'Cause suicide is painless
Cowboy boots? Check.
Fatigues? Check.
Bathrobe? Check.
Cowboy hat? Check.
Martini glass? Check.
Now all I need is some vodka and a hot nurse and I’m all set. You can call me
Benjamin Franklin Pierce.
Now, on to business.
Today being Halloween, it raises a grand debate in my newly formed household. My husband absolutely adores Halloween. He loves every ghost and goblin and ghoul, every blood splattered costume and fiendish decoration. I on the other hand, don’t really like Halloween all that much. I dislike having a “holiday” that brings out so much ugliness. Granted, I’m talking superficial ugliness, the monsters and criminals (Freddy etc) and evil (demons and devils) that the holiday always brings about. Regardless of whether it’s a costume or not, I don’t want my children, especially not at a young age (I’m thinking less than 13) to be exposed to so much ugliness, and be taught that it’s all in good fun. I’m not a fanatic who believes that Halloween is Satan’s holiday, but I still am uncomfortable with the thought of teaching my children that portraying ugliness and evilness (which can come in all forms, I’m looking at the person in the Hilary mask) is a fun way to get candy. To me, there’s enough real ugliness in the world, why would I want to bring any of it into my home? My children are going to be exposed to more than their fair share of ugliness and tragedy in the world, short of my locking them away from the TV, internet, radio, newspaper and any outside influence (which in locking them away, would I be creating the very type of horror that I was trying to protect them from? “Mom locks 4 children away in safe room, next on the evening news” Paradox there methinks.).
To me, if my children want to dress up for Halloween, there’s a multitude of roads to take away from the gory, frightening, downright ugly costumes. You want to be a pirate? I’ll sew you a costume. Indian Princesses? Coming right up! Dorothy & Scarecrow? Stewie Griffin? Shrek? Cowboy? All fine and dandy! I’m not even totally against my hypothetical ten year old going as Bela Lugosi’s Dracula or Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein, I’d try to find something else that intrigued them first. But I will not have an adult dressed like a zombie from Dawn of the Dead, or like
this costume worn by one of the people at my office around my children if at all possible, and I certainly don’t want my husband or my child dressed that way.
I’m not trying to tell other people not to dress that way or that they’re bad parents for dressing their children that way. Just my own personal dislike for the glorification of ugliness in my own life, and that it will make life interesting since my dear husband believes the only way to celebrate Halloween is with ugliness and scariness. Boys!
Next hot sports opinion: I hate Santa Clause and will not perpetrate the lie to my children. Baby’s first Christmas at the Junebug household will be mighty interesting indeed.
I’m thinking of writing a book “When mommy and daddy fight over Santa Clause”.
Love,
Junebug
Monday, monday, can't trust that day
It's 6:23 pm and I'm still at the office.
The Beast had to go to the vet and recieved $225 worth of examination, shots, and 4 different medicines.
I slept for about 4 hours last night.
There's nothing at home for dinner.
Yet another day has passed without me calling to set up the date for painters to come paint our living room before Christmas.
I'm having to cobble together a last minute halloween costume to wear to work tomorrow. I'm going as Hawkeye Pierce. Original, I know.
Here's hoping Tuesday is better than Monday.
TGIF
Why running home at lunch sucks:
1 – I wasn’t really running home to have lunch, I was running home to meet the garage door repairman, but I was using my lunch hour to do it. Score 2 points for eating a granola bar in the car.
2 – I tried to be efficient and use my time at home wisely to do some things that needed to be done around the house, rather than sit and watch TV like I wanted to do.
3 – While emptying the dishwasher, I was putting pots in the cabinet and raked my knuckles down the cheese grater lurking in the back corner.
4 – The Beast went outside to play, and trying to be a good owner, I went with him. Rather than play though, he had in mind to find the one muddy spot in the yard, paw around a bit, and then come and jump on me and my white shirt.
5 – Having to change my shirt prompted me to change out the laundry, only to discover that I washed my brand new, dry clean only sweater. I’m an awesome laundress.
5 – The garage door repair that I thought was covered by my home warranty wasn’t covered because it was the door that was broken, not the opener. That’s $150 bucks out of the budget that wasn’t planned for.
6 – And to top it all off, I went off and left the back door unlocked. Hope that repairman was as ethical as he was good looking.
So, the lesson for the day is this: Make your husband take vacation and handle meeting repairmen, rather than trying to use your lunch hour for a dash home.
In other news:
- It’s blustery outdoors. The wind is gusting at like 40+ MPH, which makes driving a truck fun.
- I’m down to my last pair of jeans that fit. It is now imperative that I lose the newlywed weight, or I will be naked. Which I guess doesn’t sound so bad, but it could make the office awkward.
- We bought a bedroom suite last night, which makes it official. We’re grownups.
- I got a notice saying my car insurance was cancelled, which after several weeks of foul-ups, screw-ups and assurances by the company that I didn’t need to pay that $880 monthly bill they sent me is not totally surprising. So much for having your Grandfather and Cousin as your insurance agents.
- Thanks to the garage door repairs (the track and doors were completely out of alignment and would not raise or lower), the much-needed “date” my husband and I were going to have is now downgraded to picking up take-out and watching the first season of “Dawson’s Creek” on Netflix. Being homeowners is so much fun.
That’s all I’ve got. I’m out for the weekend, as I live in the dark ages and don’t have internet at home. In fact, since my apartment was broken in to in April, I don’t even have a computer at home. AND I don’t have cable, just plain old network tv. I know I know, how do I live? Very nicely actually…I debate having internet, maybe purchased with the impending Christmas bonus, but then I think about how many hours my husband would spend playing Text Twist or Cubis, and I forget the whole idea. So those of you with your wireless internet, well, just remember how lucky you are, and that people can and do survive without it!
Ok, now, I’m really done.
Is it bedtime yet?
I’m awfully tired today. Last night was busy for me…
I left work, stopped at Home Depot and was in and out in under 20 minutes, which is a record for me. Especially since they already have their Christmas decorations out. Christmas is like crack to me, I can’t get enough of it. I love it, with every fiber of my being. And this year, I have a house to decorate!! We have vaulted ceilings in our living room, and I can finally have the 15 foot Christmas tree that I have always wanted…and I get to decorate it. My husband is girding his loins in tremulous preparation for the neurotic anal retentive Elf that I will morph into within the next few weeks. I’ll let you know if he survives.
Anyway, after the H.D., I swung by the house, grabbed my soccer gear, picked up the dog and the husband and headed to Dallas. My Aunt and Uncle had offered us their “old” couch and chair if we could pick them up since their new sectional was being delivered this morning. Never one to pass up free furniture, especially when it’s practically brand new and probably cost more than my first car, I somehow manage to finagle it into our evening plans.
After fighting for a parking spot in the urban hell that is Uptown Dallas, we grabbed a bite to eat at a tapas bar close to the Auntie’s place. The nice thing about snobby Uptown Dallas is that they have an inordinate number of “Pet Friendly” restaurants, which until last month meant nothing to me. Now with the acquisition of the Big Puss (also known as Davie) they suddenly have a certain appeal. So we took the pooch and sat out on the steamy patio and had great food, in a hurry. Unfortunately we didn’t have time to sit back and relax and really enjoy the food, or the Knock-You-on-Your-Ass sangria, since we had places to be and couches to move, but it was good. It felt really odd to take the beast inside a restaurant, even just to get to the patio. He dwarfed most of the inside tables meant for two and could have easily snagged a morsel of anybody’s plate as we walked by, but he didn’t.
After a rushed dinner, we drove around for 10 minutes trying to find the condo that I’ve been to numerous times, and of course my husband was driving. When he drives, my normally stellar sense of direction (bordering on idiot savant status) goes to hell in a hand basket and we spend most of the trip yelling at each other because he can’t drive AND follow my directions and I can’t give him directions nicely enough to suit him.
Eventually though we found it, loaded the really nice couch and chair into the truck, and then were gifted with the coffee table and end table to match, as well as the area rug (which probably cost more than my current car) they didn’t want. Thanks to my aunt and uncle, we have nearly furnished our house in very nice, if slightly used furniture and accessories. It’s great! I know some people would turn up their nose at “hand me downs”, but having grown up on yard sale clothing, a year old piece of furniture from one of the swankiest boutique’s in Dallas doesn’t phase me a bit.
After we wrangled all the furniture into the truck, we bungeed it down, said a prayer and got on a raceway headed for a soccer field on the exact opposite side of the world from Dallas. I ran around like an idiot for 45 minutes, got muddy, got fouled, got tired, and finally got home around 11:30 last night. By the time I got cleaned up, let the dog out, and got in the bed, it was well after midnight, which prompted me to start being cranky and dreading my alarm this morning in an pre-emptive attempt to get it all out of my system before I woke up this morning.
This morning I was sore, cranky, scratched, bruised, and even more tired. AND I woke up thinking it was Friday. That hurts. I'm also sad to report that my pre-emptive strike did nothing to help my humor.
I will be glad when it is Friday, and infinitely happier when it is Saturday. I’m getting old.
"Today is gonna be the day"
Today I had lunch with a dear friend I used to work with. When I left my previous job in May, leaving her behind was one of the hardest parts. She was the only way I had survived in such a horrible place for as long as I did, and was my daily confidant and sounding board and the one person who in the midst of misery could make me smile while I was at work.
Our offices are only 15 minutes apart, our homes are only 15 minutes apart, yet we still have only seen each other 2 in the last 5 months, today making the 3rd lunch date. Why we live and work so close together and can’t seem to make time out of our “real” lives to get together, I haven’t quite figured out. It makes me sad, but obviously not enough to change things, at least not yet. Today though, it really hit home how much I miss female companionship and friendship.
After a wonderful lunch of gossip, laughter and promises to hang out, I braved the humid drizzle and drove back to my office. As I was sitting at a light, I turned the radio up to hear what used to be one of my favorite songs, and one that still makes me think.
WonderwallI’ve never quite known what they meant by a “wonderwall”, but I’ve always used it in conjunction with the line about saving me. People in my life that have saved me from something (usually from myself) become my wonderwall. When I stop to think about my wonderwalls, they don’t stack up like I imagined they would. Sure, people like parents and friends save me from making mistakes on a daily basis, but the ones that really have made an impact in my life, the ones who have saved me from making mistakes that I might never have recovered from, weren’t who I thought they’d be.
My best friend growing up that I loved with all of my heart since I was 8 years old, he never loved me back the way I wanted, and he broke my heart. But he was my wonderwall. He saved me from marrying the wrong man, from settling for less than what I deserved. By being the standard to which I held all other men and relationships, he saved me from making some of the biggest mistakes of my life. And he never even knew it. When I met my husband, I knew he was the one. He was the only man I had ever met who made me forget about the friend I held so high and “loved” so much.
My ex-boyfriend who I never really and truly loved that I rejoiced when I broke up with, he saved me from myself. He was my wonderwall at a time when I needed someone to protect me from the demons in myself, someone who watched out for me and protected me when I couldn’t protect myself. If it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t be alive today. I always felt badly that I couldn’t love him, after all that he had done for me, but he will always be my wonderwall.
My dear friend and co-worker who I had lunch with today, she’s been my wonderwall on more than one occasion. An ill-advised, on the rebound office romance gone bad, she saved me from making a huge post-happy hour drunken mistake that could have ruined more than I ever realized. She saved me from sacrificing a career and a much-need paycheck every 2 weeks when she talked me out of quitting numerous times as I faced utter incompetence and blithe disregard for any manner of professional and ethical rules by various coworkers and managers. She saved me from walking out of a admittedly horrible situation by any standard, and I hated her for it some days. I never appreciated it and I accused her of being just as dirty and underhanded as the administration I fought against. But by her actions, I stayed, and as a result I landed the job I have today. Which I love and enjoy and gives me self-confidence and satisfaction I never knew existed in the 8-5 world.
3 people, who are not my family, or my husband, or my closest of bosom buddies have saved me. They have been my wonderwalls, people I will always be grateful to and for, regardless of our relationship or lack thereof.
Goose bumps
Last night I decided that I would come in to the office early this morning, so I set my alarm, went to bed early, and I informed my dear sweet husband of my plans.
This morning, before I was even able to turn off the alarm, my husband (who NEVER gets up that early) bolted out of bed and made a mad dash for the upstairs bathroom. Moments after I heard him thunder up the stairs, the upstairs shower kicked on.
Grumbling foul words and snuggling back under the covers, I debated whether or not I should chance it and try to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom. Our water heater is on its last legs, and has a hard time providing adequately heated water for more than one shower at a time, so I chose to stay in bed and wait him out.
Even though I was the one who wanted to get up early and take a shower. I waited.
And I waited. And I waited. While lying in the bed, trying to stay warm, I watched the clock tick away 22 minutes. Then, I heard something.
The flow of water changed. Could it be? Is he done?
Not even close. I heard the nice neat even flow of water change, and I heard the distinct sounds of water sloughing off a person in sheets and hitting the bottom of the tub.
He had been in the bathroom for over 20 minutes, letting the hot water run, while he wasn’t even in the shower. You know, so the bathroom would be nice and steamy and he wouldn’t get cold.
Realizing my morning was screwed, I got up and let the dog out. Did I mention that our dog won’t do his business unless you’re standing on the back porch(sometimes in your pajamas) watching him?
It was 40 degrees outside. I got cold. I had to take a shower. There was no hot water left. I froze my butt off, and discovered that shaving over goose bumps hurts.
That was how my Monday started, cold and wet.
That’s ok, it was better than how my husband’s day started, or will probably end.
DAR, here I come
Extant
Today I learned that the word Extant means “to be in existence”, as in “those records are extant in the courthouse”.
I also learned who I am today, or at least a small piece of who I am. I learned that my maiden name should have been McCaughtry, and that my great-grandparents are from Chickasaw, OK. I have relatives that I can trace back to England in the very early 1600’s. There was a Colonel in the British Army. A Captain in the Revolutionary War. I’ve seen pictures of a house, still standing, in Maryland that was built in 1758 by a relative.
My paternal grandfather was adopted as an infant, something that I’ve always known as far back as I can remember. His adoptive parents were older and never had any biological children, so his mother died in the late 80’s, he’s had no family save the own he made.
It’s been only recently that my grandmother was able to convince him that for health reasons he should petition to have his records unsealed. We had obtained a copy of the adoption papers that had all identifying information blacked out, which proved to be more frustrating than informative.
We learned that his birth parents were from Oklahoma. We knew that his father was 19 and came home for Christmas break one year and left a little more than fond memories with his 16 year old girlfriend. Though the teens wanted to get married and keep the child, their parents decided that they were too young and the girl, “Lee” was sent to a home for unwed mothers here in Texas.
Today, I know who I am. Where I come from. That I could be a Daughter of the American Revolution if I so choose. I learned that I have Great-Aunts and Uncles, cousins and a heritage I’ve never dreamed of before. I have roots. I have a history.
I also learned that my grandfather, after a lifetime of feeling unwanted and discarded and uncertain of who he really was, is scared. Scared of seeing the siblings he never knew existed. Scared of who they are and what they feel about him. He has to face the knowledge that he will never really know his mother and his father. Imagine discovering your parents, only to learn they’re both dead and gone. He’ll never have the closure of asking why? And of being assured of their love and whether they ever thought of him.
He’s scared. And sad. And uncertain. And he’s a McCaughtry.
Clowns Scare Me
So, like millions of other people in my age demographic I have a Myspace account. I’ve had it for literally years, back before it became the pop culture phenomenon that it is today. I first used it to recover from a less than stellar relationship, by learning that there were indeed other guys out there who thought I was funny and cute. Never mind that most of them just wanted to get in my pants, it helped.
Since then, I’ve used it to track down old classmates from high school, teammates, ex’s, enemies and lately even my siblings. With one away at college, and not living with the others, Myspace has become a great place for me to connect to my younger siblings in a “cool” non-sister like environment. Plus, it’s just quick and easy. It also gives my parents a measure of relief, knowing that whoever else may be watching their kids online, I’m also keeping an eye out. Not that I tattle by any means, most teenage related shenanigans and rants I find pretty amusing or I can relate too. I just watch for things that may not seem quite right, the obscene comment or the “friend” who’s just a little too old. I haven’t come across anything scary yet, strange yes, scary no.
So, what do I mean by strange? How about this picture of my 12 year old sister, taken and posed by my 15 year old sister.
That’s right. Take time to digest the joint rolled out of paper towel and the fact that it’s not really face paint, but acrylic craft paint. Evidently it was a terra cotta pot painting project gone horribly awry. I never did ask what became of the pots.
This just goes to prove several things:
1 – That perhaps I am less responsible for their weirdness than previously thought
2 - They are much weirder than ever imagined
3 – Clowns are perhaps a little scarier than I supposed
Just call me,
Junebug
Allow me to introduce myself
I am Wylie Coyote. Genius.
I've been a daughter for 24 years. I've been a sister for 19 of those and an employee for 6.
I've been a wife for 6 months, a house owner for 4 months and dog owner for 1 month.
I’m bossy, insecure, demanding, anal, controlling, sarcastic, sometimes intelligent and occasionally funny.
But who am I? I don’t know. I do know this:
I’m the girl who got a Carebear for her 2nd birthday from the grandfather I never got the chance to know.
I’m the girl who lived on a ranch, in a houseful of boys whose parents didn’t love them enough to take care of them, so mine did.
I’m the girl who lived below the poverty level in Birmingham, Alabama, where a running car and food were a blessing, not a right. Central heating and air conditioning didn’t exist in my world. I’ll always remember creaky floors, frozen pipes, kerosene heaters, rooms without doors, vegetable gardens and playing outside.
I’m the girl who told my parents that my life was just fine till my brother came along. And when my sister came along. And when my other sister came. And the next sister. By the time the last brother came along, I was 16 and decided siblings were kinda cool, even if there were 5 of them.
I’m the girl who ran into a parked car while running backwards down my street. I also said “brrr, I’m dizzy”. Hey, we all make mistakes.
I’m the girl who fell in love at 8 years old, and enjoyed having my heart broken for the next 12 years.
I’m the girl who wanted to be anywhere but under my parent’s roof, who chafed and fought and longed to be free. I learned a lesson, one that I just finished paying off of my credit cards in April, 5 years after I moved out.
I’m the girl who got an engagement ring for my 20th birthday, and gave it back 6 months later. That I gave it back and called it off showed that maybe I was more mature than we could have hoped, but if I’d been really mature, I never would have taken it in the first place. One of those irritating live and learn situations.
I’m the girl who can’t and never has been able to do the “Spock”. You know, “live long and prosper”? My dad has always found this amusing, and has been known to lead my entire family in taunting me with their perfectly separated fingers.
I’m the girl who’s parents are still together after 26 years of marriage. Most of those 26 years were harder than not, fraught with no money, no time, no job, 6 kids, no house, getting a job, getting a house and growing old. Surprisingly, the years filled with money and security didn’t always make married life easier, instead it brought it’s own set of obstacles.
I’m the girl who wanted to have all of my 4 children by the time I’m 30. I’m 24 ½, with no kids. With 5 ½ more years to churn out 4 babies, I’m crossing my fingers for twins.
I’m the girl who’s best friend is in Africa, fighting for the orphans of Sudan, fighting to give them food and shelter, education and love. Sometimes, she fights for their lives, battling malaria, meningitis, famine, drought and rebel armies. I pray that one day she doesn’t have to fight for her life.
I’m the girl who bought a house, where the upstairs AC didn’t work. In July, In Texas. It was a hot summer.
I’m the girl who has always been able to take or leave animals of any kind, and yet now I have a Great Dane who I spoil rotten. If I could get him to stop slowly edging me off the couch when we nap, I’d be happy.
I’m the girl who wasn’t crazy, just a little unwell in 2003. I’m better now. I think.
I’m the girl who met my husband at a Super Bowl party. He was there to hit on another woman. She never showed. I don’t think it was a coincidence.
I’m the girl who got my heart broken but hung around anyway, because I believed in him. It could have turned out like so many other stories, girl waits and waits and waits around on a man who never grows up or never treats her right, but it didn’t. I don’t think it was a coincidence.
I'm the girl who married the right man for me, a man that I would have never picked out of a crowd or based on his likes, dislikes, strengths or weaknesses. Nevertheless, he's perfect for me. I don't think it's a coincidence.
I’m the girl who loves my family, loves my husband, loves God, loves my job, and yet sometimes feel sad and alone. I’m sure no one else has ever felt this way before.
I’m the girl who wants to do something in my life that is noteworthy. I think I’d like to be a writer, but I read and read and read, and I never find something that makes me think that I could write anything half as interesting. And that's saying something, since I read some really crappy stuff.
I’m the girl who would like to have a hobby, but have yet to find something that entertains me more than TV or a book. Sewing sometimes amuses me, but not as often as Gilmore Girls.
I’m the girl who hopes to one day be a good wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and maybe normal.
I’m a girl they call Junebug.
