Monday, January 31, 2011

The Weekly Kickoff

Most of the time, I am not a girl who minds Mondays. Mondays, to me, are kind of a nice little surprise after a hectic weekend of trying to entertain two kids, two dogs and a husband. While most people wake up dreading Monday, I wake up thinking, "Hey. It's Monday," and not much beyond that. I don't dread it. I don't look forward to it with joy either, but it's certainly not something I really waste much time or energy thinking about (as opposed to EVERYTHING else in the world that I DO waste time and energy thinking about). Tuesday is MY bad day. Tuesday is my Dread It, Everything Always Goes All To Hell Day.

But today was kind of a rough Monday.

This morning, I overslept. I rarely oversleep, because I rarely sleep. And when I do, my automatic Haley Internal Alarm Clock wakes me up on time. I don't worry about oversleeping. Ever. But today I did. The reason for this is likely because I was up until 3am, with my ribs hurting like hell (long story), tossing and turning and swearing because I hurt so badly. After a few rounds of Advil, a not-prescribed-to-me hydrocodone, and a Xanax, I finally slept a bit. Overslept, that is. So I woke up in a mad rush and leaped out of bed-- not good for the excruciating rib pain, it turns out. After surviving a shower, I made the kids breakfast and poured myself a MUCH NEEDED VERY LARGE cup of coffee. Now, when I set the coffee pot at night (or, in this case, when B set it for me-- thank you, my hero) I make 5-6 cups which, when poured into my gargantuan coffee mugs, makes slightly over one Haley Sized Cup. Reaching into the refrigerator, I realized I had used the rest of my creamer yesterday without remembering to replace it.


Scavenging through the fridge, I found a container of sugar free creamer (I'm making gagging noises as I write this, because said creamer SUCKS, but SUCK creamer is better than NO creamer). I checked the expiration date, good until next month. Shook it up, poured it in, came out in clumps.

Big, spoiled, sugar-free dairy product clumps. All in my coffee, the pouring of which had nearly emptied the pot, and which I had no time to remake before I needed to leave for work.


Haley without coffee is pretty much like, well, Satan. A very pissed off, possessed by demons beyond understanding kind of Satan that would scare the hell (pardon the pun) out of the REAL Satan. Yet, I headed to work anyway, as Satan. I realized on the way that I had forgotten my water bottle too.


When I got to work, I dashed in without a minute to spare, pulling off my coat and gloves, hands full, juggling my handbag and my phone, keys, lipstick, etc. Only to realize that our office was empty. Totally empty, no computers, no chairs, no tables, no co-workers.


After a bit of frantic sleuthing, I discovered that we had been moved to another (much smaller) office in the building. Nobody had any heads up until this morning at 8am, so we spent the entire morning vacuuming, cleaning, and moving shit instead of getting ANY work accomplished. With my sore ribs I still moved tables and chairs, printers and boxes. I ended up working an hour later than usual and left the office with my black pants covered in carpet grit and dust bunnies.


And this just got me through 1pm.
Check Spelling
Suck it, Monday.

But on a brighter note, tomorrow is February 1st. No more January, not for another whole year. No more plodding through the month that Dad and Papaw died, checking off the dates that make me sad. The 2nd. The 6th. The 8th. The 11th. The 24th. They are officially over for 2011. Thank you, God. So tonight, I painted my nails Passion Pink. I'm having a glass of wine. I am done with this motherfucking Monday. And looking ahead, beyond Tuesday--gotta get through tomorrow--but on to hopefully better days. Warmer, happier, better days.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

A Typical Situation, In These Typical Times

It seems that I've wandered into Thursday. I had to actually visit the calendar and count on my fingers a little bit to figure that out.

This week has been off (like I ever have one that isn't). B had jury duty (again--democracy and all its trimmings can be a bitch) on Monday, which screws up our normal schedule, then school was canceled on Tuesday (Sweet Jesus--iced in with the kids? Really? Why hast thou forsaken me?), which means that by the time Wednesday rolled around I had no idea whether I was coming or going. Throw in Mom's hospital stay, a sick kid, my own stupid cold, McPhail Family Dinner, and a variety of other happenings and SHAZAM. Apparently, it's Thursday.

Oh, wait. My phone says it's Friday. Oops.

Regardless of what day it is (like it even matters, really, in the grand scheme of things), the upside to this crazy week is that I've gotten to talk to my little brother way more times than usual, as he's been looking out for Mom. Unfortunately, most of our conversations have gone something like this:

Me: Hey, Man.
Z: Hey.
Me: How's Mom.?
Z: I haven't killed her yet, if that's what you're asking.
Me: Nice work. You haven't poisoned her milkshakes?
Z: No, but I did consider smothering her with a pillow last night when the pain meds made her start thinking that her stomach was talking to her.
Me: The coroner could probably identify asphyxiation. You need something less obvious.
Z: I could make it look like she rolled over face down, then because of the pain in her shoulder couldn't roll back over, and suffocated.
Me: Hmmm....that might work. I'll do some Internet research and let you know what I find. We might find something easier.
Z: Shawna probably won't let me kill her, so don't spend too much time on it.
Me: Shawna doesn't have to know.
Z: I tell her everything.
Me: Quit being such a damn pansy-ass. If you want to kill Mom, then kill Mom. Jesus! Stand up for yourself, dude.
Z: Yeah. I guess. But things are okay. I think I'll feel better when I get some sleep.
Me: Good luck with that.

But here it is Friday, nobody has killed Mom yet, and the world is still spinning. It's mind boggling. And still, January trudges on.

And trudges on.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Back to the Ground

One of the things I like about my blog is that I can change the background on a whim. It doesn't take long, there are lots of choices, and it's a way to express how I'm feeling at the moment without having to say a word. After the new year, I ditched the holiday layout and put up blue skies and rolling green grass, because I was looking ahead to spring, as far away as it may be. Today, being the anniversary of the day my Dad died, I thought I would pick something that reminded me of my Dad.

As you see, I chose hot pink with purple accents and disco balls.

This may have you wondering if my Dad was a flaming homosexual who enjoyed leisure suits and Studio 54. While the answer is no (though my Dad DID enjoy a nice polyester suit from the 70's--as well as the BeeGees--until Mom put her foot down and replaced it with a newer, more modern look), the hot pink and disco balls remind me of him just the same. Why? Because they remind me of me, and my Dad reminds me of me. Or, I remind myself of him, I suppose.

My Dad always knew my favorite color was purple. He would buy me little, purple things that reminded him of me when he saw them. Tacky silk flowers from gas stations, a pen and pencil set when I started college, a case to hold my cds. Just something, on occasion, to make me happy. And it worked. It never mattered that he bought me something, or what he bought, or how much it cost, but just that he was thinking of me at some random time, some random place. That's always nice-- to know you are thought of by someone you love. Dad was good at that. Dad also knew that I was a girlie girl, and I liked a little sparkle. If I had turned Dad loose on the Internet and said, "pick a background that looks like me," I could definitely see Dad choosing this one. (Side note: That would never happen, because Dad's navigation of the Internet was rather limited. He developed a relative understanding of email, but never made it much further because he was a bit fearful of his laptop. In fact, after he had had it for months, I filled his iPod for him because he refused to learn how to do it. However, the man could build a working aircraft from driftwood, a tube of toothpaste, and his shoelaces. That's just how he rolled.)

My Dad and I are a lot alike. I cannot build a working aircraft from my shoelaces, but I am organized and smart and efficient. My Dad was all of those things. We make lists and carry notebooks, we like figuring things out and making things better. I stand like my Dad (arms crossed in a particular way), I concentrate like my Dad (tip of the tongue out and bitten between our teeth on the right side of our mouths), we have the same strong, graceful fingers and long-torsoed builds. I am a version of him in the flesh, and my children, particularly Sutton, is a version of me. Therefore, in some ways, I guess my Dad is still here. He's here in us. If I want to smell him, I can take a whiff of Brut. If I want to see him, I can look at my baby brother. If I want to remember him, I can reflect on myself. My Dad would be proud of that.

My Dad liked the colors brown and black. He liked old 70's rock music and driving a truck. Dad loved miniature powered donuts, and working on cars, and flying planes, and plain black coffee. Dad loved animals, tremendously, and holidays and being in the woods. But most of all, my Dad loved me and my family. He loved us a lot, and for that I feel lucky. Just like Dad would feel lucky that I thought enough of him to give him a pink background with a disco ball.

Party on, Dad.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Not A New Year's Blog

Most of my friends seem to be penning blogs reviewing 2010, as of late. They rehash happenings of the year, reminders of the happy times and sad, the things they like, the things they don't. They wax poetic on the loves gained and the loves lost, the material items acquired, the lands to which they have traveled.

This is not one of those blogs.

I thought about writing one of those, but then I thought, "Why in the hell would I do that?" I don't like anything, and I only blog as an excuse to drink and swear even more than usual (as if that's even possible). Therefore, this is the anti-New Year blog. No, no, wait. THE ANTI-FUCKING-NEW-YEAR BLOG, BITCHES. Yep, that's better.

So it seems January is upon me again. Per the usual, I can't ever feel my hands or feet (luckily, this is due to the frigid temperatures and not diabetic neuropathy, in case you are wondering). I greet most people with a hiss and a sneer (if I greet them at all) and avoid leaving the warm cave of my house whenever possible. (Note that this is NOT possible often, as I work and--more frequently--find it necessary to make frequent trips to the ABC store for hard liquor. They really should set up a home delivery system, those fools. What a priceless service that would be.) I like to camp out in my favorite chair buried under my dog and my blanket, a stack of books and a martini shaker nearby. If I keep it low key like that, I tend to be less of a menace to society (though far less entertaining). As a result, thus far I haven't clubbed any baby seals this year or stolen food from starving orphans, but 2011 is still young, my friends, and there is hope for me yet. People never really change, you know.

My aspirations for the month would seem pretty reasonable. I just want to make it through Thursday and maybe read the new Anita Shreve book at some point (damn library, dragging its feet on ordering it). I'd say I have about a fifty-fifty shot of the Thursday thing if I start hitting the vodka around 8am that morning, the book thing is kind of a long shot. The library is short of funding and the closest Barnes and Noble is further than my hibernative tendencies will allow me to venture, even if I do have a Christmas gift card from my sister-in-law. Compared to my normal goals (master the German language! learn landscape design! finish a complete sentence without being interrupted by a minion!) they seem pretty tame. Unfortunately, that doesn't count for much in January.

Last night I was terribly bored and flipped on the television only to see that a new season of The Bachelor was starting. I do not watch The Bachelor (nor do I watch The Bachelorette) and think it is a ridiculously stupid concept--this square-jawed, narcissistic man moving into a special house to spend his days being pawed by multiple dimwitted bimbos whose main goal in life is to snag herself a husband. Seriously? This is the kind of woman they want to spend their lives with? Regardless, I was feeling too damn slack to change the channel so I watch for a few minutes, most likely killing at least a handful of brain cells. Oh, Sweet Jesus. It hurt. I'll never get those wasted moments of my life back. However, I did glean something from it-- a Deep Thought, of sorts.

The point of my meandering little story is this: (well, actually, there are several-- pay attention): 1) I was right, The Bachelor is ludicrous; 2) My January has not been improved by any amazing new television premiers; and 3) This is life. This is our new year.


We all want a new start sometimes. January 1 seems like as good a time as ever to reach for that start. The spray-tan covered dimwits want a new life with a new husband. People want new television episodes (even if they are pathetic excuses for such, as in The Bachelor). I want a new life where my Dad is back and I don't hate January so much. People want cars and babies and bigger houses and different jobs. Want is a staple of our lives. I can't have what I want, which is why I decided to downgrade to living past the 6th and reading a book. It's time for the world to become more attainable. I need the world to be more attainable. Attainability is my new start this month. It won't last past the 31st, but it's as good as I can muster for January.

That's gotta come easier than snagging a husband on reality tv. At least, I hope so. And February? Well, February will bring new things, better things. It has to.