So yeah. That happened. (!!!!!!)

Squee!  (Read:  SSQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

I’m so happy for my sister!  She was positively delirious yesterday.  It is SO CUTE – I’d avoided talking to her all week because my parents and I knew it was coming, but she was totally and completely surprised.  He did an excellent job.  I won’t tell their story ‘cuz it’s their story; suffice it to say it’s an adorable one.  We had a bottle of champagne sent to the table for their celebration dinner, a classy move we were the beneficiary of when we got engaged.  Ahh.  That seems so long ago already!  Good times.  Happy memories.  That’s all I want for her.  I was a bit surprised by my own nobody’s-good-enough-for-her reaction at first…I did not at all expect to feel that way, but I’m over it.  She’s so over the moon ecstatically happy, how could I ask for anything more?  Hello self – it’s not about you.  Now to be patient as they make their plans, or try to be.  Whatever they decide to do, it will be fun!  My main job might end up being to help peel my mother off the ceiling every once in a while – she’s pretty excited too.  [Contented sigh]  I have such good people.

Onto less fun things.  Why’s life gotta be that way?  This CASA case is trying to kick my ass.  The wheels totally fell off, and I’m still not completely sure who if anyone in this mess is qualified to even hold the damn tire while we all scramble to look for lug nuts.  Bad.  Really bad.  Even worse than a tire-changing analogy written by someone who’s never done that.  Don’t look at me like that.  I told you I have good people.  And a AAA card.  Anyhow, shit is definitely adding up.  Back to it.

    

My compassion is broken now. My will is eroded,
and my desire stolen and it makes me feel ugly.
I’m on my knees and burning.
My piss and moans are the fuel that set my head on fire.
So smell my soul burning.
I’m broken, looking up to see the enemy.
I have swallowed the poison you feed me …
but I survive on it,
and it leaves me guilt fed, hatred fed, weakness fed..
and I feel ugly, and dead inside.
Shit adds up at the bottom.
You’ve left me no choice but to go inside and rebuild
what’s broken.
Too much, too far, too late to lie down now.
I must arm myself to fight you
by making weapons out of my imperfections.
It’s all I have left.
There’s no other choice.
I’m shameless, nameless, nothing, and noone now.
But my soul must be iron for my fear is naked.
I’m naked and fearless.
But I’m dead inside.
You see.. shit adds up, now I’m dead inside.
Hatred, weakness, and guilt keep me alive
at the bottom.



(Lyrics via)

Strange Days

Nothing but strangeness, all day every day anymore.  Apparently yesterday morning my dad was in a car accident (he’s fine, thankfully).  Got a nice dose of ice and snow the night before; it sounds like he slid into the scene of a previous accident on an entrance ramp to the freeway…and hit a person…who was standing outside their car.  This person went to the hospital with non-life-threatening injuries.  To fully appreciate my dad’s utterly imperturbable equanimity (hello, department of redundancy department, how may I help you?) you must duly note my lack of exclamation points here.  I haven’t actually spoken to him myself yet – my mom told me over the phone as I was pulling into the garage last night.  I’m all, OMG IS HE OKAY?

Mom:  Yeah, he’s fine, apparently.

Me:  Is he HOME??

Mom:  No, he went to the fish fry.

Me:  He did WHAT NOW?

Mom:  Seriously.

Me:  He must be in shock.  I would be FAH-REAKING OUT still.

Mom:  I know, right?

Me:  Seriously.  I’d be traumatized.  I’d take to my bed or you would put me there via pharmaceuticals.

Mom:  Exactly.

Wait.  This makes him sound a little heartless, no?  Not at all the case.  It’s just that you can’t rattle the man.  As my friend says, he’s in a bubble.  Stuff that infuriates or unhinges most normal (ha) people just slides off, like water on a duck.  I was a bad, baaaad teenager, but I can remember him actually yelling maybe two, three times my entire life.  You pretty much have to pull a Dick Cheney to get a rise out of him.  And even then, he’ll probably just laugh at you.  Gawd, I love that man.  He’s too young to be giving me a heart attack with car accidents and shit, right?  Right?  Also, my mom does not really talk like a Valley Girl (fer shure, fer shure).  Obviously I embellished and/or simplified somewhat there.  The whole story does make me want to take to my bed, though.  I watched my dad and his siblings caring for their father as he degenerated with dementia/Alzheimer’s/whatever (I still think it was NPH)…I don’t wanna.  Gimme ten more years.  Or, even better.  Let’s just NOT.  I’m just gobsmacked at the very idea.  They’re YOUNG.  I’m YOUNG.  

Crap.  Way too deep.  Here, have some nonsensical musica with lyrics that somehow still apply to everything else I’m not gonna/can’t write about right now:

The body like soft serve, dripping down in the June sun,
I tried to shoot a thought, but the thought sunk.
Nothing to do but scratch words in the dirt and
Watch the water roll down.
Phantom kisses buzzing like the insects.
Beads of sweat dripping down on the rent check.
My Candyland melted down to syrup while I
Watched the water roll down.
And here comes the lust in phaze,
but you’re down in Marietta.
So sweet my mouth was seared,
But the words you mouthed were sweeter.
My Sister,
Your words can be held against you in a court of law.
My Sister, You owe no allegiance to the facts.
And you’re talking like the saint on the site of the accident.
Talking like the clause in the lease about the late rent.
Ringing like the random call patched to the payphone.
Talking like the water rolls down.
Talking like the saint on the site of the accident.
Talking like the botched shot, attempt on the President.
Ringing like the change in the legless man’s Dixie Cup.
Talking like the water rolls down.
Day Undone,
Day Undone,
Day Undone,
Watch the water roll down.

(Lyrics via)

Grace in Small Things

  1. Eggs.  Especially ones literally fresh from a (small) farm.  The shells aren’t as thin as paper, and they actually taste like EGGS.  Not going think about how much more cholesterol’s in that vibrantly yellow yolk.
  2. Cutting down dead brown stuff to make way for newly growing green stuff.
  3. Good parents, and extended family who aren’t in any way totally irresponsible assholes.
  4. Good foster parents, and other people that actually give a shit.
  5. Smithwick’s.

Oh yes, that blog thing I do…did…do.

Finally got over the hump with that horrible disgustingness I suppose they call a sinus infection.  Pro tip:  if you’re miserable, go to the doctor.  Sooner than later.  Also, maybe stay home and lay on the couch for a day…or two.  Definitely don’t go on a four-day business trip driving through mountains (POP, EARDRUM, JUST POP…wait…OW) with basically zero down time and no hotel reservations and wow that was SO much fun, especially that night in the dry county with the 10% discount off dinner at the truck stop!  Otherwise you end up at an Urgent Care on a Saturday morning after two weeks on Sudafed with the doctor who pretty much thinks you’re crazy and no, it’s not H1N1 you big baby, here’s a Z-pack (I’ll leave it at your discretion whether you want to take it or not.  So helpful.) and some $60 nasal spray and wow, your blood pressure is pretty high.  I see you just turned thirty, don’t you want to live to see forty?  You know, blood pressure is the silent killer.  So that guy’s like my FAVORITE.  [But shit, note to self – have that checked again like the good doctor said, maybe once not wound tighter than a new spool of thread.  And maybe find a GP with an actual, you know, PRACTICE.]

So yeah, that happened.  The turning thirty thing.  I suppose if I were drinking wine rather than coffee I might write some mushy sentimental thing about what I want to do with my next thirty years and reflect back over the last thirty years, but…meh.  Who wants to read that?  The same people patient enough to read silly rants about sickness I promised myself I wasn’t going to write.  Oops.  I was still rather feverish, so there are parts I totally don’t remember at all, but we did go celebrate a bit – saw the eminent Jim Gaffigan, bacon and hotpocket encore and all:

Much funnier than the fact we missed probably the first 20 minutes because the parking garage next to the theater kept letting people in even though all the empty spaces were marked RESERVED 24 HOURS so we all just drove allllll the way to the top and then back down at a snails pace, everyone honking and WTFing.  Good times.  I didn’t hear about a riot, but I must admit it’s a pretty good racket – we still had to pay three or five bucks or something to exit the effing thing.  If there was an attendant at some point, he or she probably ran screaming into the hills.

Speaking of Jesus…what. the. fuck (via suntzusays), Pope ?  You disgust me.  Obviously I’ve a bit of an axe to grind with the church, but this shit never fails to blow my mind.  THREE DAYS AGO?  Okay, longer ago than that now…but seriously.  SERIOUSLY?  It’s as if this stuff has been falling out of the closet so long now people are just numb to it.  It’s background noise.  Or maybe I’m just a disloyal person – there’s NO WAY IN HELL I’d ever baptize my [future theoretical] children into that.  No matter what.  Other money quote from the NYT article:

But she also said it was time that the church stopped hiding abuse cases and questioned why priests seemed to be held to a less strict standard of morality than ordinary parishioners. “If you get divorced and remarry you can’t take communion, but someone convicted of molesting children can celebrate Mass for the rest of his life,” she said.

I’ve waffled a bit on the baptism thing in my own mind over time. Five years ago, I might have said, ehhh, let’s just keep Dad happy. Even a year ago, maybe, but now? No way. Never. It must be the CASA work. That’s the other thing that’s got me all wound up and nursing a broken heart for people I barely know. Living with your kids in your uncle’s house, who used to molest his own kids? Bad idea. Smoking crack? Bad idea. Sending your kids to visit with their father, your abusive ex-husband who indicated deception on a polygraph regarding molesting one of your kids? BAD IDEA. Your kids are beautiful and innocent, even filthy and lice-ridden and probably all stripped of their innocence long ago, by someone they were taught to trust, someone they should have been able to trust. I know on some level, you love them and would do anything for them. Find the level, I beg thee. They like to read. You know what might be really nice? TAKE THEM TO THE LIBRARY. IT’S FREE. I’m sorry – am I making this sound too easy? Maybe I have no clue because I’m not a parent, but I am SO frustrated by this one. Heartbroken. I gotta go buy some books. And crank this, because I have been far too sympathetic.





I don’t want to be hostile.
I don’t want to be dismal.
But I don’t want to rot in an apathetic existence either.
See I want to believe you,
and I want to trust
and I want to have faith to put away the dagger.

But you lie, cheat, and steal.
And yet I tolerate you.
Veil of virtue hung to hide your method
while I smile and laugh and dance
and sing your praise and glory.
Shroud of virtue hung to mask your stigma
as I smile and laugh and dance
and sing your glory
while you
lie, cheat, and steal.
How can I tolerate you.

Our guilt,our blame ,
I’ve been far too sympathetic.
Our blood, our fault.
I’ve been far too sympathetic.

I am not innocent.
You are not innocent.

Noone is innocent.