Chancy Chatter

These are the potentially dangerous words of an over fed, under appreciated, tattooed, formerly pierced and occasionally purple-haired, wife and mom.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Hey, could you hand me that sledge hammer?

"Dismantle Me"

I fancy you
But I've been destitute
And all I know dissolved
I could never reundo you
I will always say it's so
I will always speak the truth
Descend into a noose
Could never reundo you

I want to bury you
I want to bury you

Vultures circle around
Feathers float, wings flap, beaks pound
And though my hearts exposed
I could never reundo you
I will always bleed the truth
I will always speak
And know I was sent to cut you loose
I will never reundo you


I want to bury you
I want to bury you
I want to bury you
I want to bury you

Dismantle me
Dismantle me
Dismantle me
Dismantle me

It'’s warm and humid on Swanston Street
And the air is filled with electricity
And the sky is deeper than a dream
And the sky is deeper than a

Dismantle Me
Dismantle Me
Dismantle Me

And the sky is deeper than a dream
And the sky is deeper than a dream

- The Distillers

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Friday, August 26, 2005

The early bird gets the worm.

Those of you lucky enough to enjoy the unusually wild comments in yesterday's and today's post will have to remember them fondly as opposed to reading them over and over again. Alas, the comments got to be so hot that they spontaneously combusted and took the posts with them.

P.S. Thanks Jodi for cheering me up when I was feeling worn down. You always make me smile!

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Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Notice anything different?

Being completely oblivious to detail, or as I prefer to say, totally focused on what is actually important, I somehow over looked the expanding blogger navbar at the top of this blog. What? You don't see the navbar at the top of my blog? That's because I just finished adjusting my template to "hide" it. Why would I rid my site of such a simple and benign tool? Because of a little button called flag. Lewis, at his new collective rant space, Infinite Monkeys, pointed it out.

In case you are short on time and can't follow the links, I'll tell you how this works. People who read your blog and find it objectionable can click the flag button to alert the good folks at blogger. A site receiving a number of "flags" will be reviewed and dropped from bloggers listings. They are quick to insist that this is in no way censorship because they won't shut your blog down, they just won't list it. Unless that is, you say something really offensive, "Hate Speech" as they call it, then they will post a warning that will be shown before your web page.

The question, of course, is who makes the final judgment call? What guidelines are in place for this plan to monitor our writing? Exactly who or what do I have to hate or not hate for my words to be deemed "Hate Speech." What if I want to go on a tirade about how I hate pedophiles? Is that ok? Afterall, some would argue that pedophiles are people too and assuming they aren't on parole or locked up they have the same rights I do. What if I tell a racist joke? What if I use terms like spick, honky, towel head or porch monkey? Would that sort of trash talk be so dangerous that a warning would be needed? Call it what you want, but the whole plan is one big slippery slope to controlling what we post and how our material is presented.

At best this tool is just flat out unnecessary. It's so very very simple people, if you stumble upon a blog that offends you, click the little X in the top right hand corner of the page. It will go away and you can avoid all future contact by not clicking the link that got you there in the first place. If you stumble upon something you fear is illegal, report it to the authorities. They can traverse the proper legal channels and get the info they need to shut down and punish the alleged criminals. If you have kids and are worried that they'll find my sexually explicit stories then password protect your computer. They shouldn't be blog hopping in the first damn place! Get one of the many monitoring programs available and keep track of where they go and who they talk to online. What, you aren't computer literate enough to find and use such things? Then go take some classes at your local vo-tech school.

Hiding the navbar is an easy solution to this and it involves just pasting a little sniplet of code into your template. You can find directions here. Or e-mail me and I'll walk you through it.

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Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Selfish Moment

My husband stumbled across a job opening at a software company about an hour south of here. He's enjoyed his current position but lately there are a lot of changes going on at the college where he teaches. Those changes have made for some tense days and it was on one of these tense days that he sent his resume to the aforementioned software company. Much to his surprise they are very interested and have already interviewed him by phone. If they offer him the job they will likely offer him a salary of about $20,000 more dollars a year than what he makes at the college. The only downside will be the commute, an hour both ways. While that may not sound terrible you'd have to know my husband's hatred for long days and long drives to understand. Plus, our little one would likely loose her spot at the college's preschool and she really likes it there.

I have always bent over backwards to support his decisions when it comes to his career. When he chose to take his current job which meant a huge cut in pay so he could live in the country and be happier I supported it despite my serious concerns. Now, I understand that taking this lead programmer job would put him right back in the unpleasant situation he was in before he started teaching. (Long days stuck in a vault on a military base coding super secret crap for a government contract.) Still, part of me, the selfish part that needs new shoes and wants new furniture, satellite TV and a whole bunch of other things that cost money, is screaming for him to TAKE THE JOB. So I just keep biting my tongue and telling myself that he'll make the best choice for all of us but I'm not so sure.

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Monday, August 22, 2005

Adventures at the DMV, The story of my trip to Atlanta

Despite the crazed day leading up to my departure and getting out of the house just a wee bit later than planned, I made it to Atlanta without incident. My sister and I went out and ate huge plates of nachos before visiting the "urban" Target. We picked up some beer and went back to her apartment to watch back to back episodes of HBO's Cathouse. (Which by the way is funny and fascinating.) It was just good to sit and relax and talk. She and I certainly don't have everything in common but it's uncanny how alike we are as people even if our lives have taken very different paths.

Saturday started off on the wrong foot with me burning my sisters poppy seed bagel to a black, smoky, crisp. It wasn't just any bagel you see, it was the bagel we went down 15 stories for in a semi-operational elevator, unshowered and in our pajamas. (My blueberry bagel was delicious by the way.) What can I say? I didn't hear the toaster oven ding! She took it well though and we headed out to do a little apartment hunting for her since her current building smells like a nursing home and offers very little other than the free bagels and pastries on Saturday morning.

It was at the first apartment complex that we discovered the next bummer of the day. I had somehow forgotten my drivers license. This meant I couldn't actually go look at the apartments we were checking out (The leasing agent has to have a copy of your drivers license before taking you off to look at the apartment so that if you rape or murder them their is proof of who committed the crime.) I quickly realized that I wouldn't be able to do anything without it... Shop using my credit or debit card, get into clubs, buy drinks. So it was decided that we'd find a DMV and get a new one. After several frustrating attempts at actually contacting the DMV by phone, and in case you are wondering you CAN'T contact the DMV in Atlanta by phone, my sister called a friend who pointed us in the right direction.

The DMV was hot and smelly. Body odor of many different unpleasant flavors wafted every where. The drink machines were out of order and the plastic seats were oddly shaped causing a sort of suction on your backside. Maybe this is to keep people in their seats until they are called. The staff were as pleasant as Nazi concentration camp guards. To make matters worse there was some sort of mix up which caused me to be lost in the system for about two hours. When we finally got out of there we were starving and thirsty, not to mention sweaty and gross. I think my sister wanted to strangle me and send me home but she has an incredible sort of calm and patience so we soldiered on to the mall to look for something nice for me to wear out.

Retail therapy really does work. She went home with two new pairs of sexy shoes and I carried back a slinky, black low-cut shirt. It was in fact so low cut that I had to buy a new, especially skimpy, black bra to wear under it. After beers and showers we were back on track. We both looked gorgeous when we left the house that night and for me that was probably the best part of the trip... Dressing up and going out on the town with a sort of confidence in myself that I haven't had in months. You see, you may have noticed a decline in sexy posts or just a general malaise in my writing over the last few months. Certain events have left me feeling bruised, made me question my charm, my ability, my appeal. But Saturday night I didn't feel like an overworked, underappreciated house wife or a forgotten lover. I felt beautiful and clever even if I was a bit out of my usual element.

I must have of blended in well enough because I got lots of compliments. My favorite was when one of the darling gay boys we were out with came up and said, "I know we've just met but I have to tell you I LOVE your tits!" Witty banter and laughs followed and I couldn't blame him for noticing because my tits were amazing in that shirt. Later in the evening he was shocked to learn that I was married, had a kid and even more shocked to hear that I lived on a farm. "You clean up good!" he said "How do you do it? You must read a lot of fashion magazines." I felt incredibly proud of having pulled off the transformation from backwoods drudgery to cute and fashionable. I was also incredibly grateful to my sister for taking me out and helping me find the right clothes, not to mention spending 3 hours in the DMV just so I could enjoy the night. Sis, you rock.

On the ride home I thought about a lot of things. A break from you're everyday will do that to you. Those revelations will have to wait. Right now I have several friends to catch up with and a house that went mostly neglected over the weekend.

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Friday, August 19, 2005

Super Woman

By 7:30 am yesterday all my carefully laid plans for my weekend getaway were falling apart. A death in the family meant my in laws would not be available to pick my daughter up from school today or help my husband with meals and bedtime routines. Plus it meant that I was suddenly needed to prepare food and make calls for the bereaved during the time I had planned to prepare for my trip. Now, please understand, I wasn't close to the man who passed, but I am close to people who were close to him, thus demanding my attention.

A lesser woman would have canceled the trip but my sister is so excited about me coming and I NEED this vacation. So in a matter of 12 hours I, obtained a babysitter to look after our little one during Saturday's funeral and arranged for her to stay later than usual at school today. I gave my in-law's church community the sad news. I went shopping and stocked the house with food and surprises for my husband and child. Then I cooked a pot of Greek Lemon Chicken Soup, baked a Tiramisu Toffee cake, made a deli tray and some dip and delivered it all to the grieving family after picking my daughter up from school. I gassed up the car for my trip and got everyone fed, although it was mostly left overs and snacks. I did two loads of laundry, a mountain of dishes, took out the trash and made time for a short snuggle on the couch with my hubby before bed.

Damn I'm good.

Atlanta awaits!

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Thursday, August 18, 2005

The Fallacy of Seduction (sexual content)

Believe it or not, despite all my feminine charms, I am no good at playing hard to get or being coy. Furthermore, I am probably capable of seducing my way into all sorts of situations but I find that tactic always leaves me hollow. The fact is, if I like you, I'm going to let you know and if I want you, you'll know that too. If I love you, I'll love you forever, even if at some point one or both of us has to walk away and I will not pretend otherwise. It's not so much honesty I am talking about here, more an inability to repress or disguise my most basic emotions. Besides, people aren't prizes to be won and if you play games you rarely end up with what you wanted in the first place.

When my first husband left me for a girl he'd met at a military awards banquet in Washington D.C. I was sure that I could draw him back to me. After a few weeks of letting angers cool I would walk into is office late at night as he used an Air Force phone line to carry on his long distance love affair. Without saying a word I'd sit down in a big chair across from his desk, hike up my skirt and let him peek at the smoothly shaved, pink lips between my legs. Smiles were exchanged. Instantly he'd loose interest in whatever his new love had to say. I'd throw my leg over the arm of the chair and bite my lower lip as I silently fingered my pussy, demonstrating how perfectly wet and ready I was. I'd look right into his eyes and see that familiar flame. That lust that I knew how to manipulate better than anyone else. Afterall, I was the first, I had nurtured that lust. He and I had learned that game together.

I can not describe the intense pleasure I felt at stealing him away from her at that moment. The moment he hurriedly said goodbye and hung up the phone was orgasmic. This scene was repeated many times in the months I remained in Mississippi. Sometimes, I would crawl over to him on my knees and suck his impossibly hard cock while he tried not to moan into the phone. Most of the time we'd end up back in his room, fucking over and over again. I remember pinning him to the bed, and lowering myself over him until the throbbing head of his dick was barely touching my swollen cunt. He'd beg to be inside me and it felt so damn good to watch him squirm and want and need what I had to give him. But no matter how satisfying these moments were it always ended the same. When we were done I would look around the room and see her pictures on his shelves and if I slept there he would inevitably get up in the night and call her while I was supposedly fast asleep. He did leave her eventually, he even came back to me for a few months. But in the end he divorced me for yet another woman who was carrying his child. She had the one thing I could not give him.

You can win battles with seduction but you can't win a war. You can get someone's attention by being coy. You might even garner a chase if you play hard to get but if someone really loves you, the deep part of you, you won't need any gimmicks to catch or keep them.

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Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Fortune Cookie Counseling

Last Friday was a weird day for me. For one thing Friday Date Nights always make me feel like I am performing a tired monologue for the drooling and senile on a stark stage at a nursing home. Bored and pointless at it's worse, awkward but tolerable at it's best, Friday night is not always the highlight of my week. Add to this tension the ongoing conversations between my husband and I about the future of our relationship and you should be able to understand why the evening felt a lot like the Twilight Zone.

We managed to get out of the house for dinner late which limited our restaurant choices beyond the already limited choice available within an hours drive. We ended up at the local Chinese place. I usually find fortune cookies bland tasting and the fortunes predictable but you just can't avoid them at a cheap Chinese buffet. When my husband broke open his cookie he was surprised to find two fortunes inside. As he read them a look of surprised recognition fluttered across his brow.

The first said: Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.
The second said: It is easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.

"You've got to read these!" He said with a grin. He obviously felt they were pertinent to our situation, although how, he couldn't say.

So I opened my fortune cookie and it read: Others appreciate you more than you think.

I certainly hope so.

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Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Slackers!

Well it's not quite 9am and the high-speed satellite internet installers have already called to say they'll be at least an hour late. Fucking slackers. You know that 9am is their first appointment. All this means is that Billy Bob and Bubba both got up late with hang-overs and had to spend the first hour and a half of their day at the Waffle House drinking black coffee and eating scattered, covered, and smothered hashbrowns.

Of course I've been up since 6am getting husband and kid ready for work and school before cleaning my house like it's being inspected by Martha Stewart herself. I wouldn't want the internet people to know what slobs we really are. (Like they care!) Still, I can hear my mother saying how important it is to clean the house up first thing in the morning because you never know who is coming by and you don't ever want to be caught with a filthy house. Strangely, my mother would always completely abandon this theory when it didn't suit her. In particular I remember when my father would leave for TDY the house would go uncleaned for days. We'd eat TV dinners and run out of clean towels and my Mom would lay on the couch in vegetative state until the day before my father's return. When he was do back she'd spend an entire day in a state of cleaning panic and the house would be returned to it's normal state just in time.

I suppose now I'll twiddle my thumbs for the rest of the morning waiting for these people to get here. Let's all hope that we have a clear enough view of the southern sky. I'll be beyond pissed if they finally get here only to inform me the system won't work in our location.

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Monday, August 15, 2005

The Week of Wild and Wonderful Things

Today: Lunch with sunShine! After more cancellations than I thought I could bear I WILL be driving up to have lunch with my bestfriend. Nothing short of a flaming car crash on the interstate could keep me form it.

Tuesday: The installers come to set up our highspeed satellite internet. This is both wild and wonderful when you consider the improved porn downloading capabilities.

Wednesday: Take the car to have tires put on. Ok this is neither wild nor wonderful but it's something I've got to do just the same.

Thursday: No plans yet but I'm sure I'll find something

Friday: Leaving for the weekend. Going to Atlanta, without child or husband in tow, to stay with my sister. She is planning all sorts of wild and fantastic surprises for me. And we are going to SHOP! Oh god I can't wait to see a store other than Walmart.

So. As you can see I have a full schedule. I'll try to post despite all this excitement. For those of you used to chats, comments and e-mails I'll try to keep up in that department as well.

Now if you'll excuse me I am running late!

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Friday, August 12, 2005

Calm in a Storm

Last night, just as I was settling in for bed, the rain outside picked up and it began to storm wildly. Although I like storms, they tend to make me a bit nervous. As a child I was terrified of storms and would lay in the hallway in front of my parents room crying and rocking whenever one woke me up. So as I lay in bed with the lightening flashing around the gaps in our curtains and listening to thunder like so many dropped bowling balls on a hard wood floor I searched my memory for comforting thoughts.

I remembered my Papa. Many times in my adult life when I have been really upset or afraid my thoughts have turned to my Mother's Father. He died when I was fourteen and I have always felt that he was watching over me. My Papa was very very big man. He had a giant round belly that stuck out in front of him and dark Grecian features, a thick head of black curly hair, a broad nose, olive skin and dark brown eyes. In his youth he was devastatingly handsome. He was a sailor and retired from the navy before I was born.

Time has stolen so many memories of him but one thing I'll never forget is his voice. He had this deep, rich, resonating voice. A voice that could make you tremble if it was reprimanding or make you shiver when he sang. He laughed the way you'd like Santa Clause to laugh, loudly, from deep in his belly, a sound like his singing voice that carried all over the house. When we visited I'd always go to bed reluctantly, not wanting to miss out on the real fun. After all the children were in bed the adults, my Papa and Granny, my mom, dad, aunt and whoever else was visiting would listen to country music, smoke cigarette after cigarette and play cards while sipping beer or malt liquor. What went on out there in the big dining room, drifted through the swinging doors of the little kitchen and into a room with a big bed where kids were piled three and four deep.

Above all the voices, my Papa's was the biggest. I hated being sent to bed with the little kids and excluded from the late night festivities. Still, his voice would wrap around me and make me feel happy and safe despite my restlessness. He loved to sing and he loved country and gospel music. As corny or depressing as I admit that country music can be I'll never be able to cut it from my wide variety of musical interests. It just sounds like home to me, like the safest place I've ever been. There is a song played often on country music stations, a gospel sounding song called Long Black Train. This is the kind of song my Papa loved. The voice of the singer even reminds me of him. Without fail, on the rare occasion that I tune into a country music station this song is played and if I concentrate I can hear my Papa singing along.

Our family was ripped and tattered when he died and what seams held us together have unraveled a great deal. He was the classic patriarch. I miss him but I know he is near when I need him. Singing me to sleep, laughing with me at all the clumsy fumbles I've made, even protecting me, especially from my own demons.

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Thursday, August 11, 2005

The Cantaloupe Will Wait

Today is a Barenaked Ladies day. This is my official suck it up and stop whining in a dark corner music. I will not sit at my computer all day waiting for something to happen. I will not hide in my darkened bedroom all day listening alternately to Sarah McLachlan and George Strait while pondering the worth of my existence. I will not wander around the house nervously cleaning and prepping for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. That damned cantaloupe will wait until later to be peeled, cut into bite sized cubes and chilled and the laundry doesn't HAVE to be folded as soon as it's dry.

I am getting out of the house. I am going to enjoy the sun despite the heat. I am saying fuck you to anyone and everything that is pissing me off or wearing me out or leaving me wanting.

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Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Sweet as Honey

I am a firm believer in aromatherapy. Candles and tart warmers can be found strategically placed throughout my house and when I feel the mood needs lifting or changing I choose the perfect scent for the moment. (I am particularly fond of the Yankee Candle Co. products.) I bathe at least twice a day and my collection of soap, body wash, bubble bath and lotion is embarrassing if not astounding. I usually wash and lotion myself down in something lemony or citrus scented in the morning because it makes me feel energized and clean. At night I usually go for something comforting, like sweet almond scented soap and jasmine-vanilla lotion. I used to be well versed in which scents were arousing but since it has been years since my husband even noticed how I smelled I have given up on smelling nice for anyone but myself.

So with this in mind you can imagine how enraptured I was to find a new line of high quality honey scented bath and body products at a popular store. Lately this store has been bringing in these high end, natural product lines that I am extremely fond of but this honey scented stuff is the best yet. It smells exactly like honey. Not just some sweet chemical imitation of honey but the real thing, like it just dripped right out of a bee's ass. (Or whatever part of the bee honey comes from.) I was in fact so impressed that I filled my arms with as many honey filled bottles as I dared and took them to the check out without looking at the price. The bill was huge. When my husband gets the credit card statement he'll likely kick me out of the house with nothing but the clothes on my back and my honey scented bath stuff.

I even got honey scented lip balm. I have never smelled so lickable in all my life. The only problem is that while my husband has not so much as mentioned the new smell it is apparently an aphrodisiac for me. I am crazed everytime I put this stuff on. Not just for sex but to be touched in general. Since my husband has been sick and is apparently still recovering he hasn't touched me weeks. He caught me in the kitchen last night eating a handful of chocolate chips. (A no no since we are both trying to eat an extremely healthy balanced diet for a change.) When he inquired about it I broke down and admitted that I was self medicating, that I felt deprived of physical attention and that the chocolate chips were giving me a lovely all over body massage with each bite. He said, with a very sweet and sincere look in his big brown eyes, that he hoped to make up for it soon. Why he couldn't just shut up and hug me is a mystery.

Last night after my bath and honey rub down I lay awake on my side of the bed literally trembling with need. I hugged myself, I rubbed my own arms, I touched my own breasts and found my nipples standing erect, hard, demanding attention. Everytime I breathed in the smell of my own skin drenched in this heavenly scent I felt warm and flushed. There should be a warning label on that stuff. Despite how needy the smell has made me I can't stop using it. Right now my face smells of honey and my lips taste just ever so slightly of honey. I am a danger to myself. I'm going to end up in Walmart, standing too close to the other shoppers, hoping they'll notice the fragrance. I am going to end up rubbing myself against that gorgeous dad who I always see at my daughter's preschool. I bet he'd appreciate a woman who smelled and tasted like honey.

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Monday, August 08, 2005

Does the madness ever end?

I apologize if last weeks strange end confused or upset anyone. Everything is OK and this blog isn't going anywhere. I simply was having a very rough time and feeling a little crazed.

The weekend turned out to be as bizarre as last week. It began with me having a very calm and clearly thought out discussion with my husband about what I will and will not tolerate in the future of our relationship. He took it very seriously and responded thoughtfully and without anger. As of right now things are peaceful. Only time will tell if they are to remain that way. One thing is for certain, if things spiral out of control again I will be forced to take evasive action.

The highlight of the weekend was my husband, who has been sick and on antibiotics, turning nearly purple and passing out at my parents house. He hit his head on a window and his shoulder on a window sill when he fell. He was unconscious long enough for my sisters and I to realize he wasn't getting back up, that it wasn't some sort of joke, and to begin screaming at the top of our lungs, first his name and then for my parents who had already gone to bed. When we hauled him up by his shoulders (he was face down) he came to and looked at me in total confusion. He refused to go to the emergency room and since I a can not pick him up and carry him there I ended up awake all night listening to him breath and praying that he wasn't going to have an aneurysm and die. He has become more lethargic and fevery since then and he is going to his regular doctor today to get checked out.

Also over the weekend, the sniffles that I have been so determined to ignore got much worse. I'll be going to the doctor with my husband today for my own symptoms. Of course my little one Couldn't be left out. Her asthma continues to give her problems despite the meds she's been given, so today her doctor gave us a nebulizer. We'll have to give her daily breathing treatments. I am beginning to feel like we are a quarantined family suffering from typhoid or some other plague like malady. Quite frankly it's getting ridiculous.

I may not post as much this week. There is just too much on my shoulders but things will return to normal eventually. (I am trying to convince myself as well as you guys.)

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Friday, August 05, 2005

Closed for Repairs

I realize things are missing and changed. It'll probably all be back to normal next week. Excuse the mess!

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Thursday, August 04, 2005

Battle Scars

All couples fight. Some couples fight viscously. Some people don't know how to argue without mud slinging and brass knuckles. My husband is one of the later. Somehow, regardless of what the fight is about or whose anger got it started I always ended up being called out as sleazy, selfish, untrustworthy, even lazy. Yes. I know these accusations aren't true. When my husband is backed into a corner he tends to lash out instead of negotiating blame or apologizing. Still, after hearing his verbal weaponry in argument after argument for five years, his tactics wear on the soft places in me.

After a big fight I feel skinned, all raw nerves and exposed flesh. When the shouting has stopped and some form of treaty has been accepted I feel gutted, hollow. The experience leaves me confused and I can't remember what I thought I was right about in the first place. I always have an animal instinct to curl up in a cave somewhere and hide while my wounds heal.

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Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Naughty Night Nurse (No sexual content despite tantalizing title.)

Thankfully my daughter slept a full ten hours last night without coughing punctuated by puking. Sleep may not be the proper term here, she actually slipped into a codeine laced prescription cold medicine induced coma for ten hours. It was very good of her pediatrician to call that in to the pharmacy yesterday. In fact, I think I love him. I'm going to marry him and sleep through every single night until death do us part thanks to his access to controlled substances.

Despite this glorious gift of a full nights sleep granted to my little one, I did not get a full nights sleep. No, because my dear husband is sick as well now and writhed around all night coughing and moaning, delirious with fever. As much as I enjoy being Night Nurse Christine (cute phrasing stolen from Jodi during a brief IM chat) it's turned out to be less fun than it sounds. My uniform is a pair of not so clean, threadbare blue pajama pants and a worn out tank top that has the word "dangerous" printed across the top in green. The only thing dangerous about me right now is my drowsiness. This is definitely not a good day to operate heavy machinery. Did I mention that I am suffering from the same miserable symptoms as my husband? We won't call it sick. Mom's don't get sick. We don't have time for that sort of thing.

In the book Devine Secrets of The Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells there is a part where the mother is up in the middle of the night with all of her children who have some sort of virus. They are all crying for Mommy and throwing up and have the runs and she literally slips in a puddle of poo while trying to assist them in the bathroom. After making sure they are all cleaned and tucked back into their beds she puts her coat on over her nightgown. She gets in the car and drives to a motel where she showers and sleeps for about 24 hours before calling to tell anyone where she is. She eventually goes home. I have a strong urge to do something similar.

This morning while I took my shower I leaned against the cool wall in a daze and listened to the song in my head. Today is a Counting Crows day I think. My favorite Counting Crows song, the one that was playing in my brain while I showered, is High Life from the CD "This Dessert Life."
...Hey baby do you ask yourself
sometimes what you need to be forgiven
Everything that you ever done wrong
is the reason that I'm driven
straight to you...

I love that part. Adam Duritz knows me so well.

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Monday, August 01, 2005

Trying to keep my joy in check...

I just made the appointment for satellite internet set up! We have been suffering with nothing but dial up since we moved out here to nowhereville. Cable and DSL aren't available here and we hesitated to sign a 2 or 3 year contract and pay over $500.00 in set up fees for the only satellite services we could find. Then a few weeks ago we heard of a new company servicing this area. One with a shorter contract, better technology and lower set up costs. So, as long as the installer shows up on August 16th and our view of the southern sky is clear enough we will finally be able to download, upload and surf with ease again. Not to mention people will be actually be able to call us for a change instead of hearing a constant busy signal.

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Butchered

I take my hair very seriously. Not that I am afraid to color it or cut it or make it do all sorts of unnatural tricks. I have had it cropped off so short that use of electric clippers were employed by the stylist. I have had it colored and highlighted and double and triple processed it to achieve colors that god never intended for man or beast to sport. I have always been the first to tell people who were shocked at these bold adventures in hair: "It's just hair, it grows back."

Still, I like to be the one who decides when my hair gets lopped off or what color it turns. The stylist is there to do my bidding and should carry out my wishes with precision. The last hair person I had was fantastic. J was a spunky blonde lady from California who always wore glittery eye shadow and would happily special order hair color for me with names like Purple Rage and Violent Violet. She kept a card with every detail about my hair, texture, length, varying styles and colors we'd tried, even what shampoo and conditioner I used. She never gave me a haircut I didn't like.

Unfortunately, since our move, the hour and a half drive to get my hair done began to grate at my nerves. So at the urging of my husband and other family members I tried a local stylist. The shop she worked at should have been enough in and of itself to scare me off. It's name and furnishings seem to have been stolen from some 1950's beauty parlor. However, I am trying not to judge the dusty out dated covers of these small town books before I've peeked inside. The first haircut I received was very good. I had let my hair grow out considerably, wanting something softer and more feminine than I'd been wearing. I showed her a picture that was something like what I wanted and explained I was letting it grow a bit. A shampoo and fifteen minutes later I had a cute cut that gave my fine hair movement and volume and framed my face. Great.

But you see the problem with finding a good hair stylist is not that most of them can't give you a good hair cut. The problem is most of them can't do it consistently. I showed up Saturday for a four week trim and brow waxing. I explained I just needed the bangs trimmed and the ends shaped up so the style would behave. Apparently, I should have said that I didn't want a shorter length than the one she originally cut my hair to. She literally took off an inch and a half. That's a lot of hair for someone already wearing a short cut. Now, all that fun, flirty length I had painfully grown out is gone. Not that the cut isn't OK. It's fine. It's just not what I wanted. Furthermore this length isn't right for the style so it looks too choppy at the bottom. Nothing the right styling products won't disguise but certainly not what I wanted.

I suppose now, after it grows back, I'll have to tuck my tail between my legs and make that hour and a half drive to see J. She will of course know that I have cheated on her with some floosy of a beautician. Oh the shame of it all!

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