Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Did I really get a loan modification or was it some other crap? Because my payment did not get reduced.

Ok, I know I've been thinking of little else and if I chance over to my own blog, I will write of little else as well. My words are of interest to few others than scammers and spammers, that's true.

This mistake has taught me very much about myself, but unfortunately I have no way of moving on. I can't walk away from the house, but I can't make the payment. I can't get a roommate because for some reason people don't want to pay me to live in a house without a working stove and a leaky bathroom sink and termites and a neglected yard.

I spoke with my mortgage company again today. Everybody says, "Talk to your mortgage company, don't ignore them!" They ignore me! I had to call three times before I actually reached someone instead of the call getting dropped. And I can't see how talking to them can help. They have my information. They know how much money I make, where all my money goes, and given that, I can't afford to make the payment. For my part, I know they don't want my payment to be any lower, they "can't" do anything more than all the great favors they did for me a few months ago, and they just want me to give them the date I can bring everything current.

We can't help each other at all.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Here it comes

I work all weekend every weekend. I don't have a chance to go to garage sales but that is what I would do if I didn't have to work. So there you have it. Why would a person rather be skulking around garage sales instead of hitting up pottery barn? I don't know! But that's how it is! Perhaps it is all about the mystery and the unexpected rather than the bleeeeeeh yeah that's cool but terribly overpriced.

Anyway it doesn't matter because I don't frequent either of those. I was just sayin' -as tmz would say.

As I was hard at work yesterday, my phone rang. It happened to be from a number that I did not recognize. I figured it was the wrong number.

This morning my phone rang again from the SAME number! I thought it might be some family member or friend who has suddenly moved, so this time I was sure to answer it. But before I even had a chance to say hello, I heard a LOUD, OBNOXIOUS ding dong and then "This is Suntrust Mortgage....." you know the rest. If you don't, just read Grapes of Wrath and that will do you up just fine.

I steadfastly maintained my composure, but this is yet one more sign that the end is beginning.

Poor house. Do you realize that after all these years of being loved by your original owners, some trashy biatch moves in and all of a sudden, you go to shit?

Oh hell. I would like to apologize to the former owner, but seeing as how she is currently surviving in her high-priced assisted living facility on the hundreds of thousands that I have yet to pay, I feel like it will be best to just leave well enough alone. The fucking place was built for less than $15,000 after all. And actually I am glad that she is benefiting from my folly. She lived all through the eighties and nineties and aughts with no dishwasher so she deserves her due. And yes, I am living without a dishwasher too, but come to think of it, the last time I used a dishwasher I was in 11th grade and that was twenty years ago. So I guess that was a really shitty analogy.

Suffice it to say, I am a piece of dung. I can't take care of a home and I am broke and Suntrust has officially fucked me like I deserve to be fucked and soon this house will have broken windows and graffiti all over the place.


In other news, I sold two books on amazon! How sweet is that?

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Happy Holidays

It was only a matter of time before my car decided enough was enough. I have continued to drive it, ignoring the somewhat violent shake, knowing full well that soon I would have to face the obvious- I can't afford my mortgage.

Earlier this year I applied for a loan modification, and I probably had too much wine late one night and chronicled the results of that fruitless effort. I'm too lazy to go back and read my previous entries, so I will refresh our memories. The mortgage company didn't lower my payment. In fact, it actually increased because somehow, even though the value of my home is only about 30% of what I am paying, my taxes went up! The result of my purchase two years ago of this roof over my head (the shingles of which regularly make an appearance on my lawn and driveway) has been a marked decrease in attention to other costs, like car maintenance.

I bought my car new. It was the first new car I had ever owned, and clearly I have not learned much since then, because I paid too much for that as well. I never missed a payment for FIVE YEARS. I paid STICKER PRICE. I was an idiot, but what did I do? YEARS LATER I bought this house which needed all sorts of work which I don't have the first clue about, plus it was out of my price range. None of it makes any sense. I look back at my poor decisions and I wonder why I did this to myself. I can't explain it, except I simply didn't know at the time that it was a poor decision.

I really did think that my car would retain worth! I really thought that my house would gain worth! I thought that if I took care of the car, like all the stories I hear about people who get their oil changed every three thousand miles, it would last for at LEAST ten years. I thought that I'd get a promotion because I was so close to it at the time, but I didn't. Then they started laying off people and now I'm one of the few left of my kind and my position is being eliminated AND I honestly don't know from one day to the next if I will have a job. The job market scares the living crap out of me. But I have kept on scraping along because I don't want to lose my home. I love it and I don't want its windows broken out or graffiti on the side of the garage or the copper plumbing stolen after the walls are kicked through. It doesn't deserve that. But then who suffers? My car, that's who. And when the car suffers, I suffer.

Last week the car loudly protested its current situation. I was in a fender bender a few months ago and yeah I got a really good deal on a quick body work fix, but apparently that wasn't all that had happened. Oh well, what's a noise or two here and there, I thought. I mean, the car is 9 years old, it has almost 80,000 miles on it and it IS a FORD. What do I expect? Dum de dum. Drove the car everywhere I wanted to go, used its noises as an excuse for NOT going where I DIDN'T want to go, and then one day I smelled antifreeze and my world fell apart.

You ever hear those anecdotes about how families are one paycheck away from the street? Well that's were me and kitty and Minchie are. This week was horrible, and I know it feels much worse than it sounds, especially since I am not as young as I used to be, and I get nervous and hysterical more easily. After depositing my car at the mechanic's shop, I borrowed my brother's beater car, which he keeps parked at my mom's house...which is 25 miles from me. Late the night of the breakdown, I pulled the little Beater into my driveway, breathed a grateful sigh of relief, and forgot about the whole mess. Early the next morning, I had to work. My job is not one of those jobs you can call in sick for. There is nobody around to do it, and many people expect me to be there to do it. If I am not there, it can have some very serious results to the detriment of those who depend on me, and who are in no position to have their time wasted in such a way. Plus it's unprofessional blaaaah blaaaah blah.

I had to walk. Actually I had to run. I was still late, but at least I made it. After the essentials were completed, I RAN back home and called my brother. He told me to go buy all sorts of crap at the car parts place. I did. I ran back home and then sat there wondering what the fuck I was going to do with all of this shit? I don't know the first thing about any car workings and even if I did, I am hard-pressed to scrounge up a pair of scissors, much less some car tools. I called AAA. They sent some cracked out tow truck driver who actually did help get the Beater started, but then he asked me for money. I knew he probably deserved it since the car didn't get towed and he DID spend two hours messing around with the car freezing his ass off too, plus he didn't have time to smoke any crack for at least two hours, right? So I gave him the sixty bucks. I sort of kicked myself because UM that's why I pay for AAA right? But you know, when you are a single woman STRANDED at home, and you have this guy knowing where you live, you just give him the sixty bucks, smile and thank him kindly for "everything."

I heaved another sigh of relief. Ok. He got the car started. It's ok now. I had to take a half day off work but tomorrow I won't be late again and everything will be alright. Next morning I awoke with an uneasy feeling somewhere. It wasn't in my heart and it wasn't in my stomach, it was somewhere in between those two. I hurried my butt up and zoomed around the house, getting a backpack stuffed full of everything a bag lady needs to survive on the street. I got in the car, PRAYING that it would do the same thing for me as it did for the crackdriver. But it didn't. It didn't start. I ran to work.

I ran home. It was raining, but at least it was above freezing temperature. I called my brother. He told me how it could be this or that or this or that. But just replace the battery and see if that works. I wanted to fucking kill him at this point, but of course it wasn't his fault and he couldn't do much to help me any more than he already was.
But having already spent $200 on the car, I didn't WANT to buy a battery. But I did it anyway. Who knew batteries are so heavy? I am sure anyone watching me lugging that fucker home would have gotten a huge laugh out of it. I tried many different positions, but by far I have to say that the easiest way to transport a battery is to roll it by gently kicking pushing. Yes, it does take forEVER, but if you can't carry something you have to be inventive.

That worked. Actually, I had the car parts store guy tell me EXACTLY what TOOLS I will need for this job. And I paid retail for THEM, TOO. But I got the battery in the car and it did run for the next two days until today when I dropped THAT off at the mechanic and picked my car up. After I paid over a thousand dollars, I went to the ATM to see how much money was in my bank account. I had enough, with ten dollars to spare.

That means I have a car that runs, so if I don't get laid off this year I will at least be able to make it to work. I hope. That means I have exactly 5 days to come up with $1300. That means I am looking at this computer screen wondering where the fuck I am going to get $1300. Which is probably why I keep on typing, not saying much.

It's all my fault, I know it. I was irresponsible or stupid. I did not purchase any luxuries except an occasional bottle of $6 wine and I live a frugal life. I would have been just fine if I would have stayed in that old apartment but my problem was that I just HAD to buy a HOUSE. It is something that I don't know if I will ever be able to explain, even to myself. The need was so strong, perhaps it represented to me exactly the opposite of what it really was: stability.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Why, Tiger? Why?

Oh, Tiger. Go ahead and whine about privacy and dealing with your transgressions with your family blaaaaaaaaaah blah blah. That's ok, you don't have to talk to the press. Your ladies are doing it for you because you are SO concerned about your family.

Say goodbye to AT&T and Gillette. Um, and I'm pretty sure Cadillac won't be knocking at your door anytime soon.

Here is your problem now. Your credibility as a stellar PERSON as well as a great golfer has been shot because you can't control yourself.

It just goes to show, ladies. A great family will not stop a man from throwing it all away on a 24 year old waitress.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Gang Rapes at Richmond High

I have been following this story but since I am not a career blogger, I don't usually post about news items.

Until today. I just can't stop myself.

I am glad we have a system in which a person is considered innocent until proven guilty. Sometimes we punish people who are innocent. Sometimes the punishment does not fit the crime and that's why we have the media who LOVES to publicize pieces like that. I hope anyone who has been proven innocent is compensated for the crime committed against him or her.... so with THAT out of the way..

And even more often, people get away with crimes by never being caught and also by lawyering up - oh and also by being juveniles.

So to all of you juveniles out there, I just want you to note the following in that juvenile, not quite mature or legally adult brain of yours: I vote every chance I get. I vote for harsh penalties and I vote for prison time. I am a democrat but guess what. I came from economically challenged parents who had no education and nothing going for them and I know what is expected of me because from an early age I knew I had enough problems, and didn't need to create any more for myself. I don't feel SORRY for others who don't want to be productive citizens.

Here we have young people who simply have no respect for others. They think it's okay to victimize another human being and do you think they would hesitate to kick your DOG? Hell no. Prison. Whatever. Get rid of them. They are worthless. They are using up precious resources and taxpayer dollars.

I deal with people like these fuckers every day and I know that there is no amount of "therapy" or "cognitive (ha!) intervention" that will persuade a criminal to stop preying upon those who are weak, especially when their sexuality enters into it. After they get themselves off on victimizing another person, forget about it.

Letting them stay in the community is cheaper, that's true. But guarantee it that these people who raped this girl will do it again WHEN they are released, and I do mean WHEN.

Not that it matters.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The Joys of the Late Fall Season

Yes, as I embarked on all sorts of pre-holiday household projects like picking up ice cream wrappers in my front yard and dog crap in the back yard, inspecting the large balls of dust accumulating on my coffee tables and ignoring the laundry piling up, I began to realize that all of this work was beginning to drag me down. I was just tired, that's all. Was I working too hard? Yeah, but what else is new. Was it the stress of making my newly-modified mortgage payment that happened to be TEN WHOLE DOLLARS less except oh yeah my taxes went up so ten dollars MORE every month? Could it be the worry I felt when I envisioned what Thanksgiving is going to look like, seeing as how my mother is in the throes of some sort of new phase of her prescription drug addiction and she is now imaging that there is a feral cat under her bed half the day?

Frankly it was probably all of those things but also so much more. You see, I had the FLU. I would venture to guess that the last time I was this sick, it was Halloween of 1992. I was dressed as a bobby soxer and, being the HUGE rebel that I was, I accidentally drank what I later found out were called screwdrivers. Suffice it to say that I promised Sweet Baby Jesus that I would never, ever, EVER drink a vodka-orange-juice again if He would just please get me out of this just this one time! I have never had another screwdriver. Yeah, I've had the odd Long Island Iced Tea, Long Beach, Sex on the Beach, whatev. But never have I drank those dangerous concoctions with such naive abandon again. Because I don't like to be sick goddamnit.

And now I do everything right. I drink wine and when I have to drink it in excess I make sure it's over several hours and of course I have my aspirin and econo-sized glass of water before hitting the sack. I am a vegetarian, and if it were not for my butter cravings I'd just go ahead and call myself vegan. That's a fairly healthy diet. I do get some exercise because I have a strenuous job, not because I LIKE exercising. So I shouldn't get sick! It doesn't make any sense.

But last week, as I said, I was tired. I was cranky. I told Heracles that my ears were popping and I wanted to go to sleep. "Well, go to sleep then," was his brilliant reply. I slept. I didn't wake up until 10 minutes before I was supposed to email my micromanaging supervisor that I had made it to my desk. The next few days I slept more and more and felt guilty on the same scale. Minchie was crying out for attention like a child from a broken home. Kitty didn't give a fuck which is one of the reasons I love Kitty so much. Ah, finally the weekend! I could catch up at last! I had a brief half day of fun, shopping with a friend for baby shower gifts for another friend. Then home to wrap my prizes in the most beautiful way possible. All of a sudden, I felt a bad attitude coming on. I wondered if it were some sort of subconscious jealousy? Why was I so pissed OFF that the RIBBON wouldn't CURL and it LOOKED like SHIT? Ok, I thought. Just put this stuff away and finish it in the morning before you leave, MH. Ok. Sleep again, beautiful sleep. It was 7pm.

12am. My eyes popped open with the realization which is years old, but one which I can never forget. I was going to throw up? I was! I ran to the toilet and let 'er go. No, I thought. This can't be! I didn't have anything at all to drink! wtf is going on here? I sat around for a few after that first heave-ho, wondering what had happened. I probably felt just like Minchie felt when she was yanked from her comfy little house/yard and plunked down on a stainless steel table, operated on and put in a little holding cage, aching and confused. She would have wondered what had just happened. Whatev, life is weird, I thought. Go back to bed!

12:30am. Oh no. Not afuckinggain. Ran to the toilet.

All night I cried. I begged SweetBabyJesus. I asked "Whyyyyy am I hungover? What did I doooo?" And the answer:

Nothing, bitch, you have the flu!

Every half hour I threw up. By 6am I was throwing up saliva pretty much every time I made the mistake of swallowing it. I was a pathetic sight. What's more, this misery continued unabated for two days! Yesterday I started getting congested, which seems like it was a good sign because now I know that it's OKAY to SPIT! I have my own spittoon now. I spit all the time.

I didn't get Tamiflu.
I didn't go to the doctor.
I went to work today even though I had a fever because of some bullshit policy that if we call in sick three days straight we need a "doctor's note." How fucking outdated is that shit? But no way was I going to sit around at some crappy urgent care place with a bunch of scared teenagers who "might" have staph or some weird STD and some dumbass tweens who stapled their little brother's finger to the microwave cart door. Or, what's worse screaming toddlers! No thanks. No way was I going to shell out $35 for that hell.

I went to work.

Yeah I sneezed all over my micromanaging boss, and guess what. Too bad.
I said, "Oops! Did that get all over you?
I have a fever and I have the flu!"

Friday, November 13, 2009

Do I Look Like a Nurse to You?

I am dealing with a REAL mess in Heracles, despite how entertaining his little quirks have been in the past.

Heracles is emotionally incapable of allowing himself to recover from the deadly assault on his throat aka tonsillectomy. Since my return a week ago, his pain/breathing/sleep/hunger status has dominated every single communication. I should have known it would devolve to something like this. I am not the most sympathetic of persons, granted. As far as I am concerned, if you obsess about little throat itches or snot clogs, you are wasting your time unless it prevents you from doing what you need to do. A little bit of pain and discomfort does not call for an hourly email to your SURGEON, which is the type of patient we are dealing with currently.


My brother called me while I was out East, wondering where I was. I told him about my little patient. He said, "YOU? He wanted YOU to be there with him? Is he CRAZY?" I was hurt. I had been taking great care of him. "But MH, you aren't the most PATIENT of people. Have you told him to 'man up' yet?" I hadn't. Thereafter, I resisted the temptation because nobody is going to call MH impatient and get away with it.

But now I have just about had it. Heracles needs to get it together quit emailing his surgeon and quit texting me with 20 min updates on state of his dry throat. Drink some water and go about your day! These hundreds of self-pitying texts brought me over my texting limit to the tune of $200 this month! Dude give me a freaking break.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The English Speaking American Male Patient

We have established that I am a stupid biatch, so of course I don't need much more than in invitation to spend my hard-earned vacation time EAST of here, "nursing" a 36 year old tonsillectomy victim. I didn't need one but I was invited, thank you very much. Yes, my dear sweet Heracles needed some down home care because while it is an outpatient procedure, you do need someone around who will be LEGALLY responsible for you for 48 whole hours after the surgery, ok? ok! And yes, that individual was me. If Heracles had robbed a bank with that big old bottle of oxycodoneahydrophyllstuff it would have been all on MH! I could have gone up for 15 years because that's a federal offense! Well thank God he was way too full of oxycodone and otherwise hurt because I don't need a federal offense on my record that's for sure. Point is, it was a huge responsibility, get me? Like being a guardian. If you want to put it like that, it's like being a parent. A mother! sigh!

As it turned out, Heracles needed someone. His mom is in her seventies. Does she need that mess when she's trying to unload a house full of Heracles' childhood memories that nobody seems to care about? Hells no. Poor lady all she wants to do is shop and live like a single woman about town who has paid her debt. But she had too many kids over too many years, her husband had the bad manners to die and both of them didn't teach their youngest how to man up. Heracles actually considered letting her come over to that freezing, garbage-ridden city to take care of him. She can't see well enough to learn the fine art of texting, so how is she going to drive a Chrysler around on streets the size of sidewalks? When she is saddled with two expensive homes to maintain and an aging brother with a terminal illness? The woman raised a fine son, like she did with her older children. But somehow Heracles forgot that boys grow into men. He's still the baby of the family, I guess. I'm the baby too, I know how it is. But damn, even I had to grow up.

Well anyhow I couldn't see putting an older woman through that and besides I have cooked less than 6 meals in the last 4 years so nesting a little bit on the shady side of my thirties seemed to be a bittersweet departure from using the microwave for warming my nightly pore-opening steam towel. With that in mind, it was a pleasure to use a microwave to cook. And I don't even EAT Jello! See what a nester I was?

I nursed that little Heracles for days! It was heavenly. I thought about how much fun it would be to take care of him all the time. I started to use little pet names for him and talked baby to him. He liked it. Mom wasn't around, but he could pretend right?

It was glorious. I pounded cubes of ice into shards of ice that barely passed as "shaved." I made three kinds of wholesome soup and froze it all. I made gatorice cubes for times when someone might need his "electrolytes" replaced. I made Jello for the first time and second time and third time, then added some choco-protein powder to another and another batch for my little patient. I rinsed, wiped, cleaned, took out garbage and recycle, plucked bloody q tips out of the sink, slept with the bathroom light on so Heracles could make regular hourly visits there throughout the night, and rejoiced when he decided he might be able to stomach some cold Campbell's chicken noodle soup.

I giggled at all of my patient's little complaints about his throat, his nose, his head and the bruises from getting stuck and missed several times by a nurse in training. I told Heracles that he is so CRAZY since he wants more than anything to be crazy. Well, he also wants to be funny, so I laugh at him all the time. Makes us both smile. Plus we had one nice afternoon at an indoors botanical garden. It was a nice time, I have to say.

Then I started to miss my Minchie and Kitty. I wondered about my fountain grass. Had it grown in the last five days? How about Minchie's wading pool? Was it still safe next to the coiled up hose and serpentined soaker? And that slow leak in my front driver's side tire that I have been ignoring, did it finally cause a flat, rendering me immobile?

Boy, was I glad to get home. I collected my dog, collapsed on the love sac and snuggled under a for a few hours, thinking about the last week's worth of experience and what I have learned from it.

I don't care what Heracles says. He's missing out, and I don't miss taking care of a man for a living for nothing but a sniffed thanks and an offer of cash to offset the groceries. Yeah, I missed it before, but that was because I had forgotten that men aren't grateful for shit. We don't need to make them soup! They don't want or need us for anything aside from clean shaven, issue-free sex.

FYI, this MH didn't accept any money from the patient.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Jane Adams Gets Hung Up On A TWEET

I know celebrities have seemingly unending power over retail establishments, so most people expect that celebrities get their way when they sit their precious butts down.

But come on. Every restaurant ever I worked at required me to zero out my account every night and if somebody skipped out on the check like that chaunch Jane Adams, I would have had to pay. So here is Mr Ingels, who clearly isn't a tycoon. And this woman thinks she has the right to leave without paying for it. Later when she finds out the waiter complained publicly, she had the balls to get him fired? This whiny prima donna's business is that important to Barney Greengrass? Well, looks like I won't be eating there.

Ms Adams has likely never had to serve people like HER, so she probably has no idea what all the fuss is about. Well, Ms Adams, I'm relieved that I didn't know who you were already, so I don't have to be annoyed about that I've made the mistake of contributing to your evil doings. I certainly intend to NEVER see anything which has your name in the credits. You are a nasty, vindictive person. You didn't have to skip out on that bill but you thought you were too important to have to walk your lazy ass back in there. You didn't have to go back there and engage the waiter in a verbal confrontation and you showed your ass something awful when you actually complained so much that he was fired from a job he's held for a long time. Did you ever stop to think that perhaps YOU were the cause of all of this?

I hope YOU get fired. Anyone who watches whatever this Hung crap is, please email HBO to let them know that you aren't going to continue until that awful woman gets written out of her part. Hey I know, she can have lunch in a pretentious restaurant and while she is complaining about the waiter, she can choke to death. That would be great for ratings.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Heracles oh Heracles

I had lunch with a friend today and we discussed a great many important things happening in our lives.

My friend, as is typical of pretty much everyone I know, is pregnant. Unusually, this is her first. I respect her so very much because she is around my age. I do wish I were just like her, though. Somehow, she has managed to get herself married and with child within the last few years. sigh! but! I am very happy for her and no amount of envy that I may feel towards that type of situation could ever detract from how wonderful I think life can be for people, especially for those who do whatever it is that they do, and what they do is 100% perfect so that is why they are living that 100% perfect life. So I am very happy for her and I love the fact that she is living her dream. She deserves it!

I am not always sure if I ought to have kids. With my history of traumatic experiences with luck or fate, I ought to leave well enough alone. But I have to say, sometimes all I want to do is nestle myself deep inside that lovely huge lovesac and embroider and knit until I have outfitted a household ready for an army of little brilliant scientists. And little MHes.

But then sometimes I worry that there will never be another unfortunate soul of my blood, good old MH- who did not receive the greatest education, never had any sort of positive role models, and certainly doesn't have her shit together any better than anyone 15 years younger.

I can't blame my parents because emulating them was not an option, due to my unending disdain. I can only blame myself. I sometimes wonder how my life would have been different if I had made different choices in different times. But now I realize that it doesn't matter any longer anyway. Lessons are sometimes learned too late.

Luring men into fatherhood never works, but if I were younger perhaps I would be a mother right now and I wouldn't give two farts what anyone thought about it. But stupid MH. I'm always concerned with my dignity, self-respect and of course, the respect of some other fucking idiot.

Confidentially, if Heracles were dumb enough to have sex with me unprotected, I'd most happily do my damnedest to get pregnant. I would. I would nurture any child I had at this advanced age, and I wouldn't have much urge to even notify any sperm supplier, especially if he had no desire to father my children!

I wouldn't expect child support. If a man doesn't want his child, why bother with the money aspect of it? It seems so backwards to me. I would think he should pay if he WANTS access to the child. Simple supply and demand.

Oh well. I will be childless. I can handle it because I am scared of it all anyhow. Mothering human beings is one of those truly thankless careers. We, as human females, want NOTHING more than to have children and take care of them, but somehow, as in so many other ways, my intended path never stuck with the main.

And that, my dears, is why I am sitting here right now, almost finished with a bottle of barely palatable CA merlot and wondering what the fuck I'm doing here worrying about being alone the rest of my life when I have a dog and a pension.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Who are you calling a bitter old hag?

No, it's okay. I have one cat right now. She isn't as bitter as I probably am. I'm feeding a little black feral kitten right now. I am well on my way to fulfilling my destiny.

Heracles blew into town last week. We had a few blissful days entertaining ourselves and each other in this fine desert weather. We took turns filming cute little short films of Minchie being her lovely little self. We ran errands. Heracles didn't make one complaint when I dragged him all across the valley trying to score a good deal on a microwave.

When did microwaves get so damned expensive? I thought they used to be $30 or so, but clearly I was wrong. I ended up spending $48 on a reconditioned GE at BigLots, thinking I'd found a kick ass deal. But when I got it home and tried it out, it got so hot on the outside I thought something might blow up or at the very least catch on fire.

They took it back without a fuss and I didn't even have to wait in line, which really shocked the hell out of me. Then I proceeded to hit WalMart, Macy's, Sears, JCPenny's, another WalMart just in case, a pawn shop ( wtf I was thinking there I cannot even recall), Anna's Linens, Bed Bath and Beyond and finally Target. Target did not have a white microwave for less than $100, so I had to get one with a black door and stainless steel shell. Bleh. I wanted white. But it was ONLY $45 on sale and it's the best microwave I saw for less than $80 or so! It was a good buy. Plus the parking lot wasn't gross like WalMart's was. I took it home and tried it out. Miraculously the outside stays pretty lukewarm, thanks be to God.

Still, I kind of wish I would have kept my micro/oven combo unit. It was a Whirlpool Gold model. The color wasn't gold, it was white. They ought to do something about the name of that model if you ask me. Anyway, that was such a great microwave! Sigh. Oh well I'm in a much better place now. I finally purchased my perfect stove, but that is all for my other blog, where I will soon post pics.

The point here is that Heracles braved all the WalMart frustrations and my inappropriate road rage episodes all day long for close to two days. He was terribly patient and encouraging when I was distressed that even though nobody has a job and stores can't unload their merchandise, they don't bother to mark anything down! Even BigLots was overpriced! Judas!

But as it happened, Heracles was about to experience something altogether different, which was not as easy for him to navigate. It all had to do with the serious uncomfortable TALK which was utterly necessary. I just had to know what his deal was with me. Did he love me or not?

Because come on. When you get to be my age, you don't want to mess around with men who don't know what they want. Well, Heracles doesn't know what he wants. He has to think about it. I believe that might translate to mean that he doesn't want me. So it is probably time for this ol' girl to hit the dusty trail. Or bite the dust. You know what I'm talking about. Pick myself up and dust myself off?

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

It's cold over here on the back burner

I am in my twilight dating years, and I'm sitting around waiting for Heracles to decide what he wants to do with me.

He knows he has all the power because AS A WOMAN, can I REALLY ask him to marry me? Hell no. I wonder if I'm not the one for him, because if I were, wouldn't he have done something to make our relationship more solidified in order to maintain it? But he didn't. He didn't do anything at all. He just moved and he continues to send me texts once or twice every day.

What does that mean? I'm not a veteran texter, so I can't know.

All I know is that Heracles has never told me he loves me. He has never said anything about a future with me.

He bought me a dog for Christmas last year, but I would be a total idiot to read anything into THAT. He'd only deny it.

It reminds me of Only Angels Have Wings, in which Cary Grant's tough guy will "never ask a woman" to do anything except give him a match.

So here I am with my dog, sitting around on the back burner, and friends are already asking me if I'm interested in meeting somebody they know. If I were to tell- I mean text- Heracles tomorrow that it's all over between us, I would probably still stand a chance of finding a husband for my life. I really do need a partner. Oh, and my brother told me that his attorney asked, "Hey man is your sister single?" Ha ha. Just what I need. Another brilliant man who thinks he's the absolute shit. I went from being married to a man who refused to do anything as cheap and dirty as work, to a man whose biggest desire in life is riches, and there seems to be no happy medium. I'm looking for that happy medium. I want a hard working man who isn't lazy or stupid, but doesn't measure his worth by how many millions he has either. A simple guy who cares about his family and his home. I'd be his family and I'd share his home.

I'm tired of being alone. I really am.

You can say what you want, but I don't like it anymore. I don't want to be alone when I get old. I don't want to die in some nursing home by myself, I probably would even if I have kids because kids don't give a shit either.

I am confused. Is it worth it to give Heracles the time he may require to decide whether he wants to spend his life with me or should I just ask him point blank what his plans are? I hate to scare the poor guy off but then again he isn't being very kind by keeping me on the back burner.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

There is no such thing as a plural apostrophe

I am looking for a stove. It will be used rather than new. People like me don't pay retail or even wholesale for high-dollar items. Craigslist is the perfect place for poor people like me, with one exception: the majority of people trying to sell their items cannot spell! The worst offense is the use of the apostrophe....


Ember Linen Curtains - Pottery Barn - $99

Boxer/Cane Corso Marstiff puppy (love this one. You can breed them but you can't spell them.)

2 tv's, leather loveseat and bed for sale!

Chaina - $55 Incluses Serving bowls, meat plate, gravy bowls. Askins 65.00

Armouir Italian Circa 1900's - $1500

White Rod Iron Queen Bed and Frame


Wednesday, July 8, 2009

A perfect day. The Hotel Del Coronado.

For years, my dreams have been dominated by "the Del." Dozens of stories about goings-on there ignited my young imagination, especially when they were accompanied by photographs of celebrities frolicking at the pool of the Del. People getting drunk and making asses of themselves. But so what, they were at the Del. Everyone wanted to go there. I knew there had to be a reason! Celebrities partied at the Hearst mansion too, but this was somehow different. I couldn't put my finger on it because I grew up in the midwest and we went to Flintstone Village and Worlds of Fun. No way in hell would my dad be able to stand me and my brother clear to CA.

But now the Hotel Del isn't so far away. Heracles and I had one last hoorah there. He had heard me mention it a few times. Initially we were just going to see it, but last minute Heracles sprang for a night. We had the WHOLE day before, too.

All I can say is that this place is heaven on earth for my type. You know the type. Nostalgic. Romantic but wouldn't admit it. Yeah. So every little inch of the Del mesmerized me. Heracles, usually so aloof and unimpressed, left a huge fan. A little something for everyone, I guess!

We walked and walked. We marveled at all the cute little creatures crawling in the water on the beach. We admired the beauty of the midday horizon, the sunset and the stars. We pronounced the main building itself stunning in the pains it must take to preserve.

Just about every photo I took became postcard material. Usually that's next to impossible, but not in the charmed presence of the Del.

Even the view from my room was gorgeous. You cannot BE there, and FIND a view that is not beautiful. Believe me. Heracles, in his determined objectivity, tried and failed.

We were in one of the shops.
I found a book called "Beautiful Stranger." It is some story about a woman who died there. It's full of inconsistencies, melancholy and mystery. Oh yeah. We chuckled. WTF $24 for this flipping book that has fake turn-of-the-century photographs of some "beautiful stranger" checking in and looking all introspective all over the place????? We were both disgusted. Paaaaaaleeeeease. Who do they think we are? Oh, looooook here. She haunts the place, what a fucking surprise. Screeeew you guys, aren't you already making enough money off us with the price of the freaking roooom?

We continued our journey of enchantment through the shops, to the beach, all over town and then back to the room for some good wine ( oh yeah we got a great deal on Frog's Leap. It was a mistake and you won't find that liquor store owner making that mistake again), and good looooove. Well love is a strong word. Passion. Then sleep!

Then. It's 12:57 am. I know that because Heracles keeps meticulous track of important details involving numbers. I am awakened from my blissful sleep by some sort of noise. Because I was asleep, I assumed that it was the alarm on my phone. It's always set for 3:30am because that's when I wake up. Even on my days off, because I never remember to turn it off until it actually GOES off. Heracles HATES my alarm. Immediately I felt around for my phone. I pressed the usual button. Still heard the noise. Then I realized that it was not an alarm. It was a freaking DIAL TONE. It was right next to me on the desk by my side of the bed in our sumptious room. I opened my eyes and before me was Heracles, wide-eyed and frozen, O-shaped mouth. I turned over. The room telephone was on speakerphone. I pressed the speakerphone button. No interruption whatsoever. I picked up the handle and set it down. Nothing happened. I unplugged all the cords I could feel. Still, the dial tone persisted.

WTF I said. Heracles hadn't ever heard me say F but whatever. He was still frozen anyway. I got out of bed and switched on the lamp, which was on the other side of the desk. The sound disappeared. I regarded the phone, disjointed and surly, looking back at me as if my assault would cost me big time. I plugged the various cords back into their ports.

I said, "WHAT was that." H: I don't know. Me: Nobody will believe us, we might as well go back to sleep. H: ok. that was weird. Me: yeah well whatever.

I got in bed and thought not much of it. Probably I was still a little buzzed and I know I was exhausted. All of a sudden I feel Heracles spooning me. What? Heracles? Who cannot stand even being touched accidentally late at night? Heracles, who, if he were my sibling and we were 12, would draw an imaginary line and advise me that this is his side and this is my side? This person is SPOONING me????

"Hey, Heracles, what is up here?"
"I don't know."
"What you are ready to go again? I need to get me a ghost of my own at home!"
Heracles laughs nervously and turns over, so now I'm being nestled by his bony butt. Little bit of change of plans I guess.
"You watch your side, I'll watch mine," he instructs.

Made for a fun story though. And added to the charm!!! Make sure you stay in the main building is all I have to say.

Monday, July 6, 2009

From hero to McNair-do-well in an instant

It matters not how great a player he was.

Nor does it make a difference that he gave craploads of cash to various charities throughout the years.

What is really important for everybody, especially for all of you cocky professional athletes, is that who you are in your personal life is MORE important than your stupid game. That's right, it's a stupid GAME. Life is not a game. When you treat it like it is a game, these types of things happen.

Steve McNair's buddies are talking about his "legacy." They would encourage the public to think only of "the good things." Sorry guys. You can do whatever you want in public as a superstar, but if you want to leave a lasting legacy, you have to put those children of yours FIRST. You don't go ROLLING around town buying Escalades for people you don't even know except that they are twenty years younger than you.

You take care of your family by spending holidays with them, no matter how much you can't stand to be around them. You don't humiliate your wife and children by having your life ended so senselessly. Because that, my friends, will be Steve McNair's legacy. His death. His sons are going to have to live with what their father has left behind. There is the tragedy. When will these idiots ever learn?

So how about we leave out that hero garbage? Steve McNair was not a hero. It is impossible to be a hero when you are a jerk. Money doesn't buy class and it definitely doesn't buy a legacy.
Thing is, all he had to do in order to maintain that status of a hero, was just be a good husband! But noooooo, he can't do that can he? He has to throw money around and rent condos with his buddies for use as a bachelor pad of sorts. Life doesn't have to be that complicated, dudes. Be content with your wife and kids. That won't make you a hero, but it will make you a man. When will that be good enough?

Sunday, July 5, 2009

I still celebrated.

Of course I am far from complaining about working yesterday because I know that soon I might be jobless. I narrowly missed getting laid off a couple months ago, and chances are good that in October my time will be up.

But who wants to talk about work when it's July 4th weekend?

Yesterday when I got home, I was exhausted and crabby so I flopped down and opened my Netflix envelope. Oh crap, I thought. Why don't you pay more attention to that damn queue. Because staring back at me was the Dixie Chicks movie, Shut Up and Sing.
I think I may have been drunk when I added it, but that's just a guess. Since that's all there was to watch, I watched it. And it was such a wonderful reminder to me of why we celebrate July 4th, and why we must always speak our minds, no matter what others think. That is the essence of freedom.

Natalie Maines said that she was ashamed that GWB was from Texas. She was terrorized by AMERICANS who didn't like it. I guess if you are a public figure, you are expected to censor yourself for the sake of other people's jobs to some extent. I can see where tact might be in order. But Maines is a young lady with a mind and a mouth, and if it had been a man, any man speaking, nobody would have paid any attention. Remember when Kanye West stared dazed at the camera and said, "George Bush hates black people." He got attention but nobody threatened to kill him. Nobody "boycotted" his music, although I perhaps most of those who would have been offended on GWB's behalf don't give two farts about West's music anyhow. He probably sold MORE records because of his snafu.

We are a nation of hypocrites. We don't want any little blond southern "chick" to trot herself out around the world unless she damn well says what is expected of her by her audience. Which was largely blond southern chicks. Did they really think all that energy used on spewing hatred towards her would pay off? Did these "Americans" truly expect Maines to represent THEM? Dears, don't compare yourselves to Natalie Maines. Admit it, you've always been jealous of her. Funny thing is, the Dixie Chicks' music is marketable in places other than Texas. How about this, all of you yellow roses. When any of you sell out arenas all over the world, think very hard about what you say when you are standing in front of thousands of people who have a different perspective, because your little world isn't popular anywhere except your little world. Oh, right. Which brings me back to the fact that you probably never will sell out arenas all over the world because you are homely and you don't have an opinion until Sara Palin tells you what her husband thinks. For God's sake, stay in Texas and shut up.