It's like you're always stuck in 2nd gear; when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year...

I've never felt more grateful for the people that have stuck around in my life.
Thank you, lovies.
<3 p="">-LLM

Sonofabitch.....

The past week has been really, really shitty. And the only thing that makes it worse is that every shitty thing that's happened to me has been preventable.

My tag is expired (happy birthday to me, right?). But the couple hundred dollars I planned on spending to renew my tag was desperately needed by a friend of mine, so he could make his car payment before the damn thing was repossessed. So I helped out, knowing full and well what I was setting myself up for. He's going to pay me back (and then some, hopefully) this Friday. But in the meantime I (of COURSE) got a ticket for my expired tag. Now, said friend has also offered to pay this ticket for me, because he knew that my loaning him that money meant I had to deal with another few weeks of expired registration.

.... Christ, I should start budgeting more.

Then, a couple days ago, a headlight burnt out. My folks noticed it Sunday, and mentioned it to me. They used the phrase "ticketable offense", which, in hindsight, seems like some sort of bad luck, cop omen.

I spent Monday running errands but didn't get a chance to get a new bulb. On my way home from doing laundry Monday night, a douchebag cop pulls me over, less than a mile from my house. He and I have a bit of an argument... ("I JUST got a ticket for my expired tag, and I'm less than a mile from my house. You seriously want to write me a ticket over ONE burnt out headlight? SERIOUSLY?!") but the fucker did what cops these days do, and wrote a chickenshit ticket.

What really, REALLY irritates me about that is that there are a ton of people that will drive around with their brights on when a headlight is out, to avoid getting a ticket. And guess what is more dangerous than someone driving with only their running lights and one headlight? Hm, probably a car WITH ITS HIGH BEAMS ON WHEN OTHERS ARE TRYING TO USE THE FUCKING ROAD. C'est la vie... assholes.

Then, this morning, I came out to my car only to find that someone had jimmied the door open last night. Why, you ask, would someone do such a thing? Well, they decided to steal my vacuum. Yup. My Dyson was in the back seat after I let someone borrow it. I left it in the car overnight, and it was just gone. Thing is, I LOVE (or LOVED, I guess) my vacuum. I saved up several years ago to buy that thing. It was a $500 vacuum, but I got it for $350 through a deal at my dad's office (where he is no longer working, so I can't just do that to replace it). And as cliche as it may be for me, a woman, to admit... I LOVE vacuuming! It makes such a huge difference to get rid of all the schmutz on the carpet. And having a Great Dane and a spastic cattle dog mix means there's often plenty of schmutz to go around.

I hope when the theives clean out the canister, they choke to death on the dog hair and dust. Fucking bastards.

All I can say is that I will be so glad when this shit is behind me. It seems my self-inflicted bad luck usually lasts a week or so, and then I spend the next week drinking heavily  pouting  recuperating, and then everything is back to normal. Thank god I have such wonderful people in my life, too. I would be even more of a mess if it wasn't for the seemingly magical abilities my friends have, when it comes to calming me down and fixing everything for me.

And let this be a lesson to you all. Don't take your vacuum for granted.

<3 p="">-L

Ring ring... "Hel.. hellooo?" Ring ring.... "Helll....hellloooo???"

I found it really, really sweet earlier this week when I got several different requests to update this blog, from several different people. That being said, this entry is going to be more of an update to my life (as opposed to… well… anything entertaining). 

My life as of late has been, well, busy. 

For those of you not in the know, I work for a club in Midtown. Despite it not paying what I would like (or what comparable positions in big companies would pay) the perks are nice. My schedule is flexible as hell. I can wear pajamas in if I feel so inclined. I bring my 130 lbs great dane in on occasion, and she barks at everyone, and good fun is had all around. 

I assist the owners of the company with everything, and that seems to allow me some kind of weird authority. I'm not all about being "the boss", or anything. But it's nice to have people come to me when they need help with something, or aren't sure about how to approach one of the owners with a request, or issues, etc. 

The owners have also recently given me a lot of the human resource duties. It seems they want to transition all of said duties to me, and to be honest, I'm stoked about it. I love human resources. And I'm good at it, damn it. 

At least there are three awesome basset hounds at work.
(Callie, reflecting)

My only issue with being given the human resources department is that it has caused a rift between a friend of mine and me. She and I met at work, and became friends outside of work. When the transition started, it was noted by the owners and management that she seemed more and more hostile toward me. My guess is that she felt her authority was being taken from her, and given to me, along with the HR responsibilities (though she vehemently denied that when I asked her about it). The whole thing resulted in her screaming at me in front of one of the owners, and the management, because my "vibe changed" during an important meeting (while my vibe was changing, though, I was just sending a text to someone, letting them know that we sent another employee home). It was uncalled for, and out of the blue, and after almost 2 weeks I still haven't received anything even resembling an apology. 

At least there are three awesome basset hounds at work.
(Mimi - top // Gideon - bottom)

So that's a bit stressful, for a few reasons. Reason 1 being that I thought we were good friends. But you don't treat your friends like that. And shit, everyone makes mistakes. But if you do treat your friends like that you at least make a half-assed attempt at apologizing, right?! Reason 2 being the fact that (in my opinion) the owners are a bit cautious when dealing with this person, and I never know if they've alerted her to changes or not, so I have to be careful when speaking to her (for example: She was excluded from a meeting last week, and told said meeting was cancelled. It wasn't. Luckily, I found out about this before interacting with her, so I said nothing about said meeting and managed to avoid the ridiculousness of it all). Reason 3 being the fact that we still work for the same company, and I really just prefer not to be around her at this point. Christ knows when she'll lose her shit again. And while it was entirely her (made up) issue, it was still hurtful and wildly embarrassing to have a peer scream at me (for no reason) in front of one of the owners of the company and our management. It was fucking ridiculous. 

So that's what I've been dealing with lately. Work bullshit. 

Aside from work bullshit, things have been not too bad. I'm still in my duplex in Candler Park. It's been okay, I suppose. Though my fridge has taken to yelling randomly. It makes these bellowing, bark-y sounds. It reminds me of the barks that the raptors made at one another in Jurassic Park. I'd love to have it fixed, but my landlord is basically the real life version of Herman Munster's character in Pet Semetery, so I've just gotten in the habit of flipping the breaker when it happens and hoping the fridge will shut the fuck up. 

She Reg-na-ROCKS! She rocks, my Regan Reg-na-ROCKS!

Oh, the things I tolerate to have a great backyard and a great dane (and a foster dog, who is fucking adorable). Have I mentioned my foster dog here yet? She's a cattle dog mix. She has a black eyepatch, like a pirate, and she's ridiculous. Her name is Regan, and I pulled her from McDonough animal control the day she was to be euthanatized (with the help of a friend of mine who wasn't forced to be at work that day, when I got the email notification as to Regan's status). Her ears stick straight up except for the very ends, and I adore her. She's infatuated with her stuffed armadillo dog toy, and her squeaky angry bird. She's so clever that she will put the angry bird in your seat, like a whoopee cushion, when she thinks you're going to sit down, just so you'll throw it for her. Then she brings it right back, squeaking all the way. She's a great little dog. 

Anyway, that's my update, for now. Feel free to let me know you're reading. I had no idea how many people really came to this site, and it seems like people have just come out of the woodwork in the past month, sending emails, texts, even FB messages, asking for updates. 

Hopefully my next update will be in less than a week, and FAR more hysterical. 

Love to you!!!

-L

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