philosophical/physiological question here

Can grown men be taken advantage of in their sleep?

Just curious.

who needs mushrooms, anyway?

As I said before, well, we're moving. Soon.

The bathroom is hideous... as in, "Holy mother of Ghandi, what in the world were they smoking?". It has pink tile, and is very similar to the picture here, courtesy of a young lady from The Ugly Bathroom Club... she's a godsend, I tell ya. No, no... because this is about me, allow me to say that mine is much worse, as it has WALLPAPER FROM HELL. It's vinyl, and it's... jesus... it was so bad, I forgot to
take a photo of it yesterday. I was able to find an eerily similar example of it on the 'net, and here it is - look for the small inset pic, I believe it's #3... yeah, the pink one.

Pray for me, okay? Light a candle, somethin'. I don't care.

chicken head's new friend

And I fixed them up... either blame me or thank me, that's what I always say.

Here she is... damn, if I were still in my college days, I'd have jumped on her like a fat kid on cake.

Okay, okay... I'm old and dirty.

Sue me.

how to tell if a cowboy is gay

Thank Jagger for this one...

9. He’s bow-legged…but he’s never ridden a horse!
8. He can play any Liza Mineli song ever recorded, on his harmonica!
7. His canteen is full of raspberry wine coolers!
6. He’s got spur marks on the outside of his thighs!
5. He’s a good guy cowboy so he wears white…but never after Labor Day!
4. He’s standing next to a motorcycle cop, a construction worker, a serviceman and an Indian Chief
3. His Dodge pickup truck not only has a gun rack…but a wine rack as well!
2. He and his gang have never ROBBED a train…but they’ve PULLED a few!
1. The only “BARN” he’s ever been in has the word “POTTERY” in front of it!!!

chickenhead must be destroyed (why roomates are evil - sometimes)

You know, I love Chicken Head like a kid brother... I really do. But DAYUM - he's definitely on the rag today. I think it may have to do with the estrogen replacement tablets that I've been grounding up and putting in his protein shake powder - but maybe I'm wrong.

I get home somewhere between 1238 and 1am, from work. My roomate's bedroom shares a wall with mine & Sparky's. When I get home, everyone's passed out, so I kick on the tv in our room, surf the 'net, and basically chill the fuck out before I choke someone. It's worked for over a month now, so why try to fix something that isn't broke, ya know?

Needless to say, I keep the tv down, as it's more for background noise than anything else.

The cable runs through Chicken Head's room to our tv (with a splitter so CH can have his own, too), and he basically has control of it. In other words, he is the cable god.

I was really getting into this fucking movie. He knew I was awake. Instead of knocking on the door to ask me to turn it down (it's on level 8 on a volume scale of 1-60), he simply pulled the cable. If I didn't know any better, I'd expect the kid from Poltergeist to inform me that "They're here" and jump in bed... but I know better. He didn't wanna hear the tv, and instead of asking me to turn it down, he took matters into his own hands.

Bastard.

That's okay... I'll just up the estrogen tomorrow AND ground up my old birth control pills.

He'll never know what hit him.

the money pit 2 (but at least there's a landlord who'll foot the bill)

Well, we got our first house. A real one, with smallish bedrooms and ugly wallpaper... and you know when I say it's ugly, that's sayin' a lot.

It's not a bad house, really. Three bedrooms, 2 baths... two living areas. The kitchen is decorated in circa 1983 Good Housekeeping/Walmart special colors, and the baths are something to be desired. I mean, they're pink... Pepto Bismal/Granny pink. With psychedelic green and pink wallpaper to boot.

Oh, and the garage for some reason is painted pink as well.

Sparky has claimed the garage and "given" me reign of the rest of the house. Honestly, I don't know what I'm gonna do - I mean, the bedrooms are wood floors, whereas the rest of the home is carpeted in contrasting shades of forest green and "used to be" cream. So, while he's out there makin' sawdust or whatever menfolk tend to do these days, I'll be scraping wallpaper and telling Jose to put the carpet outside, where it belongs.

During the walk through today with The Girl, I was mentally tabulating what needed to be done, wincing when hitting the kitchen and grasping my sunglasses when assessing the wallpaper (yes, it's that bad... and I was in too much shock to take a picture). Oh, did I mention the house was built in 1964, and has had only one tenant - the original owner?

Needless to say, it's a nice starter home. It's right off the highway, which I guess will be convenient for transients and serial killers... but it's home.

At least for fifteen months, anyway.

things that amuse me

Enjoy... pics I've found on the net or things seen randomly over the past year.

an ode to the strongest man alive (you're allowed to skip this one)

I'd like to write about a guy that, though isn't my father, in some - and probably most - ways is my father.

I wanna introduce you to my (sort of step) Dad, Tumble.

Tumble was born back in 1931, a couple of years before my mom. He was one of - god - five kids, and my mom was one of three. Imagine having this many mouths to feed during the throes of the Depression, and you've just summed up what it was like for my parents.

Tumble and my mom married back in 1949, and my big brother was born over a year later... in other words, they got married 'cuz they wanted to, and not 'cuz they had to. He loved my mom a great deal, and he worked his ass off to get to make lives comfortable for them both. As he's told me numerous times over the years, my mom was the love of his life, and he never got over her after she left him when one of his dalliances hit a little too close to home.

I came along way after their divorce in '68... he was married to someone else by the time I came along, in other words. I wasn't his, and everyone knew it, but they all loved me as if I were a part of the family. This is a man who stepped up to the plate as much as he could over the years, even when my mom wouldn't let him. During the holidays, he'd always make it a point to make time just for me - even though I wasn't his kid... the magic tricks he'd do, like pulling a quarter from my ear or making a card just appear outta nowhere. (I still swear up and down that David Blaine ain't got shit on him!) He's always made me feel special, and I love this man in a way that I really don't know how to express.

Recently, he's been ill. He's 75 years old, and winding down. He's just as stubborn as he was 60 years ago, and even though we're not biologically related, I think I inherited that from him anyway. He's been in the hospital since early December, and was recently transferred to a nursing home. It's killing him, and honestly, it's killing me. When I went to the hospital last to see him, he was sleeping - fuck, up until about 2 weeks ago, I was seeing him daily, even if he didn't see me, because he was sleeping.

I guess now's the time to be a daughter... and this is where I'm retarded. You see, I honestly do not have the slightest idea on how to be a daughter. I can be a girlfriend, a wife, and a mother. I can be a friend, and I can be a fuck buddy... but this is a whole new territory for me.

Why am I talking about this now? One, I needed all of this to settle in. Two, really... I didn't know how to deal with it. This is the strongest man alive, and he's now bedridden for the most part. This is the same guy who would play the "Boogie Woogie" on the piano for me, just 'cuz I asked... or who'd leave with a minute's notice to go grab some greasy fries and split a draft with me when I was having a bad day.

In other words, I didn't realize how much of a dad he's been until this afternoon when I was talking to him on the phone, and he told me that he was just talking about me - bragging - about how proud he was of me... and that he was excited about our upcoming "date" on Saturday when I go hang out with him for a couple of hours.

Maybe I'm just a little bit emotional today, maybe it's the Dog Star being aligned with Pluto, but dammit... I love my Dad. I think I just needed to say that.

to serve man... it's a cookbook!

I'm trying to come up with something to write about, so I'm winging it here.

Bear/bare with me. I just got off work. I'm tired, wired, and winding down.

Tonight, at lunch, I went to the infamous Awful Waffle for dinner... my friend/co-slave, Susan, and I desperately needed somewhere to go sit, drink coffee, and smoke indoors. Where else to go but this place, you know?

I really like Susan - she's cool. She's funny as shit, and has more ink than me & the husband put together. We both share an addiction to Marlboro and caffiene, and a dislike for pushy salespeople... you know, like what we're in training to be.

Susan's my hero, and when I grow up, I wanna be like her. She goes to school fulltime (from 7-2), learning to be a medical assistant (see photo), and works 'til midnight with me. She likes people much more than I do, hence her wanting to make 'em better after they do dumb shit like getting getting kicked in the head by horses and getting concussions or walking into window unit air conditioners and getting concussions. (Not that I know anything about that.)

Hmmm... what else? Oh, ummm... to add to the hair drama, I've taken it upon myself to go a wee bit darker. Like, almost black kinda darker.

Here ya go:

sorta haircut pic

I cut my hair the other day... in fact, a whole slew of 'em.

It's not a good pic, but it'll have to do. It's shaved with a #3 in the back, so it looks like a duck's ass from behind.

So... there. Fuckin' happy now? :)

(Oh, yeah. I have no makeup on, so, umm, sorry.)

my anti-sex psa for the day (i'm way too young for this)

The Girl strikes again... that's how I'm gonna start this out.

This afternoon, about five minutes - literally - before I clocked in at work, I recieved a phone call from my teenaged daughter's school.

"Hi, is this Jessica's mother?"

"Yes... is she okay?"

"Well, that's what I was going to ask you... she's not here. Again."

Needless to say, The Girl has decided to skip school. Again. And the very best thing about it? (This is sarcasm, by the way.) Why, she got kicked out, of course... I don't think my calling her Assistant Principal a prissy, uptight bitch helped matters much, but at least I feel better about it. Oh! Oh! Plus, as an added bonus, I get the wonderful treat of getting a fine from the State of Texas for every single day she does not attend school... any school... but the one that she was kicked out of. Today.

Upon learning of this, The Girl took it upon herself to determine that not only was I lying to her about this - because, yeah, that's what moms do - I was intentionally trying to drive her crazy. Ummm... yeah. Per The Girl's information, you can't get kicked out of school until you're 17. (I'm sure that she did a lot of research on that one.) Oh, my absolute favorite part of the quasi-conversation with The Girl? It was when she said that she planned on my purchasing her a car so she could commute 35 miles per day to and from school... oh, and that I was going to endorse a hardship license for her.

And the color of the sky in her little world is what?!

I really, really love my daughter. Don't doubt that. Please. But I'm startin' to think that I might be a little too young to be the mother of a teenaged girl.

Which leads me to the Public Service Announcement of the day:

Kids, don't have sex. You'll end up with a teenager.

not a mom post... kids, don't try this one at home.

Well, it's been over a week now and I guess I can talk about it since it's, well... in the past.

Not too terribly long ago, during what I refer to as mine and Sparky's, ummm... bad period... he went out with a hairdresser friend of his for a couple of drinks. She brought a friend of hers with her, because when you're married, you don't go out with someone of the opposite sex as a twosome - you've always gotta have that third party, right? (That's what I do, anyway. Keeps it kinda neutral that way.) It wasn't in a sexual way by any means, it was a couple of friends going out for margaritas and airing out problems... again, totally innocent. He needed a woman's point of view on some issues he and I were having, and she, being a good female friend, gave him very good advice on how to handle "women's issues". (I don't know her very well, but she's good people... and I have absolutely no issues whatsoever in him hanging out with her.)

During the margarita experience, Hairdresser's friend and my husband exchanged numbers for the possibility of all of us hanging out in the future, as she's engaged and we simply do not have enough married/coupled friends to hang out with - you can never have too many friends, right? Again, perfectly innocent.

A few nights later, around 1am, Sparky's phone rings. It's Hairdresser's friend. Calling my husband. At 1:00 in the fucking morning.

Apparently Hairdresser's Friend, whom I have since named "Soul Sucking Cunt Bag Whore", needed a shoulder to cry on after getting a really bad haircut... and who seemed to be the best shoulder to cry on other than my very own husband?

One can only imagine the sheer magnitude of the fight that ensued shortly thereafter, which prompted my decision to simply cut my losses and hope for better opportunities, somewhere along the lines of becoming a man hating lesbian and perhaps performing a mastectomy on this woman with my own two hands. In other words, it wasn't pretty, to say the least.

I'm not a jealous woman. Seriously. I've been in more open relationships than, well, Hugh Heffner and most people in "loving, healthy relationships", but dammit, this man just brings out the green eyed monster in me. I love him... god knows why, but I love this man. Terribly... as in, "what the fuck would I do without him in my life" kind of love.

Sick, huh?

Needless to say, Sparky called her up a couple of days later - on his own accord, and without my knowledge - and basically told her to lose his number, that he simply did not need a "friendship" like she was seeking.

We're doing better now. I hope. The fights - fuckin' gone. Maybe we needed this shit to happen in order to realize what the hell was going on... I dunno. On one hand, maybe I should thank Soul Sucking Cunt Bag Whore... but I still wanna beat her down like a pimp who's been short changed by one of his ho's.

Oh, well. I feel better now.

by the pound

I cut all my hair off.

Here's part of what landed on the floor:

We measured it... the longest part was nine inches long.

Yeah.

the unspoken dangers of laser tag

This past Monday night, we all decided to observe Martin Luther King's dream by going out and shooting unknown people, all in the name of fun.

I won't go into dreary detail, but it was... okay. I somehow cut my hand, which led the group of us to believe that I was experiencing stigmata for a couple of minutes, but nothing else exciting happened.

Fast forward to Friday night, at work. I'm sitting there, in training, and notice that my entire right arm is covered in bright red streaks... almost like someone was painting red freckles, but the paint was running. In other words, it wasn't pretty. I was running a fever, and basically felt like death warmed over in a microwave that happened to be unplugged in the middle of the cycle.

Next thing I know, I'm in the emergency room and being diagnosed with a STAPH INFECTION!

Needless to say, the cut got infected, and with my immune system being down from other medical crap, apparently I'm susceptible (sp) to all kinds of fun little germie germ-germs.

Oh well.

Next story: Full Contact Bingo.

this is a true story

Tonight, I was taking a couple of assessment tests to see where, exactly, I stand on outstanding customer service. Well, I didn't exactly fail the tests... they would just send me back to a screen that read "YOU DID NOT PASS THIS PORTION OF THE ASSESSMENT... PLEASE HAVE THE ADMINISTRATOR RESET FOR ANOTHER TEST".

Vicki, the trainer, finally voiced an observation after the 3rd or 4th reset: "Tami, you've got a few years of call center experience under your belt. What did you do when you had a customer who was dissatisfied with their service? How did you help them back then, back in the day?"

"I sent them to customer service."

ironic moment (we can blame the night shift, or pms)

I admit it. I still check up on someone from time to time, someone from my past (a platonic former friend so get your mind out of the gutter), to see how they're doing... and admittedly, get a little giddy if things aren't going perfect for 'em.

Kitty, if you're reading this, congrats on the big girl job. You and Lily deserve a good turn in life for once.

Other than that, yeah... I'm still fuckin' pissed at you.

an odd update, of sorts... things take a strange turn - but nothing surprises me anymore. (except beastiality... i'll never understand that one.)

It's 1244 and I just got home from work.

It's not as bad as I thought it would be initially... I mean, maybe it was the original trainer, but it's not quite as bad. I... I think I might actually like it there.

Walking in this evening/morning, and seeing my daughter in the living room, on the computer creating codes that would probably make Einstein's head spin and as jittery as a crack addict (DAMN YOU STARBUCKS! DAMN YOU!), all the while on the phone and - you guessed it, watching MTV - the first thought in my mind was: Damn. I'm a mom again! The second thought in my mind, however, was: Damn. I'm a mom. Again. And... she's awake. On a school night.

Fuck.

Anyway, she's getting in bed now, Sparky's passed out, and I'm winding down, dreaming of a day off... any day now. It's been - god - 17 days now without a day off. At first juggling two jobs then down to one, and the days off were not in sync... yeah, it's been 17 days now. I'm tired.

So, what with everything going on, Sparky and I had a time to talk before I went to The Job. Yeah, we've got some issues... and some shit that really does need to work out. Some of it ain't pretty, but some of the shit - well, molehill is an exaggeration, at best. We're gonna give it another shot, and we've gone as far as an actual clean slate. Literally. As in, "What the hell do we have to lose?"

I mean, it's not like we'll lose sanity... fuck, that's what brought us together in the first place. That, and a mutual appreciation for Tupperware parties and midget tossing. As long as The Kids approve, then I'm for it.

Hell, at least I still get to play Bingo.

my family life: a statistical deviation of the norm

Y'all have probably been wondering where the hell I've been the last few days... and I guess I can share. I mean, I'm amongst friends, eh?

Lots and lots of stuff has been happening as of late, and I've been sitting here watchin' it all happen. Here it is, four days and many pots of coffee later, and I'm still sitting here wondering what in the hell is goin' on... but at least now, I've got a plan of some sorts.

Um, I think.

So, Sunday, The Girl called me up to inform me that her bio-pop, Satan, Jr., has decided to kick her out. As in, literally kick her out of the house. Apparently, he was given an ultimatum by his wife, Chinchilla Sr., that it was either her or The Girl... and being the loving, caring husband that he is, of course he chose his wife - who is rumored to be half Sasquatch.

During this time, Sparky and I've been having problems. For those of you in the know, it doesn't really come as a surprise... in fact, I think a couple of people had placed bets on how long this would actually last. Long of the short of it, he and I have decided to sorta separate, but remain together. Just under separate roofs. But in the same complex... but not next door to eachother. It sounds fucked up, but... we're gonna make it work. Even if it kills him, we're gonna make it fucking work.

So, here's how it's gonna be. The Girl is coming to move in with me, as well as The Boy (well, 3/4 of the time, anyway). She's currently staying with a friend for the next three weeks while she continues going to school out there, then once the apartment is ready, she will have to transfer out this way. She's given me her word... and I almost made her sign a promisory note in blood, but thought that may hinder the mother-daughter trust bond, so thought better of it.

I'm trying to remain positive about everything, and the one thing that's been keeping me going for the last couple of days is this: I miss my kids... I miss being a fulltime mom. I'm looking forward to this, and though it's a double edged sword - when the kids and I move into our new apartment, my husband will be moving into his - for the time being, it's for the best.

It is, right?

more real life calculus

So, it's 0546 on a Saturday morning... I worked until after 9 last night, got home, and after the initial winding down period, passed out sometime after 11. It was nice... I was sleeping like the dead.

Good times, man... good times.

Then, at roughly 0215, the tv pops on. I roll over the far edge of the bed, and drift back into unconsciousness. (Fuck, it's warm in here!) Sparky then determines in some sort of mental calculus that is only decipherable by guys who've been out all evening with The Guys that my stirring must mean only one thing:

(tired woman+sleeping soundly) + (stirring in sleep + kicking off covers) = insane love fest

Needless to say, I've been awake since 0215... and in a rather pissy mood, to boot. Though Sparky apparently did not appreciate my choice of words when I was roused (not AROUSED) from slumber (I think the universal phrase "Leavemealonei'mtryintosleepgoddammit" was used), and the fact that my moving into the living room didn't help matters much, I will say this: I did get to see an old favorite movie tonight (Monkeybone) PLUS realize that the couch is MUCH more comfortable than the bed.

It's not so bad. I only have to pick The Boy up at 0800, then go to work at noon. Fuck, maybe I'll shoot for some phenomenal overtime and really give some outstanding technical support!

sniff

Today was one of those days that gave me a little time to reflect on things from the past, as well as things to look forward to in the future.

I was talking to The Boy on the phone this evening, and listening to him tell me all about his latest favorite movie (Madagascar, for those who care to know) and how much he wants to show me this penguin... when all of a sudden it really hit me: my baby's growing up. It was just yesterday that we were all in the living room, watching tv, and he was sitting in Ponch's lap when he decided to utter his first word - "Dada". It was just a few hours ago that he was taking his first steps - and going face first into the coffee table - and now he's getting ready for preschool. He's talking, running, and being an all American boy.

I can't wait to move... shit, three more weeks and he's back home. For good. I don't know who's counting the days more - me, or him.

Speaking of my children, I was talking to The Girl today - past the latest episode of her antics, thankfully - and she was literally Little Miss Chatterbox. And in a good way... again, thankfully. I miss her terribly, and wish she'd just come home, but for the time being, perhaps she's better off remaining in the school district of her choice (ie: Daddy's). I don't know; all I do know is that she's almost back to normal - again - and I'm hopin' it stays that way.

Yeah... riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

As far as Ninja Joe goes, he's off visiting his father for the weekend. One day, I might actually open up a bit more about him, but for the time being, I'm keeping it to myself. Ninja Joe did request that I post a hello for him - so, hello from Ninja Joe - and that he's having a blast, but other than that, I'll be a nervous wreck 'til he gets back home.

Well, that's about it as far as the chronicles of SPTAM goes, and as exciting as it may seem, trust me... it's a lot less tame than it really sounds. I mean, I do glamourize it somewhat simply for entertainment purposes.

'kay.

Bye.

rainman is my hero

It's once again almost 2 in the morning, and I'm winding down from yet another wonderful and exciting day.

Oh, joy.

I came to a realization this evening in class - you know, the training that I'm in for the new job - and this epiphany occured somewhere around the time the trainer gave me the dirty eye when I said that I was bored. Actually, there's more story to that - long of the short of it, we were given roughly three whole hours to learn a new program... and I figured it out in roughly four minutes. For the remaining 176 minutes, I created bogus accounts with features that we had yet covered in training... and it apparently pissed the trainer off.

"Why did you give Bogus Customer the Road Assistance plan AND the Loss Protection Plan? We haven't covered it in training yet!"

"I was bored and was about to go postal if I had to give the same plan to someone else. Again. But if you look closely, I added sub-accounts and charged them correctly..."

"We haven't covered those additional services nor the addition of sub accounts yet." (She was pissed.)

Long of the short of it, I'm arguing with the queen savant over something for which an argument is not warranted... and she's pissed because I figured out the entire fuckin' program in less than five minutes. And I'm bored, to boot.

I'm done. I need something challenging. Fuck it.

things i must share or combust spontaneously (another midol moment)

It's Day Four of the New Job... it's killing me.

No, no... don't get me wrong - I mean, don't jump the gun or anything. I mean, I know it's not the trainer's fault or anything, but DAYUM.

Lemme 'splain. Break it down in intelli-speak.

Basically, the curriculum for the particular training class that I'm in was designed for people who are recent graduates for the local GED chapter. I mean, JESUS CHRIST ON A POPSICLE STICK! We spent two fucking hours alone on what I've dubbed the "common sense" class. Two hours of my life went by... and I missed it. It really would have been more entertaining had Ben Stein been the speaker. Really.

Two hours tonight solely dedicated to the basics of customer service... complete with "empathy statements" - one of which includes the line: Personal issue or good news - "I'm sorry to hear that" or "Congratulations". (Personally, that one was my favorite.) Again, don't get me wrong, but... they hired the entire lot of us for this particular division, due to our experience in customer service and professionalism; why in the hell do they feel that we need a remedial course in empathy? Or for basic customer support, for that matter?

Wait. I know what you're thinkin'... me in customer service - if that's not an oxymoronic statement, then you don't know what is. Right? (Yeah, what the hell ever.)

I'm just trying to understand something... previous jobs, I've been thrown to the lions after two weeks of learning roughly 17 programs AND a new operating system... issued a weapon after only five days of training... fuck, I've TRAINED people in how to perform outstanding customer service! And now I'm relearning the basics, down to how to "Alt-Ctrl-Del" (yes, I shit you not, it's not the other way around) and just how to sound like a Stepford Rep.

I don't know. Maybe I was just expecting a pace a wee bit faster than what it is now. Perhaps I was expecting to learn how to work in the internal software, or maybe - just maybe - even be allowed to check my email. (Editor's note - it's rumored to be a four hour presentation sometime during week three.) It just feels - here's some empathy - as if my intelligence (at this point, increasingly limited) is being insulted here. Either the training department needs to rethink their curriculum as far as who's in their classes, or... god, I don't know.

God, either I'm too advanced for the class, or I've just got pms. Again.

I dunno. I'm gonna go look at more dirty Spongebob pics now.

name that mongloid! (sorta caption contest... post one if you wanna)

I borrowed this one from Todd, but I don't think he minds. (I mean, he hasn't sent out Guido to bust my kneecaps... yet.)

If there were an actual caption contest, what exactly would this say?

"Dora recovers from ssthecret reconsthructive thurgey!", or better yet... "Sleeeeeeep, Timmy, yesssss... we'll see you in your dreams..."

hey, tell kevin spacey i'm payin' it forward

The red line was beginning to lean on the wrong side of "E", and I was about 25 miles from home... bein' a little bit broke, I rummaged what change I had - down to the pennies in the bottom of my purse - and came up with a little over $1.70, but that would get me home. Hopefully.

I walked into the 7-11 over off 183 in Fort Worth, half past midnight, and non-chalantly walked up to the counter, prepared to pay what I had in order to avoid spending the night on the side of the road. Smiling, I apologetically gave the cashier what I had and told her - in a joking way, of course - "Put it all on pump number 1!", with about as much gusto as someone buyin' a lotto ticket who happened to be positive that it was The Ticket.

"Honey, is that enough to get you home?"

Huh?

"Oh, yeah... I'm pretty sure... my husband's asleep and won't hear the phone... I'm fine... thanks," I say, trying to reassure this lady that I'm on the up and up, that I'm... okay. Or at least try to be, anyway.

"I've got a couple of dollars, if you need it," she says, almost trying to force this extra gallon of gas on me.

"No. Trust me. I'm gonna be okay. In fact, I promise you I'll be fine. I'll even call you when I get home!"

"Are you sure, honey?"

Half laughing, I reply with, "Yes, Mom... I'm fine." I lean over to give her a hug, then head for the door. It's late, and I'm tired. Then, as I open the door, I hear these words:

"Put five in her tank! And you - I'm not taking no for an answer!"

"But-" I try to say in protest... and instead, I get, "Hush!"

"'kay."

After pumping the gas, I get back in my car. I turn it on. The radio's playing a song I haven't heard in a while. Amazingly enough, it seemed pretty fitting... expecially if you knew the whole story. It's been a bad couple of months, and I've been wavering a lot lately. It hasn't been totally pretty in TamiLand, to say the least.

But I digress.

The name of the song? Oh, it's fuckin' corny, but also pretty fuckin' fitting, if you ask me.

"Something to Believe In".

it's really because i'm a virgo and don't like to watch nash bridges reruns, isn't it?

230 posts.

Dayum.

It's a little after 0130 here in Dallas, and I got off work about an hour ago. I go back to work - the other one - in about 9 hours or so... eh. No biggie. I think.

God, I'm tired, it's been a trying day. (How so, honey bunny?)

Well, first, Sparky woke me up at around 0645 this morning. I don't think he meant to, but still... dammit. As I didn't have to be at work until 3PM, sitting around the house was a bit tiring, to say the least.

I decided to take Sparky's car to work today, and not Ol' Girl, which is a 1990 Camry. He's got like an '05 model or something. Big fucking mistake on my part. To quote Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman... "Big mistake... big, big mistake."

So, as I'm bargaining with the cop over the speeding ticket - seriously, all you do is tap the gas and you're going 70 - I let it slip (okay, intentionally) that I JUST got out of the military as my old ID "fell" outta my wallet... he knocked 10mph off the ticket, at least. (53 in a 35, I guess I can claim dyslexia in this case?) Fortunately, the court'll take a payment plan, so I'll be okay.

I hope.

Then I get another run in with the cops, but this time on the phone, and I'm at work. In training. It's for The Girl... she's gone bezerk, and is on the verge of getting arrested for assault on her dad. I talk 'em out of arresting her, talk him into letting her stay there until Saturday morning, and try to get all this done while on a 5 minute "emergency phone break" at my new job. Did I mention it was my second day there?

It's not been a good day.

Needless to say, it's now past 0145, I'm on my second beer, and I think my new underwear has a hole in them already.

Thank god I got that tubal back in 2001.

crazy lil' thing called love?

For those that are followers of the whole TomKat/Scientology craze, this is for you.

If not, then... oh, well.

for shoe boy...

I saw this one and thought of my ex-boyfriend.

Ahhhh... memories.

death, taxes, and partyin' til the cows come home

As I'm prone to saying during times like these... I'm beyond pro-choice, I'm pretty much anti-life at this point. Ahhh, the saying daughters learn from their mothers, right?

What? Huh?

The Girl strikes again... and with a fuckin' vengeance, too.

Turns out Mommy's Little Princess, aka "Sybil", has been skippin' school as of late. Thinks she's all grown up and all that jazz... I've told her once, and I've told her a bazillion times - "you ain't grown til you pay some taxes".

(I'm venting. Deal with it. Now hush!)

I can't believe she's pulling this shit. I really can't. She was doing so well, and now - poof! - she's back at Square One again. Will The Girl come back home? Honestly, I think she's skerred (that's Southern for "scared" for you yankees) at this point... she knows she's fucked up, and she knows she's in some serious trouble. Fortunately, my ex, The Klingon, has decided to let bygones be bygones and is forming a united front with me on this one: The Girl is grounded until she is of college age - that is, if we let her reach college age. (Okay, okay... I'm kidding on this part. But for those of you that are mothers of younger girls - I pray for you. Pick your diety, and I'll pray to it for you, 'cuz you're gonna need all the help you can get. Trust me on this one.)

Anyway, I'm done with this particular piece - I started out all pissed and out of it, and I feel a bit better now. I'm not going to sell her into slavery - as she doesn't do housework, I wouldn't get more than 300 yen for her, anyway - and I promise I'll let her go to college... one that is far away.

Maybe. I dunno.

Damned kids! Gotta love 'em. You gotta.

Right?

SPTAMs bird's eye view of mothering a teen

Ahhhh, yes. Motherhood. The second oldest profession, to quote Erma Bombeck.

What is the true definition of motherhood, to a mom of a teen girl? (Not forgetting about the two younger sons, but that's not the case today.)

Motherhood is:

Always having someone to argue with, no matter how stupid the argument is. It can be about shoe choices, hair color, piercings, politics, and sex. It does not matter - it will always be there, no matter how dull your day is going, you will argue with your teenaged daughter.

Being open enough with your daughter to where she can come to you for anything - again, new shoes, refilling minutes on her phone (even if it is only two days after she filled it - see argument section above), her failing classes (ie: GYM), boys, sex. She will make you cry, but it only hurts for a minute. Remember, if you are not open with your teenaged daughter, you will be open with your teenaged grandaughter... you know where this is leading, I hope.

Always having your very own personal critic, primarily a style critic. Now this can be a double edged sword - if your style is classy chic combined with ripped jeans and nose rings, and your teenaged daughter's style is a combination of Abercrombie and Hot Topic... then you're pretty much screwed. On the other hand, if you're completely clueless to the point to where your idea of looking hot is showing off your latest purchase from the local 'Mart store, then having a teenaged daughter is a GOOD thing (to quote Martha Stewart).

Also, having a teenaged daughter... it gives you hope for the future. They eventually learn to be their own person, and sometimes that person is someone who can teach you a lesson (or five). You may not like this person at first, but you will - trust me. This person will know which buttons to push and when to push 'em, and this person will look amazingly like you. It's eerie... and it's cool. You realize that you made this person, and this is when you decide on whether or not you're going to like 'em or not. This person is either going to be your friend or your enemy... there ain't no in betweens in this case. This is war.

Today, I'm taking my daughter to The Doctor - that doctor - for her first girlie girl visit.

Afterwards, I don't know if I should take her for coffee, or to the local bar for a glass of wine.

God, they grow up so fast.

gotta love midget porn

I stole this from The Smoking Gun and I hope they forgive me...

...but even if they don't, I really don't care.

ironic examples (henry rollins being impotent... being issued random winning lotto numbers, the day after the drawing... my making sense for once)

This morning my phone rang. Who DARED to call me at 8am?!

Kansas City? Geez... who the hell was in KC? First thought in my mind was, "Great. The Girl went and ran off to Kansas looking for the house that fell on my sister...", then the smart half of my brain said, "Answer it, Tams."

It was (name of company withheld). They officially extended a job offer to me. About a 40% increase to my salary now, with better hours and days off... and I deal with business customers phone services, not AOL users 'net services.

Here's the clincher: As much as I bitch about it, I actually like where I'm at now. Of course, I'm not even making $10 an hour yet (haven't made this small amount since about 1997), but I'm learning about networks and all that other shit. I'm around many, many weirdos like myself.

If this isn't irony, I don't know what is. I don't know if I'm in the beginning stages of sufferring from the same illness Patty Hearst did when she was kidnapped and then actually started believing in that cause... but I like where I'm at.

I just wish it paid more.

Goddammit. Stay? Go?

Dilemmas. I hate 'em.

all it took was altoids, 102 languages, and chickenhead finally gets laid

Last night, at work, I took my 2nd smoke break of the day. As I'm still pretty much the new "kid" on the block, I don't know anyone on my new shift, and I generally take my breaks alone. (Insert sappy violin music here.)

One of the few chicks that I work with happened to come out as well, and we're talking... shit, here's the conversation:

"I need to get laid. Dammit. I am horney." (That was her, not me.)

"I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you - at least, right now, anyway." (And that was me.)

"Yeah, all I want is-"

"I have a roomate. He's single. Not looking for a girlfriend. Interested?"
(Where the fuck did that come from? I'm fucking Heidi Fleiss at this point.)

"A fuck buddy? For me? YES!" And then I arranged for a phone call, blah, blah...

I got home a couple of hours later, and prepped Chickenhead for his meeting with what looks to be my long lost protogee, and before I went to bed, Sparky loaded him up with condoms, and I loaded him up with curiously strong mints and cute phrases from various languages that I've picked up over the years; things like, "Your face looks nice" in Arabic, where it sounds like you're hawking up a loogie, and "I want to wash your shirt in mud" in Spanish - hell, it sounds dirty when you say it.

As Sparky was leaving for work this morning (we work opposite shifts - trust me, this schedule is saving our marriage), he woke me up with an announcement... looking like a proud father/big brother, he states, "Our little boy didn't come home last night."

Apparently, the Altoids worked.

shoot 'em and put me outta my misery (a mild rant, f bombs and all)

I support a broadband company that provides 'net service to people who "bring their own portal"... and apparently, I pissed off the tech gods, because the particular "portal" that I provide support for happens to be used by - you guessed it - AOL subscribers.

These people are not smart. I mean, they're not dumb, but they're far from smart.

Maybe it's because half the fucking tech support department called in today (*cough cough i've got strep*), and almost every single person who uses this particular service decided that TODAY of all days would be a GREAT DAY to request assistance in setting up their service.

I think I had Corky's entire fucking family call me at least 20 times. Maybe more.

It took Edith 34 minutes to locate her Internet Explorer icon... and I'm supposed to walk her through a modem configuration and reset of her IP? Nah, honey... it sounds like your computer's breakin' down - might wanna call Dell about that one.

The first four callers I had today were still drunk; my last call of the day, I wished that I had been drunk.

Okay. I feel a bit better now.

Bye!

words escape me right now

Mmmmm... coffee... gee, this tastes great... it's got a bit of a wang to it... what's that taste?

FECAL COFFEE?! You mean people pay $175 a pound for coffee that's been, ummm, "pre-processed"?

This isn't a joke. I thought it was... I mean, I was looking for a good gag to play on my roomate, Chickenhead (I've been putting estrogen in his protien shake powder), and came across this story.

It's true.

Damn.