Bummer, Ted.

Oh, internets. There was a time. Winter of 2004. I was 16, and still high on the whole Pirates of the Caribbean thing. My days were taken up with alternately planning ways for Vanessa Paradis to die, and trying to decide what I should major in if my new career goal was to be Johnny Depp’s kept woman. (Incidently, it probably would have been history- look how far we’ve come.)

I saw Secret Window in theaters four time. Restrained, actually, given the unbelievable and embarrassing number of times I saw Pirates. I loved that movie. Johnny Depp was crazy and creative and adorable and just weird enough that it was funny but not Fear-and-Loathing-in-Las-Vegas weird that is just kind of off-putting to a little white girl from Bayside who has had it drilled into her by her mother since she was a toddler that anyone with tattoos is unacceptable.

We watched it again tonight, and I still totally love it.

The best part? The end, with the girl from the post office who was totally into him, you know, before he started killing people and then is all pssh, whatevs afterwards. My response? OH MY GOSH YOU DUMB WHORE IT’S JOHNNY DEPP I DON’T CARE THAT HE’S FOND OF DECAPITATION BY SHOVEL PUT UP AND SHUT UP.

Hmm. Maybe I’m the dumb whore.

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Attention Span of a Gnat

Yesterday I was going to put up something about how life was generally going better than a year ago, a day when I was so emotionally drained that the sum total of my thoughts regarding my grandfather’s funeral was “hey, that soldier guy was pretty hot and who can buy me another drink?”

Shining moment of emotional fortitude.

But by the time I got home and realized that I had to be awake in a very small number of hours, like, three, that…didn’t happen.

That same commitment to excellence carried on this morning when I spent the whole hour before opening sitting on the ground in the religion section looking at books because THREE HOURS DID YOU HEAR ME???

(Also, I kind of enjoy getting my theology on while being vaguely unethical by, you know, not working so hard. I enjoy being a walking contradiction.)

Religion is probably my favorite section at work, if only because they refuse to let me place all the Alan Rickman DVDs on one shelf. No, seriously. Because it allows me to be moved, enlightened, made to feel guilty, and be judgemental- ALL AT THE SAME TIME!!! Like my internal monologue this morning-

“Ooh, is it possible to love Benedict XVI more because the picture on the cover of his book about St. Paul is a Caravaggio? I mean, I’m sure he didn’t pick that out, but still…I love Caravaggio. And St. Paul! I should buy this book! What better use of my discount…okay. That’s right. I’m poor.”

“Am I the only person who gets massively confused when faced with the Summa Theologiae? Please tell me no and that I’ll still get through graduate school.”

“I really hate Bart Erhman. And Kerry Kennedy. And who keeps buying Andrew Greeley more printer ink? That man needs to be cut off. I am sick of his treatises on why he should be allowed to have sex.”

Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to say any of those things to actual customers. Pssh. Whatever.

Oh, the vanity.

Yeah, I just straightened my hair during a severe thunderstorm warning. Like, I held small appliances that were plugged into live electrical outlets NEXT TO MY HEAD.

Because I was worried it was going to get worse and the power would go out, and then I would be stuck looking like a Muppet all day tomorrow and that would just be unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE AND WORTH POSSIBLE ELECTROCUTION I TELL YOU.

There weren’t any major lightening strikes, and I managed to get through without frying my self and/or head. Always a good thing.

See? If God had just seen fit to give me nice normal hair that dried in a nice normal way that in no way resembled a flaming bush of Biblical proportions? THIS WOULDN’T BE A CONCERN.

But no. I got the shanty-Irish head of crazy. Thanks a lot, Dad.

Broken Record

One year ago tonight, I was driving home with my cousin and we were talking about how the next few days were going to play out. We knew things weren’t good. I was the only one who read that “What to Expect” folder that the hospice people left, but I’m pretty sure everybody knew it was probably only going to be a few days at most.

He said how horrible it was, and how it sucked that we knew it would get worse when he actually died. We talked about how we knew we would all get through it though. That night, I stood in the living room and remembered being there the morning that Grandma died. I remembered feeling so horrible and thinking that we would never get through that. But we did. We got through it. I knew that whatever happened with Grandpa, we would get through that too. That was comforting.

Tonight, I’m not sure how I feel. I think I was right. We’ve all gotten through the last year. And despite whatever paint fumes-induced raging I may have spewed all over the internet (or how much I may occasionally still feel like that), we got through a year without Grandpa relatively intact.

But it still sucks. I don’t know how tomorrow is going to be. I’m guessing it’s going to be pretty horrible, because this whole damn year week has been horrible. I’m guessing I’m going to wake up, have a drink, and go back to bed.

(My mom: Yeah, because Grandpa would want us to deal with it by being sloshed.
Me: Um. Yeah. It worked last year! My Lord, my Sunday morning I was so sick I was like, “Yeah, thanks, we loved him too…I need to go sit down now…” And I do think that that is exactly how Mr. I-Used-My-Engineering-Background-To-Make-Beer-Better would want us to deal with it.)

So we’ve made it. But maybe I’ll have to get back to you about the condition we’ve made it in next year.

Some days you do…

…and some days you don’t. Apparently, I can write every single day for a year if people die, shit goes down, and I have to redo a house; but during a week when I have to work like thirty whole hours and be repeatedly body slammed by a three-year-old who thinks this is like the funniest thing ever? Forget about it. I’m not that busy. I’m not that tired. I’ve even kind of stopped working out because vermin babies have moved into the basement and like hell I’m going to spend half an hour alone down there at five in the morning while some mouse in the corner plans the quickest and most terrifying way to effect my demise. But with the writing? Meh. Notsomuch.

So remember last week? The whole volleyball fiasco game? I’m (marginally) better at four-square.

Yes. That’s right. I don’t suck quite as badly at a game that seven-year-olds can play with ease.

40 Years

Yeah, it’s a geeky good time here tonight at Chez Morena, as my mother views all things space-related in the same way I view Johnny Depp movies. It is rather cool, and my little baby-of-the-eighties self wishes she could have been around to see it. Mostly I wish Grandpa was around for this, because he would have loved it.

Otherwise, not a whole lot else going on. I spent today doing errands like going to Wal-Mart (left feeling dirty…as per usual) and the bank (if you’re ever looking to rent a house, I highly suggest that you find a ridiculously wealthy couple who have a packed social calendar and no babysitter- it will be highly profitable).

And the Empress will be undergoing some imperial surgery tomorrow, so that is very sad. Although she is more sad that I am working throughout her recovery because (and I quote), “Who will run to get me coffee?”