tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189944232011-12-13T11:58:44.937-05:00Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.comBlogger4611100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-11219650538911260512011-12-13T11:56:00.002-05:002011-12-13T11:58:44.947-05:00Snow? In the living room? Green ice? In the kitchen? If only. <div><br /></div><div>Wads of white cotton litter the living room floor. The couch cushion looks flatter than it did last night. </div><div><br /></div><div>Slimy yellow-green vomit waits near the dining room table for me to clean. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's what they get for eating the couch. But why can't we take that punishment a step further and make them clean it up? </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, to be a dog. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1121965053891126051?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-4631378389005273122011-11-10T11:44:00.003-05:002011-11-10T12:05:50.084-05:00And Joe's gonna be a daddy. <div><br /></div><div>And we're going to be parents. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because I'm growing a baby in my belly! </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm seven weeks pregnant. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two days ago (and this is kind of a funny story), one of the dogs puked on the floor. I usually handle cleaning up vomit just fine. No problems. Usually. Well, this particular day, I gagged all over the place. It was gross. I realized that my boobs had hurt like nobody's business for the past couple weeks. And I had to pee all the time. And I was exhausted all the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I took the test and got the little plus sign immediately. I might have said some bad words because I didn't really know what else to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>I texted Joe and told him I was picking him up for lunch at the diner. When he got in the car, I asked, "So... am I glowing?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"You kind of are," he said. "Why? Are you pregnant or something?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Really?"<br /><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh." </div><div><br /></div><div>"No joke?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Wow." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I told him to get out of the car if he wanted to smoke. "I'll quit after I finish these two packs we have left," he said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh." </div><div><br /></div><div>"You're really pregnant?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yep." </div><div><br /></div><div>He opened the car door. "I have to go tell everyone!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I told him to wait. At least until after we had lunch. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over big fat freaking cheeseburgers, we stared at each other and said "Wow" a lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You need to call your mom," he said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I will," I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"NO. Like right now." </div><div><br /></div><div>"She's at work." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Doh." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then he hounded me the rest of the day to call her. I hounded my sister all day to text me when Mom got home. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally reached her, we talked about normal stuff for a minute or so. She had had a bad day and was very stressed out. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I just had a quick question for you," I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you prefer to be called Grandma... Nana... Mamaw...?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"REALLY?!" she shrieked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yep." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then she was very excited for a few minutes. "Does everyone else already know or am I the first?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Nope. You're the first. Well, other than Joe's co-workers who he told immediately." </div><div><br /></div><div>She was thrilled to be the first one to know. "Here. Ask your father the same question. Oh. And I prefer the traditional Grandma," she whispered. </div><div><br /></div><div>I asked Dad the question. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No kiddin'?" he asked after a long pause. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Nope. Not even kidding," I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then he said "Awesome" like 50 times. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's gonna be a boy," he said. "Because I have all girls. That means you'll have all boys." </div><div><br /></div><div>The second my family knew, Joe posted something on Facebook about me being "all sorts of knocked up." </div><div><br /></div><div>Five people have already told us it's going to be twins. I told them they could go do naughty things to themselves. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first day I think I spent about a good five hours just bawling my eyes out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday I was kind of excited. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then after the doctor called last night and gave me the official results of the test at the clinic, my excitement level rose a few hundred notches and has remained that way since. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got my prenatal vitamins (free prescription at the clinic - what, what), skipped my morning coffee(s) and started eating fruit for breakfast and drinking milk (but only with ovaltine mixed in, because plain milk makes me gag). Joe is taking care of the litter box and mixing the dog food (because I can't even handle the smell of chicken broth mixed with dry dog food). </div><div><br /></div><div>Just a few days ago Joe and I said that if I ever got pregnant we had to get rid of Jack. I think that's one of the big reasons I cried so much the other day. But. I don't know. Maybe he'll be okay? </div><div><br /></div><div>Last night we watched "Babies". And OMG. The cuteness. Anyway. Every time a baby cried, Jack tilted his head and stared at the screen. It was just way too cute. He kept looking like, "Now who do I need to mess up? Who is making that baby cry?" I think he'll do okay with the baby. I think the problems will come when someone other than me is holding the baby and the baby starts to cry. I think he might even be aggressive towards Joe when the baby's around. We'll see. I hope hope hope we don't have to get rid of him. I love the little guy. Even though he's a douche bag. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, anyway. Just thought I'd share our happy news. Excuse me while I go throw up again. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-463137838900527312?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-49227354238930982972011-11-04T09:54:00.003-04:002011-11-04T10:21:46.614-04:00After experiencing a terrible puppy tragedy this summer, Joe and I adopted two shelter dogs. They are both two years old. They are also both ginormous. <div><br /></div><div>Gracie is a 135-pound St. Bernard. She's my girl and I'm her girl. We bonded instantly and now she never leaves my side. She's rambunctious and loving. She refuses to let Joe walk her unless I'm with them. I'm the only human for her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jack is a 150-pound Neopolitan Mastiff. He has issues. When we adopted him, we were told by the stupid, crazy "behavioralist" shelter owner (whom we reported to the SPCA for a number of reasons, including fraud, abuse and neglect) that he may need surgery in a couple years on his torn ACL (anterior cruciate ligament, located in his back right knee). We took him to the vet soon after the adoption and were told that it was actually a matter of great urgency. Bye-bye, $3,000. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were also told that he was fine with cats. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ha. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first and only introduction with the cats was a stressful event for the whole family. Joe had Jack on his leash and pinch collar, which the "behavioralist" recommended. Robin (the cat) hopped up into my lap for loving. Jack wanted to approach, so Joe let him. Then, Jack opened his mouth and tried to eat my poor little cat. Robin tore off after scratching my legs all to hell (bad call wearing shorts for the introduction) and ran around the house. Gracie chased after. The "behavioralist" said Gracie was trying to protect Robin. I don't really know. I think she chased because Robin ran. </div><div><br /></div><div>My first instinct was to punch Jack square in the nose and I physically had to hold my hand back from doing so. Jack started after Gracie and drug Joe down the stairs, nearly ripping his shoulder out of its socket. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since then, the cats have lived on one side of the house and the dogs have inhabited the other. Thankfully, we have a door that splits the house in half. Unfortunately, the cats never get to come over here to the office, kitchen and living room. We slept in the living room on the couches for four months, until finally we decided that it was just ridiculous. The dogs could handle being alone at night. Now we sleep in our actual bed where my little Robin lays on my side every night. </div><div><br /></div><div>When my sister was visiting, she put her construction skills to work and fixed the middle door. You used to have to slam it to get it shut. She Dremeled it down so it closes smoothly. Unfortunately, if the door isn't locked, it pops open. We learned this one day when we came home from an adventure and discovered dog shit in the front room, fur all over the bed and half-chewed used cat litter in the cat's food bowl. The cats, thankfully, were unscathed. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see exactly what happened that day and how the cats managed to escape. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would love more than anything for our family to be whole, for our home to be open. But we can't with Jack the way he is. </div><div><br /></div><div>We've tried everything. We did the positive reinforcement training with treats and a clicker. We tried the negative enforcement with a lot of "no's" and "being alpha". We bought him a pheromone collar. We bought him a choke collar. We bought him a Haltee. We bought him an assortment of pinch collars. We bought the training dvd from the obedience school he attended as a puppy. Everything worked the first day. After that? Not so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>This dog has serious issues. He's afraid of the wood floor. We bought a big carpet remnant to cover the kitchen floor. He peed all over it and it was impossible to clean (gallons! fucking gallons of urine!) so we threw it out. Sometimes he's fine and can make it across. Other times, he stands there crying until he can get up the guts to cross it. </div><div><br /></div><div>He bites at the leash when we walk him. He knows his commands, but is often too stubborn to follow through with them. </div><div><br /></div><div>He is afraid of trash cans, for sale signs, cars, bicyclists, runners, you name it. Shoot, I've seen him jump at his own shadow! </div><div><br /></div><div>He had a rough life. His previous owners adopted him and his sister as puppies. His sister died of a very rare disease (the only case in all of New Jersey) caused by drinking filthy, scummy, contaminated water. They left the dogs outside for days at a time. They used the hose to punish him. Consequently, he is also afraid of water. </div><div><br /></div><div>He and Gracie get along like best friends. Only occasionally does he show aggression towards her. One time, while doing one our "alpha" exercises, Joe made Jack lay down while I walked Gracie around and around him. Then when we switched roles, Jack walked by and stepped on Gracie's head. On purpose. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe is at his wit's end. We had a discussion last night about Jack and his issues. Joe confessed that he just doesn't know what to do anymore. I could never get rid of him, but at the same time, I hate living like this. Gracie is fine with the cats. She sniffs them and they sniff her. I let them interact all the time. When Jack even sees them through the door, he postures up and starts growling. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to fix him. I want him to be a healthy, normal dog. I get that he had such a rough life. I just don't know how to help him. This morning I walked him and instead of turning him around and heading home when he acted up, I kept going, I kept working with him. I stood my ground until finally, 15 minutes later, he walked next to me like a good boy. Meanwhile, cars were driving by, inhabitants staring, probably wondering why the hell I was jerking my dog around so much and what I did to make him such a bad dog. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ugh. It's a process. I hope we'll get him better one day. I really do. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4922735423893098297?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-88412842143202909102011-10-31T14:26:00.003-04:002011-10-31T14:30:37.525-04:00Local Superhero Beats Living Crap Out of Creepy Guy<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">It had been a long day. A long, monotonous, paperwork-filing, cape-sewing kind of day. I couldn’t wait to get home and kick off my Manolos and soak in the bubbly tub with a comic book and a steaming cup of cappuccino. When the time clock banged out 5:00, I was out of there.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">The thoughts of the tub and the comic book filled my head and I barely noticed The Creepy Guy standing by the entrance. He opened the door for me and I mumbled, “Thank you,” because that’s what you’re supposed to say when someone opens a door for you. Creepy Guy or not. </span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">“You are very welcome,” he said with a thick unidentifiable accent.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">As I was fitting the new yellow and black helmet over my head, careful not to mess my hair, out of the corner of my eye I saw him retreating back into the building. I fired up my Ducati and took off. As I passed the other entrance to the building, I noticed him leaning against one of the pillars, watching the street. I glanced in my side mirror and saw him race to his car as soon as I had passed. The silver-striped car followed me as I turned down the road I’ve traveled down the past three years. Instead of going straight like I normally would on my home, I made a sharp right at the next street. I looked in my mirror again as I sped down the quiet street and saw his car slowly pass. His head turned and he watched me.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out. I decided not to go straight home in case he was keeping an eye on me. I made a few twists and turns and just when I was sure I had lost him, there he was again. I wove through the rush hour traffic like a pro on my new bike. He went a lot slower, but like a shadow, he was on my tail.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I nearly dropped the bike as I made a last-minute turn decision. I thought it had been a smart move, but he seemed to anticipate the turn into the cemetery, because there he was, closer than he appeared in the mirror. I sped past the gravestones, not taking any time to read the names like I usually did. I made it all the way to the end of the road. Dead end. A cliff loomed before me. I shut down the engine and jumped off the bike. I propped it up on the kickstand and looked down the drop-off. The waves of the angry ocean slammed into the dangerously sharp rocks below. I removed my helmet and turned to face my pursuer.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">He had followed my example and exited his vehicle. “What are you going to do now?” he asked with wave of his hand toward the edge. “You seem to have reached a dead end.” He reached for my face with his slimy hand. One thought struck me as I saw his hand inching toward me in slow motion. “No way am I going to let that greasy hand touch my hair.” Before he could even react I had grabbed his arm and flipped him over my head.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">The look on his face as he laid there on the ground can only be described as a look of utter surprise. “I see I have underestimated you,” he said with a creepy laugh. “But perhaps…” he leapt to his feet and had my arms behind my back in a fierce lock, “…you have underestimated me.”</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">Oh, crap. This isn’t going exactly how I planned, I thought. Flashbacks from training camp were plowing through my head. I wiggled, I jumped, I kicked, I flailed, but to no avail. This guy was strong.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">“Now, how about coming home with me for a glass of wine, maybe some dessert,” he said in a manner I suppose he thought to be seductive. I could feel his nasty breath on my neck and his, um, manhood pressing into my lower back. I felt filthy, violated.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">“No!” I screamed. His lips were on my ear, caressing, kissing, and breathing on me. His face was scratchy and greasy. I stepped forward, hoping to make him lose his balance. He again anticipated my move and followed me. He had one hand firmly grasping my wrists and the other was slowly inching up my stomach, reaching for places no man has ever touched. And I intended to keep it that way.</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I busted out my super strength and freed myself from his grasp. He had one of those, “What the…?” expressions on his face as I turned around and clocked him in the jaw. He fell inches from the ledge. I walked closer as he writhed in pain on the muddy ground. He yelled as I lifted my foot, as if to kick him. “Please!” he yelled, his voice squeaking as it neared the “s,” “Please don’t hurt me! I wasn’t going to do anything! I swear! I was just playing!”</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I kicked him an inch closer to the edge. He covered his face with his hands as I inched closer. “You were just what?” I asked, fully taking advantage of the power I had over him. “Playing? I was just playing?”</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">“Is that how you play?” I yelled. “Instead of dolls and board games you play with real people?!” My voice echoed as I continued to grow louder. “That is not acceptable!! I’m calling the cops!”</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">If he wasn’t afraid before, then he was certainly afraid now. “Not the cops! Please! I don’t want to go back!” But it was too late. I had already pushed the button. The sirens that had been wailing in the distance grew louder. I kicked him one more time for good measure, then threw on my helmet and sped off just before the squealing tires signaled the arrival of the sheriff and his posse. In my mirror I saw the uniformed men cuff the Creepy Guy and load him into the back of a patrol car. It had been a really long day. I went home for my reward.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">[Author’s Note : This is a true story. Well, most of it is true. Okay, some of it actually happened. Well, maybe it was based loosely on true events. You decide.]</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(71, 75, 78); font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span">In case you're curious about the real story.... </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span">The first part is true. Instead of a Ducati, I hopped into the passenger seat of my mother's van. We drove around the block several times until Creepy Guy got bored and decided to quit following us.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span">And also? I've never read a comic book in my life. Especially not in the bathtub. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span">Ah, imagination. Why have you forsaken me? </span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8841284214320290910?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-6005196038062682652011-10-14T20:24:00.003-04:002011-10-14T20:45:28.783-04:00Every time I say good-bye, I wish I had never left. That should be a song. Then again, if it was a song, I would have listened to it the whole way on the train ride home. And I would have cried. I guess it's good that it's not a song. <div><br /></div><div>My sister came for a visit and stayed for three weeks. It was wonderful. Swell. Glorious. I worried that we might have issues, seeing as how I was the one who told on her for shoplifting last summer and sneaking out with an 18-year-old. But, no. She was cool. We're friends again and it's awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>We visited King of Prussia Mall, the Jersey Shore, New York City and just about everything in between. I cried buckets when she left. It was nice getting to know her as she is now and I wish she could have stayed forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe is in Europe. The lucky bastard. He is currently sleeping in a fancy shmancy hotel in Spain. I am eating a tiny pizza, drinking a beer, and listening to the sound of my dog licking his crotch. Yumm. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe went to Germany for a couple days and is now in Spain for training for his new job. He was supposed to go for three weeks, but he got promoted. The company could only spare him for a week. The big-wigs at the international headquarters want to make him CEO of the company in the states. Did I mention he's only worked there for two months?</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess we (did you notice the "we" as in "me" as in "I") have to go to Europe twice a year. I swear, this is the best job ever. Except for the part where he has to travel without me sometimes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-600519603806268265?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-17336630491108986982011-09-20T10:29:00.005-04:002011-09-20T11:35:01.253-04:00If I never wear another ankle-length jean skirt again it'll be too soon. Same goes for those stupid maxi dresses that I had to wear a collared shirt under. And opaque white tights. <div><br /></div><div>Mom went through a phase - can you call five years a phase? - where she believed women should never be seen in public wearing pants. She also had a sort of revelation, I guess you could call it. A revelation that answered the problem of me being attracted to boys and them reciprocating. She executed this light bulb moment by banning me from shaving my legs until I was 18.</div><div><br /></div><div>So there I was. Tarantula-legged teenager trying to play basketball, hike the rocky trails at the State Park and rollerblade in dresses that constantly conspired to trip me. I got pretty decent at hiding my legs and my feminine curves while running to flattened Pepsi box bases and kicking the boys' asses in tackle football. But, God, how I hated her for the embarrassment that came as a result of her stinkin' rules. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most of my dresses had been handed down to me from people in the church. It wouldn't have been so bad if most of the people in our church weren't old. I remember one old lady dress in particular. If I still had it, I could probably wear it and be a fashion sensation, what with vintage being the new black and all. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dress was red with huge white polka dots. It was a classic 50's style dress, probably truly made in the 50's, with a starched white collar, a zippered back I couldn't fasten myself and a thick white belt around the waist. I wore it to church once, paired with white opaque tights and white flats. Everyone at church told me I looked fabulous. I would have been on cloud nine if my hand-me-down, too-long slip and my hand-me-down, three sizes too big, lacy old lady bra hadn't made the outfit so ridiculously uncomfortable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I prayed in earnest that morning during the offering prayer. While Mr. Wease, the resident mumbler, bowed his head and mumbled, mumbled, mumbled, Amen, I kept from giggling by praying that we wouldn't go to a fancy restaurant for lunch after church. But, Dad came to church that unfortunate Sunday. And that only meant one thing: he wanted a steak. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad and Mom chain-smoked as Dad drove to the next town over and parked in front of Ponderosa. As everyone piled out of the Bronco, I dawdled, checking to make sure everything was in place in my non-matching, hand-me-down fake Louis Vuitton backpack purse. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Jesus Christ!" Mom yelled. "Do you need a fucking written invitation?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I got out of the truck. "No, Ma'am." </div><div><br /></div><div>People stared. Teenagers pointed and laughed. It felt like one of those horrible slow-mo sequences in a movie where someone falls off his bike trying to do a cool trick only to end up looking like an ass as everyone around him starts laughing. </div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as we sat down at our table in the smoking section, Mom ordered our drinks, Dad his steak, and everyone but me stood to head to the All-You-Can-Eat for $5.99 buffet. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm not hungry," I said after Mom shot me a dirty look. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You better damn well eat something. And be fucking thankful for it," she whispered through gritted teeth. "Little kids in China don't get to eat at Ponderosa!" She grabbed my arm and yanked me up, then smiled cheerily at the passing waitress. </div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at the interesting scuff marks on my shoes and walked up to the buffet table without bumping into anything - another skill I managed to perfect during my teen years. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I love your dress!" shouted an elderly lady behind me in line as I plopped mashed potatoes onto my plate. "I used to have one just like it when I was your age!"</div><div><br /></div><div>A teenaged girl snorted. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next Sunday I reverted back to one of Mom's handmade dresses. I didn't get nearly as many compliments that day, but that dress was much easier to move around in, so I played tag with the boys in the hallway after church. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1733663049110898698?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-19066743500657011772011-09-08T13:56:00.004-04:002011-09-08T14:17:52.793-04:00Lately I've been trying to get in touch my soul, I guess you could say. I've opened my mind to the reality that things happen that cannot be explained, to the idea that there is more than one way to get to Heaven, to the possibility that life is but energy that lives on forever. <div><br /></div><div>I've started keeping a dream journal. In one of my books, "Thinking Write" by Kelly L. Stone, the author encouraged writers to explore the vast chasm that is the subconscious. Every night I fall asleep asking my subconscious for a dream to assist me with my current project. Every morning I awake frustrated that no answers have come. I wrote in my dream journal faithfully for about... oh, two days. Then I lost interest. It wasn't working. Every once in a while at some random point in the day, one of the previous night's dreams come to me and I rush to pick up my pen and record it in my purple journal. This happened today. </div><div><br /></div><div>I suddenly remembered a dream I've had two or three times this week. I sat down and wrote it out. </div><div><br /></div><div>In my dream, I was afraid to log into Blogger. Mostly, I was afraid to check <a href="http://thefirstbookoftesticles.blogspot.com/">Charlie's</a> blog. I was afraid I would read a message saying he was no longer with us. Finally, I worked up the courage and checked his blog. The background had been changed since the last time I saw it. The header and the profile name were different, in classic Charlie style - he always does like to change things up. I saw a picture of a beautiful, peaceful landscape. His last entry had been posted just days before. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had this dream at least twice. The first time was a few days ago. I had it again last night. My subconscious was trying to tell me something, I decided. It was trying to tell me that even if his life had ended, his words would live on forever, as would the impact he made on my life and on the lives of others in the blogosphere. </div><div><br /></div><div>After I finished writing the dream, I walked to my computer and typed in "Blogger.com". I logged in and checked Charlie's blog. I was afraid, just as I had been in my dream, just as I have been for some months, to see what I might find there. The background was different from the way it was the last time I saw it. His last entry was three days ago. He posted a picture of a beautiful, peaceful landscape. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was silly of me to spend all these months away because of that fear. I tried to catch up on everything I missed. I'm glad I had the dream and I'm glad it brought me back to what I love and to you fellow bloggers whom I love, though I have never met any of you. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1906674350065701177?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-22713647204975392272011-09-08T12:41:00.004-04:002011-09-08T13:19:29.572-04:00I have no excuses. I won't even try. But did ya'll know I finally made it into a book? I can't remember if I told you that or not. But I did. <div><br /></div><div>Life has been ridiculously wonderful. Joe has a new job. I've gone back to taking my job seriously. We adopted two giant dogs (one of whom, unfortunately, has a taste for cats). But I'll tell you about all that later. </div><div><br /></div><div>And also. I had a major psychic moment today that pertains to the blogging world, one person in particular. Don't let me forget to tell you about that one on another day, too. It was profound. </div><div><br /></div><div>The real reason I came here is to get something off my chest. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing makes me despise my womanhood more than a trip to the doctor's office. Nothing makes me despise being a military retiree's wife more than a trip to the huge brick and beige building that is the Medical Group. </div><div><br /></div><div>As if the embarrassing questions aren't bad enough, add to the mix that you never know which doctor or PA you're going to get. Sometimes you get a cool chick doctor. Other times you get a creepy old man doctor who likes to lay his sausage fingers on your arm for no damn reason. </div><div><br /></div><div>When it's time to make an appointment, I put off that dreaded phone call for as long as I possibly can. The day I finally work up the gumption, I carefully listen to the recorded options because they have just changed. I press "1" for Family Practice. I pace as the pre-recorded woo-hoos for the Medical Group intertwine with elevator music and warnings to hang up and dial "911" if this is an emergency. </div><div><br /></div><div>A grumpy woman finally comes on the line and asks for my last four. And by my last four, she means my husband's last four. I have no trouble spouting out his social security number on command, but I can't for the life of me remember my own. Good thing I never need to use it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The woman asks the reason for my visit and I tell her I want to be put on birth control. She sloooowllly asks a couple questions, then her voice speed changes to that of light when she gives me the date and time and promptly hangs up. I can't remember the time, so I decide to show up first thing in the morning and just wait it out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Upon arrival, I usually have to show three cards to the only nice person in the whole place - a dark-haired woman who checks the patients in. This time, however, she was busy, so I hand my cards to the Senior Airman behind the desk and said, "I have an appointment?..."</div><div><br /></div><div>He types in my name. "Women's Health", he says. "Ew, ew, ew, ew," I hear him think. He hands my cards to the woman. "Here. You do it." He wipes his hands on his BDU pants as if he's afraid they're now covered in vaginal secretions. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a quick, barely noticeable eye roll in the Senior Airman's direction, the woman drops what she's doing to check me in. She tells me to wait outside Door No. 8. </div><div><br /></div><div>Normally, the numbered doors make me feel like I'm on a game show. I spend at least 10 minutes imagining what's behind each door. "So, what do we have behind Door No. 8, Bob?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"A NEW CAR!!!" </div><div><br /></div><div>The audience squeals. </div><div><br /></div><div>But. At this point I'm too busy freaking out to have any imaginary fun. I didn't know I'd have to see someone in "Women's Health". I cross my fingers and pray I'm not taken to a room with a table equipped with stirrups and told to put on a paper gown.</div><div><br /></div><div>I try to read a book, but the only words I see on the pages are "These are fingers... this is the speculum... you may feel a slight cramp..." </div><div><br /></div><div>A kind-faced civilian nurse - a woman, thank goodness - calls me by my first name. I took that as a good sign because I hate being Mrs. Last Name. Or just flat out Last Name. </div><div><br /></div><div>I follow her to a room and thank God for answering my prayers when I am motioned to sit in a chair in a room containing only a desk, two chairs and a blood pressure machine. </div><div><br /></div><div>The nurse makes conversation about the ridiculous taxes in New Jersey, and how crazy it is that we never used to get earthquakes, tornadoes or hurricanes until last week when we got two out of the three. She asked when my last pap smear was. I lied. "April." They never check the charts... </div><div><br /></div><div>"That's odd," she says. "It shows here that your last one was April, 2009." </div><div><br /></div><div>Shit. Since when do they check the charts? </div><div><br /></div><div>"How peculiar," I say. "Seems like just yesterday..." Insert uncomfortable giggle. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the blood pressure was taken... twice and I answered the rest of the embarrassing questions, she led me to another room (an office - woot!!) to meet the doctor. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was a dude. An old dude. With glasses. And a hairy chest mostly visible under his civilian shirt. "Just one minute, please," he tells me as I sit in the chair across from him. He puts on a headset and starts talking to his computer about his last patient's vagina being mostly healthy. </div><div><br /></div><div>So. Umm. Yeah... </div><div><br /></div><div>He takes off the headset, then shakes my hand (EW!!) and introduces himself. I'm going to call him Dr. Douche. Seems fitting, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>"So, you want birth control, eh?" he asks. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh... yes." </div><div><br /></div><div>"And what did you have in mind?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"The pill," I say. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ahh..." He leans back in his chair and scratches his beard. "And you smoke?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Bless your heart." That was a first. Never had my heart blessed for smoking. "That's rough." </div><div><br /></div><div>I nod. </div><div><br /></div><div>He tells me that bad things happen to women who smoke and take the pill. He suggests a diaphragm. "You just put it in there every night before you go to bed when you think you might have <i>relations...</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Um... okay." </div><div><br /></div><div>He reaches across the desk and touches my arm. "I'll show you one." He gets up and puts his arm around me and leads me down the hall. Ew again. </div><div><br /></div><div>He steps into a room and comes out with a little box. Inside the box are about half a dozen little rubber things that all look like they are way too fucking big to live in my vagina for six hours at a time. </div><div><br /></div><div>He puts his arm around me again and leads me to the appointment desk. "She needs to schedule a pap smear and a diaphragm fitting." He winks. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, shoot," says the lady behind the counter. "The computers are down." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Bummer," I say. Not meaning it one bit. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, you call later, then," Dr. Douche says. He rubs my arm. "I'll see you soon." </div><div><br /></div><div>The fuck you will! I did a full body shudder and ran, not walked, to the safety of the double doors under the big EXIT sign. I shuddered the whole way home. I felt so violated and I kept my pants on the whole time!</div><div><br /></div><div>I know I need to at least schedule my yearly, but holy shit! I'm not going back to Dr. Creepy Ass Douche! And the doctors get progressively creepier each time I go! The first gyno I had looked like a fucking muppet - the one with the glasses and the moppy hair that was always in his face. And he just went to work without any warning to me or anything! The second one looked like he was an aspiring womanizing underwear model. And he kept winking at me! And who knows if I'll ever actually get the female doctor I ask for every fucking time. </div><div><br /></div><div>But. I told Joe about my experience. I may hate being a woman sometimes, but he told me stuff about his yearly exam that made me hella thankful I wasn't born with a penis. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2271364720497539227?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-83071685132955770232011-01-23T13:16:00.002-05:002011-01-23T13:40:44.694-05:00I shouldn't blog when I'm angry. I'm even more prone to exaggeration than usual. I'm sure you figured that out by yourselves. <div><br /></div><div>Anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>The going-away/retirement lunch was nice. Everyone was there, even the commander; he bought our lunch. Joe was asked only about four times if he had a job lined up yet, so that wasn't so bad. Our tall Swedish friend, the one who first showed us around base three years ago and took us to dinner and made us feel a whole lot better about being stuck in New Jersey, told Joe that he wasn't going to ask that question because he was sure he had been asked quite a few times. Instead, he offered help if we needed it. He's a very sweet guy. It's too bad he's in his 30's and my sisters are only teenagers because he's the kind of guy I want my sisters to marry. </div><div><br /></div><div>You may have noticed that I quit the "interesting" blog already. Well, I decided that I'm just interesting enough the way I am and that trying to be more interesting would only make me more crazy. That friend I have who I used to think was very interesting? The closer I've gotten to her, the more I realize that she's pretending just like me. And if she would stop trying so hard she'd go back to being a really cool person. We can be interesting by being average. Or something like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tuesday I'm going to start sending out my applications. Joe wanted me to wait until then because he doesn't like the idea of me getting a job and putting my writing on hold. My writing has already been on hold for quite a while because I'm experiencing a writer's block from HELL, so it doesn't really matter to me. First I'll try the library. Then I don't know what after that. I've only ever had two real jobs in my life. I'm pretty sure a newspaper isn't going to hire me. I sucked in ad composition. My ads were not pretty at all. I made a lot of them, though. And I could lay out the paper like nobody's business. I really don't know how I ever managed to get hired there. It may have been the good word from Joe. Or it could have been the good word from the publisher who served on the library board. I wasn't very good at that job, but I sure did work my butt off. I was decent at writing feature articles. I loved doing the police beat. I had fun attending the local sports games and learning how to write sports articles, but we moved before I had the chance to solo one. No one is going to hire a reporter without a degree. I've already tried that. It's too bad because there are several towns in the area that are creating their own online newspapers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>Between the two of us, we'll find something. </div><div><br /></div><div>If all else fails, we have enough yard space and a great big shed in which we can grow some marijuana. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm kidding. Really.<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8307168513295577023?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-81143487945421524502011-01-20T22:21:00.003-05:002011-01-20T22:38:55.733-05:00USAF: Thank you for screwing my husband up and sending him on his way. It was nice of you to give him a small monthly compensation that will be enough to pay the electric bill every month. And also, thank you for the free healthcare -- something we are (he is - since you screwed him up pretty bad) going to be using a lot of. <div><br /></div><div>Commander: Thank you for promising my husband a job when he retired and for even going so far as to send him to training classes, for the job you promised him, that ate into his job-hunting time for real actual jobs that other people might actually really give him. And I do hope that someday you grow a set of balls and fire the worthless bitch who currently holds the position you promised my husband. Have you seen the eye rolls in the squadron when my husband refers people to the woman? No one likes her. Because she sucks. And that liposuction that she's getting done next month? She doesn't plan on telling you about it until the week before it actually happens. Expect to be without someone in her seat for three months. And then also expect for her to be "too stressed out" to do her job when she gets back. And then expect for her to go into another surgery soon after because her stomach will rupture from eating too much because she doesn't realize that lipo is not for people only 40 pounds overweight and that it will not cure her overeating problem. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Also, Commander, remember when you told my husband, "I don't know if this will make you feel any better, but I'd much rather have you here than her"? Do you remember that? Well, we do. And no. It didn't make him feel any better. Because on Tuesday he's going to be unemployed. And that worthless bitch will be sitting in that seat trying to get passersby to shred and file papers and print out slideshows and do all her other work so she can spend her days on the phone begging her ex-husband to get back with her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone else in the squadron: Thank you for planning the going away/retirement get-together tomorrow. But I don't really want to go. I like you all. I'll miss you all. But the last thing I want to do right now is listen to you all tell us that we'll be okay when both of us are unemployed and we now have a mortgage to worry about. I'm also not looking forward to my husband asking the waitress if they're hiring so he can garner sympathy from all of you. It's going to be awkward. So I'll walk into the diner, then promptly excuse myself. I might even make myself puke on the way into the place. That might be more convincing. Then I'll wait in the car. I like waiting in the car. I've spent a good 30 hours the past two weeks waiting in the car and it suits me just fine. </div><div><br /></div><div>Husband: Just because you're pissed off at the world right now, it doesn't mean you have to be a douche to me. I'm still driving you around and washing your dirty clothes and cooking your dinner and cleaning up the piss and shit you leave behind on the toilet. So be nice to me, mmkay? </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8114348794542152450?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-68986519654531110852010-12-19T18:14:00.003-05:002010-12-19T18:21:49.237-05:00I have become really, really boring. Consequently, Meg has become really, really boring. She and I both forget that she was supposed to be someone else - a more interesting version of myself. Someone who handled problems differently, someone who spent her evenings soaring around saving the world instead of eating Doritos, playing World of Warcraft. Someone with vibrant purple hair and an unforgettable face instead of someone with dull brown hair and a face that quickly fades from memory. She started out as a semi-intriguing individual, but now she's just boring old me. I think this blog has fallen by the wayside for far too long and has been overloaded with way too much boring and uninteresting content to even think about doing anything to fix it. In order to remedy this problem, Meg and I have started a <a href="http://makeyourselfinteresting.blogspot.com/">new blog</a> about making ourself(ves) interesting. <br /><br />So. New blog. You're welcome to read it. <br /><br />That is all.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6898651965453111085?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-87131601878972959582010-11-10T06:51:00.002-05:002010-11-10T07:33:00.009-05:00<div>A week before the move, Joe told me that I could go ahead and pack up all the clothes. He would start in on the kitchen. "I've moved <i>lots </i>of times," he said. "I'm an expert mover/packer." </div><div><br /></div><div>And like the good wife that I am, I believed him. I packed up the clothes. When we began unpacking boxes at the new house, I was able to find every item of clothing I had packed. Not so for the kitchen items. Also, when I packed the clothing, I did not put any box unpackers in danger. Not so for the unfortunate unpackers of the kitchen items. </div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Kate and I unpacked the kitchen boxes together. The boxes were labeled creatively:"Kitchen Shit", "More Kitchen Shit". She ripped open one box to find it stuffed with packing peanuts. Good idea, right? Keeps those breakables safe. Uh. Sure. It keeps the breakables safe but it makes finding the <i>loose knives </i>a bit like playing Russian Roulette. She found our knife block - knives and all - under a layer of packing peanuts. Some of the knives had fallen out and were stabbing into the nice comforter that Joe had conscientiously packed into the box to protect the breakables. The comforter, I might add, is made of suede or a suede-like material. All the better for stab wounds and fabric slits that can't be repaired. </div><div><br /></div><div>After Kate removed the knife block and fished out the knives that belonged in it, she found another loose knife - part of another set. We looked at each other and gasped. She immediately whipped out her camera phone to take pictures of the swell packing job as she covered her mouth with her empty hand and said, "Oh my God! He didn't! He so didn't!" But he so did. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Watch out," I said. "There are three more knives in that set." Kate groaned and went back to unpacking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later, Kate and I discovered another box full of kitchen crap that Joe had so thoughtfully marked "More Fucking Shit". I had no clue what the "fucking shit" was until I opened the box. It turned out that "fucking shit" means flour, sugar, blankets and various kitchen miscellaneous. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the old house we had two half-full bags of flour. We also had a Tupperware container full of flour and a Tupperware container full of sugar. Joe thought that he could keep the contents of the bags and Tupperware containers safe by wrapping them in packing tape. He thought wrong. Yes, he folded the flour bags closed and wrapped them in packing tape. I wish I was kidding. And the containers? Not real Tupperware. I bought them at the dollar store. Even though they were wrapped rather thoroughly in packing tape, they still leaked. As I began digging things out of the box, I noticed a white, powdery substance covering all of the blankets, containers, towels and utensils. It was too bad that I didn't notice the box was leaking that powdery white substance out the bottom until I had drug it all the way from the living room to the kitchen. </div><div><br /></div><div>If we ever move again, I'm packing the kitchen. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8713160187897295958?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-7192115929221922782010-11-07T19:51:00.002-05:002010-11-07T19:53:40.075-05:00So. We're in the new house. Things have been crazybusy. But I just have to say that I'm loving the new place. Our work ethic has gone through the mother effin' roof and we're getting stuff done left and right. Just wanted to update ya'all. I'll write a real blog sometime. Sometime when there are enough hours in a day. Sometime...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-719211592922192278?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-92217217983839690492010-10-05T10:29:00.004-04:002010-10-05T10:52:13.773-04:00My poor husband is having a terrible time in Texas. He nearly missed his connecting flight yesterday. The taxi driver overcharged him by $20. The wheels fell off his suit case as he walked the mile from the hotel lobby to the building in which he would be housed for the week, then he had to lug the thing up three flights of stairs. The military is the only institution I've seen where the hotel lobbies are no kidding a mile away from the actual hotel rooms. When he finally made it to the hotel room he plopped down on the bed and called me. "I need to take a bath to soak my feet. They're killing me," he said. He tried the bathroom door but it was locked. Convenience on top of convenience. An hour later he knocked on his neighbor's door to find out if they shared a bathroom. They did indeed. <div><br /></div><div>His stay was extended until next Monday. His final appointment is supposedly on Thursday so what's the point of keeping him over the weekend? Next Monday we have to meet the home inspector at the new house. I may end up doing that alone. I don't mind, really, but I'm sure it's not Joe's idea of a good time to miss that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pretty much the only thing that is going well for him is the weather. He called me last night to complain about the cold. "It's 70 degrees! Brrr."</div><div><br /></div><div>I checked the thermostat. "It's 60 degrees here. In the house." The housing company, in their infinite wisdom, decided that turning on the heat before mid-October is completely unnecessary. I bet none of those bastards live on base and if they do they certainly don't live in this section - the old section where the wind whips through the windows even when they're closed and locked. </div><div><br /></div><div>Apart from the cold I'm having a much easier time of things than Joe. Yesterday I listened to a book on CD as I cleaned cupboards and scrubbed floors and painted over smudges on the walls that are impossible to clean because the second you try you end up rubbing off all the paint. I popped a movie in the DVD player and alternated reading and working on my crafts. Background noise. Then later I popped in another movie and actually watched it. Last night I watched "Being John Malkovitch". What a strange, strange movie. Maybe today I'll get around to working on one of my contest submissions. </div><div><br /></div><div>I miss my husband. I'm okay, though. I mean, I'm not moping about and crying. I just miss him, that's all. I feel better when he's here. The house is lonely without him. But soon all of this medical board stuff will be over and he can finally have a concrete date of separation. It's just another step in our journey together. I don't really see how they can give him less than 30%. That's the magic number. 30% retirement means health care for life. It means a teensy check every month, but the money's not what we need. It's that health care. But if they stay constant at 20%, we'll be okay. He has a government job lined up. They have health care. Either way we'll be all right. It'll just be nice when it's over. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-9221721798383969049?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-69617183530654445952010-09-29T13:57:00.003-04:002010-09-29T14:17:34.912-04:00I'm getting ready to fill out a job application. The feelings I'm experiencing are quite mixed right now. <div><br /></div><div>First, excitement. I'm very excited at the idea of working in my old career field. I have missed it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Second, fear. What if I don't get the job? My chances are pretty good seeing as I have three years experience, but that little "what if" rules supreme. </div><div><br /></div><div>Third, failure. Is that an emotion? Well, regardless, that's what I feel. My earnings as a freelance writer have been minuscule. I didn't even make enough last year to claim it on my taxes. This year I've made quite a bit more, but it's nothing to write home about. It's not even enough to take care of one monthly bill. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel as if I've wasted two years. I had grand dreams going into this career. I'm going to be successful. I'm going to be published all over the place. I'm going to make us rich. Pipe dreams? </div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, I've written. Daily. Article after article about stupid things that I have no interest in. Maybe that's the problem. You can only write so many articles about stupid things you have no interest in before you grow weary of the profession. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a couple of accomplishments under my belt. I've written at least 15 articles for newspapers, one article for a magazine, one article for a religious pamphlet (my highest earning piece yet, remarkably), and one short creative nonfiction story for a book. Oh, and I can't forget the hundreds of articles I've written for Internet publications. All in the past two years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, if I put it that way, it doesn't seem like I'm such a failure after all. I've been doing what I love, getting paid for it, and seeing my name in print on a regular basis. That's what I wanted. Without the fame and fortune. But what kind of freelance writer becomes famous and rich, anyway? </div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is that I'm getting lonely. Incredibly, depressingly lonely. And most days I lack the motivation to do anything at all. It's just an excuse, I keep telling myself. But it's an excuse I've been falling back on for the past two years. It's time to do something about it instead of sitting around whining and moping because I don't have enough friends to fill my calendar with social events and I only have my two cats to interact with from 7 to 4 every day. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love writing. I will never give it up. I couldn't even if I tried. But I think it's time for something different. Then, when I have a job I think I will have more to write about. I'll have daily interactions to write about. I'll have characters. I'll have dialog. I'll have interesting tidbits and hilarious anecdotes. You can only write so many "today my cat did the funniest thing" type of anecdotal stories before you start to bore yourself. </div><div><br /></div><div>But maybe if I'm earning an income from outside the home I will be able to focus on the writing I enjoy doing - the stories, the novels, the scripts, the memoirs - instead of the non-interesting nonfiction articles I write for money. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am applying for a part-time position at the library. I don't care what it is. I will work circulation, children's, or even as a page. Just anything to get me out of the house and around people. I thought about volunteering, but since I'm not doing much to help out financially I figured I may as well just work. Part-time will give me plenty of freedom to write and garden and do all those other fun things I love to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love libraries. The library is a place that makes me happy right when I walk through the door. I'm sure there will be stress and I'll have bad days, but I really hope I get the job. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6961718353065444595?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-42805588614217532482010-09-28T12:05:00.003-04:002010-09-28T12:17:18.754-04:00One of my friends is embarking on a 365-day blogging challenge. I feel quite lazy seeing as he's managed to blog consecutively for about 15 days now and here I am, the so-called writer, blogging inconsistently. I journal daily, though. Maybe that counts. <div><br /></div><div>I'm currently reading a book about anomalous mental capacities, such as intuition, dowsing, remote viewing and other things of that nature. This subject has always interested me, but this book has made me think more than any of the others I've read. The book is called <i>Extraordinary Knowing. </i>It was written by the late psychologist Elizabeth Lloyd Mayer, Ph.D. Maybe that's why it is making me think so much - it's written by a professional as opposed to a pseudo-psychic or random layman. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the book Mayer delves into a realm that has been shunned by her colleagues. Many of her colleagues have experienced such anomalies, but refuse to share them with anyone lest they be laughed out of their profession. So many studies have been done on the power of prayer and/or "good thoughts" being directed toward ill people. The government has flat out admitted that they used remote viewers for intelligence gathering during the Cold War. Why then do so many people refuse to accept that weird things happen? Out of the ones who do accept it, many refuse to talk about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't finished the book, yet, but I do recommend it based on what I've read so far. If you are at all interested in psychic phenomena and skepticism of such, this is a book that you will find very interesting. Mayer does her research, too. She didn't simply throw stories and anecdotes together with a few of her own personal thoughts. The book is full of anecdotes and her personal thoughts, but she also took the time to do extensive research. </div><div><br /></div><div>What do you think about "strange things" such as psychic phenomena? Have you had an experience or several experiences that could not be explained? </div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4280558861421753248?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-16448837799855936832010-09-22T11:00:00.003-04:002010-09-22T11:10:06.903-04:00Hello, Bloggerville. I've been away for a long time. I need to make my blog rounds and see what I missed out on. How is everyone? <div><br /></div><div>Everything has been all sorts of crazy here lately. But in a good way. Things are looking up and I think it has a lot to do with the positive attitudes that both Joe and I have adopted. We're closing on the house next month, depending on the VA appraisal. We should hear back about that this week or early next. The owners went out and did a bunch of repairs so I think we'll be all right. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe has to go away next week to meet with the medical board. At first we were told that I couldn't go with him. Then our doctor asked if he wanted me to go. She put in for the approval and told us I could. Today we found out that her chief declined it so now it looks like I can't go. Oh well, I guess. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I first heard that he would have to go TDY for a few days, I was sort of excited. I mean, I was sad that he would be away, but I was excited that I could stay home by myself. I've never been alone for a whole day and night. Isn't that weird? I'm closer to 30 than I am to 20 and I've never experienced one full day of aloneness. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before I was excited, but now I'm just sad. I hate being away from him. But, I'll have plenty of time to paint and clean and do all that stuff that needs to be done for the housing inspection. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1644883779985593683?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-1398670984596890312010-07-22T09:45:00.002-04:002010-07-22T10:03:08.056-04:00Yesterday we signed the contract for the house. The seller likes our offer. We're pretty much good to go. Now let's cross our fingers that the VA will assess the house for more than our offer and that all the inspections will go well. Everything pretty much hinges on those inspections. <div><br /></div><div>I went out there again today and poked around in the garden. I imagined hosting dress-up tea parties where the ladies wear fancy gowns from the 1800's and sit on the swings in the cottage garden area and sip fine tea out of fancy china while the men sit in the bamboo garden and drink beer while they talk about, I don't know, baseball and Bruce Willis or whatever it is that men talk about. </div><div><br /></div><div>A home of our very own. I can't even imagine. We can build bookcases into the walls and plant pretty flowers around the driveway. Art will hang in every room. Flower pots will hang from the ceiling and rest on curio tables I pick up at the flea markets. In the kitchen we'll prepare meals, freeze and can garden-fresh vegetables and create jellies and jams to share with our friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our good friends, Dave and Kate, are just as excited about the place as we are. Dave wants to put a bee box in in the backyard for fresh honey for all of us to share and he wants to build a small log cabin workshop where we can all work on our woodcrafts. Kate is going to help me pick out color schemes and plan the community (community meaning them and us) vegetable garden. Since they have a very tiny yard and since that garden is really large and would be far too much work for two people, we decided that a community garden and bee box would be a fantastic idea. </div><div><br /></div><div>Think of all the quiet evenings! We'll be able to see stars when the sky is clear. Every morning we will wake up to the sound of chirping birds. The smells of the country will drift through our open windows when the weather is nice -- freshly mowed hay, the sweet smell of horses at a nearby farm, the scent of lilacs planted outside the windows. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lovely. It will be lovely. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-139867098459689031?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-59436182113697379382010-07-16T08:44:00.008-04:002010-07-16T08:59:59.647-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBWvs7GBJI/AAAAAAAAAEc/NjGQKZgqTRg/s1600/Swing+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBWvs7GBJI/AAAAAAAAAEc/NjGQKZgqTRg/s400/Swing+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494486922904863890" /></a><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBUY7TOF4I/AAAAAAAAAEE/AJY-0_0MZSo/s400/Swing.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494484332603905922" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBV6ogtYoI/AAAAAAAAAEU/miQpWeL9sjA/s1600/Pond.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBV6ogtYoI/AAAAAAAAAEU/miQpWeL9sjA/s400/Pond.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494486011187389058" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/TEBV6ogtYoI/AAAAAAAAAEU/miQpWeL9sjA/s1600/Pond.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-5943618211369737938?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-44971307197420881242010-07-15T09:08:00.004-04:002010-07-15T09:24:58.036-04:00The medical board has spoken. The words they have spoken are complete and utter crap. Joe's going to appeal. <div><br /></div><div>They decided to separate him at 20%. Separate. That means essentially "Here'syourmoneybuh-bye." That means no medical insurance. That means if he doesn't roll into a government job real fast we're going to be screwed. That means those trips to the emergency room, trips to specialists, prescriptions... they're all coming out of our pocket. That means either he suffers or we go into unimaginable debt. That means I have to quit the medication that makes me feel like a normal human being and go through the wonderful withdrawals. That means emergencies better not happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Separation? Really? He said the files they were given are incomplete and don't include his most recent diagnosis. But, he also said that he'd be lucky to get 30%. </div><div><br /></div><div>They did this to him and they're casting him out like the thousands of other people they broke and then left to their own devices. Where else is it normal for 30-year-old men to develop fibromyalgia and all these other crazy illnesses and syndromes out of absolutely nowhere? I told him they did this to him. He just shut me down and changed the subject. But how else? And now they won't pay. How many others is this happening to? I know of at least five cases in his squadron alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thinking about our friend who is two years out from retiring. He and his wife have four kids. He is also going through a medical board. What are they going to do to him and to his family? </div><div><br /></div><div>The good news is that I did a good job planning my trip home. The week after my visit is the week he has to go to Lackland to appeal. If their next offer isn't acceptable, he can appeal to the Secretary. After the final final final decision he has 90 days to get the hell out. </div><div><br /></div><div>That program he's working on that will create a job for him and our friend and other people? It's months from completion. Months from approval. And I'm sure you can imagine how long the approval process can take. Once he's gone, the program is gone. The job is gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>But there are other jobs. One of his superiors' wives mentioned an opening in her squadron. There are several bases and depots in this area. Maybe I'm just being overly dramatic. We go through periods that suck, but we usually wind up somewhere above the bottom but close enough to the top that we're okay. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's just stressful. And I want to go home. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4497130719742088124?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-3871608759662361852010-07-15T07:06:00.002-04:002010-07-15T07:43:58.703-04:00I missed my 500th blogpostiversary so I figured I would celebrate the 501st. Um... celebration ensues. <div><br /></div><div>Something sad for my 501st post: </div><div><br /></div><div>The situation with Joe's grandma has become worse. Monday his mom called with news that the family was going to take grandma off life support on Tuesday. Joe brought up the fact that on Thursday his mom announced her death. She offered no explanation. He's just as puzzled as ever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something rather spiffy for my 501st post: </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been asked to write a story for a paper that will be read by (or at least given to) 100,000 people. The un-spiffy side of that is I have absolutely no idea what to write. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something awesome for my 501st post: </div><div><br /></div><div>My husband has been asked by the squadron commander to create a brand new program for the squadron based on the program that he started in his shop. This program will not only save the base a whole bunch of money, but will also provide him with a very nice job (as per the commander) when he retires and will create a job for a friend of ours who currently works down the hall from him and is also being forced out of the military for health reasons. This friend has four children and was planning on turning in his retirement paperwork in two years. This new shop will create lots of other jobs, too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something worth pondering for my 501st post: </div><div><br /></div><div>In the past couple days I've entered into an earth-shattering train of thought. I'm testing my beliefs and I'm not exactly pleased with the outcome. I remember the days when I believed in God, believed in Jesus' blood being the only way to get to heaven, believed that the Bible was full of truth and holiness and the words and themes were inspired by God. I believed that God created the heavens and the earth in six days. I believed that the virgin Mary was indeed a virgin who immaculately conceived the son of God. I believed that people who failed to cry out to Jesus and believe in his blood's cleansing power received a "Go directly to Hell" ticket. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also remember the days when I believed that gay people were going to hell. I believed that it didn't matter how good people were and how much kindness and generosity and selflessness they practiced, that people who didn't adhere to that particular denomination that I believed in, that people who believed in anything else but Jesus were going to hell. I believed that associating with those people was wrong. How then was I any better than my husband's parents who cast him out of their lives because he dared to ask questions and dared to find his own answers? How was I any better than the hateful people of Westboro Baptist Church who hold up signs declaring that God hates just about everyone but them? </div><div><br /></div><div>The answer is that I wasn't any different. I was just like them. My mind was closed. My one-track path was the only way for me, the only way for anyone else. </div><div><br /></div><div>But what if I was wrong? I firmly believe that I was indeed wrong. And who am I to judge other people based on criteria I was force fed by other closed-minded individuals?</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been wrestling with these beliefs. These thoughts rush through my mind like fast-moving water. The only thing I can sit and say that I absolutely believe in right now is God. I still believe God created the universe. Do I believe God created the universe in six days? Through evolution? Over the course of millions of years? I have absolutely no idea. And honestly I don't know enough about evolution or even science in general to form an opinion. I haven't learned about science since the ninth grade when my parents decided that school books cost too much money. And who actually uses science in their daily lives anyway? But I want to know. </div><div><br /></div><div>The fact that I no longer believe the Bible is the inspired word of God scares me because the Bible says it is. But if I don't believe in the Bible, how can I believe that statement? </div><div><br /></div><div>The fact that I don't know where I stand on the Jesus issue scares me. I'm going to hell because the Bible says that Jesus is the son of God and he is the only way to get to heaven. But if I don't believe that, why am I afraid? Years of conditioning, I suppose. Or maybe I am choosing the wrong path. </div><div><br /></div><div>But what if Jesus was just a man? How many men have claimed they were the messiah? How many followed them and believed them? Surely they weren't all the messiah. </div><div><br /></div><div>And if the Bible is nothing more than a fanciful nearly-historical document, how do we know that there is a savior? What if God wants us to simply live life, enjoy what he has given us, share love and kindness with others and take time out of our daily lives to appreciate the beauty of nature? </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-387160875966236185?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-26709650176121098852010-07-11T11:00:00.003-04:002010-07-11T11:31:05.779-04:00I don't really know how to write this. It's sick. It's horrible. It's beyond fucked up.<div><br /></div><div>His mom called yesterday and said that the family was headed to the hospital tomorrow (today) to take his grandma off life support. </div><div><br /></div><div>We spent all day yesterday shaking our heads trying to figure this out. He spent Friday and early Saturday mourning the loss of his grandma only to find out later Saturday that she wasn't really dead. Yet. But she will be. Today. </div><div><br /></div><div>That would explain why the obituary wasn't in the paper. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>When she called Thursday she said, "They pulled the plug. Mom is dead." His dad came on the phone and confirmed it through tears. "She's dead." </div></div><div><br /></div><div>How can you screw something like that up? Really? This is like something from a dark comedy. But it's not funny. It's the most horrible thing I've ever heard in my life. How in the world is he supposed to process this?<br /> <div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2670965017612109885?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-51681944804595504622010-07-09T06:52:00.003-04:002010-07-09T06:56:00.143-04:00His grandma passed away last night. She was 90. He hadn't seen her in ten years. Before his mother hung up the phone she said, "You know you aren't welcome at the funeral, right?" <div><div><br /></div><div>As if losing a loved one isn't hard enough. He has to mourn his entire family all over again. </div><div><br /></div><div>How can you talk sense into people when they believe that alienating their family is God's will? </div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-5168194480459550462?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-32161869466122826062010-07-06T09:27:00.002-04:002010-07-06T10:12:54.067-04:00This is a day for celebration, so I have a few woo-hoos to share. <div><br /></div><div>Woo-Hoo No. 1: </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://thefirstbookoftesticles.blogspot.com/2010/07/charlies-back.html">Charlie is back!</a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I certainly missed him while he was off on his forced vacation to the land of bedpans and round-the-clock room service and I'm sure everyone else in the blog world did as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>Woo-Hoo No. 2: </div><div><br /></div><div>I had a talk with the husband and decided that I would like to go home for a few days and we have it in our finances to do so. It's been nearly a year since I've seen everybody, so I'm really looking forward to the trip. </div><div><br /></div><div>Woo-Hoo No. 3: </div><div><br /></div><div>Our agent finally called and said that the lawyer is taking a second look at the paperwork for the house. From what she said, I guess two looks are better than one. She said that means they like our offer and they have to make sure that no one else has a claim to the house or owes money on it and some other legal mumbo jumbo. I'll just go ahead and include the Woo-Hoo No. 4 in here since it looks like we're on our way out of the WhiteTrashStepfordville that is military housing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of WhiteTrashStepfordville... this is a little off-subject, but this is just one of the reasons I can't wait to get out of here. Our neighbor just returned from a deployment. I'm assuming he was in the desert because he was wearing the desert camo and a floppy hat when he returned. His wife had engaged in some extracurricular activities while he was gone. Not only did I see the occasional male visitor, I also had the extra joy of my sleep being interrupted by bashing sounds coming from the wall behind my head. </div><div><br /></div><div>You would not believe how often this happens. When we first got here, I thought that it was just a military wife stereotype and they don't really do that stuff. Oh, but they do. And often. And with multiple partners. And together with other couples. It's disgusting. I don't get it. I don't see where the appeal lies, I really don't. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't remember if I already mentioned this or not, but we recently gave up a couple of friends because of this. He found out that she had cheated on him for the seventh time since they'd been married. He decided to stay with her because "she has issues". Of course she has issues! It's called SluttyHoFace Syndrome. "But she said she was sorry and wouldn't do it again." That's what she said the other six times, too, huh? What's really messed up is that the only reason she stayed with him, after she told him she wasn't attracted to him and didn't love him, was because the other guy (one of his good friends) didn't want to leave his wife to marry her. She also told her husband that. And he is still with her. </div><div><br /></div><div>They've invited us to hang out a few times since the cheating incident. We did once and it was just so unbelievably awkward. She spent the whole night hanging all over him telling him how much she loved him and then picking fights with him for no reason. Meanwhile we're all sitting there unable to get over the fact that she's a whore. I like the guy. He's a nice guy. He's just stupid. I still kind of like her, but not really. You know what I mean? I've lost all respect for her and she's honestly not the kind of person I want to be around. I feel sorry for her, I guess. Sorry that she can't accept the fact that the only thing that's making her do that stuff is herself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. Back to the Woo-Hoos. </div><div><br /></div><div>Woo-Hoo No. 5: </div><div><br /></div><div>I might be getting a story published in a book. I entered a nonfiction story contest through a reputable publishing company a couple months ago. The editor sent me an e-mail a couple weeks ago and told me I was a finalist. She sent the story back with a couple edits and made me sign a contract. I'm supposed to hear from her again this month. It's a pretty good story, if I do say so myself - and I do. Joe said it reminded him of my older blogs - the ones I wrote off-the-cuff just for fun. </div><div><br /></div><div>Woo-Hoo No. 6: </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe has been promoted to a pretty spiffy position that is usually reserved to those who are three ranks higher. He is the best damn military man ever. I'm not even kidding. It's pretty hard to stand out and make yourself indispensable in the military. He's done both. Sure, they'll be able to replace him when they retire him, but no one will be able to do as well and as much as he has done. He's still in the same shop and basically does the same thing, but he now has the nifty title behind it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm hoping they'll open up a civilian slot for him in this squadron when he gets retired since he already has a good rapport with everyone and knows the job really well. They may not. In any case, he's building a pretty good resume. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's really too bad that he's not healthy (in more ways than just this one, obviously). He would make a kick-ass command chief. </div><div><br /></div><div>My next blog will be about him and his awesomeness because I can't fit it all in here. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Side note: awesomeness wasn't flagged for improper spelling. Someone went and made it a word. It's about damn time. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3216186946612282606?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-46030476178793845222010-06-09T07:41:00.005-04:002010-06-09T08:09:36.880-04:00Okay, so. Let me explain my absence: <div><br /></div><div>I have a new hobby. A couple of new hobbies actually. Or, rather, a few new hobbies. A handful? Well, one of them isn't quite a hobby by most standards, but oddly enough it's something I enjoy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Life as a mostly housebound freelance writer by day, video game addict by night had grown rather ... boring. My brain was completely underwhelmed. Not counting all the stressed out, frizzed out bits of my brain, that is. I suffered a lack of stimulation. Writing is no longer my hobby. Because really. Who wants to work all day and then work some more for fun? It drains your inspiration. I still enjoy writing, yes, but I can't do it all the time because it just flat out stresses me out when I can't think of awesomely creative ideas to jot down on paper. </div><div><br /></div><div>I talked to Mom on the phone one day (we're getting along quite well at the moment) and she suggested that I try something new. She recently tried something new and she's loving it. I decided she was right. I thought about all the hobbies I could try. Joining a choir wouldn't work because, well, I can't sing. Fixing cars wouldn't work because I have absolutely no interest in actually doing the fixing. My interest only lies in the finished product. Taking up dancing wouldn't work because I fall down when I'm walking. Reading. Eh, I still do that, but what I needed was something <i>constructive. </i>Something <i>productive. </i>Something <i>creative.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>One evening I thought about my dad and how cool it is that he can build all sorts of awesome and useful things, like houses and shelves and walls. I thought about the times I was able to accompany him to various job sites. I remembered the smell of the sawdust, the feel of walking into a recently built, completely fresh and new room, the pride I felt when I looked around my old home that Dad had mostly constructed, the pride I felt when I drove around town with my friends and pointed out this house and that fence and that barn that my dad built. I thought about the pride he must feel every time he finishes a project and how fantastic it must be to look through your house and see all the things you built with your own two hands and some power tools. Then I remembered the excitement I felt every time I walked into Home Depot and Joe just looked at me like I was crazy for getting excited about sheets of plywood and power tools. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yep. Building. Creating. That's what I want to do. What better way to honor my father than to try my hand at his craft? What better way to pass the time than to create things for our home? I may not be good at it, but I'm certainly willing to try. </div><div><br /></div><div>All I have now is a little set of screwdrivers and ratchets, a hammer and some nails, some paint and some sandpaper, some books and a million ideas. But maybe eventually I'll build up a shrine of tools. And I'll build a workbench to use those tools. And I'll build a bookshelf. And a desk. And a birdhouse. And a cathouse. And a doghouse (for Joe when he's bad). </div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Kate introduced me to the joys of flea markets. I bought some plain wooden wine boxes and I'm in the process of turning them into bookshelves. They certainly won't be anything like the ones my dad makes, but I will feel that sense of pride and accomplishment when they're completed. And then I'll build more stuff. And more. And more. And more. Because I enjoy it. </div><div><br /></div><div>In case you were wondering what my other new hobbies are, they are cleaning with mostly natural household ingredients, such as vinegar and baking soda(I'm not even kidding. I clean like 12 hours per day and I love the crap out of it and I know that's weird, but it's constructive and I like doing it most of the time but not when it's poop), and ... hehe ... playing a different video game than the one I used to play before. What? It's a different one. And I don't spend nearly as much time playing it as I used to the other one because I'm busy building and cleaning and writing about building and cleaning and also, well, living. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4603047617879384522?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-63451795427345043002010-05-23T15:56:00.002-04:002010-05-23T16:20:19.138-04:00The Realtor called Thursday morning with bad news. Someone else had made an offer on the house we really really really liked. I thought it was the end of the world. We had no idea what the offer was and how to top it. We brought a construction-minded friend and went and checked it out a second time to decide how far we would go to own it. The second time we walked through, I saw a million more things wrong with it. The drywall in the basement needed completely torn out. The doors upstairs needed replaced. The kitchen cabinets hung by threads. All the outlets were barely attached to the walls. Then our friend went up in the attic and told us about a huge fire hazard. We were extremely disconcerted. <div><br /></div><div>Before we took off, the Realtor handed us a few more listings in the area. When we got home, we looked over them half-heartedly until one particular piece of property caught our eye. We shot an e-mail to the Realtor and told her we wanted to see it and another home. Then we decided to drive out and take a look at it. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was a considerably long drive, about 30 minutes, which is sort of far for a daily commute, considering I drop Joe off and pick him up everyday because of his vertigo issues. When we pulled up to the house it didn't look quite like we had expected. Then we walked around the back. I cannot even begin to describe how amazing that place is. Beyond the full deck around the side and back, the previous owners had created a jungle, complete with bamboo, a fish pond and a vine-covered archway with built-in benches. We peeked in the windows and everything looked gorgeous and new. We looked at each other in amazement, completely sold. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then we saw the deal-maker. One one side of the house, past a dilapidated shed, a magical land hid behind the house-colored fence. We headed toward it and our jaws dropped. "Surely this can't be part of the property!" we exclaimed. But it was. The half-acre had been put to perfect use. Raspberries, grapes, strawberries, peonies, roses, herbs and every other imaginable plant grew in an English cottage-styled garden, complete with fencing, borders, trellises, swings and even antique bicycles and wagons for accents. Each section of the garden was completely different, yet it all fit together to create the most eclectic, odd, strange, beautiful and wonderful imagination central. </div><div><br /></div><div>We lingered in the garden, touching and smelling plants, oohing and aahing over every new discovery, pointing at butterflies and birds that fluttered out of nowhere, enjoying the garden until the sun disappeared and we could no longer see. We were in love. Completely in love. It fit us. It was unusual and wonderful. Gardening, we decided, is the perfect hobby work for us. We don't know how to hang drywall or re-finish hardwood floors and honestly we don't have too much interest in it. The idea of calling on our friends every time we needed help with a project around the other house didn't really appeal to us and we were quite sure it wouldn't appeal to our friends. But gardening? That's something we love to do. That's something we can do. </div><div><br /></div><div>We went to dinner and daydreamed. We made our plan. If the inside was good, we would make an offer. </div><div><br /></div><div>I took my friend out to the house Friday morning. She loved it as much as we did. That afternoon we took her and her construction-minded husband with us to meet the Realtor at the house so we could see the inside. </div><div><br /></div><div>The inside was just as magical as the outside. The layout, I will admit, was very strange and it didn't make a whole lot of sense in some areas. But everything was new. The rooms were huge. And, hell, the layout appealed to our strange, creative sides. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our friend gave it his stamp of approval. No structural damage. No electrical hazards. The well water smelled eggy, but we could fix that or deal with it. We all saw plenty of projects we could do at some point, but we didn't see anything that absolutely needed work right away. Well, except for the roof. That's kind of a bummer, but he offered to help us out with that in exchange for us helping him out with his home projects. </div><div><br /></div><div>We made an offer that night. Maybe it was a little hasty, but everything about that house just felt right. It felt like home. We certainly didn't want anyone to snatch it out from under us. We should hear Monday whether the bank accepted the offer or not. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6345179542734504300?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-9050205591760733282010-05-20T13:56:00.003-04:002010-05-20T14:12:45.571-04:00I've been trying to decide what was the best part of yesterday's adventure and I can't decide. There were just so many great things.<div><br /></div><div>1. The "state-of-the-art septic tank". </div><div><br /></div><div>We asked the Realtor if she knew the whereabouts of the septic tank, its age and the last time it was cleaned out. She said she had absolutely no idea. Later as we walked around the side of the property and glanced at the lot next door, she pointed at about eight PVC pipes that stuck up from the ground and said, "Oh there it is. Yep. That's it. I'm quite sure. It's a state-of-the-art septic tank. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I don't know much about septic tanks, but I'm pretty sure that was no state-of-the-art septic tank. It looked to me like a house sat there not too long ago and they hadn't gotten around to pulling up the kitchen and bathroom pipes. Hence the lack of grass. I have no idea, really, but I'm sure it wasn't what she was sure it was. </div><div><br /></div><div>2. The school system. </div><div><br /></div><div>"How are the school systems here?" we asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, I went there and I had no problems." Joe and I refrained from looking at each other with raised eyebrows, but we were both thinking the same thing. "I think you get as much out of school as you put in. And, you know, parents just have to be involved." </div><div><br /></div><div>Mmmhmm. She didn't mention the fact that the school system was so bad it was taken over by the state recently. Then again, that's definitely not a selling point. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. The crime. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Is the area safe? Do you know about crime ratings?" we asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I used to live just down the road and I had no problems," she said.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess mentioning the fact that there's at least one registered sex offender on every block in that town would not be much of a selling point, either. </div><div><br /></div><div>4. She asked if we wanted to ride with her, but had to clean out her car first. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't you think that if you expected people to be in your vehicle, you would make sure you didn't have papers and boxes all over the seats? </div><div><br /></div><div>5. If she didn't know something she didn't offer to find out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I noticed some water damage in the kitchen, so I asked her about the state of the roof, if she knew when it had last been replaced. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, I don't know," she said. She peeked her head outside and looked up. "It looks fine to me." </div><div><br /></div><div>And that was that. There was no, "I'm not sure, but I can find out." That would have been acceptable, I would think. </div><div><br /></div><div>The other Realtor went down to the city hall to find out about the septic system on the property we really really really like. </div><div><br /></div><div>6. She drove around the lake twice before she found the second house. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I were a salesman trying to make a sale, I think I would want to make sure that I knew as much about that item as I possibly could -- including the location. If I was unsure about the location, I would drive out there before the meeting so I wouldn't look like an incompetent salesperson. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, that was our adventure yesterday. Now that I've written them all out, I think I've decided on a favorite. The "state-of-the-art septic tank" is the best bullshit line I think I've ever heard in all my life. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-905020559176073328?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-30524665740844987512010-05-19T14:20:00.004-04:002010-05-20T14:14:02.553-04:00... don't send me an e-mail like this: <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:12px;">Hi Meg here are two homes i am going to show yo tonight. The first one you licked is under contract. I did pull the other one because I just reduced it to $169,500. It does have 3 bedrooms, 2 baths and A garage.<br /><br />I llok forward to meeting you at 5:30 tonight.<br /><br />Have a Blessed Day</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><i>Terrible Realtor</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The first few sentences of the listing made me want to scratch out my eyes because of the egregious spelling errors and typos. Pretty sure we're not going through this lady. I understand a couple typos, but really? If you want my business, act like a professional. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And what's with telling us we're looking at a different house we never expressed interest in? The other Realtor gave us a list after the one we liked was found out to be under contract. We chose from the list and then <i>we</i> set the appointment to look at the other houses. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have a feeling this lady is going to lie through her teeth to get us to buy from her. We looked at the one we really really really want last night. That Realtor was amazing. She told us the truth. We knew it was the truth because we had already done the research. This lady? Psh. She's going to try and tell us that the neighborhood is safe and the town is quaint and it has A+ school systems when I already know that all the above are negative. Crime is higher than the rest of the state and the population is only about 12,000. Your chances of being a victim in that city are 1 in 256, as opposed to the overall state ratio of 1 in 295. There are a dozen registered sex offenders in that development alone. The school systems are atrocious. The testing rates are wayyy below state average. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The school district of the other house we looked at is in the 90th percentile. Your chance of being a victim there is - I kid you not - 1 in 27,967. The crime rating is a big, fat zero. The Realtor did say that a few years ago they had a problem with people from a neighboring town breaking into some homes on Main Street, but it's now patrolled by the state police. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So why are we looking at these homes? For experience, I guess. We didn't think we could get the one we really really really wanted. We just found out yesterday that it's more than feasible and all we have to do is tear out the walls in the finished part of the basement where the mold started growing because the sellers vacated with the windows open and shut off the basement pump. We already had this appointment set, so we figured we'd look anyway. Our friends said that would be a good idea, just for the experience and to make sure this one is the one we really really really want. </span></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3052466574084498751?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-5997142459501510422010-05-18T07:48:00.002-04:002010-05-18T08:06:55.131-04:00If you had told me two years ago that we would be staying here for good, I would have told you to go do something naughty with yourself - and not in a nice way. But it looks like that's what we're doing. <div><br /></div><div>The job market is better here. There are about a dozen places in the area that are hiring people in my husband's career field. There's a college about 30 minutes away where he can finish his degree. The school systems are fantastic, in case we ever decide to have kids. The downside is that the cost of living is higher and that my family is 2,000 miles away. A low cost of living won't do us any good if we can't find work. We have to do what's best for us. </div><div><br /></div><div>So now we're embarking on the stressful emotional rollercoaster that is home-buying. We found three properties. Two are outside a small, depressed town, but they're 20 minutes from everything and each have lovely yards. The other, the one I'd give my left ovary for, is outside a quaint historic village and is 10 minutes from recreation, 25 minutes from possible work. That one has a lovely yard, a deck and a brand-spanking new interior. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today we're checking out the favorite. Joe said I wasn't allowed to go if I couldn't walk through it without giving away that I liked the house. I'll behave. I don't have much of a poker face, but I can certainly try. Besides, I'm fully expecting him to be the one that jumps up and down and puts a finger to the corner of his mouth and says, "We'll give you one million dollars. I don't care! Just let us have this house!" </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-599714245950151042?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-38824787802766341392010-05-03T16:35:00.003-04:002010-05-03T16:42:09.579-04:00The base medical board got back to us today. Their decision? Separation, either with a lump sum or retirement pay. <div><br /></div><div>The lady in charge of med board cases said that the board in Texas, or wherever the hell it is, usually agrees with the base determination. </div><div><br /></div><div>So... buh-bye. I guess. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now we're leaning towards staying here if his commander was serious about that civilian job. If not, well, we're back to square one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, but who knows where the wind will blow us. It certainly does like to blow. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3882478780276634139?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-42656861953959569742010-04-26T17:48:00.003-04:002010-04-26T18:11:38.218-04:00My doctor told me the pills weren't magic. I went home and took one just before I went to bed and woke up the next morning expecting to feel exactly the same. The only effects I really expected were the negative ones. I definitely wasn't expecting magic. Nor was I expecting to finally know what it feels like to be normal. <div><br /></div><div>The next day as I waited for the nausea and the depression I went to the grocery store. As I made my selections I noticed an interesting sensation in my head. It felt as if my head was floating inches above my body. It only lasted a couple minutes. Then, the rest of my body parts took turns feeling strange: my arm floated then tingled, my ears floated (that was a weird one, let me tell you), my leg felt numb. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stood in line at the self check-out and caught my reflection in the soda cooler. I noticed my belly stuck out just a little bit. I said to myself, "Oh well. It's just a little bit and nobody's going to really notice." </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way home someone pulled out in front of me. Instead of seeing flashes of fiery car crashes, I shrugged, called the guy a jackass and drove on. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought that surely the medicine hadn't kicked in already, but when I tried to conjure up some paranoid thoughts they vanished out of my mind like fog on a sunny day. </div><div><br /></div><div>That night when I laid in bed, falling asleep to the sounds of gunshots ringing in the distance, instead of envisioning terrible terrorist attacks on the base I simply thought, "Oh. They're out on the shooting range practicing." </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday we took the train to the Big Apple to see a show. Not once did I imagine the train derailing. When we were in the city I didn't imagine being hit by a rogue taxi or bus. I didn't look down when people talked to me. I enjoyed the day. On the train ride home we sat across from a couple strangers and I had a conversation with my husband, unafraid of what the people across from me were thinking. It was so wonderful to just enjoy each special moment with my husband. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy. I feel truly happy. I'm not busy consuming myself with what-ifs and paranoia. It's great to be able to really live life and enjoy it. Other than the occasional waves of nausea and the initial floating sensations, I haven't experienced any adverse side effects. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4265686195395956974?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-77564273041019026952010-04-20T09:39:00.003-04:002010-04-20T09:54:20.304-04:00I walked into the therapists office feeling crazy. I walked out feeling quite the opposite. <div><br /></div><div>I <i>just knew</i> that this bad thing and that bad thing were going to happen while I was there; that she was going to look me in the eye and tell me I was an absolute lunatic and there was no hope for my kind of crazy. I <i>just knew</i> it would be the most awful experience of my life. I <i>just knew </i>that she would stare at me critically with eyes that burned with disdain. </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, she helped me realize that not everything I think is a fact. She told me that it's okay to criticize my biggest critic. She told me that there were avenues I could take to seek help. She told me that I made it this far in life with this problem and I survived just fine, so surely I would always manage. And she told me she liked the way the pink stripes on my shoes matched the pink stripes on my shirt. </div><div><br /></div><div>She said to stop living in the future by imagining horrible things that <i>might </i>happen, to stop living in the past by dwelling on things or thoughts that happened or didn't happen but <i>could have</i> happened, and to enjoy the present moments. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Live in the moment" is something I've heard a million times. It's something that I've always thought sounded like a really great idea. It's something I've always tried to do. However, I didn't realize that by allowing my thoughts to run paranoid about what this person is going to think of my new outfit or the way my voice sounds or what those people I encountered moments ago must be thinking about me now I was not fully able to enjoy the moment. Half the time I can't see the moment. I get panic-stricken for no good reason other than the fact that I accept all my thoughts as fact when they clearly are not. </div><div><br /></div><div>I felt better after I stepped out of the office. I felt confident. I felt as if I could control the problem. I'm sure I'll have days where it will be difficult, but the "had it in me all along" storybook type ending felt so real and attainable. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7756427304101902695?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-64577754151189494882010-04-14T10:20:00.002-04:002010-04-14T10:54:03.921-04:00Meg sits uncomfortably on the tall doctor's table. Her feet dangle inches above the step. They turn purple from lack of blood flow. <div><br /></div><div>She glances around the room, reading PAPERS on the walls. They say things like "Early detection is the key to a normal healthy life". </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">She's going to think I'm crazy. I just know she is. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's a KNOCK on the door. The DOCTOR enters the room and shakes Meg's hand. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">How are you doing? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm fine. How are you? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">I see you're still smoking after I gave you the Chantix. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg nods her head and stares at her feet. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">She's mad at me. That was stuff was expensive. I didn't quit. I should tell her that it made me depressed and I couldn't hardly get out of bed and I had suicidal thoughts. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg opens her mouth to forms words, but nothing comes out. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">INT: DOCTOR'S OFFICE - DAY - FLASHBACK</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The DOCTOR writes a prescription on a piece of paper. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">This stuff is really expensive, so it's good that you're serious about quitting. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yes. I'm serious. I really want to quit.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">INT: HOUSE - DAY</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg and JOE are sitting on a couch. They are both wearing sweat pants and they have dark circles under their eyes. The phone rings. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JOE</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm not getting it. I don't even feel like getting up. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ugh. Me neither. Let's take a nap. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JOE</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm not going to take that Chantix anymore. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Me neither. That stuff makes me depressed. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JOE</div><div style="text-align: center;">The vivid dreams are cool, though. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">(nodding)</div><div style="text-align: center;">True. But that's the only good part. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">INT: CONVENIENCE STORE - DAY</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg walks up to the counter and addresses the CLERK. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Could I get a pack of Marlboro Smooths, please? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">INT: DOCTOR'S OFFICE - DAY - PRESENT</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">So what are you here for today? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anxiety. Social anxiety. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor types something on the computer as she nods her head. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Okay. And how long have you been experiencing this? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">My whole life. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor turns to look at Meg. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Your whole life, huh? And why are you just now seeking help? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh God. She thinks I'm just doing this now because my husband's on his way out and I'm going to lose my health insurance. And she's mad at me because I wasted the Chantix. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">I went to a medical board briefing with my husband and the lady asked if I had questions and I did but I couldn't physically bring myself to ask them. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor nods and turns back to the computer. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now she thinks I'm crazy. I'm definitely crazy. Who does that? Who can't open their mouth to ask a question? Crazy people. That's who. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Is there a history of mental illness in your family? Anyone have bipolar? Depression? ... (doctor continues speaking)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">She thinks I'm bipolar. I'm not bipolar. I can't be bipolar. Oh God. Maybe I am. Maybe I really am crazy. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor looks at Meg questioningly. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh. Um... No. Not that I know of. I mean, my dad is anti-social but I don't know if that counts. I just recently reconnected with my biological mother and my grandma told me she has issues but I don't know what kind of issues...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ok. We'll just put "unknown". Can you tell me some scenarios that make you feel anxious? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um... when I go to the BX and everybody's standing outside waiting for the bus... I feel like they're looking at me and making fun of me even though I know they probably aren't. And um... at the store.... And at places where there are people...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Okay. Can you tell me some more scenarios. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um... you know how at the BX there's a bunch of people standing there waiting for the bus? I have to count in my head. To calm myself down. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">(concerned)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Count? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh shit. Why did I say that? Why did I tell her I count? Now she's going to think I'm obsessive compulsive. Oh God. Scenarios. Scenarios. What's another scenario. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">My steps. I count my steps. To calm myself down. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR </div><div style="text-align: center;">All right... So. Um. I think what we're going to do is have you talk to the therapist --</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">Therapist? Therapist? Therapists are for crazy people. That means she thinks I'm crazy. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg's neck twitches and tears spring into her eyes. She tries to choke them back by holding her breath and clenching her fists. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Do you work? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">At home. I used to volunteer for the base paper but I couldn't do it anymore because I have trouble talking on the phone and I would freeze up whenever I had to call and interview people. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">(overly concerned)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Awww. I'm so sorry. That must be really tough. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meg's neck twitches some more and again she struggles to fight back tears. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.) </div><div style="text-align: center;">She feels sorry for me. Because I'm crazy. I don't want her to feel sorry for me. Why the hell am I crying? Stop that. There's no reason for that. I should tell her about the stuff I thought of earlier. I can't remember. What was I going to say? What...?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">I want you to look up this medicine on the Internet and see what you think about taking it. Schedule an appointment with the therapist this week and then one with me for the following week. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG (V.O.)</div><div style="text-align: center;">She thinks I'm crazy. I have to see a therapist. What if I'm crazy? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">DOCTOR</div><div style="text-align: center;">Okay? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MEG</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um. Okay. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The doctor opens the door and leads Meg into the hallway. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">FADE OUT. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've been working on a screenplay for Script Frenzy. Hence the script format. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Does this count for my Script Frenzy pages? Because that would be totally awesome if it did. Sure, I could write this, but I'm four days behind in the frenzy. Rawr. I'm distracted. That's one of the things the doctor asked. "Do you have difficult concentrating? Trouble sitting still?" I answered with an emphatic yes. Now she's going to think I have ADD too. Which I do, but that's beside the point. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6457775415118949488?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-53557168460380614482010-04-12T07:29:00.004-04:002010-04-12T08:01:19.324-04:00My appointment is today. Of course I spent the entire weekend bugging about what I'm going to say, what the doctor's going to say and how I'm going to respond to what she says. When I actually get there and she starts asking questions I'll likely just sit there and nod my head. That's what I do. <div><br /></div><div>I got an appointment on the next business day. For a mental issue. My husband calls for heart palpitations and gets one for two weeks later. What madness is that? But, the military does take great care of civilians. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel crazy. Joe keeps telling me I'm not. "You'd go to the doctor if your arm was broken, right?" he asks. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, yeah. But. This is in my head. That means I'm crazy. </div><div><br /></div><div>"People who make clothes out of human skins are crazy," he says. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I guess he has a point. </div><div><br /></div><div>But seriously. What if I walk in there and everyone looks at me like I'm a lunatic? </div><div><br /></div><div>"Crazy people are too crazy to know that crazy," he says. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hmm. He makes a good point with that one. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know, I was thinking... the circumstances surrounding the day I met my husband are just unbelievable. Everything magically fell into place. He walks into the shop the day before and on a whim asks for a job. He gets hired and starts the next day. That day I, on a last minute whim, decide I need a new phone card for the weekend away with my friends so I go in to get one. And that day I just happened to be ridiculously happy. Otherwise, if it had been a normal day, I would have kept my head down and not said a word. He wouldn't have seen my dazzling smile, the thing that drew him to me in the first place. I wouldn't have told him he was creepy and to stay away from me...</div><div><br /></div><div>Funny how things work out, huh? </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-5355716846038061448?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-17319161050815983952010-04-08T15:03:00.002-04:002010-04-08T15:36:22.363-04:00Joe takes the debit card from his wallet and hands it to me. "Here's the card. Why don't you go and get yourself a tasty coffee at Dunkin Donuts. Or better yet, why don't you take your notebook to the cafe off base, get a big latte and sit and write for a couple hours." <div><br /></div><div>"Okay," I say. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You deserve it," he says. "I mean it." </div><div><br /></div><div>He kisses me on the cheek, adjusts his hat and gets out of the car. He turns to smile at me as he walks through the door to work. The smile says he loves me and it also says I better do that thing he suggested I do because I deserve a treat. </div><div><br /></div><div>I put the card in my pocket. I shift into reverse and back out of the parking spot. I drive past the shop, past the flightline, past Dunkin Donuts, past the gate that leads off base to the cafe, past the forest and straight home. And there I stay until it's time to pick him up at 3:30. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Did you get your coffee?" he asks when he gets in the car. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think about lying, about telling him I did and it was wonderful. It might make him happy if I lie. But I can't lie to him. "No," I say. "Didn't feel like it." </div><div><br /></div><div>He frowns and gives me that look - the look that says "Next time I tell you to do something for yourself, you had better do it". The look isn't mean. It's sweet. Understanding. </div><div><br /></div><div>It makes me feel bad that I didn't do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I simply couldn't physically bring myself to do it. I wanted to, yes. I love coffee treats. I love little cafes with giant brick ovens and cute little tables sitting in the sun. I love the ambiance. I love the creativity that these places inspire. </div><div><br /></div><div>I just don't love the people that work there, the people that walk inside, the people that are already seated at tables sipping coffee, the people that see me walk in, the people that see me leave, the people that notice I'm all by myself and wonder why I'm all by myself, the people that notice I'm wearing a cute dress and wonder why I'm wearing a cute dress and not something more normal like jeans and a T-shirt, the people that take my order and tell me to speak up because they can't hear me, the people that walk past me, the people that stare at my new haircut and think it looks stupid, the people that wonder why I'm carrying a black bag in the spring time when colorful bags are in, the people that know I'm not really talking on my cell phone and I'm just pretending to talk so I won't have to talk to anyone or appear as if I'm alone and dorky. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't really hate people. I just hate that I can't be around people without feeling afraid. I love people. I wish I could meet everybody in the world. People are cool and interesting, even if they aren't. </div><div><br /></div><div>One time I went to Dunkin Donuts and got a coffee. An Army guy in line next to me said something funny about donuts. I laughed nervously and stood there uncomfortably the rest of the time, sure that he was looking at me and wondering why I too didn't say something funny about donuts. He didn't look at me, but I felt like he was staring. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't go anywhere by myself. I hate shopping even though I love shopping. Grocery shopping is the bane of my existence. There are people there. Lots of people. They look at me. They wonder why I can't figure out the self check-out. They tell me I can go to that lane over there but I don't want to because there's a clerk over there - a clerk that will ask me things like "paper or plastic" and I'll say "ummm plastic" and then wonder if I made the wrong decision because she crinkled her nose a certain way; and a bagger - a bagger that will have to carry out my groceries and follow me to my car and look inside and smell the mold that mysteriously grows in the trunk and see the bottle of anti-freeze and think that I'm not only incapable of small talk, I'm also incapable of keeping my car clean. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've always been like this. Some days are worse than others. When I lived back home I knew everybody in town and still felt like this. It got a little better when I worked in customer service. I actually enjoyed it. Occasionally I was afraid, but most of the time I was at least functional. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now it's worse because I don't interact with people everyday. In fact, I go out of my way to not have to interact with people. And when I do, I freeze up. My throat closes. My limbs grow stiff. My face turns red. I sweat. I stutter. I feel like my movements are jerky and dumb and I'm sure that everyone in the room is staring at me wondering why I'm such a doofus. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the briefing yesterday, the lady asked Joe if he had any questions. He asked some. She answered. She asked me if I had any questions. I did, but I shook my head no because the words wouldn't come out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know these people aren't criticizing me (at least until they try to speak to me and I say nothing back or croak something inaudible). I know my fears are irrational. But I can't make them stop. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm calling the doctor. For real this time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe said there's medication for this. He said he was even on some back in the day. He said it helped. He said he didn't have to go to therapy for it, either. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't know they could give you medicine. I thought it was just therapy. And what's the point of talking to someone about your problems if you're afraid to talk to someone period? </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe if the medication helps then I can go to therapy. Maybe someday I won't be afraid to go outside and weed the garden because people are watching me through their windows. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1731916105081598395?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-1011465242032798822010-04-05T07:58:00.003-04:002010-04-05T08:44:07.035-04:00"This is my mom, this is my stepdad, this is my brother and this is grandma. She's deaf... Grandma! Grandma! <b>Grandma!! </b>These are our friends Joe and Meg." Our friend Sarah made the introductions. We all shook hands. <div><br /></div><div>"This is Fluffy. He has a cotton-tail," said Sally, Sarah's six-year-old daughter. Joe and I shook paws with Sally's pink stuffed bunny. </div><div><br /></div><div>"My brother's around here somewhere..." Sarah said. I think I saw him once all day. But I can't say that I blame him for choosing to fly a kite (no, seriously - he really did) rather than hang out with the family. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sarah and Bob bickered about everything. Stuffing preparation. Potato mashing. Whether or not Sally could have a chocolate Easter bunny before dinner. What that one guy who played on that one movie's name was. Slipping the dog a piece of ham. The color of the sky. You know. Stuff like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sarah's mom took every opportunity to call Bob an asshole and accuse him of cheating on Sarah with juicy girls while he was deployed to Korea for a year. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sarah's stepdad downed an entire <i>full </i>16 ounce<i> </i>glass of Scotch with dinner like it was a glass of chocolate milk. He seriously glugged that stuff. </div><div><br /></div><div>We all sat down to eat and Grandma, this cute little Portugese lady, refused to take a bite until the blessing had been said. Sally was supposed to be the blessing sayer. She started eating and insisted that she was much too hungry to bless the food. Finally after much cajoling and bickering about cajoling from the grandmas, the grandpa, the mom and dad, she did it. Grandma crossed herself as Sally began: "I pledge allegiance to the flag..." Grandma crossed herself again after "Play ball!" and told Sally what a wonderful job she did saying grace. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know, at first I thought it was really mean of everyone to be talking about Grandma when she was sitting right there, but after that I realized that she really and truly couldn't hear anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we started eating dinner, Sarah looked at Grandma then looked at her mom and asked why Grandma had a Willy Wonka haircut. After she mentioned it, I could sort of see the resemblance. </div><div><br /></div><div>"She decwided to cut wher own bangs," Sarah's mom answered. "I sweah I have to keep everwythwing away from huh. She's woose than a chiwild." The family is from New England. They put extra syllables in every word. And most words that don't have w's end up having them, anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>After dinner, Grandma dumped all her food into a nice little pile on her plate, then covered it with a napkin. Then she tucked the food in, like a child in a bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What's Grandma doin' with her food?" Sarah asked her mom. "Grandma! Hey, Grandma! <b>Hey, Grandma! Are you laying your food to rest?" </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>"What, dear?" </div><div><br /></div><div><b>"Are you laying your food to rest?" </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>"To rest? What are you talking about? Who died?" </div><div><br /></div><div><b>"Never mind!" </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I carried my plate into the kitchen and Grandma told me to sit down because I was the guest. Well, the policy in the house is you aren't a guest once you've been so wasted that you ended up doing a hula dance and getting a 0% at Guitar Hero because you were so trashed you didn't realize that you had to strum the little bar thingy in addition to hitting the colorful buttons and then passing out on an air mattress while the dogs lick your face. Not that that ever happened to me. And if you ever see the pictures or the videos on Facebook, just remember what crazy things people can do with Photoshop and some video editing software. I'm just using this as a hypothetical scenario. However, suffice it to say that I'm no longer a guest. </div><div><br /></div><div>I carried my plate to the kitchen anyway, while Bob tried to explain to Grandma why I'm not a guest. I don't think Grandma knows about Guitar Hero and I'm not sure she understood "hula" either. </div><div><br /></div><div>("Who'a <i>what</i>?")</div><div><br /></div><div>But whatever. Those things never happened. Hypothetical scenario. </div><div><br /></div><div>After we ate, Joe and I were pretty much good and ready to leave, but it's impolite to eat and run so we hung out for four hours. During those four hours we heard some very entertaining stories about their family. Such as the not-so-bright younger sister who Sarah convinced that pregnancy is possible if you, um, swallow. Evidently she was so freaked out she went and bought a pregnancy test at the dollar store. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then there's the cousin who weighs 400 pounds. I guess she's a big fan of mayonnaise. She keeps a stash of Saltines and a dozen jars of mayo in her bedroom closet. They said that she eats the mayo straight out of the jar. I have to tell myself that they're making that part up because mayonnaise is the most disgusting thing in the universe and I refuse to believe that anyone could actually enjoy eating it plain.</div><div><br /></div><div>While we talked with Sarah and Bob, or rather twiddled our thumbs and occasionally checked out cool pics that they showed us on their phones, Grandma watched "Gran Torino" and Sarah's mom and stepdad flew a kite with the brother and Sally. Grandma went on and on and on about what a great movie it was (which it totally is) and how Clint Eastwood plays in Westerns. After the movie was over she leaned back on the couch and said, "Now that's a movie. Now <b>that's </b>a movie. <b>That is </b>a movie." I guess she liked it. Although I don't know how she heard it. Especially since Clint Eastwood has a tendency to mumble. </div><div><br /></div><div>Periodically someone would come in from outside and whistle or clap or yell really loud to see if they could get a reaction from Grandma, which I thought was really mean. It was especially mean when she'd finally hear and turn around and look and the offender would act like nothing happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>At one point the stepdad and mom came in and the stepdad told his wife he was going to divorce her like the other three if she didn't let him go to Atlantic City right that very minute.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Bob started going through the list of every single application on his iPhone, and the stepdad kept going on about Atlantic City and strip clubs and divorce, and the mom kept talking about Korean prostitutes, we decided it would be a good time to leave. </div><div><br /></div><div>"And I thought my family was fucked up," Joe and I said in unison when we reached the safety of my car. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-101146524203279882?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-84187914662892711172010-04-01T18:16:00.003-04:002010-04-01T18:23:14.406-04:00Joe woke me up this morning and told me his penis was bleeding. <div><br /></div><div>Then he called me from work this afternoon and told me someone had a delivery for me and they couldn't get on base so I had to meet them outside the gate. And he expected me to believe that after the whole bleeding penis trick.</div><div><br /></div><div>He told me about a million times that it wasn't an April Fools joke. So I went. </div><div><br /></div><div>I drove out the gate and pulled over by the lake. There I sat for 30 minutes, thankful I got an iced coffee before I left base, and also wishing I hadn't gotten it because the coffee and the three glasses of water I drank this afternoon were attempting to flow right through me. </div><div><br /></div><div>After about 15 minutes I started to get angry. What a mean trick. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I still waited. </div><div><br /></div><div>After 30 minutes had passed, I picked up my phone and began to compose this text: "I've been waiting 30 minutes. I'm leaving. You're an --"</div><div><br /></div><div>My phone rang before I finished the last word. "Hey, they said they're running late. I'm so sorry this is such a pain in the butt. It's not a trick, I swear. They'll be there in five minutes." </div><div><br /></div><div>So I waited. </div><div><br /></div><div>A minivan pulled up behind me. The driver rolled down his window and asked, "Are you waiting for flowers?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Good thing I didn't send that text or I would've been the -- . </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8418791466289271117?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-46397752757768047772010-03-30T16:37:00.003-04:002010-03-30T16:47:56.910-04:00Fibromyalgia. <div><br /></div><div>My husband is going to be in pain for the rest of his life. </div><div><br /></div><div>The relief that came with that diagnosis was overwhelming. Finally an answer. Finally. </div><div><br /></div><div>It explains the heart palpitations, the numbness and tingling of his limbs, the random pains that shoot up in different spots every day, the dizziness, the nausea, the headaches. Now his ailment has a name. </div><div><br /></div><div>The medical board package hasn't been sent to Lackland yet. He has an appointment with his PCM in a couple weeks. I suppose after that the package will be sent. </div><div><br /></div><div>We've been scouring message boards to see what happens to people in the military with fibromyalgia. The Internet is full of crap information. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now we wait. We wonder. We plan for everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least this syndrome is a sort of blanket syndrome. If worst comes to worst and he doesn't get retired with benefits, he'll at least get medical care for the symptoms of this ailment, which is pretty much everything. So that's good. </div><div><br /></div><div>The waiting is the hardest part. I'm pretty sure that's a Tom Petty song. Yep, it is. This is off subject, but Tom Petty owns. </div><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uMyCa35_mOg&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uMyCa35_mOg&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4639775275776804777?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-36189898093371645632010-03-26T16:09:00.003-04:002010-03-26T16:32:50.884-04:00I had a brilliant thought. Or what I thought to be a brilliant thought. <i>What to do with this brilliant thought? </i>I wondered. Well, obviously there was only one thing I could do. Share it. Facebook it. Tweet it. MySpace it. You can't rightly let brilliant thoughts swim out into the atmosphere without first recognizing the brilliance and then sharing it with everyone else before they grab that thought from somewhere out of the air and call it their own. <div><br /></div><div>From the kitchen I walked to the spare bedroom I call my office. The brilliant thought was dangerously close to leaking out of my head and waltzing straight down the Tip O' The Tongue Road where the many alleys and crossroads allow the brilliant thought to take a one-way detour away from consciousness. </div><div><br /></div><div>I flipped open my laptop and took the mouse in my hand. I moved the arrow to the toolbar and with a twitch of my finger I opened up Internet Explorer. </div><div><br /></div><div>I waited. </div><div><br /></div><div>And waited. </div><div><br /></div><div>Five seconds seems like an eternity when its spent staring at a blank computer screen. These days the Internet is nothing like it used to be back in the day when I'd sit at the computer, dial up and hear the screeches and beeps, get up and make a sandwich, eat the sandwich at the kitchen counter, grab a soda from the fridge, walk back to the computer, set down my soda, go to the bathroom, run down the driveway to check the mail, file my fingernails, read half a novel, write a two-page piece of correspondence and then finally click on Internet Explorer only to get a blank page and do some more waiting. </div><div><br /></div><div>The five seconds I waited yesterday were nothing quite like that, but in my impatience, it sure felt like it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then the unthinkable happened. The screen remained mostly white. In the top left hand side some words appeared and told me the page could not be displayed and I should check my connection. </div><div><br /></div><div>I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the little box with the blinking lights (don't know what it's called. That's my husband's job). Only two lights were lit. The Internet was out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I picked up the phone, turned on the TV, tried to open IE again. Phone, check. TV, check. Internet, empty box. </div><div><br /></div><div>My brilliant thought was gone. My evening was shot. How could I possibly sit down and write at a computer that didn't have Internet? What if I needed to look something up? What if I had another brilliant thought that was wasted because I couldn't Tweet it? What if I needed a recipe? Or a formula? Or a translator? Or an e-mail fix? How will I talk to my friends? </div><div><br /></div><div>Doomed. I was doomed. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did it to myself, really. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have an addiction. I'm dependent on the Internet. I used to read books, magazines and newspapers. I used to check out reference books at the library. I used to write with pen and paper and stuffed letters into envelopes with stamps. </div><div><br /></div><div>This addiction has had consequences. I've lost my attention span. I read headlines instead of stories. I read synopses of synopses. I forget what I'm saying, forget what I'm doing because I'm thinking about this article or that blog or this brilliant thought I'm going to Tweet. I can't wait to finish a news story so I can finish the next. If it's not 140 characters or less, I'm not interested. I constantly load my mind with useless information. Did you know that this rare animal can do this? Did you know that the guy who played in that movie also played in that TV show? Did you know that if I Google my name I come up with a couple pages of results? Did you know that there are about a bazillion web sites that will let you play Bejeweled for free?</div><div><br /></div><div>I think the worst part of Internet addiction and dependency is that when I don't have Internet, I feel slightly empty. It's sad and pathetic, but true. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've tried giving it up before, but it never works. I just keep coming back for more because I enjoy being constantly bombarded with useless information. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3618989809337164563?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-73605862008628574352010-03-24T21:34:00.005-04:002010-03-24T21:41:39.962-04:00<i>I'm going through a severe lovey-dovey, mushy phase. And by mushy, I mean I almost get weepy missing my husband while he's at work. When I finally go pick him up every night all I want to do is hug him. And then I have to wait until we get home (PDA's are a no-no in uniform). The more I think about the way we ended up together, the more in love I fall. </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>In celebration of our deepening love, I decided to share this blog post from way back when on a blog he and I shared while we were dating. </i></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(41, 48, 59); font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif;font-size:13px;">The moment I had dreamed of all my life finally arrived yesterday. When my head hit the pillow last night, I sighed and said to myself, “What a perfect day.” The day didn’t start out quite so perfect – I woke up at 11 when he was supposed to pick me up at 12. We had trouble finding the Air Force recruiter’s office. After a few trips around “the big city” we finally found it, only to discover that it was closed. We went to the mall and devoured some Cinnabon while we discussed who would be the victims and who would be the zombies if there happened to be a huge zombie catastrophe at the mall. We checked out show times, then went to get something to eat.<br /><br />As we pulled into Outback, Joe asked me why I was smiling so big. “Is it because you think that I’m going to ask you to marry me?”<br /><br />“No….” I said.<br /><br />We perused the nearest bookstore while we waited for a table. First our eyes were caught by the art books, then we saw the wedding section. After answering questions about each other that we got from books with titles like Know Your Groom and Know Your Bride, we decided that we both know each other very well.<br /><br />We went back to the restaurant and sat down near the door to wait for a table. The unasked question hung in the air – not in a bad way, just in a “wow it’s really happening” and “I hope he asks me soon because I’m going to throw up if I have to wait any longer” kind of way.<br /><br />When we were seated we ordered our food and drinks and I made random comments about items on the menu and I think I even threw something in about the weather. Then he came over and sat next to me in the booth. He told me he loved me and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, making my dreams and our dreams come true. Then he asked me if I would marry him. “Yes, I will marry you,” I said through tears.<br /><br />Then he asked me again what I had been smiling about in the car. I giggled and said, “Beer,” then took a swig out of my mug. It was a classic Joe and Meg moment. We couldn’t have done it without a little bit of silliness and giggling. It just wouldn’t have been right.<br /><br />On the way home from the big city we popped in a mushy song cd and sang to each other. I’m thinking that we could easily be the next Shania Twain and whoever that guy is that sings with her on “From this moment.” Of course we had to rock out with a little Nickelback – “This is how you remind me.”<br /><br />We’re getting married!</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(41, 48, 59); font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif;font-size:13px;">I’m so excited about everything that Joe and I are going to be able to do. Not only do we get to spend our entire lives together, happy and in love, but also we get to experience so many things together. We will be able to grow as a couple, get an education (for free, no less), move to a place where there are so many more opportunities than in this little death trap of a town. We’ll be able to have children and not worry about whether or not we’ll be able to take care of them. We have the same set of values and morals so we don’t have to worry about constant fighting regarding huge decisions or our kids.<br /><br />I’m going to be marrying my best friend, and really I couldn’t ask for more than that. I find myself falling more and more in love with him every day. Just when I think I couldn’t possibly love him any more or my heart will explode, it grows and grows some more. He’s always there for me. He always will be. I’ll always be there for him and we’ll always be together. It’s going to be hard at first, but I know we’ll get through it. When I’m crying because I miss my family, he’ll be my shoulder to lean on and he’ll probably even punch himself in the nuts to make me laugh because he does that a lot when I’m sad. As much as I’m dreading some of the changes, I know that everything will be all right. We are going to get married, then we are going to move to an air force base and everything will be new and different and I’ll probably cry a lot when we move, but we’ll always have each other and everything will be all right.<br /><br />We are nearing the happily ever after stage. The love story, the crazy meeting at the electronics store, him putting up with all the crazy rules that are put upon us by my family, being frisked my mother upon their first meeting, the proposal … soon, the wedding, then the happily ever after. But we actually get to live it. The screen won’t go dark after the kiss the bride part (it may skip the honeymoon part – I’m just saying. I don’t want people seeing that stuff). Our story won’t be able to be summed up in those six little words – "and they lived happily ever after". We get to make our future together. Some will be happy, some will be hard and even sad, but we’ll be together.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7360586200862857435?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-31095055791339196442010-03-22T17:09:00.003-04:002010-03-22T17:38:16.591-04:00<a href="http://murrbrewster.blogspot.com/">Murr Brewster</a> left a comment the other day about a lot of life being luck and wondering if luck can change. I think my luck truly did change when I met my husband. I also think that luck/fate/God had a huge hand in pushing us together. <div><br /></div><div>I'm sure other married couples go through moments, days or weeks of complacency where they forget how lucky they are to be together. My husband and I do. It's not that we stop loving each other or forget that we love each other, it's just that sometimes life sneaks in and gets in the way. The focus changes from him and me as a unit to this problem or that problem, this goal or that goal or me as an individual or him as an individual. We still act lovingly towards each other, but too often we let ourselves take each other for granted. Sometimes I take for granted that he will always be here to share my life with, he will always be my shoulder to cry on, my rock to stand on, my shelter to stay dry from the rain. Sometimes he takes me for granted in those ways as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's when we reconnect. We strengthen our relationship by remembering. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Remember when I told you that you would have lunch with me on Thursday?" he asked me the other day. </div><div><br /></div><div>I laughed. "It was Tuesday. And yes, I remember. I remember how shocked I was because you said you had decided we were going to lunch on Tuesday." </div><div><br /></div><div>"I didn't want to be like all the other guys you had dated," he said. "I wanted to stand out. I wasn't going to be a whiny little bastard and beg. It was a big risk, saying it like that, but--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"But it worked," I finished. "Remember how when we first met I told you that you were creepy and to stay away from me?" </div><div><br /></div><div>It was his turn to laugh. "Yep. And I remember what you were wearing that day and how your smile lit up the store. When you walked in, the light was shining just right behind you and I remember thinking, 'She looks like an angel.'"</div><div><br /></div><div>I always laugh at that part. "Remember how you read me my fortune?" I asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I analyzed your handwriting. And that was just so I could get your name. I knew everything I needed to know about you the second you walked in the door."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Remember when you gave me your number? And how you called me kiddo?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes! And how you didn't call for like two weeks!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"But I did call--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"And I was glad you did. I shut off the movie I was watching - and movies are my life - and talked to you for hours as my pizza got cold." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Isn't it funny how all that time we lived three blocks from each other and didn't even know it?" I asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yep. We were meant to be. All the crazy little signs pointed straight to us." </div><div><br /></div><div>After we had been dating a few months, he told me something that really made me feel as if we were supposed to be together. The day I walked into the store was his first day on the job. The day before he had walked in to buy something and heard one of the employees talking about leaving for basic training the next day. He hadn't been looking for a job, substitute teaching was treating him kindly, but something told him he should ask if they were hiring. They were. The manager interviewed him and hired him on the spot. "You can start tomorrow," he told him. </div><div><br /></div><div>The very next day I walked in to buy something for my trip. The decision to stop in the store was a split-second, well-maybe-I-should-just-in-case kind of deal. It was fate/luck/God pushing us together. </div><div><br /></div><div>And we continue talking like this for hours, rehashing every tiny detail of every date, every phone call, our first embarrassing moments together, our first happy moments together, our first sad moments together, the first kiss, the triumphs, joys and the moment where we both <i>knew</i>. After we have these talks that we've had a million times and after we ask the questions we've known the answers to forever, we always feel closer together. We remember to remember and by remembering we, well, remember just how lucky we are to have found each other. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes we argue. We don't fight, not like our parents do, but sometimes we argue. One of our most frequent arguments is the most silly:</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm the lucky one."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I am." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Nuh-uh! I am!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"You are so not the lucky one. I am." </div><div><br /></div><div>...</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3109505579133919644?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-12763416417606977552010-03-21T12:48:00.003-04:002010-03-21T12:51:44.253-04:00I've started a new <a href="http://mothermayiblog.blogspot.com/">blog</a> about mothers from hell and things of that nature. <div><br /></div><div>Maybe that will help me to make this blog more positive. (bahahaha)</div><div><br /></div><div>Check it out if you are a fan of mothers from hell or have a mother from hell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since just about everything I write returns to this subject, I figured that it won't let me go until I get it all out. And what better way to do that than through a blog where others may be able to find comfort from stories similar to their own?</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1276341641760697755?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-44018067743226977822010-03-18T17:28:00.003-04:002010-03-18T23:56:26.566-04:00While browsing at the library yesterday, one particular title caught my eye - <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Books/read-excerpt-mothers-peg-streep/story?id=8825765"><i>Mean Mothers: Overcoming the Legacy of Hurt</i></a> by Peg Streep. I picked it up thinking I might find a few interesting stories similar to my own. Instead, I found a story that seemed to have been plucked straight out of my diary or even this blog. <div><br /></div><div>As I read, a light bulb suddenly appeared over my head. The realization lightly slapped me across the face and called me Sally - she doesn't love me. She never has loved me. Oddly enough, that realization didn't hurt nearly as much as I subconsciously felt that it would when I opened my blind eyes to that truth that has always hung over me like a storm cloud. </div><div><br /></div><div>But still, even as I continued to read, I went on rationalizing her behavior towards me. She didn't love me because she didn't know how to love a child because she felt unloved throughout her childhood. She didn't love me because I was not worthy of her love. She didn't love me because every time she looked at me she saw the other woman who once held her husband's affection. There must come a time when I stop rationalizing and just accept. </div><div><br /></div><div>The woman who came into my life when I was four years old, still crying for the mommy who had only recently took off and left me because she wasn't capable of loving a daughter because she couldn't even love herself, told me to call her Mommy. She told me she would be my new mommy. She told me she would love me. She told me she would play with me. She told me she would take care of me. She told me she would never leave me and she would always, always be there when I need her. She promised a world she wasn't able and willing to give. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think somewhere in the back of my mind I've always known that my stepmother didn't love me even though she said she did and even though she wouldn't have done all those things for me if she didn't give a shit, as she liked to say. Maybe she did give a shit. She gave a shit about how other people perceived her. She gave a shit about how my father perceived her (until she had finally crumpled him so much that he became numb and completely uncaring). She cared about being a good mother but she didn't care about me. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing she always told me was that it didn't matter that she didn't give birth to me. She loved me just the same as if she did, she always said. She said we didn't need to talk about. It didn't matter. The subject was taboo in our family and still is. My sisters don't even officially know. Yet for some strange reason, she found it necessary to tell her friends and acquaintances that I wasn't really hers but she loved me like a mother should, anyway. I believe the reason for that was so that those friends and acquaintances could tell her what an amazing and selfless person she was for taking in a motherless child who brought her nothing but trouble. </div><div><br /></div><div>The reality really hit home when I read the part where Peg described the birth of her sibling. She said that her mother instantly loved her brother, but still her mother did not or could not love her. This is the same boat my sister is in. My stepmom loves two of her daughters. Even though she gave birth to all three of them she only loves two of them. This sounds terrible, but realizing that made me feel so much better, but also worse. I can almost kind of sort of understand why she doesn't love me (here I go rationalizing) but I can't understand how she could not love a child she gave birth to. The good part about that is that she doesn't loathe me just because I'm not hers. The bad part about that is that one of these days my sister is going to have to accept the fact that her mother doesn't love her. Then there's another bad thing. I think it's going to be even more difficult for the two girls who are loved to get out of the grasp of their controlling, guilt-laying mother. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I've started to walk down the road to understanding, the road to accepting myself for who I am, the road to realizing I'm not a screw-up. It's not going to be an easy journey, trying to accept the fact that two women who should have loved me couldn't love me or couldn't show they loved me, but I already feel myself growing stronger. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4401806774322697782?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-2317104905993974722010-03-12T07:26:00.004-05:002010-03-12T07:51:49.077-05:00Joe's shop hosted a carry-in yesterday. He has them every once in a while to boost morale and bring the workers together. The men in his shop are all characters. The most interesting are the two oldest civilians. One is 82. I'm totally not even kidding. He hates his wife and he actually loses money by coming to work everyday, but he doesn't really do any work anyway. <div><br /></div><div>Gramps, (I don't even know his real name. He just tells everyone to call him Gramps) the older one, is of the "always be prepared school". This man is prepared for everything. For instance, he keeps a bottle of maple syrup in his back pocket. It's real maple syrup, he says, just like the kind he used to get on the farm. Joe says he keeps it in his pocket in case anyone happens to hand him a pancake or a waffle. You just never know. </div><div><br /></div><div>I brought in some homemade chicken noodle soup for the guys. Gramps asked me if I needed any more noodles because he had some in the back somewhere. Why does he keep egg noodles at work? "Just in case somebody makes some soup and forgets to put in the noodles," he said. Oh. I guess you never can be too prepared. The great part is that it's only half a bag of egg noodles. Someone must have not put enough noodles in their soup at least once. I'm still trying to figure this out because they don't even have a kitchen at the shop. </div><div><br /></div><div>The other man, Smee (whose real name I don't know, either, because everyone calls him that), is in his early 70's. These two are best friends. That's why Smee is still there, too. They have a retirement deal, I guess. One of those, "you go, I go" kind of deals. Joe says they're like Thelma and Louise. They do everything together. They eat breakfast at their desks then go to the bathroom. Then they take naps, eat lunch and go to the bathroom. Another nap before work's over and that's their day. But they're pretty much untouchable, Joe says, because they're in a union. He said it pretty much takes an act of Congress to get civilians fired if they've passed the six-month probationary period. They may not actually do any work, but they are good entertainment at times. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday I told them that I got Toaster Strudels at the commissary for 25 cents a box with coupons the day before. They were very excited and went to get some, but the store was all out. They told me five times that they went to get some and there were none left. "I like Pop Tarts," Gramps said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, they're not Pop Tarts. They're Toaster Strudels," Smee told him. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Pop Tarts are good," Gramps said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, they are, but these are Toaster Strudels. You put 'em in the toaster and then you put frosting on them." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, yeah. The frosting's already on 'em cuz they're Pop Tarts." </div><div><br /></div><div>"No. The frosting comes separately." </div><div><br /></div><div>"What flavors they got?" Gramps asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, they have cherry, strawberry, brown sugar..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh yeah. I like brown sugar Pop Tarts. They have frosting on 'em." </div><div><br /></div><div>"No. I'm talking about Toaster Strudels. You put the frosting on yourself." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, I like Pop Tarts. Too bad they didn't have any more of those Pop Tarts," Gramps said. </div><div><br /></div><div>Gramps has a hearing aid and I don't think it works very well, but I don't think he really listens, anyway. He also doesn't remember what he said two seconds ago, which is rather entertaining. One time he told me about fifteen times how much he likes the pickles that Wawa puts on their hoagies. Sometimes I go in the shop just for something to do. I can stand and listen to Gramps and Smee have the same conversation over and over for hours. I sure am going to miss those guys. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-231710490599397472?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-72679441268513669762010-03-08T07:25:00.001-05:002010-03-08T07:41:38.318-05:00We have a plan. We decided where we would go should he get retired or separated - the southern part of our home state. The area is gorgeous. I've always been in love with it and he's visited a few times and also loves it. It's also three hours from our families and 30 minutes away from a capital city and 40 minutes away from a good college with a reputable engineering program. <div><br /></div><div>This plan is perfect. It's close to home so we can be there whenever we need or want to be, but it's not so close that our families will want to rule our lives. Moving back to our hometown is out of the question because, honestly, it's dead. Everyone there is dead inside. There are no opportunities, no joy, just a big black hole. It's depressing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The area we chose is vibrant and alive. It's still a small town, but it's between two cities so we won't be isolated. It probably won't be perfect, but it seems like the perfect option for us. When I mentioned my idea out loud, Joe got a huge smile on his face and said, "That's it. It's a perfect idea." We both felt a sense of peace. We want to be closer to our families and we both think of the state as home. If we had chosen to live where we are now, we would both hate it. It's okay here, but it's just not right for us. We tossed around the idea of staying if civilian jobs open up in his current shop. We could stay because we have friends, we thought. But what's the point in staying in an area we don't really like just to be near our transient friends who are not guaranteed long in this area anyway? </div><div><br /></div><div>We're both about 95 percent sure that he will get tossed out of the military - whether by separation with a lump sum, flat separation or partial or full disability retirement. Why would they keep a guy who's missed weeks of work in just the past year? Since he's been medically retired before due to a different issue, it's <i>almost </i>safe to assume he would qualify for disabled retirement again. We're counting on worst case scenario just in case. Even worst case, we'd still be okay. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm excited, but I'm trying not to be. I want to start spackeling the nail holes in the walls and shampooing the carpet in preparation for the housing inspection. I can't do it until we know for sure because that would just suck if I got everything ready and we ended up staying. If we stay, we stay. If we go, we know where we're going. That doesn't help with the horrible 6 week to 3 month period of <i>Not Knowing</i>, but there is a wee bit of peace now. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In other news, I've been trying really hard lately to just be a sister to my sisters. It's been really difficult for me to stop mothering them, but it's paid off. Our relationships have grown stronger. My middle sister has been calling me more (even when she doesn't want something - which is a Christmas miracle). I've known for a while about this boy that she's in love with. I didn't say anything when he posted on her MySpace profile that he loved her and she responded with the same back just three days after they started seriously talking. I didn't say anything when she sent me a message and told me she was fantabulously happy. I knew why. Just played dumb and waited for her to tell me at her own time. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning I woke up to an e-mail from her. She asked me for help. She really likes him and wants to ask Mom and Dad if it's okay if she goes out with him. She asked me how she should do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The problem is that she's 14. Mom and Dad had a problem with me dating when I was 24. Any of us girls could date Jesus Christ himself and Mom would say he's a lazy bum and he needs to get a job and put on some real shoes before he even thinks about dating her daughter. Never mind the miracles and that whole Son of God thing. Personally, I think 14 is too young to be dating. I know Mom and Dad would also say that. However, I want to be the cool big sister and offer advice and I know she doesn't want to hear "wait a couple years". So, I'm confounded. If anyone has ideas, I would greatly appreciate some advice. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7267944126851366976?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-77392413199434658722010-03-04T07:28:00.003-05:002010-03-04T08:19:53.666-05:00<div>We knew it was coming. I just wrote about the other day, actually. We expected it at some point, but we certainly didn't expect it yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, we're gonna go ahead and medical board you," the doctor at the clinic told him yesterday. She might as well have said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're just making this shit up so we're not even going to bother trying to figure out a diagnosis, we're just gonna go ahead and kick you out of the military. Sure, you've done some awesome things with your career. You've saved the Air Force millions of dollars with this program you created because everybody would rather throw away fixable parts than try and fix them. Sure, you've given us nine years of your life. But, you know ... So long. And thanks for all the fish." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then she wrote him a prescription for Motrin. Fucking Motrin. Because Motrin is way more effective than the shot of Toradol that only barely took the edge off his pain at the hospital two days ago when he had to go to the ER because the pain was so bad he nearly passed out. </div><div><br /></div><div>She may as well have written him a prescription for Saltine crackers and a swift kick in the nuts. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, oh well. Motrin is fucking awesome for hangovers and period cramps (too bad Joe doesn't have periods) and you know you can't get that shit over the counter at CVS. </div><div><br /></div><div><div><div>So what now? Will we ever know what's wrong with him? </div><div><br /></div><div>Like I said, we knew it was coming, we just didn't know it was coming yesterday. We had both kind of thought that maybe they would have like, I don't know, <i>found out what was wrong with him</i> before they decided to kick him out. Silly us. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I will close with some happy dolphins singing and dancing:</div></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bG6b3V2MNxQ&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;color1=0xcc2550&amp;color2=0xe87a9f"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bG6b3V2MNxQ&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;color1=0xcc2550&amp;color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7739241319943465872?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-22361574769824386752010-03-01T10:40:00.003-05:002010-03-01T11:06:53.574-05:00Here's a confession for you: I enjoy the military lifestyle. Sometimes. Most of the time. On days when I don't want to strangle my husband's supervisors or throw a brick through the windows at the clinic. I know you've heard me say a million times that I hate it and I want to go back home, but I really don't.<br /><br />The thing I like most about my husband being in the military is the fact that what he is doing with his life is counting for something. That makes me feel like what I'm doing by being his wife is counting for something.<br /><br />The next thing I like about my husband being in the military is lack of choices. Of course that can be a bad thing, too. But, when you are married to the military you don't have a choice as to where you will end up. You just go where they tell you. My entire childhood, teenhood and young adulthood I had most of my decisions made for me by my parents. I allowed it. I loved it even though I loathed it because I hate making decisions. I met Joe and we made a couple decisions on our own. We decided to marry, decided he'd re-enlist, decided to buy some furniture for our new house. We went where we were sent because we didn't have a choice. As much as I griped about coming here and how much it sucked that we didn't have a choice I'm glad that we did and I'm also glad that we didn't have to make that decision ourselves. I never would have chosen to live here, but it's not a bad place and I've enjoyed [most of] our time here. We've met some great people, had some amazing adventures and, most importantly to our marriage, we learned to depend on each other and ourselves. <div><br /></div><div>Now every morning I wake up wondering what's going to happen. Every night I lie awake for hours wondering what's going to happen. His health problems are ever present. We get through the days and nights, live relatively normal lives, but his symptoms hang over us like a dark storm cloud. If we knew what it was we could have some peace. We could seek treatment. We could make lifestlye changes. We could help him get better or learn how to deal with it. We could know for sure if they are going to retire him again or not. That's the biggest worry right now. Will he be retired? Will he simply be discharged? What will we do? Where will we go? </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning he found a lead. The symptoms to this disorder are very similar to what he is experiencing, right down to the tingling on the left side of his body and the cognitive impairment that's been slowing him down lately. Tuesday he's seeing the doctor to talk about the possibility. The good things about this are that we will have found the reason and will be able to treat it. The bad thing is that with this disorder he is not fit to be in the military and they will retire him. </div><div><br /></div><div>If he is retired, no longer will we be able to throw the dice and follow their directions. We'll have to make decisions ourselves. Where will we go? Will we move back home (as much as I want to be near my family, I really don't want to go back to that depressing little town)? Will we stay here? Will we go somewhere else? What if we choose to go somewhere and then we're miserable there? I could handle being told to go somewhere and being miserable there because <i>there would be no choice</i>, but what if we make the wrong choice? </div><div><br /></div><div>In any case, I'm hoping that this is it. Not that this is anything to wave off, but because it would be so nice to finally know what is wrong and because diagnosis would be one less worry. We've accepted and adapted to all the changes we've experienced so far and I know we have it in us to handle more. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2236157476982438675?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-88780709892044232392010-02-06T17:12:00.002-05:002010-02-06T17:19:19.358-05:001. Washed dishes.<div><br /></div><div>2. Played the Dot Game with my sister on Facebook.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Took out the trash and tromped through the snow.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Pet the cats and talked to Joe.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Hooked up the DVR that was previously attached to the large, broken TV to the tiny TV that works. </div><div><br /></div><div>6. Pet the cats. </div><div><br /></div><div>7. Ate some chips. </div><div><br /></div><div>8. Thought about working on the novel. </div><div><br /></div><div>9. Looked out the window and ate some chips. </div><div><br /></div><div>10. Talked to Joe and pet the cats.</div><div><br /></div><div>11. Ate some chips and drank some pop.</div><div><br /></div><div>12. Looked out the window and remarked to Joe that it was still snowing. </div><div><br /></div><div>13. Checked my earnings on the content sites I write for. </div><div><br /></div><div>14. Talked on the phone about nonsense while eating chips and drinking pop. </div><div><br /></div><div>15. Talked to Joe and told him I love him. </div><div><br /></div><div>16. Looked out the window. </div><div><br /></div><div>17. Thought about baking bread, then remembered we don't have enough flour. </div><div><br /></div><div>18. Pet the cats.</div><div><br /></div><div>19. Looked out the window. </div><div><br /></div><div>20. Thought about doing something constructive, then fired up World of Warcraft while eating chips, petting cats, talking to Joe, watching reality shows on tiny TV that cuts off the edges of the picture and looking out the window. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8878070989204423239?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-3143596995685287662010-01-20T07:50:00.003-05:002010-01-20T08:41:27.173-05:00The videos and pictures are heartbreaking. Those poor people. So many losses. I just saw the video of the woman who was alive under the rubble for seven days. <div><br /></div><div>A while back I posted about having mixed feelings about my husband's military career. After the earthquake last week he worked 12-hour shifts to help mobilize his squadron's part in the relief effort. While there are a lot of bad things associated with the military, times like these make me proud of my husband and his job because he is helping people who really need help. I want to help. Joe said I'm helping the mission by taking him to work everyday so he can fix the planes that are sending relief and bringing back survivors. It's not enough. These people will never have enough help. Today I'm going to write my butt off and donate the earnings to the relief fund, but that's not enough either. And then I wonder how much of that money will really be spent to help the people. But, really, no amount of money will undo the tragedy. Hopefully the survivors will be able to eat and have medicine. </div><div><br /></div><div>It makes me angry when I watch the coverage and see the journalists hopping around as if they're so excited they get to cover the story of the year. It makes me even more angry when idiots like Pat Robertson blame tragedies like this on a people's lifestyle and quote myths and legends as fact. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here they are holding a bunch of refugees at the gym. The first day they arrived, an e-mail was sent out to all personnel requesting donations for winter clothes. Less than five hours later another e-mail was sent to ask people to stop bringing donations because there was too much and they were running out of room. I saw a picture of a woman helping a Haitian child and in the background clothes were stacked and piled against the walls. It's sad that it takes a time like this to help people who were already desperate. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I toured the training facility, I learned about some of the training involved in going to an area where disaster occurred and setting up a base. It's one of those things that you don't really think about <i>how </i>they do it, you just know they do. There is a lot involved. The ones who have trained, for example, the members of the squadrons who are now over there, are by virtue making a difference to the Haitians and to the sufferers of disasters everywhere. When I was at the facility, the things that stood out the most were the guns used for destruction and the vehicles built to withstand man-made disasters, but the most important part of the military, I think, is the part that provides support and relief to those who desperately need it, along with everyone else involved - straight down to the guy who mops the floors in the administrative buildings. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm just rambling, but I don't really know what to say. </div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-314359699568528766?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-17555899375702078762010-01-20T00:58:00.003-05:002010-01-20T01:07:10.733-05:00It was pretty safe to assume her Wednesday would be shot. She laid awake in bed and watched the green glow of the digital numerals floating above the bedside table. When the numbers switched she began to count. Starting at one, ending at 92. The digits changed again and she started back at one. This time she felt her heart circulating blood to her body 93 times.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Her body remained in bed, curled into discomfort, while her mind rose and cast aside the breath-stealing blankets. At her laptop, her fingers typed "92 beats per minute" into the white box at the top of the screen. The results were just as she suspected. "If your heart beats more than 90 times per minute, you will surely die. There is no hope." </div><div><br /></div><div>That's why her body stayed in bed and her mind only imagined the search and the results. It gave her another reason to worry. A needless one, but necessity never matters when it comes to the worries of a hypochondriac. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1755589937570207876?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-91737114627736721702010-01-19T07:55:00.002-05:002010-01-19T08:19:06.904-05:00I'm beginning to think that Dad and Mom were right about the biological mother. Perhaps I should have listened, but listening would have been completely unlike me and you know I have to be true to myself. Or something like that. <div><br /></div><div>It's just a feeling I get. My sister, the one I just found out I have, lives with our grandparents. My mother said it was because she didn't want to switch schools when Mother moved out to the middle of nowhere to live with her [very strange and Jerry Springer-addicted] boyfriend. I believed it. But after talking with my sister, I'm not so sure that I believe it anymore. My sister told me some things that I was hesitant to believe. At first I took it as jealousy. For years she was the only child and now she has to share everyone's affections with a grown-up sister she's never met. Then, I thought perhaps she had put a creative spin on the truth. Now I'm just not quite sure. </div><div><br /></div><div>She tells me every time she talks to me how proud she is of me. One day I got an in-game whisper from her in World of Warcraft. To create her in-game name, she tacked Mama to the end of my in-game name. I felt a bit of indignation. Here she was laying claim to me, as if taking credit for being my mother. Maybe I was wrong to be upset about it, but it just rubbed me the wrong way, just like her constant reminders of how she's proud of me. She had nothing to do with making me the woman I am today. Then again, I sought her out and I got what I wanted, so what right do I have for indignation? </div><div><br /></div><div>That day when we chatted live through WoW, the conversation lasted maybe four minutes, then she suddenly had to go. But she told me before she logged off that she would always be there for me. I haven't heard from her since and that was three weeks ago. </div><div><br /></div><div>I understand that losing a child can shatter a person's world and I'm really trying not to cast judgement. But, if you knew you were so severely messed up from losing a child, why would you go and get knocked up again? And, if you had lost claim to another child, wouldn't you try and stick around for the new one? I feel for my sister. In a way, she's going through what I went through as a child, only she has it worse. Her mother's there, but she <i>knows</i> she doesn't care. I imagine her wondering if anyone really loves her. I imagine her trying to be good so the ones she love will always stick around. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we first started speaking, I lied to my mother. I told her I had a wonderful, loving childhood. I didn't want her to feel even more guilty than I was sure she must have already been feeling. But now I want to tell her the truth. Not so much the details of my family, no, but the feelings. The not good enough, what must I do to make people love me feelings. I want to save my sister from that, but really there's no way I can. All I can do is try to be a part of her life now and demonstrate the unconditional love she craves and show her that circumstances don't have to dictate the type of person you become. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-9173711462773672170?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-7148193707653905292010-01-11T07:37:00.001-05:002010-01-11T07:38:30.567-05:00Is it blasphemous to pray to God and ask Him to help your parents pull their heads out of their asses? I can't think of another way to put it.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-714819370765390529?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-21277218130047128832010-01-08T17:33:00.000-05:002010-01-08T17:34:05.351-05:00This is the funniest blog in the whole wide world. <a href="http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/">http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2127721813004712883?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-30673795639307433282010-01-07T07:48:00.003-05:002010-01-07T08:23:19.152-05:00How do you unlearn something about someone that you aren't supposed to know? Obviously, there's no way to do it. Especially if it's something horrible. <div><br /></div><div>Our friends, the ones with the seemingly perfect life, have been having some issues. We didn't know what, just that there were issues and that it was really awkward hanging out with them. When we walked into their house on New Year's Eve we could feel the tension in the air. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday we went to lunch with a mutual friend and the subject of the couple came up in conversation. Our friend knew something she wasn't supposed to talk about and so did we. Eventually the story came out and I honestly wish I didn't know, but at the same time I'm sort of glad I do. How can you ever trust someone like that? </div><div><br /></div><div>They have all the worldly possessions money can buy. Whenever there are problems in the relationship, they drop money on some new, expensive toy as if that will make things all better. Money can buy a lot of things but it can't buy the trust and security of fidelity. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I know, how can I not treat this woman like the dirty whore she is? Her husband may have forgiven her, but I can't. I know everybody would say, "Well, if he could get over it then you should to and just be supportive of him and their decision to be together." Blah blah blah. I think he should have kicked her to the curb the first time. Or the second time, at least. But now this is the fifth time she's been caught? I love the guy to pieces, but when someone hurts you repeatedly and you continue to go back to them and open yourself up to them it's eventually your fault that you're getting stomped on. I just want to hug him and shake him at the same time, you know what I mean? Like, wow, I'm sorry this happened, but seriously, dude, throw her ass out!</div><div><br /></div><div>The worst part is that it was a friend. A friend they frequently invited into their home. And I find myself wondering if his wife has any idea. Personally, I don't like the woman. She's a bitch and I can't stand her. But she doesn't deserve that. No one does. This woman was a stick in the mud, to put it lightly. She was a frequent subject of conversation, actually. We asked our friends why they hung out with them because it was clear they didn't like her, either. "Well, her husband's cool, so..." After we found out, we had one of those moments of clarity where all the pieces suddenly came together. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both parties are in the military. If their spouses wanted to, they could really screw them over. You get busted down a stripe for infidelity (if it's reported or found out). One less stripe means less money. On top of that, the woman is in a position of power - a position where she counseled people in that situation and was supposed to be the example. Plus, they can get a divorce and take half of their cheating spouse's assets. They've been married long enough, both couples, that they would also get half of their spouse's retirement money. If something like that happened to me and my husband was in the military, I would make life hell for him. Joe and I were talking about it and we're on the same page. One time and that's it. No forgiveness. </div><div><br /></div><div>The woman was studying to make rank - a pretty high rank, too. She said she needed peace and quiet, so she went to a hotel for the night. She convinced her husband that he was too loud - he breathed too loudly when she was trying to concentrate. He did this or that or whatever and it was annoying. They have a three-bedroom house with a full basement and no kids, for crying out loud. It makes me sick thinking about how her and that guy were probably laughing and giggling about how her husband was so dumb he believed she was really going there to study. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day her husband couldn't get a hold of her on the phone, so he went to the hotel to tell her something. He walked in the room as the other man was running out the back door. He chased him down and found out that it was his friend. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm angry. I'm angry that she would do that to her husband. There's no excuse. I don't care how much he played World of Warcraft (which he gave up for her because she said they weren't spending enough time together and now they watch TV together - like, woohoo). He waited on her hand and foot, constantly did projects around the house to please her - the new deck, the new driveway, the wood floors ... He's one of the nicest guys I know. I'm sure everyone has a little bit of closet douche bag in them, but even if he did, nothing could excuse what she did. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm angry that I felt sorry for her when she told me they were "having problems". I'm angry that she led me to believe she was oh so very depressed and I hugged her and told her I was there if she ever needed to talk. I feel used. I can't even imagine how her husband must be feeling. </div><div><br /></div><div>But now I have to pretend as if I don't know any of this. I have to pretend like we're still friends. I can't be friends with a person who does something like that - I just can't. I never want to see her again. </div><div><br /></div><div>A long time ago this couple let us borrow their DVDs of the show Six Feet Under. It was a great show, don't get me wrong, but one of the characters just rubbed me the wrong way and made me feel just sick. She had "mental issues" so she slept around and cheated on her boyfriend and did horrible things - things I wouldn't have even done if I was single - . At the time, Joe said, "I bet our friend relates to that character and wants to be just like her" because she is one of those people who tries to be edgy and different and wants to suffer from mental illnesses because it's the cool thing to do so she projects them on herself to avoid consequences for her actions. When he said that I just kind of shrugged it off. But now? I can definitely see it. It's one thing to want to be different. It's a completely different thing to be an uncaring whore. </div><div><br /></div><div>Infidelity is not funny - not even to joke about (that's why I deleted my last post. It was stupid. And thanks for your honesty, Charlie). It's a terrible, terrible thing. I really hope our male friend will pull his head out of his wife's cheating ass and get rid of her so she doesn't continue to hurt him. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3067379563930743328?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-89210684905745117352010-01-06T07:39:00.005-05:002010-01-06T08:05:38.806-05:00I have moments where I think to myself, <i>Wow. If this wasn't my life, I don't think I would believe half of it was real. </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Yesterday I received an e-mail from my soon-to-be stepfather, the fiance of the mother I'm just now getting to know. He asked me without really asking me if I would come to their wedding. I was honored by that request. Then, I got to the part where he said he wanted the reverend from a TV talk show made popular by having the trashiest of the multi-colored trailer trash as guests. The show where headlines include things such as "You did what with my mother?!" and "I slept with all five of your brothers and you and now I'm knocked up and don't know who my baby daddy be". At that point, I just kind of stared at the screen with my jaw on my chest mouthing such things as "Wow, seriously?" and "What the effing eff?". </div><div><br /></div><div>He attached a family photo to the e-mail. He was in the middle of the picture, surrounded by all the women in the family - young and old alike - and he was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed his love for boobies.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, um. </div><div><br /></div><div>Um. </div><div><br /></div><div>Um. </div><div><br /></div><div>Uhhh. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hmm. </div><div><br /></div><div>From the e-mail I gathered that he really loves my mother. So, that's a good thing. But, um... uhhh... You know that web site where they have pictures of, um, interesting people at <a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/">Walmart?</a> Well, it was kind of like that. Then, I had a thought that was kind of like <a href="http://wedinator.com/tag/redneck/">this.</a> And then I felt bad because that's not a very nice thing to think about your soon-to-be stepfather. I mean, maybe he's just a fun-loving guy - he told me I should see him at a party. And, he assured me that he's never been in love with a sheep, so that's good. [I'm not even kidding. He totally said that. There was also something about midgets, but I believe it's politically incorrect to call little people that and talk that way about them.]</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I have two families who couldn't possibly be more opposite. The straight-laced, semi-religious, overbearing, crazy in a nearly psychotic sort of way side and then there's this other crazy side that dreams of getting married by TV talk show reverends and wears inappropriate shirts to family reunions. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not trying to be judgmental here, I'm simply trying to process all of this information and thought others might get a kick out of the new craziness that life has dropped on me, so please don't take this as an I'm-ashamed-of-the-family-I've-never-even-met sort of thing. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8921068490574511735?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-42580297997624389692010-01-04T07:49:00.004-05:002010-01-04T07:59:01.208-05:00One little ant wandered into the kitchen one day last week. The bigger of my two cats walked by it, completely oblivious. My husband has a theory that he's so big he can't notice anything smaller than his own nose. The smaller of the cats decided to eat the ant and I was okay with that. I wanted it gone myself, but didn't feel right squashing it since it really had done nothing to deserve a foot on its face. <div><br /></div><div>The next day five little ants came marching in. One on the counter, two on the floor, one dangerously close to the coffee pot, and the fifth one managed to leap into a steaming pot of fettuccine Alfredo, the little bastard. </div><div><br /></div><div>Day three brought a small army of ants. And when I say small army, I mean 30,000 ants. </div><div><br /></div><div>Day four the exterminator came to terminate the ants and show them who was boss. He was a rather pleasant man with a shiny bald head and a red face. I think if I were an exterminator I would act more Christopher Walken-ish because when you play with bugs all day you can get away with that sort of thing. The non Christoper Walken-ish exterminator sprayed the kitchen with a goopy white liquid the smaller of the cats thought was milk. He used a big, noisy machine to spray the bricks in the front of the house. </div><div><br /></div><div>Day five dried, dead ants littered the kitchen. Then, one ant appeared in the bathroom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, some three days after day five which would make it day eight but I'd rather say "three days after day five", there are approximately 39,000 ants crawling all over the toilet, the sink and all my smelly lotions in the bathroom, so I'm calling the exterminator again. Which leads to me to a "Thankful". I'm thankful exterminators are free to those of us in military housing because I have a feeling the bedroom and my furry slippers will be the next ant house. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4258029799762438969?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-91027662935797711752009-12-29T22:08:00.004-05:002009-12-30T13:48:37.219-05:00And now it's time for A Few Reviews with Meg. <div><br /></div><div>First, <i>The Memory of Running</i> by Ron McLarty. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ron McLarty, according to his bio on the jacket is an award-winning actor and playwright. He's also a kick ass writer [that last bit was my own]. His novel is about Smithson "Smithy" Ide, a flawed character if I ever did meet one. Smithy is overweight, self-absorbed, lonely, and to top it all off, an alcoholic. Smithy grew up with his parents and crazy sister. And by crazy I mean legitimately crazy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Smithy vacations with his parents every year in their cabin in the woods. One year, tragedy strikes. Both of Smithy's parents die in a car crash. To top it all off, he gets a letter from a morgue in Los Angeles. They have the body of his long lost sister. So, Smithy does the only thing he can think of doing. He goes to the garage and sits his fat ass on his old Raleigh, the prized bicycle from his youth, and rides it down the driveway. But, Smithy doesn't stop riding. </div><div><br /></div><div>The book is about Smithy's journey, or quest as his friend Norma calls it. Smithy meets people along the way and runs into all sorts of trouble and you just can't help feeling sorry for him. He's so relate-able. For the first time in a really long time I was actually unable to put a book down. When it was over I wished I could have kept on reading more and more about Smithy. In short, it was an excellent book, and a surprising one at that. I didn't think I would like it, actually. </div><div><br /></div><div>Okay. And now. "Julie and Julia". </div><div><br /></div><div>My husband spent the duration of the entire movie staring at me, giving me that "OMG that is so you" look the entire time. Julie is a writer. Only she doesn't think she's a writer because she doesn't have a whole lot to show. Julia is a confused middle-aged woman who doesn't know exactly what she wants to do with herself. She's done that whole spy thing and now she's just bored. The best part of the movie when she told her husband she wanted to take hat-making classes. Joe looked at me pointedly. Just the night before I told him I wanted to take sewing classes because I was bored. Or maybe pottery classes. Or ... Then, Julia takes up bridge. That's boring, too. Finally, Julia finds her calling. She will take cooking classes and become a cook. Meanwhile, Julie needs a calling, so she decides to cook her way through Julia Childs' cookbook and blog about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Long story short, the movie was very heartwarming and sweet and funny and inspirational. I would buy it. It was that good. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Stepfather" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Stepfather" is a horror movie and it's pretty lame. Basically, the reason for that movie was to show the lead boy shirtless and the lead girl in a bikini. It was very lame. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's all of the Few Reviews you can handle for now. In summary, read <i>The Memory of Running </i>while watching "Julie and "Julia" but, for the love of God, skip "Stepfather" because it was horrendous and he didn't even die in the end. There. I ruined it for you, anyway. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-9102766293579771175?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-30075868252154371272009-12-29T01:18:00.003-05:002009-12-29T01:22:57.238-05:00Hello, friend bloggers. <div><br /></div><div>I'm still here. And doing much better. Sorry for the downer posts and whinings and overall crappiness. I would say that it's my New Year's Resolution to be more positive, but every time I newly resolve to be positive circumstances arise that deem negativity. </div><div><br /></div><div>But. I'm here. We're here. Everything's fine. And good. And we got Christmas cards and even presents. We had a very wonderful Christmas and hope you did too. </div><div><br /></div><div>That is all for now. It's off to bed before I get too much into the habit of sleeping until the crack of noon everyday while Joe's on holiday leave. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3007586825215437127?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-88770150055450542992009-12-17T19:46:00.002-05:002009-12-17T19:56:54.394-05:00I've been trying to maintain a positive attitude. I really have. In August when I didn't know whether my husband was dying or just having really bad migraines I tried to be positive. When my car broke down the first time, the second time, the third time, the fourth time I tried to be positive. When his car broke down I tried to be positive. When my family turned their backs on me I tried to be positive. When my mom made freaking bouquets for blushing brides she barely knew I tried to be positive. When my dad didn't even talk to me on my birthday I tried to be positive. When I realized that the only reason Mom gave me that painting for my birthday was because my sister was coming up to visit and she couldn't very well send her here empty-handed so she grabbed the first painting she did in watercolor class at the library and wrapped it up and packed it in my sister's suitcase. When Joe's family turned their backs on him I tried to be positive. When our friends ranted and raved about how they spent quite a bit of money on every damn needless toy in their house and went on about how they're going to replace their second car because it's getting too old (a 2005 is waaaaayyyy too old to be driving around, isn't it?) and they can't very well drive the truck (the third car they have parked in their driveway) everywhere, now can they? I tried to be positive. When the assholes in the medical group tried to fuck my husband out of his career I tried to be positive. When my little sister told me she hated me and never wanted to speak to me again because I ruined her life by giving a shit I tried to be positive. But seriously. The tube in the TV suddenly goes out the only day of the week that we watch television? Thank God, or maybe more appropriately, thank the Russians for vodka. <div><br /></div><div>And we still haven't received a single Christmas card. It's a stupid thing to whine about, but when you feel like whining you whine about the stupidest things and then later look back upon your whinings and think that was the stupidest thing you could have ever chosen to whine about. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8877015005545054299?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-61448864917262757492009-12-17T11:27:00.003-05:002009-12-17T11:40:49.434-05:00Looks like I might be doing more walking. Good thing I like it so much. After I picked up the car I went and got my husband to take him to physical therapy. And guess what. We had to turn around before we were even halfway there. It's the transmission. It'll cost more than what I paid for it for them to tear it open and troubleshoot. Eff that. <div><br /></div><div>My husband called me just a minute ago and told me his commander told him to put me in for an award. It's an award for spouses who support the squadron with their actions and other such blah blah. I guess because I went to PT last summer and because I attend commander's calls and picnics and carry-ins that means I support my husband and the squadron. I guess our squadron doesn't have a phoenix spouse program because if they did she would be the only one nominated and deserving of winning. I hope I don't win, but I have a feeling I will, seeing as the commander's husband is the only other civilian I ever see at squadron functions. Winning means standing up in front of the entire squadron - all 400 of them - and shaking the commander's hand. I have enough trouble just standing in the same room with all of them, sticking out like a sore thumb, let alone in front of them. </div><div><br /></div><div>It just amazes me how few spouses actually take an active role in their husband's military careers. When your husband is given an award, wouldn't you want to be there? I don't know, there's millions of things I don't get about the military, but it looks as if I'll have a while to figure it out. We talked about and decided that staying in until retirement would be the most financially responsible decision. If his health problems had occurred outside the military we would be screwed in a big way. He's always going to have health problems and they're just going to get worse as he gets older. Health insurance, job security and a retirement fund aren't things you'll easily find in the civilian world. We're still telling ourselves, "Three more years", though. It makes it easier to deal. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6144886491726275749?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-61038940983668757012009-12-16T16:35:00.003-05:002009-12-16T16:52:53.763-05:00Pine cones crunch under your shoes when you crash down on them with giant steps - steps that are purposely made more giant so you can step on every pine cone. That's something I had forgotten. In autumn, or on a day without snow in December, leaves crackle under your shoes. That's another thing I had forgotten. <div><br /></div><div>Five miles doesn't seem like very far when you're driving. It doesn't seem like very far when you're setting out to walk it. It may not seem far, but it feels like walking across a country. That's another thing I had forgotten. </div><div><br /></div><div>At 8:23 a.m. the mechanic told me my car would be ready by noon. I walked a block to McDonald's and sat in a booth facing an east window. I slowly ate my breakfast and tried to savor my coffee. At 8:30 a.m. I finished my coffee. I'm not much of a savorer of coffee. I'm more of a gulper and burner of the mouth. I got out my notebook and wrote the epilogue of this amazing new novel I've been thinking of writing. I wrote pages of drivel and it felt as if it took hours. It was 8:45 when I finished. So I walked. </div><div><br /></div><div>The hardest part about walking was the ominous gate - the one that touts the post as the home of the ultimate weapon (should they advertise that? I mean, really). I'm not exactly sure what I expected, but ...</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, I am sure of what I expected. I waited for the guards to sail down on me and yell at me for pedestrianizing through the gate. I expected them to confiscate my bag and search it. </div><div><br /></div><div>... I handed my DOD ID card to the gate guard and he said, "How ya doin'." They don't ask it here. They say it. I said "hi" then he handed me back my ID and I walked through the gate. Easy peasy. I'd seen pedestrians walk through the gate before, but something about not having the safety of steel encasing me as I passed through the gate guarded by M-16 toting officers frightened me a bit. Silly? Yes. I never claimed to have any rational fears. </div><div><br /></div><div>Brisk. That's how I would describe the weather this morning. But, I had my doofy hat and my matching doofy gloves and my brand new clearance rack coat so I was quite warm. And there were leaves on the ground. Brown, crunchy leaves. I stepped on every one. Or tried to, at least. The grass was mushy beneath my feet. The leaves were crunchy. Buildings were taller. Cars were faster. The pine trees were prettier. The air was colder. But I was happy. I was sorry I let myself forget how much I love walking. I tricked myself into thinking that it was way too far to walk anywhere around here. Five miles isn't that bad, though. Not really. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was about a mile from my house when the mechanic called. "Your car's ready," he said. I thought about how nice it would have been to have my car at that moment so I could run home and let the coffee go. Oh well, I thought, looks like I get to walk ten miles today. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6103894098366875701?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-31030814546131219932009-12-11T08:28:00.003-05:002009-12-11T08:55:45.682-05:00The wallflower. The quiet one. The one whose nose is buried in a book in waiting rooms and laundromats so she doesn't have to talk to anyone. The one who comes up with a line after the conversation is finished. The one who has panic attacks at the store because she thinks people are looking at her. That's me. <div><br /></div><div>There's this girl I really like in a want-to-be-friends sort of way. She likes me, too. Now what do we do about that? How do grown-ups become friends? I've never had to be the one to strike up a friendship, so I'm not quite sure how to do it. I've always been the one saying, "Sure!" when asked to hang out or whatever. That's much easier than being the one doing the asking. </div><div><br /></div><div>How do you ask, anyway? It's easy for little kids. You see another girl at the playground and you ask if they want to be your best friend, and then BAM! you're BFF. I don't think adults do that. Perhaps they should. </div><div><br /></div><div>This girl is in Joe's squadron. She's the fitness monitor. She is also incredibly socially inept, so maybe I wouldn't make such a fool of myself if I said simply, "Hey, let's be friends." </div><div><br /></div><div>She sent me a very random and awkward text last Friday while I was reading my book in the physical therapy office. She said, "Just wanted to let you know Joe and I were talking about hats today." That was the text. I sat there and wondered just what the heck hats had to do with anything. Thirty seconds later, as I was trying to think up a response ("Oh, that's nice"?) she sent another one. "I have this really goofy hat I wear all the time and I don't even care if it matches what I'm wearing or not because it's really warm," she texted. Ooohhhh. Joe must have told her I wear a goofy hat sometimes. I told him later and he said he did indeed talk about me wearing a goofy hat. The texts then made sense because I understood she was trying to encourage me in my goofy hat wearing. So, I think she wants to be my friend. </div><div><br /></div><div>She's pregnant. I don't know much about being pregnant. She's in the military. I know a bit about that because I am sort of, by proxy, in the military as well. [I don't know if that statement made much sense, but if you were a military spouse you would understand. But I don't know if I used "proxy" correctly. I just like that word because there's an "x" in it. And a "y"] She's the same age as me and her husband is the same age as mine. She has a two-year-old. I don't know much about two-year-olds except for what I remember of taking care of my sisters when they were two, and evil. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, now what? Do I ask her if she wants to go to lunch sometime? What if we go to lunch and both of us are so socially awkward we can't even think of things to say? That happens a lot when we talk. It's like, "Hi, how are you?" then the "I'm fine. How are you?" then the awkward silence and nodding of the heads. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have other friends here, but it would be nice to have a girl friend, you know what I mean? The two ladies we hang out with are girl friends, but they aren't really girl friends in the hey let's go hang out just us girls and talk about stuff kind of way. They think I'm cute. As in, I'm young, quiet, and newly married, so I'm cute and fun to have around. We don't really talk. When we hang out Joe talks. We talk about sex and bodily functions, but that's because those are the type of conversations Joe starts because they're always funny. Once they asked me about my writing - they think it's just a hobby, but some people just don't understand it's a real job and I make real money from doing it - and I started telling them, then Joe butted in and said something stupid about sex or bodily functions and the conversation shifted back to stupidness. It would be nice to have a friend I could talk to about stuff and about nothing. The other friends are mostly the kind of friends you laugh with, which laughing is good, but sometimes I want a friend I can talk to about various things and get to know. I enjoy getting to know people. I don't really have a chance to get to know the other friends because we're always laughing about poop and crazy family stories (Joe and I totally win when it comes to crazy family stories). </div><div><br /></div><div>Soooo. I guess I'll ask her if she wants to go to lunch. We can't exactly go out for drinks (and I here that's what girl friends sometimes do) because of the pregnancy. But lunch is good, right? </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3103081454613121993?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-26834991591512206242009-12-08T18:27:00.003-05:002009-12-09T08:12:25.451-05:00In August my husband started his wonderful journey into vertigo. And by wonderful I mean the opposite of wonderful. For four months now he has been unable to perform normal activities such as driving, laying down quickly, standing up quickly and walking in a straight line without leaning off to one side or tripping over his own feet. <div><br /></div><div>The wonderful military (and again I use this word in a way that mean opposite of wonderful) decided that Joe is ready to take a fitness test. Normal Air Force fitness tests consist of a 1.5 mile run and so many push-ups and sit-ups in one minute. Before his problem developed Joe had been working out every day in preparation for the upcoming test. He was <i>this close </i>to being able to pass. Then one day he started feeling dizzy and developed a horrible headache. He continued going to PT every day doing calisthenics, running and strength training alongside the other guys who had previously failed a test and were struggling to get back in shape. He had to stop going because every time he did sit-ups or anything else that required getting on the ground his world started to spin. <i>This close. </i>That's how close he was to passing. The test was a month away. </div><div><br /></div><div>For about two months I shuttled him back and forth from various doctor's offices and emergency rooms as we tried to ease the pain from the headaches and determine the cause for the constant dizziness and nausea. Finally, about a month ago the doctors determined that his problem was nothing serious. Finally we had some peace of mind. Neither one of us knew what was going on and for all we knew he could have been dying. Now he goes to physical therapy twice a week where they make him do things like walk on a treadmill for ten minutes while shaking and nodding his head. </div><div><br /></div><div>For about four months the oh-so-smart and oh-so-caring people at the fitness center have been sitting on a profile for him. A profile is a piece of paper or its equivalent in a database that makes a person exempt from certain physical activity. Today the profile was finally approved. The result was that Joe needs to take a fitness test. Obviously he can't do the normal test, so the lady who signed the papers cleared him for a bike test where the participant has to ride a stationary bike for x amount of time at x speed and x tension and they record heart rate. </div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is, Joe can barely walk. He walks from the car to the door and he has to sit down until the earth stops spinning. He constantly trips over himself, drops things and falls over. How in the world do they expect him to stay on a stationary bike without falling off? In addition, whenever his blood pressure and heart rate go up, the dizziness increases exponentially. He gets mad, he gets dizzy. He walks from one end of his building to the other, he gets dizzy. </div><div><br /></div><div>The woman at the fitness center lied and said that his physical therapist said he would be okay for the test. When we spoke to the therapist today he said, "I didn't say anything about a test. I said you could <i>try </i>riding a stationary bike as long as you don't move your head at all the whole time." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, she backdated the damn paper, saying that she gave Joe this information in September when he clearly did not get any such information because I'm pretty sure he wasn't even hardly at work in September and when he was he was on the phone yelling at her to get her ass in gear or in the fitness monitor or first sergeant's office trying to get the stuff figured out. Luckily, each user on a military computer signs every e-mail and document with an automated, dated electronic signature. The document she sent was electronically signed yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since she backdated the profile, it appears on all records that Joe is overdue for a fitness test, which also means that he can't finish his EPR (blah blah performance report something or other - paper that says how he's doing at his job) and since he can't send out his EPR he can't test for rank the next cycle which is in five months. And, in order to test for rank in five months he needs to hit the books because he has to study on the Air Force book thingy (PDG) and his career field books (about 6 of them). Since he doesn't know whether or not he's testing he doesn't know whether or not he should start studying or if it'll be a big, fat waste of time. </div><div><br /></div><div>If they do make him take this fitness test he's going to fail. And, it's going to be against his primacy care manager's (PCM) recommendations, which will mean that this lady's ass is on the line. If they do make him test and he fails, this will be his third fail. There were other health issues having to do with the first fail, but that's another story. The second fail was simply that - a fail. If he fails he gets written up. An LOR goes on his permanent record. If he fails a fourth time he loses a stripe, which means he's bumped down a rank and consequently loses a good chunk of the money he's making now. </div><div><br /></div><div>Obviously neither one of us are in rapture with these circumstances. I'm especially peeved since I found out that this woman over at the fitness center has done this before. I heard from Joe's fitness monitor that a few weeks ago the woman tested a man who should not have been tested because he had heart problems and his PCM specifically stated on the profile that he wasn't to do anything strenuous. The guy was obviously unable to complete the test now he has to do it again unless they can get the shit straightened out. There's another guy that we used to run with at PT who is going through the same thing. That's why they have the waist measurement tests, for crying out loud! If it's under 35, can't they just call it good until the guy is stable enough to walk? </div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow we're talking to the physical therapist and we're going to get him to put in writing that he does not recommend a test. Joe said he's going to talk to his commander and the shirt (first sergeant) and see if they can get it sorted out. Regardless of whether or not the situation gets corrected, he said he's going to the Inspector General, because it's just ridiculous that this woman can sit up there on her ass all day long and not do anything about this shit that's been laying on her desk for months and then suddenly it's okay to bike test the guy that can barely walk? For crying out loud. If it's too much work, just kick him out already. I am so fed up with the military. I'm so fed up with my husband coming home every day red-faced with migraines because these people, the ones who are supposed to be the best and the brightest, the most honorable and full of integrity, are fucking him over in every way they possibly can. Every day it's something different. Every day it's something worse. Three more years, three more years - that has become our mantra. </div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2683499159151220624?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-89660883550947887272009-12-04T21:52:00.003-05:002009-12-04T22:35:41.083-05:00Soooo.... the title pretty much sums it up. Joe and I each have a car. At this time they are both incapacitated. Why oh why oh why. And I was just thinking about how cabin feverish I was feeling and how I would love to get out of the house and just go somewhere - anywhere! - and now here we are. Stuck. With no beer or Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper. If ever there was a day to drink a bottle (or four) of Sam Adams, this would be the day. <div><br /></div><div>Joe has physical therapy in the city an hour away. At therapy he is spun around in chairs, made to balance on wobbly boards and to walk on treadmills whilst nodding and shaking his head like a confused man who has a condition that makes him constantly, erm, nod and shake his head. Supposedly all of these treatments that make him horribly dizzy are supposed to cure the dizziness he is experiencing from the vertigo. Right. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least the office is clean, the therapists are friendly and the others in need of therapy are entertaining, unlike other facilities in this godforsaken land. Today I had a lovely conversation with an elderly Filipino woman about sunglasses being photoshopped onto dogs for magazine portraits. Last week Joe had a lovely experience in which an elderly woman wanted to get jiggy with him and was not the least bit subtle about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way back home my car started acting funny. I'm used to my car acting funny, though, because it's quite ancient in car years. I can't rightly expect a 1993 Plymouth to be in tip top shape in 2009. I came to a complete stop at a red light and the engine suddenly died. Fearing for our lives because we were on a rather busy road during rush hour, I switched on my blinkers, popped the car into park and attempting to start it and maneuver it to the side of the road. After two tries it started, so I kept going, praying my car would stay alive until I pulled into the nearest parking lot. I've seen what people do to cars parked on shoulders of busy roads. Miraculously I was able to make it to a parking lot and it died on me again. </div><div><br /></div><div>We called a tow truck after a few unsuccessful attempts at starting it again and an hour later Joe and I were riding along in a giant truck listening to country music and freaking out as the driver took both hands off the wheel (and both eyes off the road) to show us pictures on his Blackberry of a horrible wreck he just towed a couple mangled cars from. As we rode along and listened to him talking on his cell phone and narrowly passing people on the right who were making left hand turns I noticed the mirror was absent from the passenger side of the truck. I was on the far right side - the one closest to the mailboxes and broken mirror. Then, the driver took a shortcut. Through the woods. Joe moved his coffee cup to his right hand, prepared to strong arm him with his left. But it was all good. He didn't try to kill us or anything, thank goodness. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we finally got home our plan was to get in Joe's car and go to the Shopette to get beer and cheese (the one thing I needed to complete our dinner recipe). We figured it would be okay for him to drive since it was just a few miles. Before we got home Joe said, "Wouldn't it be funny if my car didn't start?" And guess what. His car didn't start. And it's Friday. Here we are. Stuck. All weekend. It's seven miles to the Shopette. Our friends live 30 minutes away, so we can't rightly call and ask them to come all the way out here to take us to the Shopette or the ten miles to the shop to pick up my car tomorrow if it's fixable and ready by tomorrow. Rawr. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a sneaking suspicion that the breakdown (of my car, at least) was entirely my fault. I wasn't going to tell anyone and Joe swore he wouldn't tell anyone, but I feel I must to further the story. Wednesday before I took him to physical therapy I dumped a bottle of oil into my car. It requires at least one bottle a week. I was all being a big girl and pouring oil through a funnel and I was quite proud of myself. I drove an hour out to the therapy place, drove an hour back then when we stopped to get soda at the Shopette Joe asked what that peculiar smell was. I popped the hood. And guess what I did. Just guess. <b><i>I forgot to put the cap back on the oil holder thingymabobbin. </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">So oil had spewed all over my engine, all over everywhere. Luckily, the cap was still on top of the motor where I had set it. By some magical twist of fate it hadn't fallen down and been crushed beneath my tires. "I'm so fucking stupid!" I yelled. Men in uniforms did double takes as they passed and heard meek looking me utter obscenities. </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>"Shit happens," Joe said. Thank goodness he's the kind, understanding type. </div><div><br /></div><div>All the while I could hear my father's voice in my head. "That was fucking stupid!" my father yelled. "You could have blown your whole engine! Your car could have exploded! You could have died!" </div><div><br /></div><div>But Joe just said, "Shit happens. Stop beating yourself up." Man, I love him. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, anyway. The tow truck guy said it sounded like my car had an issue with corrosion in the gas tank or some such yadda-yaddda couldn't quite understand. My stupid absent-mindedness has so far cost us $140 for a tow and who knows how much else for the grand fix. </div><div><br /></div><div>So. Rawr. That is my ferocious growl. I growl for stupidity. I growl for spilled oil. I growl for dead car batteries. I growl for not having friends in the neighborhood to jump the car with the dead battery. I growl because my friends are having a girls night out tonight and I wasn't invited (like I could've went, anyway). I growl because my sister's so insanely stupid that she believes this boy she is just friends with ("He's kind of fat, so, like I don't really like him, but, like, we're just, like, friends, soo....) is going to give her a custom Mustang that blows pink smoke for her 16th birthday (two years away). I growl because I saw a video on youtube of a pregnant woman whose baby was kicking her belly and you could see it moving and it grossed me out and I'm horribly frightened of getting pregnant because what if I look like a monster and what if I turn out like any one of my three parents - the deserter, the angry bitch, or the don't-really-give-a-shit one. Blah. And rawr. And thank goodness we have been working on stocking our liquor cabinet and yay for orange juice and gin and Southern Comfort. </div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8966088355094788727?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-2476154975706634312009-12-03T16:55:00.002-05:002009-12-03T16:57:19.460-05:00I've been in the need of some humor so I watched this video today for the 9 billionth time. I can't remember if I'd posted this before or not, but if you're in need of a laugh, watch this and then go to Youtube and watch the rest of their videos.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/u5tmnBeNv18&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;color1=0x006699&amp;color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/u5tmnBeNv18&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;color1=0x006699&amp;color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-247615497570663431?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-88079062585550401222009-11-25T06:58:00.004-05:002009-11-25T07:28:32.990-05:00Joe removed his superhero cape so he wouldn't get flour on it, then began furiously baking. Since he's a superman kind of guy that equals the drop-kicking strength of Chuck Norris and the mohawk of Mr. T combined, he was able to bake a pecan pie in 15 minutes. That time includes preparing the homemade crust, rolling out the dough and baking. Because he's just that awesome. And, because he's just that awesome, the pie turned out to be the best-looking pie in all the land. Good-looking pies are great, except under certain circumstances. There were some particular circumstances that particular day that made this good-looking pie a thing of sadness. And pies are not even meant to cause sadness. Why were we sad? We had to give it away. <div><br /></div><div>He planned a carry-in for his flight - all five of them. He also invited the pregnant lady down the hall because, well, she's pregnant and pregnant ladies like pie. The pregnant lady invited five of the guys down the hall from her. This meant trouble for Joe. And trouble for Joe meant trouble for pie. He ended up inviting the commander of the building because, well, you can't have a carry-in and not invite the commander if you're going to invite a random smattering of other people in the building. When it was all said and done all 35 people in the building were invited. One pie, 35 people. Well, that was a disaster just waiting to happen, so Super Joe and I decided to take matters into our own hands. The following is a conversation recorded between the two of us with our handy dandy detective spy kit:</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Mmm. Look at this pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Ohmygosh! It's sooo beautiful. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Yes. It is. I want to eat it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Too bad we have to wait until tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Yes. Oh, did you hear everyone in the building is now invited?</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What?! No! How could you do that to me? I want pie!</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe sighs: Because I don't like you and don't want you to have any of my pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>POW! BAM! ZAM! KA-BOOM! [That was me punching Joe and throwing a can of Dr. Pepper at his head which exploded all over the kitchen, narrowly missing the pie]</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe and Me [in slow motion, racing towards pie] : Nooooooo!</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Phew! The pie is safe, Super Joe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: But it won't be for long. Tomorrow it will be eaten before we even get another chance to sniff its pecan-filled goodness. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me [crying]: Boo for that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe [rubbing his hands together menacingly]: It's too bad the eggs were rotten. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What? No they ...</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: They are, woman! Damn it. They're rotten. We cannot feed the commander and a pregnant lady rotten egged pie! When we went to the store yesterday you told me we had eggs. But you lied! Because they were rotten eggs! </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Oh dear. I'm sorry. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: No, not really, you fool! Now, eat the pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Hooray! Pie! But, wait. We have to take it ...</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: No, the eggs are rotten! </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: But...</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Just eat the damn pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Okay. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe and Me [eating pie]: Mmm. Slurp, slurp. Gobble. Mmm. </div><div><br /></div><div>THE NEXT DAY</div><div><br /></div><div>Commander: I thought you were making pie, Sgt. Joe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Well, I was going to, but the eggs were rotten and it was too late to go to the store last night. </div><div><br /></div><div>Commander: Well, boo for that. Oh well. I will eat this tasty store-bought pumpkin pie that your wife brought. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Heh, heh, heh.</div><div><br /></div><div>AFTER THE CARRY-IN</div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: Now let's go eat some good pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: OK!</div><div><br /></div><div>THE END </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and here's something that has nothing to do with pie, but I found rather interesting. I have a great-uncle who is 48, only 24 years older than me. I'm still trying to figure that out. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8807906258555040122?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-61229537249215028382009-11-21T12:34:00.003-05:002009-11-21T12:59:13.582-05:00I read a pep talk from author Neil Gaiman on the NaNoWriMo web site. His words inspired me. They also made me want to stab myself in the foot with a very dull plastic spoon. He said he called up his agent three quarters of the way through <i>Anansi Boys </i>and told her what a piece of drivel the book was, how he wanted to scrap the whole mess and blah blah stuff like that, no one would ever want to read it. <div><br /></div><div>My first thought was "Holy monkeys! This guy is a professional. He's written billions of books. And he goes through what I'm going through right now!" My second thought was, "Holy monkeys! This guy is a professional. He's written billions of books. And he goes through what I'm going through right now... Why on earth did I want to subject myself to this sort of torture for the rest of my working life?!" But oh well. I'll make it through. And I'll learn all sorts of things about myself and about writing and about monkeys. Wat waaahhh.</div><div><br /></div><div>My old neighbor child has been instant messaging me on myspace just about every day. I think I am his new mentor or something. He told me one day that he stole a magnet and he felt bad about it and wanted to take it back and asked my advice on how he should do it. Today he's telling me he hates his math teacher and the group he was supposed to share geography homework abandoned him and now he must waste his weekend doing homework. It's funny that he talks to me. He's one of those weird kids that no one likes, but he's a good kid. He's just trying to fit in somehow. He's in love with my sister, too. The evil one. He's had it bad for her since he was like 5. I think it would be absolutely hilarious if they hooked up. My sister is very evil to him and he's just so darn sweet to her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today we're heading out to Walmart. My mother said yesterday she went into town some 70 miles from where she lives. And I used to feel sorry for myself for having to drive 30 minutes to Walmart. I imagine my other sister can beat my evil sister when it comes to being bored. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6122953724921502838?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-10773375142361704992009-11-18T09:39:00.003-05:002009-11-18T21:37:14.329-05:00Who would have thought that with some 20 odd years of wondering and some five or so years of searching that I'd find her in one day and contact her and she'd write back that very same day? Could it really have been this simple all along? <div><br /></div><div>Her reply was a surprise. I thought for sure I'd end up going to bed wondering if I did the right thing and if I should have contacted her. I wasn't sure what the response would be, if any. Instead I went to bed happy, with a huge burden lifted off my shoulders because I checked my e-mail and there it was. </div><div><br /></div><div>She thanked me for contacting her. She said she had wanted to contact me, but had been afraid. She wished me a happy belated birthday. She asked me to tell her about the beautiful young lady I've become. She said she didn't know what to say, even though for 20 years she had wanted to tell me everything. She closed her e-mail with this: <i>"I have never stopped thinking about you and I have never stopped loving you." </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I ran outside and cried. An overwhelming sense of joy and relief flooded me. All this time she loved me. And all this time she thought about me. I have spent so many years wondering. So many birthdays wondering if she thinks about me on my birthday. So many holidays wondering if she thinks about me on holidays. And there she said it - <i>she never stopped thinking about me and she loves me. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It's like a fairy tale or a dream and I keep expecting to wake up and find that it didn't really happen. Have I fallen down a rabbit hole or stepped through a looking glass? Things are never this easy. At least not for me. It must have been just the right time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote her back and told her a bit about myself and my life with my husband. I told her that he makes me happy and that I'm doing what I love. It's just so crazy. I didn't know what to say. What do you say to a mother you don't remember? I told her I was curious about her and her life. I hope she writes back today. Although, there is something sort of unrealistic about virtual communication. It's just words on a screen. The words may mean something, but they would mean more if I could actually hear them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope she sends me a picture. I found a couple pictures of her on the internet. She looks completely different in both of them and I'm not really sure if they are even both her. In the first picture, an older one, I could see facial features that were like mine. She had round cheeks with barely noticeable cheek bones, just like me. She had thick, straight eyebrows like me and an oval-shaped face like mine. She is 5'3" just like me. She was holding a little girl, her daughter, who was five at the time. If my guesstimations are correct, I have a 13-year-old sister. There's this whole other family out there that somehow belongs to me. Two families. Two mothers. Four sisters - one I never even knew about until just yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Words can't even describe how I'm feeling right now. I'm happy, I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm excited. I'm at peace because I finally know, I'm worried because what will Dad and Mom say when they find out about this? A long time ago, I imagine it was around the time when my mother posted on that guestbook, Mom said that my aunt had been in contact with <i>her. </i>Mom was obviously not too thrilled about it and neither was Dad. That must've been from the guestbook entry and one of my aunt's must have replied. I saw a post from each of my aunts on that same guestbook at different times. They must've spoken with her and told my dad and he didn't want to have anything to do with her and didn't want her to have anything to do with me still. They won't be happy, I know. I feel as if I'm betraying them, sort of. But, really. I'm an adult now. I have a right to a relationship with the woman who brought me into the world. I have a right to give her a chance. After all, I've heard nothing but bad about her. I'm sure she doesn't have a whole lot of nice things to say about my father, either. But, I think it should have been my choice all along. Now that I'm old enough, I've made my choice. I just hope they won't hold it against me like they hold every other supposedly bad decision I've made (such as marrying my husband) against me. But, oh well. I have a big heart and there's room for everyone. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a mother out there on the other side of the country. <i>A mother who never stopped loving me. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>Update: </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I just found out I have another sister! She's 13. My mother said she told her that I e-mailed (my sister's known about me since she could talk) and she was very excited. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess my aunt did speak to her about 10 years ago. She gave her pictures, too. She said she looks at them every day. She said that she told my grandfather that I contacted her and not to be surprised if he contacts me. </div><div><br /></div><div>She lives out in the middle of nowhere in the dessert. Her fiance works in a mine.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1077337514236170499?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-13586532243700973112009-11-17T16:10:00.004-05:002009-11-17T23:32:02.990-05:00I found my mother. I had some clues and I put them together with some clues I gathered yesterday and I ended up finding her twitter username so I googled that username and found a post on my hometown's guestbook where she said she was looking for my dad and to let him know and it was for nothing bad. Nothing bad, she said. That means that she was looking for <i>me</i>. Maybe. <div><br /></div><div>Her e-mail was on there, so I sent her an e-mail. <div><br /></div><div>Oh.My.Goodness. All this time and it was just that easy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sent a picture in the e-mail. It's of me and Joe on our wedding day. I figured she might be curious about what I look like these days since I'm incredibly curious about what she looks like. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hooo-oooolllly. Shit. </div><div><br /></div><div>The last time she updated her twitter was on my birthday. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sent the e-mail. And now I'm waiting. I hope she checks it regularly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe she wasn't looking for me. Maybe it was other business with my dad. But it was around 2001 when she posted that, so maybe it was. </div><div><br /></div><div>OMG.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>UPDATE: </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>OMG. Seriously, you guys. I am not even making this up. It's so surreal. </div><div><br /></div><div>She wrote back. </div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1358653224370097311?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-46948451787133972182009-11-16T07:21:00.003-05:002009-11-16T08:07:46.894-05:00For many, many years I have debated this should I or shouldn't I question in my head. For many, many years I have been eaten up with wondering what if...? I guess the only way I can really know for sure is to just go for it. Until the day comes when I lick the stamp and seal the envelope, I will have to talk myself back into it at least three times a day. But, in the end, I know I must if I ever want some sort of peace. I'm going to contact my mother. Or, her parents, really, because I can't find her address - well, I did, but I'm not sure if it's really her and I figured grandparents are always a good bet, right? <div><br /></div><div>Things in my family have gone incredibly sour lately. The more sour things get, the more I think about the other side of my family - the one I barely remember. I know I shouldn't let these things bother me like they do, but sometimes I just can't make the terrible thoughts go away. Joe told me I'm not crazy. He said I'm just human. I feel horrible for thinking these things, but they've gone and shown me again and again that I'm not making this up and it's not all in my head. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, maybe I'll find a parent who cares. Maybe I'll find a parent who will give my husband a chance. Maybe I'll find a parent who will give me a chance. What's the worst that could happen? I keep asking myself. She'll decide she doesn't want anything to do with me? Oh well, I guess. At least I will have tried. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe suggested sending a Christmas card and just including a little, "Hey it's me" kind of note. That way it's not aggressive in the least and the ball is in their court if they want to pass it on. So what do you say to grandparents you haven't known since you were three or four years old? I've been writing and re-writing my little note, hoping I don't sound stupid or desperate, hoping I don't sound like a crazy person, and hoping that all they need is my name to inspire a revelation and tears of joy. </div><div><br /></div><div>My heart is full of an array of emotions. There's fear, sadness, joy, excitement, dread and guilt. Is it wrong what I'm doing, or what I'm thinking about doing? I feel as if somehow by doing this I'm betraying my dad and the mom who raised me. But, then again, they certainly never feel bad about betraying me. And if they really cared, wouldn't they - I don't know - show it somehow?Like, hey, it's our daughter's birthday. Let's call her. Or, hey, I sure do miss our daughter; I think I'll give her a call. Or is there an unspoken rule about calling grown children and it's something that parents just don't do? Hell, I would even take "Sure, I'll talk to her!" over "I'm tired, I just got home from work and I'm engrossed in this infomercial so I don't feel like talking to her right now. Oh wait. Is it my whore friend - the one who I helped leave her unsuspecting husband and move in with some other man? Oh, it's not? Well, then, I don't feel like talking to anyone." Should I even feel betrayed by people who treat me like shit, but award their favorite child who likes to steal things from drug stores with a $300 gadget they "can't afford"?</div><div><br /></div><div>On a side note, do you know what my sister did after I told Dad she had been stealing? She called me a bitch, she called me stupid and immature, she told me I had ruined her life and to just stay out of it, and she let her suicide-threatening, jackass of a douchebag friend call me a bitch and threaten to "kick my ass" if I didn't stay out of my own sister's life. She also said I was just trying to suck up to Mom. Uhhh. When have I ever been on Mom's good side, for one thing? And for another, were those Dad's words or hers? Probably after he was done confronting her, he said, "Well, I'm sorry I had to get on you about that. You better never do it again." Then he stood back and laughed like he does when he's trying to be "the good dad" and then said, "You know your sister, she's just probably trying to get on your mom's good side. She used to tell on me a lot too." Yeah, like the time I found beer hidden in the garage and I was young and Mom had told me all those stories of how alcohol had ruined their marriage. Maybe I shouldn't have told. He's a grown man. But, at the time, I was young. I was under the impression that things would magically become better if he didn't drink. Or, like the time I told on him for trying to kill himself after Mom "packed up her shit and left" by locking himself in the garage with the old Bronco turned on and a hose connecting from the exhaust pipe to his window and then came inside, fall-down incapacitated, bawling and crying about how he was sorry and he wouldn't do it again and then he fell down and I helped him up and helped support him - all 90-some pounds of me and 175 pounds of him - and keep him up as I helped him into the bedroom. I was 11. I was crying when Mom got home and she asked what was wrong. What was I gonna do? Lie? I didn't tell on him when he was having an affair, not even after he took me over there one night when he and Mom were fighting and I slept in her bed and listened to them making out on the couch all night. It was my eighth birthday. A whole lotta good that one would've done me if I'd told. When he wasn't around she beat the shit out of me, just because I was his kid and she needed something to take her anger out on. But, yeah. I'm just a big suck-up because I want to ruin my sister's life and make things worse with the family. They don't need me to do that. They're doing a fine job themselves. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I'm ranting. Sorry. It's not that I don't love my family because I do. But, how can you not wonder about your mother? How can you not be curious about the other side of the story? I'm almost certain that there was an ultimatum. "She's not gonna grow up with two mothers. I'll pay for your divorce, but if I do, that woman will never be part of our family." Maybe I would've been more messed up with two mothers, who knows? But, there are times when I need at least one. One who gives a damn. Maybe I'll find one, maybe I won't. But, I can no longer continue not knowing the what ifs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I get a wild hair and feverishly search the internet. All I want is a picture. Why doesn't she have a Facebook, for crying out loud? I want to know what she looks like. I have all these memories, but I can never see her face. Do I look like her? Is she pretty? Does she have a kind face? Is she a good person? If I hear no reply, at least I've done what I've needed to do for so long. At least I'll have some peace. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll send the card on the 1st of December. I'll include my contact information. Maybe I'll say something like, "Please pass my contact information along if you think it will be welcomed." I won't mention "mother, grandmother, grandfather". It'll just be a "Merry Christmas, hope all is well, I'm doing fine" sort of thing. Maybe that would be best? They'll remember my name, right? I'll tell them I'm married, that my husband's in the Air Force, that we're living on a base on the East Coast, that I'm a writer and we're happy. Hopefully I won't chicken out, but I think this time I'm really going to do it. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4694845178713397218?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-79228043909475174292009-11-10T10:14:00.006-05:002009-11-16T08:14:10.244-05:00<div style="text-align: left;">I found this picture on the internet yesterday while I was procrastinating writing my daily 2,000 words. I laughed until I cried and then I nearly had a minor bathroom accident. The entire <a href="http://myfirstfail.com/">website</a> is worth checking out, for some fall down good time laughs.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/SvmDeyygA1I/AAAAAAAAAC8/uZpb9OCU-Z4/s1600-h/anon-pottytraining-p.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/SvmDeyygA1I/AAAAAAAAAC8/uZpb9OCU-Z4/s400/anon-pottytraining-p.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402493793060520786" /></a><br /><div>The novel is... well, coming along. I wonder if anyone else is having this problem that I'm currently experiencing. Writing 50,000 words isn't that hard, really. I've hit the 20,000 mark and it's only day 10. My problem is writing 50,000 words that relate, that make sense, and that tell a story. Right now it's just words that act as if they want to tell a story, but they aren't quite sure how. I don't think I would feel quite right printing out a winner's certificate for writing 50,000 words of semi-autobiographical, plotless nonsense with occasional visits to winter circus homes and close calls of my moped-riding main character and monkeys. Also, there is a bit about Al Capone and Bonnie Parker. See? I'm crazy. Oddly enough, though, most of it is true - or mostly true. Even the Bonnie Parker, Al Capone, circus parts. But not the monkey. The little bugger just hopped onto the page and I'm not quite sure how it got there. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even if my novel turns out to be 50,000 words of crap, at least I can say I did it, which means that I can do it again - and better next time. I'll attempt to edit what I have just to prove to myself that editing can't be all that bad, but we'll see how it goes. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 18px; ">And now it's time for another picture that illustrates how I feel about my brain and it's inability to follow through with heart's desire to write the next great American novel.</span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; font-family:georgia;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RaePkZ2hHqQ/SvmITCrydlI/AAAAAAAAADM/E2zCmPl_c1Y/s400/megan-wheres-my-train-P.jpg" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></p><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7922804390947517429?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-32191788560473595672009-11-03T07:08:00.004-05:002009-11-04T08:15:03.945-05:00I know I say this just about every other day, but last time I really meant it: My sister couldn't possibly get any dumber. But, guess what! She did. <div><br /></div><div>MySpace is a wonderful invention. Social networking sites are revolutionizing communication, in good ways and bad. They help you to keep in touch with those people you never see anymore. They also make it easier for you to snoop around on people because some people are so stupid that they post their every move on their status updates. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sister's latest move was posted on her best friend's status update. Her friend said something about how much she loved her boyfriend, blah-de-blah. Her status update appeared in my updates feed because it was something she had just recently updated. The very top comment, the one visible to all who are friends with SoaBFF, was this: "Hey, I jacked you a sparkly lip gloss, come get it," signed, my sister. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Does she mean what I think she means?" I turned around and yelled at my husband. I spent a few minutes yelling some words, throwing out some colorful verbage, then refreshed the page. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Awww....thank u!" said her friend. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You welcome:) I tried to get some fake nails but it was very diffucult...i looked disformed. and some old guy was kinda watching me, so i was like ef that. But I really wanted some," said my sister. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Haha. LMFAO!! Take your Aeropostale tote lol. Thats what ive done...very easy doesnt matter now," said her friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh yeah," said my sister. "That won't look suspicious at all."</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, let me get this straight. Walking into the drug store, hanging out in front of the lipgloss for five minutes, making your way to the fake nails, then leaving the store without buying anything <i>doesn't</i> look suspicious? Oh, silly me. What do I know? </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I was pissed. I looked at the clock. 10 p.m. Dad was already in bed. I could call Mom, I thought, but she's on her happy pills. Trouble is always five times worse when Dad's mad because Mom's always mad (when she's not on her happy pills). </div><div><br /></div><div>Then in the heat of the moment, I decided to update my MySpace status to this: "Hi everyone. I'm like so effing bored because my life sucks so bad. so like will someone please talk to me? lol lol"</div><div><br /></div><div>A few of my unsuspecting friends replied with hellos, probably wondering what the hell had gotten into me. Then I said, "Hey let's all have a conversation and talk about things we don't want other people to know then pretend like our convo vanishes into thin air!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"WTF?" said one of my friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah," I said. "All the cool kids are doing it. Let's go shoplifting and talk about it on here and then we can give each other tips on how to be better stealers of things! Yeah!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe all of that was just stupid and childish, but that's what happens when I'm angry, I guess.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, I decided to send my sister an instant message. "So you're stealing now? And you do realize these conversations are not private, right?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah," she said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"That's awesome. Way to make good decisions." Just the other day she was bitching about Mom and Dad not trusting her. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Sorry. it's not like i did anything really bad," she said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, cuz going to jail isn't that bad."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Duh. They don't send 13 year old girls to jail for stealing lip gloss." </div><div><br /></div><div>If only I could cut off my hand and send it to her in the mail and tell her to smack herself with it. Really hard. </div><div><br /></div><div>Duh, Meg. Don't you know that 13-year-old girls are invincible? Duh. Seriously. You're such a loser, Meg. Don't you know what it's like to be a teenager and want to pierce your own belly button, treat your family like dog crap, cry to all your friends about how your family is so stupid and abusive so you have to cut your wrists to make yourself feel better, joke about rape, talk about your vagina with 16-year-old boys, never eat because 13-year-old girls get super fat when they eat, and steal stuff from Walgreens? </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, silly me. I'm such a loser. </div><div><br /></div><div>The way she said it just irked me. Like, "I know you're not gonna tell. Even if you did, it's not like I'd get in trouble." I guess she's supposed to be grounded for the last episode where she snuck out to hang out with boys (the 18-year-old among them). If she was stupid enough to do it around the time Mom gets home for lunch at the barn next door, well then, that's what she gets. So, she's grounded from, um, let me see... Oh. She's grounded from going to her friend's mom's house. But her friend can spend the night every night. She can go to her friend's dad's house. She can get on the internet, watch tv, go for "walks" to the store where she steals stuff. Gee, her life sucks so bad. Like, how does she even stand it? </div><div> </div><div>I'm calling Dad in a little bit. Hopefully he'll be in the middle of mixing up a batch of drywall mud. He hates to be interrupted during that process because the mud dries too fast. If they don't do anything about this latest escapade, then there's nothing else I can do. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Update: In case you were worrying about how much trouble she would get into, well, worry no more. "But Dad didn't tell Mom," she told her friends on her status update, "and he's not mad anymore so it's all good."</div><div><br /></div><div>"And, Meg, I know you're reading this," she continued. "I never told on you. Why do you have to be so immature?" </div><div><br /></div><div>And my family thinks I'm the fuck up? Because, what, I decided to get married when I was 23?</div><div><br /></div><div>Wasn't my dad the one who threatened to punch my at-the-time-fiance when we told him we were getting married? Wasn't my mom the one who told Joe that he had no idea what it's like to be a real man? My dad, she said, is a man's man. He doesn't take shit from anyone. He is the head of his household. "You two don't know a thing about hard times. You don't know what it's like to struggle. You're taking the easy way out by going in the military. You don't even know about communication. Your father and I, we talk about everything." Um. Okay. Joe said I should tell my mom about the stealing, but after thinking about it, I decided it's out of my hands. I had just assumed that people who are married and have kids together talk about things, talk about their kids, talk about what their kids are up to and talk about solving those problems. But, I guess I was wrong. I guess they're supposed to yell at each other and call each other names, talk about going to the casino every weekend, complain about bills that can't be paid, talk about what a fuck up their oldest daughter is. My parents, they know how to communicate. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sure do have a lot to learn about being married. And about being mature, evidently. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3219178856047359567?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-21421207551924624082009-10-31T16:24:00.002-04:002009-10-31T17:13:53.586-04:00My sister left yesterday morning. We got up to take her to the airport at 2 a.m. I'm never up that early, but sometimes I'm up that late. We had a lovely visit, even though just about every plan was foiled in some way or another. <div><br /></div><div>When I picked her up from the airport I took the train because there is absolutely no way I would ever drive near or around an airport. She'd never ridden a train, anyway, so I thought it would be a cool experience for her. There were hugs and tears when she came out of the terminal and then there were stories swapped and more tears as we waited for the train. Finally the train arrived and we hopped on, only to be told by the conductor that we were on the wrong train. I'd accidentally gotten us on an Amtrack instead of a New Jersey Transit train. But, at least I had us pointed in the right direction. That's a good enough accomplishment for a small town girl who knows nothing of trains and train schedules and such. We laughed about it and got off at the next stop. "Here's a first for me, " I said. "I've never stopped at this particular station." </div><div><br /></div><div>On Monday we decided to venture to a nearby city to check out the art museum. We rode the train to avoid city driving. The museum was located a convenient two blocks from the train station. We walked up the grand steps and tugged on the door. It didn't open, so we tried another door. That one didn't open either. Then we saw the sign. "Closed Mondays". A voice came over the intercom. "Can I help you?" it asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I guess you're closed Mondays," Joe said.</div><div><br /></div><div>We all looked at each other and wondered what we should do. We were smack dab in the middle of a college campus, so our choices were rather limited. "Let's get something to eat," I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sister had watched a food show a while back that had featured this "amazing" sandwich place "somewhere in New Jersey", she said. As we walked around the campus we noticed a small carnival style food truck. </div><div><br /></div><div>"There's no way I'm eating out of a truck," Joe said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you hungry?" my sister asked. "Yes, yes, I am," she answered herself. I thought she was just talking to herself until she exclaimed, "Hey! That's the place!" We walked up to the truck and read the big sign that asked us if were hungry. We decided we were indeed hungry for the world's most amazing sandwich, so we all ordered a tasty hoagie stuffed with chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, french fries and marinara sauce. We headed back to the train station satisfied. It wasn't a wasted trip after all.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Tuesday our plan was to go to an old prison museum. After a two-hour detour through a two-story antique store filled with all manner of old goodness, we made it to the museum only to discover that they were closed due to the haunted house production. Instead of crying over closed museums we wandered the historic district of the town and had a lovely, but cold and damp, time. After that we headed to the Cheesecake Factory to celebrate my birthday. We celebrated with all the steak and cheesecake we could eat, then we went home and ate pie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wednesday our plan was to tour a jet in the maintenance hangar. We all hopped in the car and headed to Joe's shop. But guess what. The road connecting the Army post where we live and the Air Force base where he works was blocked off by police cars. We went out the gate and drove all the way around base and headed back in through the AFB's main gate. When we got to the shop Joe tugged on the door and it wouldn't open. We walked to another door. Locked. At the third door we saw a sign that said "Call for entry". Next to that sign was a sign that read "Exercise D". Usually the doors always say "Exercise A" which means that everyone just has to be aware of suspicious activity. I don't even know what Exercise D means, but I guess it has something to do with finding a fake suspect who's hiding out somewhere on base. I guess that also means that all the shops are on lock-down. We called for entry and an airman came out to inspect our ID cards and let us in after a little huff and a lot of puff.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once inside we introduced my sister to the Chief and we chatted about the weather and the Phillies and the Yankees. We met Sgt. Pine and he read us an e-mail from his computer. "Well, looks like they just blew up the BX," he said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"So, I'm guessing today isn't a good day to tour a jet?" Joe asked. At least we weren't planning on shopping at the BX, otherwise we would've had to evacuate and pretend we were bombed. Although it would've been kind of interesting to watch the EMTs load up the "injured" onto gurneys and such. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since those plans were foiled, we went home and baked cookies. Gingerbread cookies to be exact. Perhaps October isn't prime gingerbread cookie-baking time, but oh well. It was fun and incredibly messy. We took pictures of ourselves rolling the poop-like dough and using gingerbread men and candy cane cookie cutters. Since we hadn't made a huge enough mess we decided to carve a puking pumpkin, which was also fun and three times as messy as the gingerbread cookies. I still haven't washed the dishes, so that'll be a fun clean-up later this evening. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thursday we finally made it to the museum with no hiccups of any kind. My sister's face lit up as she walked by the paintings and sculptures. "Wow! This is art?" she kept saying. I've been telling her for years that she's an artist and she has what it takes, but for her to actually see art hanging on the walls of a museum was the best gift I could have ever given her. "I want to try that" she kept saying. Her favorites were the Russian abstract pieces, especially the ones with random objects glued onto the paintings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Friday morning we boarded another train and took her back to the airport. After a little to-do the airline people agreed to let me go through security with her since she's under 18. We hugged and cried as she gathered her stuff to get on the plane. I quietly wiped my eyes as I watched her plane take off. I prayed that God would get her home safely. After the plane was gone I ran to the bathroom and bawled. Having her here was amazing. I wish she could have stayed forever. I miss being geographically close to my sisters. Hanging out with her, going shopping, baking cookies, carving pumpkins, riding trains - it was just like hanging out with a best girl friend. My little sister, all grown up. She had so much fun and didn't even mind that our plans were foiled. Hopefully she'll tell Mom and Dad good things about her trip and they'll let her come back. Or maybe they'll be like, "Okay, Meg, you can just go ahead and keep her forever and ever." I would be okay with that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow is back to work time. I'm going to do NaNoWriMo for the first time this year and I'm incredibly excited about it. I had one idea all ready to write, but then I changed my mind. Joe and I were talking about our hometown and our lives there, all the people, all the drama. I decided that my life is a novel waiting to happen. Maybe it won't be the world's greatest novel, maybe it won't even be publishable, but it will definitely have some crazy characters. For instance, the shovel man who walks around town with a shovel in case he needs to kill any moles. Then there's Mary, the gossip, who is friends with everyone then turns on them and makes up horrible things about everyone. Then there's the little person who asked me out that one time. To make that story even better, he had a girlfriend. Then there's my aunt who practically lives at the police station and in her car parked across the street from her ex-husband's house in case she can catch him in another hit and run or snorting coke. Our town is just ripe with interesting characters and scenarios. So, if you don't hear from me for a while it's because I'm working on my 50,000 words. Then again, you may hear from me even more as I procrastinate writing my 50,000 words.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2142120755192462408?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-68836269348416712212009-10-21T10:06:00.002-04:002009-10-21T10:48:47.090-04:00I stole this from <a href="http://thefirstbookoftesticles.blogspot.com/2009/10/50-things-ive-never-had.html">Charlie</a>. <div><br /></div><div>50 Things I've Never Had:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Caviar</div><div><br /></div><div>2. A pair of jeans that cost more than $25. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. Fashion sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Botulism.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. A broken bone.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. Roaches.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. A cavity.</div><div><br /></div><div>8. A paper route.</div><div><br /></div><div>9. Random piercings other than my ears.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. A tattoo.</div><div><br /></div><div>11. A love for haunted houses.</div><div><br /></div><div>12. A remote control car.</div><div><br /></div><div>13. A tan. I only burn. </div><div><br /></div><div>14. Grace. </div><div><br /></div><div>15. A beer with the president.</div><div><br /></div><div>16. A splinter in my knee. </div><div><br /></div><div>17. A nice car.</div><div><br /></div><div>18. Any housewifey type skills. </div><div><br /></div><div>19. Any real desire for housewifey type skills.</div><div><br /></div><div>20. A brother.</div><div><br /></div><div>21. Formal formal wear. </div><div><br /></div><div>22. The self control to walk away from Jerry Springer.</div><div><br /></div><div>23. A trip to the library without putting something back in its proper place. </div><div><br /></div><div>24. More than an hour in Canada. </div><div><br /></div><div>25. A dead snake as a pet. But my sister did. Dead Alfred, she called it. </div><div><br /></div><div>26. Just one shot of tequila. </div><div><br /></div><div>27. An immediate hatred for anyone I've met in real life.</div><div><br /></div><div>28. A pet chicken.</div><div><br /></div><div>29. Peanut brittle that didn't get stuck in my teeth. </div><div><br /></div><div>30. A real, unwavering faith in God. </div><div><br /></div><div>31. A hay ride without a runny nose. </div><div><br /></div><div>32. A desire to see <i>Twilight</i>. (and all the women and girls gasp)</div><div><br /></div><div>33. A beanbag chair.</div><div><br /></div><div>34. A room in the house that wasn't at least a little bit messy. </div><div><br /></div><div>35. An 8-track tape.</div><div><br /></div><div>36. A cornucopia. </div><div><br /></div><div>37. Cheesy strawberries.</div><div><br /></div><div>38. A time machine.</div><div><br /></div><div>39. A dance video.</div><div><br /></div><div>40. An ability to thrown away perfectly good magazines.</div><div><br /></div><div>41. A crush on Brad Pitt.</div><div><br /></div><div>42. Or Tom Cruise.</div><div><br /></div><div>43. An ex-boyfriend who broke up with me.</div><div><br /></div><div>44. A chocolate pencil. But that's a good idea. Someone should make one. </div><div><br /></div><div>45. A shoe polishing kit.</div><div><br /></div><div>46. A dry erase board.</div><div><br /></div><div>47. Chunky tomato soup. </div><div><br /></div><div>48. The name Smorza.</div><div><br /></div><div>49. Jock itch.</div><div><br /></div><div>50. A schnozzberry. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6883626934841671221?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-37557707431797639132009-10-19T07:53:00.002-04:002009-10-19T08:09:56.517-04:00Dear Cheesecake Factory,<div><br /></div><div>Hi. How are you? I am fine. How is the weather there? It's cold here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm writing you this letter for a reason, so let's get down to it. I think you're awesome. Why didn't you send out a special cheesecake representative to alert me of the existence of your fabulous restaurant? I had to wait nearly 26 years until I found out about you. That's a long time, you know. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, what I'm trying to say is I love you. I love your steak. I love your mashed potatoes. I'm still full from my meal there two days ago. That means you saved me the cost of two days' worth of meals, don't you know, Cheesecake Factory? That was very nice of you. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, you know I like your steak and potatoes. I also like your cheesecake. Your Kahlua Cocoa Coffee Cheesecake is scrumptious. But, Cheesecake Factory, I have a problem. Now that I've tried that and your Steak Diane I don't think I could ever possibly try anything else. What if I stray away from the goodness I already know and end up with sub-par pasta or a not-so-chocolatey-Kahlua-y cake? What then? </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, Cheesecake Factory. I sure do love you. I don't even mind that we had to wait 90 minutes for a table. I don't even mind that we could've bought a week's worth of groceries with what we spent on one meal at your fabulous establishment. But what I do mind, dear Cheesecake Factory, is the fact that you've ruined Applebees and T.G.I. Friday's for me. I can no longer stomach the thought of their imposterous steak. Nor can I ever bake a no-bake cheesecake from a box. You've ruined me, Cheesecake Factory. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you're happy. I know I'm happy. I'm especially happy because my husband is taking me to you on my birthday. Does this mean I'll get free cake? Birthday girls should get free cake. I bet Applebees would give me free cake, so you should too. I will also be seeing you when I finish my 50 thousandth word for NaNoWriMo. My husband promised me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, snap, Cheesecake Factory! I just looked at your <a href="http://www.thecheesecakefactory.com/shareit/shareit">web site.</a> You ship? You ship cakes? But, holy crap. Your ginormous pumpkin cakes are nearly $50. I would buy them, though, Cheesecake Factory. Because I love you. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I guess that's all I have to say. Just that I love you. </div><div><br /></div><div>Your Cheesecake-Loving Friend,</div><div><br /></div><div>Meg</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3755770743179763913?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-12598864042761795212009-10-14T07:15:00.003-04:002009-10-14T07:45:17.473-04:00We're going to have a visitor soon. The oldest of my sisters is flying out as a birthday present for both of us. She'll be here a few days after her 17th birthday and will stay until after my 26th. She said she would "build" me a cake. <div><br /></div><div>My middle sister is jealous. She claims that she called dibs on coming out first. I'm pretty sure she didn't. And honestly, I don't know that I could stand a whole week with her. I love her, but sometimes I just don't like her. She only shows a glimpse of humanity when she's been hurt then she turns around and forgets about it. She only wants to talk to me when she wants something or when she's done something stupid and needs help. Two days ago she called to tell me she pierced her own belly button and the skin turned black. She did it with a sewing needle sterilized with rubbing alcohol. </div><div><br /></div><div>A thought struck me yesterday, so I shared it with her. I sent her an e-mail and told her that if she ever wanted to have boobs and look like a woman someday she'd better start eating and sleeping. She sent me an e-mail back that said she was ROFL LHFAO. Whatever. "Shit," she said. "That's why my boobs are so small." She told me she read it out loud to her best friend and they both ROFL together. Well, she can't say I didn't warn her. I thought maybe that might have an impact on her because all she cares about is her looks. I guess not. </div><div><br /></div><div>The oldest of my sisters is the one I relate to the most. She's quiet, low-maintenance, creative and sweet. She said she's afraid to fly by herself, but she's really excited to come out. I'm really excited to share my new life with her. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have all sorts of grand adventures planned for when she's here. Grand adventures that don't involve driving on the freeway, unfortunately. Ever since I saw that accident when we first got here I've been terrified of driving. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mom said hellnoabsolutelynot to taking her to New York, so we're going to attempt to work around that by taking her to Liberty Park to see the Statue of Liberty, but only if Joe's able to drive by then or if we can drag our friends into going and driving their larger vehicle. "What?" I'll say. "We didn't <i>technically</i> go to New York. We just <i>saw</i> it." </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm incredibly excited. Time isn't going by fast enough. Still another week. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope while she's here we can inspire her. She'll be able to see that I'm living out the dream I've always had, so it's possible for her to do what she wants, too. I want to show her what life is like outside of that inky dinky town. I want to show her some culture and diversity. Plus, it's going to be awesome to just have some grown-up sister time. I haven't spent quality time with her in over a year and I miss her. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1259886404276179521?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-79343046973102427532009-10-07T07:10:00.002-04:002009-10-07T07:55:36.671-04:00Two things. First, a jerkface who is up for national recognition. <div><br /></div><div>So there's this guy in the squadron. He's a jerkface. A cheating on his wife, delegating all responsibilities (such as "organizing" charity events and making someone else do all the work and not giving them any credit), drinking on the job (he keeps a flask in his back pocket and a full liquor cabinet in his office and every day he invites the "good old boys" in his office for drinks), volunteering to go to the desert instead of accepting orders that would take him and his family to Europe for four years (he was given a choice and his family doesn't even know) kind of guy. And he's a finalist out of hundreds of people because his wife and son wrote a really touching letter about what a great man he is. And that pisses me off. Especially because his wife and kids think he's really a hero. My husband's squadron commander sent out an e-mail to all in the squadron telling them to go to this website and vote for him. I got an e-mail yesterday from one of my friends who is a key spouse saying the same thing. In her e-mail the person who sent it to her said that he is well-known in his unit. Of course he's well-known. He's well-known as a jerkface. My husband and everyone in his building he's talked to about it so far have decided they're going to log on and read the entries and vote for someone else who actually deserves it. The End.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Secondly, my sister and her Slut of a BFF. </div><div><br /></div><div>My family is homeschooled. SoaBFF is my sister's only tie to the outside world, so I can understand why Sister keeps her around. But now I hope she kicks SoaBFF to the curb (or the street corner, whatever) where she belongs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sister has learned some hard lessons about boys. I tried to warn her that all she would get was hurt if she started in on boys so early, but you can't talk sense to a 14-year-old girl. Some things you just have to learn for yourself. And she did. After the incidents with the sneaking out with boys at night she was grounded for quite a while, but she still had her secret boyfriend. Then one horrible day Mom found out about the secret boyfriend. I warned Sister that Mom has eyes and ears planted all around the small town, but I guess that's something you have to learn for yourself, too. Mom found out through a friend whose daughter is friends with Sister. Needless to say, Sister didn't see the light of day for quite a while. And her boyfriend was with another girl the very next day. I felt bad that her heart was broken, but I had tried to warn her about the ways of 14-year-old boys, but again, it's something she had to learn herself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sister has a guy friend who has asked her out in the past and who she has always kind of had a crush on. He asked her out again last weekend when the 4-H kids were on a camping trip. My sister was smart this time and said no. She feared the parents finding out, but she said she would go out with him when she was allowed to date. I thought that was incredibly mature of her. </div><div><br /></div><div>This boy and Sister and SoaBFF hung out together all weekend. The boy and SoaBFF are notorious flirters. They flirted with each other the whole time, so Sister asked what was up with that. They both swore that they didn't like each other. Monday Sister found out that they both lied to her. She found out that SoaBFF made out with the boy she liked. SoaBFF broke up with her 18-year-old boyfriend (who lives with her, by the way) to go out with the boy that Sister likes. Yesterday she dumped the kid and got back with her boyfriend. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sister is heartbroken. One, because her best friend lied to her. Two, because the boy lied to her. Now she thinks she's not good enough. "I would have waited for him," she told me. And she would have. Just like she had planned to wait for her ex (the one who she got in trouble for secretly going out with) until he went and found someone else. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel kind of stupid now for doubting my sister, for thinking she was dumb. She's a smart kid. She has a good head on her shoulders. Maybe she just needed to get hurt a couple times before she figured it out. I can't even begin to say how proud I am of her. And how lucky her SoaBFF is that I live 2,000 miles away. </div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7934304697310242753?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-36543559812316261732009-10-06T07:07:00.002-04:002009-10-06T07:12:04.363-04:00Upon looking at a sickly thin model on TV: "I'm gonna strap her to a monkey backpack leash and drag her out for pizza."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3654355981231626173?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-66345032682579870282009-10-05T11:10:00.002-04:002009-10-05T11:13:21.532-04:00Really, privatized base housing owners? The base is supposed to be going green and you banned clotheslines? Really?! <div><br /></div><div>How am I supposed to go green and save money by washing my pillow cases and fuzzy pink blanket in the bathtub if I have nowhere to hang them? Really, privatized housing owners? Really!</div><div><br /></div><div>And this has been an episode of "Really!?" featuring Meg. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6634503268257987028?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-2057653332410029782009-10-03T17:51:00.002-04:002009-10-03T18:02:29.497-04:00Phillip Pirrip, or Pip for short, sits in a graveyard pondering the parents he only knows from the inscriptions on their tomb stones. As he tells us the story of his parents a convict leaps onto the scene and scares Pip out of his wits. The convict wants food, so Pip must steal some "wittles" from his sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who has raised him by hand. <div><br /></div><div>Pip sits through an uncomfortable dinner, with a heavy conscience for stealing his sister's food, with Mr. Pumblechook, Mrs. Joe and Joe Gargery and a few friends. Throughout the dinner Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe go on and on about how poor Mrs. Joe was forced to raise the ungrateful Pip by hand. Joe also had the misfortune of being raised by hand by Mrs. Joe, so he sympathized with Pip. Whenever a dinner guest says something horrible about Pip, Joe gave the child gravy. </div><div><br /></div><div>One day Mr. Pumblechook arrives to tell Pip that he has come into a fortune. His secret benefactor has great expectations for Pip. Off Pip goes to the city to forget his dear friend Joe and come into his fortune. </div><div><br /></div><div>The book is full of secrets, twists and unexpected surprises. I'm disappointed that I hadn't read it sooner. Mr. Dickens is a master with words, plots and characters. I didn't expect to find humor and adventure, but I did. I didn't expect to find a modern romance tale either, but I did. If you haven't read <i>Great Expectations</i> I highly recommend it. Now I'm going to go watch the movie. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-205765333241002978?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-13703856573865850312009-10-02T07:59:00.003-04:002009-10-02T08:33:37.115-04:00Joe knew he was in trouble when two student nurses walked in the room after the real nurse ordered blood tests to find out why his heart hurt and why his left side felt numb. The nervous pair made small talk as they repeatedly stabbed Joe in the hand and arms. "Oooh. This looks like a good one," the bubbly one said. It was slightly weird hearing them talk about veins in such a way. <div><br /></div><div>At one point they stuck the needle in a vein, but were unsure as to whether it was in or not. They dug the needle in, pulled it out slowly, dug the needle in, pulled it out. Finally they thought they had it, so they attached the vial. Blood wasn't flowing as they would have liked, so the quiet one milked his veins, pressing down, scraping the blood out. At the same time she moved the needle back and forth under his skin. After the blood ran out of that vein, they tried another. Finally, the real nurse had to come in and do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I've never been squeamish about these types of things, but I almost had to excuse myself to release my breakfast. Poor Joe tried to put the student nurses at ease by telling them, "Nah, that doesn't hurt at all." But I knew better. </div><div><br /></div><div>As a technician came in the room to wheel Joe off to X-ray we heard a commotion in the hallway. "Where's the drunk guy that was in that stretcher?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, sh..."</div><div><br /></div><div>An orderly walked by with a gangly Indian man on her arm. "I found him pissing in the linen closet," she said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh good grief," said the man's nurse. "I've told him to get back on his stretcher I don't know how many times." Little did she know, she hadn't said her last "Get back on your stretcher, Mr. Singh". No, not by a long shot. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the morning turned into afternoon the emergency room filled with the sounds of, "Mr. Singh! I will not tell you again!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Murdum!" Mr. Singh yelled repeatedly as he walked by the nurse's stations. "Murdum! Sleep!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, Mr. Singh. You don't need anything to sleep," said the nurse. "You've had too much to drink. Do you know what sleeping pills plus alcohol equals? It equals death!" </div><div><br /></div><div>A moment of quiet swept over the emergency room and I thought maybe we had heard the last of Mr. Singh. But no. We hadn't. "Murdum! Murdum!" he called out. But no one answered. I watched as Mr. Singh walked by the nurse's station towards the ER exit. A security guard escorted him back to his stretcher. "Food," Mr Singh said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, we'll get you some in a minute," the guard answered. </div><div><br /></div><div>After all of Joe's tests had been completed and after all his tests had come back inconclusive, an orderly walked in the room and told Joe to dress and wait in the hall for the discharge paperwork so they could use the room. In the hall he sat and I stood between rows and rows of sick people on stretchers waiting for rooms, waiting for care, just waiting for someone to give a damn. Meanwhile, Mr. Singh was escorted into the room Joe had just vacated and was undressed. "I'm gonna have to undress him like a three-year-old, aren't I?" asked the orderly. The answer to that questions was yes, yes you are. </div><div><br /></div><div>But the hospital gown didn't stop Mr. Singh. "Murdum! Murdum!" he called as he headed towards the station where everyone had their heads down, trying to pretend he wasn't there. "Head hurts," he rubbed his head as he stood with his boxers hanging out of the gown. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, of course it hurts. And it's gonna hurt for a while," said a nurse. "You have a hangover." </div><div><br /></div><div>Another nurse escorted him back to his room. "I'll give you a headache! I mean, no. I mean I'll give you a Tylenol for your headache." Maybe it's not appropriate to laugh in an emergency room, but I couldn't help myself just then. I think she really did want to give him a headache. </div><div><br /></div><div>After he had taken the Tylenol, Mr. Singh decided it was time to redecorate. "This not my room!" he said as he carried out a bottle of wound cleanser and a box of rubber gloves. No one at the nurse's station noticed him removing each item from the room until he began slamming drawers and removing bandages and cleansers. "This not my room!" he told the orderly as the orderly wheeled the cart of supplies out of the room. </div><div><br /></div><div>The light moment quickly turned dark as I watched a nurse go into a dark room with closed curtains. I knew what had happened. I saw a man sobbing a couple hours before as he walked by the station. I saw the nurses pat him on the back and frown with sympathy. Two nurses wheeled the body out as Mr. Singh attempted another escape, complaining loudly about his headache. Another body, barely living herself, was wheeled into the dead woman's room as more people in stretchers lay waiting in the hallway. </div><div><br /></div><div>The man that had walked by earlier looked like a tough sort of man. The type of man that wouldn't cry during sad movies. But he looked absolutely heart-broken as he walked out of the hospital that day. My heart broke for him. I didn't even know him or the person he lost, but I could imagine his grief. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, finally, at the neurologist, Joe was told that he is going to be okay. Whatever he has is treatable, the doctor said. It could be MS, it could be just vertigo. It could be a number of things. But whatever it is, the doctor said, it's not going to kill him. Why couldn't someone have told us that long ago? Why couldn't one of these (geez- has it been seven or eight) doctors have told us that he would be okay?</div><div><br /></div><div>As I watched that body being wheeled out Wednesday at the hospital, and as I watched that poor man cry, I couldn't help but feel scared. Now that I know my husband's going to be okay, I can't even begin to say how relieved I am. We have to wait until the end of the month to find out the results of yesterday's MRI, but at least we know now that whatever it is can be treated.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1370385657386585031?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-69506055370706295982009-09-28T10:29:00.002-04:002009-09-28T10:40:18.827-04:00"So are you going to cover the such and such at 2 today?" <div><br /></div><div>Uh. How 'bout no. How 'bout you give me more than four hours' notice. And how 'bout you don't assume that I'm your pocket writing fairy. Sheesh. </div><div><br /></div><div>I volunteered to write articles for an organization on base. I started in June and our plan was to send out four a month covering various classes and such. The articles were all themed to match the theme of the month, i.e. domestic violence for domestic violence awareness month. The first of the month I'd send out an article to be approved by the woman who drafted me for help. Three weeks later she'd approve it. Four articles per month turned into one article every couple months. My last one <i>still</i> hasn't been approved. And that one I sent the first week of August. I keep reminding her and she's always going to "call tonight". </div><div><br /></div><div>There's nothing more frustrating than having people who want you to help, but not being able to help because they drop the ball. It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't invested so much time in studying about these topics and writing articles only to trash them because they're no longer relevant. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then she texts me this morning in a "dontcha know we've been planning this for ages" sort of manner. I checked my e-mails, checked my texts, nothing. Not a thing about this event that I was supposed to cover today. </div><div><br /></div><div>I just told her I had two deadlines today (which is almost true - they aren't real deadlines, per se, but I have a strong desire to get them finished today) so I wouldn't be able to cover it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I'm going to have to wave farewell to this venture. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6950605537070629598?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-65056967332782215782009-09-25T09:31:00.003-04:002009-09-25T10:00:45.512-04:00I learned so much Wednesday during the tour. It was an amazing experience. The thing I love most about writing is being able to meet people and learn about them and their jobs. I'm not much of a talker myself, but I could sit and listen to people talk about themselves all day. Well, if they're interesting, that is. <div><br /></div><div>The command chief and the commanding officer toured the photographer and me around the facility. The commanding officer is a major general. I had never met anyone of his caliber before, so I was slightly intimidated at first, but he was really nice and helpful and made me feel completely at ease. He didn't even mind when I had to interrupt him to explain acronyms. He had a great sense of humor, too. I guess I expected a general to be more stuffy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I learned about the various types of training the airmen have to go through. A lot of the information was about things I never would have thought about. For instance, they offer a course that teaches airmen (airmen first class all the way up to colonels) about setting up relief stations in areas struck by natural disaster. I never really thought about the training that these people need to do their jobs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Many aspects of the tour were very sobering. As we walked down one hall the chief pointed out portraits of troops killed in action. His eyes filled with emotion as he said, "I was there that day when those three on the end were killed." </div><div><br /></div><div>They took us into the armory and showed us the foreign guns and ammunition they use to train troops. Maj. Gen. said they use foreign weapons for training so troops can get as close to the real deal as possible. "Foreign weapons have a different sound, a different look," he said. I felt sick to my stomach when I saw all the guns people aim at our soldiers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maj. Gen. took us across the yard to the vehicle fleet where he showed us the differences between a Humvee and an MRAP. Upon looking at the vehicle armor thicker than my thighs I immediately felt saddened that there's a need for such heavy-duty vehicles to keep men safe from the destructive creations of other men. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are times, I told my husband after I came home, that I'm proud of what he does. He's serving his country and protecting his fellow citizens. At least that's what they say he's doing. It's hard to look at this war that way. There are some times when I'm sickened by the fact that my husband is in the military. This war doesn't make sense to me. If our country was being invaded and my husband was carrying around a gun to protect his family and his fellow citizens right here in his own country I think I could cope with it a little easier. I just don't know how to deal with these feelings sometimes. My husband isn't on the front lines, but he fixes the jets that take others to war. Those troops that go to the desert in the planes my husband fixes, some of them won't come back. Most of them will come back with blood on their hands and visions they'll never be able to rid from their minds. War is a terrible thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder if other spouses feel the same way I do. I wonder if the active-duty do as well. I want to be proud of what my husband does and sometimes I am. It's just hard knowing how many people are being killed all the time and my husband is indirectly contributing to that. Every time I hear of a troop dying over there I wonder if they flew over there on a C-17. I wonder if my husband fixed an overhead switch panel in the plane that flew him there. It's a terrible thought to have, I know, but sometimes I just can't get rid of these thoughts. It's not that I don't support the troops, because I do. I mean, obviously. I'm married to one. But, the more I try to make sense of it the more I wonder if trying so hard to find the positive in a negative situation such as this will turn my heart cold. </div><div><br /></div><div>I told Joe how I felt and I'm glad I did. It was a hard thing for me to say and I wasn't sure how he would take it. He said he understood what I meant and that made me feel so much better. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are aspects of the military that I like, but then there are aspects I cannot stand. I'm thankful for the opportunities Joe and I have had because of the military and I'm thankful for all the great people we've met, but I'm definitely looking forward to getting out. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6505696733278221578?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-28886144383002922032009-09-23T07:02:00.010-04:002009-09-28T14:21:44.973-04:00Today I'm touring an Air Force training facility. I went there last week to interview their key spouse*.<div><br /></div><div>I'm really excited, but at the same time I also feel nervous. The executive assistant to the commander (who is a two-star general!) is going to show me around. It's all official and stuff because they think I'm all official and stuff. I feel like an <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">impostor</span>.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What if I go in there and someone notices that I don't have the official</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> journalist</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> stamp on my forehead? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someone might chase me through the halls of the center yelling, "You there! Impostor!" I will run, obviously, but they'll find me hiding in a closet that smells of mold and fruitcake. They'll grab me by the arm and take me </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">upbase</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> for questioning. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mrs. Joe. Is it true that you have been impersonating a journalist?" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll try to blink because the light will hurt my eyes, but the Scotch tape will be holding my eyes open. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Is it true, Mrs. Joe?" they'll yell. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Can you repeat the question?" I'll yell back. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"This is no time for games," they'll say. "Take off that silly newsboy hat. You are not a newsboy!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll remove the hat and watch the feather flutter to the floor. The pencil I had tucked behind my ear will fall slowly, slower than the feather, and clank as it hits the floor. "What's this?" they'll yell. "A pencil? You aren't worthy to hold a pencil!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll cry. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Is it true, Mrs. Joe, that you have no college education?" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll sniffle and say, "Yes, sirs and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ma'ams</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Is it also true that you didn't even go to a real high school? That you were 'home schooled'?" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll sniffle and say, "Yes, sirs and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ma'ams</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Is it true that you possibly aren't even a high school graduate because you only completed your full courses up to the ninth grade and then for the rest of the grades you did only English and Math because your mother thought History and Science were unimportant, but you got a diploma from the manufacturers of the curriculum saying you graduated, anyway?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll sniffle and say, "Yes, sirs and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ma'ams</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Mrs. Joe. We will now sentence you to death by writing."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Wait, what?! Can you even do that?" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Yes, Mrs. Joe, we can. And we will! </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mwuahahaha</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">," the sirs and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ma'ams</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> laugh. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And then I'll die. And that won't be fun. All because I'm an</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">impostor</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">* The key spouse program is really awesome. They are in charge of helping families of deployed active-duty members. They also welcome new people to the squadron, plan social events and just generally help out in any way they can. </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2888614438300292203?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-24422024706981870302009-09-15T16:14:00.003-04:002009-09-15T16:21:09.728-04:00... our neighbors across the street are moving. <br /><br />Oh well. At least we still have the crackheads catty-corner across and the loud mouth with the man voice next door who likes to yell at her husband all day and night and rejoice over her daughter's every pee pee in the potty loud enough that the whole neighborhood can hear.<br /><br />I'm gonna jump on the new people the minute the moving truck pulls up. Maybe they'll be nice! Maybe they'll be normal! Maybe the wife and I can be friends and have tea parties and bake cookies and darn socks and knit sweaters! Maybe they'll have two cats with superhero names, too! Hopefully *fingers crossed* they won't be worse. <br /><br />Oh, but wait. I don't darn (except when I stub my toe when I'm on the phone with my little sisters). Or knit. Unless you count knitting my brows when I'm concentrating, but I don't think that counts. Oh, never mind.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-2442202470698187030?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-71440199781731108022009-09-14T22:22:00.004-04:002009-09-14T23:08:50.922-04:00I am very angry with Kanye West. <div><br /></div><div>At the MTV Video Music Awards Kanye abruptly interrupted Taylor Swift's acceptance speech for her very first VMA. He stole the microphone out of her hand and drunkenly slurred that Beyonce deserved the award because hers was the best music video of the year. The most horrible part of the whole experience was after Kanye left the stage and a dazed and confused Taylor stood in shock as the audience erupted in a mixture of boos directed at Kanye and cheers directed at her. </div><div><br /></div><div>When it was Beyonce's turn to accept an award she called Taylor Swift back on stage to finish her speech and I think that was a very sweet thing for Beyonce to do. Kanye West, on the other hand, is a talentless a-hole who thinks he's the best thing in the music industry since Elvis and he doesn't care about anything but selling records where all he does is say "uh, uh" and sing through a synthesizer because no one would buy his records if he sang with his talentless voice. I mean, Vanilla Ice was a better rapper than him.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not a huge Taylor Swift fan, but nobody has a right to do that to anybody. Imagine her excitement at receiving her first VMA at 19 years old then some guy comes up on stage and rips the microphone out of her hand to basically say that she didn't deserve it. Now if he had blogged about it in all caps on his web site (like he does) and said Beyonce deserved to win, now that would be fine. But to waltz up on stage and steal the spotlight from the winner? Psh. What a jerk. Evidently he'd been drinking since he walked up on the red carpet, too. The bottle of Hennessey was half empty as he showed off his grunge and his lady friend in a horrendous cat suit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a link to the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/09/13/kanye-west-steals-taylor_n_285198.html">video</a>. The first video doesn't work, so scroll down to the second one. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did, however, find this video of him having a meltdown at the 2007 VMAs. What a bitch. </div><div><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_-631TgPP2s&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1&amp;"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_-631TgPP2s&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1&amp;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7144019978173110802?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-62224505330154843462009-09-12T18:21:00.002-04:002009-09-12T18:28:15.771-04:00Female visitor at the neighbor's house (very loudly): "We weren't sure if you wanted us to wait and watch while you guys got it on or if you wanted us to join in, or ...? Damn it, Molly get your fingers out of the cat's mouth!"<div><br /></div><div>Me: "What the eff?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Joe: "Shhh." [cupped his ear to hear better but there was no more conversation except for the two mothers yelling at their kids] </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "Maybe they should start closing their windows." </div><div><br /></div><div>So they do have <a href="http://unabashedliar.blogspot.com/2009/07/so-our-neighbors-invited-us-to-orgy.html">orgies.</a> For a while there I thought in our drunkeness that night we just imagined the invitation. But, unfortunately, no. </div><div><br /></div><div>*shudders*</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6222450533015484346?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-31378197297808722162009-09-12T14:05:00.003-04:002009-11-16T07:21:12.388-05:00Thursday Joe called the appointment line to see about getting a referral to a neurologist and extending his sick leave. The PA put him on quarters until Thursday, expecting him to return to work on Friday. Obviously in his condition he couldn't work. He called at 6:45 a.m., when the appointment line supposedly opens. Every weekday you have a fifteen minute window to get a same-day or next-day appointment. Well, you're supposed to have a fifteen minute window, but usually they don't open until 6:52 and then you're on hold for ten minutes, so by then it's too late. So anyway. He couldn't get an appointment so he asked for an over-the-phone consult with a nurse. <div><br /></div><div>The nurse called back a few hours later and Joe explained the situation. He told her he needed a referral, needed some more nausea medicine and had run out of pain medicine but he could handle the pain. The nurse made a suggestion. "Take some Advil and eat some crackers." Wow. Seriously? Because the Dilaudid didn't even work for the pain and the Meclazine didn't work for the nausea Advil and crackers are going to work? </div><div><br /></div><div>After that he was obviously slightly discombobulated, so he called the patient advocate who gasped in shock when he told her about the Advil and crackers thing. So he has an appointment on Monday.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-3137819729780872216?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-68116172969517397092009-09-09T19:10:00.004-04:002009-09-09T20:46:51.470-04:00"Yes, ma'am, I need to schedule an appointment. ... Well, I'm constantly dizzy. Every time I move my head the room spins. And I'm having a steady out of this world headache that won't go away. There's so much pain and pressure that it feels like my head is going to explode. It takes a lot of effort just to walk. ... OK. Thank you, ma'am."<br /><br />My husband hung up the phone and turned to me. "They can't get me in until next month." If you'll take a look at your calendar, you'll note that this is only the second week of September. That was Wednesday.<br /><br />We got in the car and drove 45 minutes to the nearest emergency room where we sat for four hours. And understandably so. Emergency rooms are for emergencies, so obviously they had to treat the heart attack and gun shot wound to the leg patients first. We left with three prescriptions: one for pain, one for nausea, one for dizziness.<br /><br />First thing Thursday morning he called the clinic on base to get a follow-up appointment. "Sorry, we have minimum manning because of the holiday and we can't get you in today. We're closed tomorrow. Try calling on Tuesday."<br /><br />Thursday sucked. Friday sucked. Saturday also sucked. Saturday night he ran out of medication so again we headed to the emergency room. This time we left with two prescriptions: Dilaudid and nausea medicine.<br /><br />He called the doctor yesterday and by some magical turn of events was able to get an appointment. At the clinic he was seen by an asshole of a physician's assistant who immediately cut him off and stopped listening after he said "dizzy" and proceeded to tell him about the time he rode a rollercoaster and got dizzy. When Joe mentioned "pain" the PA wasn't even listening as he was too busy reliving his rollercoaster memory. Again, more prescriptions. This time he also got a referral.<br /><br />This morning we headed out to the godforsaken city to visit the ear, nose and throat doctor. We both had nervous breakdowns from driving on the freeway and attempting to exit on a ramp not 100 feet from where other people were trying to enter the freeway. I hate driving in this stupid place. He hates driving in this stupid place. But, probably, even more than he hates driving in this stupid place he hates being a passenger when I'm driving in this stupid place. But, that's another blog post, I suppose.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Before I resume my rant, can I just insert a side rant? I fucking hate this place. There. I said it. That felt good. </span><br /><br />The ear, nose and throat doctor took his time to listen to what Joe had to say. He also took his time to explain possible diagnoses. He didn't even tell his own personal stories while Joe sat there in pain. Joe made an appointment to get a test done and the doctor encouraged him to see a neurologist so they could compare notes to come to a conclusion. So hopefully between all these appointments we'll get it figured out. <div><br /></div><div>So now begins my rant. Healthcare in this place is crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. We've been to the emergency room six times in the year we've been here. None of them were life or death emergencies. They were all cases of "should we be miserable for a month or go to the emergency room?". </div><div><br /></div><div>The base has expanded. Instead of just being an Air Force base it is now a joint base, having combined forces and resources with the neighboring Army and Navy installations. There are three public affairs offices. Three family advocacy offices. Three readiness centers. Three community centers. There is one clinic. One clinic for all the servicemembers of the three combined installations, their dependents and local retirees. For extra emphasis, I'm going to say it again: one clinic, three bases. </div><div><br /></div><div>Evidently the Army post used to have a working hospital. I drive by the eight-story building every day on my way to the Air Force base. The building sits empty except for the occasional training exercise where soldiers repel out the top story windows. Rumor has it the hospital was shut down a few years ago because of malpractice. The stories I've heard include an anestesiologist who wasn't licensed, and a man who had the wrong leg amputated. The current operational clinic at the Air Force base has two stories, a handful of doctors and a physician's assistant acting as a doctor and no emergency services. </div><div><br /></div><div>As a dependant, it's really easy for me to get an appointment. As a servicemember, it's really difficult for my husband to get an appointment. How much sense does that make? The only reason they do that is because dependants have a right to complain whereas servicemembers cannot. I just think it's slightly ridiculous that when someone is having an honest to God medical issue that they cannot get treatment because the clinic is too overbooked. </div><div><br /></div><div>I understand the case for the joint basing. It makes sense since we're all neighbors anyway. I don't, however, understand why there is only one clinic with no emergency services. What if there was a true emergency? You can call an ambulance on base, but how likely are you to survive as you wait 30 minutes for the ambulance to get from the clinic to the Army base, where the majority of the privatized housing is located, then wait another 45 minutes until you arrive at the hospital? </div><div><br /></div><div>If the clinic is too busy, how about sending the dependants off base so the servicemembers can receive some decent health care? Or, how about sending the retirees off base? Imagine how many appointments that would free up for the soldiers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I wonder if health care is so horrible here for the servicemembers at a cargo base what is it like for those who are actually in the war? </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I don't have a right to complain because, after all, it is free health care. But, at the same time, these men and women are serving their country and the least they could get is a freaking doctor to see them and take them and their problems seriously. </div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6811617296951739709?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-43744414283256054752009-08-27T13:35:00.005-04:002009-08-27T13:56:15.449-04:00I came across this <a href="http://mattgunn.ca/category/remember-this/">blog</a> while doing some research today. I remember all of these products except for the <a href="http://joelavin.com/orbitz.html">Orbitz drinks</a>. I suppose that's what I get for not growing up in Canada. <div><br /></div><div>Don't ask me what I was researching because I have no idea. That's what happens when I research things. I end up finding loads of interesting, but not neccessarily related, facts and blogs and such, then I forget what I was doing in the first place. This is why I can never write nonfiction. Or historical fiction. Or science fiction. I would spend all my time "researching" and end up writing about crazy toys and snacks I enjoyed as a child. Maybe I should write about crazy toys and snacks I enjoyed as a child, but I'm sure if I did I would find some other rabbit hole to jump through during my research. </div><div><br /></div><div>For some strange reason I also thought it neccessary to research <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Chisum">John Simpson Chisum</a>. I don't even like John Wayne movies. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also learned a new phrase from this <a href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1890387,00.html?iid=digg_sharearticle">article</a> in Time. The phrase is ramen profitable. Someone needs to plug that one into <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/">Urban Dictionary</a> (also a fun place to lose valuable researching time while learning fun new phrases like "food douche" and "pisshap") because I think it's a keeper. I plan to use it in every day conversation. Such as "I enjoy writing articles for the Internet, but it's not even ramen profitable."</div><div><br /></div><div>I think I have a short attention span. I tried googling "Cures for short attention span" and ended up watching Youtube videos about traditional <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADn_GOyKa9I">Japanese dance</a>. Jeesh. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4374441428325605475?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-54763202860862293742009-08-26T13:56:00.003-04:002009-08-26T14:07:30.002-04:00It'd be a whole lot easier to fix the washer and dryer if I were a person who knew all about fixing washers and dryers. I'm trying to figure out where I can find such a person and pay him with banana nut bread and Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper. <div><br /></div><div>I guess you could say I'm frustrated. I have a desire to fix the damn things, as well as a stack of dirty clothes that I don't feel like taking to the laundromat and dealing with the crazy drunk guy who likes my toes; I just don't have the ability. <a href="http://www.ehow.com/">Ehow.com</a> can only teach you so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder how it is that my parents have become the type of people that are good at everything. My dad can build a house from the ground up and replace a fuel pump in an automobile and my mom can craft like nobody's business. I'm no good at any of that practical stuff. When the garbage disposal makes weird noises I think it's because it just needs to run longer. When my engine starts ticking and has problems starting I think it's because my car just needs to warm up for a while. When the washer leaks from the bottom I throw a towel on the floor and hope it stops. And forget about the rewiring that needs done on the dryer to change it from a 3-plug to a 4-plug. I'm sure I'd electrocute myself if I tried to figure that out. Then again, maybe that's how Dad got to be so good at everything. He's been shocked more times than I can count. Eh, a few watts won't hurt me. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-5476320286086229374?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-48567894668894230482009-08-24T14:07:00.004-04:002009-08-25T13:26:21.914-04:00<b>Family</b><div>Today has been a bad day for homesickness. I can't quite put my finger on a reason, but it's there. My sister is turning 17 in a couple months and I've never missed a sister's birthday. That could have something to do with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>We've decided that my husband isn't going to re-enlist after this enlistment is up. He's going back to school to finish his degree. We plan to move back to the Midwest. We have three years to figure out what to do.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Health</b></div><div>We went for a walk in the forest a few weeks ago and I brought home a couple of ticks. I discovered one the next day, the other two days later after it had a chance to feast on my blood. While we were in the forest we stopped at the halfway point and noticed a sign proclaiming the presence of ticks with Lyme disease. I went to the doctor after I found the second tick and he gave me an antibiotic just in case. I started getting spots on my legs and feet a couple weeks ago. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Writing and Volunteering and Such</b></div><div>I've been (trying) to write an article a week for the base paper for the organization I'm volunteering for. It's not working out quite so well. I'm writing the articles but the lady I'm doing this for is taking her sweet time approving them. I haven't even had an August article in the paper yet. Every time I talk to her she says she'll get back to me. It's really frustrating when you do your part and have to wait around for others to theirs. </div><div><br /></div><div>The volunteer banquet is coming up soon. I don't have a date written down anywhere. Maybe she'll forget to tell me the date so I won't have to go. I'm not volunteering so I can get awards. I'm just doing it to do it. In all honesty, I'm doing it because I'm bored. I don't need to get recognized for passing the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>The lady I used to volunteer for when we first moved here has been reassigned. I talk to her every once in a while, but we're not extremely close. That didn't stop me from crying when she told me over the phone. I'm helping her organize her office before she leaves. She's the reason I started volunteering in the first place. I enjoy helping her. I'd clean her house if she asked me to. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sold a book review for $5. My internet article earnings are steadily increasing. Writing internet articles keeps me busy. It's also fun and educational. </div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4856789466889423048?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-11857845666832622192009-08-13T08:31:00.001-04:002009-08-13T08:33:43.778-04:00Do you know what is even more horrible than receiving bad news? It's receiving bad news that you can't talk about. Even worse than receiving bad news you can't talk about is having no one (in real life) to talk to about the bad news.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-1185784566683262219?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-63957162733342657832009-07-27T06:43:00.004-04:002009-07-27T07:07:22.775-04:00Thank goodness today is Monday. If it wasn't Monday today then we would have had to come up with an excuse as to why we couldn't play <a href="http://unabashedliar.blogspot.com/2009/07/so-our-neighbors-invited-us-to-orgy.html">FUBAR</a> last night. "Are you guys mad at us? Do you think we're too crazy?" the wife yelled from across the street after the husband walked over to our yard to extend the invitation. We yelled back something to the effect of "of course not" because we couldn't think of a polite way to tell them that we think they're whack jobs.<br /><br />Since we didn't go over there we had the pleasure of listening to their drunken antics from across the street. I had always wanted to hear fat, white girls sing, "They're trying to catch me riding dirty" at the top of their lungs, so that's one thing I can check off my list of things I want to experience before I die.<br /><br />I'm normally not a spying-on-my-neighbors-in-the-dark-bathroom-through-a-crack-in-the-mini-blinds kind of person, but when I saw the Navy guy (otherwise known as Mohawk Dude) who lives catty-cornered across the street from us "popping monster wheelies" on a BMX after setting down his walking cane, I just couldn't help myself. Usually I lay awake at night worrying about what's going to happen the next day, what I need to do, and whether or not my cat is going to snap and pick up a knife and stab me, but last night I laid awake wondering about something else. What would possess a sober person (with an injured back, no less) to crawl around on the porch for an hour, illuminating the ground with a Bic lighter? Last night Joe and I had an in-depth discussion about what this guy could possibly be on. He's on Vicodin and/or Percoset for the pain, he told us, but I'm pretty sure one Vicodin or one Percoset does not make you walk like you're stoned out of your mind. Nor does it make you slur your speech. It probably doesn't possess you to crawl around on your hands and knees and examine the concrete, either. This morning I came to a perfectly reasonable conclusion. Maybe he had lost something very tiny and was desperately searching for it. That would explain the slow, exaggerated movements. However, if he had lost something, why was he searching with a lighter? What about that crazy head lamp he wore the night he was watering his grass at 1 a.m.? It was a lot brighter than the lighter. Then, I came to the other conclusion that he probably wasn't searching for anything at all. He was probably just stoned and examining the concrete or burning ants.<br /><br />These are the things that plague me. These are also the things that make me feel sorry for the men and women that end up on the Navy ships that these guys have fixed.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6395716273334265783?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-52113846156498612862009-07-20T13:02:00.002-04:002009-07-20T13:17:10.919-04:00A variety of emotions were present as we boarded the plane that would take us back home. First, there was fear. What if they are still harboring horrible resentment toward my husband? What if they don't even talk to him? Then, there was excitement. It had been over seven months since I'd last seen my family. Anxiety followed. Anxiety and worry about the plane crashing or being full (which that did happen and we ended up waiting in the airport for a good three hours with a handful of five dollar food vouchers, which wasn't so bad).<br /><br />I was flooded with all the emotions when we landed an hour away from our hometown. The drive to town seemed so much longer than it usually did because we kept bouncing our fears and what ifs off each other.<br /><br />The next morning we headed down to the fairgrounds for the first day of competition to watch my sisters win their trophies and ribbons. Joe ran into my mom while I was in the restroom and when I came out they were talking pleasantly. What a great surprise! Throughout the week my parents remained cordial, even friendly, towards my husband. The week went so much better than I could have expected.<br /><br />The downside came when I decided to tell my parents about what my middle sister has been up to. Man, I tell you what, when I saw that 18-year-old boyfriend of her BFF I just wanted to punch square in the face. My violent tendencies increased when both Joe and I noticed that the boy wasn't there for her BFF at all. He had roaming eyes that seemed to like my sister better than his girlfriend.<br /><br />With fear in my heart I went up to my dad and started to give him the rundown. I started with that night I called. "I wouldn't have called if I hadn't thought it was a big deal," I said. He didn't know the boy was 18. Then, my mom came over and asked what we were talking about so seriously, so I filled her in. "Your sister won't know where this information came from," Mom said.<br /><br />About an hour later my crying sister called me. "How could you?" she asked. Well, she's just lucky I didn't divulge everything she had told me at lunch that day.<br /><br />Then the last day the mother of the BFF came and confronted me. She got all up in my business for telling my parents that she had lied to them about the 18-year-old living with her. Then she threatened my family. You know I couldn't handle a threat made against my family so I told my mom and then later we confronted the woman together.<br /><br />Mom told me I did the right thing. At the time I felt horrible (well, I still do) for betraying my sister's trust, but she's only 13-years-old for crying out loud. I think that by telling my parents I solidified the fact that I'm a responsible, mature adult. I think my parents respect me more for that.<br /><br />The week had its ups and downs, but overall it was a good time and I was sad to leave. Just when I got my parents to take me seriously we had to fly back here. I hope this will change some things in my family for the better. I really think it will. As Dr. Leo Marvin says, "Just take baby steps."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-5211384615649861286?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-74075517232386390862009-07-08T21:10:00.006-04:002009-07-27T07:04:11.800-04:00Friday night we went to some sucktastic concert and watched what we were told were the best of the Army's musical talent. All I have to say about that is that I'd hate to see the worst. The only entertaining part was when one of the singers tried to do a cool jump off the stage and instead of the jump being awesome she landed on her ass.<br /><br />After the concert the neighbors walked over and we talked about how awesome the concert wasn't. "Hey, you guys wanna play Beer Pong?" they asked.<br /><br />Okay. Mistake number one was hanging out with people we didn't think were exactly, um, kosher. Mistake number two was getting totally smashed with people we spent five minutes with and figured out that they definitely were not kosher.<br /><br />But, on the other hand, I was able to experience my first day-long hangover while we prepared for the barbecue the next day, we were invited to participate in an orgy (which we declined, in case you're curious), and I finally fixed my curiousity about the neighbors. I guess there was a point in the evening where I turned to the active-duty Navy guy with the mohawk and asked him why he sent his daughter away. Lizzie was the bright spot in the neighborhood. We yelled hellos and howareyas across the street and she told me all about her favorite My Little Pony movies. Then one day she told me she had to go to Arizona. "It's gonna be for a long, long time," she said in her little five-year-old voice. "But! I still will live right here." She stomped on the ground for emphasis.<br /><br />So, naturally I had to ask her dad why they sent her away. Evidently he injured his back and his wife had her girl parts tied up so she was bed-ridden. So then I turned to Mohawk and asked, "If your back hurts so bad, then why'd you move all those big rocks?" Well, that's what I meant to say, but it sounded more like, "Sif yer bag hurths thoo bat why yooo move dossss rockths?" Surprisingly, he answered my question. Patiently, I might add, and not the least bit defensive. I think if someone were accusing me of scamming the government I might get a little defensive. Just sayin'. After his long explanation I guess I said, "I shink yoo jus lick pillsh." I don't actually remember saying that, but Joe said I did so I guess I did.<br /><br />Not only am I very interrogative and not at all inhibited when I'm drunk, I'm also somewhat of a badass, if I do say so myself. Joe said I spent the whole night glaring at our host's houseguest because he was trying to make a move on me. I guess there were several times throughout the night when I told him, "Fuck off, I'm married." Well, at least I'm not a flirty drunk.<br /><br />So, we're pretty much not hanging out with them anymore. And never again will I drink 10 beers in one night.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-7407551723238639086?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-48879742404353636932009-06-30T10:36:00.004-04:002009-07-27T07:04:44.825-04:00I'm excited! We just invited our friends over for a barbecue on Saturday. I hope they can come. I've never entertained before. Our house isn't as nice as theirs are and we don't have a bunch of cool gadgets and we can't figure out how to hook up the computer to the TV so we can watch Youtube on the big screen, but I don't think they'll mind. I figured they might come since the fireworks and concert are near our house. I'm excited about that, too, even though I only know one of the bands and the rest of them are R&amp;B (which I'm really not that into). This will be the first time Joe and I will have seen fireworks together. Last year we had to work so we missed the splendiferous show in Smallville. Yay for friends and fireworks! I'm such a dork.<br /><br />In other news, um... never mind there is no other news. I went to the BX and bought a sympathy card for Joe to give someone at work and that's been the extent of the excitement around here. I should start cleaning now so the house will sparkle. Well, as much as dirt-colored linoleum can sparkle, anyway.<br /><br />Oh, wait. There is other news. The neighbor across the street came over Sunday night when we were standing on the porch and invited us to play beer pong. I've never played beer pong but it sounded dangerous, plus Joe had to work in the morning, so we politely declined. This was the first time the neighbors ever invited us to participate in one of their secret parties that involves the occupants of the duplex across the street and the the other half of ours. I'm very curious about them, so I'm all about hanging out - even if it does involve something dangerous and a hangover.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-4887974240435363693?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-85402683754598082972009-06-26T11:48:00.002-04:002009-06-26T11:57:06.375-04:00The whole thing is over now. Thank goodness. Now I just need to write it up before someone beats me to it. <br /><br />So I was standing there outside the building waiting for the thing to start. I saw someone I knew and went to stand by her. I started writing down the names of the people who were going to be in the shot. "What are you furiously taking notes about?" a voice asked me. <br /><br />"Fashion," I said. I looked up to see that it was a colonel, the group commander to be exact, but it was too late because my mouth was already running. "I'm just reporting on style. You know, what everybody's wearing. For the style section." <br /><br />He looked at me sideways and said, "Well, there's not a whole lot to report on here." Then he laughed. <br /><br />I laughed. "No, I'm Meg. I volunteer for public affairs. I'm just going to take a few pictures and write something up for the paper." <br /><br />Oh em effing gee. I'm such an idiot sometimes. After the ceremony I drove a couple blocks to Joe's shop and told him what happened. He thought it was hilarious. "The colonel's really funny," he said. "He has a great sense of humor." Thank goodness for that. <br /><br />The colonel didn't look at me like I was stupid or disrespectful or anything, but I still should not have said that to the freaking colonel. Either I freeze up when I'm nervous or I just start spouting my mouth off about random, stupid things. <br /><br />Whatever. At least he wasn't one of those gung-ho guys without a sense of humor.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8540268375459808297?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-83295467004539245802009-06-25T10:17:00.002-04:002009-06-25T10:21:53.183-04:00This song came on the radio a little bit ago and it was just what I needed. <br /><br /><object width="580" height="360"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/M0Ia07pu704&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/M0Ia07pu704&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="580" height="360"></embed></object><br /><br />It's really pointless for me to be swimming in these needless doubts and fears. So what if I screw up? At least I will have tried. <br /><br />Besides, being miserable all the time for no good reason is no way to live life.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-8329546700453924580?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18994423.post-65308078609710290512009-06-25T08:17:00.003-04:002009-06-25T08:34:39.691-04:00I'm afraid I'm going to have an anxiety attack. Or worse. I might pee myself. Last time I went to commander's call the colonel pointed me out as a visitor. "I see we have some spouses here today. Can y'all raise your hands?" Um. Hello. I was the only non-uniformed woman in the crowd of camoflauge. I blacked everything out when he mentioned my presence so I didn't hear the part where he said to raise my hand. Our friend Stan, who stood behind me, poked me in the back and told me to raise my hand. Ow. But it was too late. Everyone had already turned to look at the girl who didn't do what the colonel said. Rawr. At that point I was sweating profusely, shaking, and for some odd reason tears were dripping from my eyes. Thank goodness no one noticed the crying part. It was like a miniature anxiety attack or something. That never happened to me before and I've been embarassed plenty of times. <br /><br />So what if I freak out today? Well, I just won't let that happen, I suppose. But at commander's call I wasn't even alone. I was with Joe and his flight chief and our friends. This time I will be alone. But, I've met some of these people before. I toured their last facility. I wrote an article about their mission. I've talked to the flight chief when I've seen him around base. But this time I have to take pictures. What if my camera fails? <br /><br />And then I wonder if the chief over at public affairs is getting annoyed with me. I'm not a journalist. I'm just a woman who happened to get lucky with a job with a newspaper where the editor took an interest and extended an opportunity and now thinks she can write. Then again, the chief doesn't have a journalism degree either. She just went to tech school. These things don't really matter unless you're working for the New York Times or something huge like that. Plus, I'm volunteering, so it's not like I lied on a job application. Besides, I told them I had little experience and no formal education. <br /><br />I know this is going to be one of those instances where I panic beforehand, freak out a little during, and feel a sense of relief and maybe even pride when it's over. Eh, it'll be fine.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18994423-6530807860971029051?l=unabashedliar.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17975473150053998560noreply@blogger.com0