Re-launched, but still slightly under construction. :-)

Monday, August 30, 2004

Granny's purse

I was having a hard day - “hormone intoxication,” I suppose, since nothing was really wrong - and I had to go to the mall. I don’t like the mall, but I had to go pick up wedding-related crap. It was raining like hell and when I got back to the front, it was raining even harder, if it’s possible, and I paused to marvel at the sky and open the umbrella.

I was fumbling with the snap when some little FUCKER - must have been all of 14 years old - ran up and tried to snatch it away from me! I mean, he didn’t go after my purse, which might have been worthwhile. No. He wanted my umbrella.

My finger was hooked in the handle or it would have slipped into his undeserving little claws. Instead, I yanked back, and he didn’t let go! He tried to yank it away from me, but I twisted it and managed to pull it from him. I was seeing red. I swung the umbrella at him, and hit him on the shoulder. He looked mildly surprised, and then contemptuous.

Oh, reeeeeally? Well, take that! I smacked him again. And THAT! I swung at his ribs, but he barely blocked it with his forearm. I wasn’t done. I swung again in the other direction, this time at his exposed back, striking home. I saw him flinch. I. Smelled. Blood. I swung again. And again. Then I realized I was shouting at him.

“I’m five - (smack!) - months - (thwack) - pregnant, you little fuck! What - (pow!) the fuck (kapow!) - is wrong with you?!”

He fended me off with his arms and hands, and for a split second it looked like he was thinking about taking a swing at me. I flipped the umbrella around and swung at his head with the handle. He ducked, stumbled once, and skitted back, mildly frightened. Then he loped off into the parking lot, looking chagrined, and a little confused.

I stopped, panting, clutching my stomach. I was furious, and slowly my vision cleared. I noticed, suddenly, that people were looking at me. They weren’t friendly. They were more like “someone call the police, there’s a crazy woman loose at the mall” kind of looks. I considered defending myself, but instead I mustered what was left of my dignity, smoothed my hair back from my Cro-Magnum forehead, snapped open my umbrella, and pranced off through the storm.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Reluctant Grown-up

Scott: I just can’t believe all of the stuff you have for the nursery!
Me: Yeah?
Scott: Yeah! It’s like you’ve been just waiting to have a kid.
Me (confused): What stuff are you talking about?
Scott: You know, the Pez, the Powerpuff Girls stuff, the action figures...
I stare at him.
Scott: What?
Me: Um, honey, those are my toys.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Wedding, schmedding

They say that even the most unusual woman becomes a traditionalist where her wedding is involved. I am not so unusual, and I’d have been perfectly happy to go along and live my life with Scott without a huge wedding. Without even a small wedding. WITHOUT A WEDDING AT ALL.

Every decision I make is second guessed by everyone but my sister, who would only second guess me if... Actually, I suppose I’d have to kill someone before she does.
  • I’m not having a garter taken off my upper thigh. It’s degrading. Scott is pissed off about this. I will forever thank Aubrey for agreeing with me in front of him. Of course, his mother thinks I’m insane. “I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense to me,” I told her. “But, it’s tradition!” she replied.
  • I’m not throwing a bouquet. It’s stupid AND degrading. I’d just throw it to my sister, anyway, so it’s pretty useless. “But, honey, all the single girls will be disappointed,” my mother said. “Well, they can cry in the breakroom at the typing pool, mother - 30 YEARS AGO!” I replied.
  • I’m not doing bride’s side/groom’s side. “But why?!” Scott’s mother said, and I made up something about it holding up the seating process. She let that go, thank god.
  • “What are you going to do with your hair?” my mother asked. “I dunno. I figured I’d brush it. That’s more than I usually do,” I replied. If looks could kill...
  • “What shoes are you going to wear?” my mother asked. “Shoes?” I replied. “Uh, I hadn’t planned on wearing any.” I tried to follow her response, but only dogs could hear her.
  • Will everyone leave me alone about the food? You’re lucky we’re even having any, you bunch of moochers.
  • Speaking of food, since when does the paster NOT get invited to the rehearsal dinner? What kind of lunacy is this? “But, they’re doing a job. I mean, you hire them for it, they’re not really IN the wedding,” his mother told me. “Um, no. They’re just running the wedding. I wouldn’t feel right about not inviting him.”
  • I really really wanted my dog at the wedding. You don’t know how much I adore my dog. My mother went absolutely off on me. For days. About how I was ruining the wedding. Embarassing her. Four of the nastiest emails I have ever received. Fine. The dog is out. But I’ll be pissed about the whole thing for a while.
  • No one seems to be able to just smile and say: “That sounds nice.” They wave their arms and holler about tradition, and “it won’t look right”, when they really mean: “That’s not the way I want it.”

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Jesus Christ

I’m in the nursery on the phone with Penny. Scrabble has followed me in, and all of the toys, etc., for the nursery are in boxes and piles. I hear a rustling sound and turn to see Scrabble’s teeth firmly embedded in Buttercup’s head. Thank God it’s just a pillow.

“No, Scrabble!”
The dog stops chewing and looks at me, tail wagging, teeth still gripping the pillow.
“No! Bad dog!”
He gives a little growl of frustration and lets go. I go back to my conversation. Seconds later, the sound comes again. I turn to see him dragging a coconut headed something, twice his size, out of a box.
“No, Scrabble! Scrabble!”
He turns to look at me.
“No! We don’t chew on toys!”
He bounces around the room for a minute, and stops, wagging his tail.
“Good boy!”
I go back to trying to find the file I want to send Penny. Shortly, I hear a crackling noise. This time, he has the head of my Jesus action figure in his mouth.
“Scrabble, no! We don’t chew on the son of god!”

Chi Toy

Scrabble will chew anything. He chews socks, shoes, books, LOVES the telephone book, and has taken to chewing my hand when I let him. I try to distract him, but he also likes chewing my hair for example, when I do yoga. While I’m doing something that requires ALL of my attention, patience, breathing, and physical diligence, he’s doing everything he can to distract me by leaping up and down and yomping at my ponytail.

I’m doing this to release tension, to find some levity, to explore myself spiritually, and to get myself physically ready for childbirth. It doesn’t seem like I’m accomplishing much when you hear me hollering, “Stop it, Scrabble, I’m trying to center my chi!” and “Goddammit, I’m being zen, you little bastard!”

Sunday, August 08, 2004

The Reason He's Homeless

As I walk in the 15th Street Kroger, a highly aromatic older gentleman trots towards me.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.

I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.

“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.

Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

I need the ATF at the ATM

I hate going to the ATM at night, alone. But I owed Natalya $182 for my wedding dress, she needed it by tomorrow morning, and I had to take it to her. I got stuck on the phone with Scott’s mom for TWO AND A HALF HOURS, so it was 11:30 before I could get on my way. I loaded up the puppy and took off.

I blew right past the bank branch and had to cut over to another location. I always check out the surrounding area before I go to the ATM, and everything was fine. As the machine spit out my money, I heard the screech of tires on pavement. Headlights momentarily blinded me, but I could see the huge grill of an SUV bearing down on me. I gasped. The puppy cowered in my lap. The SUV stopped inches from the front of my car and four men jumped out of the side doors.

I did not think as they started in my direction. Faster than I ever thought I could move, I grabbed the money and the card, and slammed the car into reverse. The tires bounced over the lane separater. I felt the bottom of the car scrape against the concrete, but I’ll leave the muffler for these guys if they really want it.

I threw the car into drive, slammed the pedal to the floor, and took off for 10th Street, right up over the curb, through the grass, over the sidewalk, down the streetcurb, and fishtailing into the street. I ran two stop signs and a red light before I looked behind me. No one. I’ve been holding my breathe. Scrabble cowered in the passenger floorboard, whining softly.

I don't know if maybe they were just driving like idiots - young, reckless, unaware of their effect on others - or if I was in some kind of danger. But I wasn't waiting around to find out.