The man and his PS3 are making a very serious attempt to drive me over the edge of reason. Since I work days and he works nights, we rarely see each other through the week. He will come dragging in anywhere between 3:00AM and oh-my-freaking-Gawd-do-you-know-what-time-it-is. A sane person would toddle off to bed after working 14 hours and then driving another hour and a half to get home, but not the man. No. Huh-uh.
After being punched in the nuts about fifteen gazillion times for waking me up with a "Hey Baby, ya wanna?" at No-Fucking-Way-O'thirty, he has learned to find other ways to amuse himself. I think he's now having an affair with John Madden 2010 NFL Football.
It's a tad bit disturbing to be woken by commentary by John Madden. I can be blissfully asleep, dreaming of having some sexy time with movie stars and college cuties, when out of the blue I hear:
"He's back real deep, waiting to return this one."
"Looks like he's going to re-enter."
"He's got a hot hand now and it looks like the other team is definitely gonna have to put some hands on him."
"He's got a valuable weapon there."
"He's feeling some pressure now and looking for a tight end to step up and help him out."
"They need to gather the troops now, because that's just poor execution."
See? John Madden wants to have orgies in my house! I can hear it in his creepy old man voice and to tell you the truth, it's scary. It's a good thing The Man likes bendy girls and boobs.
Looks like it's time to shave my legs and set the alarm clock a few hours earlier, 'cause there's no way I'm letting John Madden horn in on my game.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Meet my new friend, Trigger
I wish I knew how to describe it. I have heard it described beautifully, and I have heard it belittled, simplified, defined for the amusement of others. There are no flowery words, no hard lines of definition. It is vagueness personified. It is murky, foggy, shadowy nothingness with a healthy dose of hell mixed through. It borrows you, piece by piece, for its own. Depression is not always dark. Sometimes it is blinding white terror with the volume turned down for the sensitive. Drowning isolation occurs simply within your skull. Or your psyche… whatever. Depression finds what ever is the quintessential you and taints it, causing it to slowly rot away.
I don’t understand how some people don’t get it. But then again, most don’t grow up watching it. Seeing it personified in your parents, your surroundings, your life. For me, depression is as natural as breathing. It is the constant companion from my childhood. It is the make-believe friend that I never outgrew. It is the cause of my self-deprecating humor and the roots of my neurosis. I do quite literally picture this thing as a shadow, following everywhere, almost comforting in its reliability. Parents, friends, lovers, even husbands have left…depression never. Ironic that it is my longest relationship.
We make a good team, depression and I. We are on the same-wavelength. Soul-sisters. Damn. Talk about your fucked-up relationships. I wish depression and I could just take a break.
How do you break up with a disease? (Insert joke about ex-husband here) I know this relationship is unhealthy. I know I need to end this and move on. I see how it affects the real people in my life. I get it. Really. But I don’t know how. It’s like facing an abusive partner, one that is bigger, badder, meaner and stronger than me. Every time I try to leave depression, it makes me pay for my insolence. In spades. A dose of torture will be meted out and measured.
I find that I resent the good times, because I know that a crash is coming. The crash is around the corner at all times. I try, to see the beauty and good. I stop and look at the simple things that bring me joy. Not in a “Stop and smell the roses” kinda way, but in a “hang onto this moment, ‘cause you’re gonna need it soon to keep from doing something stupid” way. I am not suicidal. Would never act in this selfish way. My love for my children is too great. My fear of what would be said about me after I’m gone keeps me from ever acting. But have I played it out in my head? Yes. Does everyone? I don’t know. Maybe. For years I assumed everyone thought this way. And not in a trivial way, not in a “Here’s how I would do it if I absolutely, positively HAD to with no other alternative”.
So what now. Depression and I have fought again and I lost. Now it wants to wrap its arms around me comfort me with the familiarity that I recognize. Depression wants to hold my hand and my head and walk through my everyday with me. We can share some self-loathing with our dinner and discuss our denial. I don’t have the strength to tell it no again. So here we go. I’ll take care of my kids, give The Man and my job all I can, but right now, I am Depression’s bitch.
I don’t understand how some people don’t get it. But then again, most don’t grow up watching it. Seeing it personified in your parents, your surroundings, your life. For me, depression is as natural as breathing. It is the constant companion from my childhood. It is the make-believe friend that I never outgrew. It is the cause of my self-deprecating humor and the roots of my neurosis. I do quite literally picture this thing as a shadow, following everywhere, almost comforting in its reliability. Parents, friends, lovers, even husbands have left…depression never. Ironic that it is my longest relationship.
We make a good team, depression and I. We are on the same-wavelength. Soul-sisters. Damn. Talk about your fucked-up relationships. I wish depression and I could just take a break.
How do you break up with a disease? (Insert joke about ex-husband here) I know this relationship is unhealthy. I know I need to end this and move on. I see how it affects the real people in my life. I get it. Really. But I don’t know how. It’s like facing an abusive partner, one that is bigger, badder, meaner and stronger than me. Every time I try to leave depression, it makes me pay for my insolence. In spades. A dose of torture will be meted out and measured.
I find that I resent the good times, because I know that a crash is coming. The crash is around the corner at all times. I try, to see the beauty and good. I stop and look at the simple things that bring me joy. Not in a “Stop and smell the roses” kinda way, but in a “hang onto this moment, ‘cause you’re gonna need it soon to keep from doing something stupid” way. I am not suicidal. Would never act in this selfish way. My love for my children is too great. My fear of what would be said about me after I’m gone keeps me from ever acting. But have I played it out in my head? Yes. Does everyone? I don’t know. Maybe. For years I assumed everyone thought this way. And not in a trivial way, not in a “Here’s how I would do it if I absolutely, positively HAD to with no other alternative”.
So what now. Depression and I have fought again and I lost. Now it wants to wrap its arms around me comfort me with the familiarity that I recognize. Depression wants to hold my hand and my head and walk through my everyday with me. We can share some self-loathing with our dinner and discuss our denial. I don’t have the strength to tell it no again. So here we go. I’ll take care of my kids, give The Man and my job all I can, but right now, I am Depression’s bitch.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Picture Day!
Here's a little taste of what I stare at all day at work.
And to the kind, portly gentleman who chatted me up today: No sir, I do not want to see your "Stimulus Package". And now my brain needs a some electricity jolted thru it to remove the image. Thanks for that.
And to the kind, portly gentleman who chatted me up today: No sir, I do not want to see your "Stimulus Package". And now my brain needs a some electricity jolted thru it to remove the image. Thanks for that.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Chrome, Chrome on the Range
The Man and I have a Harley. I guess that makes us two of “those” people. Yes, we can see you looking at us. No, we’re not going to rob you.
Seriously, most people’s reactions to bikers are wary and frightened or sneering and judgmental. Honestly folks, you needn’t bother. We’re not that different and our criminal pasts equal that of the nearest nunnery. For the uneducated, let me school you in ten easy steps.
1) We are not poor white-trash. In our group you will find business-owners, skilled tradesmen, surgery technicians, corporate managers and other successful, tax-paying people. This is not uncommon. Chances are that shiny piece of machinery you see sitting in someone’s garage costs as much as your car. The extra pretty ones rival your cousin’s Beemer. Just ask the lawyer that was camped next to us at the last biker rally.
2) We are not members of a gang. This is true of many bikers. If we did have a gang, it probably just be everyone sitting at my house waiting on me to feed them. And then the phone would ring and it would be other gangs asking us to quit making them look bad. Yes, we give gang’s a bad name.
3) We do not park the Harley in the house, or re-build the transmission in the bathtub. Side-note: I cannot pry the top off a beer with either my teeth or cleavage. Just saying.
4) Yes, I own leather jackets and leather chaps. No, I don’t wear them all the time. Only when it’s cold, or for special occasions when the Man asks extra nice.
5) Yep, we’re a little bit excessive in our gushing on and on about how much we love riding. But we only do it because we are tired of hearing you talk at length about your new lawnmower/vacation/iPhone.
6) I could tell you that there’s a freedom that comes with riding, but as the bumpersticker says, you wouldn’t understand.
7) Biker rallies get a bad rap. There’s just as much drinking, cavorting and special happy-time making at any Sandals Resort, and their commercials are all over the TV.
8) I love my tattoos. They carry deep, personal meaning for me. I also got them before we ever had a bike. They’re not a requirement or anything.
9) The Man will not cut you with a big knife if you look at his “old lady”. I will however cut you if you call me “old lady”.
10) My experience has always been that bikers are some of the most generous, considerate, trust-worthy people I have ever known. Benefit runs occur every weekend for sick children, fallen soldiers, aging veterans, homeless shelters. The list goes on and on. I’ve personally seen hundreds show up and pay to ride and freely give money to parents of a sick child. I’ve been on breast cancer rides, and ridden in funeral processions. I’ve attended biker weddings more touching than the most elaborate Hollywood nuptials. I’ve seen bikers pull over to change an old lady’s tire and help push a teenager’s car at a gas station so that it would start and he could get to school.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re just like you. We volunteer at our kid’s schools, we loan a cup of sugar to the neighbor and we probably drive more cautiously than you do. After all, there’s not much between us and the pavement. As spring draws nearer, please watch for us. We’re harder to see than some big ol’ four-door beast. In return, we promise to never text and drive.
Seriously, most people’s reactions to bikers are wary and frightened or sneering and judgmental. Honestly folks, you needn’t bother. We’re not that different and our criminal pasts equal that of the nearest nunnery. For the uneducated, let me school you in ten easy steps.
1) We are not poor white-trash. In our group you will find business-owners, skilled tradesmen, surgery technicians, corporate managers and other successful, tax-paying people. This is not uncommon. Chances are that shiny piece of machinery you see sitting in someone’s garage costs as much as your car. The extra pretty ones rival your cousin’s Beemer. Just ask the lawyer that was camped next to us at the last biker rally.
2) We are not members of a gang. This is true of many bikers. If we did have a gang, it probably just be everyone sitting at my house waiting on me to feed them. And then the phone would ring and it would be other gangs asking us to quit making them look bad. Yes, we give gang’s a bad name.
3) We do not park the Harley in the house, or re-build the transmission in the bathtub. Side-note: I cannot pry the top off a beer with either my teeth or cleavage. Just saying.
4) Yes, I own leather jackets and leather chaps. No, I don’t wear them all the time. Only when it’s cold, or for special occasions when the Man asks extra nice.
5) Yep, we’re a little bit excessive in our gushing on and on about how much we love riding. But we only do it because we are tired of hearing you talk at length about your new lawnmower/vacation/iPhone.
6) I could tell you that there’s a freedom that comes with riding, but as the bumpersticker says, you wouldn’t understand.
7) Biker rallies get a bad rap. There’s just as much drinking, cavorting and special happy-time making at any Sandals Resort, and their commercials are all over the TV.
8) I love my tattoos. They carry deep, personal meaning for me. I also got them before we ever had a bike. They’re not a requirement or anything.
9) The Man will not cut you with a big knife if you look at his “old lady”. I will however cut you if you call me “old lady”.
10) My experience has always been that bikers are some of the most generous, considerate, trust-worthy people I have ever known. Benefit runs occur every weekend for sick children, fallen soldiers, aging veterans, homeless shelters. The list goes on and on. I’ve personally seen hundreds show up and pay to ride and freely give money to parents of a sick child. I’ve been on breast cancer rides, and ridden in funeral processions. I’ve attended biker weddings more touching than the most elaborate Hollywood nuptials. I’ve seen bikers pull over to change an old lady’s tire and help push a teenager’s car at a gas station so that it would start and he could get to school.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re just like you. We volunteer at our kid’s schools, we loan a cup of sugar to the neighbor and we probably drive more cautiously than you do. After all, there’s not much between us and the pavement. As spring draws nearer, please watch for us. We’re harder to see than some big ol’ four-door beast. In return, we promise to never text and drive.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Picture Day!
Since all the cool kids are doing it, I'm starting a Wordless Wednesday. This will be just random shots of my life here in Bedrock including kids, animals, booze and potential partial nudity. Only time will tell.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Missing: Brains and Balls
As I previously mentioned, I manage liquor stores. It’s a good job and seriously adds a convenience factor for Chardonnay and bourbon. But let me tell you about the shoplifters. Seriously, it’s like a brand new episode of Dumbest Criminals Ever every week without the bother of commercials. There’s like a bajillion video cameras in each store designed to catch you from every unflattering angle possible. You can’t miss them, is all I’m saying. But still they come.
The latest potential felon was last week. 30ish dude with delusions about his clothing choices. Obviously he believes that he looks like an eighteen year old thug. Or gangsta. Or Rap Star. Ummmm, no. Anyhoo, he breezes in and proceeds to wind his way through the aisles, assuming that we think he is just being a discriminating shopper. Yeah, right. In the course of his travels he puts not one, but TWO fifths of alcohol down the front of his pants. That’s a half gallon, folks! Holy cow! How is there room in his pants for these?
A copy of the video was sent to the local boys in blue and they have ID’ed him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s picked up. Because of the video tape I never get called to testify in court. My statement is read and the tape speaks for itself. But I really want to go this time. I have questions, yall. Questions about why anyone would do this in a small town where everyone can identify everyone else. Questions about what he thought all those electronic thingys were hanging from the ceiling and walls. And finally, dude, you fit two fifths down your pants…where are your balls?
The latest potential felon was last week. 30ish dude with delusions about his clothing choices. Obviously he believes that he looks like an eighteen year old thug. Or gangsta. Or Rap Star. Ummmm, no. Anyhoo, he breezes in and proceeds to wind his way through the aisles, assuming that we think he is just being a discriminating shopper. Yeah, right. In the course of his travels he puts not one, but TWO fifths of alcohol down the front of his pants. That’s a half gallon, folks! Holy cow! How is there room in his pants for these?
A copy of the video was sent to the local boys in blue and they have ID’ed him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s picked up. Because of the video tape I never get called to testify in court. My statement is read and the tape speaks for itself. But I really want to go this time. I have questions, yall. Questions about why anyone would do this in a small town where everyone can identify everyone else. Questions about what he thought all those electronic thingys were hanging from the ceiling and walls. And finally, dude, you fit two fifths down your pants…where are your balls?
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