Music Lover Monday-Meloncholy Rules

If you had any idea how difficult it is for me to listen to some songs....

The love we had was brief. But real.
 So perfect that words don't do it justice.
But we were young and so fucked up, in our own ways... it just didn't work.
He was jealous because I liked the attention from other boys.
I was selfish.
I let him go.
It was the worst thing I could have done at that time.
He overdosed.
This is just one of the songs written on his arms, under his shirt-sleeves, for me.

It's you that I adore
You'll always be my whore

You'll be the mother to my child

And a child to my heart

We must never be apart

We must never be apart

Lovely girl you're the beauty in my world

Without you there aren't reasons left to find

And then, if that weren't enough, these words, down his left arm, where the final words were smudged from my tears, right at his wrist:
I'll sing for you
If you want me to

I'll give to you

And it's a chance I'll have to take

And it's a chance I'll have to break

I go along

Just because I'm lazy

I go along to be with you

And those moonsongs

That you sing your babies

Will be the songs to see you through

I'll hear your song

If you want me to

I'll sing along

And it's a chance I'll have to take

And it's a chance I'll have to break

I'm in love with you

I'm in love with you
I'm in love with you

I know it seems a bit juvenile, melodramatic, silly & TV-drama stupid. I haven't written the story here yet. I haven't shared with many others, the mess of pain mixed with intense love with a fucked up 14 year old who stole my heart when I was 17.
There are scabs that have healed into pale scars here, there, but sometimes-- something picks at them and brings it all just below the surface again.
There are songs I wish I would never hear again. These are two of them.



I may have driven about 200 miles on Wednesday. I had to drive to a vendor's office to pick up some paperwork, drive 40 miles further to a courthouse to release a lien, and then drive to a contractor's office that was approximately 5 minutes from the vendor's office. So annoying.
Then to lunch w/ my sister, who decided we were going to speed date. She asked random questions, told me I was "interesting", and asked me out on a second date. Then we sang the theme song to Phineas & Ferb. I don't know.

She was killing me softly. Until she started talking to two men about 8 feet away from us. They didn't even know she was talking to them, but she totally was.

She was telling them about our mom, trying to hook them up w/ her. I was cracking up, and not quietly, so we had.to.go.right.fucking.now before I embarrassed myself.

Then we drove around to complete 7000 more errands. Then! When I was already so very done w/ driving, I had to drive back to the store to pick up something I had forgotten for my Thanksgiving cooking catastrophe (my mom put a cookie sheet in the oven, and it turned blue. No, really. Like, it was so hot it melted the potholder & my husband had to throw it out in the yard. Why? I don't know. Seemed logical at the time.)
Then! After I was really done w/ all the driving around, I had to drive to two separate Redboxs to pick up Four Christmases (freaking hilarious) and My Sister's Keeper (haven't watched it yet, but the book was fanfuckingtastic, so I'm hopeful). The 2nd Redbox was at a Walmart about 5 minutes from my house. I dragged my sister w/ me.
As soon as we walked in, people started looking at us. I asked her if I had something on my face, and she kept touching her hair. We tried to ignore it at first, but it was just creepy. I'm not talking random turn-of-the-head looks, I'm talking full-on full body turn & creepy mean stares. A teen kept following us, giving my sister looks. He would duck behind shelves and clothing racks if we turned to look at him. Creeeeepy.
And then we went to the beer aisle and there was this lone guy standing in front of the beer cooler, just staring. Like 2 feet from it. No basket, no beer in hand, no nothing. Just standing there and staring. And of course, I needed the beer he was standing in front of. He didn't even move when I said excuse me and grabbed a case in front of him. My arm actually brushed up against his and he didn't move an inch.
Then there was the drunk fucker growling at his kid in the cracker aisle (no pun intended). Bloodshot eyes, slurring his words, onery. Then there were the seemingly street bums, complete w/ long beards, dirty clothes and mismatched boots. I was so confused.
Then came the girl who may or may not have been a stripper. She was wearing little black shorts (as teeny as boyshorts undies), black kneehigh boots, and a little black top. Spikey hair, tatoos. She was actually rather attractive, but WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN WALMART DRESSED LIKE THAT??
The turning to stare at us continued, so we high-tailed it out of there. We actually ran to the car. It was just odd.
My sister is still saying she feels violated.
And the cookie sheet is still lying in the grass. Blue.

*WTFH: What the fresh hell. Yeah, that's my lame attempt at not cussing so much. I caught my kid telling the dog to shut the hell up yesterday. And then I heard her tell her doll she was sick of her shit. Yeah, I know she doesn't read my blog, but I'm trying, okay???


Gobble gobble

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. I am so very thankful for the blogging community. I am so thankful for the wonderful friendships I have formed from this silly blog full of my silly thoughts. I am so thankful for the laughs, the tears, the hugs, the absolute silliness, the advice, the ability to bitch about random things and get support, the wonderful ideas I get from reading all of your blogs.....Thank you, everyone!
In unrelated news, I would have to say massaging butter onto a raw turkey is probably one of the most disgusting things I have to do as an adult. I would much rather clean baby shit or dog puke (or baby puke or dog shit?). But the upside to all this nasty massaging & basting is a kick-ass turkey (I hope). I'll let you know.
Sorta related, we used the bottom oven last night for the first time, and it smoked for a good 30 minutes. Blech.
Also? I brined my turkey in an ice chest. Does that make me white trash? 


Music Lover Monday (Don't ask me how I am even doing this)

So this past weekend was full of many things:  Boxes, rain, tufts of dog hair floating on the wood floors of my empty house, a broken fridge, family, petting my sister's silky-soft hair, staying up all night long, dropping a cutting board on my foot, breaking a favorite wine glass, yelling at AT&T, kissing my husband's sweet face, watching my old lady dog grow weaker by the day, feeling blessed in this life, thoughts and fervert prayers for a woman I do not know (but hope to one day), prayers for future projects for my husband, a new big-girl bed for my sweet girl, a sneakered foot stepping in the dogs' water bowl, Starbucks & cinnamon toast, clean sheets, chapped lips, and music.
I have always listened to music while doing things-writing, reading, studying, going to sleep, pulling weeds, whatever it is. I got this from my father, I am sure. He is who taught me the words to all Billy Joel, The Eagles, and ELO songs as a toddler.
My sister and I played music on my compter all weekend while unpacking and organizing this new house that I already love. She made fun of my choice of the Coffeehouse channel. Then she introduced me to this song:

'She is Love' by Parachute

Then we started singing this song again:

Specifically, we were singing the 'La la la la' part, followed by the annoying squawk that sounds vaguely like Mariah. Don't ask me how we even started singing it.

Then we moved on to this:

This song caused all sorts of random ass-shaking in my kitchen, followed by a fit of giggles, and then an Internet search for the scene in The Proposal where Sandra Bullock performs the song.
At some point my husband belted out old Prince lyrics, or maybe it was 2 Live Crew?

Most of my house is unpacked. Some of it is put away in a place that makes logical sense. Some of it is so random, like the pillow in the laundry room, the Easter basket on the kitchen counter, and the lamp in the middle of the entryway floor. The fridge was a clusterfuck of rust and maggots. No, really. Apparently the compressor burst inside of it, and somehow it got moldy? Or some such shit? I don't know. I am sick of our bad luck with fridges, and I definitely DO NOT want my fridge back at the house we just sold. But this one? Gah. We left it on the driveway in the rain last night after spraying it down w/ Lysol. Then today my father and father-in-law scrubbed the hell out of it. My hubby decided to soak them in our bathtub, and he used far too much Lysol concentrate. He then proceeded to turn on the 'turbo bubbles'? And leave the bathroom. Yeah, I can't tell you how fast a full bathtub fills up with Lysol bubbles, but I can tell you that dead maggots float on top of bubbles. I don't know. I wish I was lying.
There are broken down boxes EVERYWHERE. We have no phone, no cable/satellite, but we do have a wireless card, thank you sweet mary.
I have a paper due today. Can you guess when I wrote it?
I am a hot mess, people. And?
Thanksgiving is at my house again this year.


Girl Talk Thursday


Which actors/actresses do I love even though they aren't considered hot? Oh, this is too easy for me.

1. Tobey Maguire

2. Vanessa Ferlito (Death Proof; Nothing like the Holidays)

I'm pretty sure there are others, but I just can't think of them. It might have something to do with the research papers and the moving?


Girl Talk Thursday-My Fictional Five

So this week's Girl Talk Thursday topic is the five fictional characters I have the hots for, or would lick, or would do, or would drool over. Ooo, the decisions I am forced to make on a daily basis!
While thinking about this, I came to realize that I love these actors/actresses as well, so now I'm not sure if I love them because of the characters they play, or if I really love *them*. Hmmm. Ah, well, they are all lovely no matter what.

1. Pacey Witter from Dawson's Creek

 He was sarcastic, witty, and hot. Pacey was a character that I really wanted to win-get the girl, get the job, succeed, ya know? He thought so low of himself, and he seemed to be out there on his own a lot. He needed to be 'saved' in some way. He made me swoon and I was rooting for him the entire time. He was romantic and sweet and incredibly sensitive. I so wanted to be Joey Potter.

2. Jim Halpert from The Office

He's witty, sweet, and I love when he raises his eyebrows at the camera. The fact that he wanted so badly to be with Pam killed me, and I may have cried when they finally started dating.

3. Tim Riggins, Friday Night Lights

Tim Riggins is a hot mess. Can I just emphasize HOT??? He comes from a shitty family and lives with his semi-loser brother. He isn't interested in school, doesn't give himself enough credit, and looks perfect in football pants. He's another of those characters that needs saving, that you want to get the girl he loves (he does), that you really want to succeed. And really want to get in his pants. Wait-did I just type that? Bwahahaha-I did. *SWOON*

4. Addison Montgomery, Private Practice

I love this woman. I have such a girl crush on her. She's gorgeous, funny, smart, successful, sexy, self-deprecating, and sensitive. Also? I have a thing for redheads. I have no idea why.

5. McDreamy & McSteamy from Grey's Anatomy
There is no way in ever-lovin' hell I could choose between these boys if I was Addison (lucky girl-she got to be w/ both men). I mean, on one hand you have McDreamy: handsome, loving, smart, caring, RAWR. McSteamy: F-ING HOT, smart, handsome, arrogant. Of course, if you are watching this season, we are starting to see his sweet & sensitive side. But before, he was such a fucking player/hound/dirtbag, but such lovely eye candy. What's funny is his personality is sooo not my type. I don't go for the arrogant assholes who know everyone is swooning over them. I would swoon in private because I am just too prideful to be that girl, ya know?

And yes, I realize today is FRIDAY, and this was supposed to go up on Thursday. Don't start with me.


Dinner at my round table

My family members poke fun at one another. I try to think that maybe we just toughen each other up for the hell we will catch out in the real world, but who knows?
My sister is gorgeous. Just stunning. She has light green eyes and dark, shiny hair. She has my mother's body frame, like my brother: tall, lanky, lean. She has a gorgeous-shaped face and such a pretty smile.
She doesn't like her ears. And seriously, they are not BIG by any stretch of the meaning, but, well, most people in our family make comments about her ears. To her. And she laughs. Things like:
"Hey, go out on the roof & catch a better HD signal for us, will ya?"

Also, she's a shitty speller. I mean, bad. I cring when I read her Tweets. And her Facebook updates. I mean, she tries, but sometimes, she doesn't.
So tonight at dinner, she is joking about something involving the need for a ransom note. And my hubby says: "Just make sure you pay someone else to write it."
And I crack up. And so does my mom.
My sister thumps me.
So I pass it on to my mom, considering it is her kid that thumped me.
She passes it on to my kid, who climbs off of her chair and thumps my hubby, her father.
In turn, of course, he cranks it up a notch, and thumps the shit out of my sister, who immediately squeals and turns to thump me again.
Me: "Uhh, you might want to re-think that! This will just continue around the table, and he will just thump you AGAIN!"
My hubby: "Did you hear that?"
We all laugh.
My mom tells us about some stupid thing my brother is thinking of doing.
My response: "He's your son."
My hubby: "What the hell. Where did he get this nutcake idea?"
My mom: "I don't know what to tell you. We are talking about the kid that covered every inch of his body in Nike clothing, and barely let his elbows show."
We laugh.
[My brother, from age 3 until about 9, was a picky dresser. He argued with my mother and father non-stop about what he would wear, seriously. And I have a picture of him during the particular phase of his life where he would only wear Nike, and he didn't want any of his skin to show. Just picture this: Nike hat, backwards. Nike shirt, with a long-sleeved shirt underneath. Nike basketball shorts. Nike socks, pulled up to his knees. Nike shoes. Nike laces. And the crabbiest pout EVAH.]
My mother tells us that a lady told her today that she kept getting ear infections (my girl was home today due to  a pretty shitty ear infection), and after having her ears cleaned out several times by her doctor, they finally x-rayed her. Do you know what they found? A teeny tiny seashell. She had gone to the beach 6 years prior, and somehow that got lodged in her ear. Can you imagine?
She tells us this, and I can tell by the look on her face that we are both wondering if my girl put something in her ear, something teeny, and that is why her wax won't come out, that is why her ear is impacted and infected.
My hubby: "What dork purposely puts something in their ear??"
We all laugh.
I look at my mother, give her the "Don't you dare!" look, but it's too late; it's already tumbling over her lips:
"I know someone who put Ken's tennis balls up her nose."

Me: "Nooooooooo."
My hubby: "....."
Me: "I know I've told you this before. Don't make me re-tell it."
My hubby: "Do tell."
So yeah.
I was about 2 or 3. I had the Ken & Barbie dolls that played tennis, complete with a little tennis skirt, racquets, dorky tennis shorts, and....teeny tiny tennis balls.
Can I reiterate that I was like 3??
I stuck Ken's tennis ball up my nose.
I remember my father putting me on the bathroom counter, trying to get this little ball out of my little nostril. I remember he tried a q-tip and then tweezers.
And then I remember walking through the parking lot of the hospital, going to the ER, lying down on the examination table, and hearing laughs.
I will never live down the fact that I put Ken's tennis balls up my nose.

My hubby cracks up, calls me a a dork, and my mom is in tears. My girl? Looking at me like I'm from another planet.
My sister comes to my rescue, and says to my hubby: "That's not as bad as getting your pants stuck in your braces."
Apparently the first week my sister had her braces, she bent down to tie her shoe, and her pants got caught in a bracket of her braces. As I type this, I am horse-laughing, and my hubby is staring at me over his laptop across the living room, shaking his head.

I look at my hubby and say: "So what did you do? Everyone does stupid shit like that as a kid."
My hubby: "Not me! Nothing!"
Me: staring "...."
My hubby: "I got my headgear stuck in my eye socket."
Me, my sister, my mom: "WHAT??? HOW?"
 He gets this look on his face, trying not to grin, and says "It's not funny. I could have been blinded."

My mother: "At least none of you farted in yoga."
My hubby: "And on that note, I'm out."

I would not trade these dinners for anything. I would not trade this family for anyone.



I spent the weekend doing....well, nothing really. I didn't pack, although I do have a pile of empty boxes in my dining room, ready to topple over at any moment. I also happened to pile pictures on my dresser. Yay me. Did I mention I am moving November 20th?? I should really get on the packing wagon.
I also didn't do any school work, although I have 3 papers due in the next 5 weeks. I didn't do research, I didn't read a textbook, I didn't scan my notes.
I also didn't write one single damn blog post. I have SO.MANY in my head. I have post it notes all over the pages of my planner/calender. I've got witty and sappy things to post. Yet....
I did nothing.
Saturday night I went out for a new friend's birthday for dinner. We shut the place down. Then we walked over to a bar where I got in the face of a douche that called my sweet friend a whore or a slut (does it matter which??). He pissed me off. He was a creep. And ugly. And omg, I finally had to walk away, but not before I told him he would die alone, ugly and w/ a teeny dick.
Oh wait! I did laundry! Woohoo! I am a functional adult!
Okay, really. All of this to say: I might not be around a lot in the next few weeks. I might not read your posts, have fun on Twitter, or post here. You might not see my boobies on my other site. I just have so.much to do, damn it. But please know that I *will* catch up on your posts, I *will* talk about silly things on Twitter again, and I *will* drink too much wine & drunk dial people. It just may be a couple of weeks.


Where do we go from here?

I am so thoroughly frustrated with this situation. Just to rehash, for those of you that don't click on links (shame on you! (not really)):
Susan Baker is a nut. Two decades ago she said her step-son was stolen from her home while she was napping. He was 3 years old. A massive hunt ensued, but he was never found. Somehow, she wasn't charged, which I totally get, since there may or may not have been evidence pointing her to the crime. She was charged w/ 10 years for the beating of a 6 year old girl in her home, around this same time. Her 10 year sentence was suspended, and she served about 80 days in prison. 80 days.
Flash-forward to now. This crazy bitch hid a 7 month old baby under her bed for five days. Go back and read that sentence again. And again. And again.
Read that sentence as many times as it takes you to place your child's face on that 7 month old. Feel the fear, the rage, the helplessness, the terror. And not just of the mother, but of the 7 month old.
They are saying they are going to charge the mother of the child as well. I'm not sure how this is going to play out at this point. Did the mother want to pretend that her child was gone for the attention? Or did she really want to be rid of her baby girl? And let's not forget that Susan Baker has been calling CPS since the baby was born, complaining that the parents did drugs in front of the child, which CPS did say occurred, but CPS did not feel that the baby was at risk for serious injury. I'm not sure how all of this plays into the scenerio. But what I do know is this:
Something has got to change.
How many more children have to go missing? How many more children have to be found, dead, in city dumps, in boxes floating in the sea, under houses, buried in lonely places not far from home?
I can't even understand how someone felt that her 3 year old step-son's life was not valuable enough to put Susan away for a LONG time. I can't understand how someone believed the 6 year old girl's life wasn't valuable enough to put Susan away for a LONG time.
As many of you know, I worked for CPS for 6 years. I saw a lot. And I loved my job, as much as I hated the awful stuff the children dealt with. I always hoped I was making a difference.
Now I am in grad school, and I am pulled in several directions: who do I want to help? Where am I needed the most? Where can I do the most good? Do I need to go into politics? Do I need to pound on Austin's doors until stiffer laws are made? Where will I be happy and satisfied?
I go to CNN's crime page often. I have done research papers on the laws surrounding child abuse, abductions, and deaths. I find hope in this life, but not when I see all of this stuff, all the time. Sometimes, I admit, I avoid it. I avoid it because I think maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Love will not prevail. Maybe some people should not be forgiven. Maybe I don't have as much faith in humanity as I used to.
I have to believe that someone out there feels like me. That there are thousands and thousands of people out there that feel this way, that are moved to action, that will stand up for these children, that will not watch a child be abused or raped and STAY SILENT, that will scream from the rooftops to the halls of Congress that "Children's lives are of value to us". 
And sure, this stuff causes me to hold my child closer, snuggle her a little longer, watch those around me more closely, and question the random childless person at the playground. Sure, I will do what it takes to keep my baby safe. 
But what about all these other babies? Babies that have parents who don't feel like I do? Babies who have parents fucked up on drugs, or too selfish to give a shit about anyone, or one parent who is busting his/her ass to provide, but just can't keep watch all.the.time??? 

Where do we go from here? 


My Paper Heart-Part III

Part I
Part II

The day of my surgery, I woke up at 4am. I loved on my doggies for a bit, before slipping on loose pants & a simple shirt. I had my husband draw smiley faces with a Sharpie on the bottoms of my feet, just in case anyone needed some humor in the OR. My hubby drove me, with the radio turned down low. We sat in comfortable silence; what could we really say?
I didn't want to think about my fears, about the "worst that could happen", about the risks or the dangers. I didn't want to think that I might not be "okay" when I woke up, or that the surgery might not work. If I wasn't sure before, my heart solidified it just five days prior, by doing it's "thing" just one more time, a last hoorah, a tough kick in the ass.
I watched the sun rise as we drove over the Trinity River, creeping up through the buildings. I suddenly felt at peace, prepared, calm.
"If something happens....." I began.
"Don't." My husband.
We sat in the surgical waiting area, with at least 20 other people. The room was quiet, but screaming and swirling with all the fears, hopes, and terrors of us all. There were people there in pajama pants & t-shirts, looking far sicker than I.
When they called me back, I squeezed my husband's hand, willing myself to find strength in his body. We walked side by side through the maze of hallways, making our way to a teeny room with two chairs. The nurse asked the usual questions, completed the usual body tasks. Then she inserted the IV, sat me down in a wheelchair, and gave me some of the strongest medication I have ever had. Within 20 or so seconds, I could not move. I felt both heavy and light. I couldn't speak. I gazed at my husband, who asked me if I was drunk. I giggled. Then all is black.
I open my eyes as I'm being pushed into the OR. I'm now in a hospital bed, and I have no idea what time it is. I glance to my right, and there is my cardiologist, with the usual quirky look on his face. I find that I cannot speak, and my eyelids are so heavy. I settle for a simple grunt, and then I'm gone.
I'm pulled out of this deep dark empty hole by my heart. It is pounding, skipping to it's own song, pumping air instead of blood. As I get closer to consciousness, I begin to want to be conscious. I want to see the computer monitors above my body. I want to see the inside of my heart. I want to see what my doctor is doing. I fight the medication, and open my eyes to a sheet over my head.
I lift my arm and pull the sheet off of my face. It is bright, white, clean. I see the computer monitors, and I move my head just so, trying to see the inside of my heart. My doctor looks up: "What are you doing?"
My response: "What are you doing?"
There are several nurses and an anesthesiologist to my left. I don't remember faces or names, but I remember giggles. A nurse grabs my arm and straps it down. Another person straightens my head, and my doctor says, "You should be out again in 3, 2...."
I am out. He is right.
I wake again. This time, my heart is skipping slowly, to it's own rhythm, and it's painful. I am confused. I feel as though my blood is going to pound out of my temples, and my throat feels constricted. This time, the sheet is not on my head, but my arms are strapped down.
"That feels like shit. Can I at least watch?"
More giggles.
My doctor laughs, shakes his head, and says "You amaze me."
I turn to my left and say to the anesthesiologist , "Please don't put me out again."
I come to as they are wheeling me toward recovery. I see my husband standing just outside the doorway of a waiting room, with an unexplainable look on his face. I hear someone tell him I am fine; it was successful, thus far.
When I get to my room, I look at the clock. It's been over 7 hours. I am starving. I am not yet allowed to eat, and I cannot move my feet-doctor's orders. Heavy sandbags are placed on my pelvic area, and every single person that comes in my room reminds me to keep my legs still. But all I want to do is stretch my ankles, which already have arthritis in them. They are stiff and for the love of all that is holy, can I just twist and stretch them for 15 seconds?!
No. I must keep the sandbags on for several hours, in the hopes that the femoral arteries in my legs will heal quickly, without clots. I am also told to keep neck movement at a minimum, so that the carotid artery can heal. I remember thinking they should have told me about this prior to the surgery, she who can never sit still.
I am wide awake and happy go lucky when my family visits, when they tell me I can eat, and when my doctor arrives to tell me that my surgery went well, other than my silly waking up. He tells me that I cannot get out of bed for another 7 or 8 hours, which annoys me, since I hate the catheter and just want to go home. 
I sleep. I eat. I get woken up every other hour by heart monitors and nurses, checking me out. 
I go home the next day. 
That was July 2003. 
In July 2005, I gave birth to my beautiful daughter, in the same hospital. When I was released, they wheeled me to the employee elevator to take me to the car. I looked up and there was my cardiologist. I introduced him to my daughter, told him I felt wonderful, and thanked him. 
I still have mitral valve prolapse, but don't need medication for it. My arrythmia seems to have been corrected by the surgery, so far. I am still very conscious of my heartbeat. It still wakes me up in the middle of the night occasionally. I still catch my breath when my mitral valve sticks and flaps and my chest tightens, on instinct. I still watch it closely when I work out, careful to keep it below 190 if I can. There is no pain anymore, no medication, no ER trips in the middle of the night, nothing I need to avoid. I could go back to running 3 miles a day, if I wanted, but I lost the desire, the passion for it, all those summers ago when I was so sick. 
My ob/gyn still gets worried about my heart, and was a bit neurotic about it when I was pregnant. My heart is one of the reasons I ended up having a c-section (besides the HUGE FACT that my girl was stuck). It still gets out of control at times, and I worry. I worry that my heart finally defied me and created a new irregular electrical pathway, one that makes my mitral valve prolape worse. One that makes having another child an even bigger deal. One that will bring any idea of getting healthy to a standstill. One that could spin my life towards another direction, one filled with medications and ER trips and stabbing pain and throat constricting pain.
I pray each night that I will be allowed one more day, week, year, lifetime, with this healthy electrical pathway in my heart. And so far, so good. I am blessed.