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Archive for January, 2002

 
|| January 25, 2002 || 1:36 pm || Comments (0) ||

Ooooh, girl, I made a cherry pie from scratch last night for the first time in like four years.

It must have been well worth the wait, because mi familia had the entire thing hoovered up before nine pee emm CST.

Blueberry cheesecake, thou art next!! Or a black forest dump cake…..yeah, dump cake it shall be.

 
|| January 24, 2002 || 12:44 am || Comments (0) ||

Darlings, kindly pony up and surprise me with this for my ‘bon voyage’ gift…..I’ll give you the book that comes with it

-AND-

I’ll walk around with it hanging around my neck to skeer off the previously-mentioned loud, sunburned, middle-aged persons that will be bobbing happily along atop the Caribbean with me.

Tee hee.

 
|| January 23, 2002 || 11:54 pm || Comments (0) ||

Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself / and covered with a perfect shell / such a charming beautiful exterior / Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes / and perfect posture but you’re barely scraping by / but you’re barely scraping by

This is one time / this is one time / that you can’t fake it hard enough to please everyone or anyone at all / or anyone at all / And the grave that you refuse to leave / the refuge that you’ve built to flee / the places you’ve come to fear the most / is the place that you have come to fear the most

Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself / and hidden in the public eye / Such a stellar monument to loneliness / Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes / and perfect makeup but you’re barely scraping by / but you’re barely scraping by

This is one time / well this is one time / that you can’t fake it hard enough to please everyone or anyone at all / or anyone at all / And the grave that you refuse to leave / the refuge that you’ve built to flee / the places you’ve come to fear the most / is the place that you have come to fear the most

And you can’t fake it hard enough to please everyone or anyone at all / or anyone at all / The grave that you refuse to leave / the refuge that you’ve built to flee / the places you’ve come to fear the most / is the place that you have come to fear the most

Is the place that you have come to fear the most / Is the place that you have come to fear the most

// Dashboard Confessional, “The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most”

 
|| January 23, 2002 || 3:52 pm || Comments (0) ||

We are going on a cruise to the Bahamas the first part of March. I don’t want to go.

Go ahead and call me a snipey, unappreciate Dirty BitchTM. Share not your beer and sausages with me. I won’t care, and it won’t change the fact that I really don’t want to go.

See, Maxim did A Very Good Thing. He won employee of the month at his place of employment. This is no surprise to me, as I have worked with him before. He is a dilligent worker and amazing fun to spend a day alongside (and not just in a horizontal fashion, sewerbrain). Not fun in that “ohmychristiamlaughingsohardi’mgonnathrowup” way, but in that “what a really cool co-worker I am lucky enough to have” kinda way. He is one of the most earnest and genuine people I have ever known in my life, and he’s the sort of person that other people are quite fortunate to know. Most of the time people know and acknowledge this, which makes it no surprise that on the heels of employee of the month came employee of the quarter.

With employee of the quarter comes an all-expense paid trip and the time off to take it for two. At first Mexico was the word leaked onto the street. I was way jazzed about Mexico, because I have been obsessing about going there for the past six months so that I could buy all sorts of rad pottery and cheap-but-awesome blankets. My only foray into Mexico has been the Tijuana crawl and I don’t remember much of it (prolly lucky in that respect). Been salivating to go hop around some ruins and take some panoramic vista photos and smoke the GOOD mota and soak in the nearly-South-American air. You know what I’m saying.

Then word comes down the pike that we are getting on a big boat and sailing away into the arena of all things Caribbean and my smile turned upside down. Sheeyut. *This is where the sort-of-Ungrateful-Whore thing comes into play.* I’ve never had any semblance of a desire to go on a cruise. Never wanted to go to the Bahamas. You put the two things together and I am doubly nonplussed, see?

Add to that the fact that the HR Woman Who Speaks To People Like They Are All Kindergarteners went over budget and we have to actually pay for a part (an eensy part, but a part nonetheless) of the trip, and it is all the more unappealing.

I shall go, however, and I shall be happy about it, because we are travelling to somewhere that neither of us has ever been, the alcohol will flow like honey, the tropical air is (mostly) free, and we will be minus young ‘uns for 5 whole days. Oh, for JOY!!

I will suck it up and find an upside to being crammed on a boat with, of all things, people. I will do this because every year running for the last three years the slab of lovin’ known as my spouse and I have saved for and planned a trip to New Orleans, only to be shot down each year by a financial emergency that sucked up the fundage so meticulously set aside. I’m sure we’ll laugh like loons about it in thirty years, but each time it happens it’s not even remotely funny. We don’t want to go to New Orleans during Mardi Gras; I did that in my stellar capricious youth and found it wholly distasteful and unappealing. There’s only so much hooting, hollering, and reeling foolishly in the streets that a body can stand and I got most of that shit out of my system by the time I was fourteen, okay? We planned on going in the late spring, starting our trip with a stay in the famous Haunted Hostel and ending it with a night or two in one of New Orleans’ palatial private homes. We wanted to pass our time exploring the old, ornate cemeteries, the wonderful cathedrals and even taking the vampire walk. Breakfast on beignets, shop for local artistry, take in lots of loud, bawdy music and spicy food. Hell, maybe even hang out at the Celtic Festival. Spend late nights wallowing in atmosphere and lazy, long mornings wallowing in the bed…..

*sigh* I’m sure I will have a lovely time with all of the loud, sunburned, middle-aged persons that will be bobbing happily along atop the Caribbean with me.

 
|| January 23, 2002 || 10:14 am || Comments (0) ||

“You are an IMPERIAL. You are horribly toxic and obnoxious although you may seem interesting. Go drink yourself now!”
Which drink are you?

There you have it. You done been told.

 
|| January 23, 2002 || 9:25 am || Comments (0) ||

Does anyone else find it mildly ludicrous that the cards are laid in front of us and we are told, “Pick your fate, fucktard.” before we are of age to really assimilate all of the information given us?

Or before we are really given any information at all?

 
|| January 19, 2002 || 3:36 pm || Comments (0) ||

I turned to Maxim as we were speeding down the highway toward the inevitable.

“There’s no way we’re gonna pull this one off,” I stated, “We are not the snazzy picture of your average whitebread, middle-class American family.”

“We’re just not.” He gives me that look. I raise my eyebrows, pooch out my lips, shrug my shoulders and look out of the rain-spattered windshield.

After a few moments I turn to look at the row of perfectly-coiffed heads in the back seat. Anyone who didn’t know better could confuse them for well-kempt angels. I begin to laugh. Scout and Maxim, in unison, ask the question that’s hanging there.

WHAT??”

“We are such dorks,” I caw, “with our color-coordinated sweaters and our plasticene hair!” snort-snort and my eyes begin to water, threatening to tear up and well over with the hilarity.

Sam smiles, and not just because Mummy is going temporarily insane. He smiles because he gets it. He and I are on the same wavelength.

“Yeah, Scout,” Sam says, “Maxim should be wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt and jeans, Mathias should be wearing just underwear and one sock and you should be wearing every piece of ugly plastic jewelry that you own!”

He’s right, and I loathe Family Portrait Day with an unbridled passion. This fact is evident in that most of the pictures strewn about our home in frames of all shapes and sizes are those of the “QUICK!-Take-that-picture!” nature. They range from 2″x3″ in size on up to 16″x20″ and show evidence of varying landscapes and moments in our own little history. There is Mathias, little bald-headed 6-month-old chubster in denim overalls and no shirt perched on a wrought-iron love seat. There is me and Maxim, on a trek through the woods, perched atop a large stone outcropping, loosely strung up in one another’s arms. There is a close-up of Scout’s little cherubic face, wearing the sweetest of smiles while her blue eyes sparkle with 5-year-old cleverness. There is Sam looking somberly into the camera while wearing his navy blue Easter suit…..we couldn’t coax out his easy, age-three grin because “I look like a businessman, mom, and businessmens don’t smile.”

Some of these photos are color, some black-and-white, some painstakingly hand-tinted, but they all are delicious and all have one thing in common: all five members of our family unit are never in them, because someone had to be taking the picture, right?

Maxim’s grandmother, all 85 years of her, has made one request for Mother’s Day.

“I byGod want a family portrait of ya’ll this YEAR.” And, recalling times past when we haven’t delivered, she called up one of the finest photographers in our area and used her plastic to pay the sitting fee. What we purchase after that is up to us.

We had to go, because if we didn’t, her credit card would still be charged. I reluctantly set about finding us all coordinating outfits from the depths of our closets and came up with the universal khakis. We all somehow own sweaters with some kind of combination of gray, blue and navy, so those won. I knew from the outset that I didn’t want a super-formal image of the five of us, because that’s not our personality as a family and also because I dress the kids to the nines once a year in order to wag them down to the studio for a sitting.

I hate Family Portrait Day because it all falls to me to make sure everyone is scrumptiously represented and one child doesn’t muss their hair or apparel while I am working my stylistic mojo on the other(s). Throw in the fact that I have to render myself presentable and answer lame questions from Maxim about sock colors and I am a shrieking basket case by the time I hit the door, hairbrush in hand.

I think that I forgot to mention that it started raining about five minutes prior to our departure. HARD.

So now we are all rain-speckled and a tad wilted. Lovely. Thus my fit of hilarity.

I hate Family Portrait Day, but that’s okay, because I will have yet another lovely picture on my wall that suspends us sweetly in the moment, attached to yet another set of remembrances about a brief span of moments that we shared as a family.

And one day it will belong to my children, and then maybe their own children, and the thought of it shines inside of me.