This is not a Christmas Post

While buying new sneakers for the girls the other night, I was subjected to Christmas carols.
On the way home, when I had escaped the carols, MIL called to tell me she’d spent the week decorating her house for Christmas, and to ask if I would help her put up her Christmas tree. That’s disturbing on several levels, but mostly because her Christmas tree is the size of my minivan, whereas I am the size of me. Also?
It is not Christmastime.

This is Pre-Thanksgivingtime. You’re supposed to be thinking about turkey, pumpkin pie, and how to avoid conflict with family. Surely you’re allowed to think about football, and maybe even get excited about the Macy’s parade, but it’s definitely not time for carols yet.

I should not yet be placed in one of those Christmas Party status scenarios on Facebook. I should not yet be receiving Christmas cards. It is, at present, suitable to be thinking about Hanukkah, but not fucking Christmas. Not yet.

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Um, I actually like Christmas stuff at Christmas.
And technically, I don’t like Christmas. I like pagan stuff during Yuletide. And so do you, if you like the tree, baking, candles, and Holly, but whatever, People Who Worship New Gods.

I am not at war with Christmas, I just don’t want to be all-Christmased-up until I’ve put the leftover pie in the fridge.
One holiday at a time, thank you very much.

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Mother Knows Best

This morning, I woke up in the dark.
The Mister was not in bed.
Realizing I hadn’t set my alarm, I panicked.
I grabbed my phone.
6:56!
Why didn’t he wake me?!?
FUCK!
I threw back the covers, raced down the hall to wake Moo.
I opened her door, turned on her light, and saw that she was not in her bed.
No, she slept in the living room.
That’s right.
Because it’s not a school night.
Because it’s fucking Saturday.

I’ve heard this happens to other people, just, until today, it had never happened to me.

When I posted my magic moment on Facebook, my mother commented, “Tee-hee. Won’t be the last time.”

That is SO concerning, cause you know that woman is always right.

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When I was overzealous, cleaning my gas range, I picked up the still-blazing eye. When I called her crying, she sighed and said, “It won’t be the last time.”

When The Mister and I had our first fight and I yelled to her, “I’m so angry! I could wring his neck!” She sighed and said, “Well, it won’t be the last time.”

So now I have three unfortunate incidents to look forward to, thanks to my mother and her infinite wisdom…

*thinks about four children that are all a little bit like her in the most annoying ways*
Nah, that’s a coincidence, right?

mama1

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Haha! I Forgot

When you’ve lived in The Deep South for seven years, you may forget a few things about actual cold weather. No, you don’t forget shoveling and scraping. Don’t be ridiculous. In fact, you were relieved to not shovel or scrape. While your friends raved on about digging their cars out of the plow’s path, you may have reluctantly said, “It seems eighty degrees in January does have its perks.”
But in that same moment, you may well have looked down to verify that, in fact, fire ants were biting your flip-flopped feet *dance dance curse dance curse stomp stomp stomp* and you may have realized it’s time to reapply sunscreen. Again. Le sigh.

People who grow up in cold winters develop a tolerance for cold and snow. We have stories about skiing and sledding and shoveling and scraping and skating. We could spend an entire evening recounting memories of blizzards and ice storms. Even the driving in the snow stories could take hours alone. Oh! Remember that time you fell through the ice? And on the way home, your hair froze and then broke? Yeah. Good times.

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So no, you would never forget snow and ice.

No, no, the things you forget about the cold involve smaller, more subtle memories.

Such as, when you’re outside for thirty minutes and it’s only twenty-six degrees/feels like fifteen, your hands go into this sorta numb stage.  It’s a bit like when your limbs fall asleep. You don’t really think about it.  It’s not that cold for outside in November. In Indiana. It’s not even Winter yet. I mean, you’ve got gloves in your pockets if it gets really cold, but for outside, at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s not bad. Besides, you’re too freakin happy to be swoopin your feet through the golden Ash leaves, lookin at the fine layer of snow that coats everything, smiling like a moron, to notice any discomfort in your hands.
Until you stick your key in the door and turn.
Ow.
“Oh wow, I totally forgot about that painfully cold hand thing. I wonder if there’s a word for it. They should make a reverse dictionary so I could look it up. I can’t believe I forgot that. Haha! Well, you must keep turning it, or you won’t get inside, so stay focused and turn that key. You’ll live.”
Ow.

I tried to look up the frozen-fingers-burn-when-you-touch-things word, but all I got were a bunch of diseases, and those of us with Anxiety Disorder know better than to read about symptoms of disease. *wags frozen finger* Big No-No.
Sometimes your hands just get really freezing cold, and you’re not afflicted with anything horrible. They just get cold. Then they thaw. It won’t kill you.

It’s going out without lip balm that might kill you.
Don’t forget the lip balm.

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That Ain’t Right

I’m going to speak badly of people now. (Well, write — not write badly — but you know.)
I like to do that from time to time, just to make sure the people who follow this blog remember that it’s not a “Nice Lady Blog,” and because I suspect some of these people read my blog, and I like to passive-aggressively insult them.

I’d do it to their faces, I really would, but they’re not coming around to chat for some reason…

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It is a very primal, juvenile thing to make fun of, or even fear, that which we do not understand.
Apparently, I am primal and juvenile.
I’m also extremely judgmental, but only about stupid petty shit.
Live and let live and all that.

UNLESS YOU FALL INTO THESE CATEGORIES:

Ordering beef cooked at any temperature above medium rare is not right. I mean, if seeing blood makes you squeamish, then you’ve got no right to eat an animal to begin with. If you had to kill that cow, and butcher it yourself, you’d be fainting and getting trampled, and that means you’re not fit to survive, so don’t tell me you need your meat cooked well. I will not “re-fire” it because you are a sissy-pants carnivore. You wanna gnaw on some black and gray char-grilled beef, you best do that somewhere else. Take your “steak sauce” with you, whatever the fuck that is.

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You should be a patriot no matter where you live. We arrogant Americans are very good at patriotism, “U-S-A!” and look at us, our government is a total wreck, but still we love who we are. Think of it like body acceptance, only for your country.

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People who are afraid of goldfish are beyond my comprehension. Shrieking in horror at the sight of Elmo’s goldfish, Dorothy, will make me despise you just a little bit.

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If you only ever call people while you’re stuck in traffic, or because your BFF is mad at you and you need us to call her a bitch with you, or because you’re afraid to be alone with your own thoughts for two seconds, we can tell. Blah blah blah.

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You people who know the lane is ending, but drive on up and wait til someone lets you in, or worse, you cut someone off — What the fuck is wrong with you?
You’re so self-centered, I bet every time you see a 360-degree mirror, you masturbate to the sound of your own voice.

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People who are from the Midwest, who do not like corn, are freaks of nature. I’m not talkin about the medically prohibited, I mean simply do not like corn. Do not bring a non-corn-eatin mother fucker to my house for dinner. I will be far too blown away to maintain any sense of decorum.
“Pass the green beans? PASS THE GREEN BEANS?! Is there something wrong with your CORRRN?”

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I am fully aware of how petty that all was. I am fine with my pettiness. Everybody’s got something.

I just showed you who I am, so you can shake your head and say, “That Joey, she ain’t right.”
I know.
I’m terrible.
And yet, so right.

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Smoke and Mirrors

Pursuant to my recent discovery of the antique mirror behind my furnace, I grew more curious about the other old mirror that came with the house. There’s an ornate oval mirror in the main bath, and its antiquing is much more pronounced than the rectangular one I retrieved from behind the furnace.

As I ran my bath, I decided to see how it was attached to the wall, and also, to see if it had any indication of a date on it.

What happened to me was slightly traumatic, and it’s okay if I peed my pants in horror just a lil bit, because, naked for bath.

I pulled the mirror away from the wall, and I distinctly heard the interstate.
*gasp*
*squeeze eyes tightly*
I immediately returned the mirror to the wall, horrified.

Minor panic attack. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

No, I did not find the face of a dead girl staring back at me, thank you, Stir of Echoes, but I would not like to look too carefully!

What the WHAT?!? Crazy ass shit FTW!

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I was rather shaken up about it. I kinda am, still. I just..what the..WHO DOES THAT?!? Okay, so you took the medicine cabinet out, and then NOTHING?!?

Now I know why I’m always finding so many baby spiders on the sink! At least once a week, I’m all, “Where do you come from, Baby Spiders?!?” I take them outside, where they all probably laugh at me in their squeaky baby spider voices.

I lay in my bath, talking to staring at the overhead light, asking it wondering, “If I take you down, will I see the sky?”
It did not respond to my query.
Bastard fixture. Prolly in cahoots with all the other fixtures.

It’s one (tacky, lazy) thing to paint around a mirror, but to not have drywall behind one? Totally not okay. Now I’ve got to drywall patch! I just wanted to paint the walls and buy some new rugs…Ugh!

I truly am thankful there wasn’t a plastic-wrapped girl in there, so that’s somethin.

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Treasures in my Laundry Room

I have an ugly laundry room.
It’s got vintage rose linoleum, some mismatched rugs where the litter box sits, scratched-up white walls, poorly re-painted cabinetry from the 50’s, copper utility pipes crawling out from and scrolling along the walls, duct work overhead — I would show you a photo, but you’d be like, “Uh, that’s not pretty. Don’nobody wanna see that.”

The important part is that I have a laundry room. And laundry facilities. And a furnace. And a hot water heater. And hey, there’s even a wall-mounted pencil sharpener in there!

Fortunately, the laundry room is closed off by a door, in which The Mister carved out a kitty door. This way, no one needs to see the laundry room and our cats can poo without the dog going in to eat their gourmet feline excrement. Yuck!

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My MIL fetched me a sweet lil sign for the human door…

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One day, I’d like to have obnoxiously feminine wallpaper in there, and return the cabinet to its previous turquoise color, but I haven’t “done” anything in there yet, because well, it’s the laundry room and I don’t exactly hang out in it.

Anyway, Sassy got jam on her white top, so while I was throwin in a load, I called her in, closed the door, handed her a shirt, pointed at her stain, and said, “Gimme this.” While waiting for Sassy to switch tops, I noticed something against the wall, behind the furnace, behind the door I never close from within. 

Wood.
Curious, I pulled it out.
It’s a large antique mirror.
Quite solid.
Dark wood.
Heavy.
Just my sorta thing!

Score!

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Movin On Down

Yesterday morning, we met with Mr. Hill et al. to see the new loft space.  We hung out while the movers wrapped-up, and then we headed to the new building.

As previously mentioned here, Mr. Hill had lived on the 28th floor.
This was the picture he was kind enough to take for me, while my drunken-but-still-anxious ass sat in the doorway to the balcony.

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Isn’t it beautiful?

I love the Indianapolis skyline.
Sometimes The Mister drives me around the city just to make me smile.

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Yeah. But you know what?
For about three months after that visit to the sky flat, I would do that thing where you’re drifting off to sleep and then BOOM! You’re falling from that balcony! Faaaaallllliiiiiing! *flinch*

When we arrived, I walked to the balcony door, decidedly less scary in daylight. But that feeling didn’t last long.
So. many. huge. windows.

I took an Ativan. I took the whole thing.
I still couldn’t wait to get out of that place!

I’m happy to announce, the new loft is absolutely stunning!
It’s got raw exposed beams, more than enough space, huge metal-forged windows, and hand-scraped bamboo floors. It’s gorgeous!

And thank tacos, it’s only on the fourth floor!

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Mama Said

I had a bad day.
I don’t normally blog about my bad days, because well, I assume you have your own…and I like to stay positive.
But everyone has their limits.
My limits may be compressed depending on the level of hormones surging through my body…

These are petty problems.
Once, in the same stormy day, our basement flooded and the basketball goal fell into our windshield.
This was not that kind of day.
It only felt like it.

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I tried to work today.
The work about did me in.
Things didn’t work right.
I didn’t work right.
I failed.
I reached out for help.
No one answered.
I attempted again, but even worse than my failure, technological failure struck.
I was ready to drink at one o’clock in the afternoon.

I own Microsoft Office, but Microsoft Office doesn’t think I do.
I entered my product key.
It pretended to do things.
It did not work.
I did it again.
It did not work again.

I called True to vent.
While talking to her, I tried to turn my candle warmer on, but the bulb blew.

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No fresh pears in my living room.

Just leaves. Leaves all up in my house.

The Mister threatened to offered to help by touching my computer.
I almost cried.
We agreed we will upload the disc another day.
(On a day that I am more stable.)

That’s it. 
I didn’t like it.

The Mister vacuumed the leaves.
Then he brought home pizza and a fountain soda.

And now my fountain soda is all gone.

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I am sad.

You may not cry me a river.
You may not play a tiny violin.
You may nod and agree, “Mama said there’d be days like this…”
Even you may sing it if you like.
Because singing is good.

 

 

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My Oenophobia Had a Color

The Back Story:
After being pregnant and nursing for several years, I lost my ability to think, I mean, drink.
I had previously had a Sunday-Dinner-Sometimes-Thursday Night relationship with Oliver Soft Red Wine. It’s local and inexpensive, and had been my favorite since Drew discovered it and brought me a bottle.
In the nursing years, I would try to indulge in Oliver Soft Red Wine, when I could.
(“When I could” is a complex situation that can really only be understood by medical personnel and other mothers who’ve had long-term intimate relationships with their breast pumps.)

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My favorite wine made me sick.
My face would grow hot and red. My skin would prickle from the inside, and I would feel unwell.
I tried, repeatedly.
I did not understand how something that had once given me pleasure could bring me illness and a sense of futility.
I gave up wine.
I painted my nails “So Merlot” as a consolation.

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Years Later:
I was at a Brownie meeting where I met a woman who told me that it was because of my Rosacea, and that white wine would not have that effect on me.
I bought a bottle of white wine on the way home.
I drank three glasses, slept like a baby, no prickly hot face.
Yay for white wine!

When offered red wine, I had to say “No, thank you,” and if prompted, I had to respond with old people phrases like, “I love red wine, but it does not love me.”
Terrible.
Then I watched other people drink the red wine.
Just terrible.

The New Story: 
Several weeks ago, Mr. Hill and his fella came to visit, bearing a bottle of Malbec for themselves and a bottle of Pinot Grigio for me.
How lovely.
We had a delightful visit.
I thought to myself, we should have more friends over for wine…
When they left, I put a stopper in the Malbec, thinking I would use the remains for cooking.

A few nights later, while I had a handful of chocolate chip cookie, I caught that Malbec staring at me.
So I indulged.
I slammed caution’s head against the butcher block table, and poured myself a small glass of Malbec.
Never had a Malbec, I don’t think.
Quite *smacks lips* nice.
Better than I remember any red wine ever being…
No prickling red hot face.
Just a rich and sweet, sweet taste on my lips.

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Had the spell been broken?
Had it only been a hormonal issue?
Had I outgrown it?
Is it just the Malbec, or could I have any red wine I wanted?
What if it’s just this brand?

I drank another small glass, which finished that bottle.
I marveled at how I had tempted fate.
Jacob wrestled the angel: I drank red wine.

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After that, I craved it.

In a pre-menstrual fury quest I went to the store to buy a bottle of Malbec (and some cordial cherries.)

I remember Mr. Hill teasing his fella, “See, you brought an $8 bottle of wine, whereas I would have brought a $30 bottle of wine, and this would have been an altogether different evening.”
But I wanted the $8 bottle of wine, didn’t I? Because what if it’s the brand that makes it safe to imbibe?

I was able to locate the exact same wine.
And it was on sale 3/$12 for cryin out loud.
That’s even cheaper than my old buddy Oliver Soft Red Wine!

My palate does not know the difference.
My parents know good wine, so I’ve had plenty.
Many of my friends know good wine, so I’ve had plenty more.
Even my old wine snob friend, Tori, worked for a vineyard, and I tasted gobs of assorted fine wines with her.
I can tell you I prefer one to another, but it’s not always the expensive bottle I prefer.

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I said I’m a foodie.
I told you I’m not a food snob.
I could probably admit that a more expensive bottle of Malbec with some delicate gourmet truffles could have provided an altogether different evening, but I’m here to tell you, my glass of cheap Malbec and two cordial cherries from the ubiquitous red box suited me JUST FINE.

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My Furry Family

Maybe it was rude to introduce you to Chubby Squirrel before introducing you to my actual pets. Never you mind that I’ve probably taken more photos of Chubby Squirrel than I have of my firstborn…Shh.

This.Is.Catticus.

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Catticus is supposed to be The Mister’s cat, to help balance male-to-female ratio in the house, because I was unwilling to bear him a second son.
We came to belong to Catticus by way of True, who rescued a pregnant mama cat.
I was visiting True when she said, “Oh! I wanted to show you something. I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, her arms were loaded with kittens. Itty-bitty-teeny-tiny mewing kittens. “They all need homes, Joey!”

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True suckered me, cause I’m a sucker for kittens.

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Catticus chose me. Catticus climbed all over me and talked all up in my face. Catticus was the runt, and the loudmouth. When the kittens hadn’t fed in awhile, True would pull Catticus out of the litter and hold him by the scruff, where he would cry for his mama until she returned to nurse.

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Catticus, “Beeeeg Boy” is now a big-boned, thirteen-pound king of a cat. He is neurotic. He does not hunt. He has food issues, and distorted body image. He hates the dog. He exercises his dominance by scratching everything with his non-existent claws.
He loves us all very much, but I do believe Moo is his person. He must have enjoyed her torturing him as a kitten. I dunno.

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Clarabelle was adopted from friends of ours who have a farm, and as such, have a few too many barn cats. Clara is the offspring of an indoor-outdoor Siamese, and who-knows-which Tomcat. She’s got one blue eye and one yellow eye.

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I had planned to take one of the gray kittens. (I’ve had four gray/brown tabbies in my life?) But the gray kittens did not love me. The white one loved me. I’ve never been a fan of white cats. It’s all that exposed pink. Very Pinky and The Brain…But she chose me.
She was an ugly kitten. I did not take many photos of her as a kitten, because, ugly. I don’t know if she’s prettier now, or if I just love her so much, I don’t notice anymore.

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Clara is a lover. She loves everyone. She lets everyone pet her, she talks to everyone, she snuggles, and she’s particularly skilled at getting her white fur all over your black trousers. She’s my ba-aay-by. She knows no strangers. She’s curious. She hunts. She easily keeps her girlish figure because Catticus owns the food bowls.

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Sadie-Dog came to us because she lived in an at-home rescue, where the resident Rottweiler did not love her. The woman who ran the rescue was worried that her Rottie’s animosity would worsen, as violent episodes intensified. When we took her, she had already suffered a broken paw, lacerations to her ears and puncture wounds on her ears and jaw. Sadie was an anxious chewer, her nerves were just completely shot from all the stress.

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The vet said after a few months of living with our large, loving family, she would stop chewing (everything, even herself) and she did. We still provide her with plenty of bones, because they keep her teeth clean, and well, she’s spoiled rotten.

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She’s well-trained. I trained her. I’m impressed with both of us in that respect. She’s excited when people come, or when we come home, and in the morning, she’s extremely happy and bouncy as if she doesn’t have a day of chores and challenges ahead of her…but for the most part, Sadie is a quiet and calm doggy.

We don’t know exactly what kind of dog she is. She’s part German Shepherd, looks a bit like a Golden and is as well-tempered as one, but she tracks the ground like a Hound, and people say they see a bit of Sheltie or Chow. We don’t really care what she is, cause she’s muttastic, even though she sometimes limps. She’s a survivor.

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Sadie is an excellent watchdog, a loving companion, and so much fun to play with. She is the quintessential family dog.
Among us all, Sassy is the most “dog-person,” and although this dog and I are like two peas in a pod, I do believe they share a special bond.

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After writing this post, I shall take liberty in lecturing you about how important it is to spay and neuter your pets, and how adoption is the best way to obtain an animal you don’t intend to breed. Rescued pets are the best pets. Ask anyone who’s rescued one, and they’ll tell you the same.

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If a specific breed is preferred, you can locate a rescue for that breed in your area, list your name with local veterinarians, and even put your name on a list at the pound/shelter/Humane Society to get a specific breed.  There are plenty of people who relinquish pure-bred dogs to those facilities.
The dogs without homes are not rejects. They are the result of irresponsible breeding, ownership, or unexpected events that had nothing to do with them. They are lovable, adaptable, and so, so cute.

You should really go and let one pick you out RIGHT NOW!

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