel loved despite that.

Gramps answered the phone on the third ring.

"Middletons," he said (which is still his greeting when answering the phone).

I sniffled, and tried not to be too upset so as not to worry him. "Gr-Gramps? I have a flat tire, and I tried to change it but can't get the lug nuts off, and it's raining, and ants attacked me and no one will answer their phones and I don't know what to do and-and-and...."

I lost it and just started sobbing.

I could hear Gramps on the other end of the line, trying really, really hard not to laugh at my emotional response to this hysterically ridiculous horrific chain of events.

"Okay, okay, tell me where you are."

I did.

"I'll be there in 35 minutes. Just stay there, stay out of the rain, and try not to step in anymore ant hills."

So I sat in my car, calmed myself down, and finished the Beatles song (well, finished the album) I was listening to back before I could even imagine a scenario such as the one I was living.

Finally, Gramps pulled up in his sparkly, green truck. As he got there, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. For a brief second I felt like Daffy Duck in those old cartoons, except for the fact that Daffy's grandfather never showed up to give that raincloud a talking to. Then Gramps got out of the truck, put the donut on my car, and followed me down the street to Sears.

Maybe it was because I was a broke, soaking wet, ant-bitten high school student... or maybe it was because he just loves me to death... or maybe it was even due to the fact that I managed to provide such unexpected entertainment... but Gramps pulled out his wallet and bought me a set of new tires (which was a HUGE deal, because he is very, VERY... careful with his money). He waited with me, to make sure they were on the car and safe and ready to go, and then he went home. And so did I.

I've since had to change a flat tire here or there, and managed it okay on my own. But despite the rain, and the poor timing, and the douchebag ants that had to bite a girl when she was down, I'm glad I couldn't get those stubborn, asshole lug nuts off that day. I love my grandfather, and damn it, he loves me too.

And that was the story of my first flat tire. Sorry it ended so mushily, but it always makes me feel loved, and that reminds me to be grateful. Sleep well, darlings. Or don't. You know, whatever.

<3
-L

Not to be cliche, but I just opened with, "Not to be cliche, but...".

You know the old saying, "The only constant in life is change,"?

I hate that saying.

I hate it for the same reason one person may hate the person they're arguing with, after being shown how their opponent is absolutely 100% on the money.

The only constant in life is change. It's true. That's why it's irritating (at least today... sometimes it's simply something to look forward to).

I wish I had something witty but poignant to say. My creativity lately has been frustratingly attention deficit. I'm hoping that I can give it a good jumpstart, or at least remind my creativity that I'm not going to allow its bullshit lack of focus ruin my drive. Damn it.

Love to all. I hope to post again soon, with something at least somewhat more interesting than, "Haha, I can't focus long enough to write anything interesting, so consider this a throwaway post, lolololol."

<3
-L

Red clearly means go

For the record, I fucking hate cyclists.

I understand that hating an entire group of people (without personally knowing everyone in that group) is... um... fuck. I feel like there's a word for just general prejudice that applies to a specific group.....

We're just going to go with "nonracist racism". Because I don't really give a damn what color their skin is, or where they're from, or who their parents are. If they're on a bicycle, wearing spandex jumpsuits and helmets designed to make them look cool (but really only make them look even more douchey), then I hate them.

There's a reason for this, too, beyond my impatience when stuck behind one of them. Let me tell you a story.

Yesterday I was driving home from work. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cyclist. Because I work 9-10 hour days, and was in no mood to drive 15 miles an hour all the way through my neighborhood, and there were no cars in the oncoming lane, I sped up and went around that self-righteous asshole. I ended up just missing the light I was trying to make about a half mile away. So I sat there, waiting for my light to turn green. As the opposing light turned yellow and I slipped Honda into first gear, preparing for my green light (because you should STOP at red lights, and GO at green lights, according to the RULES OF THE ROAD) that son of a bitch peeled around my car, and jumped in front of me. He made it to the other end of the intersection as my light turned green.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am totally down with sharing the road and all that jazz. But I am NOT down with people on bicycles pretending that they're cars, and holding up traffic, and being all pompous and spandexy, if they're just going to ignore the rules when it suits them.

They aren't called The Rules of Driving a Car. They're The Rules of the FUCKING ROAD. You know, that thing that they're riding their wheely, leg-powered, banana-seated nonsense on? Yeah, that's right, cyclists. YOU'RE ON A ROAD. ACT LIKE IT.

I mean, Jesus, they could at least have the decency to stop at a fucking red light (unless a Marta bus is nearby and decides to teach them a lesson... but that would be the last red light they sped through).

You know what? If the cyclists REALLY just insist on never stopping for red lights, that's fine. I can learn to live with that. All I ask is that they ride on the sidewalk, where things that don't have to stop for red lights (like pedestrians, or joggers, or stray dogs) tend to hang out.

The most frustrating thing is that I can't just give the assholes a friendly bumper tap to prove my point.

Jerks. 

Hello?... No, I'm writing a blog entry.... A BLOG ENTRY!... Nah, it's rubbish.

I recently started re-watching Lost. It was during the second episode that Sayid made a little speech about people tracking down batteries, and not using their electronics so they could save the power.

And then my brain was all, “You know what would be funny? If that dildo from HappyTrigger TV was there, with his comically giant cell phone.  It would be like, ‘Doo do do doo, doo do do dooo, doo do do doo doooooo….'

'HELLO?! HELLO?! No, I’m on an island! AN ISLAND! Yeah. Yeah the plane went down, some guy is giving a speech about batteries or something, it’s all rubbish. I SAID IT’S RUBBISH! Yeah, so what are you up to? Yeah? Wait, what?! HELLO?! HELLO?!!! Fuck. Phone’s dead.’”

I could just see everyone in the entire cast slowly turning their heads to look at him, with the most incredulous expressions on their faces. Then I laughed my ass off for a good 15 minutes.

I may have to make this happen... if only to prove that it's actually funny to people other than me.

In other news, Lucy is ridiculous. I was sitting on the couch with her the other day, and when I looked at her I was greeted by:

I laughed to myself, imagining that Lucy was sitting there for the past 10 minutes trying to get my attention with her dog brain, which would've sounded something like this:

"Mom! Mom, look at me! Mom, LOOK. My tail is a mustache! Hey, MOM. I mustache you a question! Hahaha! Mommmm, you aren't even looking!"

Then I turned to Lucy, and told her that her tail was not a mustache, and to quit screwing around. She rolled her eyes, sighed a little bit, and proceeded to spread out to the point of taking up a good 7/8 of the couch.

Jerkdog.







That's all for now. I have to go learn how to creatively edit two shows together (in order to prove that I'm more funny than totally mental), and keep my dog from making mustaches at me with her tail. It's going to be a very busy day.

<3,
-L

Apples and oranges... and Rainbow Trout?

MacBook is still at the computer hospital. I called Apple today, and they’re waiting on some parts so that they can figure out if they’re right in assuming that the logic board was faulty, or that something else was corrupt... or, um, something. 

I have no idea what any of that meant. All I heard was, “Blah, blah, waiting… blah, dead computer, blah blah give us 24 hours to get the parts in and we’ll call you.” Tragic. 

I think the worst part about not having the damn thing is that I am not fond of silence. I always have some show or movie playing, even if I’m busy with something that demands my full attention. I think it’s a generational thing. I mean, commercial radio broadcasts didn’t exist until the 1920s. Before then, you had to just keep musicians around if you couldn’t deal with silence. Maybe this is why my generation is so damn attention deficit.

Discussing the downfall of MacBook with a friend of mine led into this conversation:

Him: So… what if Apple had gone with a different fruit? Like “Banana”? Or “Grape”

Me: No, no. Apple used to be Macintosh, which is a type of apple. So it would have to be like Clementine originally, and then changed to Orange once the Clementines were gaining popularity.

Him: Clementines aren’t oranges. Are they? They’re too small. They’re tangerines or something.

Me: They may as well be oranges. I thought tangerines were a type of orange, too. If it’s a round, orange fruit, it’s an orange in my book. Also, if they hadn’t gone with the name Apple in this strange, alternate universe, then wouldn’t the operating systems be named after something other than big cats? Like birds, or types of fish, or something?

Him: I heard Orange was going to come out with Tuna in a few weeks, but if you ask me, I think Largemouth Bass is a way better OS.

Me: Yeah, I prefer to keep my Orange running Rainbow Trout. I like to kick it old school.

Him: Psh. If you really wanted to keep it old school, you’d be running Tilapia 2.0. Duh.

Me: Rainbow Trout came out before Tilapia 2.0. It was on the original Clementine. You need to brush up on your Orange history.

Him: You are so wrong. Your brain must be running Salmon. *rolls eyes*

So, you know, at least I have plenty of stellar friends to distract me from my lack of a distraction. Or something like that. Ugh, I can't think today. Maybe my brain is running Salmon. 

-L 

Are we going to be tested on this?

Apologies for the horrific handwriting. And if you subscribe to my posts, I'm sorry the first go-round was out of order.

<3
-L

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." -My grandfather, in response to whining.

Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ.

I'll let that image sink in for a minute.

Everything has to just explode all at once, doesn't it? I've been stressed about money (despite being a card-carrying member of that club for quite a while), and stressed about, well, everything else. And then it all collapsed.

I realized I was close to an emotional meltdown on Saturday, and immediately called a dear friend and invited myself over for the weekend. She was all about it, so Lucy and I loaded up the car and made the 2+ hour drive away from Atlanta. I was welcomed with bourbon, open arms, and the most comfortable guest room ever. I spent Sunday just lazing about, being fed amazing food, and generally enjoying myself. Then Monday came.

Okay, side note. The boyfriend and I have had a rough time of it for the past month or so. There was some petty, bullshit arguing that finally crescendoed into us taking a week of "space" (it was made very clear that this wasn't a break, it was "space"... I'm assuming he made that point because his roommate watches Friends all the time, and his mind was all, "Don't let this turn into Ross and Rachel's 'WE WERE ON A BREAK,' fiasco."). After the week of time to think (which, honestly, only seemed to really happen on my end) we started spending some time together again. But it seems he just couldn't pull himself out of the mental fog he was experiencing. He's currently preparing for three upcoming art shows, he's trying to buy a house (that was going to be for us and our dogs, but that flatlined faster than Sean Bean in, well, anything movie/television show he's ever been in), he's dealing with the end of the quarter at the school where he teaches, and he's just generally exhausted and couldn't hold it together.

So he came down Monday (another side note: that dear friend of mine that had me over for the weekend also happens to be his mum. Most people feel that makes things complicated and weird, but she and I have our own weird relationship, and we'll be close no matter what's going on between me and her son). And, well, we hung out for a while, and finally sat down in the living room to talk. He expressed that his mind just wasn't in the relationship anymore. I expressed that I loved the man that he was before all of this nonsense, but that he's been so fucking frustrating and distant lately and it was making me miserable. I had solutions to this problem, but he only had emotions about it ( ... I thought it was supposed to be the other way around, in terms of genders, but c'est la vie). And that was it. I said goodbye to the family, his mum told me that Lucy and I could come down anytime I needed to get away from the city, and I went home.

I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, but I suppose that happens. We were both pretty miserable. His misery was internal, and he couldn't talk to me or open up to me, or anything. My misery was based on his general unhappiness, so maybe this is a good thing for me. I still love him to death, but I'm not going to sit around and mourn this. Who knows, maybe one day we'll be in a place that will allow things to work out. And if not, at least we had fun while it lasted.

So I settled in, Lucy in tow, for the long drive home. I was so stoked to see that there were a few new podcasts for me to listen to, just so I could be entertained while driving home instead of just crying my eyes out and yelling the lyrics to old songs of heartbreak on the Queen/Heart Pandora station. I was almost to my exit, two hours later, when there was an odd thump and my car made the flat tire sound. I know that sound well, too, but that's another story for another day.

I pulled over, half a mile from my exit, and put the hazards on. Lucy was leaning her Great Dane neck as far out the window as she was able, as if she was begging the cars that blew past, only a foot from her face, for a ride home. Because clearly her mother was incapable of making it home without A BAJILLION unnecessary stops to check for flat tires... or just one, but still.

I felt around all four tires, and couldn't feel any nails or anything. So we sat there for five minutes, and I then checked to see if all the tires were holding air. They were. Because it was so late, and I was so tired, and we were SO close to home, I threw my hands in the air and said, "Fuck it."

So we drove the 8ish miles home, slowly, with the tires making their weird sounds. At the house, the tires were still all holding air, so I got Lucy inside, put on my favorite PJs, grabbed the bourbon and my favorite ice cream from the freezer, and fell asleep watching shitty movies on my computer.

This morning I went out to the car, and all the tires are still holding air. But one of them, the ONLY ONE that isn't either bald or patched, by the way, happens to have all the rubber pulled back, away from the weird metal tire mesh. Sonofabitch.

So I put on the donut, in the most irritated fashion anyone could possibly ever change a tire. And then I got to work, and sent out an email to my folks, with my latest life-highlights. Or lowlights. Or whatever.

Daddy and Bec (who is lovingly referred to as the step-monster... seriously, I think she's signed my birthday cards with that title) quickly decided to be awesome, and help me out. Bec tracked down the tires I needed, and made an appointment for me (at 7am, which makes it only slightly less awesome, but I do have to get to work after the fact so I suppose it's still just as awesome, just with a side of, "shit, I have to get up when?!"), so I can take my car in in the morning. Daddy is going to meet me at the tire place, and they're actually buying me new tires. I think it's some kind of a, "wow, your life has really been shit lately, let us make it less crappy by being great parents" thing. Regardless, I'm grateful as hell. I feel like I've been drowning over the past month, and maybe now that things are changing, they'll change for the better.

When discussing getting breakfast tomorrow, my dad went on to say, "I should be there around 7:30 and I'll treat you to a donut, or we could do business with the Jesus freak fag haters at Chik-fil-a." I have to say, I laughed. It's okay to buy food from homophobic zealots as long as people know you're only there for the chicken.

So love to all. I hope you're doing well. And if not, I hope you have people around you that can help.
-L

P.S. In looking for a photo of my favorite ice cream, I found THIS. I felt it was appropriate.

  

Happy what day? TL;DR

TWO sentimental posts, back to back?! I must be going through a fucking difficult time. Or PMSing. It's hard to tell, what with the vagina and all.

I fucking hate mothers' day.

I was raised by a single father, for the most part. I do have an amazing step-mum, that I still (at 25 years old) have a somewhat difficult time getting along with. I also have an incredible grandmother, who spent so very much time and energy (along with Gramps) trying to raise me in a healthy manner.

But as for a mother, mine has always been wildly frustrating and horribly disappointing.

She tends to wear a pink veil of cheerful judgement. As a kid, I would be promised weekend visits, only to find myself waiting on the stairs by the front door, my Care Bears suitcase packed, for far too long. Time spent with her made me either feel like I was "in the know', and super important and special, or feel like a failure, or a monster, or an idiotic child. Either one, consistently, would have been preferable to feeling an odd, heartbreaking combination of both.

There were good times, on occasion. Don't get me wrong. I recall staying up late, watching her work out in full leotard to Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies. I would try to to follow along, and we would end up tripping over one another, laughing our asses off.

She married one man, after my incredible, amazing father, and they lived in a shitty apartment outside of Atlanta. When I would visit her (as well as my brother, Kyle, and sister, Allie... both of whom she had with that particular husband) she and her husband would occasionally have work. They would leave us with a darling gay couple that lived across the hall. They would put on a VHS of Bebe's Kids, and chit chat about their lives to me, while Kyle and Allie wandered their apartment. They gave me a little, stainless steel sculpture of two stick figures sitting on a bench. It was weighted, so when you pushed it on the frame the stick figures would rock back and forth. They told me that one day it would be me and my beau, and I should look at it and always remember that that person was out there, waiting for me. I was maybe 7, and I still recall them saying those words to me anytime I look at it.

She married one man (one of several, I mean) who lived in a neighborhood that backed up to a HUGE horse farm. The horses had acres and acres and ACRES of land. The step-brother (though I don't think he was a legit step-brother... it always seemed complicated, and I never asked about it) and I would sneak through the hole in the fence, skirt around the pond/lake thing, and wander into the pasture to play with the horses. The horses would break out of the pasture, sometimes, and I remember waking up and looking out the window into the front yard to see beautiful beasts grazing there. Once, my sister Michelle and I went wandering in that field and got lost. We spent hours and hours to find our way home, and everyone was furious that we had been gone for so long.

Michelle and I got to know one another in that horrific household. She was the girl my mother had at 16, gave up for adoption, and then tracked down. Michelle was maybe 17 while living with our mother, and I was 11ish. I remember meeting Michelle, too. I was in the truck with my mother, who had just picked me up from Daddy's. She said, "You know how you always wanted an older brother or sister? Well, you have one. Her name is Michelle. We're going to see her right now." I was terrified. At her house, I recall there being those ridiculous goldfish with huge, wonky eyes, that seem to swim upside down. While our mother was chatting with Michelle's adoptive parents (who were really her father's parents) I went upstairs to her room. She made me feel comfortable, and gave me a stuffed leopard that roared when you pushed its chest. I still have that damn thing, too. It sits on my bed, along with other sentimental stuffedies that I've collected over the years.

I remember my mother moving in with another of her husbands. He had two boys, barely younger than me, and she had custody of Kyle and Allie. The four "children" would be kicked out of the house in the summer, and I would be left inside because I was the oldest. At night, she and I would stay up late, watching the lineup of Seinfeld, Friends, News Radio, and I love Lucy. Kyle or Al or both would eventually wander in, and all of us would lay around on the shitty fold out couch I had to sleep on, watching those classic sitcoms. During the days that the kids were allowed inside, we would have Super Mario tournaments. And when I, as the eldest, would be bored with that, I would walk across the street to Uncle Felton's house. In his backyard was a HUGE rock, and also the sweetest brindle boxer mix in the world. His name was Turner. He was chained to a giant tree 24/7, and I felt bad for him. So I would go sit on that giant rock, and just talk at him, and pet him, and love him. He eventually was killed during a thunderstorm, when lightning hit the tree he was chained to. I suppose there are worse ways for a chained dog to die, but I still mourn for poor, sweet Turner sometimes.

Being raised with two parents that are complete, polar opposites was really difficult for me. It was probably even more difficult for Daddy, and my step-mum Bec, and Grandpa and Gram (my dad's parents). They had to deal with me feeling unwanted by one of the two people on the planet that are supposed to want me no matter what. They had to deal with me hating them because they "weren't my mother", and then growing to love them because they weren't my mother. They had to deal with the emotional backlash caused from all of the abuse, and torment, and bullshit I experienced because of her and her horrible taste in men and her inability to think about things beyond the men she was fucking. I'm sorry, I mean "men she was buying drugs from"... no... "men she was living off of"... Hm. Well, anyway....

Despite what seems like a total pity party, I do have something positive to say. I want to thank the women in my life that have shown me that women don't have to be evil, vindictive, selfish bitches. For the record, there have been far too many women I have encountered that have tried to prove that all women are so horrific. But my step-mum, Bec; and my grandmother, Lorraine; and my Auntie, Beverly; and my boyfriend's DARLING mum, Caryn; and my best friend and sister, Ida; have all shown me that women can be gracious, and can be kind, and can be mothers without losing their sense of self.

I love you, ladies. Thank you for giving me everything in the world that I needed. And happy mothers' day.

<3

P.S. I also want to say happy mothers' day to Daddy. You played the role of two parents for far longer than any man should be asked to. I'm grateful for it. You raised a good kid (at least, I like to think so), and provided me with a stellar moral compass... you. Thank you. I love you.

-L

Brainsssss....

No, I have not become a zombie. But my mind has been working on overdrive for the past week or so, so were I to ever encounter a zombie, I'm fairly certain that it would tell me I had the tastiest, most well-exercised brain ever. Or it would say something like, "Uuunnngggggnnnn."

**Okay, that's the only amusing thing I'm going to say in this post. So, you know, if that's why you're reading then you ought to stop while you're ahead. <3 **

I've been doing some serious looking inward over the past several days. My attitude needed an overhaul, and I really needed to find a way to jolt myself out of the depression and insecurity I've been sinking under.

I tend to be the kind of person that, if confronted with a bad situation, will turn off my emotions, handle whatever it is that needs handling, and then deal with how I felt about it after the fact. Thing is, when there are a thousand things going on around me that all need immediate attention or action, I get overwhelmed and retreat. Then I get depressed and feel like a failure for not being able to do what needs to be done. And then I get more upset, and it turns into this horrific downward spiral. Eventually something gives, and I pause, look around me, and see that there aren't as many things to handle as I originally thought. I then pull myself up by those cliche bootstraps (despite the fact that I wouldn't recognize a bootstrap if it bit me in the ass). And then, slowly but surely, I get my shit together.

This happens to me maybe once a year. But it's exhausting. This year, though, is the first time I've had a significant other around that has had to deal with the process. I was forced to see what was happening through someone else's eyes. Let me tell you, it looks almost as shitty from the outside as it does from the inside. So I've spent some time trying to figure out how to overcome this retarded nonsense. I'm stronger than this crap, and I know that. The hard part is forcing myself to remember it in the midst of the chaos. And the self-doubt. And the frustration. It's basically like a whirly-dervish pity party.

I've been taking stock of my life, doing some problem solving, and trying to set little goals for the upcoming few months. I'm doing things for me, instead of avoiding things because of anxiety about other people. I'm doing a lot of reading on how to be a generally positive person. I'm telling my anxiety and racing mind to calm the fuck down and stop driving me crazy. And I'm starting to finally feel better. I don't ever want to be that scared, withdrawn, sad, mean, confused person again. Fortunately for me, I have the ability to be anything I want.

Well, except a zombie. Not that I want to be a zombie at the moment, or anything. But if I did, I wouldn't really be able to make that happen. I'd have to wait for the zombie apocalypse for that one. But I'm sure, eventually, even that will make the list of Things I Can Be if I Want (if One of Those Things was a Zombie).

P.S. I felt really dumb about not knowing what a bootstrap looks like. I mean, come on, there are so many different kinds of boot, and a lot of them have something strap-like on them, somewhere. Anyway, I asked The Great and Powerful Internet to please share with me what a bonafide bootstrap might look like. And, as per usual, The Great and Powerful Internet shared with me its wisdom. BOOTSTRAP.

Real (pain in the ass) Estate

For the past few months, the boyfriend and I have been looking at houses. His lease is up in August, and he doesn't want to rent anymore. Me moving into whatever house is picked will happen eventually, so I've been very active in this search. Plus, he's not a big fan of paperwork, or talking on the phone (both of which happen a lot when trying to buy a house). So I've basically been the point man for the whole thing.

It's been extremely irritating. We found a house that we both adored (which is a rare thing, since I'd much rather get a run down "fixer-upper" in the city, and he'd prefer something a bit nicer, out in the suburbs.... I shudder to think....), and we went back and forth with the bank that owned it until agreeing upon a price and closing costs and all that. Then we dropped $300 on an inspection. An old colleague of mine does home inspections around Atlanta, so he came in and did a stellar job. But, unfortunately, we found some issues. There was leakage around the fireplace. There were drainage issues. The previous owner (who did all the renovations himself) had basically poured concrete around the entire house, so it was impossible to see what kind of shape the foundation was in. The gas stove was leaking a bit. Blah blah blah.

And then the bank backed out. They didn't want to make any of the repairs needed, and they walked away like douchebags, after jerking us around for about a month.

So we went back to the drawing board, and started looking all over again. And looking. And looking. Every time we come across something even remotely promising, it's either in a shit area, or it turns out it needs far more work than we could deal with, or it ends up going under contract as our agent is writing up an offer.

What the hell, Atlanta? Where are all the fabulous, cheap houses that are close enough to midtown to keep me from feeling disconnected? Where are all the great "fixer-uppers" in EAV? Where are all the damn properties?

Talk about trying your patience. 

A day in the life

And now, an exact account of what I experience when the guy that lives in the other apartment in my duplex comes home.

Neighbor, yelling to his morbidly obese bulldog: "CHARLIE!!! Oh, CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCHARLIE!"

Charlie: Says nothing, because she's a fucking DOG.

Neighbor (to the tune of When the Saints go Marching in) "She shakes her butt!!! She shakes her butt!! She shakes her butt, because she's CHAR-REL-LEEEE!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!!" [The song continues for at least another chorus, at full volume.]

Charlie: Still says nothing, because she is STILL a dog.

And then he takes his poor, lumbering dog out into the FRONT yard, where she almost always takes a giant dog crap. And he leaves that huge dog poop in the front yard, because it's oh so lovely to smell baking dog shit when walking up to my front door every day. Oh, and also because the almost ACRE of backyard is far too small for such a fat bulldog. Clearly. Good thing my 120 lbs GREAT DANE is so svelte, or she'd have to shit in the front yard, too. And there's only so much space in the shared front yard for dog poops.

He then goes inside and turns on Folk/Stoner hits of the 70s and 80s. His stereo must go to 11, because you can hear it throughout the entire house (which includes the half that my apartment is situated in). 

Between poorly written, rambling songs, I catch the sound of him yelling his dog's name over and over. Sometimes, when I walk by the bathroom (I feel the walls have to be exceptionally thin between the bathrooms, for some reason) I can hear him half yelling, and half singing off key to whatever retarded song is on.

Let me just go on to say that I don't find it odd that he talks to his dog. I talk to my dog, too. I'll tell Lucy hi when I get home, or call her dumb when she refuses to come inside and I'm forced to find shoes and wander into the huge backyard and make threatening gestures at her. But I don't go around chanting her name like she just threw the game-winning touchdown during overtime against the Oakland Raiders (yes, I'm a Broncos fan, suck it). 

I guess I should be glad that that's really all I have to deal with. I could live in an apartment building, and be completely surrounded by loud, obnoxious neighbors and their smelly dog poop. And despite the loud, inconsiderate neighbor and his poor taste in music, or the hippies that smoke pot and have drum circles that last way later than I would like because I have to get up for work in the morning, and the chickens that live next door and seem to hold chicken council meetings at 6am on Sunday mornings, it could always be worse. 

Cheers to bad neighbors, and a lack of neighbors that are even worse than the ones you already have. 

<3

-L

Well, fancy seeing you here.

I've been not writing as of late, and it's come to my attention that it isn't a good thing. Even if I'm worried that my blathering on about nonsensical, everyday life is dull to readers/followers/whatever, it's still somewhat therapeutic for me to do it anyway. Plus, getting over the fact that I'm the only one entertained by my ramblings helps me to be less insecure and self-conscious, so there's that, too.

Everything has changed, but it seems it's for the better. I only have a year of school left for my BA, and then a bajillion years until I have my PhD, so so I figured the smart thing to do would be to stop taking classes altogether and just work. Actually, that wasn't my first choice. But the whole "winning the lottery so I can stay in school and not be forced to get a full-time job" thing didn't really pan out. However, I really enjoy my new-ish job, and I love the people I'm surrounded by every day, so I suppose I'll have to find a way to finish school during non-school hours once I'm ready to move forward in that process.

Speaking of the new job, it's stellar. I get to do graphic design that's far too advanced for me (and pull that shit off, if I may say so myself), I get to wear yoga pants and tank tops if I so desire, I don't have to get there until 10ish every morning, and I'm surrounded by liberal, creative, like-minded people 95% of the time. I can see myself becoming an integral part of this business in the next year, and just never leaving (well, by "never leaving" I mean "staying for at least another 10+ years, until starting my own practice").

Other than that, life has been fairly steady. The boyfriend is great. Wait, have I mentioned the boyfriend? Has it been so long since I've written anything that no one knows of The Boyfriend? Well, we met and started dating in August. We had an instant spark, we're totally in love, blah blah fairy tale ramblings blah. Of course, the relationship has its occasional rocky moments, but those just tell me that it's a real relationship. People that are out to use you or take advantage of you rarely allow for disagreements. So, you know, mild occasional bickering is a good thing. It proves that you aren't being courted by a scam artist that has mistaken you for the daughter of a business mogul or heiress to a laundromat fortune, or something.

Anyway, that's where things are now. And things are good.

P.S. I'm taking bets on how long I manage to keep this thing updated regularly.