Crushing It

A short list of brilliant moves on my part over the last three days:

  • Frightened a three year-old with my exuberant exclamations to the point that he said, “Lady, why are you yelling at me?”  Basically, I am this woman.
  • Taught my brother to “make it rain” with his allowance money.  My parents were not as amused as I thought they would be.  Which is to say: at all.
  • Asked same brother if he thought I should have a kid.  “I don’t think so.  You’re on the edge.”  The edge of what, he would not tell me.  But it doesn’t sound promising.
  • Got so sunburned I think I may die.  It hurts AND itches.  I managed to pull this off while wearing sunscreen.  Apparently my pasty self is impervious to normal, over the counter products and I need to wear a beekeeper suit.  Also, this is the world’s most awkward sunburn: my left ear, chest, and knuckles.  MY KNUCKLES.  What fresh hell is this?

But it’s a new week and we’re getting a new roof (holla!) (Jesus, I am so lame) and tomorrow we’re going to see Steve Martin.  Here’s hoping I can squash the urge to scream “The new phone books are here!” the moment I lay eyes on him.  Given my track record of maintaining my shit in the presence of other functional humans, the odds are slim I’ll suddenly be cool.


I am Five Minutes or One Bad Phone Call from Screaming “Get off of My Lawn”

Not to channel Seinfeld too hard here, but what is the deal with people having atrocious phone manners?*  I talk on the phone A LOT for work purposes and am genuinely baffled at how many people just sort of launch into speaking/asking rapid-fire questions without some basic common courtesies like identifying oneself.  The kicker?  I am dealing with people who, on average, are my parents’ age or much older.  Aren’t they supposed to be exasperated with me and my generation and Twitter and whatever?  Maybe as you get older you just give zero fucks about pleasantries and basic manners and just go for it.  If so, I cannot fucking wait to be a crazy old broad who wears weird hats and just says everything and anything on my mind.  That transition should be easy enough: buy some hats.  Done.

In totally unrelated news, I am wearing red lipstick** and my glasses today and am kind of kicking myself for not wearing a pencil skirt and heels because if this look doesn’t scream Sexy Librarian I don’t know what does.

*Here’s where I’d like to pour some out for my mom, a woman who enforced phone etiquette at a young age and would help me practice before I was allowed to answer our home phone.  This was partly due to my crippling shyness, and partly due to her belief that manners are taught and modeled by parents, and you don’t just unleash your young on the world all feral and make them someone else’s problem.

**Revlon Lip Butter in Candy Apple, if you’re looking for a sheer red that’s acceptable for daytime but can be layered for more oomph.  The Berry Smoothie shade is also a nice pink without being too Barbie Sparkle Princess.

Back to Cruel

I’d like to tell myself that the tears are because I’m missing my cat, Mouse, who we had to put down.  Or PMS.  Or just too many feelings about Bubba starting first grade.

To be honest, the last one may be playing a large part in this little breakdown I’m having but not for the reasons you think.  Yes, I hate not being there; and while I’m not terribly nostalgic for his babyhood, it is all going way too fast.  But it’s more than that.

For over six years now I have watched my dad be an amazing father to Bubba.  Exceptional, really, if a bit intense in his focus, but from what I hear that whole helicopter parent/Tiger Mom thing is really in vogue so whatever.  And while I struggled with it at first (seeing him so attentive and present for The New Child while remembering a time when I didn’t have his phone number) I told myself it was certainly preferable to the dad I had.  And I mean it; I would be beyond heartbroken if I saw the little boy I love more than anything have to deal with the same shit I did.  It would be maddening, and that kid deserves better.

Which makes me wonder, “So what the fuck did I do to deserve what I got?”

It’s pointless, of course.  There’s no satisfying or reassuring answer.  And it sure as hell doesn’t feel any better to get upset listening to your own father wax rhapsodic about the importance of parental involvement in the classroom knowing he could have never picked out any of your teachers in a lineup.

What do you do?  I am asking this in all seriousness.  Do you keep subjecting yourself to the torture in the name of family obligation?  Or cut ties to save yourself and start over?  Because hell if I know.


Usually silence on my end is a dead giveaway that shit is bad, but thankfully that’s not the case right now.  I mean, work has been kind of an assache but mostly we have been enjoying our summer and ticking things off of  The Summer Bucket List That Isn’t Really a Bucket List  (next weekend: #11, and the following weekend is #8 and possibly #14) and just…living life.

A quick catch-up on the comings and goings around here over the last month or so:

  • We helped my sister-in-law move a couple of weeks ago and my big contribution was to shout “PIVOT!” anytime someone was on the stairs with a piece of furniture.  I did this partly to make people laugh and partly because I am an unhelpful asshole.
  • In an unintentional attempt to overload my delicate brain with too much violence and psychological drama we decided to see Dark Knight Rises (quite good and kind of makes me embarrassed about the Michael Keaton/Val Kilmer years) followed by True Blood and the last five minutes of Breaking Bad.  What I’m saying here is, I need some sort of detox from fucking craziness.  Maybe a Muppet movie marathon, or YouTube videos of kittens sneezing?  I’m open to suggestions here.
  • I stopped logging into Twitter awhile ago and found I didn’t really miss it, and now it’s been about 2 weeks since I have really checked out Facebook (mostly because I was informed that there were messages waiting for me) and I have to say I’m loving it.  Probably a good thing that I’ve done this just in time for Paul Ryan to be announced as Romney’s running mate because I just can’t even.  I could probably solve my annoyance issues  with some heavy hiding and de-friending but cutting the cord seems even easier.  My profile is still active and all, but I’m thinking about shutting it down, but creating a page for this site like I’m hot stuff or something a for-realsies writer.   Thoughts?  Lame?  A good way to maintain some connections while keeping a little distance?  No opinion, as this totally does not affect your life in the slightest?
  • Speaking of FB, I don’t think I won many fans when I railed against some fellow diners who were letting their children (and I mean CHILDREN, not babies or toddlers) run wild and scream as the parents pour Coke down their throats and act like this is totes cool as Ed and I just tried to enjoy a nice dinner out.  God, we are such entitled assholes, aren’t we?  Recently I found a soiled diaper on our conference room table so my tolerance for any shenanigans from oblivious parents and their precious snowflake children is shot to hell.  Now if you’ll excuse me I need to RSVP for a bunch of baby shower invitations.
  • My love-hate relationship with Old Navy rages on as I continue to ponder why in the fuck an extra-small is too tight but I swim in a small.  Old Navy YOU ARE DRUNK.  I also know that this is an onboxious humblebrag-sounding thing, like  “Oh, I am just too wee and delicate for SMALL CLOTHING” but at this point I don’t give a shit about the label size of my clothes (and believe me – there’s quite a range and I’m cool with it because if it fits, that’s great and there’s no rhyme or reason as to how various brands size their clothing so it’s best to just give in to the madness) but I don’t get why there’s such an insane difference between the two sizes.  THROW A GIRL A BONE HERE, OLD NAVY.  I was so prepared to love you and throw more money at you to show my appreciation for your ads featuring the old school 90210 cast but we’re done.  Ish.
  • Recently I had a dream that Anthony Bourdain cut my hair.  Like, I bumped into him and we started talking and he offered to even out some layers in back.  Truth?  It looked good.  Also, let’s not examine this dream too closely because when I start to it makes my head hurt.

In random family news: my father-in-law is stalling on scheduling much-needed hip surgery while simultaneously refusing to sell off his cattle and downsize a bit so if anyone needs me I’ll be over here screaming into a pillow while stress-eating a box of Triscuits.  Happy Monday!