Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Nature's Reclamation

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

I'm so far behind on Graveyard Dirt shit my ass ain't even laughing anymore. I've got so many things to show you, so many fucking stories to tell and projects to talk about and jokes to mess up and mad-brilliant-stupid ideas to tentatively explain and photos that perfectly - PERFECTLY! - illustrate all of the above (well, in most cases). And HOW do I decide to tackle this monumental undertaking? By writing about our (previously) overgrown front yard. (<- You want priories? I got them RIGHT HERE, motherfucker.)

I'll try to keep this yarn short (LOLOLOLOL, I KNOW, I KNOW, LET'S PRETEND I CAN BE SUCCINCT, THOUGH, OKAY?), because some of you might've heard various renditions about a billion times already.

Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, was once the custodian of this house and the property it sits on. What maintenance he could manage he performed himself, and he personally took care of the landscaping and maintaining of said landscaping. About 6-8 years ago he dug up (literally) the entire lawn - and what he didn't manage to dig up he deliberately snuffed with plant killer - and transformed our front yard into a giant dirt pit.

Little did I know that immediately after trashing the front fucking yard (we're talking about an entire fucking yard totally scraped clean of anything green and living) he benched himself. For, like, forever. The destruction of the lawn - and all of the landscaping - was his swan song, and none of us knew it at the time. Because it was early days (in the sense of me assuming a more active, aggressive caretaker role in this house) I didn't intervene, thinking he had some sort of super-big-huge plan I didn't know about (or couldn't see intuitively).

I gave him way too much fucking credit. The front yard - which I eventually renamed "the dirt yard" - sat barren, abandoned and untouched for years. (Okay, okay, that's a half lie; Mr. Awesome, in the first several years of the wasteland's existence, did routinely go outside with plant killer and spray anything green that had managed to seed and germinate itself in his precious dirt lawn.)

Every subdivision has its "crackhouse". Amongst carefully manicured and pedicured pieces of property there's always one fucking house where grass doesn't grow, where garbage (or rusted, partially broken toys and lawn furniture) pops up like prolific fungi and there's usually 1-3 cars, in various states of disrepair, sitting on, or near, the crackhouse. As a kid cycling past on my bike I couldn't help but stare at the community eyesore, wondering what the living fuck the people were on, and how they managed to not give a fuck and bow under silent peer pressure to conform to the subdivision's standards of appearance.

To answer my own childhood questions (seeing as how I'm an unwilling inhabitant of this subdivision's "crackhouse"):

1.) Pot, most of the time.

2.) Some members of this house, the ones who actually execute the final decision on anything (cough, in-laws, cough), didn't see any problem with having a giant archeological excavation site instead of a lawn, parking two broken cars in front of the house and throwing indoor vegetative waste outdoors on barren land (you want shit to stick out? throw gigantic fucking banana leaves onto a flat expanse of dirt and just leave it there like it's fucking camouflaged amongst soil and rocks).

Fed the fuck up with seeing the dirt yard year in and year out I finally decided to do something about it last year - plant motherfucking vegetables. (Why the fuck not? There was a surplus of soil readily available, and it had been something like 6-8 years since my in-laws even touched the naked earth out front and surely something - something the entire family would've benefited from - was better than nothing, right?) The fucking second they saw me disturbing the dirt yard's soil they came racing out to inform me that they were TOTALLY going to do something with the yard THAT YEAR but they just hadn't told either of us (Italics and I).

I didn't buy it. Italics didn't buy it. And if you're familiar with the tale of the trash heap/non-existent BBQ you'll know why neither of us bought it. (Not sure what the fuck I'm talking about? Read this (dig deep! the explanation's there!); everything'll make sense.) The fact that they tried to pull the same bullshit again absolutely blew me the fuck away. In fact, Internet, I was downright insulted with the insinuation that suddenly, after 6-8 years of not giving a fuck about the condition of the front yard, they had SUPER-MAJOR-AWESOME PLANS once they saw ME show interest in the wasteland they had created and walked away from.

I got told they had plans for the front yard. I gave them my best "not even MARGINALLY fucking impressed" Clair Huxtable expression and informed THEM that that was great, but I was growing vegetables in the dirt yard this year and they could do whatever the fuck they wanted NEXT year. (Hey, that gave them an entire year to plan, organize and get their act together so they were ready to go the second 2010 hit. It actually gave them a fucking EXCUSE not to do anything for one whole fucking year.)

Italics' parents wouldn't leave me and my year with the dirt yard alone. I didn't have a moment's fucking peace working outside. Every single fucking time - and I'm not exaggerating here in the slightest - I went outside to clock in one of them would come outside to remind me that they were going to undo everything I did this year. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. It wasn't a matter of IF, it was a matter of WHEN.

("ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLANT VEGETABLES? WOULDN'T YOU RATHER PLANT {INSERT AN UNSUBTLE ATTEMPT TO GET ME TO PLANT WHAT THEY WANTED, WHERE THEY WANTED}?" and "YOU SEE ALL OF THOSE ROCKS YOU'VE BEEN PULLING OUT OF THE GROUND BY HAND FOR SIX HOURS A DAY? KEEP THEM BECAUSE WE'RE GOING TO THROW THEM BACK INTO THE YARD NEXT YEAR.")

While my scraped hands and fingers bled from sifting earth to remove debris and rocks with my bare fucking hands Mr. Awesome would come outside to inform me that every fucking rock I pulled out he was just going to throw "back into the yard" once I was done. And every single fucking time I wanted to shout "MOTHERFUCKER, I'M NOT EVEN DONE PULLING THE FUCKING ROCKS OUT OF THE FUCKING GROUND. AT LEAST LET ME BE DONE WITH THIS FUCKING JOB BEFORE YOU BEGIN TELLING ME YOU'RE GOING TO UNDO EVERYTHING I FUCKING DID. JESUS EFFING CHRIST." but, instead, I got Italics to do it for me (they aren't MY parents).

After one too many "ARE YOU SURE?", "WOULDN'T YOU RATHER...?" and "NEXT YEAR WE'RE GOING TO..." I walked away. Now, of course, I'm sort've ashamed that I let them wear me down, but I was totally unable to derive any enjoyment from something that's meant to be relaxing. I left them their goddamn dirt yard and walked the fuck away. Ultimately, I decided it wasn't worth the hassle I was getting and turned my focus on expanding my container garden in the back.

Take a wild fucking guess what happened. Go ahead. That's right, nothing. They got their effing dirt yard a fucking year early and they did NOTHING. After all the bullshit I went through, the talk of SUPER-HUGE-BIG PLANS and the power struggle this entire household experienced over a bald front yard they decided they didn't actually want to do anything, but, for some reason, they couldn't reach that conclusion until after I threw my hands up in the air, all exasperated, and finally said "FINE, TAKE IT".

(Just between you and me? I think they finally reached the point where they didn't want to piss me off anymore. I know Italics engaged in a shock and awe campaign on my behalf and pointed out previous situations where I was stopped from doing something that'd benefit the house and family because they had BIG, GRAND PLANS that conflicted with my proposal, and in every instance I backed off they never followed through with those BIG, GRAND PLANS and this was just ANOTHER example of their inability to start, let alone finish, something.)

They didn't take the dirt yard, I didn't take the dirt yard, but Nature? Nature took the fucking dirt yard. After beating Mr. Awesome back with a proverbial stick, seeds from various indigenous flora, for the first time in years, actually took root. There was enough "growth" last year to warrant the "lawn" being cut for the first time in nearly a decade. From a not-so-distant distance it actually appeared like we had motherfucking grass, just like all of the non-crackhouse houses.

I don't want to be premature, but...it feels like they've backed off. I mean, like, "HOLY SHIT, SHE'S FUCKING CRAZY, JUST LET HER DO WHAT THE FUCK SHE WANTS AND DON'T MAKE FUCKING EYE CONTACT" backed off. That's cool, that's fine, I'm happy to deal with social rabies if it means my pot smoking ass can (figuratively) move out of the crackhouse. Cause, like, I've got plans, baby. Super huge, terrifically awesome plans - but that's another story for a different day.

With an exception of planting garlic, beets and carrots (the later two didn't really perform well; the front yard faces north so they aren't getting as much sun as they need, at least I'll be harvesting a decent garlic crop) I've otherwise "neglected" the front yard. Deliberately, though, just to see what Nature would sow and give me. And, my fucking God, it gave me lots: pansies, feverfew (WTF? I gave up trying to grow feverfew over five fucking years ago because nothing ever fucking germinated - now I have it growing everywhere EXCEPT the containers I sowed it in!), bellflowers, ragwort, violets, thistle, white clover, buttercups and a host of meadow grasses whose names I don't know.

Much to the chagrin of my in-laws I refused to cut the "lawn". Well, it wasn't an outright refusal, but whenever they complained about the height of the growing grass I'd dismiss their anxieties with a polite "yeah, we're getting to that, we just need to do a couple of things first". I tried REALLY FUCKING HARD not to get pissed whenever my mother-in-law would shake me down with stories about people receiving fines from the council for not taking care of their property, but it was struggle (mostly because she obsessively kept mentioning it).

Holy fuck, dude, if the fucking council didn't fine us when our entire front yard was nothing but fucking dirt and there were two broken cars parked outside next to the exposed dirt I don't think they're going to fine us for some fucking grass that's knee high. I mean, for fuck's sake, how is having an overgrown lawn NOT an improvement of our previous situation? Before we had NOTHING, now we have SOMETHING.

Because I prefer my grass unruly and wild I've allowed it to grow all year long and watched, month by month, as the front yard slowly transformed into a meadow. Eventually the three large rocks dotting the small earthen mound between the rowan and sycamore disappeared beneath a canopy of stalks, leaves and flowers. Eventually the soil was swallowed by green (and yellow and purple and white), and the wildness grew to a height where Summer's breeze rippled through it like a field of shivering wheat.

It was the meadows of my youth where I'd drape white translucent curtains over the bowing seedheads of wild grasses to create an ethereal canopy. And I'd sink - naked (oh, my preference for "naked" goes back a long, long way) - into a sea of green, lying on my back within my nomadic fairy hut, secluded and perfectly hidden in the rich grasslands that bordered our house. I didn't need to drag out curtains to create my sidhe yurt or throw off all of my clothes and sit in towering grass to appreciate - I mean, REALLY appreciate - the view from outside the kitchen window. Seeing it, everyday, was enough. (At least for now, heh.)

The meadow, unfortunately, had to be tamed. We let it grow for as long as possible, but Italics' folks return from the States in about a week and no amount of storytelling ("BUT I CAN'T CUT THE GRASS BECAUSE IT REMINDS ME OF BEING ALL LORD OF THE FLIES AS A KID!") or excuses ("THE WEATHER'S BEEN BAD EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE YOU GUYS LEFT!") will fly. A few days ago I finally harvested the thistle and feverfew and gave Italics the green light to take the rest down. He managed part of the yard, but not all of it.

Later on today I'm hoping to step outside and pick the violets and pansies (to dry the flowers for future witchcrafting) and gather some of their seeds before they disappear beneath the blades of the lawnmower. Once the long grass has a chance to dry we'll gather it up and store it for Christmas, where it'll be spread beneath our kitchen table during Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper", eaten on Christmas Eve) to honor domesticated animals, and then stored away again until Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc) when we'll offer it to local lactating ewes.

Less Than Five Minutes

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

I told my father-in-law off yesterday. (If you can even count six bitchily terse words "told off".) In the kitchen. After angrily unloading the dishwasher. Three hours before my mother-in-law arrived home from work. On Italics' 30th birthday.

This sort've thing? Just kind've happens unexpectedly (at least with me).

In my defense, my statement was completely 100% factual - it really DID take me "less than five minutes" to unload the goddamn dishwasher. He fucking knew it, he stiffly stood at a fucking counter behind my back and awkwardly played with his phone THE ENTIRE FUCKING TIME WITHOUT ONCE OFFERING TO HELP.

"That took less than five minutes."

Six words ignited a flush of panic that surged through the house. (HOLY SHIT, OH MY GOD, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT FINALLY HAD E-FUCKING-NOUGH AND SAID SOMETHING DIRECTLY TO MR. AWESOME'S FACE.)

My father-in-law, having somehow miraculously gotten through life without people calling him on his daily bullshit, almost dropped the phone he was pretending to play with. (If you want to see what "incredulously stunned" looks like, Mr. Awesome does an AMAZING shocked expression when confronted with the prospect that ANYONE could have ANY sort of negative reaction to ANYTHING he's said or done.)

Here's the thing, I only ask THREE things from my father-in-law (two of which require him to do absolutely NOTHING):

01. Don't touch my fucking stuff
02. Don't make up fucking stories about me
03. Help with the fucking dishes

That's all. Seriously. He's not obligated to do ANYTHING else. In the space of nearly a decade has he nailed all three? No. Has he nailed - or at least made a genuine attempt to - just one? No.

(WOULD IT BE TACKY OF ME TO STRESS AGAIN THAT TWO OF THE THREE THINGS I'VE ASKED FROM MY FATHER-IN-LAW REQUIRE HIM TO DO ABSOLUTELY ~NOTHING~ AND YET, SOMEHOW, HE'S COMPLETELY INCAPABLE OF //NOT DOING THEM//.)

(HOLY SHIT, DUDE, YOU'RE THE LAZIEST MOTHERFUCKER I'VE MET AND YET, SOMEHOW, YOU UTTERLY FAIL AT TWO THINGS THAT REQUIRES *NO* EFFORT AND *NO* ENERGY. <- HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN WORK?)

Look, I've learned my lesson. Don't shoot your mouth off on the net about other people in exquisitely hyperbolic ways. (Long story short? One of Italics' family members - an uncle, but only through marriage - developed a questionable interest in me and internet stalked my ass. Fistfuls of journal entries I had written - printed out by him - were forced into my mother-in-law's hands during secret meetings.)

(Everyone knew about it EXCEPT my father-in-law (who Italics' uncle was trying to get to, because I was "saying nasty things about Mr. Awesome on the internet" so it was his "Christian duty" to get involved), and it was only by the grace of fucking God we were spared of that disaster. That, and, shortly after Italics' uncle was rushed to the hospital with spontaneous internal bleeding which nearly killed him; I think the medical episode gently dissuaded him from continuing with his "Christian" crusade.)

When I returned to the world of on-line journaling after a several year hiatus I knew I had to restrain myself and can it ("it" = bitching about my relationship with the in-laws), at least for the most part. (WHAT'S WORSE THAN READING A PUBLISHED LIST OF YOUR PERSONAL FAULTS AND SHORT COMINGS WRITTEN BY SOMEONE YOU LIVE WITH? READING A PUBLISHED LIST OF YOUR PERSONAL FAULTS AND SHORT COMINGS WRITTEN BY SOMEONE YOU LIVE WITH WHO ALSO GOES INTO INTRINSIC DETAIL REGARDING THE HEX SHE'S PUT ON YOUR ASS. MULTIPLE TIMES. <- AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM SUSPICIOUSLY COINCIDES WITH AN UNEXPECTED HEALTH PROBLEM.)

(My slate? Even Cillit Bang couldn't fucking clean it. That motherfucker is tarnished for all fucking eternity, and no amount of "Power Cleaning Crystals" can fix it.)

Internet, Diary, Visitors and Reoccurring Readers, I've deliberately veered away at every understandable opportunity. Me not recording, noting and/or WTFing every bizarre, inexplicable and/or frustrating run-in has been one of my biggest and most impressive exercises in motherfucking restraint to date.

(Wait, no, I take that back - not slapping, decking and spitting on Mr. Awesome has been an impressive exercise in restraint from this temperamental autistic Aries that even God him-fucking-self must've duly noted by now. <- In the near 10 years I've lived with my in-laws I've only been directly confrontational to my father-in-law three, maybe four times.)

I don't lie, embellish or exaggerate things; I find that shit abhorrently pathetic, counterproductive and totally against what I'm - and Graveyard Dirt's - all about. What I AM guilty of, though, is harboring grudges. Combine THAT eternal flame with my devil's talent of wishing ill in the most beautifully creative of ways and I'm back to motherfucking square one, with NEW diary entries being forced into my mother-in-law's hands.

I consciously cooled it - which, admittedly, is a minor tragedy since it deprives the world of "HOLY SHIT, HE DID / SAID / THOUGHT //WHAT//?!" stories - because I didn't feel (and still don't, to some extent) I could untangle myself from the situations in an objective way. Thanks to the only-uncle-by-marriage crisis I learned a valuable lesson: the difference between mercilessly attacking someone until there was nothing left but gristle and cartilage, and laying out my argument in factual blocks lacking any emotional sensationalism.

The thing is, I LEARNED the lesson, but executing the lesson learned IS A LOT FUCKING HARDER so I've deliberately failed to exercise that particular intellectual muscle. (Seriously, can you fucking blame me?) Instead I've compressed every feeling of hopelessness, rage, insult, offense, frustration, annoyance, aggravation, agitation, depression and dis-fucking-belief into a crumbled ball of sweltering emotion and swallowed the thing, every fucking time. (Maybe THAT'S how my stomach valve broke?)

If physically clawing my father-in-law's face isn't a POSITIVE solution, then figuratively clawing my father-in-law's face behind his back in front of a virtual audience isn't one, either. If someone - anyone - confronts me about the content of this space I need to be able to go "...AND?" instead of "...UH, WHOOPS?". (<- IT ONLY TOOK ME THE PROSPECT OF BEING HOMELESS BEFORE THAT PARTICULAR NUGGET OF WISDOM SUNK IN.)

Right.

Now that all of that's been said, and you've been gently spoon-fed some personal history for context: "That took less than five minutes."

In the past few years my father-in-law's developed a habit involving unloading the dishwasher that's left us confused and irritated. As in, he won't if he sees the majority of the dishes aren't "his". He'll open the fucking thing, and if he notices that 60% of the content has no direct connection to him he'll sigh, close the dishwasher and leave it.

(He'll actually go through those motions several time throughout the day, although the sighing gets more and more exasperated when he sees - at every instance - the clean dishes haven't sprouted fucking legs and put themselves away yet.)

My father-in-law has only one obligational chore in this house - chip into the communal dishes effort. That's it. He's doesn't do anything else, he isn't required to do anything else. I've never seen him dust, vacuum, wash units down, clean windows from the inside, disinfect the fridge or take part in efforts that benefited EVERYONE in the house (which means things "washing his own laundry" and "ironing his own laundry" doesn't count because NO ONE ELSE BENEFITS FROM THOSE ACTS).

There are four adults in this house who are supposed to share the one responsibility, but one of the four will excuse himself for reasons unknown and engage in frequent sit down strikes. When he does that the other three - two who have full time jobs (Italics and his mother) and the one who'd LIKE to have a full time job but instead pulled the Cinderella straw which, really, IS a full time job but not the kind she'd like - have to pick up the slack.

There's no nice way of saying this, but - Mr. Awesome doesn't really do anything other than sit around, drink coffee, watch TV and occasionally disappear to wherever he disappears to for 1-4 hours at a time. My mother-in-law is out of the house 7-10 hours a day at work, Italics works four different jobs at home and the majority of my day is dedicated to the running of this house (cleaning, cooking, organizing, feeding, etc).

Everyone OTHER than him has a lot on their plate, and when he's silently protesting whatever the fuck he's protesting even MORE shit gets added to our collective plates. The last thing I want to see is Italics or my mother-in-law having to unload the fucking dishwasher after a ten hour shift because Mr. Awesome was too busy drinking instant coffee while watching daytime television to lend a fucking hand.

As someone who does the majority of the cleaning, cooking, organizing and feeding I fucking FANTASIZE about being in a position where unloading clean dishes was my sole responsibility and contribution to the management of the house. (And it's not like I leave dishes on purpose. If they're done and I have a few minutes to spare I'll unload them - even if I was the one who rinsed them off and loaded them up in the first place. So it's not even a case of everyone's been designated a role they absolutely have to live by, it's more of a free-for-all.)

(Let's be totally honest and totally serious here - putting away clean dishes, possibly the EASIEST job in the world? You don't have to touch a greasy ass sponge, you don't have to scrub off bits of food stuck to plates like motherfucking concrete, you don't have to turn the faucet on, you don't have to get your hands wet, you don't have to dry the sink and the surrounding areas and you don't have to wash your nasty ass dirty dishes hands immediately after. Putting clean motherfucking dishes away has got to be one of the easiest fucking "chores" anyone could possibly fucking do.)

What bothers me most about his "NOT MY MESS!" attitude is his obvious resentment in being forced to participate in an activity that he feels doesn't directly relate or concern him. Look, dude, if you're eating the homemade macaroni and cheese I made, the beef and duck stew, the gingerbread cookies, the lamb shanks braised in homemade tomato sauce, the ribs I've warmed up, the pie I baked from scratch, the cornmeal buttermilk breakfast muffins then THE DISHES USED TO BAKE-COOK-STEW THE FOODS YOU'VE EAGERLY CONSUMED ARE PART OF YOUR MOTHERFUCKING RESPONSIBILITY.

Holy shit, I spent three - THREE! - solid fucking days in the kitchen to make several meals for everyone to enjoy. I thoroughly cleaned the kitchen before I embarked on my culinary odyssey, I thoroughly cleaned the kitchen after I embarked on my culinary odyssey. I washed dishes, loaded up the dishwasher and unloaded the dishes SEVERAL TIMES BY MYSELF to ensure that people didn't feel like I was abusing the system.

I left one 1/2 load of dishes - NOT EVEN A FULL FUCKING LOAD! - and my father-in-law didn't have time do unload them, but he DID have time to enjoy the food I prepared, drink his instant coffee, watch TV, move the cutting board around to the way he likes it and check the dishwasher status several times. (i.e., "ANYONE UNLOAD THIS YET? NO. WELL, OKAY. " *CLOSES THE MACHINE*)

Normally I let his strikes slide - or at least complain to Italics so he can inform his mother that his father has voluntarily timed himself out so she can get him to return to his shared duties - but after three days of standing for 12ish hours a day left me tired, cranky and sore.

"That took less than five minutes."

If I cleaned YOUR fucking kitchen, made several dinners and desserts for YOUR BENEFIT, thoroughly cleaned up after myself and left the room in BETTER condition than I found it and YOU couldn't find LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES to put away a 1/2 load of fucking clean dishes (out of the 4-6 loads that were actually run) and just left them for your wife to do - who works 7-10 hours, five days a week - when she came home? You deserve those six fucking words said straight to your fucking face; end of fucking story.

(OKAY, THAT WAS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN "MERCILESSLY ATTACKING SOMEONE UNTIL THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT BUT GRISTLE AND CARTILAGE" AND "LAYING OUT MY ARGUMENT IN FACTUAL BLOCKS LACKING EMOTIONAL SENSATIONALISM", RIGHT? ...RIGHT?)

Missed Opportunities

Filed under: Life

We don't get out often. In fact, in the past six months alone we had to reschedule the same attempt (i.e., Christmas Eve) four fucking times. It's a combination of bad timing, Italics working four jobs, being nocturnal for half of the month, being ill (between his back, my stomach and his inability to process gluten we're a walking, talking pair of chronic discomfort, pain and suffering) and living from one major disaster to the next.

A lot of those cancellations are a result of OTHER people's actions; they bring illnesses home with them (so we get sick and can't go out), they decide they'd rather do something else (AFTER promising that we can definitely rely on them) or someone - and when I mean "someone" I obviously mean Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law - decides to act like an inconsiderate asshole two hours before we're supposed to leave the house (FOR THE FIRST FUCKING TIME IN MONTHS) by picking a fucking fight with us.

(UNIVERSE, CAN I HAVE A LITTLE HELP HERE? IS TWO HOURS BEFORE MY FIRST BIG "DATE" WITH MY HUSBAND IN OVER A MONTH REALLY THE BEST TIME FOR MR. AWESOME TO PITCH A CRAZY OLD MAN TANTRUM? OUT OF ALL OF THE FUCKING DAYS HE COULD'VE PICKED TO THROW THE ENTIRE HOUSE IN TURMOIL, YOU'RE TELLING ME IT ABSOLUTELY HAD TO BE ON THE ONE DAY WE MADE PLANS FOR TWO FUCKING MONTHS AGO AND THAT NO OTHER DAY WAS SUITABLE?)

(I'VE BEEN STUCK IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS - SEVEN! THAT'S HOW LONG SHAKEY'S BEEN ILL AND DYING! SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! SEVEN WEEKS OF FIVE HOURS OF SLEEP, SEVEN WEEKS OF ALWAYS BEING COVERED IN BABY FOOD, GATORADE, HOMEMADE SOUP, RAT SHIT AND RAT MUCOUS. SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS OF NOT BEING ABLE TO DO FUCKING //ANYTHING// OTHER THAN BE A LIVE IN MAID BECAUSE AN INVALID PET IS SOLELY RELYING ON US TO STAY ALIVE.)

(SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! AND THE ENTIRE TIME I KEPT THINKING "BUT AT LEAST YOU HAVE MARCH 16TH TO LOOK FORWARD TO! AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN TAKE THE DAY AND NIGHT OFF, PEEL OFF YOUR RAT STAINED CLOTHING AND PUT ON SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE A SEXY HUMAN BEING AGAIN. AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN GO OUT WITH YOUR HUSBAND, HAVE A GOOD TIME AND FORGET THAT YOU'RE CONSTANTLY SURROUNDED BY DEATH, ILLNESS AND MADNESS.")

This bullshit? ALWAYS. FUCKING. HAPPENS. Our luck is so shit poor that it borders on cosmic comedy. How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans four motherfucking times? How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans FOR THE SAME FUCKING REASONS?

(WHO THE FUCK GETS FUCKING SICK AND SNOWED IN, HAS TO CANCEL THEIR PLANS, IS FORCED TO RESCHEDULE EVERYTHING ONLY TO GET SICK (AGAIN) AND SNOWED IN (AGAIN) THEREBY HAVING TO CANCEL THE SECOND ATTEMPT FOR THE VERY SAME FUCKING REASONS THE FIRST ATTEMPT WAS AXED? OH, THAT'S RIGHT, US.)

I did EVERYTHING I COULD POSSIBLY DO to ensure that the 16th went smoothly. I worked out a timetable for showers, grooming, hair styling, dressing, make-up applying. We worked out where we were going to eat, where we were going to get dropped off and at what time. We spent the day taking it easy and deliberately distancing ourselves from anything stressful that could toss a spanner in the works.

What the fuck happens two hours before we're supposed to leave for our big evening in town? Mr. Awesome explodes because Italics caught him CLEANING HIS FUCKING DIRTY ASS MUD AND SHIT CRUSTED SHOES with the sponge we use to WASH THE FUCKING DISHES. When Italics asked his father to throw away the sponge he was using and replace it with a new one Mr. Awesome went mental.

(For the sake of my sanity - since this shit is still fresh - I'm going to gloss over everything my father-in-law pathetically wheeled out to try and justify his over-the-top reaction. Basically? Basically I'm a bitch, we don't give him the respect he deserves, this is HIS house, dammit, and if he wants to throw away or touch or break or ruin something - regardless if it's his - he's going to fucking do it, it's MY responsibility to tell him every day what he can or can't touch, and what he can or can't do otherwise he can't be held responsible for his actions, we're constantly causing problems in the house, when the fuck are we going to move out already and no, Ms. Graveyard Dirt, you're completely mistaken about me throwing out ashes that belonged to your mother, and, also, I never threw any garbage, ever, on any of your altars.)

(Internet, I have never had anyone lie so blatantly, lie so fucking BOLDLY to me before, all the while pretending to casually lean against the stove in deluded smugness. I barely managed to restrain myself from spitting directly into one of his eyes and decking him.)

(I abhor liars. Liars are bottom rung scum. Liars are pathetic insecure retards with tremendous illusions of grandeur who lack the mental facilities to engage in a normal argument or disagreement. They spend inordinate amounts of time convincing themselves that they're some sort of intellectual superman whose mental prowess allows them to pull the wool over everyone else's eyes, but when push comes to shove they realize they have nothing to fucking offer than some on-the-fly bullshit they're forced to invent on the fucking spot.)

He went mental over a fucking sink sponge. A part of me still can't believe that something that stupid, that fucking insignificant became the battle of his fucking life. My big night out - the one we've been talking about for two fucking months, the one I almost didn't mention because I was so fucking afraid that if I showed any signs of being excited I'd somehow jinx the evening - got fucking ruined because my father-in-law couldn't handle being asked to NOT throw the sponge back into the sink if he uses it to clean his fucking dirty shoes.

(I know the bigger WTF reaction is "HOLY SHIT, YOU'RE TELLING ME HE DOESN'T APPRECIATE OR VALUE HOW FUCKING UNHYGIENIC THAT IS?", but that's old news here. My father-in-law uses the dish sponge to clean his shoes, the cars (both inside and outside) and whatever else he's managed to get away with because there wasn't anyone there to intervene.)

At the end of the day we still went out, but the night was ruined.

After engaging in a screaming match with my father-in-law I had to put on make-up and I was so agitated that I kept dropping everything on the floor. My hair dried pinned up so I had no choice but to wear it pinned up (which wasn't the original plan), and when it came time to style it it was all limp and static-y and clingy.

(I'm ashamed to admit that the make-up job was the worst I've done in YEARS and I was SO DEPRESSED and SO EMBARRASSED that I spent an hour sitting in my computer chair, crying, trying to decide if I looked too stupid to go out. <- OKAY, SO I MIGHT'VE OVERREACTED SLIGHTLY, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE I WAS BEING EMOTIONAL FOR NO REASON, RIGHT? IT'S NOT LIKE IT ~CAME FROM NOWHERE~.)

Despite being exhausted, angry, upset, pissed off, resentful and feeling like I looked stupid and embarrassing I still decided to go out. But by the time we dealt with the unforeseen retardation and were ready to go we didn't have enough time to have an actual evening out*. Halfway to the venue Italics discovered he forgot the tickets on the kitchen table, so we had to quickly race back home to get them. Then, because shit wasn't stressful and crazy enough, my mother-in-law (who was driving) almost hit a fucking cat that jumped out in front of the car.

The only reason why I DID go out? Italics' mother offered to drop us off if we were still interested in going. (His father was our ride, but neither of us felt up to getting a lift from him.) I knew if I didn't accept the offer, then the real reason why we didn't go out on the 16th would've been because of me (even if my "SORRY, I'M JUST NOT UP TO IT" excuse would've been perfectly legit and reasonable).

I forlornly looked over at Papa with his cold cup of coffee and thought "I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THAT BASTARD'LL SAY - HE'LL SAY, "WHY YOU CRYIN', BABY GIRL?" AND I'LL SAY "THE AGREEMENT WAS YOU GOT THE COFFEE, I GOT TO HAVE A NIGHT OUT" AND THEN HE'LL SAY "BUT YOUR MAMA STILL OFFERED TO TAKE YOU OUT, YOU //CHOSE// NOT TO GO" and I as much as I hated to admit it, I knew if I stayed home we'd end up having that exact conversation and his black ass would be right. I don't have any right to cry about missed opportunities when I'm the one making a conscious decision to sit them out.

* We were supposed to be in town just after 5:00 PM to allow us to do some window shopping, have a meal, have a few drinks and then have a joint or two before wandering over to the music hall for the choral performance. It was after 7:30 fucking PM when we finally arrived and they were just closing the doors of the hall; we barely caught the opening act by the skin of our teeth.

Things Are Bad

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

I don't even know where to begin. Things are bad; I'll manage, like I always do, but things are bad.

(The absolute WORST part? Other than having my father-in-law deny TO MY FACE that he threw out ashes that belonged to my mother? (OH, YES HE DID. A YEAR AFTER MY MOTHER'S DEATH HE YANKED A BOWL OF ASHES OFF A BACKROOM ALTAR, THREW EVERYTHING OUT, WASHED THE BOWL AND THEN DIDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY I WAS UPSET.) Knowing that my mother-in-law pulled him aside and said "NO, YOU DID, AND I DON'T EVER WANT TO HEAR YOU DENYING IT AGAIN" and he still didn't apologize or mumble a disingenuous "sorry" my way. <- YOU READ IT RIGHT. HE'S NEVER - NOT ONCE - APOLOGIZED FOR TOSSING THE ASHES. NOT THEN, NOT NOW. AND HE ACTUALLY WONDERS WHY PEOPLE DON'T INTERACT WITH OR TALK TO HIM, OR INVOLVE HIM IN ANYTHING THEY'RE DOING.)

Revenge Consumerism

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

TODAY WAS ABSOLUTELY SHIT AND I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. (DESPITE NOT WANTING TO TALK ABOUT IT I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO BITCH ABOUT IT THE MORNING AFTER. <- YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.) INSTEAD, I'M GOING TO BUY FUCKING MAKE-UP AND CHARGE IT TO MY IN-LAWS' CREDIT CARD. (IT WON'T TEACH THEM ANYTHING, BUT AT LEAST I'LL LOOK GOOD WHEN THE WALLS OF JERICHO COME TUMBLING DOWN.)

Red Nightmare

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

The entire neighborhood thinks we're weirdos. And, for once, it's not entirely MY fault. (YES, I DO saunter around the house naked without pulling down any blinds and YES, Italics and I are the freaks that are up in the middle of the night with all of the lights on in the house and YES, it was my decision to leave illuminated stars hanging in the kitchen window despite Christmas being long gone but are we the ones responsible for the dirt yard outside (long short? father-in-law dug up the entire lawn outside a few years ago and left it as dirt, hence "dirt yard" instead of "front yard") and the two broken cars - both parked indefinitely, one partially obstructing access to our street? NO.)

That fucking red car has sat in the same fucking place this entire winter. (And when I say "entire" I mean since November, and that's me being GENEROUS, okay?) Vans and trucks barely squeeze by, the mailman - who once parked opposite of our house when doing his rounds - had to find another spot to momentarily leave his car. The snow plow folk? THEY WANT TO KILL ME. (Normally I have a hard time reading body language and facial expressions, but, somehow, I inherently understand what they're thinking and feeling when I mistakenly make eye contact with them when they turn into our dead end street.)

I almost blew a fucking gasket when my mother-in-law had the audacity to complain that the opening of our driveway wasn't getting plowed. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WOMAN, CAN'T YOU SEE THE RED FUCKING OBSTACLE YOU PARKED //LAST YEAR// IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW LARGE VEHICLES HAVE TO GIVE IT A WIDE BERTH? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW MUCH OF A FUCKING INCONVENIENCE YOU'VE CREATED FOR EVERYONE ELSE?

(I'd like to add CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING HATED AND IRE DIRECTED AT US EVERY FUCKING TIME SOMEONE HAS TO FUCKING NAVIGATE AROUND THE BROKEN CAR YOU DECIDED TO FUCKING PARK IN A TINY RESIDENTIAL STREET BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DISPOSE OF IT LIKE NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE? but I can't, because I know she's never gotten the POINTED LOOK OF UNADULTERATED HATRED from drivers due to NEVER BEING AROUND TO EXPERIENCE IT.)

The WORST part of all of this? The car actually disappeared for two weeks. One day I glanced outside and noticed something was amiss, but it took me a few seconds to realize what it was. ("HOLY SHIT THE RED CAR'S FINALLY GONE!") Thank fucking God, I thought, now I don't have to feel embarrassed when a complete stranger throws me a nasty fucking look. For a fortnight I could MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH PEOPLE AGAIN, and not just because I felt obligated to offer some sort of silent, lame ass apology for the aggravation.

Internet, it reappeared fourteen days. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but a harder look out the window confirmed the car wasn't a figment of my imagination. And then? (<- As if it couldn't get any worse.) And then we got hit by several blizzards. I can't even fucking imagine what the snow plow folk must've thought (and felt) when they swung into our little street and saw that the red nightmare was back. (If we get hit by one more snowfall I swear on all that's fucking holy and divine THEY'RE GOING TO DEMAND A HUMAN SACRIFICE FROM THIS HOUSE.)

Leave an Effing Message

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

DEAR PERSON WHO CALLED FOR MY MOTHER-IN-LAW 4-5 TIMES IN A FUCKING HOUR WHILE ITALICS AND I WERE SLEEPING EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE AN ANSWERING MACHINE THAT CAN TAKE A MESSAGE*: FUCK YOU. SERIOUSLY.

(As I was falling asleep slumped over the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil to make my first cup of tea she called, again, although this time I wasn't trying to sleep - I was in the middle of cursing her.)

* She said she THOUGHT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS //OUTSIDE//. WTF? Dude, it's fucking FEBRUARY and THERE'S SNOW ON THE FUCKING GROUND. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD MY MOTHER-IN-LAW - WHO DOESN'T GARDEN, CLEAN OR DO ANYTHING OUTSIDE OTHER THAN SIT, READ AND DRINK WINE - BE DOING OUTDOORS FOR SUCH AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME? SPARE ME FROM BIZARRE EXCUSES YOU'RE USING TO DISGUISE THE FACT THAT YOU'RE ACTING LIKE AN OBSESSIVE, PSYCHOTIC RETARD. JESUS.

ETA: Holy fucking shit, even AFTER Italics told the woman to STOP CALLING BECAUSE WE'RE SLEEPING RIGHT NOW she's //STILL FUCKING CALLING//.

Deja Vu

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

THAT MOTHERFUCKER ACTUALLY THREW GARBAGE ON MY WINTER ALTAR, //AGAIN//.

(HOLY SHIT, WHAT PART OF "I FUCKING PRAY HERE; THIS IS A VISUAL REPRESENTATION OF MY BELIEFS. IF YOU WOULDN'T THROW TRASH ON A CHURCH'S ALTAR, THEN DON'T FUCKING THROW IT ON MINE. LEAVE THIS SHIT THE FUCK ALONE AND RESPECTS SOMEONE ELSE'S HOLY SPACE." DIDN'T HE UNDERSTAND LAST YEAR?)

(UNIVERSE, ARE YOU FUCKING //JOKING//? BECAUSE IF YOU ARE, I'M SO TOTALLY NOT LAUGHING. AT ALL.)

Ringworm

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

RINGWORM*. //AWESOME//. (Because I don't have enough to fucking worry about.)

* We suspect my father-in-law and his astonishingly low standard of personal hygiene. (THANKS FOR LIVING UP TO YOUR NICKNAME, MR. AWESOME.)

WTF Dinner w/WTF Sauce

Filed under: The Black Arts

OH, GOD HELP US, MY FATHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN INSPIRED* TO COOK. (<- TIME TO HIDE IN THE BATCAVE.)

* Whenever I spend several consecutive nights in the kitchen he becomes overwhelmed by the insatiable need to cook. ("I CAN DO THAT, TOO!" is something you can't get away from in this house. If finds me working on something - especially if I'm enjoying it - within 48 hours he's playing "LOOK AT MEEEEEEE!" catch-up. (And gets V. pissy if you 1.) fail to notice and 2.) fail to compliment.) 70 years old going on 4, right?)

His end results - which are guesstimated mimic attempts of things I've recently provided the family with** - are at once horrifying, amusing, disgusting and, if I'm being completely honest, occasionally irritatingly offensive (it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't exude his patented "I'VE JUST DONE IT BETTER THAN //YOU//" old man smugness, but he does...every effing time).

PHOTO CAPTION: I apparently inspired my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome) to do some cooking. When I first saw it I couldn't figure out if he made SOUP or PASTA SAUCE, but the leftovers provided just enough context clues.

** The picture above? His attempt at "spaghetti and meatballs". Just ignore the fact that chicken's replaced meatballs (WTF?), fettuccine was used instead of spaghetti (OKAY, OKAY, I'M NIGGLING WITH THAT, I KNOW) and that my in-laws haphazardly throw their uncovered leftovers straight in the fridge for everyone to see (and accidentally touch when searching for EDIBLE food). (<- OH GOD I'M CRINGING NOW JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!)

Two days earlier I fed the family an enormous spaghetti and meatballs dinner where EVERYTHING was created from scratch (well, the garlic bread was made from a bought loaf of ciabatta that I slathered with garlic butter, sprinkled with Italian herbs and grated Parmesan cheese, but beyond purchasing the fresh pasta and bread everything else was entirely homemade). Mr. Awesome, enjoying the meal //so much//, decided to recreate it less than 48 hours later.

My version:

* Tomato sauce made from three different types of tomato (sun-dried, fresh and canned), fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, roasted red peppers (I scorched them under the oven's grill and then peeled the charred skins off), basil infused olive oil, red wine, balsamic vinegar and other spices and seasonings.

* Overnight meatballs (I like mixing the ingredients together and letting them sit overnight so the flavors can intensify before cooking) made from fresh steak mince, more fresh herbs from the garden, grated fresh Parmesan, garlic, basil infused olive oil, balsamic vinegar, locally produced oatmeal (I tend to use oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs when cooking), a touch of the tomato sauce above and other spices and seasonings.

(I normally fry the overnight meatballs in a little bit of olive oil to give them a crispy crust and then transfer them over to a lidded casserole dish so they create an even layer. Once they're snug I pour over the homemade tomato sauce, crumble an entire block of feta over everything, sprinkle over a generous amount of Parmesan, cover the dish with foil and cook everything in a hot oven for about 15-20 minutes until it seems done. I also give the casserole a few minutes beneath the oven's grill (uncovered) to give the feta a wee bit of color before serving the meal.)

(Unfortunately, I don't have any images of this dish (despite it being a somewhat staple), but I'm PRETTY SURE the meal is mostly palatable if these pictures are anything to go by. I mean, it was good enough to "copy", right?)

His version of my version:

* Tomato sauce made from one can of tomatoes, a fried onion, chicken breasts and indistinguishable seasoning served over waterlogged pasta. (Or, as I like to call it, "WTF DINNER WITH WTF SAUCE".)

CLEARLY, YOU CAN SEE THE STIFF COMPETITION THAT I DEAL WITH ON A DAY TO DAY BASIS. HOW I'LL EVER LIVE UP TO HIS CULINARY PROWESS IS BEYOND ME. I SHOULD PROBABLY HANG UP MY APRON(S) (<- APRONS ARE LIKE KITCHEN LINGERIE, YOU NEED A VARIETY TO SUIT THE MOOD AND OCCASION!) AND ADMIT DEFEAT AT AGE 29...SIGH.

My prediction? He's made "chili" ("chili" = any ground meat, an onion, a can of beans and a can of tomatoes). I'll creep even FURTHER up the limb I'm already already on and state that if it is "chili" he was directly inspired by the Turkish beef and haricot bean casserole I made a few days ago that he finished off without asking (so much for leftovers).

Don't Touch My Things

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

I love how my father-in-law won't lift a fucking finger to clean the house, but he's more than happy to "clean" my kitchen altar for me without asking. (<- SO MUCH FOR CONSECRATING FOOD AND GIFTS FOR FRIENDS.)

Since he's returned home I've had to ask on a weekly basis for him to NOT TOUCH MY THINGS, but maybe I need to start asking TWICE A FUCKING WEEK until "DON'T TOUCH HER STUFF, ESPECIALLY NOTHING ON HER KITCHEN ALTAR" sinks in.

(Fuck, I've been living here almost a //decade//. If he hasn't gotten it in nearly ten years, what's so special about THIS year?)

Made, Not Born

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

Mr. Awesome considers me to be an unreasonable (maybe even intolerably) crazy bitch. What he HASN'T considered is that unreasonable (maybe even intolerably) crazy bitches aren't BORN, they're MADE and then easily PROVOKED. (LOOK UPON ME, FATHER-IN-LAW, AND LET YOUR EYES REST UPON THE UNHOLY CREATION //YOU// MADE.)

Tonight's "crazy bitch" trigger: being a seventy year old man who spills carbonated lemonade on the floor and through ineffective means of cleaning it spreads the mess over 1/3 of the kitchen thus leaving the mess for his daughter-in-law to clean, on her hands and knees, when she's bleeding like a stuck pig AND suffering from the stomach flu and then feigning absolute and total ignorance of the spill despite the daughter-in-law hearing the fucking bottle of soda of drop earlier in the evening.

DON'T MAKE ME OUT TO BE A CRAZY ASS BITCH WHEN YOU'RE LEAVING ME YOUR FUCKING MESSES TO CLEAN UP WHEN I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING SIT UP FOR LONGER THAN FIFTEEN MINUTES AT A TIME.

New Strategy

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

ALL I CAN SAY, RIGHT NOW, IS IF THIS NOTE WRITING, PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE BULLSHIT IS MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S NEW STRATEGY HE IS SORELY (SORELY!) GOING TO BE DISAPPOINTED IN THE RESULTS. (THAT GAME? TOTALLY //NOT ON//, MR. AWESOME.)

PS: JUST IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN...YOU AREN'T MY "DAD". BECAUSE, IF YOU WERE, I WOULD'VE GONE FUCKING PSYCHO ON YOU WHEN YOU TOLD ME THAT "BLEACH IS THE SAME AS BAKING SODA" WHEN I CAUGHT YOU SPRAYING BATHROOM CLEANER ON DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER. ENJOY YOUR FUCKING PRIVILEGE.

Academic Exodus

Filed under: Gothel's Garden

When I first got up this morning I slowly began piecing together an entry to record our Beltane festivities (I always resize, sharpen and upload pictures to Flickr first, then prep the images with all of the necessary coding within a drafted entry before HI-LAR-R-IOUS commentary is even added), but the closer I got to writing the more I began glancing out the window.

("THE SUN, IT'S STILL THERE, RIGHT? RIGHT? IT'S NOT GETTING TOO OVERCAST, IS IT? NO, PHEW, I GOT SOME MORE TIME. I'LL HAVE ANOTHER CUP OF TEA AND TRY TO GET INTO THE MINDSET OF WRITING SOMETHING. WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, LET ME CHECK TO MAKE SURE THE SUN'S STILL UNOBSTRUCTED AGAIN...")

There's no point in fighting the inevitable; I'm forgoing writing, again, so I can work outside in the dirtyard. (I've been allowed a narrow stretch of land hugging the edge of the sidewalk which I've been digging up to loosen the earth, mix in manure and sift out any rocks, pebbles and debris.) Christ only knows how long this decent patch of weather is going to last, so I'm going to make the most of it and resunburn my already sunburned ass. (LITERALLY, I HAVE A BELLY UP RED CRESCENT JUST ABOVE MY ASS STRETCHING FROM HIP TO HIP.)

Yesterday the majority of garden work happened in the backyard, but I'll cover that later since I still need to take pictures of the progress. (OH, WE PLANTED THREE THREES, CREATED A PEA POLE TEPEE, RE-POTTED A GIFTED PLANT, PLANTED SOME VEGETABLES AND WATERED, WATERED, WATERED.) Just before work began I took a few minutes to snap pictures of my favorite clump of lilies of the valley that still grace the garden in the back.

Growing up my best friend was N who lived on the OTHER side of the border. (Our final move away from Chicago was to a tiny village in IL just a mile off the WI border. N and her family lived on a small farm in WI just a mile off the IL border. If the state line hadn't divided us we would've gone to the same elementary and high school; that's how short the distance was between our respective homes.)

As boring as it must've been for her we always played at her house. (DUDE, SHE LIVED ON A //FARM// THAT BACKED INTO CORN FIELDS AND MIDWESTERN HEDGEROWS.) And "playing" usually involved the great outdoors, long walks across tilled fields (we adhered to the strict "WE CAN GO WHEREVER WE WANT PROVIDED WE NEVER, EVER CROSS AN ASPHALT ROAD" code of rural children) and an insane amount of mud. (I'M NOT A SEX PIG FOR NOTHING.)

As a child you live in two alternate realities simultaneously - the academic year and the natural, seasonal year. When you're young the two move in synch, allowing you to coexist in separate realities. With one foot in each world you're able to see, when combined, how the parallel existences compliment one another. When the natural world was in transition, something was happening in school. Significant dates in school usually marked a period of metamorphosis in the cycle of the seasons.

When the first lilies of the valley appeared beneath the rolling, hunched branches of old trees (where sunlight dappled instead of shined) we knew that soon - very soon - school would be over and we'd be released into the freedom the budding Midwestern summer. When the first of the bramble berries were ripe we weren't captives of the academic year; we were ruled by the law and order of the natural world bursting with life around us. (Until the last week of August when, once again, we relearned how to straddle both worlds; just like riding a bike, but you begin to resent and loathe the bike more and more the older you get.)

I'm almost thirty now (LORD JESUS IN HEAVEN, THAT HAPPENS NEXT YEAR) and Sunday evenings still make me moody; Friday afternoons still elate me. And the sight of lilies of the valley? They still look like the promise of freedom.

Now, though, I don't need a fistful of white, silent bells as a reminder of the exodus to come. (This ass sauntered out of Egypt long, long ago.) When you're no longer ruled by the academic year you don't need to pick flowers to celebrate the death of another school year. You can enjoy them, sitting back, remembering how they were foraged long ago as a primitive ritual of prayer and hope for the end that was so near.

(Can you still remember what the last day(s) of elementary school felt like? As long as there are lilies of the valley growing in shaded seclusion I'll never forget.)

Last summer Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law, just in case you two haven't been formally introduced) "cleaned out" the backyard. In doing so he chopped down the majority of the foliage that provided a natural backdrop of privacy between the backyard/garden and the street (when healthy and thick it provides amble cover for me to float around the tiny space nude), killed off whatever grass remained (a backyard with no lawn to match the front which is nothing but dirt), filled in almost every empty space with trees and shrugs in plastic bags, threw out Spring bulbs that Italics had bought me as a gift (I managed to enjoy them for one season before he raided my containers and pots, throwing away plants, bulbs and trees without notifying or asking me) and dug up and discarded the majority of the lilies of the valley that were planted nearly twenty years ago.

The clump of the lilies of the valley above are the only ones that survived the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008. My heart broke, as stupid as it sounds, to see everything ripped out, torn up and, without even a thought of saving to replant later, unceremoniously thrown out. But, technically, it isn't my garden, so decisions aren't made democratically amongst the four adults who live and, supposedly, share communal areas.

(Christ, I didn't even have the right to SAVE MY OWN PLANTS - SOME OF WHICH WERE GIFTS ITALICS BOUGHT ME - LET ALONE PUT MY FOOT DOWN AND SAY "NO, YOU CAN'T USE WEED KILLER TO KILL THE LAST OF THE GRASS IN THE BACKYARD". Sometimes I get the feeling that all my in-laws ever want to hear from me is "I MADE YOU GUYS DINNER" and "I JUST FINISHED CLEANING XXX" and if I only stayed in those two areas - cooking and cleaning for everyone - we wouldn't have any problems. Unfortunately, this isn't a fairytale and I ain't no fucking Cinderella.)

Arctic River

Filed under: Life

This Spring's been an arctic river overflowing with winter run-off. Fast moving, non-negotiable waters thunder past my legs pushing, pulling and sweeping me away with the charging current. There's no use fighting the tidal wave of lightening movement, so I haven't tried. (No struggling means freedom, even when lost amongst the tumbling chaos, and with my attention undistracted I can almost catch all of the beautiful, awe inducing gems the season's hidden away just for me.)

(IN OTHER WORDS, I'VE BEEN SO GODDAMN BUSY FOR THE PAST THREE WEEKS DUE TO SPRING RELATED ACTIVITIES THAT I'VE HAD TO RELY ON MY BRAND NEW BIRTHDAY CAMERA AS A DIARY.)

Late last year I stole a narrow stretch of waste ground where I loosened the earth and haphazardly planted over three heads of garlic. (I didn't think it'd work, but it DID.) Very early in February there were suspicious shoots popping up in a semi-neat row, and now, at the very end of April, this is what it looks like. Next year? Next year I'll try even //harder//. (Any more effort than I originally expended would already be an improvement. Srsly.)

No signs of scrapes yet. (Once the garlic is ready to flower it grows out a tentacle - the scrape - which'll eventually blossom. To encourage bulb growth you need to cut the scrape before it flowers so the energy is diverted below.) But, baby, once those fuckers pop up it'll be garlic scrape pesto time...

Sections of Aberdeen were built on a hill, so a part of it slopes down at a slow angle and is only disturbed by stairs and old buildings. Wild city rabbits live in any patch of green (along roadsides, next to towering blocks of apartments and in cemeteries) and as we were cutting through lanes and streets and alleys to get to our dinner reservation, we saw that the rabbits had already beaten us to Sunday dinner.

I always feel stupidly disappointed when wild animals don't respond to my ANIMAL SPEAK. (ANIMAL SPEAK = PURSING LIPS TOGETHER AND SUCKING AIR IN JUST A LITTLE TO MAKE A SQUEAKING SOUND.) Italics and I have spent years developing ANIMAL SPEAK since our first pair of rats, Ann and Nancy (after Heart, although Nancy was the one who got fat out of the pair).

Animal Speak gets used when I want to attract the attention of the rats (they know it's my COME HERE RIGHT NOW or FOOD PEOPLE HAS FOOD or I WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE RAT FACES voice), but it'll also work on wild animals - they cock their head, blink and then give you a straight up WHAT THE FUCK? expression.

Last year we celebrated the winter solstice by renting a hotel room and staying in town overnight. (Aberdeen's roughly 15 minutes away from us; we're in a subdivision in the shire where it's mostly rural.) Even though we were running late we took a few minutes in the privacy of the alley to take some pictures.

(AND WHEN I SAY "TAKE SOME PICTURES" I MEAN, "GET HIGH BEFORE EATING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF CHINESE FOOD AND, ALSO, TAKE SOME PICTURES".)

The above picture was taken mid-April (spring!), and THIS HERE PICTURE was taken mid-December (winter!); both show Marischal College's tower erupting in the background.

In the few instances we've used the stairs as a shortcut we were always on schedule for something. This past trip, however, we were running early so we were able to loiter more leisurely around ancient brick and stone.

While Italics was trying to get our pipe working (JOINTS ARE NICE IN A SUPERFICIAL VISUAL WAY, BUT WASTEFUL - AND, ALSO, I DON'T LIKE MY FINGER SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTES) I noticed, for the first time, that there was writing on the wall.

(I have NO idea what it means, but Aberdeen's known for keeping crazy ass insane records, so it should be easy to find out the history behind the engravings.)

I don't know anything about this church other than it's OLD, OLD, OLD (you can tell by the structure of the buildings attached to it, and the look of the building materials) and IT'S ANOTHER ABERDEEN CHURCH (you guys would not believe how many fucking churches there are in the city). I haven't made my way up to visit it, but I do intend to...eventually. (To see the church at night in winter click on THIS HERE LINK.)

I chose this little Italian cafe place for my belated birthday dinner. Despite being absolutely desperate for a pizza (I'VE TOLD ITALICS V. BLATANTLY AND WITHOUT ANY SUBTLETY THAT I'M WILLING TO PROVIDE SEXUAL FAVORS FOR A REALLY FUCKING GOOD PIZZA; YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE PIZZA I WANT HERE IN SCOTLAND) I saw that they served veal Marsala and my Evil Queen heart (I ALSO WEAR FUR. THAT'S RIGHT - I EAT VEAL AND WEAR FUR AND ADMIT TO BOTH; CRUCIFY OR WORSHIP ME AS YOU PLEASE.) skipped a beat and all notion of pizza was gone.

Italics, either up for the challenge or hoping to fill the pizza void in my Chicago-born heart, ordered a calzone. The picture above does absolutely no justice to the sheer size of the fucking monster; that plate could fit a decapitated head on it easily - EASILY. My veal? A little tough due to being overcooked, but the Marsala sauce was exquisite. Their cured meats (our starter) were terrific, but the Tiramisu was only so-so (they put a layer of jam, or something, through the dessert, but it tasted like apricot-flavored petroleum jelly at best, and apricot-flavored toothpaste gel at worst).

The coffee? To fucking die for. (It was seriously the star of the evening.)

By the time we saw a movie, walked up from the beach, had dinner and returned back to the hotel it was edging just past nine in the evening. I had to keep a straight face while gnawing on a inner cheek when I noticed that our hotel neighbors opposite of us, despite having two trash cans in the room, decided to discard their take-away garbage in the hall.

(LOL, CLASSY! I ESPECIALLY LOVE HOW THEY HUNG THE "DO NOT DISTURB" SIGN. OH, POOR PEOPLE, YOU'RE AN ENDLESS SOURCE OF DISGUSTED AMUSEMENT FOR ME. PS: THIS PICTURE'S BLURRED BECAUSE I FORCED ITALICS TO GO BACK OUTSIDE AND TAKE A PICTURE AND AS HE WAS DOING SO ONE OF THE OCCUPANTS BEGAN OPENING THEIR ROOM DOOR.)

Italics didn't know that I packed away my blond wig, a pair of knee high socks and my cheerleader outfit for fun later that night. I posed, for a second, in his semi-new sort've Indiana Jones BUT NOT REALLY jacket, and the whole cheerleader thing went out the window. (FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE NICE WIGS ARE? JESUS.)

After dinner entertainment was wearing my husband's jacket and nothing else (WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK - I WAS STILL WEARING A BRA!) and the "movie" mode on our recently retired digital camera. (I was feeling the affects of the coffee - even though it had been a decaf - so I needed a visit from THE FIREMEN to soothe the affects of GERD. <- LAUGH NOW, BUT WAIT UNTIL YOUR OVERLY ACIDIC STOMACH IS IN DIRE NEED OF A SHOT OF SOMETHING ALKALINE TO CALM IRRITATION.)

This is a shot of Union Street running down into Castlegate (the smaller, secondary looking castle in the middle of the picture) in downtown Aberdeen taken by Italics the morning after our belated birthday celebrations. (IT STARTED WITH HIS JACKET, AND ENDED WITH A CHIPPER AND A BAG OF MALTEASERS IN BED.)

Aberdeen, to the naked eye, appears to have been built around a church (St. Nicholas) and its graveyard. This is a picture of the more formal entrance to the kirkyard which is used as a thoroughfare and public park. (I've never seen people so happily sit on green cemetery grass like they were visiting a botanic garden until St. Nicholas.)

"Marischal College is a building in the Scottish city of Aberdeen belonging to the University of Aberdeen. It was formerly an independent university in its own right. A significant portion of the building is currently leased on a long-term basis to Aberdeen City Council for office space. As well as being the tallest building in Aberdeen, it is also the second largest granite building in the world."

Oh, Wiki, you're a blessing to this lazy shell of a human being! (View right outside the newest Starbucks in town.)

Since the St. Nicholas kirkyard is in the center of the city, it's one of the best semi-private places to have a joint before galloping off to diner. Our preferred spot is near Mr. Alex Fullerton, Druggist, which is wonderfully aged and picturesque on gloriously sunny days. (LOLOLOL, I KNOW. WE ONLY REALIZED THE "DRUGGIST" PART SORT'VE RECENTLY.)

When a friend who's involved in medicine and health care requested some graveyard dirt I immediately knew whose grave the dirt was coming off of. (NOTE TO SELF: In return you left one of the red-dyed Easter eggs (Ukrainians, in the olden days, left red eggs at the graves of ancestors and friends to encourage reincarnation and resurrection) and a gold foiled chocolate coin.)

This is the infamous dirtyard, post-crocus season. (IT HAS SERIOUSLY SAT LIKE THIS FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.) I took this picture just before I went to work with a flattened box of cereal and a spade to mark the strip where I intended to plant carrots and beets. Unfortunately, the street extends too far beneath the soil so some of the chthonic vegetables I wanted to grow in the dirtyard (carrots!) will have to be planted elsewhere.

Last year my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, threw away all of my spring bulbs that Italics had given me as a gift. (IN THIS HOUSE, HE GETS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR THINGS.) He never apologized or acknowledged that he had thrown away another gift (or ashes that belonged to my mother, or an anniversary gift I was making for Italics, or...) so Italics stepped in and bought me another round of bulbs.

"Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold."

One of my favorite parts of Spring is watching the giant, almost unbelievable changes that seem to happen overnight. One day tulips are tight, pursed buds; the next they've unfurled with a gasp for fresh air. Transformations always seem so immediate during the season of renewal.

Oh, nasty ass Starlings, I love how you don't give a fuck about me even if I'm outside doing gardening work next to your bird food. (Nothing comes between you and the food I put out for you guys, NOTHING.)

When planting out CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE Spring flowers last fall (grape hyacinths, dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, tulips and daffodils) I discovered a handful of mysterious bulbs hidden deep within a dirt filled container. I rescued them (they were buried too deep to properly sprout, Christ only knows how long they've just sat in that plastic bucket) and relocated them to the container with my Finnish poppies. This Spring solved the mystery; they're Narcissus, and they smell like heaven.

Whenever I cook with Italics there's always a fifty percent chance of ass.

(This is our third batch of Cowboy Bread (sort've like a flour tortilla meets pita bread) - THE BEST YET! - after its first rise. Italics is dividing the dough into eight smaller portions so after the second rise we can roll them out and "bake" them in a skillet.)

The Cowboy Bread's risen twice, rolled out and then pan-fried in olive oil until golden spots appear. (We made two super huge ones - the size the recipe suggests - and then halved the other portions so they were more pita than giant, fluffy flour tortillas.)

Once cooked-baked-fried you shove the flat bread(s) into a ziploc bag, or cover them with a damp towel, so the steam keeps them soft and pliable. (We never got around to artfully arranging them on a plate for SRS FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY because all we wanted to do was tear into the fuckers and shovel hummus into our mouths.)

Shango blossoms on the Shango (Bone) Tree. (Technically, Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law) owns the tree, but I adopted it a few years back and have been gradually and systematically exerting control over it.)

Two years ago - the first REAL year I started getting V. serious about all of this magic business - the Shango Tree (a plum tree), bore fruit. Thanks to everyone's complete disinterest in the the garden I was able to secretly reap the reward and ritually consumed the tree-ripened plums without having to share.

I was so swept up in foraging hedonism that I didn't occur to me to KEEP THE FUCKING PITS SO I COULD GROW NEW SHANGO (BONE) TREES FROM SEED. I kicked myself for fucking MONTHS for discarding the pits and anxiously waited for the next growing season to roll around. And what did the tree do last year? NOT FLOWER, OBVIOUSLY. (No flowers = no fruit; no fruit = no seeds; no seeds = no new Shango (Bone) Trees.)

I spent all of last year coaxing it to flower (everything from leaving offerings of food, watering it by hand almost every other day, laying my hands on the tree and giving it some Barry White vocal love) this year, and all of that effort paid off. (Although it would've been A LOT MORE AWESOME if the Shango (Bone) Tree hadn't decided to stick out the ONE FLOWERING BRANCH IT PRODUCED like a fucking flasher with an erection. <- WAY TO ATTRACT MR. AWESOME'S ATTENTION, S(B)T! WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SUBTLE MAGIC? JESUS.)

I can't remember a time when Scotland wasn't washed with some sort of green. Even in winter the wild azaleas and mosses and lichen and holly trees retain their vibrant colors. It takes late Spring to alter my perception of "green".

We're on route to the cemetery and stove to leave belated Easter offerings, passing pasture land, green wheat fields and weathered stone walls. With every new walk to the kirkyard the landscape gets more green and alive.

There's a hedge of ancient beeches that outline an entire side of pasture which touches the crumbling wall that runs in front of the ruined church (with the abandoned walled garden in the background) and the back of the local cemetery. Discarded in the line of trees is this old water trough (or at least that's what I //think// it is) which we call "the stove".

Even though the metal's rusted and old the hinge and latch work perfectly, which allowed me to safely hide roadkill (a rabbit, fresh and in near pristine condition) last autumn when we were stealing potatoes out of a local potato field. (I didn't want to bang up the rabbit while we scrambled over walls and frantically dug up potatoes from an agricultural field at six in the morning.)

There comes a point, every year around Spring, where non-perishable food offerings begin taking over the house. When we begin feeling claustrophobic we know it's time to visit "the stove" and leave the offerings to their Fate*; we've been doing that for two or three years now.

(* IN OTHER WORDS - WE LEAVE IT FOR OUR ANCESTORS, BUT KNOW THAT THE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE WILL ALSO BE ENJOYING THE SPREAD.)

This Easter season, while I was flipping through one of my Ukrainian cookbooks, I stumbled across a passage explaining several ancient customs Ukies observed around Easter. Apparently, long ago, food was deliberately left IN A STOVE as an offering to feed and sustain ancestors, relatives and friends who have passed on. (WE ARE SO ON THE BALL WITH SOME OF THIS SHIT THAT SOMETIMES IT SCARES ME.)

(NOTE TO SELF: This is the first year you put individual Paska/Babka for loved ones who died since last Easter (i.e., Hezbollah, Beh and Didi) in the stove rather than at the cairn in the cemetery.)

It took until LAST FUCKING YEAR for me to even notice there was a wild gooseberry bush growing in the ruins of the church. By the time I realized what the shrub was the berries were the size of quail eggs. (I AM SO NOT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST; THIS BUSH HAS GOT SOME SERIOUS JUNK ON IT.)

Unfortunately, I was hella, hella sick last year (bedridden due to symptoms and ailments that's baffled the medical community and put me in the very familiar category of "atypical") so by the time I was well enough to leave the house the animals had enjoyed every ball-sized gooseberry and left none for me, SIGH.

(Behind the bush you can see one of the walls and doors of the abandoned wall garden directly behind the ruins of the small church.)

When I was a kid and running naked through Midwestern waste fields and woodlands I could name almost every flowering plant I ran across. Finding something totally new felt like discovering new species of previously unidentified vegetated life.

That excitement and drive totally disappeared around the time I started high school, but resurfaced recently (just over ten years later) the deeper I got into indigenous folklore. If I haven't misidentified it, this is Green Alkanet (in the same family as good ole Borage) and it grows rampant in the space between the NEW OLD CRUMBLING WALL and the OLD OLD NOT SO CRUMBING WALL.

Until last year it was an absolute mystery where they were burying the majority of the recently deceased. As it turns out, what I thought was a community football pitch was the new section of the cemetery. (There aren't a lot of headstones, and they're way, way in the far corner of the very long stretch of land. Until you're physically in the open space it's difficult to tell there are bodies actually buried there.)

This was post-stove and pre-cairn, just before we hopped over the road and had lunch in an open meadow beneath an oak tree. Two fields and a line of trees over you can see a man-made loch created a very long time ago.

The stone wall neatly bordering the graves in the background is the wall that separates the cemetery from the pasture field which touches the hedge of beech trees and ruined church. This is the new portion of the old cemetery, where Muriel and the nun are buried.

Our visit to the kirkyard had to be quick on this occasion because hired help were mowing the lawn. (HOW AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT? MOWING THE VELVETY SOFT LAWN OF AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH CEMETERY ON A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHERE DO //I// SIGN UP FOR THAT GIG?)

I HAVE NOT HAD "NORMAL" SEX SINCE FUCKING MARDI GRAS. When the GREAT RITE was celebrated it was celebrated IN MY ASS, so since Easter Sunday we've been joking that I'm only half married (OR PERHAPS "ASS MARRIED"?) and that I'll remain only partially married until ACTUAL VAGINAL PENETRATION IS MADE.

Because I'm so good at making things difficult I suggested we wait to have "normal" sex until we can have sex in the same wheat field where we reaped last year for the first time. (IT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT? IF I'M REAPING AND HARVESTING THE FRUIT, I BETTER BE FERTILIZING THE LAND TOO, YO.)

Content with the half he married (THE ASS HALF, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN) he agreed, so we're now just waiting for the right moment (i.e., WHEN WE HAVE POT, WHEN IT'S DRY AND WHEN IT'S DARK ENOUGH) to finish the rite we started on April 12th.

(My idea is to have sex in the space between the two wooden posts, effectively performing Hieros Gamos on and in the threshold of a "door". If not there there's always an unused water trough right next to it...)

The very first local Spring lambs we saw were a pair of black kids. (Ever since Imbolc I've been meaning to leave an offering of oats to the lactating sheep but I never got a chance.) (LAMBS HAVE A PECULIAR AVERSION TO FACTORY PRODUCED STRAWBERRY-FLAVORED MARSHMALLOWS. I, UH, READ THAT SOMEWHERE ON THE NET, OR SOMETHING.)

OH, SKELETON ZOMBIE I WANTED TO TAKE YOU HOME WITH ME, OR AT LEAST TAKE YOU TO SEE A MOVIE. (BUT IT'S PROBABLY GOOD THAT I DIDN'T SINCE MONSTERS VERSUS ALIENS, EVEN IN 3-D, WAS SHOCKINGLY SHIT, EVEN WHEN REALLY, REALLY HIGH.)

I think they must've recently painted and decorated the Haunted Mansion because I don't remember it ever looking so fresh and new. (ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL FORCE ITALICS TO BUY SIX TOKENS SO I CAN SEE WHAT THE HAUNTED MANSION'S ALL ABOUT.)

I wish I could remember more of this day. I know we saw two movies (I Love You Man and Monsters Versus Aliens), I know we went out to eat (Jack Daniel's Monterey Burger at TGI Friday's) and I know we visited the shoreline twice to get high (once before eating and once again before the second movie).

I also know that I realized something, or said something, or Italics said something - THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT SEEMED OBVIOUS - but now I can't remember what IT was. ("Zoe" was scribbled into the sand, which, if I remember right, means "life" in Greek, and seeing the name/word and even being able to translate it somehow felt significant.)

I poured fresh water on wet, salty sand as an offering, and it left the impression of a dick with balls. Cruelly, the camera's battery died just before I was able to secure a picture of my sand cock. (OH, MAGIC, SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.)

This is my fat little bizza bear, Shoney, who's pretty sure that my camera might be food. (DON'T TELL HER IT ISN'T, OTHERWISE SHE MIGHT NOT BOTHER SITTING STILL THE NEXT TIME I SHOVE IT IN HER FACE.)

OH, BEGGAR RAT SISTERS, LOOKING FOR A FOOD HANDOUT WHILE LOITERING IN MY COMPUTER DESK. (My lap's the bridge between two hollowed out spaces in my desk so there's constant rat traffic streaming back and forth when there's a suspicion of food.)

The trio of rats we have now - Wuzza (Denny's), Choney (Shoney's) and Shakey (Shakey's Pizza) - are damn near impossible to take pictures of. All the other generations of rat roommates we had managed to sit still longer than three seconds which allowed us to build a library of photos. These guys? They've been restricted to "movie" mode on the camera because they're always just a blur of motion in anything remotely resembling a picture.

Within a day of noticing that I turned over earth in the dirtyard to possibly plant some carrots and beets Mr. Awesome drove through the dirt with a car leaving two very distinct tire marks across the strip of land I had marked in the soil.

We've had the dirtyard for years. (AND WHEN I MEAN "YEARS" I MEAN "AT LEAST THREE, PROBABLY FOUR".) After several years of no obvious intent I decided if I can't plant grass I might as well make use of the available dirt and grow some vegetables. After several years of no obvious intent my father-in-law suddenly DROVE OVER THE EXACT SPOT WHERE I HAD BEGUN MAKING A ROW FOR BEETS. (Should I take that as a hint?)

The thing about this NEW DRIVEWAY he's created is that UP UNTIL THIS POINT - THE POINT WHERE I MADE AN OBVIOUS MOVE TO CLAIM SOME UNUSED DIRT - HE'S NEVER, EVER DRIVEN OVER WHAT IS, EFFECTIVELY, THE FRONT YARD.

I don't know what's changed, if he's acting out or if it was a honest necessity when he found he couldn't maneuver any other way out of the driveway. At any rate, it isn't exactly an auspicious start to my adventure into creating a dirtyard vegetable patch.

You know to expect some MAN BEHAVIOR when your husband helps you with the Spring gardening. I was instructed to sit still as Italics ran for the camera to document how perfectly he dropped a Sharpie down my pants on his first try. (OH HEY, I'M WEARING UNDERWEAR FOR ONCE! EVEN IF IT IS A PAIR OF BOXERS.)

Oh, we do horrible, awful things to our Lindt Easter bunnies. This white chocolate one, for instance, graced our Easter basket this year which was blessed at a special church service on Holy Saturday. Even divine intervention couldn't save him (her?) from the melting pot when it came time to make Chex Muddy Buddies. (The giant dark chocolate rabbit? Oh, his (her?) fate's already been determined - dark chocolate brownies.)

My inside outside vegetable garden post-growing closet and pre-bonsai house. (Once the plants get too big in the confined space of the closet they get repotted and moved to the backroom where they'll sit for a few weeks to bulk up before being relocated to the bonsai house to become acclimated to outside temperatures.)

There are two other fruit trees other than the Shango (Bone) Tree trained against a wooden fence in the backyard. One of them is an apple tree, but I can't remember what the other one - the one pictured above - is. It might be another apple, or it might be another plum. Either way, it's getting some extra love this year to encourage the flowers to fruit.

(In the background you can see all of Mr. Awesome's bonsai trees and shrubs that he said would only sit in the backyard for a few weeks. That? That was last year. And on top of that, he killed off all the grass in the backyard - after digging it all up in the front yard - so we literally had NO LAWN to sit on last year during summer.)

WHOOPS, I FORGOT I HAD ALREADY TAKEN A PICTURE OF THE SHANGO BLOSSOMS ON THE SHANGO (BONE) TREE! (This one was taken about a week after the first one. Nearly a week after THAT the petals of the plum blossoms are almost gone, and whatever remains is hidden behind leafy buds that get bigger every day.)

BEAR ME FRUIT, DAMMIT, I'VE MASSAGED YOU LIKE A PAMPERED COW, FED YOU LIKE A HUNGRY HUSBAND AND WATERED YOU LIKE...UHM...A CAR (OR SOMETHING).

The backyard's become a bird sanctuary due to the high ratio of bushes, shrubs and trees to gravel and concrete. (FOR SOME REASON SOME SCOTTISH FOLK LOVE TO TEAR EVERYTHING GREEN OUT OF THEIR YARD, FILL IT WITH GRAVEL AND DUMP A CONTAINER OR TWO OF TULIPS AMONGST THE ROCKS.) It helps that their natural predators - the neighborhood cats - are too busy scarfing down (people) food offerings to be bothered with them.

(That feed container? Yesterday, on May Day, I decided to refill all bird seed containers no matter how full they were in honor of the day. Just before twilight I filled that exact feeder until it was spitting seeds, this afternoon - just after three - it was virtually empty. THESE BIRDS ARE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE POOR HOUSE.)

I first began wedging bones into tree branches as a joke (on my father-in-law, who's forever getting in trouble for TOUCHING THINGS THAT AREN'T HIS), but then the joke grew and before I knew it the Shango Tree had become the Shango Bone Tree. (Winter's a much better time for the S(B)T, with the onset of Spring all of the whitened and weather-stripped decorations get lost behind a canopy of green.)

(I can't believe that A.) that the Christmas goose carcass is still hanging off the truck and B.) Mr. Awesome hasn't touched ANY of the bones dangling off the plum tree I stole from him.)

HOLY HELL OH MY GOD MY ABU HASSAN TULIPS HAVE FINALLY BLOOMED! (OOPS for thinking they were dwarf! WTF gave me //THAT// idea?)

What was it the internet said about the appearance of these tulips? WAIT, HOLD ON, I MENTIONED IT EARLIER IN THIS ENTRY: "Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold." OH, NATURE, YOU DO DELIVER, DON'T YOU?

Italics bought these Flava tulips for himself (although I'm taking care of them for him), and they're the very last bulbs to flower from the bags'o'bulbs he bought me on our CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE last year. (I swore they were an early dwarf bloomer, but I also swore that about all of the Abu Hassans I planted.)

The amazing two-headed Bull Heart tomato plant from Ukraine. (OH, GREAT APIS/BA'AL MAY YOU BE EXALTED IN FUTURE TOMATO SAUCES!) I might just keep this one indoors since it refused to grow outside last year. (You can see part of Chippy as he inspects the inside outside garden; he's a very keen gardener, you know.)

What our backroom "lounge" looks like when a witch is hard at work.

(The plastic skull bowl is the ritual bowl I use when I'm doing something a little more heavy duty than baking bread or soaking menstrual rags. The scattered wheat sheaths inside is the last bit of the didukhy that I've systematically picked apart so every wheat kernel from every sheath got saved for growing or ritual use.)

(The eggs are our version of Sharpie pysanky, some especially decorated for pets, relatives, friends and others who've passed on since last Easter. When it's time to leave our Easter offerings at the stove and cairn we leave the decorated eggs amongst the food for the dead.

Beh's bee egg is sitting in a carton as the glue attaching the wings to the egg dries. There's a handmade miniature hat that Italics created for another egg, a bowl of partially shucked wheat (the kernel's still attached to the long, skewer-like spikes), Papa's skull planter with some of his dried tobacco leaves and a Jack Daniels gift set that Italics had given me earlier in the day.

From a tiny, withered peanut to a vibrant, lush plant. Only two of the five peanuts I bought germinated; I can't decide if I want to buy and plant more, or just stick with the two healthy plants I already have. OH, DECISIONS, DECISIONS...

OH, IT'S ALL SUPER CUTE, NOW, WITH ITS BLACK AND WHITE TUXEDO AND LITTLE SMILING BEGGING FACE BUT ONE DAY, DAMMIT, ONE DAY NEAR THE SUMMER SOLSTICE WHEN IT GETS LIGHT HERE AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING THAT FUCKER WILL BE ON MY GODDAMN BEDROOM WINDOWSILL SCREAMING THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW FOR BREAKFAST. (HOW THE FUCK DOES A MAGPIE KNOW WHICH ROOM IS OUR BEDROOM? I DON'T KNOW, TRY //MAGIC//.)

That's one of the four (five?) aubergines (eggplants) that I've grown from seed. One of these days I'll have to relocate them outside to the bonsai house, but until then they get a chance to flourish in better-than-green-house conditions.

One of my Sub-Arctic tomatoes which will most definitely be moved outside since they were deliberately bought for their "sub-arctic" nature. (GROWING TOMATOES IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT A PROPER GREEN HOUSE CAN BE HELL. I'M SO DESPERATE I'M GROWING THE EQUIVALENT OF SIBERIAN TOMATOES.)

One of my thriving courgettes (zucchini) on the verge of blossoming. (Which is EXACTLY why I kicked that very nearly flowering plant out of this house - the second I let ONE plant mature, flower and fruit in the house is the second I breakdown and let ALL of the damn plants mature, flower and fruit in the house and we don't have the room for that sort've Eden.)

Extended Family Readjustment

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

WHEN YOUR DEFAULT IS "BAD MOOD" IT TAKES PRACTICALLY NOTHING TO PULL THAT HAIR TRIGGER EVEN BEFORE YOU GET OUT OF BED.

LIKE, FOR INSTANCE:

1.) HEARING YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS BEFORE EVEN GETTING OUT OF BED

(FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS I'VE WOKEN UP TO SONGBIRDS OUTSIDE, THIS MORNING? THE LEAD FEET OF MY MOTHER-IN-LAW POUNDING AGAINST THE FLOOR AS SHE FRANTICALLY RAN FROM THE LOUNGE TO THE KITCHEN, AND THEN THEN KITCHEN TO THE BEDROOM. DUDE, IT'S FUCKING SATURDAY. //SATURDAY//, OKAY? GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU AREN'T LATE FOR //ANYTHING//.)

2.) WAITING FOR YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, BUT THEY DON'T

(SO I TELL MYSELF I CAN DEAL WITH SHIT. I TELL MYSELF I CAN COPE WITH THE REINTRODUCTION OF CO-HABITATION. BUT THAT'S PROVIDED THEY LEAVE THEY HOUSE - LIKE THEY TYPICALLY DO ON MOST SATURDAYS - TO GIVE ME A CHANCE TO COME TO ON MY OWN TERMS AND GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE CHANGED SITUATION.)

(I SAT IN BED THIS MORNING, WIDE AWAKE, WITH MY HEAD TILTED TOWARDS THE CEILING IN THE HOPES I'D CATCH AN AUDIBLE CRUMB OF INFORMATION. AFTER AN HOUR MY AWESOME TALENT FOR INTERPRETING CONTEXT CLUES LED ME TO BELIEVE THAT THERE WASN'T GOING TO BE A SATURDAY OUTING, WHICH MEANT COMING TO THE REALIZATION THAT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, AT SOME POINT TODAY, WOULD EVENTUALLY CORNER AND ACCOST ME REGARDLESS OF ANY AVOIDANCE TACTICS I ATTEMPT TO EMPLOY.)

3.) HEARING YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TAKE SHOWERS PLUS RUN A LOAD OF LAUNDRY

(ALL IN QUICK SUCCESSION, ONE RIGHT AFTER THE OTHER. HOW DO I KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE AN AMAZING DAY? WHEN MY IN-LAWS WAKE ME UP WITH TOTALLY UNNECESSARY VOLUMES OF NOISE ONLY TO BAIT AND SWITCH ME WITH THE PROSPECT THAT THEY'RE ON THE VERGE OF LEAVING TO GIVE ME A FEW HOURS TO READJUST TO BEING PART OF AN EXTENDED FAMILY AGAIN.)

(HOW DO I KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE A SUPREMELY AMAZING DAY? WHEN I REALIZE THEY AREN'T LEAVING, AND, ON TOP OF IT, THEY'VE PROBABLY USED ALL OF THE FUCKING HOT WATER WHICH MEANS THE ONLY THING NOT CLEAN IN THIS HOUSE - UNLIKE THEM AND THEIR CLOTHING - IS ME. I GET TO SEETHE AND LOATHE IN MY PERSONAL FILTH AS THE TANK SLOWLY FILLS - AWESOME!)

4.) WAITING FOR YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS TO LEAVE THE KITCHEN SO YOU CAN EAT

(OKAY, HERE'S THE THING - PART OF MY BRAIN IS RETARDED AND CHILDLIKE. OR, I GUESS, THE CHILDLIKE PART IS RETARDED, OR THE RETARDED PART IS CHILDLIKE. AT THE END OF THE DAY, SOME PART OF IT IS RETARDED AND CHILDLIKE, OR HOWEVER YOU FEEL MOST COMFORTABLE AND POLITICALLY CORRECT MERGING THE TWO CONCEPTS TOGETHER.)

(SO IT'S NO SURPRISE THAT LIKE CHILDREN AND RETARDS - WITH ME HAVING ONCE BEEN A RETARDED CHILD - I THRIVE ON A SENSE OF ROUTINE AND SCHEDULE. ANY DEVIATION FROM A CAREFULLY CONSTRUCTED ARRANGEMENT OR PLAN IS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME IRRATIONALLY GROUCHY OR FUSSY OR UPSET OR, WELL, YOU GET THE IDEA. <- ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE KIDS, OR RETARDS, OR RETARDED KIDS.)

(IN ORDER FOR ME TO LEAD A HAPPY, PRODUCTIVE DAY I NEED A FEW HOURS TO MYSELF EVERY DAY. IN THOSE FEW HOURS I EXERCISE MY SET PATTERN/MORNING ROUTINE TO GROUND MYSELF WHICH, IN TURN, GIVES ME A SENSE OF FAMILIARITY. I WAKE UP, PEEK IN ON THE CLOSET PLANTS, HAVE A PISS, TAKE A MUG OUT, POP IN A TEA BAG, TURN ON THE KETTLE, GOOD MORNING THE RATS AND GIVE THEM A TREAT, TURN ON THE COMPUTER, POUR BOILED WATER OVER TEA, CHECK EMAIL, GET TOWELS, STRAIN AND SWEETEN TEA, SIP OVERLY HOT TEA ONCE OR TWICE, TAKE A SHOWER, DRY MYSELF OFF, DRINK TEA THAT'S NOW A PERFECT TEMPERATURE, TAKE MY PILLS, DRESS, HAVE A PIECE OF TOAST, LET THE RATS OUT OF THE CAGE AND THEN SIT DOWN TO WORK.)

(THE ORDER ARRANGEMENT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE EXACT, BUT THERE ARE ONE OR TWO INSTANCES LISTED ABOVE THAT DO NEED TO BE EXECUTED IN MY CHRONOLOGICAL RETARD ORDER TO WORK. TEA'S ALWAYS MADE FIRST SINCE THAT'S MY FIRST SOURCE OF HYDRATION FOR THE DAY. SHOWER'S ALWAYS HAD BEFORE I SIT DOWN TO WORK SO I DON'T USE MY NON-SHOWERED STATUS AS A JUSTIFIED EXCUSE TO BLOW OFF WHAT'S LEFT OF MY CAREER TO ARBITRARILY SHAVE MY GODDAMN LEGS.)

(THE KITCHEN'S DECEPTIVELY SMALL. OR, MAYBE, THE KITCHEN'S AVERAGELY SIZED BUT THE WAY MY IN-LAWS OCCUPY THE ROOM MAKES IT SEEM DECEPTIVELY SMALL. DUE TO THEIR PREFERRED CHOICE OF SEATING YOU'LL ALWAYS HAVE TO SQUEEZE PAST ONE IF NOT TWO OF THEM - IN THAT LAUGHABLY NARROW SPACE BETWEEN THE BACK OF THEIR CHAIR AND THE COUNTER - JUST TO ACCESS THINGS LIKE THE FRIDGE, DISHES, THE OVEN, MICROWAVE OR SINK BECAUSE IT DOESN'T OCCUR TO THEM TO MOVE THEIR CHAIRS FORWARD JUST A FEW INCHES TO LET OTHER MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE PASS UNOBSTRUCTED.)

(LOOK, WHEN YOU'RE ALREADY IN A PISS POOR MOOD BECAUSE IRONMAN, DISGUISED AS YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW, WAS STOMPING THE FUCK OUT OF THE CARPET - CARPET! HOW DOES A 50+ YEAR OLD WOMAN MAKE CARPET SOUND LIKE HARDWOOD FLOORS?! - AND WOKE YOU UP YOU AREN'T GOING TO WANT TO SHARE THE SAME AWKWARD SPACE FOR 10 MINUTES WITH THE PEOPLE WHO WOKE YOU UP, DIDN'T ACTUALLY GO OUT, USED ALL OF THE HOT WATER IN THE HOUSE AND ULTIMATELY DISRUPTED YOUR RETARD ROUTINE WHICH YOU NEED TO FOLLOW ON A DAILY BASIS LEAST YOU FEEL LIKE SOME SORT OF WILD BUT CAGED ANIMAL.)

(NO TEA FIRST THING THIS MORNING, NO TOAST. JUST AS I FINALLY GOT OUT OF BED THE IN-LAWS QUICKLY MOVED FROM THEIR BEDROOM TO THE KITCHEN AND OCCUPIED THE SPACE; THE EXACT PLACE I NEEDED TO GO TO JUMP START MY AUTISTIC SCHEDULE. IT'S LIKE THEY SOMEHOW KNEW I WAS ABOUT TO GO IN THE KITCHEN - AND THEY DID, THEY HEARD ME GET UP AND ACTED ON IT. <- WHEN THEY HEAR FLOORBOARDS CREAK THEY SCATTER LIKE TERRIFIED GAZELLE. UNFORTUNATELY, THEY ALWAYS SEEM TO SCATTER EXACTLY WHERE THE IRRITATED LIONESS WANTS TO/NEEDS TO GO.)

(SO FOR ALL OF THESE REASONS - AND MORE - I TEND TO AVOID COMMUNING WITH MY IN-LAWS IN THE KITCHEN, ESPECIALLY DURING THE FIRST 20 GROGGY MINUTES OF CONSCIOUSNESS . LIKE I SAID ABOVE, MY MORNING IS "ME" TIME WHEN THIS SOFTENED DOVE OF A GENTLE WOMAN IS STILL IN HER DRUNK AND ANGRY WHITE TRASH WHO VIOLENTLY HATES THE WORLD MODE. FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY DON'T LOOK AT ME, TALK TO ME, INDICATE TO ME, SPEAK TO ME, OR SEND SMOKE SIGNALS MY WAY. IF I'M SOMEHOW IN THE EQUATION, FIND A NEW VARIABLE TO REPLACE ME, BECAUSE I'M SO NOT BALANCING THE NUMERICAL VALUE ON EITHER SIDE UNTIL I'VE HAD TEA AND A FUCKING SHOWER.)

5.) SEEING THE STATE YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS LEFT THE KITCHEN IN

(I CLEAN THE KITCHEN TO A CRAZY LEVEL OF CLEAN, EVERY NIGHT, SO THE FIRST THING I SEE IN THE MORNING WHEN I WAKE UP IS MY EFFORT FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE. I STRAIGHTEN UP AT NIGHT TO DELIBERATELY WAKE UP TO AN ORDERLY HOUSE. YOU WANT TO MAKE ME HORNY FIRST THING? GIVE ME A CLEAN KITCHEN WITH AN EMPTY MUG AND AN UNUSED TEA BAG ON THE COUNTER; I WILL BE YOUR SLAVE.)

(I'M A PERSON WHO, FOR THE MOST PART, ENJOYS CLEANING AND KEEPING THE HOUSE AT A SUPERNATURAL LEVEL OF TIDY. I GET OFF ON IT; IT MAKES ME HAPPY. WHILE BEING THAT BIZARRE, ALMOST MYTHICAL, ANOMALY I CAN APPRECIATE AND EVEN UNDERSTAND THAT I RESIDE IN A NEAR NON-EXISTENT MINORITY AND MY COMPULSIONS CAN'T BE FILED AWAY UNDER THE AVERAGE "YOU".)

(HOWEVER, EVEN WITH ME BEING ME AND YOU BEING "YOU" I THINK WE CAN BOTH FIND MIDDLE GROUND AND AGREE ON ONE ASPECT OF CLEANING - WE WANT A CHANCE TO ENJOY THE END RESULT. LOOK, WE'RE BOTH CLEANING, RIGHT? THAT MEANS, IF YOU'RE A NON-CLEANER, THINGS HAVE GOTTEN TO THE POINT OF DESPERATION AND THERE'S NO SOLUTION OTHER THAN HIRING HELP, OR DOING IT YOURSELF. TO AN OBSESSIVE CRACKED OUT CLEANER LIKE MYSELF IT'S A HARROWING ADDICTION TOWARDS AN UNATTAINABLE GOAL - A FOREVER CLEAN HOUSE WITH NO EFFORT WHATSOEVER.)

(EITHER WAY, WE'VE BOTH PUT TIME, EFFORT AND ENERGY INTO THE END RESULT, AND BY RIGHT WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO ENJOY THE FRUITS OF OUR LABOR, OR AT LEAST BE THE ONES WHO CREATES THE NEW MESS. WHEN I WENT TO BED LAST NIGHT THE ROOM WAS SPOTLESS (I MADE SURE IT WAS), BUT SOMETHING HAD TRANSPIRED BETWEEN THE PERIOD OF ME GOING TO BED AND ME WAKING UP. AND, SINCE I HAD SLEPT THAT ENTIRE TIME, I WASN'T THE PERSON WHO CREATED AND LEFT A NEW MESS. THE MESS, AS WELL ALL KNOW, WHETHER YOU'RE ME OR YOU'RE "YOU", ONLY //I// WAS JUSTIFIED IN MAKING. <- DUDE, IT HAD BEEN LESS THAN 10 HOURS. ARE YOU SERIOUSLY TELLING ME THAT A PAIR OF ADULTS WHO ARE DOUBLE MY AGE CAN'T KEEP 1 ONE ROOM CLEAN FOR LESS THAN A HALF A DAY?)

6.) SEEING THE AMOUNT YOUR RECENTLY RETURNED IN-LAWS LEFT IN THE KETTLE FOR YOU

(I'LL KEEP THIS SHORT AND SWEET SINCE I'VE BURNED MYSELF OUT ON LISTED GRIEVANCES - IF YOU HAVE A COMMUNAL ARRANGEMENT DON'T BE A FUCKING ASS, OKAY?)

(DON'T EAT OTHER PEOPLE'S FOOD WITHOUT ASKING, DON'T USE ALL OF THE HOT WATER UNLESS YOU MAKE DAMN SURE IT'S COOL, DON'T THROW AWAY OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS WITHOUT ASKING, DON'T USE THE TACO-SEASONED PAN THAT IS ONLY EVER USED TO MAKE TACOS SINCE IT'S TACO-SEASONED TO FRY FISH ESPECIALLY WHEN THERE ARE OTHERS IN THE HOUSE WHO YOU KNOW VIOLENTLY HATE ANYTHING REMOTELY FISH-LIKE, DON'T LEAVE YOUR SWEATY, USED SOCKS ON THE COUCH FOR OTHER PEOPLE TO PICK UP AND CLEAN ON YOUR BEHALF, DON'T PLAY GLORIA FUCKING ESTEFAN AS LOUD AS THE LOUNGE STEREO WILL PLAY WHEN OTHER PEOPLE IN THE HOUSE ARE SLEEPING AND DON'T, FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD, LEAVE AN OFFENSIVELY INSUFFICIENT AMOUNT OF WATER IN THE SHARED WATER KETTLE AND PRETEND LIKE YOU WEREN'T BEING A LAZY FUCKING ASS WHEN DOING SO.)

(WHAT MAKES 1/4 OF THIS HOUSEHOLD WANT TO SPIT NAILS? WHEN 25% OF THE OCCUPANTS LIFTS THE KETTLE - AFTER BEING WOKEN UP BY NOISY IN-LAWS, HAVING ALL OF THE HOT WATER STOLEN, HAVING TO WAIT TO GET SOMETHING TO DRINK AFTER SLEEPING 7+ HOURS, HAVING A CAREFULLY STRUCTURED SCHEDULE TO HELP WITH AUTISTIC TICKS HOPELESSLY DISRUPTED, SEEING ALL THE CLEANING DONE RUINED IN LESS THAN 12 HOURS BY ADULTS DOUBLE YOUR AGE - AND FINDS THAT 50% OF THE OCCUPANTS FAILED TO REFILL THE TEAPOT AFTER USING IT.)

(WHICH, ADMITTEDLY, IS A LONGSTANDING BATTLE IN THIS HOUSE. MY IN-LAWS, FOR WHATEVER REASON, HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED IT DISCOURTEOUS TO USE ALMOST ALL OF THE WATER IN THE KETTLE, BUT LEAVE JUST ENOUGH TO BE ABLE TO SAY "WE DIDN'T NEED TO REFILL IT FOR ANYONE ELSE, THERE WAS ALREADY SOME WATER IN THERE!". AND WHEN I MEAN "LEAVE JUST ENOUGH" I ACTUALLY MEAN "IT'S AN INSULTING, UNUSABLE AMOUNT THAT REDEFINES THE WORD NEGLIGIBLE".)

(LOOK, THERE ARE UNSPOKEN RULES WHEN IT COMES TO COINHABITING WITH PEOPLE WHO AREN'T PENETRATING YOUR ORIFICES (AND VICE VERSA) - DON'T LEAVE THE LAST SHEET OF TOILET PAPER ATTACHED AND GO "BUT THERE WAS STILL SOME PAPER LEFT!", DON'T PUT BACK AN EMPTY BUTTER CONTAINER WITH "BUT THERE WAS STILL SOME LEFT IN THE CORNER IF YOU SCRAPE IT" AND DON'T FUCKING LEAVE THE COMMUNAL KETTLE EMPTY WHEN YOU'RE THE FUCKING PERSON WHO USED IT ALL IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE.)

(I'M GENUINELY RETARDED; WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE, IN-LAWS?)

A Day of Awesome

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

Do you know what's AWESOME? Waking up to find a plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb waiting for you like an unexpected present on Christmas morning. (ZOMG THAT'S FOR //ME//?! AWE-FUCKING-SOME, says the Ukie woman who, as a Ukie girl, would wander around the great outdoors gnawing on endless stalks of organic Sourpatch Kids (when I wasn't foraging other people's blueberries, currants or raspberries) when she was too fucking lazy to go home to eat.)

Do you know what's more AWESOME than that previously mentioned AWESOME? Being able to spend a dubious amount of time pouring over cookbooks and internet cooking sites to find THE MOST PERFECT, MOST FUCKING AWESOME rhubarb recipe known to man (TO MAN, PEOPLE! TO MAN!) and getting more and more excited with every highly rated recipe you come across.

And do you know what's AWESOMER than THAT? Settling on a deep dish sour cream (SOUR FUCKING CREAM, SAYS THE UKIE GIRL NOW WOMAN, ONE OF THE ONLY BASIC FOOD GROUPS THAT UKRAINIANS RECOGNIZE!) strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into golden, flaky lard pastry. (WHAT, YOU THOUGHT I'D RUIN A PERFECTLY GOOD BAG OF HOMEGROWN RHUBARB ON A VEGETABLE OIL-BASED CRUST? LOL! LOL! LOL!)

(COULD IT GET MORE AWESOME? LORD ALMIGHTY IN HEAVEN, YES. I HOPE YOU'VE ADEQUATELY SEDATED YOURSELF.)

Do you know what's AWESOMER than the already previously mentioned AWESOMER AWESOME AWESOMENESS? Coming home after a day of being out (MOVIE + BURGER KING (SNUCK INTO THE MOVIE, SHHH!) + GROCERY SHOPPING) with fresh ingredients on hand, hellbent on creating THE MOST PERFECT, MOST FUCKING AWESOME deep dish sour cream strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into a golden, flaky lard pastry known to man and discovering that the plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb - the unexpected present on Christmas morning - has mysteriously disappeared.

(OH, BUT THE /REAL/ AWESOMENESS IS ONLY /JUST/ STARTING!)

What could possibly be more awesome than the supreme awesomeness aforementioned? Realizing that SOMEONE ELSE IN THE HOUSE, despite knowing that the plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb was YOUR unexpected present on Christmas morning, opened and claimed YOUR present while you were out and irreparably ruined it in the process. (MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT.)

(CAN I GET A LOLOLOLOL THAT I WAS ACTUALLY //SHOPPING FOR THE THINGS I FUCKING NEEDED TO MAKE THAT FUCKING PIE// WHILE HE WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY FLUSHING THE PRIMARY INGREDIENT - THE INGREDIENT THE WHOLE PIE ADVENTURE WAS BASED ON - DOWN THE PROVERBIAL TOILET? THAT, DEAR AND GENTLE READERS, IS WHY HE'S "MR. AWESOME"; HIS INNATE TALENT FOR RUINING THINGS BORDERS ON SUPERNATURAL.)

And more AWESOME than that sparkling gem of awesomeness? THAT GODDAMN BAG OF FUCKING RHUBARB WAS THE FIRST FUCKING THING THAT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW FUCKING GAVE ME IN THE LAST BILLION MILLION YEARS THAT I COULD ACTUALLY FUCKING EAT. (FOR CHRISTMAS? I REQUESTED A BOX OF CHOCOLATE THAT WAS SITTING AROUND IN THE HOUSE BECAUSE IT WAS CHOCOLATE LITE, SOMETHING MY GERD/HERNIA/STOMACH THING COULD COPE WITH. WHAT DID I GET INSTEAD? A DARK FUCKING CHOCOLATE ORANGE AND ORANGE BOOZE. SHE FUCKING KNOWS I CAN'T EAT DARK CHOCOLATE, ORANGE, OR ANY SORT OF ALCOHOL, BUT INSTEAD OF //LISTENING TO ME// SHE DID WHAT SHE WANTED AND LEFT ME WITH CHRISTMAS GIFTS I EVENTUALLY HAD TO //GIVE AWAY// OR SUFFER V. SERIOUS CONSEQUENCES IF I ATE/INGESTED/DRANK.)

AND MORE AWESOME THAN //THAT//? My father-in-law - the "unexpected present on Christmas morning" snatcher - MADE OUT LIKE IT WAS MY FUCKING FAULT THAT WE HAD TO HAVE ANOTHER PATENTED "SITUATION" IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE AFTER I CAME HOME TO DISCOVER THAT THE GIFT I WAS GIVEN ENDED UP BEING MUTILATED BY ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE HOUSE WHO, AT AGE 69, SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO TOUCH OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS. AND, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY COULDN'T I JUST BE //COOL// WITH SHIT WHEN HE DOES THINGS LIKE THROW OUT ASHES THAT BELONGED TO MY MOTHER, OR GIFTS ITALICS HAS GIVEN ME, OR PROJECTS I'M WORKING ON, OR KILL, RUIN, MAIM, BREAK ANYTHING THAT BELONGS TO ME OR IS IN MY POSSESSION? WHY CAN'T //I// BE A LITTLE BIT MORE UNDERSTANDING ABOUT HIS NEEDS AND ACTIONS?

And, finally, what's SO FUCKING AWESOME that it completely trumps any past AWESOME AWESOMENESS discussed in this journal entry AND THE HISTORY OF THE KNOWN UNIVERSE? That instead of being treated to a homemade, deep dish sour cream strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into a golden, flaky lard pastry the entire household is treated to this:

Block of 10

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

You know how I sometimes (and when I say "sometimes" I actually mean "I'M AWARE THAT I COMPLAIN ABOUT IT ALL OF THE GODDAMN TIME") say I'M ALWAYS FUCKING PICKING UP AFTER FUCKING PEOPLE IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE? Case in point (in the space of less than 10 minutes):

I spend a few long, long minutes straightening the kitchen so I can take a few pictures of food I've recently whipped up. (Dishes need to get put away, counter tops need to get dusted, papers need to get filed and combined, odds and ends either need to be thrown out or put back in their cabinet space - that sort've thing.) Just as I'm leaving to stick one of the French loaves in the outside freezer my in-laws come home.

While I'm bouncing down the patio steps towards the detached room I notice that the two towels my mother-in-law hung up on the line MORE THAN FOUR DAYS AGO are //STILL// lying on the fucking ground. (OH, I'VE BEEN AWARE OF THAT PROBLEM FOR A FEW DAYS NOW BUT REFUSED TO INTERVENE.)(I sometimes leave shit like that just to see how long it'll take before SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME does something about it OR AT LEAST NOTICES.)

(SOMETIMES, HONESTLY, I WOULD SETTLE FOR JUST "NOTICING", BUT THAT'S A SLIPPERY SLOPE. IF MY IN-LAWS ARE THE ONES WHO "NOTICE" THEY'LL MAKE A BIG PRODUCTION ABOUT CLEANING IT UP/RECTIFYING THE PROBLEM, AND THEN THEY'LL LET EVERYONE ELSE LIVING IN THIS HOUSE KNOW WHAT THEY'VE JUST DONE.)(AND, IF I'M SUPER LUCKY, AFTER THEY TRUMPET THEIR GLORIOUS VICTORY TO EVERY PERSON THAT COHABITS HERE THEY'LL TRY AND PIN THE CARELESSNESS ON US; EVEN IF IT'S THEIR SHIT THEY LEFT LYING AROUND.)

Yanking the frozen towels OFF the ground was like ripping winter root vegetables OUT of the ground, although I think any winter vegetable would've been covered in less dirt, sticks, moss, lichen and ice. Once I managed to pick MOST of the debris off TOWELS I DIDN'T WASH AND DIDN'T HANG UP (WITHOUT FUCKING PEGS, MIGHT I ADD, SO THEY WERE LITERALLY JUST THROWN OVER A CORNER OF THE LINE AND ABANDONED) that had been LYING ON THE GROUND FOR MORE THAN FOUR FUCKING DAYS I took them indoors and threw them directly into the wash.

(AND WHEN DOING SO I INWARDLY CRINGED BECAUSE I KNOW IF MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SEES THE TOWELS IN THE WASHING MACHINE SHE'LL MAKE SOME RETARDED COMMENT LIKE "OH, THOSE ARE DIRTY ALREADY? I JUST WASHED THEM A FEW DAYS AGO..." AND I'LL HAVE TO RESTRAIN MYSELF FROM SAYING ANYTHING IN RESPONSE BECAUSE SHE'LL MAKE HER PATENTED SAD FACE AT ME WHEN I MAKE OUT THAT IT'S KIND'VE SORT'VE FRUSTRATING TO HAVE TO PICK UP AFTER SOMEONE WHO'S DOUBLE MY AGE AS IF SHE'S ONLY A FRACTION OF MINE.)

After I finish wiping ice crystals off my clothes and hands I notice that THEY MANAGED TO FUCKING DECIMATE THE KITCHEN I //JUST FINISHED CLEANING// PRIOR TO THEM COMING HOME. So I left the mess, left the grocery bags, left the strewn grocery food, left the pans and took the newspaper they bought into the room they were in and passed it on saying "I'M JUST STRAIGHTENING UP THE KITCHEN, AGAIN, BECAUSE I WAS GETTING READY TO TAKE PICTURES OF FOOD BEFORE YOU CAME HOME".

I WAS SO PAINFULLY UNSUBTLE WITH LOOK, TONE AND WORD CHOICE AND EVEN //THAT// WAS WAY TOO SUBTLE ON THEM. SERIOUSLY. I got an "OH THANKS!" and "I'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT BECAUSE I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ENJOY THAT!" and all attention was back on the TV.

So I wandered back into the kitchen, unloaded their groceries, put away their groceries, stored the bags, put away pots and pans, did the dishes, dusted the counters and tried to set up my tres weak photo shoot (no light box, no proper photo-friendly lighting), but by the time I cleaned and picked up for a second time the best of the natural light was gone and I had to rely on the fucking overhead spotlights beneath the fucking cabinets.

The icing on this less-than-10-minute cake? When storing away the fresh bread I had taken pictures of I noticed that one of my in-laws was TOO FUCKING LAZY TO THROW OUT A FUCKING MUFFIN WRAPPER AND INSTEAD OF TOSSING IT IN THE FUCKING TRASH THEY "HID" THE CRUMPLED UP WRAPPER IN THE FUCKING BREAD BOX.

(MY IN-LAWS, BTW, ARE BOTH 60+ AND NEITHER HAS ANY SORT OF TAXING MENTAL PROBLEM THAT WOULD OTHERWISE RENDER THEM INCAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING WHY A 28 YEAR OLD WOMAN WHO CONSTANTLY PICKS UP AFTER THEM AS IF THEY WERE CHILDREN WOULD BE IRRITATED BY FINDING WHAT'S OSTENSIBLY TRASH THEY WERE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO THROW AWAY HIDDEN BENEATH A NAPKIN IN THE FUCKING BREADBOX.)

All of this shit? In less than 10 minutes. Why I am so goddamn cranky about this less-than-10-minutes shit? BECAUSE IT'S NEVER JUST //ONE// BLOCK OF "LESS THAN 10 MINUTES"; IT'S A BLOCK OF TEN FOLLOWED BY A BLOCK OF TEN FOLLOWED BY YET ANOTHER BLOCK OF TEN WHICH MEANS THAT I'M LOOKING AT, ON AVERAGE, 90 POSSIBLE BLOCKS OF LESS-THAN-10-MINUTES EVERY FUCKING DAY.

Outside Cabinets

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

I swear to all that's fucking holy that the only thing my in-laws notice when I clean the fucking house is that there's suddenly MORE FREE SPACE TO JUST DUMP SHIT AND LEAVE IT THERE.

(Do they notice the bleached counters, the buffed surfaces, the streakless windows, the vacuumed floors, the polished wood, the sparkling glass? No. They only thing they seem to notice is the sudden - almost if by MAGIC - expanse of open, uncluttered space that's being wasted on absolutely nothing.)

(I MEAN, WHY WOULD //ANYONE// WANT A FLAT SURFACE DEVOID OF ANY DECORATION OR CLUTTER WHEN YOU CAN HAVE AEROSOL CANS OF DE-ICER OR WINDOW SCRAPERS OR PILES OF ALREADY READ MAIL OR BOTTLES OF BEER AND CHAMPAGNE SITTING OUT AND TAKING UP THE FREE SPACE? REALLY, COUNTERS ARE JUST OUTSIDE CABINETS, RIGHT?)

(AND SINCE THEY'RE AN EXTENSION OF CABINETS IT'S ONLY NATURAL TO TOSS SHIT ON THEM BECAUSE WHAT IF - WHAT IF! - YOU NEED THE ALREADY READ MAIL OR ONE OF THE 10 DIFFERENT PENS IN THE NEXT 3-19 WEEKS? IMAGINE THE SORT OF CHAOS THAT WOULD ENSUE IF YOU NEEDED ONE OF 10 DIFFERENT PENS OR THAT ALREADY READ PIECE OF MAIL FROM 3 WEEKS AGO AND SOMEONE HAD -PUT IT INSIDE THE CABINET, WHERE IT BELONGS-. IT WOULD ADD A WHOLE TEN SECONDS TO A SITUATION THAT ALREADY BORDERS ON "EMERGENCY".)

((CLEARLY, I'M THE ANOMALY...AGAIN.))

"Facts are Facts"

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

So, we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. Christ only knows for HOW LONG he's known we've been playing with them, but he's had to suffer in silence. He's had to endure; every day is a struggle just to //survive// in this house, every day is a new day of hardship, of cruel and deliberate mind games that are only noticed by his keen, watchful eye.

He lodged a formal complaint yesterday with his wife, Italics's mother/my mother-in-law. Unfortunately, he was a little TOO eager to lodge his formal complaint and it came tumbling out before Italics even had a chance to properly close the door behind himself.

(LOL, DUDE, I'M GOING TO TRY AND KEEP "AND THIS IS WHAT I'D LIKE TO DO YOU TO, YOU FUCKING INCONSIDERATE CUNT..." TO A MINIMAL IN CASE THIS SHIT EVER DOES GET BACK TO YOU SO ALL I'LL SAY IS THIS, RIGHT NOW -- YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT BEING SUBTLE, AND YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT MAINTAINING A LOW VOICE. YOU'RE SHIT AT TALKING ABOUT PEOPLE - LYING ABOUT PEOPLE - BEHIND THEIR BACK. YOUR LIFE WOULD PROBABLY BE 70% EASIER IF YOU LEARNED THE FINE ART OF SUBTERFUGE AND TACT, BUT, AT THE AGE YOU'RE AT, NO ONE IS EXPECTING ANY SIGNIFICANT, POSITIVE CHANGES OR IMPROVEMENTS FROM YOU. <- THAT'S NOT MEANT TO BE A COMPLIMENT, BTW. JUST IN CASE, YOU KNOW, IT READ THAT WAY.)

So we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. His allergies have been horrendous, and have been triggered by Italics and I randomly opening and closing the vents. (Apparently he's tried to combat the problem by OPENING WINDOWS AND LEAVING THEM OPEN FOR HOURS AT A TIME DURING THE DEAD OF WINTER. <- LOL, THE FUNNY PART? THE PART THAT MAKES ME LOL AND WANT TO ATTACK HIM WITH MY NEW DEEP FRYING SLOTTED SPOON? I CANNOT, FOR THE FUCKING LIFE OF ME, KEEP WINDOWS OPEN DURING SUMMER. YOU KNOW, SUMMER. WHEN IT'S BALMY, AND SULTRY, AND THE SUN IS AT ITS ZENITH. IF I LEAVE OPEN WINDOWS IN THIS HOUSE DURING A FUCKING HEATWAVE THAT SCOTLAND HAS NEVER BEFORE SEEN IN ITS RECORDED HISTORY HE'S ONLY 10-15 MINUTES BEHIND CLOSING THEM, SWISHING AROUND IN HIS SPEEDOS. <- OH, HONEY, YES. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE'S NEARLY 70. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE DOESN'T HAVE THE PHYSIQUE FOR IT AT MORE. WHAT MATTERS IS HE IS A /MAN/ AND /MEN/ WEAR SPEEDOS.)

His allergies are out of control, and he's barely hanging on...but then She - mother/mother-in-law - points out that he's standing next to a bouquet of flowers, flowers that he's allergic to. (Since he's developed a rather severe allergic reaction to my favorite sort of flower (NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, SAYS THE WITCH WHO SPITS) there aren't as many blooms as there used to be in this house least I get blamed for biological warfare. But there are flowers in the house, right now, because Italics's mother's birthday is this coming Sunday. <- SO IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, OKAY? THE FLOWERS HAVE -NOTHING- TO DO WITH ME!) He didn't appreciate her response. He ALSO didn't appreciate her reminding him if he actually TOOK his allergy medication he wouldn't be in the state he is.

And when she V. obviously wasn't buying the blame (LOL, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, I HAVE //NOTHING// BETTER TO DO EVERY FUCKING DAY OF MY LIFE THAN DEDICATE MYSELF, MY ENTIRE BEING, TO THE CAUSE OF MAKING HIS LIFE A LIVING HELL, ONE AIR VENT AT A TIME) it's the third strike and he goes into fussy-bitchy-prickish mode. She politely requests that he not act that way (be that way? Christ, who knows, all of this shit was learned second hand via Italics), please, because it was her birthday weekend and she wanted to enjoy it. He more or less told her to SHOVE IT, but with as little words as possible.

(I've been pretty laid back and taken shit he's done in the past few weeks - OH, MR. AWESOME HAS BEEN SPECTACULARLY AWESOME FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, OR SO - with as much patience as I can. <- EVEN ITALICS HAS NOTICED I HAVE BEEN TRYING EXTRA CRAZY HARD RECENTLY. I think my golden running streak would've gotten tarnished last night if I had been in the same room where a husband made out to his wife - who, in so many words, has had a hard time coming to grips with this particular birthday, and has been in tears several times recently about it - that he could give a fuck about trying just a little harder so they could have fun and enjoy what's turned out to be an otherwise hella stressful, hella emotional birthday weekend. I don't step into other people's marriage, but I would've stepped into that - with stilettos on. WITH CUT-THROAT RAZORS TAPED ONTO THE STILETTOS, OR SOMETHING.)

I was too tired to be upset, too tired to be angry, or pissed off. I rolled my eyes and mentally gave my mother-in-law a hug. What am I supposed to do, anyway? A near 70 year old man we live with is now intentionally, consciously, knowingly, willfully lying about us and what we are (or aren't) doing.

I nearly blew a gasket last year when Italics informed me that he overheard his father tell the plumber - who was working on the heating which was broken - that it was //our// fault that the heater broke because we insisted on have "25 minute long showers". I mean, that's lying about us PLUS lying about us to a complete stranger who doesn't know any better, who doesn't know the history or circumstance or anything because he - Italics's father - just wants to momentarily feel vindicated about a situation THAT NEVER HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(AND I'LL BE UPFRONT AND SAY THAT YES, ITALICS AND I, ON OCCASION, TAKE SEX SHOWERS. BUT WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER FOR NEARLY A HALF-A-FUCKING-HOUR. (BUT WE DID, ADMITTEDLY, HAVE A HAND IN THE OLD TUB CRACKING DURING A BOUT OF ANAL SHOWER SEX. <- OLD TUB, OKAY? PLASTIC OLD TUB NEARING 20 YEARS OLD WITH TWO PEOPLE STANDING ON THE WEAKEST POINT. IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN EVENTUALLY, DUDE.) AND WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER - NOT IN THE PAST THREE OR FOUR YEARS - WHEN EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME. SO HOW MY FATHER-IN-LAW CAME UP WITH "...AND THEY INSIST ON HAVING 25 MINUTE LONG SHOWERS ALL THE TIME" IS BEYOND ME.)

Look, the guy's a liar - how do you get AS upset like the first time you found out? You don't, because FINDING OUT THAT SOMEONE IS DELIBERATELY LYING ABOUT YOU IS OLD HAT. All he's proven - at least to me - is that he's a living, breathing liar, and the fact that the 25 MINUTE ZOMG SHOWER thing wasn't a one-off. I live with a liar, now excuse me as I feign surprise and shock and dismay that A LIAR FUCKING LIES ABOUT SHIT, HENCE THE DESCRIPTIVE LABEL OF "LIAR". (OH, BABY, HE'S TAKING THAT NOUN AND MAKING IT A VERB!) For once I just rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders and got on with it (better off just getting use to second hand hearing about what you are or aren't doing around the house, especially when you aren't doing what you are - or aren't - being accused of).

The internet died two days ago, just a few minutes after Italics woke up. I managed to scribble off one epicly disjointed (LOLOLOL, MORE SO THAN USUAL! NOW WITH 50% MORE "OBNOXIOUS" AND "DISJOINTED"!) email to a friend and then? And then...nothing. Dead. (Terrific wonderful news for me (one less thing that day to demand a slice of my time), and awful horrible news for Italics (not only did it mean he had to figure out what was wrong and fix it, but it also meant he couldn't work - you know, work, the shit you do in order to GET MONEY AND LIVE).)

We were supposed to go out to the movies and grab something to eat. (NEW YEAR'S COUPLE RESOLUTION: EAT OUT ONCE A MONTH. EVEN IF GRABBING A BURGER AT REVOLUTION, EVEN IF JUST SNEAKING IN A CHIPPER OR BURGER KING TO A MOVIE. WHATEVER YOU - COLLECTIVELY - DECIDE TO DO, MAKE SURE YOU DO /IT/ ONCE A MONTH, TOGETHER.) We still did, despite everything.

(If you don't know me, or don't know me well - I'm sick. I've been sick for edging on three years now. The first year was spent trying to convince doctors I was actually sick ("HEY! WE'RE PROFESSIONALS! AND WE'RE TELLING YOU YOU -AREN'T- EXPERIENCING THOSE SYMPTOMS, AND EVEN IF YOU ARE THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING!"), the second year was spent being insanely, crazily sick interspersed with waiting 18 weeks for a single consultation with a specialist and another 18 weeks just to get an appointment for medical testing I was prescribed (LOL, YOU THINK I'M JOKING?). I'm not terminal, it isn't fatal, but it's chronic, and since the problem lies within my stomach (so far they've found a hiatal hernia, a smooth muscle in my stomach that's significantly weaker and not working like it should, and symptoms that point towards a severe case of GERD) it affects every area of my life - eating, drinking, exercising, moving, sex, going out...the list just goes on and on.)

(Even when I'm feeling super awesome I'm still sick, and it comes up to bite me with SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE. WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT COOL, BECAUSE I ONCE WAS A VERY PHYSICALLY ACTIVE PERSON. And when I mean SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE I mean brushing my teeth, taking a shower, shaving my legs, styling my hair, putting on make-up, and picking out something to wear is enough to put me out of the game for the rest of the day. In fact, you probably lost me after "shaving my legs". I hate it. It's bullshit. I'm 28 fucking years old, I should be climbing mountains. I WANT TO BE CLIMBING MOUNTAINS, DAMMIT. But having a shower and dolling myself up is my mountain, at least right now.)

One thing I've never really told my husband, Italics, is how thankful I am at how he makes going out one of the most number one priorities in our life. (Mostly because I'm lucky if I can leave the house once a month. I've been able to temper myself so I have the energy I need to exist and coexist in this house, but anything that requires me to cross the threshold into the outside world usually requires a reservoir of energy that I may or may not have.) Sometimes I feel, especially when I'm sitting in the computer chair fully dressed and strapped into my shoes and watching him run around, like I've gone into labor, and the single most important thing is TO GET ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND TO THE HOSPITAL, STAT, WITH NO EXCUSES FROM SECOND OR THIRD PARTIES.

("Going out" is somewhat complicated because neither Italics nor I can drive. I mean, I CAN drive, but I can't drive stick, and that's the only sort've car parked outside. So, since moving here in 2001 at the tender age of 21, I haven't driven. Not once. If we want to go out we have to rearrange it with my in-laws. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone and we've both been up for nearly 20 hours (our sleeping patterns are a bit weird; half the month we're up during the day, and half the month we're up at night so sometimes when we catch a 11:30am movie we've actually been up since 7 or 8 pm the previous night) and we're both feeling varying degrees of sick (between me and my stomach problems and Italics and his back problems) and we don't know when or how we're going to get home. Since getting seriously sick, as you can imagine, we've limited "going out" so a "situation" isn't created when someone forgets to pick us up or assumes, without asking us, that since it's a "nice day today" we wanted extra time out (but since he didn't take his phone we can't correct that assumption he made on our behalf.))

As expected Italics's father takes off just as I'm shoving a foot into the shoe, and we exchange "OH SHIT" expressions since neither of us had a chance to request his chauffeur services, AND OH MY GOD WE HAD SCHEDULED GOING OUT - BETWEEN US - FOR DAYS AND WE NEVER GO OUT AND WE'RE REALLY FUCKING LUCKY IF I EVEN MAKE IT OUT OF THE HOUSE ONCE A FUCKING MONTH AND WHAT ABOUT OUR RESOLUTION AND -

- Italics's mom came home early and took us. Normally I'd feel guilty about putting any sort of pressure on her, but Italics said she was OVERJOYED to hear that I was feeling up to LEAVING THE HOUSE so FUCK WORK, SHE WAS COMING HOME EARLY. (See? CLEARLY I'VE GONE INTO A METAPHORICAL STATE OF LABOR.) Although by the time we managed to get in the car I had already spent an hour nodding off at the computer (SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE) and Italics was worried about dragging me out of the house BUT NO, I SAID, I WILL NOT LET FATIGUE GET THE BETTER OF ME, I WANT A SEMBLANCE OF A LIFE, PLEASE, AND IF THAT MEANS I HAVE TO FUCKING SUCK IT UP AND FALL ASLEEP IN SEVERAL DIFFERENT PUBLIC PLACES WHILE WE'RE OUT THEN SO FUCKING BE IT.

Besides, it was time to send off DAS HEXENHAUS (our gingerbread house) to the tentacle creatures of the deep (which we do annually). (MOST OFFERINGS ARE EITHER TAKEN TO THE CEMETERY OR COMMITTED TO THE PLASTIC TERRACOTTA BUCKET KNOWN AS "DEAD CROW DIRT", BUT, ONCE A YEAR, WE TAKE THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE WE ASSEMBLE TOGETHER DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON TO THE OCEAN (THE NORTH SEA) AND LET THE TIDE TAKE THE HOUSE AND THE ICING AND THE GUM DROPS AND SUGAR PRETZELS AND CANDIED WITCH WITH HER MAGIC MUSHROOM DOWN INTO THE DEPTHS OF MY/OUR CHTHONIC WATER.)

The pitch black water touched the pitch black sky, and the only thing that separated one endless expanse into another were the citrine lights from North Sea ships dotting the horizon. Somewhere in that inky darkness, as the tide came in, a small gingerbread house went out to sea. Somewhere just a pin prick of white floated on black, and then disappeared beneath a wave of salt water and sand. ("TENTACLE MONSTERS OF THE DEEP, COME AND TAKE YOUR GINGERBREAD HOUSE!) The Deep Ones, the Tentacle Ones, have been sated for another year. (Unsuspecting sailors and captains? You can thank me later for not capsizing and meeting your ancient, watery grave when a hungry ass Kraken decides your ship looks like a floating meze.)

The Wrestler was shit. Expected more, got less. I didn't feel anything either way (I anticipated choking up once, or at least LEARNING SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF while watching the movie, or taking away something poignant and meaningful), and was significantly less than impressed with getting fed artistic intent with a shovel. (Maybe you can blame that on one too many "bros" in the dialogue?)

I ate a small box of popcorn which, in retrospect, was one of the stupidest fucking things I could've done. (Corn - especially popcorn - is the kiss of death. It's already hard enough to digest for the average person, let alone someone who has mysterious stomach/digestion ailments. When I eat popcorn it's the equivalent of having something nuclear go off inside of me that stays tightly contained between my stomach and my hernia, so there's a tight ball of explosion (implosion?) that doesn't expand, doesn't emanate, but burns like a dead star.)

I forgot I wasn't on my medication. (I have another round of testing on the 27th of this month, and in order to get a sense of what's wrong with me I have to be off my prescription for at least two weeks so it isn't in my system.) I forgot I wasn't home. (YOU KNOW, AFTER NEARLY THREE YEARS OF HAVING A BODY THAT DICTATES WHAT YOU CAN EAT AND WHEN YOU CAN EAT SOMETIMES YOU BRASHLY DECIDE TO TAKE THE REIGNS AND EAT WHAT THE EFF YOU WANT AND FUCK THE CONSEQUENCES. ADMITTEDLY, THOSE TIMES ARE A LOT EASIER WHEN YOU'RE -AT HOME- AND NOT OUT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A MONTH WHILE DEALING WITH THE REPERCUSSIONS.) And the popcorn? It smelled like popcorn. And we were at the movies. And we hadn't been out for over a month. And...well, "and".

I thought I'd be okay since I managed a half-bag of popcorn when at home during Christmas, but I //forgot// and in doing so - even after chasing it with two extra strength antacids - I got sick. I got so sick that there was no chance we could stay out for dinner. I got so sick that there was no chance we could go grocery shopping (I needed ingredients to bake two birthday cakes). I got so sick that I honestly, truly believe that I've already ruined the one resolution I made for us - go out to eat once a month, regardless of dress, regardless of menu, just go out and eat something, somewhere, once a month, together - because I don't know when or how I'll be able to leave this house again by the end of the month.

And, so, I did the most mature, rational and logical thing a woman could do in my situation - I sat on the bench in front of the theater we came out of and cried. (Okay, so I tried NOT to cry, but, still, there was some sniffling involved, and there was some hoarseness of voice, and, uh, a little bit of moisture.) I tried to keep shit in perspective (i.e. "You have a digestion problem, you know you can't eat certain foods but you chose, out of your own freewill, to eat one of those foods while out. It's popcorn, for Christ's sake. There are people out there with DIABETES and CRAZY FATAL FOOD ALLERGIES; you aren't one of them.") but it's always hard to rope in the horses once they start galloping (i.e., "BUT I'M FUCKING TWENTY-FUCKING EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE EATING A FEW HANDFULS OF POPCORN AT THE MOVIES. I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING HANDLE LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE. I AM TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SOMETHING //COSMIC// GOING ON INSIDE OF ME AND THERE IS NO MAGIC PILL I CAN TAKE, NO SPECIAL OPERATION THAT'LL MAKE THIS BETTER!").

My woe-ing was kept to a minimal (for someone with such a volatile personality and temper -that- was a miracle within itself). I did feel sorry for myself, though, and I let myself pitifully wallow in it while doubled over and gasping for breath - except for the time I had to physically move to another bench when another cinema patron and his chilli dog with fried onions sat right next to me. (SORRY, DUDE, BUT THE SCENT OF -YOUR DINNER- ALMOST INSPIRED AN EXTRA TOPPING THAT YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT.)

There is something bizarrely exhibitionist about crying in public when you're sitting next to your partner. The entire time all I could think of - well, LOL, other than "WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" and "FUCK POPCORN, FUCK IT, FUCK IT AND ITS PIED PIPER AMBROSIA SMELL" - was "FUCK, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE PASSING US THINK WE'RE FIGHTING, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE GLANCING OVER TO ME THINK THEY'RE WITNESSING THE STALEMATE OF A RELATIONSHIP, PLEASE DON'T..." as if me curled up into a speck of a being was reflective of our relationship, or the state of it.

I lost an entire day after that. Not that it was MISPLACED or OH FUCK THIS SHIT KEEPS POPPING UP AND I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED THE SCHEDULE I SET MYSELF TODAY - but lost. Gone. Didn't even stand a chance of even having it. You get sick, really sick, and it takes a day to recover. Sometimes two, sometimes three. It's time that isn't yours; time that doesn't really belong to you, but your illness.

I forgot how many times I nodded off when sitting at the computer, when sitting at the couch, when sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There just wasn't -anything- there. The internet wasn't working, but was, but in order to access it I had to use my father-in-law's new laptop because it'd only connect to the net in the lounge. I hate laptops, I hate small keyboards and I really fucking hate small keyboards that arbitrarily decide to drop letters. I hate the internet not working so I have to use a fucking laptop with a small keyboard that arbitrarily decides to drop letters while shuffling and moving files from different computers just to be able to upload entries here to Graveyard Dirt.

(I hate the bamboo wallpaper of the new laptop which is a fucking EYESORE TO ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY USES A COMPUTER WITH ANY SORT OF REGULARITY, but, LOL, Italics's parents fucking //love// it WHICH, REALLY, PROVES MY POINT, DOESN'T IT?)

So I said "SELF, YOU SHALL CALL KATE, BECAUSE SHE BROKE HER ARM A FEW DAYS AGO AND COULD PROBABLY USE A SYMPATHETIC FEMALE VOICE RIGHT NOW" and flipped open my address book. Much to my shock, dismay and amazement Kate's number wasn't there, which meant I had to turn on my mobile and figure out how to display my address book.

That would've been -perfect- had I actually known how to bring up anything but a contact's NAME in my address book. When trying to display her number I accidentally called, and once it started ringing I felt obligated to follow through (I was, originally, going to call her using the house phone because I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT FUCKING CELL PHONES AND, ALSO, SMALL KEYBOARDS AND LAPTOPS, AS YOU ALREADY KNOW). Our conversation spanned from a whole "HELLO?" to me shouting "OH SHIT!" as the battery of my phone inexplicably died within seconds of use.

I scrambled for Italics's new BLADE RUNNER phone knowing that her number would've been locked up in his sim card, but LOL, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CRASH HIS PHONE. (It might've had something to do with me RANDOMLY PUSHING UNMARKED BUTTONS HOPING THAT ONE OF THEM WOULD BRING UP SOME SORT OF CONTACT LIST OR SOMETHING.) I ran to my computer to find my text document of numbers but FOR JESUS'S FUCK SAKE IT WASN'T THERE WHICH MEANT I HAD TO GO BACK INTO THE EFFING LOUNGE, REBOOT THAT FUCKING NEW LAPTOP WITH THE EYESORE BAMBOO WALLPAPER, RECONNECT TO THE GODDAMN INTERNET AND USE A MOTHERFUCKING KEYBOARD THAT RANDOMLY DECIDES TO DROP CONSONANTS AND VOWELS JUST SO I COULD ACCESS MY FUCKING EMAIL ACCOUNT TO POP OPEN AN OLD EMAIL FROM LAST YEAR TO GET KATE'S NUMBER.

As it turned out I FUCKING THREW OUT THAT FUCKING EMAIL AND IT'S BEEN 40 FUCKING DAYS, OR WHATEVER, BECAUSE IT WASN'T FOUND IN THE TRASH WHICH MEANT ALL I COULD DO, AFTER ALL OF THAT, WAS EMAIL KATE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHORT, POSSIBLY CONFUSING CONVERSATION OF "HELLO/OH SHIT". BUT THEN, IMMEDIATELY AFTER, I HAD -JUST- ENOUGH POWER (SINCE I HAD PLUGGED IN MY PHONE TO RECHARGE) TO TURN MY MOBILE BACK ON, AND IN DOING SO I SAGELY LEARNED THAT SIMPLY BY PRESSING THE "#" KEY IT DISPLAYED A CONTACT'S NUMBER WHICH I QUICKLY SCRIBBLED DOWN IN A TEXT DOCUMENT BEFORE CATASTROPHE STRUCK, AGAIN.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I'M EVEN WRITING ANY OF THIS DOWN, IN CAPS LOCK EVEN, BUT I AM. BECAUSE, HONESTLY, I FEEL SLIGHTLY DELIRIOUS BY THIS POINT OF WRITING. (OH, HONEY, I STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE ANY SENSE ABOUT SEVERAL PAGES BACK, SERIOUSLY.) LET'S JUST WRAP UP THE REST OF THAT PARTICULAR DAY IN A NON-COMMITTAL WAY BECAUSE I SERIOUSLY DOUBT ANYONE WHO SERIOUSLY READS THIS SITE HAS EVEN GOTTEN THIS FAR. (WAIT, WHAT, YOU HAVE? LULZ.)

Due to the entire DEVIOUSLY PLAYING WITH WINDOW VENTS FOR OUR OWN NEFARIOUS PURPOSES incident grocery shopping got pushed back an hour. And then another hour. And then another hour. And then my husband finally took pity on me and went shopping because I was waiting for several ingredients to bake my mother-in-law one of two birthday cakes and by that point in the evening I was only partially conscious, slumped over my computer desk after an entire day involving MERCURY RETROGRADE PHONE ACTIVITY and BRAND NEW LAPTOPS WITH SHIT KEYBOARDS AND SEIZURE INDUCING WALLPAPER.

By 11:30 PM the Fruits of summer buttermilk coffeecake with orange flower water was baked, a loose interpretation of "coulis" was cooling (I used the remainder of the frozen fruits of summer bag to make a compote using pomegranate juice and Cointreau.) (TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS TOO TIRED FOR PHOTOS SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD ON THAT.), and Italics's parents were in bed after a night of uncomfortable atmosphere (YOU REMEMBER ABOUT THE WINDOW VENTS AND BIRTHDAY WEEKEND THING FROM WAY AT THE START, RIGHT?)

Christmas/Yule Altar '08

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

COME TO THINK OF IT, IT DOES SORT'VE LOOK LIKE A TRASH CAN (<- BACK STORY), DOESN'T IT?

(...EFFING RETARD.)

When Death Comes Ripping

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

OH, HEY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED -- THREE FUCKING MONTHS AGO.

MY SIDE OF THE FAMILY? I AM DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED FROM THEM. AND THEY ARE ALL "BUT WHHHHY?" AND "YOU'RE JUST AS CRAZY AS YOUR MOTHER WAS" AND "WE KNOW THAT ITALICS HAS BRAIN WASHED YOU AND TURNED YOU AGAINST US" AND I WILL NOW GIVE AN EXAMPLE TO THE WORLD WHY I HAVE DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED MYSELF FROM THEM:

ON THE 10TH OF THIS MONTH (JANUARY) I GOT A LETTER FROM THE STATES WITH MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME IN THE RETURN ADDRESS, BUT THE ADDRESS LISTED BENEATH WASN'T HIS REAL ADDRESS (<- LIVED WITH MY UNCLE AND HIS WIFE, AND I KNOW THEIR ADDRESS). (I GOOGLED IT AND, AS IT TURNS OUT, IT'S SOME EQUINE LEARNING CENTER, OR SOMETHING.)

APPARENTLY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED IN SEPTEMBER, BUT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME. WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK - APPARENTLY MY UNCLE SENT ME A FUCKING EMAIL...BUT THAT WAS IT. MY UNCLE SENT ME AN EMAIL TO AN ADDRESS HE ADMITTED THAT HE ALREADY KNEW THAT I NO LONGER USED (AND HADN'T USED IN YEARS), AND THOUGHT THAT WAS, YOU KNOW, SUFFICIENT. (I GUESS MY SISTER AND FATHER ALSO THOUGHT IT WAS SUFFICIENT BECAUSE NEITHER OF THEM CONTACTED ME, OR EVEN MENTIONED THE FACT IN THE CHRISTMAS CARD/LETTER THEY SENT ME.)

AND THE ONLY REASON WHY MY UNCLE WAS CONTACTING ME - PRETENDING TO BE MY GRANDFATHER BECAUSE OTHERWISE I GUESS I WOULDN'T HAVE OPENED THE LETTER AND JUST THROWN IT OUT (WTF? I HAVE NO IDEA, SRSLY.) - WAS BECAUSE I HAD SENT A GIFT AND CARD, LIKE I ALWAYS DO, FOR CHRISTMAS. SO, REALLY, HE WAS ONLY TELLING ME -SO I DIDN'T SEND ANY MORE SHIT TO THEIR HOUSE-, NOT BECAUSE HE FELT OBLIGATED TO INFORM HIS NIECE THAT HER GRANDFATHER HAD FUCKING DIED.

AND THE WORST PART? I MEAN, LOL, OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME THAT MY FUCKING GRANDFATHER - MY ONLY GRANDFATHER THAT I HAVE EVER KNOWN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE - HAD DIED THREE MONTHS AGO, IS THAT IF I CONTACT ANY OF MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY GOING "WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" I'LL BE TAGGED AS THE CRAZY ONE. (TRUFAX.)

FOR FUCK'S SAKE - YOU SEND AN EMAIL WHEN YOUR FUCKING DOG OR GOLDFISH DIES, NOT WHEN SOMEONE IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY PASSES AWAY - ESPECIALLY NOT TO AN ADDRESS YOU'VE ALREADY EFFING ADMITTED YOU KNOW -NO LONGER WORKS-. MAYBE I'M JUST OLD-FASHIONED THINKING THAT IT BORDERS ON INAPPROPRIATE TO RELY ON, OSTENSIBLY, ONE FUCKING -TEXT MESSAGE- TO INFORM PEOPLE OF THE DEATH OF AN IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBER. (HOW FUCKING LAZY IS THAT? I MEAN, REALLY? THAT SHIT IS FUCKING INEXCUSABLE, AND I CAN'T BELIEVE AN ADULT DOUBLE MY AGE THINKS HE'S ACTED FAULTLESSLY AND FLAWLESSLY.)

AND THAT IS WHY, WORLD, I HAVE CUT THE STRINGS. THAT IS WHY.

(AND -I'M- THE FUCKING CRAZY ONE. JESUS EFFING CHRIST. DO YOU SEE WHAT I HAVE TO WORK WITH? ON BOTH SIDES? FUCK ME.)

Not the Trash, II

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

YESTERDAY I DISCOVERED THAT MY FATHER-IN-LAW USED AN OFFERING PLATE ON MY ALTAR AS A TRASHCAN.

I WAS VERY, VERY ANGRY.

SO ANGRY THAT I SCREAMED INTO A TOWEL LAST NIGHT FOR AN HOUR. SO ANGRY THAT I FORCED THE MAJORITY OF THE TOWEL INTO MY MOUTH SO I WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY CHOKING AND CHEWING ON IT. SO ANGRY THAT ALL I COULD DO WHILE CRYING AND SCREAMING AND CHOKING AND CHEWING WAS PRAY THAT NOTHING POPPED INTO MY MIND TO GET FINALIZED IN A SPLIT SECOND OF FURY.

(OH, BABY, DID I WANT TO SPIT.)

NORMALLY I'M NOT AS SENSATIONAL WITH THE CHOKING AND THE CHEWING AND THE REGURGITATING OF TOWELS, BUT I MADE MY DISCOVERY JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT WHICH MEANT BOTH MY IN-LAWS WERE IN BED. (SO I WASN'T ALLOWED TO BE LOUD, TO BE UPSET, TO BE ANYTHING, WHICH MEANT THE EMOTIONAL TSUNAMI WAS ABSORBED BY A SKANK ASS KITCHEN TOWEL WHILE I ROCKED BACK AND FORTH IN FRONT OF THE ALTAR.)

WHO LEAVES GARBAGE IN A PLACE OF WORSHIP? WHO LEAVES GARBAGE IN A CHURCH? OR A MOSQUE? OR A SYNAGOGUE? OR A TEMPLE? WHO DELIBERATELY LEAVES GARBAGE IN AN OBVIOUS PLACE OF PRAYER AND BELIEF? WHO DOESN'T EVEN CONSIDER THE INAPPROPRIATENESS OF THAT SORT OF ACTION?

MY FATHER-IN-LAW.

Not the Trash

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

If you only knew how many times he's come close to losing one of this hands.

(This is one of those times.)

("Rotting" was the predominant image, btw.)

Matching Set

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

The woman across the street said to me "YOU WOULDN'T KNOW BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT FROM AROUND HERE" with a straighter-than-arrow face. Oh, honey, you didn't just imply that I'm some sort've naive and mentally incompetent "American nigger", did you?

I think you diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid*!

(MAYBE I SHOULD FIND LOVE AND RAINBOWS AND KINDNESS IN MY BLACK HEART AND GIVE YOU A PASS BECAUSE GOD AND ABOVE ALREADY TOOK ONE OF YOUR FUCKING TITS VIA CANCER. OR MAYBE YOU'RE ITCHING TO LOSE THE OTHER FOR A MATCHING SET?)

(*I'M NOT, ACTUALLY. BLACK, I MEAN. I'VE LIVED IN SCOTLAND FOR NEARLY EIGHT (NINE?) YEARS AND THE FACT THAT I'M AMERICAN HAS NEVER, EVER COME UP OR BEEN BROUGHT UP IN EVEN A REMOTELY XENOPHOBIC WAY...UNTIL TODAY. AND THAT FIRST MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE CAME FROM A NEIGHBOR (WHOM I'VE -NEVER- MET) WHO LIVES ACROSS THE STREET.)

(ACTUALLY, I DID, ONCE, GET ACCOSTED BY A TRAMP (MUCH LIKE SOPHIE ELLIS BEXTOR ZOMG!) ON A BUS DOWN TO GLASGOW AFTER I TOLD HIM TO PUT HIS GODDAMN CIGARETTE OUT. BUT THAT AMOUNTED TO A DRUNK GLASWEGIAN CALLING ME A "FUCKING AMERICAN YANKEE PROFESSOR" WHICH, OBVIOUSLY, WAS COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY FULL OF LULZ ALL THE WAY.)

(I AM SO AMAZINGLY ANGRY THAT I AM PREPARED TO WRITE HER A -LETTER-. (AND MAYBE EVEN BAKE HER A BATCH OF GRAVEYARD DIRT COOKIES.))

It Gets EVEN Better

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

My father-in-law has a death wish. (This death wish? It's entirely different from yesterday's death wish. That's how talented he's been in the past 48 hours.)

She Spits, She Scores

Filed under: Hexin'

My father-in-law? He never learns. (And now he's walking in slippers filled with graveyard dirt and his daughter-in-law's fury. <- OH, I WAS SO ANGRY I HAD TO SPIT -FIVE TIMES- BEFORE FUCKING HITTING THE SHOE.)

I've been growing tobacco, from seed, for Papa. Since Imbolc (LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL, I KNOW, I KNOW! I THOUGHT IT WAS AN -APPROPRIATE- TIME!) I've tended to his plants, and when they got hardy enough to withstand the "greenhouse" (where Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, keeps his plants and trees) they were transported outside.

Since mid-May my/our/his plants have been happily growing without any interference - ANY INTERFERENCE UNTIL YESTERDAY WHEN I FOUND ONE OF MY THREE CONTAINERS SITTING OUT-THE-FUCKING SIDE, EXPOSED TO THE ELEMENTS AND MUCH COLDER AIR (WE'VE ALREADY EXPERIENCED FROST AND SNOW IN THIS REGION OF SCOTLAND), WITH THE TIP OF ONE OF THE PLANTS INEXPLICABLY CUT OFF.

If I hadn't gone outside to make an offering to ANCESTORS, FRIENDS, and HELPERS I would've never seen the container - THE CONTAINER WITH MY ONCE SUPER HUGE TOBACCO PLANT WHICH I WAS HOPING TO GET SEEDS FROM (BUT NOT ANYMORE SINCE HE CUT OFF THE FLOWERS THAT WOULD'VE PRODUCED THE SEEDS) - sitting on the patio because it's not like he ASKED ME IF HE COULD DO IT or even INFORMED ME OF WHAT HE HAD DONE. I was livid, and then so frustrated that all I could do was cry because there's nothing I CAN DO.

The plants? They'll either survive or they won't. I can't do anything about that now. The tip of the plant with the flowers for seed? Cut off. I also can't do anything about that now. Complain, shout, threaten, or demand an apology or at least an explanation as to why he was still touching and breaking and killing and ruining my things after being told so many times for over seven fucking years not to touch my things (or, at least, JUST ASK ME BEFORE YOU TOUCH MY THINGS)?

Or why a near seventy year old man can't seem to remember the one simple thing I ask from him (i.e., PLEASE ASK ME BEFORE YOU TOUCH OR THROW OUT ANYTHING THAT'S MINE.)? (One, simple thing that EVEN A CHILD WITH LEARNING DIFFICULTIES CAN UNDERSTAND.) Or why, when I confront him after he's threw away part of an Anniversary gift I was working on for Italics, or my mother's ashes, or -

- actually, let's not even start with the "ORs". In fact, I'm totally done with this entry before my blood pressure rises any more and I find myself screaming at five in the fucking morning because one of the hardest fucking things I've ever had to deal with in my entire fucking life is living with someone who has told me, face on, that they will decide the inherit value of an object on -my- behalf and will act accordingly without consulting me.

I am completely, hopelessly bound in a situation where there is someone else in my life who doesn't have to live at the standard he expects everyone else to live at, and that it's easier - for the entire family - to let him act out and ruin other people's lives because it's -less tense and stressful- than to reprimand him for things like THROWING AWAY ASHES THAT BELONGED TO YOUR FUCKING MOTHER.

HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT'S WORSE THAN HAVING ASHES THAT BELONGED TO YOUR MOTHER GET THROWN AWAY? THE PERSON WHO DID IT NEVER APOLOGIZING TO YOU FOR IT, EVEN THOUGH THEY WERE TOLD WHAT THEY HAD DONE. (IT'S BEEN FOUR YEARS NOW, MR. AWESOME, AND MY MOTHER AND I ARE STILL WAITING.)

(YEAH. -THAT'S- WHAT I LIVE WITH, AND HE'S FUCKING LUCKY THAT I DIDN'T ASK FOR HIS BALLS BECAUSE -I ALMOST ALWAYS GET WHAT I FUCKING WANT-. <- AND HE, MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD, SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW.)

25 Days

Filed under: Life

They’re gone for 25 days leaving us with the house. During those 25 days they’ll visit theme parks, amusement parks, eat out, swim in the in-ground swimming pool, and enjoy Florida’s weather in July. During those 25 days Italics and I will be trapped in the house, eating at home (with the occasional take-out from the 1-3 places we can go – 2 Chinese and one really awful not proper pizza at all pizza place), pretend that the grass is alive (Italics’ father thought it was best to kill any and all grass growing on or near the property this year leaving nothing but dirt and straw), sit inside all day (seriously, guys, THERE IS EITHER NO GRASS LEFT, OR ALL OF THE GRASS IS DEAD – WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WANT TO SIT OUTSIDE? DO YOU KNOW HOW DEPRESSING IT IS LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AND SEEING THAT YOU LIVE IN THE ONLY HOUSE THAT HAS DIRT FOR A FRONT LAWN AND NO LIVING GRASS IN THE BACKYARD?), and enjoy Scotland’s weather in July.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that while they’re gone visiting all of those Orlando parks, eating out, enjoying the lush lawn and pool we’ll be at home cleaning their house, taking care of their hobbies, and hearing about how awesome Orlando really is. (LOL, YOU THINK I’M JOKING? THEY EVEN LEFT THEIR LAUNDRY IN THE WASHING MACHINE FOR ME TO DO WHEN THEY LEFT THIS MORNING! AND THEY LEFT ITALICS WITH 100+ TREES AND SHRUBS TO TAKE CARE OF!) So for the next 25 days Italics and I will be fixing and cleaning a house that doesn’t belong to us while the owners are enjoying themselves in Disney World (I BET THE GRASS THERE IS REALLY GREEN, RIGHT?), only because the people who do own this property can’t be bothered to do shit like WASHING THE TILES OF SHOWER ONCE A YEAR or OILING SQUEAKY DOORS or SORTING THROUGH PILES OF JUNK PLACED IN EVERY FUCKING CORNER OF THE HOUSE BECAUSE IT’S EASIER TO DROP SHIT THERE THAN ACTUALLY PUT THINGS AWAY WHERE THEY BELONG.

(When I’m not fed-up playing the game I’m everything from house keeping (this covers everything you can think of – including scrubbing the underside of the toilet seat and bleaching a bath tub I don’t even really use), to unintentional family chef (Italics’ father helps himself to anything and everything bought or made without asking), to laundry servant (what am I supposed to do when they throw their things into my wash?), to daily straightener (if I didn’t straighten up after my in-laws the couch would be covered with used ankle socks and the house would be blanketed in a layer of dust and unnecessary papers) who lives with her clients 24/7 but doesn’t get paid.)

I’m not bitter or resentful or whatever (I MEAN, THE FLORIDA PROPERTY IS ONLY 30 MINUTES AWAY FROM DISNEY WORLD AND IN ALL OF MY 28 YEARS OF LIVING I HAVE NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER EVEN MADE IT 300 MILES NEAR THE FL BORDER LET ALONE PASSED THE ENTRANCE OF ANY SORT OF DISNEY-THEMED PARK SO THERE IS OBVIOUS ROOM FOR ME TO FEEL THE MOST NEGLIGIBLE OF GRUDGES), but I’m not excited, either. I can’t even really view the month long absence as a “break”; I see a hard, unflinching deadline for a million things that need to get done, most of which will be undone within 24 hours of his parents returning home. (YOU THINK I’M JOKING…AGAIN? HIS PARENTS MANAGE TO THOROUGHLY TRASH THE HOUSE WITHIN 15 MINUTES OF BEING HOME. IT’S LIKE A BOMB GOES OFF AND EVERYTHING THAT HAD BEEN PUT AWAY FOR 2+ WEEKS SUDDENLY FALLS BACK ONTO COUNTERS, TABLES, AND IN CORNERS.)

…it would sure be nice if I was allowed to drive, though. (25 days with -3- parked cars outside and I can’t use any one of them – what was that about me not being bitter or resentful, again?)

April Showers

Filed under: Oh No, You Di'int!

Sometimes when we go walking castle grounds they have these dinky little plant sales (of things grown on the property) going on, and in most of these cases payment is based on the so-familiar-it-almost-hurts “honor system”. (You mean the honor system can be applied to a transaction that doesn’t involve homegrown corn or a rickety, unattended vendor set up at the edge of a driveway on a long country road in the Midwest? OH MY EFFING GOD, THE SHIT YOU LEARN WHEN YOU MOVE TO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT COUNTRY!)

Most visits I just look, get really fucking close to getting something and then, at the last second, decide against it for some made up reason and Italics will be all “WHY DIDN’T YOU GET IT?” to me and I’ll be “OH, GOD, I DON’T KNOW…IT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE, I GUESS” back and he’ll respond with “WTF? IT WAS ONLY A POUND!” and I’ll just shrug my shoulders because we’ve had that same exact conversation more than several times in the eight (or so) years we’ve been visiting castles and changing it at this point would seem wrong and sacrilegious. (IT’S SORT’VE LIKE AN ANCIENT, ALMOST DIVINE PAGEANT THAT YOU CAN’T STOP FROM HAPPENING OR TAKING PART IN BECAUSE IT’S –PART OF THE GAME, BABY- AND IT’S –WRITTEN IN THE GENETIC CODING OF YOUR SOUL-.)

Twice in my life I actually came home with something. The first time it was some leafy, ferny, flighty number that my friend and I (you know that friend who’ve you been BFF with since, like, 3rd grade, or something, and even though you’re 28 now and live a half a world away you can still get together and start screeching and squeezing each other’s arms like you’re 12 all over again?) picked out together when she came to stay with me a week before setting off on her European tour. She was named (gendered?) Frenchie, and was planted outside in a pretty blue ceramic vase especially bought for her and I promised to send my friend new pictures of her every year. (I’M WELL AWARE OF THE FACT THAT IT MIGHT SEEM LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF “SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS” BUT IT ISN’T. IN ANY WAY. AT ALL.)

The second time it was a small selection of bulbs – dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, and grape hyacinths – wrapped up in brown paper, bought for me by Italics after a long walk. (It was autumn and beautiful and we were having a fucking terrific day out and I wanted to stretch the afternoon out forever, so, to make the hours last, I decided to see what the sale was offering to delay the inevitable.) I took them home - all excited and hopped up on gardening endorphins - and planted them in matching terra cotta containers, waiting for the day I’d be able to line the concrete steps with them in bloom. (I had very clear, very finely tuned ideas on how awesome and spectacular it was going to look. (IT WAS GOING TO BE REALLY FUCKING AWESOME AND REALLY FUCKING SPECTACULAR, JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING OR YOUR IMAGINATION NEEDED SOME HELP.))

Then I sort’ve forgot about them. For like…years. (Two? Three? At least two, maybe three?) Every fucking year I’d notice these pitiful fucking shoots spring up from half-frozen soil when hanging washing out, and every fucking year I said “OH, HEY, I WONDER IF THEY’D LOOK A LOT MORE AWESOME SPECTACULAR - LIKE I HAD VERY CLEARLY IMAGINED WITH MY VERY FINELY TUNED IDEAS – IF I, YOU KNOW, MOVED THEM INTO A PLACE WHERE THEY ACTUALLY GOT LIGHT” and every fucking year I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO FORGET THAT ANNUAL THOUGHT WITHIN SECONDS OF HAVING IT. (I use the dryer in the garage. A lot.)

So, like, last year I was officially tired of seeing the same fucking mutated, gamma-ray exposed miniature flowers (NO, SERIOUSLY, THESE THINGS WERE NOT OF THIS WORLD, OKAY? YOU REMEMBER THAT MONSTER THING IN FLY II? I THINK IT WAS FORMERLY THE BAD GUY IN THE FIRST FLY MOVIE WHO GETS ALL FUCKED UP IN THOSE TRANSPORTERS AND THEN HIS ASS GETS LOCKED UP IN SOME LAB AS THEIR MONSTER PET THING THAT COMES CRAWLING OUT OF THE DANK RECESSES OF THE EARTH TO EAT SLOP ONCE A DAY? THAT’S WHAT THE FLOWERS WOULD LOOK LIKE, BUT INSTEAD OF BEING ALL MAMMAL DEFORMED THEY WERE DEFECTED IN MORE OF A…VEGETABLE…WAY.) that I made a FOR REAL POINT of remembering to haul them out this year when we began straddling the cusp between late winter and early spring.

After Christ knows how many years I finally situated the four planters (the two larger terra cotta containers had the dwarf irises and tulips, the smaller pots had bunches of grape hyacinths) on the concrete steps, cleared the soil of debris, watered the fucking things until they bled, and gave them their first real exposure to the sun. Plants, I then learned, aren’t entirely different from dogs. Despite years of neglect an act of kindness can still draw a positive reaction or response; they’ve already forgiven you, they’re just waiting for you to catch up (and hoping that you eventually will). Within weeks I noticed that this year’s shoots were stronger, hardier, and on a much grander scale and within a month, or two, I had my AWESOME SPECTACULAR array of blooms cluttering up the concrete steps – the flowers’ first display, ever.

I know it sort’ve sounds out there – but seeing those damn things brought me endless amounts of joy this past spring. Part of it was knowing that I DID THAT so there was a sense of satisfaction, a “fruits of my labor” kind’ve thing, but part of it was allowing myself to be dumbfounded how THERE WAS NOTHING THERE BEFORE BUT, OH MY GOD, THERE’S THESE BEAUTIFUL THINGS NOW THAT MAKE ME REALLY, REALLY HAPPY! (You don’t even want to know how much time’s been spent just staring at plants while high and marveling in the wonder and mystery that is known as THE BOTANICAL WORLD because it all seems just so perfectly magic, the most sophisticated, wonderful clockwork thing, ever, but real and biological!) Part of it was also because I made those bulbs my anchor this year.

(An “anchor” is something I figuratively hold onto towards the end of winter. Something to focus on as the seasons begins to shift so I don’t get lost in the gloom. It gives me something to look forward to and helps keep part of me occupied and engaged when everything else feels like it’s hanging in limbo. Last year and year before that it was Papa’s birds, this year it was the flowers that Italics had bought me years and years ago on that autumn walk.)

I JUST LIKED THEM, OKAY? I mean, I already liked irises and tulips; they both remind me of Baba’s house and my childhood spent there. (BIG, HEAP HAPPY MEMORIES.) And teeny tiny miniature dwarf versions? (ZOMG SO CUTE.) They just brought me joy…I KNOW, I KEEP SAYING THAT, BUT I CAN’T THINK OF A BETTER WAY TO DESCRIBE IT – STUPID, ELATED, HAPPY, BUZZY, APPRECIATIVE WONDER. (See? “Joy”!) Everything from how vivid their colors stood out against one another (the tulips were orange red with yellow, frayed lips and the irises were powder blue and grey, almost crocus-like and fragile) to how the sun – OH MY EFFING GOD, THE SUN! SOMETHING I HAD NOT SEEN IN FUCKING MONTHS! – would shine on them and make the deposits of snow in the containers glisten like diamonds.

(I loved those damn flowers so fucking much that I had even planed to incorporate them – all four pots – into the altar layout for our Easter Wedding. At the 11th hour (JUST AS THE FIRST COMING UP WAVE HIT ME) I decided against it, realizing, just before drugs took over completely, that as much as I loved those flowers IT WAS REALLY FUCKING OBVIOUS I HAD BROUGHT IN OUTSIDE GARDEN POTS INTO A VERY CLEAN HOME (THAT WAS INSIDE RATHER THAN OUTSIDE) AND THEREFORE WAS UNABLE TO BLEND IN THE MILDEW ENCRUSTED TERRA COTTA CONTAINERS WITH THE POLISHED SILVER SUCCESSFULLY.)

So, last week, I finally get around to doing some serious deadheading work I should’ve done a month back (THESE THINGS GET DONE…EVENTUALLY) and cleared out the surface of both of the large pots, the ones with my tulips and irises. And while working the soil I start THINKING BIG for the future because, through the course of just a few weeks, I’ve become a bulb junkie and I want BIGGER and BETTER and MORE AWESOME SPECTACULAR for next year thanks to this year’s first ever floral display. By the time I finish brainstorming I’VE SOLVED WORLD PEACE WITH THE USE OF DWARF SPRING BULBS and am insane amounts of crazy excited to get to work using these plans that are SO AWESOME, SO SPECTACULAR THAT GLOBALLY UNITY IS ONE HUNDRED PERCENT ASSURED. Fall, this year, couldn’t come quick enough.

(SPOILER ALERT: THIS IS WHERE THE BOMB DROPS.)

Yesterday it started raining out of no where and I went dashing outside to take in my in-laws’s washing when I noticed something just wasn’t right. (It’s half feeling, half knowing, and both are based on something you’ve seen and haven’t seen. YOU KNOW, THAT –KNOWING- FEELING.) Instead of rescuing the laundry I did a three-sixty on the patio steps because I KNEW that whatever IT was IT was in my FIELD OF VISION so if I continued to LOOK REALLY HARD (LIKE THE HIGH RETARD I WAS, STANDING IN THE FUCKING RAIN, GETTING MY ASS SOAKED TO FUCKING HELL) IT WOULD EVENTUALLY DAWN ON ME WHAT THE FUCK I WAS LOOKING FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE. (“Fuck the laundry!” I thought, and, oh Lord, did I let it get fucked up.)

The two large terra cotta containers? Gone. The two large terra cotta containers I had previously deadheaded and prepped for replanting in the autumn on a much larger, awesome, more spectacular scale? Gone. The two smaller ones containing my grape hyacinths were still there, but the only thing left of my tulips and irises were the two stained rings the pots had left behind on the step. (THIS IS THE POINT WHERE I TRIED NOT TO PANIC. AND BY USING THE WORD “PANIC” I UNDERSTAND THAT IT MIGHT SEEM LIKE AN OVERREACTION, ON MY PART, TO THOSE WHO HAVE NOT BEEN INITIATED TO THE LONG AND SORDID HISTORY BETWEEN ME, ITALICS’S FATHER, AND ALL OF THE SHIT OF MINE HE’S RUINED, BROKEN, THROWN AWAY. (TO THIS DAY HE’S NEVER OFFERED ANY EXPLANATION OR APOLOGY FOR HIS ACTIONS, OR EVEN AFFORDED ME THE CHANCE TO STOP THINGS FROM BEING RUINED, BROKEN, AND THROWN AWAY BECAUSE IT’S TOO MUCH EFFORT FOR HIM TO ASK ME WHETHER THE OBJECT IN QUESTION BELONGS TO ME AND IF I’M INTERESTED IN KEEPING IT; HE JUST DECIDES ON MY BEHALF WITHOUT CONSULTING ME AT ALL.) STICK AROUND LONG ENOUGH AND YOU’LL BE CHRISTENED, TRUST ME.)

When you’ve spent nearly a decade of having shit of yours thrown out for no apparent reason you quickly develop a gut feeling for these things. (My immediate gut feeling? THROWN OUT.) But instead of bursting out into tears (OH, THOSE ARE TEARS OF FRUSTRATION, Y’ALL, THE TEARS OF “WHY ME?” AND “OH WOEZ!” COME MUCH LATER) – which is my natural reaction to anything that involves a roller coaster set of emotions – I combed the backyard, in the fucking pouring rain. OH, HEY, GUESS WHAT I FOUND AND WHAT I DIDN’T FIND? Well, I DIDN’T find the two containers (they weren’t moved or regrouped or relocated or anything), but I DID fit TWO LARGE EMPTY TERRA COTTA CONTAINERS SITTING STACKED INSIDE ONE ANOTHER. (OH, YES, HE DID.)

My father-in-law threw out my spring flowers. Without asking me he emptied both of the pots, threw away the contents, and tossed the containers into a garden corner. If he had asked he would’ve found out that they were gifts Italics bought me years ago, and this was the first ever year I got them to bloom, and how they had been my anchor this year to keep me from sliding into winter depression, and how I loved them so much that I couldn’t even bare cutting a few to add to my floral wedding crown when Italics and I renewed our vows this past Easter. But he doesn’t ask, so it’s a moot fucking point, because they’re gone and I can’t say anything – not even to point the fuck out that, once again, he threw away something of mine that MEANT SOMETHING SPECIAL TO ME and IT ALL COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF HE HAD JUST ASKED – because if I did he’d just get upset, and God fucking forbid that.

(Besides, how do you explain to someone the inherent value of something that brought you tremendous amounts of joy? How do you explain the sentimental value of something that appears mundane to someone else? It’s not like he understood why I was so upset when he threw away part of a wedding anniversary gift I was working on for Italics, or ashes that belonged to my mother. All he saw were a handful of bulbs - not the joy, the effort, the love, the anticipation, the appreciation, the happiness, or the fact that I finally got off my fucking ass and set something in fucking motion that I meant to do for fucking years.)

(Christ, who am I fucking kidding? He didn’t even see the fucking bulbs; it didn’t even occur to him to check.)

PS: Frenchie? We lost her about three, maybe four years back when Italics's father decided to empty that pretty blue ceramic vase without asking anyone first. (I never had the heart to tell my friend; I couldn't think of an answer to "...but why would he do that?".)

Harness

Filed under: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

A miniature wishbone from Finland surfaced this afternoon; the tiny, delicate thing was still perfectly in tact within the padded envelope it was sent in. (YOU SEE HOW THEY TRYIN’ TO TEMPT ME?) I considered using it earlier in the day (OH, LORD, DID THAT IDEA SOUND GOOD (AND OH SO JUSTIFIABLE)...), but, instead, hung it upside down on Apis’s back and watched the bone swing back and forth like a primitive harness.

(OH, I'M GOING TO TURN INTO THAT MAN'S WORST NIGHTMARE. HE THINKS I'M BAD NOW? ALL HIS ASS SEEN IS A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER. WAIT UNTIL HE SEES HOW MUCH WORSE A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER CAN BE WHEN SHE FINALLY GETS THAT SHIT CHECKED. (THE BEST PART IN ALL OF THIS? THE BASTARD WILL NEVER REALIZE HOW MUCH HE'S HELPED ME GROW AS A PERSON. (OH, HEY, I GET TO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE -AND- BECOME A BETTER PERSON FOR IT? AWESOME!)) THAT'S A PARTY I AM STARTING INVITATIONS FOR NOW.)