How High Does Your Garden Grow?

From the obligatory wake and bake to that last roasting before sleep at night, there is so much more to the story. It goes so far back in fact, it doesn't start with me. (This will probably be a long one, just so you're warned.)

Mom would like to believe she was a hippy, stuck in the sixties even though that's where she spent her youngest years instead of her teenage years. That being said, after that fateful act that planted me inside her, of course there was only one thing to stem the nausea of morning sickness. Weed. My birth was fast, I was six weeks early and labor lasted about five minutes. Sometimes I wonder if I was just trying to get away from the smoke.

I went years in a happy oblivious fog, until after I moved back to the Pacific Northwest. There are things that I would notice that didn't mean much to me until I reevaluated them later. All the parents would get together and push the kids out to go play together, it never occurred to me why they would want us to leave. I get it now. Even after I understood it, it was still a couple years before figuring out that at times it was more then just weed. I remember now looking back, that ceramic unicorn thing that was always sitting out in my mom's friend's room was actually a bong. Later my mom told me about "ceramics parties" that everyone would attend. I even remember taking a trip with a friend of my mom's and stopping out at some house in the country so she could pick up a little baggie taped beneath the front deck. Isn't that shifty or what?

After my mom could no longer deny that I knew, it was something that came up in conversation. I asked her if I could smoke with her, by this point I hadn't tried it yet, she said she would smoke a bowl with me before I went off to college. Something I feel cheated on since I didn't go off to college.

One day when I was about sixteen my mom sat me down in her room all serious like and said we had to talk. An opportunity had come up that she couldn't move forward with without me onboard. I felt important. Mommy dearest wanted to grow. Her boss planned on setting her up with everything she needed and another friend had seedlings ready and waiting to be taken over. I was the hitch. She needed to make sure I would keep my mouth shut and not tell anyone. She explained how serious it was, the legal aspect of it and everything. I remember crying, like I always did, the idea scared me and she wasn't doing much to comfort me. What got me over my apprehension is her talking about the money it could mean for us. The kicker is she promised me a puppy. I never got the puppy.

So up the "room" went, my old yellow bedroom disappeared behind wallpaper of aluminum foil, big sodium lights were hung from the ceiling and fifty five gallon buckets each with a tender little seedling were spaced evenly over the floor. She vented the room into the attic from a hallway access point, meaning the "room" was obvious after you stepped into our home and there were times a quick shut down was in order because of company. She tried her best to keep me unassociated with it, but a time or two I was asked to water the plants when she couldn't and it wasn't worth risking the whole stock to wait. When the first batch (yes, first, there were more) was ready, my mom's boss came over and it was a grooming party that they kept shooing me from the room for. There was paper bags full of the stuff that my mom would eventually end up locking in the garage freezer. I never did see any extra income from the whole endeavor, either it wasn't as much as my mom expected, or the ripple effect just never reached me. I guess it was at least a learning experience.

At seventeen, a friend and I decided we wanted to get high. She had a friend so we took a couple busses and headed downtown. This was only my second experience with public transportation so I was already a little freaked out. We got to her friend's house, he was a coworker of her's from a monastery kitchen, he was bizarre. He gave us each a Budweizer and we sat and waited in his living room while he went and took a shower. It was my first beer and I didn't like it so my friend drank her's and half of mine as my gaze wandered over this guy's decor. He had a weird obsession with nuns, there was a book shelf with probably three hundred little nun dolls and figurines. It was weird. The guy finished his shower and slipped into his Ramone's worthy attire and out on the street we went again. Wandering downtown was so different then my known semi-suburbia, but I kept my amazement to myself considering it was just me who felt that way. We showed up at this other apartment, where two very friendly lesbians lived. Except for rumors at school, this was my first encounter with a same sex couple, it was a great impression because they were no different then anyone else and it was good for me to see that in my sheltered life. Turns out they didn't have any weed to sell though. Bummer. But they were willing to smoke us out. Um...what? I had been looking forward to more privately trying it for the first time, not in front of strangers in a strange place. I didn't know what it would do to me and I didn't want to find out with an audience. So I didn't smoke. My friend did. Already buzzed on a beer and a half she toked up. Then it was time to head home. Great, she was all ditzy and I didn't know the bus system. Thank god we were spending the night at her house that night, I doubt my mom would have liked any excuse we could have come up with about being late, while her parents didn't seem to mind in the first place.

A couple days or weeks later, I don't remember, I realized duh: I could get weed. Not only did my mom always have a stash but there were nearly fully grown plants growing in my own home. So in probably my biggest act of rebellion (besides stealing a few cigarettes from her while she was in the shower) I stole some from both her stash, and straight off a few plants. I head over to my friend's house (the same from my downtown adventure) with my little stash in hand. We informed a neighbor of her's of our precious herb and the neighbor pulled out her home made bong named Mr. Bubbles.

The first time I got stoned I was standing with these two girls in a six foot by three foot shed, hovered over a lawn mower with Mr. Bubbles in hand. After that, everything was hilarious. We went back to my friend's house giggling up a storm. I called up one of my best friends just to giggle and tell him that I was stoned. Something he didn't seem too impressed with but I was stoned and it was funny as hell to me.

They say that you never get as stoned as the first time, but for me, it was the second time. Several friends and I had planned a Halloween party at a local park. We had talked to the park manager and everything and were permitted to be there after hours as long as we weren't too loud. We barbequed hot dogs and had a cooler full of soda, a dozen people or so, some of them staggered throughout the evening, and some that didn't stay long. After it got dark, Mr. Bubbles joined the party. We had it sitting on the ground covered with a blanket, I guess we were waiting for the right time to smoke and thank god we waited. Sometime around eleven I would guess, a cop car came rolling up. There was a bong on the ground and a bag of weed sitting in a backpack near by, a couple of us were panicked. The cop came over and talked to us, saying there was a noise complaint from one of the near by neighbors but he didn't seem concerned considering he couldn't hear us at all when he pulled up. We offered him a hot dog, he declined, wished us a good time and was on his way. I had never felt so relieved.

After the stress of Mr. Policeman waned, the topic of Mr. Bubbles arose again. About half the people still there either didn't want to smoke, or because of parole couldn't, so those of us who wanted headed off to the play structure there at the park. We didn't have water so cola was the filtering agent of choice, and we torched two little bowls in a row. When we headed back to the rest of the group, I was feeling pretty good. One of the guys there wanted to drive my friend's car, he wasn't stoned so she let him, most everyone went with. Left behind were me and this one other girl who I was kind of friends with. I lit up a cigarette and sat down beside her. Time started to slow down for me about the same time she started talking.

I'd take a puff off my cigarette, watching those glowing embers burn down at an excruciatingly slow pace. I was only peripherally aware that the girl next to me was still talking, I could still hear her but I just kept thinking about how long it felt like that cigarette was taking. I feel bad for not listening to her because she needed it, about halfway through, her side of the conversation got serious. She was telling me that she thought she might be pregnant. However, I was stoned and as much as I wanted to be there for her, I was in my own world. After what seemed like forever I finally finished my cigarette, but I had a new problem. I was thirsty, incredibly thirsty. The cooler was only about five feet away but in my eyes it was kind of moving so it seemed like a daunting task. After debating it for quite some time I stood up, the head rush was amazing and horrible at the same time. I nearly tripped making my way across that five foot span to the cooler, but damn did that soda taste good once I got it.

My friend and the guy who wanted to drive her car returned. He was the one on parole and couldn't smoke but he had been a toker for years and enjoyed screwing with those of us that were stoned. He wanted to go driving again and for some reason I still can't determine I went with. He had no licence and he was only interested in playing. By the end of his second outing of speeding and sharp turns I came stumbling out of the car experiencing my first bout of car sickness. I'm not sure why anyone thought it was fun.

I smoked a few times after that, again stealing from my mom's stash, using a pop can the way more then one person had showed me at that Halloween party. I parted ways with the friend I had first gotten stoned with so the thrill was gone except for the pilfering of my mom's stock. It wasn't until a few months after the hubby and I moved in together (at that time he was still just my boyfriend but we all know where that led, right?) He had never smoked before, not that he didn't have the opportunity but he rather enjoyed telling people that he never had. We went down to the local head shop, simply because it was one of the things you do when you turn eighteen, like buying a lottery ticket and taking a trip to the porn shop. We found this little plastic bong that was U.V. reactive under the black light, and the hubby loved it. It was only like twelve bucks so we bought it. After a few days he said to me, "well... we might as well try it." So he called up his best buddy, the guy who had been trying for years to get him to smoke, and told him to come over, that he was ready.

Unfortunately it was the same night my hubby had tried beer as well. With some people, especially the first time, weed and alcohol don't mix, and they certainly didn't for him. A few bowls and a Killian's Irish Red later and the hubby was laying on the bathroom floor. I had a decent buzz, I think my breading better prepared me to handle weed and alcohol just fine. Oddly enough, after that my hubby wasn't turned off to the whole thing and we tried it again, just without the beer. It was great and it started us onto the path that we are on now.

At first after getting stoned we didn't want to do much of anything, except maybe sleep which felt so good back then. If we had smoked, there was no way I was driving anywhere so everyone that wanted me to play taxi was out of luck. The munchies were great back then too, and no matter what it was, it tasted amazing.

We are more seasoned smokers now. I can't get as stoned as I used to but then again part of me is happy about that. I can fully function now, if not better function with the aid of THC in my system. It takes the edge of my anxiety and slows down the stream of unconscious thought flowing through my head. It helps me calm down when I am wound up, and without it my appetite is nearly nonexistent. Contrary to popular belief, big girls need to eat too, if not I start feeling like complete shit. Sometimes weed just gives me that reminder I need to actually eat, however the munchies don't work the way they used to. Going along with my need to over analyze everything, I've been able to fend off munchie hunger for the sake of the real thing. It's linked to my food issues, damn my mother.

Speaking of my mother, I still haven't smoked with her. We never really talked about it again until one day a couple years after I moved out. I had stopped by her place for something, I can't remember what now, but when I arrived she was standing at the sink cleaning out a two foot tall glass bong. I'd seen her clean her bongs before, how else did I learn that rubbing alcohol and rock salt will make your pieces all squeaky clean again? This was a little different, she was telling me where she got it and mentioned that it had a missing piece. She poorly tried to explain what piece she meant, pausing to ask "you've used one of these before, right?" This was after she stopped paying my car insurance so I didn't have anything to loose by saying "um... yeah..." So again she tried to tell me what piece was missing, and I quietly piped up, "the slide." It was a pull stem and it was missing the slide on it, I felt myself getting red just saying it. It made me wonder if she knew how to use a bong without a carb on it. If she was surprised, she didn't let me see it, from the feel of the room, I was the only one who felt weird. I am looking forward to smoking with her some day.

It's funny all the tips I could give her on growing now. HighTimes.com has a great database of Q & A's that probably would have come in handy to her. A few months back I was house sitting for her and on the last day I decided to snoop. Be shocked that I waited until the last day, I excelled at snooping when I was younger. My old closet had been turned into a half assed grow room, it was all just so sad because I could have done so much better. You can't tell me that's not funny.

I'll admit I'm addicted, if not to the weed itself then to the laid back lifestyle. I'll also admit that I'd give up cigarettes and alcohol before giving up weed. Cigarettes and alcohol can and will eventually kill me if I don't quit one and cut back on the other. Weed will not kill me. It will make me lazy, and possibly a little dull, but it won't kill me. If you don't believe me, do your research.

I hope they legalize weed. Medically, there are so many people out there who would and have genuinely benefited from the aid of marijuana over any other stronger, more damaging medications. This wrongly classified drug (for some reason it still stands on the list with cocaine and crack) should be considered for what it is. Undeniably less harmful then cigarettes and alcohol, they should just legalize it and tax the hell out of it and ta-da! We'd be able to stop the budget cuts to schools nation wide and start giving money back. It's something to think about anyway.

Puff, puff, pass. It's a good life.

Interlude

I had trouble sleeping this morning (nothing new) so up I got, wandered my little apartment for a little while as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I turned on the television, no volume, the hubby was still sleeping in the next room but what does volume matter when you leave closed captioning on constantly. It was old reruns of ER or something, I wasn't really paying attention, the television is usually just on whether anyone is watching it or not.

I booted up the computer, with full intension of signing on here and going on and on about one thing or another, unfortunately I got sidetracked. I have literally spent the last few hours doing nothing but browsing Blogger. Blog after blog a glimmer into someone's life, I was sucked in and every time I thought "okay, this will be the last one and then I'll go post," six more followed.

I saw things that rang true in myself and things that were just interesting knowledge about people's experiences that I couldn't get enough of. I just couldn't stop reading. I'm inspired. I'm inspired to write but everything I have to say is being bottlenecked as I try to get it out.

Hence the interlude. So I'll sit here and try to figure out what topic is bubbling closest to the surface, but in the meantime, thanks again to Blogger for reminding me I am not alone.

To My Friend in the Dark

Thank you.

A Big Girl's Prerogative

I don't seem to be running out of topics yet, so how about I just keep on truckin'?

As you may have noticed from my previous words, I am a big girl, round, chubby, big boned, whatever you want to call it, as long as it isn't "fat," that is an ugly word and I prefer not to use it. (By the way, I love that MySpace calls it "more to love.") Since this is where I can pour my heart out and in the spirit of not censoring myself I will say this: I am five foot four and a quarter inch (that quarter inch is important, it's all I've grown since like eighth grade) and as of two weeks ago I weighed in at 248 pounds, something that surprised me considering I haven't dipped below two-fifty in quite some time.

I don't diet, I don't even own a scale. The only reason I happen to know my exact weight is because they put me through that little bit of torture every time I go in for my birth control shot. I have no aspirations to drop over a hundred pounds to fit into that little chart they give you based on height. I have no goal of squeezing my plump ass into a size six pair of jeans that I have to hold my breath to get into, just to impress perfect strangers. I certainly don't plan on starving myself, or struggling to count calories or weigh my food.

I may not be the most attractive chick in the hen house, but on the front lines of dieting, I'd consider myself a hell of a lot more sane and a lot less miserable. It probably sounds like I have given up and thrown in the towel but rest assured it is far from it. I have as many body image issues as the next person. Remember, even skinny people hate their bodies too. I don't always look in the mirror and when I do, I am not always pleased with what I see. I wish clothes fit me better, even just T-shirts without the belly bulge. I wouldn't mind doing a little something about the appearance of a double chin, it makes me paranoid about having my picture taken, something I already have reservations about. I wish I felt lighter, simply because I am terrified of my hubby picking me up even though he would have no reservations about doing so.

But at the same time, the hubby likes what I got, and that feels good. I have a great bit of cleavage that others have been jealous over. I've got a complexion that causes people to ask what I use, followed by the shock when I say nothing at all. And whether or not it is just to make me giddy, who knows, but the hubby makes my day every time he sees a skinny girl and says "god, just eat a sandwich already."

I almost wish food was my problem, but surprisingly it isn't. If you looked at me you would probably think I ate everything I baked but I don't. (On a side note, I made some wonderful cookies last night, I know this because I actually had one!) Can you believe sometimes I forget to eat? Before the hubby leaves for work we eat a little something that we call breakfast, but then after he leaves for work it's like it doesn't even occur to me until eight hours later and he is on his way home where dinner typically doesn't happen until past midnight. My hubby is a cook, a foodie. With my pickiness I can't help but feel bad when he makes a big dinner of pork roast or something, and I end up eating a deli sandwich. I need more calcium (my birth control depletes it,) more protein, more iron, more everything. I feel like I should be in one of those V8 commercials, the one where the guy says something along the lines of "no matter how many times you hit me I am still not going to like V8."

I'm worried I'll end up a diabetic because of my eating habits, but then again that could be the borderline hypochondriac talking. I don't necessisarily want to loose a bunch of weight but I do need to get in better shape. Exercise is like a foreign concept for me, I've got a great list of excuses if you want to hear them sometime. It's not like I sit on my ass watching soap operas all day, it's just how much exercise can you get in a 380 square foot apartment?

The main reason I want to get into better shape, whatever shape that may be, is because as much as I want children and as much as I have set my life up for being a parent to surpass the importance of anything else, I'm afraid of being pregnant. (Cue the borderline hypochondriac again.) I'm afraid that I'd be putting myself or the baby at risk because of my big girl status. I know most if not all of this fear is unwarranted. Women of every shape and size have been giving birth to healthy babies for an eternity. However I've watched a girl, a little bigger then me, drop into seizures because of preeclampsia, which I know is common enough for doctors to most of the time be prepared and prevent anything bad from happening, but it still scared the hell out of me.

So, I say this: My first goal is to try to bring some consistency to my diet. Three meals a day, and perhaps even at reasonable times. For years I have been trying to broaden my picky selection of likable foods, so that goal is still ongoing. I am not good at setting goals but hey, it's worth a try and I certainly think the cause merits the effort. To the future "baby makes three," I thank you for the motivation, I only hope I can follow through.

Reaffirming the Cause

As I sit here and watch the hubby shoot the opposing team on Call of Duty 3 (rented, we, and by "we" I mean "I" am still too cheap to buy it of course,) I ponder the reasons I started this blog. For years when I was younger, I would receive the obligatory girly diary, sometimes even with a key, not that I had any siblings to keep out of it, but hey, it was a cool concept. It would be months before I'd be inspired to finally attempt to write but in each and every one of those diaries or journals, I'd maybe write only a page or two. Some rant about how my mom sucked and so did the rest of the world, blah blah blah. It never worked, I never felt the purpose behind it. No drive to keep it up past that initial blast of emotion that caused me to pick it up in the first place. Pages that I would end up ripping out and throwing away, simply so I could use the journal for something else down the line. To this day I still have a few empty journals sitting there all lonely on the shelf collecting dust.

My introduction to the online world happened long ago, probably at least over ten years now. AOL (which is still the bane of my existence, a horror you would know if you had ever experienced it) was an addiction that grew as high school began and as my place in life became less and less defined in that social hierarchy. I fell in love with chatrooms, talking to people about anything and everything, just amazed with the feeling of reaching across the country, across the world to this other person who knew nothing about me. It was more liberating then I could have imagined. I could leave out the things I didn't like about myself, embellish the things I did, and the occasional flat out lie didn't matter because we were never going to meet beyond the computer screen and keyboard. I was young, it was all so exciting. Back then was before the public television announcements warning parents to guard what their kids have access to online. I guess I was pretty smart about it though, part of what was so thrilling was the complete anonymity. They didn't have to know where I was, or even who I was, and I was free to say whatever I wanted without the repercussions that come from speaking to someone face to face. I think chatrooms is where I developed my inner bitch, thank you for that. Along with that spectacular inner bitch, I acquired a knack for the keyboard that I only wish could make my mom proud. The top I have been clocked is about 85 words per minute, but I average around 70 typically. Nothing compared to the 100+ of my mom, but I doubt she could type and watch television while getting high at the same time, heh, if only she knew. I've found I type much faster then I write things out longhand, duh, and it helps me keep up with my thoughts that just keep going. Plus since I was in like junior high I have had a thing about my handwriting, which sucks because there is nothing wrong with it. I'm just not satisfied so I end up rewriting everything, even the grocery list a lot of times.

Those typing skills, interest in the internet, that ever constant failure to even try to keep a diary or journal, all put together with the fact that besides the hubby (who has heard it all by now,) I don't have a person to unload it all on, a place to get a new perspective, or a way to feel better about all of those things that I let bottle up until I burst into tears for no apparent reason in front of strangers, yeah, all of that has led me to the world wide web of blogging.

I tried one in the past, a few years ago, right here on Blogger. I narrowed myself by telling too many people about it. Once I showed my mom, and I don't think I ever posted another thing on it after that. Doubtful she'd ever remember the address to get back to it, but I realized all confidentiality I had, had been ruined.

For a long time I didn't even think about it, until MySpace came along. It was awesome at first, I found so many people that I never thought I would see again, let alone get a peek into their lives. However it's a diverse group of people we have acquired on our friend's list. People with connections to my mom or whatnot, causing me to limit what I wanted to say, while there were others who it was easier to bare all with, as long as they didn't know you were bearing all with this other person and ugh, are we back in high school again? I'd realized my last blog entry there was back in June, about a barbeque we had and the pictures from it. Nothing personal really, just the safe basics. With the inspiration for the post "Am I Wrong?" stewing in my overactive head, I knew I had to do something for my peace of mind, to get it off my chest, to just feel freaking better about everything. And I knew I couldn't do it there.

So again I try. My hubby is the only physical person in my life who knows about this glorious page and for now anyway I plan on keeping it that way. That's not to say I don't want readers, because believe me I do. I take no satisfaction from trying to address this "Dear Diary" or something of the like. I write these words as much for me as I do for anyone who wishes to read them. I may have come here to not be judged, but that doesn't mean that I didn't want to be heard. And because this is turning out to mean so much to me, I am trying to do my best to not hold back. I keep telling myself I have no reason to censor myself, but that isn't an easy commitment to make.

The main thing that has stopped me more then once from backspacing and deleting this line or that one is because if I can't be me with myself, what luck do I have with the rest of the world? My hubby has taught me a lot about being myself, simply because that is who he loves. Every curve (even the extra ones,) every scar (and believe me I got a big one I'll mention some time) and every flaw (um... see other posts?) and he loves me. He is my confidence, which is all fine and good, but I think it's about time I found some on my own, which is where this blog again enters the picture.

So bare with me in this self-actualizing mess I call a blog, because it really is therapy without the couch, paying a hundred bucks an hour and without the bobble head of a shrink asking me why I feel the way I feel and how I feel about the way I feel. (Really I can only guess but could you believe I wouldn't mind trying therapy someday?) Maybe, just maybe, this will make a difference. To me, to you, to the cow jumping over the moon, something. So far, it has already felt worth it. Thank you.

Mommy Dearest

I figured at some point I should post a semi-coherent rambling post based on my mother. She is largely the reason I am who I am, and that isn't always a compliment.

Way back when the eighties were fresh, my mom ran off with a guy, a guy who wasn't exactly a pillar of the community. Those times were littered with vast amounts of alcohol, drugs, lies and the occasional fist flying into her face. And then the glimmer of me came along, my mom turned up pregnant. She was young and not ready for what having me meant, but circumstances caused her to step up more ways then one. A friend had decided to move in with my mother and father while she was pregnant, simply to protect her (and me) from the mean drunk who contributed to half of my DNA. When I was about two or three months old, she realized fully that she couldn't raise me in that home, with him. With that fear that still seems to linger within her to this day, I don't know how literal she means it but she calls me her lifesaver because of it. I will probably be devoting a future post to "dear old dad" as I have unresolved issues there, but today is about mom.

With me perched on her hip, my mom made her way back home to my grandma in southern California. Tight lipped and obviously changed, we went on with our lives. For the first ten years of my life I was sheltered. Mom worked, grandma took care of me after school. I only had one friend, the daughter of my mom's best friend. There was no yard, and the highway was two houses down so going out to run and play didn't happen often and never unsupervised. I spent most of my time playing a lonely game of pretend and living vicariously through all the colorful characters on television. My world was small, but my mom did her best.

When I was about nine, my mom's longing to move back to the northwest (and away from grandma's rule) pushed to the surface and the planning began. We packed for months, not knowing when we were going to move, just that we were. Opportunity came in the form of my mom being fired from her job, right after getting home from vacation, and right before Christmas. Yeah, my mom's boss was a bitch.

And so the adventure began, driving over a thousand miles to this completely unknown world. I say unknown because of the way I had been raised to this point. We lived with a friend of my mom's for several weeks, there was too other kids there and I was completely baffled by the dynamic. There was a yard, we got to go out and play... with no one watching! You should have seen my wide eyes when our mom's gave us some money and told us we could walk to the store to buy candy. Walk to the store? Alone? CANDY?

My new world was hindered, by me, by the way my mom sheltered me. Somehow I was instilled with this fear, of everything. I never took risks (to be honest, I still don't.) All the neighborhood kids would go down to this ravine and play on a rope swing strung up across a creek, at least I think so. I was never able to conquer my fear and actually head down that ravine. I would sit alone at the top waiting for everyone to return with stories of flying on that swing and catching newts, snakes and crawdads. I was always jealous.

I always had trouble making friends. Up until this point, my friends were built in, children of my mom's friends. I didn't socialize much in school, I was quiet and kept to myself. After we moved away from grandma, it was just me and my mom, us against the world. Quaint but isolated. As junior high and high school came along, our routine became gray. After school I'd come home to an empty house, maybe make myself a snack, do my homework if I felt like it, watch television and zone out on the computer. Then mom would get home. After screaming at me to do my homework (whether I had any or not) and then making me cry over popping some popcorn as a snack, she'd make just herself dinner and head to her room, close the door behind her and watch her pre-recorded soap operas and smoke weed.

You may have noticed that I said she got mad at me for making popcorn and that she made only herself dinner. Let me explain, I have always been picky when it comes to food, part of it probably has to do with what they fed me when I was little but oh well. I am a big girl, I've always been chubby and looking at my family, I am supposed to be. So why at age eleven was my mom trying to feed me diet shakes? Who knows, but at about twelve my mom gave up and said I had to fend for myself when it came to food. And yes, I would get in trouble for making popcorn. If my mom smelled it when she came home, there would be hell to pay and there would be all sorts of threats about locking the pantry and fridge. All of which I might have been able to handle better, but my mom was a complete hypocrite. She'd say sure, I could get some ice cream at the store, but only the cheap store brand, and only vanilla, and I can only have some when given permission. Then she would grab for herself, the name brand chocolate peanut butter ice cream which I wasn't allowed to have. (She drove me nuts with this, she'd melt peanut butter over her ice cream, and again tell me I wasn't allowed to do the same... mm.. peanut butter.) She'd buy two boxes of the name brand chocolate chip cookies and stash them in her closet. When I would ask her for some for dessert, I would get one, sometimes two. Cookie hoarding bitch, sheesh.

Anyway (sorry, I got sidetracked) I seem to have a truck load of issues now, all because of the way my mom did things. I can't eat a cookie now without feeling guilty about it in some way. Which sucks because baking is one of the things I can do quite well, but I never end up tasting my creations. I am freaked out about heights because my mom used to make me do all the ladder worthy chores because she was freaked out by heights. I need constant validation for little things like vacuuming and doing the dishes, because according to her, I always did it wrong. I am afraid to get a cold because I always feel like I am trouble, because with her, being too sick for school was a punishable act. Because of her I seek compliments that don't include the word "but." I still never take risks, if I feel as if I could end up foolish in any way it's just not going to happen. I am terrified of bugs (not sure how my mom is to blame for this, but I am sure she is.) I think I may be a borderline hypochondriac, which I recently found out through talking to my mom, that she kinda has been too, she just always tried to not let me see it. Apparently that didn't work. I can't seem to form a long lasting good relationship with a woman, again, another of my mom's traits.

One thing I regret most from my teenage years is the fact that I never stood up to my mom. Not once did I yell back (still haven't actually.) She'd yell and scream while I cried, occasionally I even got in trouble for crying. Homework and chores were usually how it started, but it always ended up with her taking her bad day at work out on me. Oddly enough, I don't hate her, I even don't completely blame her. I believe that she tried her best in a situation that she wasn't ready for and didn't expect. Looking back, I know now that she was dealing with depression without the aid of medication and the stress of life and having no one to share the burden with weighed on her more then I could understand.

When I moved out of her house, I had the highest of hopes that our relationship would become something better. In a way it has, but in a few other ways, we just seem further apart. After I moved out, my mom got a boyfriend. Completely weird because the whole time I was growing up I don't think she went on a single date. She moved her boyfriend in, without mentioning it to me by the way, and things have changed a lot. For one, she is happy. Happier then I remember having seen her in years. She goes out to eat, she goes on little weekend vacations to the beach, and best of all, she doesn't sit in her room anymore. I don't know the guy very well (even though it has been a couple years now, we are both the shy types so conversation hasn't really been abundant) but he makes her happy and that's all that matters. All this is great, and I am happy for her, but I can't help but feel sad at the same time. He is getting a side of her that I didn't. The side that is fun and that laughs and actually enjoys life. It makes me miss her, but how can I miss a side of her that I don't know?

We talk about once a week now, only five miles apart but we probably haven't seen each other since Christmas. She'll tell me to call her, then while I am telling her what is going on in my life, it seems like she just wants to get off the phone. Honestly she doesn't offer much information up about her life, which makes it hard when I am talking to grandma and she asks what's up with my mom. When she says she is going to call me, I wait for it, because she rarely calls when she says. She once waited three weeks before calling me, because she figured I'd call her. Ugh. I have been talking to a girlfriend of her's a lot. The mother of my first and only friend in California. She see's the way my mom is, and perhaps understands it better then me considering she first met my mom when she was five. Because she knows, she has offered me some of what my mom hasn't. A nonjudgmental and sympathetic ear, free advice, confidentiality, even gas money if I needed it. I can't ask my mom for any of those things because they are always laced with guilt when they come from her.

What else can I say? I love her with all my heart and nothing will ever change that, but I am not ignorant to her mistakes. Hopefully that will make me a better parent in the future. No mother/daughter relationship is perfect, and I realize that and embrace the good things that I had that others perhaps didn't. I don't consider myself broken because of my experiences, perhaps a little more cynical, and a little more sensitive, but I take satisfaction in knowing that I am just as screwed up as the next person, just in my own special way.

Still Hard to Manage

So of course, just as I let the inner bitch out to rant and rave about the unknowingly annoying antics of my landlord, ring... ring... Waking both the hubby and I mind you, how about we (I say we, but my hubby did all the work) do a laundry list of things that we are no longer responsible for. Of course the hubby said yes.

If you met the man that we paid our monthly rent to, you would better understand how hard it is to say no to him. Not only is this little old man in failing health but he is incredibly soft spoken and like the nicest damn guy you can find. So nice, you feel bad saying "damn" in fact.

Two ladders, six light bulbs, a trip with the broom through the hallway and laundry room, a trip with the mop through the hallway and the laundry room and a few other menial tasks later, the hubby (in an attempt to further discourage the use of us in his maintenance tasks) asked the landlord for a little more compensation then the job really called for. Really, fifty bucks for everything said and done was probably a bit much, but oh well. He paid and now we wait for the next time, because, as we have learned by now, there will be a next time.

Can You Manage?

Changing light bulbs, sweeping the hallway and laundry room, repairing the toilet. These are things that the maintenance man of an apartment building would do, right? Sure it is, those were the type of duties that we did when we (the hubby and I) held that title here. We did that plus we were typically the middle man for complaints, which wasn't always a walk in the park.

Until one day a few months ago, the landlord sprung it on us that he was planning on handing the building over to a management company due to his failing health, also he plans on raising the rent. (By the way, the lack of corporate influence was one of the perks of this place.) Basically we were fired in the maintenance/management capacity and in turn lost our discounted rent, not fun. Alone that gives me something to complain about, but that's not the reason for my rant today.

Mr. Landlord (who still is yet to bring in this previously mentioned management company) continues to ask us to do those maintenance orientated tasks. No longer do we get the perks but we are still expected to do the work. Not that we are expected to do it free of cost, he slips us a five or a ten every now and then telling us to go get a burger or something, but no discounted rent, no title, and no respect from the other tenants. I can't say I feel very motivated.

Want to know how it all started? The hubby and I had been living here for about five years when a herd of wild teenage boys (I am sure there is a Latin term for the species) moved in down the hall, adding to the already large number of teenagers that occupied this building. By this point we already did all of our own repairs (this is a hundred year old building remember, there is a lot of repairs) as well as took responsibility for keeping the shared deck clean, which included sweeping more then once a week and emptying ash trays daily because it never even occurred to anyone else to do so. All those teenage boys were rowdy and their friends, who were always here, were worse. It soon became clear that some policing of their actions needed to be done and since the landlord didn't live on site, we volunteered for that coveted position of manager.

We had to post rules on the deck to try and keep order, post an "emergencies only" sign on the fire escape because it was a lawsuit waiting to happen, we nearly had to ban smoking on the deck because people decided it would be a good idea to put their cigarettes out on the old wood, smart eh? You can't even imagine how many cigarette butts and pieces of chewed gum we have had to clean up out of the parking lot, because even though people were told not to, and given an alternative such as multiple ash trays or a garbage can, off the deck seemed the logical place to throw things. We numerously had to be the bad guys and say "shut the hell up" or "you need to tell your friend to leave" or "don't climb on that." (Again, teenagers, fresh from mommy's care.)

Parties were always another issue. Droves of underage drinkers, some of which enjoy getting into fights when liquored up. We'd police the parties, and I'd typically have to be a bitch, which as I may have stated in a previous post, I don't necessisarily mind. I once had to tell a couple to leave the property. The guy was dancing with his girlfriend's sister, a fight followed of course, including a slap that could be heard from a decent distance away. They decided to move the yelling match from inside, to the deck outside, at 1:30 in the morning. Yeah, that wasn't going to fly, just what we need with a bunch of underage drinking going on, a yelling match for the neighbors to call the cops about. So I made them leave the property and I got to say I felt damn good after words.

We have a rule here, if you are going to have a party, then you let the other residences know ahead of time so they can voice an objection or at least be warned of it. This rule is only rarely followed. Just before Christmas, the year before last, a neighbor had thrown a party. (By this time, the herd of teenage boys had moved back home to their mom's, however there were still several other teenagers who still resided here.) A drunk as a skunk party, that some time after midnight was getting louder and louder. So, still holding that manager title, we had to go see if we could get things to quiet down. There was about a dozen people out on the deck, all quite loud, their voices echoing off the neighboring houses, mixed with the blaring music coming out of their open front door. I approached the girl who's party it was and said that she either needed to get her guests to quiet down or take them inside and close the door, because it was way to loud to continue as was. (In a post a while back, I mentioned a friend flipping out on me with a string of rude names and whatnot for no reason, this is it.) She went from happy drunk to mean drunk in two seconds flat. I was a bitch and my hubby a tool, we have parties all the time, why should this be any different? Apparently the rule about letting people know about parties didn't apply here, and neither did the long standing rule about being real loud on the deck, or the one about being responsible for your friends behavior when they are here. While she stands there continuing to yell, more party guests arrive in the parking lot, one deciding to not even try to make it up the stairs to the apartment, unzips, and pees on our dumpster. I remind her (by this point I am not doing well remaining calm, pretty close to tears actually) that she is responsible for her guests, and she shirks it off saying she didn't invite the guy even though he was her friend and a guest at her party, it has nothing to do with her. There was absolutely no reason for her or her friends to be quiet or to respect the other tenants and neighbors trying to sleep, or even to respect the building she calls home.

After about twenty minutes of her drunken insults (most of which having nothing to do with the situation) and my hurt feelings, which as you can tell I am still not over, she and her friends made their way inside and finally closed the door. The next day she and her friends stole our chairs off the deck, as well as ripped down the "no loitering" sign, took pictures with it and posted them on MySpace. It was six months before she said a word to me again, after she had gotten knocked up and started complaining about other people in the building (her once best friend in fact) having loud parties. I couldn't help but feel some satisfaction that she finally was on the other side of things.

So yeah, back from that little side trip, our management position in this building was about preserving the place and having respect for our home. Keeping it looking decent and not going to shit because of careless people. Back to my original complaint, we are no longer are managers here, the landlord took that away from us not because we weren't doing our job but because he is basically changing the whole format of everything. Just not yet apparently, and in the meantime, he wants us to continue doing as we have, just without any benefits. Is my irritation justified or am I just looking for a reason to be unhappy?

That Hard to Find Gamer Chick

So rumor has it that the Playstation 3 will be coming down in price soon. Not that I have a strong interest in PS3 though, we got a PS2 about six months ago and really except for a few games that can't be found elsewhere (Dark Cloud would be a favorite), I am not too impressed. The reason the price coming down on the PS3 makes me happy is simple, if they are doing it, hopefully that should mean XBox 360 will soon be following suit.

Yes, I have my pretty little heart set on a XBox 360, drooling a little inappropriately over Halo 3 and Call of Duty 4 as I dream of an affordable price. Stuck a decade back, with the original XBox, knee deep in a vast collection of five dollar buy one get one free games. (I'll post the list some time, it's impressive.) Even as I sit and play against a fleet of fourteen year olds that have nothing better to do but devote their life's energy into leveling up, Halo 2 reigns as favorite. If it weren't for the squeal of pre-pubescent voices over the headset, Conker: Live and Reloaded would be a close second. How could you not love a game where little fuzzy squirrels and teddy bears blow each other up? But as it is now, Conker hangs about even with Call of Duty 2: Big Red One.

If you can't tell already, I spend most of my XBox time, on XBox Live. (I highly recommend to anyone with an XBox and fifty bucks to get Live for a year, it's worth it.) Before Live came along, I stuck to games of tedium. Simulations like Harvest Moon (on GameCube) and any of the Sim games (any of them including SimCity, any system) would have me wrapped up for hours, still do on the occasional day.

Live gave me an appreciation for first person shooters that I had never had before. I sucked at aiming so I tried to stay far far away from games that required me to do so. Until one day, I tried Conker, with the Sneaker. For those who don't know, the Sneaker character on Conker is a little ninja dude with a sword. A sword as in no aiming, just get close and button mash, something I was capable of. I had been playing fighting games like Mortal Kombat in the arcades for years, so button mashing I am good at. After I got damn good at using the Sneaker on Conker, I upgraded to the Demolisher, a big tough slow guy with a rocket launcher. I like rocket launchers. It was my first attempt at aiming, and of course at first I sucked, but then I realized with a rocket launcher, you don't have to aim very well, just close enough. I can do "close enough."

Igniting a passion I didn't know I had, the hubby now has to sacrifice half his screen to play two player with me. Little did he know what he started when he handed me that controller a few years back. I implore any chick with a gamer for a guy to give it a chance. By allowing myself to play and enjoy it, the hubby and I now have a shared interest and I don't resent him nearly as much when he'd like to play video games when he gets home from work. I just plop down on the couch beside him and pluck up my trusty controller (decked out with duct tape because the cats like the chew) and tell him to bring it on.

You just gotta love that hard to find gamer chick.

Potholes and Pitfalls

So far the road to a new place to call home hasn't really been an easy one. Potholes and pitfalls consisting of apartments out of our price range, ridiculous pet fees and apartments lacking what we want, especially in a kitchen, remember the hubby is a cook and I have been washing dishes without a dishwasher for nearly seven years.

Our main road block however, seems to be that everywhere we find that is exactly what we are looking for have no openings in sight. There is this place right up the hill from us, a two bedroom townhouse, one and a half bathrooms, dishwasher, washer and dryer hook-ups, extra closets, a huge living room, everything! The topper on the cake is it is only a hundred dollars a month more then we are paying now, which is perfectly within our price range. However the place is full without even rumors of something opening up.

So the waiting game we play. Calling every week or so in hopes of something, anything becoming available, while in the meantime we continue to look for other options that take us over those previously mentioned potholes and pitfalls. Also, just in the spirit of making us feel like trying to rush things along, we have a friend moving back to town in a few weeks that will be staying with us for an undetermined amount of time. If you fully understood how small our apartment is and how much smaller it feels when there are three people living there instead of two, you would want to hurry to expand too.

Another slightly complicating factor would be that we are yet to tell our neighbors about our decision to move. As big of a deal as this is for us, we'd rather not ruin the excitement by letting this get out before we are ready. There is essentially a wait-list to get into our building and I can't help but think that once we made our little announcement that we'd basically start getting pushed. "So, when are you moving?" "Are you out yet?" "Can we come measure for curtains?" If you think I am exaggerating, believe me I'm not. Another reason I'd prefer to keep things quiet until things are a little closer to happening is I can't help but feel that at least one neighbor will be quite happy to see me go, and rather then feel sad about that, I'd rather continue to feel excited about moving. I have to say though, it's hard to keep this a secret when a couple of our neighbors keep asking what we are planning on doing with our unexpected busted bumper induced payday, we have just said that for now it's hanging out in the bank, which isn't a lie at least.

Even my mom says the right thing will come along, we just have to wait and keep looking. Which is saying something because my mother isn't really one for handing out advice free of charge. Believe me, I have hope, what I don't have is patience so I wouldn't mind a little luck to make up the difference.

Re: The Invitation

It isn't always fun being right.

So they called while they were on the way to his mom's house for dinner, asking if we were still on for after. Funny considering we never actually solidified anything in the first place, but whatever, we said sure.

Over four hours later we finally hear from them again. They had been home for a while and had invited a few other friends over to watch a movie. Another night, perhaps?

Like I said, it isn't always fun being right.

The Invitation

As the hubby snores away in the next room, I sit here and wonder what the day holds for us. It's his weekend, so we don't have that pesky work thing to bother us today, just whatever our little heart's desire. Too bad we will most likely spend most of the day doing pretty much nothing as we decide whether or not it is even worth going anywhere, because going somewhere typically costs money. (If I haven't mentioned it before now, I am quite cheap, I don't like parting with money without a damn good cause.)

Our friends who had fallen off the face of the earth have resurfaced (and as I said in the last post, they are completely clueless to us having been upset) have invited us over today. Before I go much further, let me just say that the hubby and I are complete home bodies. We don't go out a lot and typically when we do, we'd rather be home anyway. Plus we enjoy a few cocktails in the evening and we are not the type to want to drink anywhere but home, simply so there is no worry about actually getting home.

A good example of these friends of ours was New Years Eve. We planned a big party (well, only big considering how small our apartment is) and invited over a dozen friends. We got big loaves of french bread and made big gourmet sandwiches, and we had a couple home made dips and crackers galore. We also made a huge stockpot full of alcoholic punch and bought some beer (a big deal because we never buy beer, ech.) A lot of people said they would try to come, a couple had already made other plans, but we at least expected a few people, right? Nope. The only two to come, where these two. Something we might have appreciated, if not for a few things. One, full well knowing how much food and drinks we had, they went out to a huge dinner before coming over, walking in the door complaining about how stuffed they were. Two, they had one drink each. Vast amounts of punch, and one drink each. (We had set this party up to go all night so there would be no drinking and driving involved.) And three, it's a New Years Eve party remember, they went home about 12:45. Yeah, if that wasn't a kick in the teeth, I don't know what was.

So back to our friends inviting us over. They only recently moved back to town, so we really haven't been over to their place much at all, but the problem isn't necessarily timing. They like to invite a whole bunch of their other friends over at the same time, which wouldn't be a problem except that the whole reason we would want to go over there is to see them, not their annoying friends. Yes, annoying, I haven't even met most but I can bet you I would want to pull my hair out in no time. A lot of their friends are still fresh out of high school, and the hubby and I learned years ago that the high school mentality was overrated. You put six eighteen year old girls into a small room together and it's going to be like fingernails on a chalk board. We have enlightened our friends to this fact and this they seem to completely understand, except for the fact that nothing has changed. The call to invite us is rarely understood due to the high pitched giggling in the background.

Plus they always want us to come drink, knowing that we really only drink at home. We passed that point a while back where it felt cool to crash on someone's couch for the night. Sure, people crash on our couch all the time, but we are also damn good hosts. We always try to feed whoever is drinking and we don't let people leave until after they sober up. We get that there is a responsibility to letting people drink in our home, and we take it seriously, not many others we know do.

To make things more irritating, today's invitation was complicated. They want us to come over today because they don't work tomorrow. We asked what time, and the guy said he worked this morning 8:30-1:30 so any time after that, except for the fact that they are having dinner with his mom around seven, so any time after that, except for the fact that the chick has school the next day so not too late. And by the way, there will probably be other people there too.

So to shorten this already long story, we will probably end up waiting for quite some time by the phone for them to call sometime after they eat dinner, only to have them finally remember to ring and say they have other people on the way over and we'll get together another night. (If you can't tell, I know this because it has happened several times before.) These are the people we usually call our closest friends.

Fun, huh?

Am I Wrong?

(Please be prepared, this blog entry is dripping with sarcasm, don't slip in it.)

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be wrong all the time? No, probably not. Most people don't take time out of their busy days to ponder such a thing. Sadly I seem to be learning this lesson, quite often.

My mom used to refer to me as a sensitive kid, just like she was when she was little. Occasionally the Gemini in me was blamed, but for the most part I was just considered overly sensitive. I haven't out grown this over the years.

Does being sensitive mean you are wrong? It sure seems like it.

I'll admit: I over react, I am neurotic, I panic, I cry when it isn't worth it. I tend to make things more then what they are. I get offended, I get hurt and I rarely get over it right away.

A friend does an about face all of a sudden and calls me a string of horrible names without explanation or apology, and I am the one who is wrong for not wanting to be nice to her after that. She again tries to pick a fight for some still unknown reason, and again I am wrong for having a problem with it. Apparently she can do no wrong, but me on the other hand doesn't have that luxury. Another friend decides they are too good to spend time with us, yet I am the one who is wrong for being upset about it. Another friend falls off the face of the earth and when they finally do call again, they act like it hasn't been forever, and yet again I am wrong for being sad about it. The landlord decides to raise the rent which stretches our already tight finances, but because there is nothing that can be done about it, I am again wrong to be worried. I am wrong for letting what people say and do get to me. I am wrong for letting my heart get broken so easily. I am wrong for taking anything personally. I am wrong for being tired. I am wrong for being bored. I am wrong for being lonely.

I can't say all of this is in my head either. My husband sees it. "Unfair but true." I'm wrong, their right, no matter the situation, case closed.

Why is it that my reaction (or as I previously stated, overreaction) so wrong? Why is it that just because I let things get to me that I am just flat out wrong? Why shouldn't I be affected by the things around me? I've asked why it is that no one else can seem to be wrong but me, and there is no apparent justification. It just doesn't seem okay to be sad or mad or worried anymore, I am always wrong for feeling that way.

It's just the way it is, and I am tired of it. But then again that would make me wrong too, wouldn't it?

Fair Weather Friends

Now that the day of hearts, flowers and curly haired diapered babies with wings and a bow and arrow is over I can now bitch about all those loved ones I hold so dear without the guilt of St. Valentine hanging over my shoulder.

It's hard being stuck in the middle. I don't have kids yet, so hanging out with the friends who have already signed on for parental duty isn't always as entertaining as it may appear. I am twenty-five now so I am slowly getting over the "old enough to know better but still too young to care" mentality, which makes it harder to hang out with the younger crowd who still believe that being stupid is fun in some fashion. Those who don't fit into those two categories are typically the ones who have better things to do (or better friends to be with).

Our home has always been considered a fairly popular rest stop to our friends and our friend's friends. A place you could stop by without calling and end up spending the day just hanging out in good company and with good food. That being said, it's been a little quiet recently. Even those my husband and I have called our best friends, have slid to fit into the above categories.

At twenty-seven, one of our closest friends only occasionally fits into the "still too young to care" section but spends all of his time now in the role of Dad. Don't get me wrong, I do not spite him for this. His kids are beautiful and he obviously loves them more then life itself, unfortunately his significant other is not to my liking, but that's another story. This guy lived on our couch for a year, he was our adopted child, the stray that followed us home and we kept him. Now we don't even get visitation and apparently his Neanderthal ways have prevented him from ever learning the skills it takes to properly use a phone. I miss him.

At twenty and eighteen, a couple friends of ours just barely fit into the "old enough to know better" classification. Young enough to believe that driving down a country road in the middle of the night with no headlights and smoking weed is a fun activity. Young enough to drink and hop into their car without a driver's licence between them. Young enough to splurge their whole paychecks on crap, then complain that they are too broke to pay bills. And apparently young enough to think the hubby and I are too old or boring. These, for quite some time now, have been our closest friends. They moved back to town to be closer, they used to come by almost every night, even crash on our couch when the occasion called for it, called and texted all the time. For the last couple weeks it hasn't been that way. They only come over now when they can get money out of us, and they have stopped calling and texting all together over the past few days. I miss them.

Another friend, the same age as me, is someone I have called my best friend on and off for many years. We met in fourth grade and that first sleep over consisted of us two giggling girls making fun of all the contestants in the Miss Universe competition. Our friendship lasted on and off through a good chunk of high school, until I couldn't handle the pressures of our social group any more and I got out. So of course, as is the way with high school girls, I was shunned by them. After well over a year she and I ran into each other in the hallway at school, and she realized she only hated me because the rest of that social group hated me, and we became friends again. The problem with having a friend with so many other friends, is you end up a lot lower on their list then they are on yours. Though I have called this girl my best friend several times over the years, I find it doubtful that she would say the same thing about me. That's where we are now. I haven't seen her in over a year, sad considering we don't live that far apart. We talk every once in a while but she is always so busy that it just leaves me longing for the old days lounging in her old bedroom listening to Adam Sandler and Green Day. I miss her too.

I've never had the best relationship with women, I blame my mother because she is the same way. I am not one of those girly girls who is driven by make-up and fashion, I could care less what brand I am wearing. All the high pitched whining that tends to come with the female race has made me appreciate the company of males so much more. I look over some of the women friends I have had over the past few years, a couple of young neighbors come to mind who things were fine with until for some reason both started trying to pick fights with me over pointless bullshit. This is a great example of how things end up going when I make a new girlfriend.
I am not a hater or a fighter but I can be a bitch when the need calls for it, and I am certainly not willing to waste energy on pretending to like someone who doesn't like me. My husband says this is part of my problem. That it would be easier to put a smile on and not let it bother me, but he's wrong. It's not easier for me. In that sense I am definitely all girl, I dwell, I hold on to things that hurt me because I don't want to be hurt again. I cry when my feelings are hurt even if the situation or the person isn't worth it.

Don't get me wrong, we still do have a few good friends who don't disappoint as badly, friends who fit into those previously stated sections but still feel we are worth the time. We even still love those who flake continuously, I just choose to bitch about them occasionally to feel better about it.

To all my friends, I wish them the best, no matter where life takes them even if it is away from us.

Pass It On

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I'm In the Mood For Love...

Let's start off by making one thing clear, I don't mean love in the romantic sense. I have that, and I am quite happy with it.

Next month, for my husband and I, it will be eight years since that fateful first date. Back in high school, the Sadie Hawkins dance, and before you ask, no; I wasn't the one who asked him as per dance tradition. A friend knew about my crush and took the liberty of asking him for me. Almost eight years later, and I love him more and more every day. He is my other half, he is who makes me strong, keeps me sane and loves me because of, not in spite of, all my flaws. I trust my husband completely, sometimes more then myself. He knows me better then anyone and I wouldn't have it any other way.

In the age of quickie divorces and even quicker marriages, I feel pretty damn lucky. I had been told my whole life that family is the most important thing, and I can't help but thinking that those who you choose to be in your family are just as important if not more so then the real thing, because not only did you choose them, they chose you.

The type of love that has my mind spinning today is broader then that. Love for each other, love for everything around us. Love your family, they are an unmovable force in your life, embrace it even if they do drive you nuts. Love your friends, even if they don't last, but especially if they do, because no matter what you will carry them with you forever. Love yourself, for all the beauty inside and out, don't give up your chance to be happy with who you are for the sake of making yourself into something you're not. Love your job, not necessarily because it's what you want to be doing with your life, but because it allows you to spend the rest of your time where you'd rather be. Love your home, because there truly is no place like home.

Free love, happy love, that love that makes the world brighter and life easier. Love that touches one person, and then another, and then another and just keeps going. Love the differences, love the irony, love the reason you get up in the morning.

There are too many people focus on what's not important, wasting time and energy that isn't worth it. Today of all days, just take a deep breath and let go of all anger and sadness that won't be there tomorrow anyway and enjoy life for what it is and what it's all about. Love.

Happy Valentine's Day.

(P.S. Everyone is allowed a hippy rant every once in a while, peace!)

Home Sweet Home

Last month, our three-hundred dollar-duct tape wearing car was sitting there all peacefully on the street outside the living room window and then crunch. Long story short, it was a hit and run and stupidly in a company vehicle, so the company paid us off to cover their butt's. I am not complaining, without this unexpected payday, the hubby and I wouldn't be looking for a new place to live, finally. To fully understand why I say "finally" you have to know about our current "Home Sweet Home."

When the concept of moving danced it's way into my pretty little head, I decided to make a list of all of the "cons" that have come with living in this one bedroom apartment measuring less then 400 square feet in a hundred year old building... This is what I came up with:

(Please know that some of this is just my personal rant, not complete negligence on the part of the landlord, heh.)

And, in no particular order: no bathtub, no dishwasher, more then the occasional lack of hot water (most water issues are due to the fact that six apartments and at least three businesses down stairs are all using the same old school industrial water heater which the landlord doesn't know how to work right), more then the occasional construction (never done renovating), unlevel floors, unlevel counter tops, unlevel windows and doors, badly installed windows (we know this because we watched 16 year old boys install them), old cabinets falling apart, old drawers falling apart, bathroom ceiling coming down (one layer of paint at a time), living room wall falling apart, no window screens, no hood vent over the stove, no fan in the bathroom, only seven outlets throughout the whole apartment (meaning we currently have in use like five power strips, at least five three way outlet dividers and about eighteen extension cords), uneven tiled kitchen floor, uneven tiled kitchen counter, unsealed grout on kitchen floor and counter, broken tiles on kitchen floor and counter, unfinished under the kitchen sink and bare in front of the kitchen counter's base board, frequently clogging drains, massive mold in laundry room, unreliable parking, refrigerator freezes up once a week during the summer, no grate over shower drain, water under shower tiles, jimmy-rigged shower curtain rod, power lines directly outside our windows, shared deck with holes in roof, bad wiring in at least the living room light fixture, no weather stripping around the front door, horrible TV reception, every six months or so bathroom door and kitchen cabinets need to be messed with in order to hang or close right, condensation forms in cabinets, shower drips constantly and even more so when someone else in the building uses water, water pressure varies based on other tenants usage, unfinished wood window frames beginning to mold, hardwood floors not properly sealed, thermostat wearing out, a bar next door (which is only entertaining part of the time), bad history (ex-landlord is currently in jail and I am pretty sure will have to register as a sex offender when he gets out), a long list of horrible neighbors (one was making violent porn in his apartment with a three year old next door crying "why is he hurting her mommy?"), um... thin walls, more bad neighbors (eight eighteen year old boys and their friends in two one bedroom apartments down the hall, it was a frat house for several months to say the least), thirty rickety old stairs to climb every day, you have to walk through the bedroom to get to the bathroom, which makes it awkward when people crash on our couch for the night...

I suppose sooner or later I should take a breath... okay breath over, I've got more to say.

The first six months we lived in this building our kitchen sink drained into a five gallon bucket that had to be dumped down the toilet before it overflowed. Then one day the hot water wouldn't turn off, the landlord came in with a big wrench and forced the water off. For the weeks following that we did our dishes in the tiny little bathroom sink. Before the landlord invested in new windows (for most of the building, our bathroom window still has not been replaced, though I am not complaining, it is the only window in the building with a screen) the old windows had so much condensation built up between the panes of glass that you could barely see through them. When the windows finally got replaced, sixteen year old boys did it... only four screws now hold in the window frames and they literally looked at us like we were nuts we asked "shouldn't you be caulking that?" So they did because we asked, but didn't in the other apartments hence the puddles that form around the rest of the windows in the building. We have witnessed the landlord paint the building three times (one time just because the color chosen wasn't liked anymore) and one of those times they left our windows covered with paper for at least four days after they finished painting, if that doesn't make you feel claustrophobic I don't know what would. When it comes to repairs in this building, they come slow... very slow, if at all, and are rarely done right. The most basic repairs have been done best and most efficiently by my husband and I when we took over the maintenance work for a little over a year, and considering neither of us are an authority on home improvement, that's saying a lot. The move would also take us away from a couple of young girly neighbors who I am sure will be a featured topic of a rant some time in the future, can't help but consider that a plus.

To make this story that much more sad, we have been here for almost seven years now. We out grew it probably three years ago. My hubby jokes that since we have ten foot ceilings, we just started going up with things. There is really no more free space, anywhere. I have arranged and rearranged so many times in the search of more room and I just can't find it anymore. If the cats (or the hubby and I for that matter) get a little pissy with each other, there is barely enough room to retreat to separate corners for a while to cool off.

And so the search has begun. With giddy little dreams of a dishwasher and a washer and dryer, we are looking for the next place to call home. A two bedroom, a dining room (wow, an actual table?), maybe even a townhouse, and second bathroom might be nice for those oh so important nights of drinking with friends. While I ponder decorating and furniture placement, the hubby plans of the perfect layout for his surround sound and powered sub woofer. All because some drunk ass tried to rip off our bumper with his bumper and get away with it, America is great isn't it?

This change can mean everything for us. The next step in our lives, a step that will lead us closer to that daunting yet awesome stage in our lives called "parenthood." I'm not saying I won't miss this place, we have lived here for quite some time and we have had a lot of great times here. Parties and barbeques that we'll always remember and friends that we will take with us when we leave. We have had an awesome landlord (though not when it comes to repairs) who I have known since long before we moved into this building, a cool old man that I will truly miss. My first cat died here and two joined our family since. In every sense of the word, this place has been home. My safe place. It makes it a little scary, the thought of leaving this home, but I can't help but think that we have to take this opportunity before it passes it by. It's a good thing, and as my hubby always says "everything always works out." This is it working out for us.

The Retro-Modern Housewife.

I suppose I should say a bit about myself, a few basics to get the ball rolling. First off, I am me, and here, I don't want to make any apologies for that. At times I can be more then a little sarcastic and not that I really consider myself a pessimist, I just have a hard time not focusing on the "what if's" in life. I am a literal person, and I love the tangibility that words give things, I even think in sentences. Overall I would consider myself happy, but I let the little things get to me, way more then I should. I am a girl, and there for I get hurt like a girl, but at the same time I occasionally can't help but think about how ridiculous girls can be. I have been "one of the guys" for as long as I can remember, and it's a label I can live with. I'm a daughter, granddaughter, niece, cousin, friend and wife, and someday, I'll be a mom and I believe there is nothing more important I can do with my life. That time will come when we are hopefully a little more ready for it, even though I know you can never be completely ready for your life to flip upside down.

I am a housewife, a choice my husband and I made after a couple years of conflicting schedules and a constantly messy apartment. I clean, I cook (sometimes, my hubby is the real cook) and I bake wonderfully. I watch soap operas like the stereotypical housewife should, a habit I blame my mother for. I picked up the whole craft gene from her too, sewing, drawing, painting, even etching glass.

I also play video games, my husband and I can be found many a night playing Halo 2 on XBox Live, and before you ask, I am certainly not the best but I sure can hold my own. I drink, not a lot, and usually those fruity mixed drinks because I have never been able to acquire a taste for beer. I smoke, not something I am proud of, especially because my husband doesn't, but I do and when the time is right for me, I will quit. The hubby and I also smoke weed, if for no other reason then it's nice to unwind after a long day. I could give you a whole bunch of excuses but it all breaks down to the fact that we just want to. Marijuana is proven better for you then both cigarettes and alcohol, the legal system just doesn't want to change the laws yet. I'll add to this, given it's current illegal status, that I do not consider myself a druggie. I've never, nor will I ever, experiment with any substance that could be made from the items below your kitchen sink. I consider myself to at least be a semi-intelligent person, I have done the reading, the risk isn't worth it. Plus, I am a chubby girl, if I went for one of those oh so attractive hard drugs I'd loose my curves and who want's that?

Our home is often considered a pit stop, a place to relax and watch television or play video games or even a board game, while enjoying the culinary delights of my husband as well as my own confectioners creations. Fondue and home made pizza are regular events in our household, and believe me when I say I can make a damn good pizza crust from scratch.

So now you have my explanation of the retro-modern housewife. Ready with the husband's pipe and slippers when he gets home from work, but ready to kick his ass at Halo any time. For the most part, it's a good life.

Why am I here?

In the day and age of point and click, I'm just not satisfied.

Like most, I am not new to the internet, or even blogging for that matter. I'll even admit to having a MySpace account that I probably check a little too often, but that whole cliche world left something lacking for me.

Anonymity for one.

The desire to rant and rave about people who could be considered your closest friends, mixed with the dread of the thought of them reading your words and offending someone or being judged. The need to get something personal off your chest, but feeling it's too personal to let your friends and neighbors know. I found myself needing a place where I didn't have to watch what I said, a place where I didn't have to worry about what information ended up where or who would find out about what. I wanted a place where everything didn't matter so much but at the same time I could still be heard.

All this left me yearning for the comfort of a place where I can have a voice without being self consious, which led me back here. I love this world. Connecting across any distance with a few key strokes, peeking through a window into other's lives for insight, feedback, advice or even entertainment. I have met some great people here in the past and I looking forward to meeting some more in the future. I encourage anything anyone has to say, as I plan on holding nothing back myself. Everyone deserves a little peace of mind.