Spooky Things

Happy Halloween! I’m one glass in to a bottle of white, so things could get real around here pretty fast.

Like I said in my last post, I would shre with you the scariest thing of all.

Mother-daughter bonding. Some have mastered it, some still strive to get past “For the last time, I don’t like girls. Jesus!” My mother and I fall into the former.

Case in point; has your mother gone to see Rocky Horror Picture Show with YOU lately? Did she laugh when a young man in a corset deep throated a banana or when your fiance pulled down a girls panties and ran like his balls were on fire?

No?

That’s because your mom is lame and has never sat in her dorm room and watched the walls breathe.

Between Rocky Horror, Jason and my anniversary, and the Scenic Drive (like a fall festival with Grandma made handicrafts and carnival food) Halloween gets lost in the shuffle and by the time it arrives I have no plans except to drink and watch horror movies on the couch in my underwear. And it is around this time that I have brilliant ideas for costumes! This year, I bring you…

THE SCARIEST COSTUMES EVER!

1. Zombie Jesus.
Dress as Jesus. Add zombie make-up. Stumble around moaning “Eat me, EAT ME!” while throwing Ritz crackers at everyone. Stigmata optional.

2. Mormons
Dress in white, carry bibles. Bonus points for blonde wigs. Ask people to if they would like to hear the good word. Extra bonus points for quoting The Book of Mormon: The Musical. Watch people awkwardly smile and back away while they try and figure out f you are kidding or not.

3. Santa
Scare the shit out of little kids, making them think that you are checking up on them and updating the naughty list.  Instruct them to leave beer and pork rinds this year. Good opportunity to get hot chicks to sit on your lap and ask if they are “naughty”

Remember, the best part about Halloween is the discount candy the day after!

 

 

 

 

Once upon a TIme…

I used to write. I wrote about things that made me smile and confused the rest of you (who ever you may be….whom? whom ever? fuck it….). Somehow, the very essence of writer fuel dried up.

Nothing was happening.

No one was doing crazy things, I got better at my job, Jason and I spent more time alone than together (thank you opposite work schedules!) and Kirby continued to be fluffy. I settled quickly into a boring rut filled with Charmed marathons and 5:30 am wake up calls.

But that was then.

If you haven’t noticed, it’s Fall. The air is crisp as the apples on the trees, pumpkin flavoring is everywhere and scarves are a requirement not an ironic fashion statement.

This season fills me with a sense of adventure. I feel awake and ready to take off running at every moment. It’s a time to gather people you love close to you and lapse into sugar comas without bitching about the calories.

My point is, things are happening. You can look forward to posts about:

Me learning to sew.

Adventures in new vegetables.

Buying a second car.

And as always, the weird shit my family does in the name of bonding. In fact, look for that last one on Monday.

Glad to back!

Bitch with a Pumpkin

Breathe through it.  It’s okay. Don’t think about that now.

(snort) Yeah right.

I’m not a person who can side step her pain. I don;t compartmentalize or repress. I can’t even delay an emotion until i’m in the ladies room. I out and out cry in public. I giggle when something is funny no matter the occasion. I bounce when I’m happy, I raise my voice when I’m mad or frustrated.

I run at whatever feeling is ahead of me and crash through it like a missile through a brick wall. I’m gonna shatter that bitch and get it out of my damn way if its the last thing I do. Once I realized I was pushing aside anxiety symptoms, not real emotions, expressing myself has become a more accesible form of herion.

Today, I took a particularly awful call in the call center. And by awful, I mean that it came out of no where and bitch slapped me. A routine call turned into an email to my both me and my supervisor accusing me losing the company money and reputation points.

I panicked.  I was scared that I could lose my job and be back on public aid, stressed out and exhausted from trying to keep our heads above water.  the slighest tp of the scale and everything could go to hell.

So I cried. I cried because I did the right thing. I cried because another persons entitlement was getting me in trouble. Mostly I cried because I wasn’t wearing waterproof mascara and god is cruel that way.

Amongst the back-pats and reassurances, I dragged myself up and quick stepped to the company gift shop. I bought a glass pumpkin, one of those autumn decoration knick knacks and sat it on my desk. I practically skipped through the rest of the day.

So go ahead, call me a bitch when it doesn’t go your way. You just earned me something shiny.

Make All the Things!

There are times when I have a yearning. An all encompassing need. It calls to me from behind my computer screen. It shouts at me from store fronts. It is ever prestent.

I wish I were a crafter.

I want to make things! Useful things, cool looking things, things that have a color scheme!

I tried knitting when I was in high school. I successfully make a purple square. I put it down and picked it back up sophomore year of college. I successfully made a larger and longer red rectangle. I have since dropped knitting like a hot potato. Now I itch for yarn and the steady clicking of needles.

Being a Capricorn, I’m a natural worrier and am plagued with practicality. However, being born on the cusp of Sagittarius makes me impulsive.  I could plan out the perfect craft, get the supplies and lose intrest in it all in one day. I’m not thrilled with spending non-refundable money on well thought out whims.

Where should all this “make-all-the-things” energy go? It beats the hell out of me.

Foodie; Not a Savior, Just a Swallow

Its as simple as this:

I’m not losing weight. I might be the only person on the planet who’s not.

However, I changed my relationship with food. It took a long time, luckily I started the journey when I was 12.

I used to need things. I used to want a full belly, not a mouthful of something yummy. I wanted a distraction from the loneliness and sadness over the fact that my father didnt want me, that I never had friends because we moved so often.

When I was in junior high, my mother joined Weight Watchers. In four years she lost 200 pounds. She gained it back over the next six. I watched her methodically put chocolate in her mouth like a robot while watching TV. I say her deny herself things she wanted until she cracked and went on a bender of sugar and french fries.

In short, I learned everything not to do.

My freshman year of college went so badly that I over ate more than ever. If I wasn’t eating I wasn’t awake. Yet every time I would hop off the train for a holiday at home, my mother would exclaim, “You look so skinny.” Depression does funny things. I eventually left that school, came home, got an apartment and really learned how to cook. Vegetable soup, pumpkin bread, and chicken pot pie were my first cozy comforting attempts at real meals. It was in that townhouse next to Kroger that I learned that mashed potatoes out of the box are blasphemy and no self-respecting person should use frosting out of a can.

Once I learned what goes into food was when I learned what I can and can’t get out of it. The smell of bread baking, the sound of slicing a crisp pepper, the feel of mashing potatoes by hand. All these things are like heaven to me. Actually eating it has become a formality.

I am at least 60 pounds over weight. I wear a size 22.

Okay, a 24…… Sometimes a 26 YOU GET THE IDEA!

I go to the gym 2 days a week, 3 when I’m bored.

I can still wear my sophomore year Homecoming dress.

I’m not small and that’s not my goal. I may never be and I’m okay with that because Jason calls me sexy everyday. And Kirby thinks I’m keen.

And isn’t that the point?

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