The Post In Which I Portray Myself as a Lazy, Materialistic Bitch Who Has No Real Problems

I didn't really have grandparents when I was growing up. They were all gone with the exception of my maternal grandfather who I saw maybe twice a year. My grandfather was old and had a lot of grandkids, and never really remembered my name. He always greeted me with "Hey girl, where's the other one?" If he saw my sister first, he switched things up and called her "girl" and asked where I, "the other one" was. I know this hurts my mom, but I truly think it's funny and sort of endearing. When Bridget and I talk about this with our cousin Doug, he gets hysterical to the point of tears. Doug was the firstborn grandchild, a boy, was the favorite, and lived nearby, so his name was never forgotten. I guess the trade off for him was that our grandfather asked him how much he weighed each time he saw him. I'd rather be "girl" or "the other one" any day if given the choice. So, I didn't have traditional grandparents. I did have a Mrs. Deen though, who was our neighbor and friend for many years and filled that capacity of grandmother quite nicely.

The year before Mrs. Deen died, Bridget got married, and I was a few months away from meeting Joe. For Bridget's wedding gift, Mrs. Deen gave her a piece of antique Noritake china from her own wedding set. Even though I'm sure she'd given up on me ever getting married, she gave me a piece too. It sits on a shelf in my kitchen and is truly the only thing I have to remember her by.

I don't tell people this for fear that they'll think I'm bragging, but I hire someone to--GASP-- clean my house twice a month. I feel the need to rationalize this, but I'm not going to. The bottom line is that I'm lazy, and I would rather spend this relatively small amount of money on this than on something else. Go ahead and judge me, I really can't care about that right now.

**Side note** The woman who sent the cleaning lady my way refers to her as "my maid." I think this is demeaning and hints at bragging, plus a maid is someone who spends a lot more time at your house and does a lot more for you. She is not someone who comes to your house for a few hours twice a month, makes more untaxed money per hour than you, and is able to send her two children to Montessori school, such is the case here.

Where was I? Yesterday I got home and found among my sparkling toilets and fresh sheets, that the cleaning lady broke my piece of Mrs. Deen china. Of all the unsentimental, inexpensive, useless shit in my house, she broke the piece of china. I assured her that it was okay, that it was just an accident, and that I wasn't mad at her. I waited until she left to cry. I had the presence of mind to not tell her that it was hand painted with gold, and was probably 70 years old. So old that it is simply called "Noritake Gold and White #10634." No fancy or cute names had been thought of back then. She's convinced that she can super glue it back together, but that would be such a disaster that I'd rather pitch the whole bag of pieces into the pond out back and have her spend her time vacuuming up the mounds of cat hair that cover every surface in this house.

That was yesterday. Today I'm going to the beach because sunshine is good for sadness. I'll spend the rest of the day looking online for a replacement piece. It won't be the same, but it's the only thing I can think of to make me feel better.

I Never Claimed To Be Normal

A normal person can go to a Japanese steakhouse and not mentally calculate how many metric tons of butter and oil are being used to prepare her dinner.

A normal person doesn't worry about getting salmonella from the chef serving the meal with the same utensils he used to cook eggs and raw chicken.

A normal person doesn't spend the whole meal wondering whether the chef is drunk or just plain crazy.

Ghetto Fabulous

My friend Tina just called and made me laugh so hard that I spewed Diet Coke out of my nose onto my keyboard. (I am given to hyperbole, but I laughed really hard. I may have snorted.) She called me today because she is throwing a baby shower tomorrow and has no idea what the hell she is doing. No menu, no decorations, no ideas, but she has games. And games are a start.

I never notice or feel a difference in our races until moments like this. I gingerly asked her what advice she had gotten so far, and she said “a bunch of black women keep telling me that I need to make collard greens and cornbread, but I’m not trying to feed people Thanksgiving dinner.”

We came up with an acceptable no-cook menu, I found a recipe for blue punch, and I advised her to purchase helium balloons the day of the event, unless she wants to end up swearing and stomping around the house pissed off, just like I did the day of Alicia’s baby shower a few weeks ago.

Before we hung up she told me that she made a mistake by calling her sister who she labeled “ghetto fabulous” for ideas. I would love to work that phrase into more conversations, but it sounds so darn racist. Anyway, her sister’s ideas involved collards and cornbread, a dance contest, and a piñata that spills chocolate (think poop, or boo boo which we call it around here). The thing that sent me over the edge was her idea of putting unwrapped chocolate into diapers to give as favors. I believe the theme of boo boo can be taken too far. Thankfully, Tina does too, so I don’t expect to be carrying home any Pampers filled with melted chocolate tomorrow. And that's a good thing.

Travel Log NJ/NY

I totally forgot about this. Two weekends ago we went north to see Joe's grandmother. We're so glad we did because she died this week. Our original plan was to fly one leg on a prop plane, which still gives me the cold sweats. Because of bad weather, we were rerouted and got to fly on a big plane. Thank God. I was about to make a tacky joke about one death in the family being enough at this time.

This was our rental car. When asked what we wanted, we said "Oh, just give us what all the old people are driving these days." It was a Buick LeSabre, which Joe drove through New York Freaking City, but more on that later.

This is Joe's uncle's dog. You can't tell from the pictures, but he weighs 175 lbs. You read that right. This is what happens when a Lab, a St. Bernard, and a moose have a threesome:




Our last night we got to stay in my favorite place in the whole world. Or at least in the U.S.:


Sigh. Joe won't let us move here. Something about it costing a fortune and being "a miserable place." Whatever, dude. When we were flying in, I finally understood that this is how other people feel about going to Las Vegas. The next time I go there, I will try not to make as much fun of the girls across the aisle singing Viva Las Vegas (true story.)


Anyway, Joe drove the oldpersonmobile into, out of, and all around the city. And he only said one swear word. One. That makes four in the three plus years we've known each other. Thank God he accepts me as I am because I'm sure as fuck not changing my vocabulary any time soon.

Just one more. We felt like rock stars in this hotel room.

She's a Maniac...Maniac

I’ve been downloading songs like crazy lately. I have this feeling of panic about dying, like “please don’t let it be sudden, so I can have time to clean out my underwear drawer and throw away other embarrassing items like the penis tiara I got for a bachelorette party.” I need to find a way to erase songs from my iPod now, so that I can be remembered as someone with reasonable taste in music.

Purchased this weekend:

“Peg” by Steely Dan
“Accidentally in Love” by Counting Crows (yes, the Shrek theme.)
“Temperature” by Sean Paul

Also purchased this weekend, as proof that some of my taste is still discriminating:

“Rock Superstar” by Cypress Hill (the explicit version!)
“Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel
“The Engine Driver” by The Decemberists

I can sense that someone’s laughing about the Steely Dan song. Cut it out.

Nothing Is Too Small To Blog About

Setting: take out window of the barbecue restaurant by my house.

Me: Hi, can I please have 2 chicken dinners?
BBQ Girl: Sure, what kind of sauce would you like?
Me: Just give me a variety.

This is what I found in the bag when I got home. For two people.



(You can't tell by the picture, but these are 1 oz. tubs, not like little ketchup packets.)

At Least He Admits He's Had Plastic Surgery

I am speechless, though there are really no words necessary here. I just remembered that I knew all the words to "Coward of the County" when I was six.

Fish For Breakfast

Yesterday my Dad, Joe and I went to Easter brunch. The idea of this gave me knots in my stomach all week. Whenever I observe Joe’s picky eating habits, all I can think is “Oh my God, maybe I did marry my father.”

A few years ago my sister and I took our Dad to Sunday brunch for the first time. It was the best brunch in town, but the concept was completely lost on him. As we walked around I heard him muttering things like “fish for breakfast?” He loaded up his plate with French toast and bacon and I said “Look Dad, all you can eat crab legs and peel and eat shrimp!” He looked at me with disdain and said “I’m having breakfast.”

I was not cooking Easter dinner this year. I usually do, but this year I wasn’t feeling it. I made our reservation for noon so the Misters Picky could pretend they were eating lunch. The closest that breakfast food came to touching lunch food on their plates was a little fresh fruit next to the ham. I think it was a success. Good. Now I don't have to cook next Easter either.

Yahoo Mail Has Shit The Bed

I've had the same Yahoo mail account for years upon years. In my mind, Yahoo = good and dependable. I've never had any problems with this account, and it's never let me down. Or so I thought. In the past six months I've been made aware of jillions of emails that I've never received. One out of town friend thought I'd written her off completely. Also, I've learned that emails I've sent have never made it to the recipients. The kicker was when I RSVP'd to a shower, and when I showed up the hostess shouted "Oh, hi Cory, Ms. No RSVP." This isn't good for my anger issues, as my first inclination was to punch her in the face.

I use this account for work too, which is stupid. Stupid because knowing what I know now, I've probably been sending dirty jokes and very personal things to colleagues on accident. Unreliable email is not something I can add to my list of worries. I try to keep that list short. AOL is out, and I'm afraid that Hotmail will screw me too. I'm thinking about Gmail. Any opinions? Google = good, and it's never let me down. That I know of anyway.

Oh No, She Didn't

I believe she did. I'm just disappointed that she didn't make one that says "Delish!"

Today Is My 1st Blogiversary

I never thought I would use that word, but I've caved. So, what's going on with me? Not so much, but maybe if I use bullets things will seem more interesting.

• I am super pissed that Katie Couric is replacing Bob Sheiffer on the CBS evening news. My hatred for her is equal to my love for Bob. I'll now be watching E! news at that time instead.
• I'm addicted to Splenda and I heard that "they" may be pulling it off the market. The thought of that gives me heart palpitations. Or maybe that's just all the Splenda.
  
• This weekend I will be flying in a prop plane due to unforeseen circumstances. I'm not sure just how small that is, but anything smaller than an airbus makes me want to mix a Xanax and Jack Daniels cocktail. If I crash, because small planes seem to crash all the fucking time, I'll see you all on the other side.
• I like the expression "unforeseen circumstances." I've been using it all day, when I should really be saying "Joe's grandmother is going into Hospice."
  
• I've, realized, that, I, use, way, too, many, commas, when, I, write.
  
• I loooove Top Chef. It doesn't have quite as much drama as Project Runway, but it's close. I highly recommend it.
• I just finished reading Wynonna Judd's new autobiography. I'm not a country music fan, but when I saw her on Oprah she seemed like a real person, and a funny one. Her mother is a loathesome creature, which I always knew, but the book confirms it. I enjoyed it.
  
• I continue to pray for the strength not to kill those around me on a daily basis.
• I've begun to get anxious when we don't watch our Netflix movies as soon as we get them. If they lie around for a couple of days, I begin to count the number of movies we've received that month, divide the subscription price by that number, then subtract that number from what Blockbuster charges. (Who said I couldn't do math?) If I'm not satisfied with the number, I think that we're not getting our money's worth. Not much bothers me more than not getting my money's worth. That's the only reason I watched The Dukes of Hazzard - to get it out of the house.
  
• I've added My Super Sweet Sixteen to my DVR choices. I don't feel guilty either. I figure that my aggression is better managed by feeling contempt for these girls rather than causing someone bodily harm. Like say, my next door neighbor.
• I'm still neurotic.
  

Retribution For Calling Other People "Assholes"

Recently I wrote about how I thought that certain people (not everyone) wore their Bluetooth ear pieces as status symbols. I may have referred to them as “assholes.” That was before I bought an ear piece of my own, because I can only tolerate talking on the phone in the car.

I have fallen in love with this thing. I wear it while I drive. I wear it while I cook. I have even worn it while taking a bath. (I would venture a guess that Motorola does not recommend that.) I love it so much so that my cell phone bill has quadrupled this month. Yes, quadrupled. I talked for 1285 minutes last month and according to my plan, that equals almost $300 in overages. Before I received my bill I was speaking with a customer service rep about my account. When I asked my balance, she actually said “are you ready?”

To balance my karma, I am publicly calling myself a “Bluetooth using asshole.” And to balance my check book, I am giving my phone and earpiece rebates right back to cingular, which I’m sure they anticipated all along.