Once Again, The Weight Is Lifted

Today will be a day to exhale...

Because the last three weeks worth of days were spent biting my tongue and feeling the burn of being angry about something but not able to do much about it.

Here's the deal...and as soon as I use the word "stepdaughter" in this story, you will all immediately know exactly where this is heading...

The stepdaughter is moving to Minneapolis from Duluth, and that's fine and good and all--the more distance between she and me, the happier I will be.  (And I know that "she and me" is not proper grammar--I was having a poets moment...)

So stepdaughter and the boyfriend (a kid I truly enjoy--he is great and I'm so sorry that he hooked up with her) found an apartment and the boyfriend found a job and they were good to go...except, the apartment wasn't going to be ready for a few weeks and, (owing to the stepdaughter's winning personality, I suspect) they were sort of kicked out of their current place.

This brought the stepdaughter to our door...just to have a place to stay until moving day.  And what do you do in a situation like that?  When the kid has made a very big scene about how they can't wait to get the hell out of your house, and blah-blah-blah, and they are never coming back, and yet, there they are, and they actually need some help and its only temporary and you'd feel truly evil to say "no" at a time like this, soooooo....she moved in.  For three weeks.

Now, what I would have hoped for, in my mind of perfect-world fantasy, is that said stepdaughter would have recognized that after the huge scene about her leaving and never returning because we are so awful, that on the occasion in which she was forced to accept our hospitality, that she might show a little humility, maybe a dash of sheepishness, or maybe admit that we're not so awful, what with us doing her this huge favor and keeping her from having to live on the streets.

But that fantasy, so optimistically floated, was dashed against the rocky shore, pretty much immediately.

You know how she always pissed me off before?  How I wanted to ring her neck approximately once every other week?  Well, this time, for the whole three weeks, I wanted to smash her face against a door frame approximately every 6 minutes.  You know that old bouncer trick, where they are throwing somebody out of a bar, and "Ooops!"  hit the door frame with the offender's head on the way out?  Yeah...like that...

So allow me to exhale today, and share some of the stupidity--because I have to laugh at the stupidity, or I'd have been in jail a long time ago.  In the three loooooong weeks in which evil stepdaughter stayed with us, there is probably enough blog fodder to write for, well, three weeks, allowing just one amazingly bitchy thing per day, but I'll just skim and give you the highlights:

One day, while everyone else was at work or school, the evil stepdaughter went INTO MY ROOM, browsed the goodies on my vanity table, saw my camera there, and decided to take a bunch of pictures of herself, all posed and freaky looking, while lying on the floor under the coffee table. 

First of all, Ew!  Secondly, IN MY ROOM???  Are you fucking kidding me?  And you went through my stuff?  Can I just kill her?  And its not as if she tried to cover her tracks or anything--there were 20-odd truly icky pictures of her still on the camera when I used it later in the week.

Fucking psycho...

Last week, I had a day off and was home when the kids got home, and was witness to the most amazing interaction between Evil Stepdaughter and Punky Shoester--it was over some chore that had been assigned to little Punky, by me, her mother.  Evil Stepdaughter began speaking to Punky AS IF SHE WERE HER MOTHER, right there in front of me, about her doing the chore.  Punky advised that she was going to do said chore, right after a half-hour of violin practice, to which the Evil Stepdaughter replied that she'd better ASK DAD first!

Punky was a tad taken aback by this statement and said, "well, my mom is right here..." and STILL, the bitch insisted that the child would first have to clear it with Dad!

Um...what the fuck?

Then, one day, while Evil and I were the only ones at home, I was making myself a little lunch--just warming up a bit of leftover whatever--when the Stepdaughter asked if I had any plans for lunch.

I replied, "Well, I'm just having this..." indicating the leftovers, of which there was only one serving, and she said "yeah, but after you eat that, there won't be any left for me."

Yes...and your point is?

You see, if you make a big deal about moving out and how you're an adult now and all that, I ASSUME that you can fucking feed yourself and I don't have to plan meals that include you, but NO!  She actually got all pissed at me for not creating a delicious and nutritious meal to her specifications, then called the boyfriend and told him that he "had to" take her out to eat because I wasn't sharing (not that the fridge wasn't full of a bunch of other leftovers that she could have eaten).  She then waited impatiently for boyfriend to arrive and they went to fast food, brought it all back to the house, and proceeded to have a buffet on the coffee table.

Yeah, that will teach me not to share...

The girls got their school pictures back the other day, and my daughter was not happy with hers and wanted a re-take.  I agreed to this, based on the fact that she looked a bit cranky in the photo and it wasn't her best work as a model.  The stepdaughter?  She looked at the picture and agreed that yes, we should probably have them taken over, not because The Diva didn't look happy, but BECAUSE MY DAUGHTER'S SHIRT (which she had purchased while shopping with her grandmother) WAS INAPPROPRIATE!

Good God...

Yesterday, the last full day of fun and refreshing interactions with the crazy psycho, was chock full of "I'm just going to kill her" moments...for starters, Punky was watching television, took a bathroom break and came back to discover that the Bitch had turned off the television, put some super-crappy music on the stereo and told my daughter that "the parents" said she could.  No, she never asked...just a complete lie from a pathological liar.

Stepdaughter then proceeded to go online and change a bunch of settings on the computer, stating that SHE didn't need all those icons on the desktop (Not your fucking computer, bitch!) and so she moved and/or un-installed some stuff that the rest of the family regularly uses.

Meanwhile, my husband was doing Evil the HUGE favor of replacing the transmission fluid in her car, a HUGE favor because A) my husband has MS, and had taken his shot of interferon, which makes him sick and he was not feeling well,and B) replacing the transmission fluid in a 1992 Sunbird is a pain in the ass, even for a healthy person.

Not only did she NOT assist him with this in any way, but she also stood around, tapping the foot impatiently because SHE didn't have time for this and had things to do before she moved, but it HAD to get done, so hurry up!  And no, she would not run to the parts store to get a particular thing that was needed for the job.

She wonders why I hate her guts with seething anger?

At the same time all of this was happening, I was basically just hanging out in the house, doing dishes, an act which prompted the Bitch to say, "isn't that Punky's job?" like I, Punky's mother, was not in charge of when it is, in fact, Punky's turn to do the dishes.

Evil stayed on the computer for a good chunk of the day yesterday, while I wondered to myself...aren't you supposed to be packing?  I mean...when I move, packing is pretty much all I do on the day before... After a couple hours of really strenuous online gaming, she got up and indicated that she was in a HUGE rush now, that she had run out of time, and that everybody should all assist in the gathering of her things and help her load various items onto the truck.

This was a command to which we all reacted by sitting quietly on the couch, watching Torchwood, and waiting with frayed patience for her to just go away.

(By the way...Torchwood?  Freaking love that show...I would definitely need a better reason that the verbal battering of some hideous c-word to make me miss it.)

Anyway...she's gone.  Again.  And I would hope for a fiery crash on I-35 this morning that would cause her to be decapitated, thereby sparing the rest of the world her evil, but she has her cats in the car with her, and I don't want to chance having them injured in any way--they can't help who adopted them.

To those of you who live in the Minneapolis area, I'm sorry.  You probably will never run into her, but if some miracle happens and she gets a job, you'll know her by the "customer (meaning everyone other than her) is always wrong" attitude that she projects. 

If you should happen to accidentally run over her with a city bus, call me and we'll get together for drinks...

I Am Not Obsessive, I Don't Know What You Are Talking About...

A typical example of me at work:

Me: I think we have a glitch in the _(insert work-related, sensitive thing that I can't talk about on blog)_
Smart Guy: OK, shoot me an email about it.
Me: OK

This brief interaction is followed by an absurdly detailed compilation of figures and facts and "oh, and this is weird, check this out" gritty bits of information that is useful probably only to me, but I feel the need to share, just in case he asks. Which he probably won't.


Another example:

Me: I think _(insert co-worker who will not be identified on blog)_ may need more information about _(insert work-related, sensitive thing that I can't talk about on blog)_ .
Skinny Guy: OK, shoot me an email about it.
Me: OK

After which he gets an excruciating list of 27 examples of so-and-so screwing up, ever so mildly, complete with my amateur psychologist notes about exactly what the problem might be, going all the way back to so-and-so's relationship with their mother's third husband and how they didn't get a bicycle for their 8th birthday, which may have broken their heart at that time, leading to the current situation of me being less than excited about their performance.

And...I know what I'm doing...

I'm aware...

...my mind is not hanging out where most of the other humans are...I'm a freaking weirdo.

Its the minutia--the vast collection of little bits of information that, if taken into consideration, allowing for varying degrees of importance, would make a something "better". This is what swirls around in my head when I'm doing a thing.

Usually, this personality quirk serves me well--when I apply myself to something, I am really good at it. The problem arises when I look around and sometimes see that I am the only person in a room who is obsessing about everything being incredibly awesome. Other people are thinking about what they will be doing over the weekend, and I'm thinking "why doesn't this f*cking spreadsheet balance?" or, worse, "Why would so-and-so not think to balance this f*cking spreadsheet?", as if, just because I am of the opinion that the whole world would be a better place if that spreadsheet balanced, that it must be a commonly held belief. Sure...this is what we all spend our days and nights thinking about...

That is not to say that its all me, or that I don't have some really stupid and/or thoughtless co-workers. Of course I do...and I do want to smack them all, individually, while listing the 27 examples of why they piss me off with their stupidity/thoughtlessness.

If you work in an office, you know how it is...some guy doesn't balance a freaking spreadsheet, and the rest of the people get stuck trying to figure out why every number that you have to work with for the next three months is off by 6.8% for half of the figures (12.1% for the other half) and it pisses you off because you know that it could have easily been avoided.

Some people, I think, really should be entrepreneurs--that way, if they have their own, "special", way of doing things, they use their own methods at their own jobs, and leave the rest of us the hell out of it.

That is not to say that number-crunching is my favorite activity--it isn't. Most of the time, I don't obsess over particulars. I don't look at my blog stats, for example, and try to figure out how to increase my visitors by a certain percentage, though it would certainly serve me well to do so--I just don't give a shit...read it, don't read it...who cares? You can't hurt my feelings either way, and this is far from being a sole source of income for me. (If it was, I would actually edit and obsess over these rambling-ass posts, the way I do with other stuff--stuff related to money...)

There is an old quote of someones, don't know who, and it has been paraphrased so many times that I'm sure there is very little of the original statement left, but it goes something like this: "If you expect the best, that is very often what you will get." This sentiment is rather significant to me...I mean, why do things half-assed, right? Wouldn't it be better just to balance that f*cking spreadsheet? Somebody told me that for the Enter The Haggis show, we needed _X (insert precise number)_ people to break even, and my first thought was "why would I shoot so low?" Why would I not balance the spreadsheet?--Invite EVERYONE, just to be sure that the breaking even thing doesn't ever have a chance to be a problem? Just seems to make more sense...but still, I don't have any particular number in my head, just..."everyone".

I should also note that BlogThings, the altar of all pop psychology on the Internet, says that I am not obsessive.

You Are 12% Obsessive

You're less prone to obsessive thoughts than the rest of the world... While you do get hung up from time to time, you're excellent at clearing your mind.

How Obsessive Are You?

So we are going to go with that for now.

Or maybe I should go take that quiz again...just to be sure.

Some Kind Of Freaky Music-Geek Eargasm Thing

Over the weekend, I had something rather amazing placed at my feet--actually, I had something unceremoniously dumped at my feet with instructions to "do something with this", but...it was still rather amazing.

What was it? It was a large milk crate, filled to the brim with cassettes. Yes, that's right, audio cassettes--the things that we used to use to listen to music in between the vinyl album and compact disc phases.

Cassettes. I had a billion of them.

Apparently, I still do.

I picked through that box of scary dustiness with absolute delight, people...I mean, there was the copy of Michael Jackson's Thriller that I bought in 1982. I know it was 1982 because the receipt was right there in the case. How freaky is that?

While there were a TON of "officially released" materials, there as an equal amount of sort-of mysterious-looking tapes with no labels at all--how exciting! I would spend the next several days finding out exactly what I was dealing with...and don't think me too music-geeky when I tell you that this was my idea of an absolutely great time!

It was so much fun!

First, of course, I had to secure a means by which to play the damn things--found a busted up cast-off boom-box that one of the children used to own. Then I planted myself on my bed with the boom box, the tapes, a notebook and pen, and a bottle of beer. For a couple of days. So maybe there was more than just one bottle of beer.

A lot of the tapes were air-checks from ancient radio times, and there was a collection of the smarmy love songs lovingly written and recorded for me by an ex-boyfriend, some ten years ago (gosh, they still kind of turn my stomach...), but the best discoveries where the 87 million mix tapes that I made, when apparently making mix tapes was all I ever did in my spare time.

Mix Tapes. Loved the Mix Tapes.

Apparently I still do.

I didn't make a bad mix tape, if I do say so myself...some of those songs I hadn't heard since I put the tapes away many years ago, and hearing them again was like visiting a great old friend. Here are the highlights, in no particular order:

Love Is Love--Culture Club
Simple, beautiful...Boy George's singing was divine. Remember when Boy George's singing was divine?

Naturally--Huey Lewis
An a cappella do-wop thing. Such a cool little song.

Shape You're In--Eric Clapton
Oh....soooooo happy to hear this...bouncing up and down on the bed happy...

Just Like I Fantasized--Robert Cray
I don't think he records any "bad" songs, this guy...

If You Gotta Go, Go Now--Bob Dylan
Fondest memory of dancing around the living room with my tiny daughters....I used to scoop them up and swing them around...

Son Of a Gun--The La's
I loved this album to pieces...and then, later, got all pissed off when someone re-made their song "There She Goes", because The La's version was so much better...

Thorn In My Side--Eurythmics
I seem to recall that this song was dedicated to someone at the time..."thorn in my side, you know that's all you ever were..."

New Blue Moon--Traveling Wilburys
To hear Bob Dylan singing "Yahoo!" --totally worth the price of admission.

Swan, Swan Hummingbird--REM
I had a huge REM "thing" for a long time--loved Michael Stipes voice, and the fact that those lyrics sometimes only made sense on an ethereal level. They were my "music-snob" band before everyone else in the world started liking them.

Black, White and Blood Red--BoDeans
This was the only song that I liked on this album for a long time. Apparently, I was in a mood...Out of curiosity, I popped the CD in on the way to work yesterday. I think I have recovered from whatever it was that was bugging me, because now this is more like my second-favorite song on that album.

Next To You--Police
Louder, Faster, Louder, Faster

Bring Me Some Water--Melissa Etheridge
How can you not love her? She can sing any damn thing she wants...

Measure--Peter Himmelman
I just flat-out love this song..."You and I got a piece of an infinite thing..."

Baby, Can I Hold You Tonight?--Tracy Chapman
"Maybe if I told you the right words, at the right time, you'd be mine..."

More Than I Can Stand--Robert Cray
Cool. Melodic. Sings it in my key. Its a perfect song.

Virginia--Prism
This was a strictly indulgent inclusion--I went through high school listening to this band on Canadian AM stations and recently went to their website to see if I remembered any other songs of theirs, and, you know...ended up buying some things, because that is what happens when you are compulsive as hell. I love the internet. In the olden days, we used to have to road-trip to Canada to buy this stuff, and believe me, we did...everyone in my hometown owned their album Armageddon, and "Night To Remember" was the theme for the prom...loved this band so much...

Rescue Me--The Alarm
Another band I really loved--just a great, distinctive sound.

Solace Of You--Living Colour
When this song came on, I had one of those "OhMyGodILoveThisSong!" moments with which Barb is so familiar.

Run--Eric Clapton
I know, I know...it has that whole Su-Fucking-Sudio horn section thing, and the bass line is tre predictable, but damn-it! Love this song! "I met that girl, and the trouble began..."

Terrifying--Rolling Stones
Because lust is a scary thing...and such a cool guitar...what are you gonna do, right? You really can't help yourself. Perfect for playing in the car, just a little too loud, while you drive just a little too fast.

I Could Give You (A Mirror)--Eurythmics
Whooooo-Hoooooo! Some kind of super-amazing synth-pop masterpiece!!! F*cking brilliant song...

Burning Timber--Rembrandts
Before that Friends theme song that ruined the fun for everyone...yeah, I said it...


And so ends my mini-flashback. (Wow...that was great, honey...think I need a smoke, now...)

Middle of the Friggin' Night...

What the hell am I doing online?

I'll tell you...I changed my work hours to start an hour earlier in the day, so my body interprets that to mean that 3:45 would be the best time to get up and get ready, even though I only start one hour earlier and 3:45 is just a tad...um, early.  When I did morning radio shows, I got up at 3:45.  And went online.  And copied and pasted all the celebrity news and birthdays to have something to talk about, and wrote really insightful interview questions for the various authors and musicians I was going to interview that day.  Somehow, I managed to always sound like I read that author's book, cover to cover, though I rarely did.  I'm sure there was a "trick" to that, though I'm not sure what it is.  Musicians were always a lot easier interview for me, though, again, can't remember what I did to make it sound like I had been a fan of their work forever when in some cases, I wasn't, and in some cases "forever" was maybe one album worth of stuff and there really was nothing to talk about.  Somehow, I managed to have everyone thank me for a good interview when we were all done, except David Lee Roth, who not only was in a band but also wrote a book--interesting guy, but, meh...we didn't click at all (the trick there being to just let him talk and talk and talk and never really ask him anything of substance, which is perfectly fine and entertaining and everything, just sort of boring to me). 

Anyway, now I work at a bank...and there is no such thing as a bank that needs you to do that much show prep...yet, here I am...so, lets write, shall we?

We'll go for the Natalie Goldberg writing exercise approach and pull some random thing out of thin air and begin...I chose this quote from George Santayana--

"It is wisdom to believe the heart"

OK, thats an easy one...

There has been a rather significant shift in my life over the past year or so, like I was shaken awake one day and started to question everything that I was doing.  OK, it wasn't actually what I was doing that I questioned so much as it was what I was NOT doing.  It felt like a bright light shined on my life and revealed the minutia, and I saw myself just sort of letting things happen as opposed to moving in a particular direction.

And I freaked out a little. 

Well...not a "little"...

...more like "AAAAAUUUUGGGHH!  How did I end up here?  What the f*ck happened to me?"

Just a small panic.

I would not categorize this as some kind of mid-life crisis, because knowing me, I know that I have been doing this for years...I snap out of some trance a couple of times per decade, all in a panic, and think "Oh my god, who is this person I'm with?  What is this stupid job I'm doing? (and) I have to RUN AWAY RIGHT NOW before I sink any further into the quicksand that is my life!"

Not at all depressing.

The thing is, I know me...I know the kind of person that I am, and I know what brings me joy and what kind of people make me happy.  But I don't always follow my heart...I'm not always true to that, and I don't listen to myself very well.  Consequently, I occasionally find myself at jobs that are not all that fulfilling, or hanging out with people who don't "get" me.

And that's annoying.

Its annoying because all along, there are people who know me very well who are saying things like "What the f*ck are you doing working at a bank?  You should be sitting in a studio somewhere, letting David Lee Roth talk."  And they are not wrong, though, you know I don't care if I ever interview David Lee Roth again...

I have been thinking a lot lately about what the heart wants, mainly because it doesn't always want the "right" thing and sometimes what it wants will cause major disruption in your life.  Still, I don't question it, when, after months or years of allowing me to toddle down a path that isn't all that right for me, my heart grabs me by the shoulders, shakes me, and indicates that we are now going someplace else, starting immediately. 

I trust it.

Of course, sometimes, it does have to yell to be heard.  But I trust it.  After all, who knows you better than you know yourself?

When your heart starts yelling at you, you have to listen--you absolutely must, or you'll be full of regret and unhappiness, though it does tend to make for crazy times when you suddenly change direction.

We cannot be afraid of the crazy times--be it financial hardship or disappointment of friends or family.  You came into this world alone, and with nothing but your spirit to guide you, and you will leave it in exactly the same way.  In between, you shouldn't think too much...

Sure, you have to use your brain to work out the logistics of how to follow your heart, but if you over-think things, then the wisdom is lost in the muck of details.  It should be simple.  Let it be simple.

As much as this last year has been crazy for me, it has also been a year in which a lot of things revealed themselves to me in the most unexpected ways, and opportunities presented themselves from unexpected sources.  The sheer panic of a year ago has mellowed into a calm, and I can see things now that I couldn't see before.  The best part about it is that I find myself back in the company of people who are following their dreams...maybe they wrote a book or something...The energy that is created while doing what your heart wants you to do is palpable--it spills out all over everything.  When you are around people like that, you can't help but be affected.  Being a witness to someone believing in a thing causes you to believe, too, in your own thing.

To say that it is wisdom to believe the heart--seems so obvious.  We are not always ready to hear that, though.  Sometimes we are sleeping when those words are spoken.  Eventually, your heart will wake you.

Dubbed in English

• Greg, I know you stole that Godzilla vs Wausau joke from somewhere, but its funny...and you should come to Wausau with us in December, because, well, we'll need someone to tell that joke in our vicinity, thereby deflecting attention away from the wacky drunk chick in row 17.  (...who shall remain un-named....TINA!)  See...for some reason, Greg left the fair city of Wausau years ago and never looked back.  He doesn't like to talk about it.  I'm sure it isn't serious...there probably aren't any warrants out for his arrest or anything.  Most likely, nobody in Wausau wants to run him over with a Mac Truck...yet.  We'd like to change that...we'd like Greg to have a "real" reason to never want to go back to Wausau...like...maybe some crazy bitch wants to kill him in Wausau or something.  Greg, honey, we could make that happen for you...Tina and I...we are your friends...and you know you're probably just one BoDeans show away from a death threat.  We want to help.  We're here for you.  Come with us!  Feel the adventure, as you single-handedly keep Tina from getting into a fist fight with someone who looked at her "funny"!  Live the magic, while explaining to your wonderful girlfriend that you've known me forever and I'm just "like that" and she has nothing to worry about!  Come with us!  You know you want to...
  
• Tina's driving.
  
• On second thought...we like you too much.  Perhaps you should stay home with the girlfriend.  We'll just make up a story about a crazy bitch who wants to kill you, and you can tell it the next time someone asks you to go to Wausau.
  
• It is entirely possible, of course, that Tina could come away with a story about a crazy bitch who wants to kill her in Wausau.
• Just remember, if anything horrible happens, I get the truck.  Unless it becomes a crime scene or something.
  
• Here's my bitchy thought of the moment...and it is a compulsive, nasty thing with me...here it is:  when I see really huge people--I'm talking  super-big, like 3 bills or more, and they have a fast food bag in their hand as they walk (always very, very slowly) to some private place where they can plop their gigantic-ness down and scarf a bunch of fries, or whatever, I always think "you don't need that."  In fact, it is the first thing that pops into my head..."you don't need that" being a little less wordy than "look, another bu-dunk-a-dunk with a fat-expansion kit...I can tell that they are, indeed, truly committed to the whole, being massively huge thing, what with all the practice they are putting in".  I'm not freakishly skinny or anything...but I'm not pounding the hard stuff every day, either.  I hate working out as much as the next lazy person...and I also know that the less I move, the less I get to eat.  Seems like, if you're sitting at a desk all day, slurping chocolate shakes, then maybe...maybe you've stopped trying.  Which is sad.  (You will note, as evidence that I am truly, truly bitchy, I made the bitchy comment at the beginning of the paragraph, and came around to make myself feel better about saying it by the end of the paragraph.  I'm hideous....I know...)
• So....Bridezilla....have you ever seen anything more hilariously awful in your life?  Yesterday, I sat with my CHILD and watched a Bridezilla marathon.  It was an educational thing...I wanted her to learn how to frighten away all but the most incredibly stupid men in the world--if any of these "grooms" had the brains of a can of Spaghettios, well....I have officially watched as many minutes of that show as I will ever need, for the entire rest of my life.  But that was fun.
• I spent an hour explaining internet security to a lady today.  Like, where to find the security settings on your browser?  Yeah...that was NOT fun.  It would be different if it was one of those bumbling types that just doesn't have a clue what they are doing...this was one of those people who insisted that she knew what she was doing, but truly, truly did not.  Don't you love those?  Yeah...me neither.
  
• Lost the chord to my camera, and so...no pictures of the ACTUAL KNITTING that took place in this house.  For real.  I blame the children...as I always do when things get lost.  But I had an actual weekend in which there were no major home improvement projects scheduled, and almost completely finished something...its OK, you can act shocked...I know I did.
  

She's Freaky And I Like It

• LoveStoned.  Heard it on the radio on the way into work and had it stuck in my head all day.  Addictive.  Addictive.  Addictive.  And I STILL say Justin Timberlake was ROBBED and should have won Album of the Year at the Grammy's.  Bitches.  (And I say that NOT in reference to the women who won Album of the Year, but in reference to all the people who DIDN'T vote for Justin Timberlake.  Loooove the Dixie Chicks.  Please don't yell at me about the Dixie Chicks.)
  
• Later in the day, while I was preparing food for the peeps, I caught The Diva singing LoveStoned.  Apple.  Tree.
• And while writing this, I am actually listening to LoveStoned on Justin's My Space page.  And everyone who walks through the room is saying, "Ohmygod I love this song."
• Robbed.  Just sayin'.
  
• SJ at Give Me The Booger--this is for you:  When I first started dating the guy I would eventually marry, his ex-wife insisted that she and I get together for lunch to discuss, oh, I dunno, how completely and bizarre-ly INSANE she is or how it really is too bad for the rest of the world that she didn't step in front of a bus years ago.  OK, those are the things I would have talked about--I think her real purpose for the meeting was to "educate" me about how to be married to her ex, because she was obviously so good at it.  In case you're wondering, my response to the invitation was a polite, "Please go fuck yourself," which I thought was helpful, given that she was quickly running out of people willing to sleep with her, what with her being completely INSANE and all.  After a while, when you're really fucking nuts, you don't even get the guys who just want to hit it and quit it.  You know I'm right.  What I should have said, I suppose, was "when I want your opinion, I'll be asking about stuff like how to successfully refuse to get a job, or how to extort money from social services and ex-husbands and spend it on stupid crap like taking yourself on a Mexican cruise while you and his children live in fucking squalor, and, of course, how to convince social workers that you are some kind of saint when clearly you are the most hideously awful person on the planet.  You know, the stuff you're really good at.  And please die."  I say, SJ, you should respond to that email...go for it.  Because only a really fucking crazy person would have written that to you or felt the need to try to "educate" you about yourself, and because you'll feel better, even though I'm sure most of what you have to say will go right over her head, because she's an idiot.  Just take the email, line by line, and respond to every word, every nuance.  Do it.  You'll feel better.
• And for the record, nobody pisses me off more than hideous women.  Not ugly girls, but women who are just fucking ugly on the inside--the hateful, spiteful, spread-their-ugliness-around because they can't stand for anyone else to have any joy kind of women.  Women who write emails to their current bang's ex because they are so arrogant that they think they can offer them some kind of service.  Those for whom the ONLY word that fits is the one that you would never say in front of your momma.  They piss me off because they make the rest of us look bad...I'm just trying to be a normal girl, get through life, raise the kids, have a career.  NOTHING these women have to offer will be of any assistance to me whatsoever.  In fact, given the state of their lives, I can say that they should NEVER offer advice to ANYONE, about ANYTHING, but they are so INSANE that they think I need their help somehow.  Trust me, crazy lady, nothing you have to say is of any value to anyone.
  
• See how mad that gets me?  GAH!  I wasn't planning to make a post full of swearing...some women just bring out the worst in me...to change the mood, lets talk about sex...
  
• I am absolutely buying THIS for Tina...yes, friends, the OhMiBod Boditalk Cell Phone Vibrator.  Because there is only one thing that girl likes more than talking on her cell phone...Yay!  Phone Sex!
• Actually, I'm just impressed/a little shocked that drugstore.com has a Vibrator Buying Guide.  Yes...A Vibrator Buying Guide.  That's were you get the customer reviews.   Reviews where the guy says, "my wife came in under a minute!" or a woman laments, "this product wore out and stopped working after just a week".  I...don't know exactly how to respond to either of those statements...but, this is me, so what the hell, I'll give it a try:  First, I have to wonder if the guy had a stop-watch.  Under a minute?  Do you think they were trying for "best time" on that?  And just trying again and again and again until they got it to under a minute?  And what about the wife?  Not that this little exercise wasn't fun for her...but here is my question...if your husband is in the room with you while you are trying out some amazing piece of equipment, shouldn't you, for the sake of being nice and staying married and all, at least pretend that the man does you better than the machine and not go for any speed records?  I mean, just to be nice...(Am I too nice?  I think I'm too nice.)  And as far as the "wore out" comment, well, that is a common product review on sex toys.  I am convinced that it is always the same people, over and over, who just keep buying sex toys and wearing them out and writing reviews.  This is their job--to have enough sexual encounters in a week to destroy a cheaply made vibrator.  What is the salary on that gig?  I wonder if it offers dental...I'm so there.
• Its always so nice to end a post talking about sex because there really is nowhere to go from here...you kind of have to stop writing...really, what am I going to talk about now?  Cooking?  Crochet?  I don't think so...
  

Holy Toledo

Quick Question: Do I still get to make Wisconsin jokes if I move to Ohio? Or at that point, does everybody else get to make Ohio jokes?

Just checking...and more on that later. Much later. Like, in a few months, later. Or next week. Whatever...

****************************************

Sooo....we have been working on this little show..."little" not entirely the appropriate word, but, compared to, say, the Rolling Stones, we'll go with "little". Juuuust a simple thing, with very few moving parts.

Its always the simple things that get you...

Months ago, somebody asked me what I wanted for my birthday, which is in June, and I was waist-deep into a new album that I was really, really enjoying so I said..."I'd like to see _(a particular band who's CD I am currently enjoying)_ play. Here. In Duluth. At __(this particular bar)

And I left it at that.

Because we ALL ask for stuff like that, don't we? On our birthdays? When someone asks, "what do you want?", don't you immediately go for whatever would be the super-bestest thing that you can think of at that moment? Like, a million dollars falling from a sky? Or, a gigantic bowl of chocolate pudding?

Anyway, that is what I did. I asked for a gigantic bowl of pudding.

And I got it!

Turns out that the person who asked me what I wanted for my birthday just called some people and booked that very band, for my birthday present, right here in a local tavern.

I got what I wanted.

Well, I got a concert...not on my birthday, but, who cares, right? Its happening.

The album that I was listening to at the time is called Soap Box Heroes, and the band is Enter The Haggis. I absolutely love this album, and of course, after hearing it, I bought a whole bunch of other Enter The Haggis music, because I have a compulsive, addictive personality, and also, I wanted to make sure I am well-rounded in ways other than the gigantic ass thing.

This band is so great.

And they coming to Duluth.

November 8th.

Its a Thursday.

And its all my fault.

My brilliant idea.

My bowl of pudding...


I have been a bit reluctant to talk about this show because as much as it is all a very simple thing for me (having eleventy-jillion years of promotional experience) to get a big group of people together in a room on a Thursday night, I have discovered that this skill is not one shared by everyone. Some people, even people who's job it is to put together a room full of people on a Thursday night, are just not that good at it, which amazes me in my "how do stupid people even have jobs?" brain...I can assure you, if I owned a tavern, that bitch would be full.

(Oh, and the answer to the question "how do stupid people even have jobs?" is answered this week by saying that they don't have jobs, they own businesses...they are somebody's boss. Am I wrong?)

Anyway...I was busy thinking this would all be a fabulous cake-walk sort of evening and we'd sell every ticket to a great band in a great bar with no problem what-so-ever, but _(this particular bar)_ owner was thinking, "...I....don't know...I don't think we can do this..." and dragging his feet all the way to the negotiations table.

*sigh*

As you can see by this photo, shamelessly stolen from Enter The Haggis at their website, these are not scary people. Yes, they play some loud music and wear kilts and Brian likes to change his hair color, um...a lot..., and there are some piercings, but seriously, I would not have a problem inviting any of them to dinner and my mother's house. Since we have already covered the topic of Shelly's Mom and her general opinion of music-not-played-in-church, you know that is kind of a big deal.

The thing is, I'm too stubborn to ever stop believing in the commercial viability of good music. It is one of my core values, in fact--I mean, with all the no-talent hacks selling millions of CD's these days, I have to believe that if you find someone who can actually, oh, I dunno, play an instrument and sing, and they are truly good at it, that with the use of simple promotional tools, you should be able get people to buy their albums and go see them live, in any market you choose, at any time. This is not some idealistic vision that I have...its a totally do-able thing that I believe in, to the depths of my soul.

So any time I hear"...I don't know..." in reference to putting a room full of people in front of musicians with actual talent, my brain automatically thinks, "OK...we're done" and I put my fingers in my ears and "La-La-La-La-La" over the sound of the excuses.

Long story short, I got the band, just not the bar I wanted...a shame...however, the show must go on, and it will, just at a different place, which is fine. We have actually moved to a much bigger place--a place that does not question the earning capabilities of guys who play loud music. A place where I can check out what color Brian Buchanan's hair is on the night of November 8th, and still have a pint of Guinness in front of me. No worries.

Of course, once again, things are still being signed! (HA!) So I can't advertise the venue yet! Isn't that always the case? But we project no further issues, so save the date, and we'll see you November 8th, when, for the low, low price of 15 dollars, you can have yourself a hell of a fun evening. With me. Drinking Guinness. And dancing around and singing, because that is how I do.

Plus, its my birthday present, so, don't disappoint me...

Keep You Wonderin' (All The Way To Mukwonago)

I think that the parental visit took a little more out of me than I was willing to admit when I was in the thick of things.

Children who are motivated to move away from their families--not those who run screaming out of their home towns, but, you know...those of us who examine the facts and realize that even though the family is made up of individually decent people, we don't necessarily want to hang out with them full-time--we come to this realization somewhat slowly. And occasionally, we forget.

Its not that we don't get along or that we can't. I would say that most of it is generational. But some of it isn't.

My father, for example, is almost 70.

Good Lord, my father is almost 70.

Still, I feel pretty OK about passing my father the occasional CD to listen to. He likes music--not all of it, but, some of what I like, he likes, too. Sometimes, though, I feel like I have to slip the CD's into his coat pocket, or hand them under the table, on the sly, with the understood reason being that my mother doesn't really like ANY of it. With neither of us saying anything, the implied message is, "Don't tell mother that you're listening to rock music when she's not around."

All kind of a flashback to that time I got arrested for being dumb-drunk when I was a junior in high school. Dad was "cool", Mom was freaking cold.

Makes you wonder...how in the hell did I become the person I am? Hmmm...

So that is where my head has been lately--all of that crushing (perhaps somewhat imagined) disappointment of my mother, who corrects my father for saying "God Damn" in front of the children, who can't believe that I'm having a beer after a long day of work, and who thinks that the daughter's skirts are inappropriately short.

They're not.

Or, maybe we are all going to hell in a hand basket. Could go either way.

So what else has been going on? Today, we got to enjoy the complaint of a customer who's only problem in the whole, wide world was that we, a bank, offer a Spanish language option on our telephone customer service line.

Her well-thought-out argument against offering a Spanish language line? (Wait! Wait! Promise me you'll act surprised when I tell you, OK?) Here it is...

"This is America."

There were desk-pounding fits of bawdy laughter coming from the general area of my desk.

I can't help it! Why is it that "This is America" is the only argument that people ever use for their prejudice bull-shit? Do they not realize that saying it just makes them look like gigantic assholes?

I suppose I'm a bit of a one-trick pony myself, because all I ever say "You are a monumental idiot".

OK, that is actually the PG-13 version of what I usually say, but I'm still worried that my mom will yell at me if I swear.

America. Home of monumental idiots. And enough smart people to keep it from being a bad place to live.

Later in the day, when we were all sitting around, talking about the monumental idiot, we encounter yet ANOTHER monumental idiot (read: Customer) who mentioned, very politely, that English should be the "default" language on the phone line. I'm sure he thought he was being politically correct somehow by not falling back on the "This is America" thing, instead indicating that he was sure that most of our customers speak English, first.

Spoken like a man who's never had to explain tax law to someone who just got a Social Security number.

I refrained from breaking into the compulsive "you're a monumental idiot" laughing fit, and instead went for the "wow, you must be on crack," approach, which went right over his head--I'm sure he gets that a lot.

Meanwhile, we have an ongoing "thing" at the office, in which we share all of the most interesting customer names, and all of the most interesting towns in which they live. In the interest of privacy, I won't be discussing the names, but the towns....as you may have guessed, I'm partial to Mukwonago, because, well, it's funny...Watalula, Arkansas was a good one, too, but today, I got to talk to someone from Ronkonkoma, New York, and was declared the all-time champion of Funny Town Name Bingo.

(Thats on Long Island, for those of you Googling...)

I like to joke that in my home state of North Dakota, the white people came in and re-named everything because they couldn't pronounce words like Kaukauna.

OK, that isn't actually funny, because it's basically true. I really can't pronounce Kaukauna.

In my home town, between the city limits and the cemetery, you would find the "end of the line"--a place where railroad trains would go to turn around and go back to where they came from. The railroad builders celebrated the end of the long and difficult job of building a railroad track by naming a town after the railroad itself--the Great Northern Railroad.

Which also turned out to be a Funny Town Name.

Which means I win, forever.

Last but not least, today, Sarah asked, "what were you doing six years ago today?"

And of course, I remembered. I remembered like I remember exactly what I was doing when I heard that John Lennon was murdered. Or when the shuttle exploded during take-off. Or that Princess Diana was killed in a car accident. Or John F. Kennedy, Jr's plane was missing. Or that Elvis Presley had finally done himself in, in the most long and excruciating way possible.

Elvis died on my mother's birthday, and on that particular evening, her birthday, we watched the news with Walter Cronkite while she cooked dinner, there in our little home town, named by rich white robber-barons, with no one offering to take her out for the evening or make the meal for a change, since it was her birthday. We just...watched the report about something that we thought would never happen, that had happened. It was probably my first experience with national, or even world-wide, shock and mourning. And, there was my mother, cooking her own birthday dinner, because that was what she always did, and if she didn't do it, nobody else would.

August 16, 1977 turned out to be a small thing compared to what was ahead...it was lacking the eerie silence only broken by the sounds of F-16's flying overhead, which is what we experienced in 2001. (I found the noise to be at once scary and comforting.) I can't help wondering, since I was not there with my parents six years ago, if my mother watched the news, or if she just cooked the food, because that is what she always did, and if she didn't do it, nobody else would.

I think that the backbone of America is the people who carry on when the rest of us are freaking out. They may not even be aware that they are offering an important service--maybe they just do it because it needs to be done, and if they don't do it, then nobody will. They are...people like my mother, who always seems so cold and disapproving to me. In reality, she is ever the mother--vigilant, protective, ready to assist when needed, and strict because, well, you wouldn't want to know me if she wasn't.

Those are the people who got up and went to work while the rest of us where sitting around watching CNN.

And some of them speak Spanish.

Because this is America.

Aint It The Truth...

Tina[2:56 PM]:

How has it been going w/ ur mom and dad visiting

Me[2:56 PM]:

oh, you know...everythings all pleasant and nice...

Me[2:57 PM]:

much happiness and love

Tina[2:57 PM]:

LOL

Me[2:57 PM]:

no, seriously, it is nice

Tina[2:57 PM]:

thats cool

Me[2:57 PM]:

of course, I'm going completely insane

Tina[2:58 PM]:

lol why?

Me[2:58 PM]:

oh, you know...

Me[2:58 PM]:

deep seated childhood trauma...

Me[2:59 PM]:

the fear that I might be becoming my mother...

Me[2:59 PM]:

does my father really enjoy my cooking or is he just saying that...?

Me[3:00 PM]:

are they bored w/ me?   Or horrified...?

Tina[3:00 PM]:

lol

Me[3:00 PM]:

And of course, when they are gone, I'm going to have to go on a bender of some kind...

Me[3:01 PM]:

6 or 8 days...

Tina[3:01 PM]:

lol

Me[3:02 PM]:

long enough to prove to myself that I'm not becoming my mother

Tina[3:02 PM]:

maybe longer than 6 or 8 days…

 

And the parents are gone, as of this morning…we now return you to your regular programming.

Now Junior, Behave Yourself

Please allow for exceedingly and uncharacteristically "quiet" and "polite" behavior for the next couple of days...

My mother is coming to visit.

Its not that I can't be "myself" around my mother.  She is not a judgmental person and doesn't lecture me about anything, although she did once literally kick me in the ass for smoking.

It didn't hurt.  She's my mom, after all.

But you know how it is...you are "yourself" around your parents, but maybe it is an edited version.  You're always somebody's kid, and don't want to burn out their minds eye by telling them ALL the things that pass through your brain on a regular basis.

Oh, that's just me?

Never mind.

Also worth noting, at the exact time I was writing about the things that pass through my brain, Smart Guy told me " you're uniquely dysfunctional", and continued, adding "no surprise, there, I bet..."

Is it that obvious?  And if so, does my mother know?

Hmmm...

I don't think she reads this blog, and given the fair amount of filth that passes for entertainment around here, I suppose that is a good thing.  In the interest from not burning out my own minds eye, I don't even want to imagine my parent being amused by the rambling of some insatiable freak, especially if it happens to be her own child.

"Child"...

Child of 41--children of my own...but still...

Anyway, I'd like to take this opportunity to briefly talk about all of the things I won't be talking about with my mother.

...

...


Oh.  My.  God....I got so completely drunk on Sunday!  (This sounds like the beginning of one of Sarah's stories...)

It started off with me saying "wow, that is the biggest bottle of Riesling I've ever seen" and ended a couple of hours later with my friend's husband saying "you two drank ALL the Riesling?"

Yeah.  The woman's wine glasses are like freaking iced tea glasses OK?  I only actually had three glasses of wine.

And because she is a psychotherapist by trade, we talked.  And we talked.  And we talked.  We talked until I started slurring, and her husband had long since passed out after drinking a couple of tumblers of Yagerrmeister.  

Lightweight.

Therapists find me endlessly amusing--please note the "uniquely dysfunctional" observation above.  I've had shrinks say "call me anytime" and waive fees for me, just because I'm so fucking amusing.  They never try to "fix" me, just delight in the ridiculousness and spend the entire 50 minutes laughing those deep, hearty laughs.  

Thank God...if any of them started freaking out or getting serious with me, I'd be worried.

You just can't tell your mother the stuff you tell a therapist because not only would they be absolutely mortified, they would probably think that all that insanity was somehow their fault, which it mostly isn't.  

Next item:  Girl and her jack-hammer.  I swear to God I actually used a real-live jack-hammer on Friday, and it was awesome, and I had this brilliant idea that I would take a picture of the me with the jack-hammer and make what can only be considered to be the most obvious joke about a girl and a jackhammer, but I stopped short of getting the picture, partly because I can't stand to have my picture taken, but mostly because that would be too crude, even for me.

But now that I put that thought in your head...go nuts.

Next item:  Thank you, Thank you...too much information, but thank you ...A girl at the office was showing us the bruising she received as a result of wearing handcuffs for recreational activities over the weekend.

Honey, at the bar, we'll talk about your little black and blue marks.  Hell, in my car on the way to the bar, we'll talk about it.  I'll even give/get pointers.

But at the office?  Are you nuts?

Aaaaaand....is this something you would talk about with your mother?  I didn't think so.  I mean, if I can't talk about it with MY mother, and I'm not YOU, then holy crap!  

Just sayin'...

Next Item:  I think he likes you, that's what I think...I ask you, have the planets lined up just so?  Because the conversations my friends and I have been having lately all go like this:

"He likes you"
"You think?
"Yeah, he's totally flirting"
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely"
"Wow, that's so weird...so now what?"

And we collectively shrug, because the only real answer, of course, is "Run away with him!" which is what I tell my friends, just because I'm a horrendous trouble-maker.

So I say, again..."run away with him".  Keep things interesting.  Life was not meant to be boring...

Try explaining that to my mother.