Because I haven’t posted in a week. I start this blog wanting to write and now that it’s up and running I don’t feel like writing. It figures.
I really don’t feel like doing anything, truthfully. Sleeping. That I feel like doing. Again, perhaps it’s the heat? I don’t know. Well, bear with me. I’m sure the urge to write will kick back in soon.
I’m back from the little vacation and now I am in my post-vacation depression. It happens every time I return and it takes me weeks to recover. It’s so bad that I’m thinking of never going on vacation again. Ok, that’s not entirely true. But it does seem to get worse with every vacation I take. *sigh* Does anyone else suffer from this?
We went to Amelia Island, Florida. Those of you who read my old blog will think I’m crazy when I say that I LOVE it there. It’s crazy because I hated Florida so much that I complained incessantly about it and vowed never to return to that “God-forsaken swampy shithole” once we left. However, in my defense, Amelia is only a few miles over the Georgia state line, and it’s safe to say that a good portion of the population there (both visitors and residents) are from Georgia. I can tell by the accents, the Georgia Bulldog red everywhere, and the friendliness. Oh, and all those Georgia plates in the resort parking lot are a good clue, too.
This was our second trip there this summer and The Husband and I are so enamored with it that we are already planning to buy a home there. We want to do it sooner rather than later because the real estate market in Florida is so bad right now and homes are ridiculously cheap. I mean, we wouldn’t be living right on the ocean or even the marsh, but mid-island homes can be had for a steal and there’s beach access every few blocks. This plan of ours is ludicrous to us and everyone we know. Why? First, as mentioned previously, we vowed loudly never to return to that state again (except to visit Disney World). Second, we don’t even own a first home – I mean, we live with my parents! And last and most important, we don’t even have jobs. Hah!
Here’s the really insane part – we love it so much that we are actually looking for jobs in Jacksonville. Wow. Considering we just relocated to Atlanta because we hated Florida so much, I have to re-read what I just typed for it to sink in. How stupid are we?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I did not move back to Georgia weather like this! It’s hot. It’s humid. It’s Texas hot and Florida humid – a real bad combo. I just keep telling myself that, unlike Texas, the heat will break and, unlike Florida, the humidity will subside.
While driving around Athens today, we saw an interesting and, quite frankly, ludicrous bumper sticker. Athens is a college town so crazy head-scratching bumper stickers are the norm. But this one was so ludicrous, I thought perhaps we were hallucinating. Sadly, we weren’t. It said “Carter/Mondale.” Yeah, because 21.5% prime interest rates were just wanted the American people wanted. Long lines for gas were fun social outings. And because the Iran hostage crisis was a real treat for everyone. What the fuck? Of course, the lady was driving was uglier than a monkey’s butt Amy Carter. I swear she had a moustache. The really scary thing was that she had spawn in the backseat. Heaven help us.
According to my stats, I’ve gotten several hits today from people looking up “pee” and “peeing” and “peed”.
What the fuck, people, what the fuck? If you are someone who found yesterday’s post by one of the above key words, PLEASE PLEASE let me know why the hell you are looking up things involving pee. I would love to know. Really, I would. Do you drink it? Like to bathe in it? Like to involve it in sex? Or do you just like the color of it? I am so curious.
I guess it could be worse. At least pee is sterile.
This is for Liz, bless her poor ass-drinking heart, in the hopes that she may recover that little part of her soul.
Bucket
A few years ago, I worked for a small town law firm. A few of us were pretty close and spent a lot of time at various happy hours around the city. You see, lawyers are a hard-drinking lot and as a paralegal, you learn to keep up. As a lithe 110-pounder who can eat twice her weight, I could keep up just fine, thank you very much. As long as I was drinking water and eating something fried, I could have, say, a drink an hour. I hate beer and wine, so I prefer to stick with the hard stuff and usually the same thing. My point? I wasn’t a lightweight and knew my limit.
Enter the Christmas Party. Oh yes, those two little words strike fear in a lot of people’s hearts. Let me share my humiliating experience with you. I’m not bragging, mind you – I’m commiserating with Liz. And, well, it is pretty freakin’ funny. It was at our little town’s most exclusive restaurant – my boss was a friend with the owner. We had lots of yummy food and plenty of strong drinks. The party started at around 5 pm and ended (at least for me) around 10. I ate the entire time and had four Stoli Vanil screwdrivers. At 10 pm, I was feeling tired and a little buzzed and despite the pleas from my co-workers, including my boss, to stay, I decided to call it a night. After all, we all had to be at work the next day.
As planned, I called my husband and told him I was ready to be picked up. I even asked him to take a co-worker home as well because she was in no shape to drive either. After I hung up, I sat down in a chair in the banquet room, which, by the grace of God, had cleared out. Everyone had either gone home or headed to the bar. After sitting for a minute, I stood up to have one more go round with the loo. Well, I tried to stand up. I quickly sat back down because my head started to spin. I felt horrible. I called my husband back and asked him to come inside to get me because all of a sudden I did not feel well and I really didn’t think I was going to be able to walk straight. At that moment, my boss came back into the room to say goodnight. He said, “Are you alright? You look a little woozy.” With that, I puked all over him. All over his expensive custom tailored lawyer suit and his tasseled Italian loafers. I puked so much, and for so long, they to bring me a bucket from the kitchen (thus earning me the nickname “Bucket”). God bless him, he sat there with me, held my hair, wiped my face and sent a waitress very discreetly to the front of the restaurant to ask my husband to pull the car around back. It took three men to get me to and up into the car. He met my husband with “Hey C, good to see you. K’s had a little too much to drink.” Husband was mortified. He thanked my boss profusely, apologized profusely, and my boss would have none of it. “Happens to the best of us sometimes.” All I could do was mumble “I’m show shorry. I canf beeleeef dis is happennnin. I’m show shorry.” They even allowed me to take the bucket home.
Blessedly, we only lived about five miles down the road because since I couldn’t hold my head upright and my head kept banging onto the side window every time Husband made a turn. Not that I felt it. Once home, he helped me out of the car and into our only bathroom, where I slept half-naked on the floor all night long. By morning, I was all better (save my cotton-mouth and an achy head) and showed up at work. Boss never said a word. I went into his office and apologized yet again. He told me not to feel bad about it – I wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad night. The girl I was supposed to take home? She ended her evening by puking in her boss’s BMW.
After that, I did not drink anything for a very long time. When I did drink again, I limited myself to one. Lesson learned, right?
Turning Wine Into Water
I was excited about seeing the legendary Carole King. Husband’s company sponsored the concert and gave some of its employees free tickets. So, technically, for my husband it was a work event that I was lucky enough to attend. The concert was outdoors at Atlanta’s lovely Chastain Park. Husband’s company provided the food; I was providing a bottle of wine since the park lets you bring in your own beverages.
It was hot. It was humid. I was thirsty. I was hungry. I was late. I arrived as everyone was finishing up their food; Husband managed to save me single chicken kabob and a bottle of water. The concert was starting, so I didn’t want to stand in the very long lines to get anything else. I had my kabob and my water, thinking the lines would die down. They didn’t, and I really didn’t want to miss the concert. Still thirsty, I had some wine. Thankfully, so did Husband’s co-workers. Since it was so hot and so humid, our thirst and the lines for water never subsided, so we continued to drink wine. All told, I think Husband’s co-worker and I polished off a bottle and a half. Each. We are both small women who, admittedly, did not drink wine on a regular basis. We were both smashed.
Now, not being the huge Carole King fans that co-worker and I were, Husband could have prevented this himself by going to get us some water, dammit, so we wouldn’t have to miss anything. But for some reason, he didn’t. So I blame him.
I didn’t really feel all that bad until the concert was over and I had to stand up and walk. Boy, the standing just kills me! Here’s where it gets good. Or bad, depending on your point-of-view. Husband and his co-worker had carpooled over from the office in the car of another co-worker. I was going to take the three of us back to our hotel in my car which I parked…somewhere. I had never been to this venue before so even sober it would have been a little challenging to find the car. But I was smashed, so it was impossible. After thirty minutes of following two very drunk women around a large park, Husband spots the car. I say “There it issssh, right where I lefth it, hunnnny.” We pile into the car, with Husband driving of course. The traffic is still awful, so all we do is sit. I slur “I hafff to pissh like a raashhorsh!” Co-worker slurs “Yeah, me tooooo!” As we were stuck in traffic, there was nothing Husband could do. I almost got out and just peed on the street, now understanding why this is a regular occurrence in New Orleans. About twenty minutes later, Husband pulls into a convenience store. Too late. I had peed my pants about three minutes earlier. Yes, I peed myself, in my car (leather seats, thank God!), in front of Husband’s subordinate co-worker. We both still had to go, so we get out, me with my soaked pants, and stumble into the c-store. I am so glad she was as wasted as I was – she just had better bladder control. We still laugh about it to this day. Poor, poor Husband…..
But wait! There’s more! We got back to the hotel, made sure co-worker got into her room okay, and headed to ours. I somehow managed to get my contacts out and cleaned, I scarfed down my pill, and collapsed into the king size bed to sleep it off. Whew, right? Wrong. About 3:00 am, I awoke, sat straight up in bed, and projectile vomited on the entire bed, the floor, the walls. I am really surprised Husband did not divorce me over this – he had to stay in that room all night long with me and my…deposits. We didn’t know what to do, call housekeeping? No way, he said; too embarrassing. He managed to strip the offending sheets off the bed and put me on the floor, I think. I probably slept in the bathroom again.
In the morning, he left without too many words. I was left to handle the mess. I had to check out by noon, and at 11:15, dragging my ass out of that bed was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Second hardest was calling housekeeping to tell them that I was checking out and could they send someone up immediately because I had been, *ahem* ill during the night. I then had to spend the next six hours while my husband was in a meeting doing something that didn’t require much movement. I had planned to spend the day shopping. So much for that. I found a nice, cool Barnes and Noble and forced my self to drink coffee, which I hate. After that, I found a shady spot in a parking garage and stayed there for the next few hours, trying not to die.
I cannot put into words how bad I felt – physically and emotionally, knowing the embarrassment I caused my husband. I didn’t drink anything for about two years. Now when I drink, one drink - that’s it. There you go, Liz. Share the joy.
Daddy came out to greet us as we pulled into the driveway Wednesday evening. He greeted each of us with a hug. He told us he had missed us, he’s grown so used to having us around. He asked us if we had heard what had happened. We said no; we’d been listening to the comedy channel on XM for most of the drive. He told us that a bridge in Minnesota collapsed. Um, okay. It didn’t really register with us, not knowing what exactly transpired and being so numb for the road (and other events, which I will detail later). As we went into the house, the TV was on. He described in more detail what had happened. He said he was so glad we were ok.
Earlier that day, we too traveled over the Mississippi River. Without incident. As we’ve done so many times before. Lucky us.
My thoughts and prayers are with the people affected by this tragedy.
I’m sorry – please indulge me. All I can blog about right now is how much I fucking hate my mother-in-law. I know, I know…hate is a strong word. I shouldn’t hate her; I should strongly dislike her, right? I’m past that now, she took me past the strongly dislike point last evening round about 9:13 p.m. CST.
As we sat watching Husband’s favorite show, Hell’s Kitchen, she made a comment that cut me to the bone. It wasn’t directed at me, but at my husband. I’m sure Husband took it with a grain of salt, as he has learned to do, but it flabbergasted me to hear a mother speak to her son like that. Tonight’s episode featured the aspiring chefs’ mothers (it figures – the man upstairs must strongly dislike me…). As it always is on these competition reality shows, the contestants are under tremendous pressures and emotional stress. When the mothers were brought out, sentiments were shared and tears were shed. In a particularly touching moment, the lone guy on the show embraced his mother and said, “I love you, Mom.” His Mom responded with “I love you, too, Son. Keep following your dream.” He said “Pray for me.” She said, “I always do.”
When the show went to commercial, mother-in-law says to Husband “You see, some sons still love their mothers after they grow up.” Husband just rolled his eyes and said, “I am not going to dignify that comment with an answer.” She said nothing. After a few minutes, he said, “You know Mom, at least I didn’t grow up to be a immoral bastard of a lawyer or something. ” She continued, “Well, at least if you were a lawyer, you’d be filthy rich.”
Stupid. Fucking. Cow. I guess the fact that her son is a success in his chosen field and his six-figure salary doesn’t bring her enough pride. She’s pissed that he didn’t become what she wanted him to be and she’s pissed that we haven’t taken over all of her financial responsibilities since her gravy train Husband’s father died. She’s never supported anything my husband has ever done, because it wasn’t what she wanted him to do. I am sure the words “Just keep following your dream, Son” have, and never will, escape her mealy mouth. I strongly doubt she’s ever prayed for anything or anyone other than her sorry self. And the only time she tells him she loves him is in passing, only when he’s on her good side, which is never anymore since he’s married to me, a business executive in his chosen profession, and lives out of state.
I’ve had it with this. My tongue literally and physically hurts from biting it. In the last three days we’ve been here, we’ve had to endure her passive-aggressive guilt trips, her woe-is-me/I-just-don’t-know-what-I’m doing-to-do/Nobody-loves-me bullshit, and her endless mean-spirited comments. May I present to the Court….
Exhibit (A) – We arrived here last Thursday. By Husband’s choice, we were going to stay about 4 days because that’s about all he can stand of her. We made it clear to her when we arrived that we were leaving on Wednesday morning. When people ask us how long we are staying, she interjects “Until Friday, because my own son hasn’t bothered to come visit me in eight months.” She brought it up today at Lowe’s and when Husband said “Mom, give it a rest. We’re leaving on Wednesday morning,” she literally put her bottom lip out, set it to quiver and big crocodile tears dropped from her beady little eyes. A 57-year-old woman, crying and pouting in a public place. Jesus Fucking Christ.
Let me say for the record that while in Tampa for two years, she never came to visit us. Even when she and her sister-in-law went on a cruise that left out of and returned to Tampa, she did not visit us. We offered to come to the cruise terminal and pick her up, take her to lunch and then on the airport for her return flight and she declined. We lived in Macon for two years – she visited us once. This was before Husband’s father died, so she had plenty of money and plenty of time. She still has plenty of miles that she, for some reason, refuses to use. But she’s been to Ohio to see her sister-in-law and her brood about five times in the last eight months. Go figure.
Exhibit (B) – While reading the Sunday paper yesterday, she again read the job ads and read aloud any jobs that sounded good for Husband and I. She proceeded to read the real estate section and tell us about the houses for sale in the area that are “so much cheaper than in Atlanta. It’s just so much easier to make a living here.” This after Husband has repeatedly told her that we are Not. Moving. Back. Ever. Apparently, she even goes online looking for good jobs for Husband in the area! Yet she says she doesn’t know how to look for a job for herself. WTF?!?!
Exhibit (C) – She likes to make fun of the fact that I’m from Georgia. She takes any tidbit of redneck news, recites it to me, and says things like “Oh, I bet that happened in Joor-juh.” and “Is that how they do things in Jooor-juh?” in the worst “Southern” accent ever. She made it a point to tell me last night, on three separate occasions, just how annoying fellow Georgians Holly Hunter, Paula Deen and Christina from HGTV’s Design Star are – how their accents are like “nails on a chalkboard” and how she can’t stand that “fake sugary sweetness of those Southerners.” For the record, Paula Deen is the least “fake” person on the planet, ok? Trust me on that.
Now before y’all say “Oh c’mon, she’s just having a little fun with you.” No, she’s not. She says it with a contempt and meanness like I’ve never seen. And she does it because I make fun of (and not in a mean-spirited way) Midwestern accents – like how they say “pap” for “pop” and “Oh my Gad” instead of “Oh my God.” How they all sound like pirates whenever there’s an “R” involved. Think Rachael Ray and Hillary Clinton. You see, her beloved sister-in-law and her brood live in Ohio and, thus, have horrendous Cleveland accents. Hello, anyone ever watch “The Drew Carey Show”? That entire show made fun of Clevelanders – in a fun way. But I can’t go there.
Exhibit (D) – She’s not a drama queen, she’s the High Priestess. Everything – and I mean everything – is a drama. And most of the drama is performed in the hopes to get some sort of attention, whether we say “Oh, poor you” or we just do for her whatever she is having so much trouble doing. When she tries to get up out of her chair and crumbles to her knees, crying out in pain because she weighs like 300 pounds now. When she is cleaning off the top of the refrigerator for the first time in two years and is moans “Oh, God, I can’t breathe. I’m going to throw up. I need some air!” in the hopes that one of us will get up and do it for her. When she leaves two voicemails and actually pages my husband while we are in a movie just to tell us not to let the neighbor’s dog out (they’re on vacation) when we got home because their daughter is over there and we might scare her and she wouldn’t want us to scare her, poor thing (um, thanks, lady – I think we would have figured that out when we saw the lights on and a car in the driveway).
She’s nuts. I rest my case.
At this point, I’m not sure if S.O.S. should stand for “Same Old Shit” or “Save Our Souls.” Maybe both. My mother-in-law is a passive-aggressive, self-loathing, manipulative nutcase and she driving me and the Husband stark-raving mad. I keep hoping every time we see her she’ll have changed for the better, but no such luck.
Is there any woman out there who has a good relationship with their mother-in-law? If so, you are blessed. I, on the other hand, am cursed. You see, I committed what in her eyes is the cardinal sin - I married her only child. By her own admission, it was a child she really didn’t plan on having (she tells him this casually over dinner one evening) but alas… once he was here, she grew attached. Very attached. She’s the mother that thinks that her son’s sole purpose in life is to provide for her, as she provided for him. Although all she really provided him with was guilt because he has not followed the exact path she set out for him. Even though he somehow someway grew into a kind, generous, well mannered, well-educated man who is a successful executive with a beautiful and loving wife (*ahem*), it’s not good enough because, dammit, none of it was done for her.
She was nice to me once upon a time, while I was dating Husband, albeit a little odd - I had an awkward feeling about her from Day One. Since I am trouble, I can sense it in others, you see. Husband and I had a quick courtship – nine months from first date to wedding day – so, in her defense, she really didn’t have a lot of time to get to know me, as I was 800 miles away during the engagement. I guess I first pissed her off first by agreeing to marry her son and then added insult to injury when I actually had the audacity to go through with the wedding. I’m sure she was pissed about the us having the wedding in my hometown, too. But after the wedding, Husband and I return to Texas to live our lives less than five miles from her, so I bought myself a year or so of peace.
The entire time we lived here, in Husband’s hometown, we were never more than ten miles away. She and Husband’s father almost never came to our home to visit – we were always expected to come to their home. Strange, I thought. Husband said it was just because she was his parents were lazy (which they were) but looking back now I think it was a territorial thing. She couldn’t tell Husband what to do in his own home, but she let loose whenever he was on her turf. She’s the queen of the If I Were Yous and You Really Shoulds and every single time we came over, it was the same damn conversation. Always about money. Even though we were as financially responsible as adults in our twenties could be, she could never resist meddling in our financial affairs. Were we saving enough, because “you never know what might happen.” She was forever worried that we took too many trips and ate out too much and were not putting enough away. We should save now and wait until retirement to play. *A not so funny aside — she and Husband’s dad penny-pinched and saved their entire married life and still came up short when ”what might happen” struck. Husband’s 60-year-old father went from relatively healthy to dead from lung cancer in 3 1/2 months. She’s now a widow with no financial future at age 57. So much for retirement.*
After spending his entire life in the same town, Husband caught the wanderlust. I was kinda tired of our current locale as well; having myself spent most of my formative years there. After five years of marriage, we jointly decided to move somewhere knew. Being unsure of our future in terms of having children, we really wanted to remain a few hours away from family. We narrowed our choices to another town in Texas or Georgia, where my family lived. I would have moved to Austin, maybe even San Antonio, but Husband really wanted to try another state. We chose Georgia.
Of course in her warped mind, it was solely my idea. I coerced him. I pitched a fit until I got my way. I took her baby away, out of her reach and into the arms of my welcoming family. Even though Husband has told her time and time again that it was a decision he was a part of, she just wouldn’t accept it. So she can’t stand me. And she makes our life a living hell whenever we do return to visit with her unending guilt trips. “It’s been eight months since you’ve been here!” (She never once came to see us the entire two years we lived in Florida – planes fly both ways, bitch). “Can’t you stay one more day” (No, you’re driving us crazy and we’ve only been 24 hours!) As I write this, she is sitting in her La-Z-Boy reading the job and real estate ads to us. Just so we’ll know, right? I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything more than that, right?
Tomorrow we leave for Texas to see Hubby’s mother. Flights were outrageous so we have decided to drive. Thirteen long hours with no reward at the end. We haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving and we parted on horrible terms. I’ve spoken to her twice since, very short to-the-point conversations. Long story short – I, in a roundabout way, called her precious neighbors alcoholic white trash.
Sidebar: They are, dammit. Who drinks beer on weekdays starting at 10am and continues all day long into the night? These are people who let their toddlers wander alone, in nothing but diapers, up and down the neighborhood street. These pre-teens now run around with older boyfriends and eyeliner befitting the punk rock idols of the early eighties. White. Trash.
Anyway, mother-in-law pushed my buttons one too many times on that trip and I couldn’t *ahem* shut my mouth. She hasn’t forgiven or forgotten apparently because when Hubby talked to her yesterday to let her know when we were coming, he mentioned taking her with us to our favorite restaturant (a nice, expensive steakhouse – our treat, of course) . She replied to the tune of “Well, I don’t think that place is very good and it’s too expensive, but what do I know? I’m just white trash. Just ask [yours truly].”
Yeah, so we’re going to have a great time. Hubby can only take her for about 72 hours so, thankfully, the trip will be a short one. And when we get back, we have our beach to look forward to.
Can’t wait.
As much as we wanted to, we knew we weren’t going to make our permanent home in Tampa about three months after we arrived. With the unfriendly and downright rude people, the horrendous traffic and roads (or lack thereof) and the lack of cultural and epicurean opportunities, we knew it wasn’t the place for us. The beaches alone weren’t enough. Besides, with the constant traffic it was too much of a pain getting to them and, once there, we had to deal with the aforementioned rude people – it wasn’t worth it.
We knew we had to stay at least two years – Husband’s former company paid for our relocation from Macon to Tampa and he had to either work for twenty-four months or pay the relo money back. We received a hefty sum to cover the relocation and we did not have the money to pay it back so we had no choice but to suck it up and stay. We lived like hermits for two years, paying off credit cards and saving every cent I didn’t spend on clothes. Hello, my name is Kristen and I am a compulsive clotheshorse. Anyway, we did manage to save a lot, surprisingly.
The two-year period was officially over in December of 2006; however, we had to stay until April because we were locked into our lease. Our plan come April was to quit our jobs and move, even if we didn’t have new jobs in Atlanta. Everyone thought we were crazy, as Husband had a very well paying job with excellent benefits. But it was very difficult to look for a job in one city when you live in another 400 miles away. Most places today won’t even look at your resume if you live further than 50 miles from wherever they’re located. We weren’t worried – we’d saved up enough to live frugally for a good while and there’s always COBRA. We would live with my parents in a rural hamlet outside of Athens – they graciously offered to let us stay rent-free while we searched for jobs.
In early April, we made our escape. We had planned to literally leave in the dead of night in order to avoid the traffic and obligatory goodbyes with neighbors who had said nary a word in two years to the childless, two-dog yuppie couple from the South. Calls were made to cut the utilities and the cable off. We were going to get a credit on our accounts – yay! We picked up our rental truck the day before with no problems – yay! The truck loaders arrived right on time – yay! They hustled and had that thing cram-packed in an hour – yay! Things were going much smoother than I had anticipated. Until I looked into the living and discovered a whole shitload of stuff that the movers had no room for in the truck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Yours truly here underestimated the amount of stuff we had, which wasn’t much, really, considering we sold gave most of it away at our garage sale. “You take fitee cent? One dolla too mush.” It’s a sofa, for Chrissakes – I’m not selling it for less than a dollar! Damn cheap-ass Mexicans… Anyway, one sixteen-foot Penske truck and TWO back-to-back, 400-mile jaunts up and down I-75 later (I get exhausted just thinking about it), we land at my parents’ house.
Welcome to the Funny Farm.
