Honey, I’m hoooooooooome!

We had a blissfully uneventful ride home. No wrong turns, no flat tires, no accidents, no puking, no panic attacks… Yay!

I don’t think Hunky quite understands my new lover, Ikea. I think he’s jealous. I showed him the catalog and he spurned my choice of kitchen layout. Watch it there, Sparky; you’re treading on thin ice. Hell hath no fury like a woman’s Ikea scorned. You do not provoke the ire. You poke badgers with spoons, too, don’t you?!

An old Vox QotD: Which person from your past, who you’ve lost touch with, do you wonder about the most?

I had a high school friend, WW, who was in band and a couple of other classes with me. He was a percussionist, and had a fantastic sense of humor. I might have asked him out if I hadn’t been with The Girl Beater. A shared love for Calvin & Hobbes made us kindred spirits. When I met him, I had just started dating TGB, so he was a good friend but quickly declared off limits by TGB. Then WW and started skipping school together and going to the mall the next state over (it was only a 45 minute drive). We were friends until we graduated then he went into the Marines and we lost touch. My best memories of high school are sitting on the floor of one of the bookstores at the mall, reading Calvin & Hobbes together, both of us laughing so hard we’re crying. He wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t physically attracted to him. But he was smart and funny and I liked me when I was with him. I think I might’ve had a wee crush on him. I wouldn’t mind finding him again just to say “Hey, wassaahhhhhhppppp.”

Hunky is going through the Online Slang Dictionary and he’s found the section on “to defecate” and is laughing and crying and falling out of his chair and losing control of his bladder, so tonight’s post over at his house should be quite amusing.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

QotD… O.J. Simpson is back in the news again. What are your thoughts on the release of “If I Did It” and his recent arrest?
I could not possibly care less. I could try; but it would be an exercise in futility because I’m 100% certain I would not be successful. He’s an evil, evil man. No way I’m wasting my time reading that book.

Sunday night I put on my kickass boots, and I kicked Mama’s ass. I was so scared I had that nasty copper taste in my mouth. But I must have disguised my fear well enough because she behaved herself relatively well. After we got home, I tossed a couple Lucky Strikes at her. She growled and chucked a couple bingo chips back at me and went back to her crossword puzzle, muttering to herself. Something about Elvis giving birth to a 7 pound owl in Melba, Idaho that she had undoubtedly read about in one of her tabloids.
I do want to learn to ride my bike, not for the joy of riding a bike but rather for the accomplishment of besting my fear. If that works, maybe I’ll move on to the “joy” crap.

Hunkster gave me one of his doo-rags he didn’t really like too awful much so I could deconstruct it and use it for a pattern. I bought some material with Dory all over it and I’m making myself a Dory doo-rag. I worked on it for hours yesterday and it’s almost done. I’m pretty proud of myself! I promise pictures when I’m finished with it.

I have my first tutoring session for ASL today for an hour before class, then class from 2 to 4 then Deaf Dinner until 7, so I have a busy day scheduled. I better get a move on.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

What one year of your life would you like to re-live, if you were given the chance? Do-overs. Hmmm. It wouldn’t be anything from my childhood because it would have to be when I had the control to make a bigger difference in my own life.

It would have to be 1992. The year after I graduated high school. I was in community college. The GirlBeater decided that he was too dumb to go to college (oh, he was right, people) so he decided to go into the Army. So he made me go with him to the recruiter and you know those guys are like bad MLM people, so I got hoovered in too. The funny thing is, he wanted to be a plane mechanic and I didn’t really care what I did, I just wanted some money for college. But after we did our testing and physicals, he didn’t qualify for the job he wanted so he had to accept a job as Infantryman, and I (over) qualified for Military Police Officer. He spent a few months at boot camp and AIT and I spent several weekends in reserves then a few months at FTC and boot camp but didn’t quite make it to AIT. My Drill Sergeant figured out that I was not so much with hearing stuff (I cheated when I did the physical earlier; I watched the girl next to me and when she pushed the button, I did too), so she (that’s right, she, and she was Bad ASS) made me go to the Army Hospital for more testing. The doctors said either I could accept another job of their choosing or go home, but I could not be Military Police which I had already been training for. So I went home. What would I have done differently? Left The GirlBeater’s stupid ass.

*tilts head*
*squints*
*sits straight up and starts typing again with purpose*

Actually, on second thought, I want a do-over on my do-over. I would not have re-lived that year. I grew up a lot that year. Being in the Army and going through that training raised my self-confidence and gave me enough courage to leave him right after I got home from the Army. I realized that I didn’t have to put up with that crap, and if he really pushed me, I would probably snap, and kill his stupid ass. So I left.

I would re-live 1993. I did leave The GirlBeater the first week in January. One morning I woke up and decided I was done. I had my shit packed by 11am, and was on the I-80W by noon. So far so good. But. There’s always a but. And sometimes a butt.

Here’s what I did.
My best friend called me while I was in Iowa and said I shouldn’t let TGB run me out of the state. I told him that I was actually scared for my life. TGB had threatened my life before and packed heat (oh, he did stalk me later and make threats on my life, but the police couldn’t do anything because they didn’t have stalker laws back then). Best Friend pleaded that I should move back to Michigan, and that his mom had already said that I could stay with them until I got an apartment of my own. So after only a week in Iowa, I moved back to Michigan and moved in with my best friend’s family. His next brilliant idea was that we should date, and because we were best friends, it would be phenomenal. I told him it sounded like a stellar plan if the objective was to lose your best friend. He convinced me otherwise and we dated all of 1993. He proposed on my birthday (12-19, write it down, people) and two weeks later, guess where I was? Who had bets on I-80W by noon? Because that’s the big payoff, folks. Turns out my best friend was the best friend I had ever had; but as a couple, we totally sucked ass. I couldn’t bear to break up with him when I figured that out just a couple months in, because I didn’t want to hurt him. No, I had to string that shit out a year and then accept his proposal and then leave him. Yeah, I’m a genius.

Here’s what I should have done.
Answered the phone in Iowa and said, “No, I’m gonna stay here in Iowa where my psychotic stalker TGB doesn’t know where I am, and get my shit straightened out. But I’ll visit you, Best Friend, and by the way? I’m so glad we never dated, because we can stay best friends for a long, long, time. Call again soon, buh-bye now.”

Oh, and also by the way? 1994. Best Year of my Life. I met The Hunk Man in March, started dating him in May, he proposed in November, and we got married in June 1995. I love you, H. You are, and always will be, my very bestestest friend forever. You are a blessing. I am so thankful for having you in my life. Thank you for putting up with my stupid crap. The ADD, the depression, all the stupid little quirks that come with ADD/depression, the bewilderment at mothering skills, the suckiness at housework, and the my insistence upon my own general suck-ass-i-ness. But what I do best? Love you, and love these crazy-ass boys we made. Of that, I am sure. I love you.

I had another nekkid dream last night… I was in the extended cab of my mom’s old pickup, fishing around in the crap underneath the seats, trying to find something, anything to cover up with because two of my band teachers were sitting up front with my mom, who was driving on the right side of the truck like we were ‘on the other side of the pond’.

Hmmmmmm….

Old Vox QotD from June… How many times have you had your heart broken?

Twice.

Freshman year in high school. Tony was my McDreamy. He was a senior, he was hot, he had a job and a car and a class ring and a letter jacket, and I craved him. At first he wouldn’t give me the time of day. For reasons I still can’t figure out, he asked me to dance at homecoming. Not much after that, he asked me out on a date, he took me to see “Wall Street.” I have absolutely no clue what this movie is about to this day, because I spent the whole movie so nervous I was literally shaking the entire time. He must have thought I was freezing or something because he put his jacket on me and squeezed me tight. He was my first real kiss, my first “park”, my first love. I let him slide into third base, but my first baseman fired one to my catcher who tagged him Out before he could make it to home. Maybe that’s why he broke up with me while we were on our band trip to Toronto a week before prom. What fantastic timing, huh? If he had waited, he probably would have seen my catcher intentionally OOPS! drop the ball and let him slide into home. After all, more virginities are lost on prom night than rent money on casino night. Anywho, I cried until I dehydrated myself.
The Hunk broke my heart once. When he told me that he had had an affair with my best friend, I rendered myself numb as long as I possibly could and bottled it up until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and woke up one morning and announced I was leaving him. We were separated for almost a year. Only by the grace of God was I able to decide to forgive him and that I was a better person with him than without him. At first I thought that a Strong Woman doesn’t put up with that shit and kicks That Rat Bastard to the curb. What I discovered was that it takes a stronger woman to stick it out and make it work than running away from the problem, plus, if you run, you just carry that extra baggage with you to the next stop on your Man Trip.
So the moral of that story, kids, is tell your man that you’re upset and then deal with it, rather than bottle it up, smile tensely, and pretend that everything’s ok. (Which by the way, is the motto on my family’s crest.) We can’t expect our men to be psychic. Please, they can’t find their own socks, let alone the crystal ball that they left in the trunk of the car with their fishing gear. Tell your man you’re not happy, why you’re not happy, and what he can do to help you feel better. Odds are he’ll consider the health of his sex life and comply with your appeal. Let’s consider the following example:

Bad: “You BLEEPING BLEEP why the BLEEP did you think it would be a fantastic BLEEPING idea to take off with your BLEEPING buddies for a drunken BLEEPING night at the BLEEPING bar on my BLEEPING birthday?!?!”

Better: “When you went to the bar with your friends on my birthday, it hurt my feelings because I was really looking forward to spending some quiet time with you. I would feel better if you would clear next Friday night for us to have some alone time.” [insert batting of the eyelashes here.]

See? That’s the way we do it, girls.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude…

I’m on my way up out of the black hole that is my depression. Yesterday was seriously a horrible, no good, very bad day. Who else is with me on the Clinical Depression is Real and Drugs Help bandwagon? Tom Cruise is a weinerhead and is SO not invited to my parade.

Man, I wish my point and shoot easyshare with video didn’t die. H and Elli were just playing racetrack and it is pee-your-pants funny. He starts it by hiding around a door jamb and jumping out at her then running as fast as he can with her hot on his heels. After a couple runs between the living room and the bedroom, he can stop and just egg her on by going “Rah!” and lunging to act like he’s going to take off again. She will tuck her tail between her legs and run as fast as she possibly can until she gets so excited she is just a blur tearing in circles on our bed. Why does she have to tuck her tail to gain maximum MPH? I think it may just make her more aerodynamic. I love my little white tornado. But you knew that already. :)

I’ve just discovered Vox’s QotD. It rocks.
What was the last wedding you went to? Were you in the wedding?
The last wedding I went to was in February, and it was a couple people in our CMA group gettin’ hitched. It was a very short sweet wedding with a very informal reception with a simple sammich and salad buffet. I wasn’t in the wedding. I have not been in any weddings, and from what I hear, I’m not missing much. I helped at the cake table at H’s brother’s wedding. That’s it.
If I could do my wedding over again, I would elope to Hawaii. I might see if my sister and his brother wanted to go (they were our maid of honor and best man) but no one else. If I could be granted do-overs, I would have had my hair and make up done instead of doing it myself. I would have said screw that ‘can’t see me before the wedding’ crap and gotten all of the pictures out of the way before the ceremony. I would have went to the groom’s dressing room and told him that he better spit out that gum STAT because if he slipped me his ABC gum on our wedding kiss, he would be involved in the fastest annulment in history. I would have had a back up for the limo that didn’t show up and was found a couple days later 100 miles away driver-less and suspected that its non-appearance was the result of a drug run gone bad. I would have forced myself to eat something so the champagne I downed didn’t make me sick and force me to go lay down for the evening and miss about 4 hours of MY day. Seriously. True story, ya’ll. This is my life.

Hotmail needs to pull their heads out of their collective butts. They have this new test they call HIP (human something or other) that supposedly protects against spamming, but all it protects me from is being able to send a damn email. Before you can send an email you have to type the letters you see in the picture and no matter how many times I do it, it says I typed invalid characters. Anyone else?

That’s about all my news… further updates as events warrant…

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dooooood.