Gone Daddy Gone

Probably one of the most infuriating things about the island is that they make you check in SO EARLY and then you are STUCK! STUCK! You have 2 whole hours, nearly, to just sit on your ass and watch NO PLANES come in!

Normally I wouldn’t be bothered by something like this, but knowing that only a glass door separated ME from MORE TIME WITH MY DAD was kind of perturbing. Especially since we don’t see each other all that often. I had one of the younger girls go fetch him and make him come to the door so that I could see his face for just a couple more seconds.

He smiled upon seeing me, leaned in and said, “It was great seeing you,” before he looked me in the eye and went back outside. I wanted him to stay longer, to open the door, to extend his vacation, but we are both too encumbered for that. I thought about flinging open the door myself, but in the moment I looked up and saw that his eyes were watery and felt that mine were too, I fought the urge.

Oh, Dad. Last night as I leaned against your arm and smelled the way you smell while you gesticulated and spoke in subjects over my head, I wished that I were two again, face buried in your back, so that we could have my whole life together still and again.

Sitting on the porch the evening prior, I remembered when I was little how you used to read me Barney Google and Snuffy Smith - please skip Prince Valiant! - and do all the little voices, even though they sounded so out of place stemming from your mouth.

I’ve been gone from your home for 15 years, but I still long for the days when we were all under one roof on one continent. I miss when we used to sit down to dinner, Vivialdi’s 4 seasons our accompaniment to easy conversation. I miss running around your music stand when I was little, trying desperately to keep time with my hurried steps, only missing your planted legs with my smaller, weaving ones.

Come back soon. I’ll keep your tea warm.

On DIPSHITS #42526

You know, I always get tickled when I get an asshole commenter. In the four years that I have been writing, I have had two (let’s count them, one, two!) (2) asshole comments. Remember suckmydick.com? Whom I hit a nerve with because I was upset that Chad was over in Iraq? I still laugh about that.

Initially, I was startled that somebody would tell me to keep drinking. Uh, are you going to do all the housework when I’m too hung over? Pay my bills when I’m too hung over? Clean up all the vomit and the pee from when I eventually soil myself when I’m too drunk and too hung over? Cuz if you are, c’mon over baby, let’s PARTY!

One of my friends has been talking about making some cocktails with champagne and white wine, so we can start with that. And then? Another friend brought over some sake last night, and you know that I am DYING to get into that. My mouth waters every time I look at it, shit. So really? You want me to drink? AWESOME! And TFQ? She makes bourbon slushies with ice tea, and damn if those don’t look good. So yeah, see me after school.

This one time? At band camp? They have these things called IP finders, y’know. I have a sneaking suspicion that the commenter is somebody who I see often, but I’ll leave it at that. If not, don’t flatter yourself. My friends don’t hang out with me because of my pithy commentary and quick wit.

I did decide to drink again, by the way.

Salt water, by the ocean full. In the form of surfing! Damn you “Blue Crush” for making it look so fun…now I’m hooked. And sore as a motherfucker. Paddle paddle paddle, stand up, fall. Lather, rinse, repeat. Definitely addictive.

Also, getting an asshole comment made me realize that I am NOWHERE near as angry as I thought. Because, bwahahahahahahaah, I can’t believe that someone would be perturbed enough to leave a comment that they think I should drink again. Whew, that’s a good one.

Mom and Dad come tomorrow. Yippee Ay OH KAYAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!

On 56 Days: #25238

I’m sorry it’s been so quiet over here; I’ve been feeling uninspired and reclusive as of late. Dissatisfied might be a good word. There’s a general discontent brewing just beneath the surface and I don’t know what it is.

At the AA meetings, people who have been sober much longer than my 56 days refer back to the days when they were newly sober. They mentioned thriving off the chaos that they had created when they were drunk. They said that they were bored when sober. I definitely am much more stable without alcohol mentally and emotionally, but I just can’t put my finger on what is missing. Is it paprika? Some magic ingredient?

I am generally happy, but I notice that my relationships with people have changed. Whereas I HAD to have you like me before and would go any lengths to get your approval (even if it included hurting those closest to myself) now, now? I’m just here. If you like me, you like me. If you don’t, you don’t. No skin off my back. I find myself wondering why in the hell I tried so hard to impress people who didn’t turn out to be good friends to me in the long run, and who I really wouldn’t want to be associated with anyway. They weren’t or aren’t good for me.

Sometimes I wonder if people that I work with and really do like and dh (not the same thing, though) feel these vibes from me. It’s like one big pimple taking over my face; I can’t stop my apathy from showing.

On days that I feel like this, I wonder if my medicine isn’t working. Anger that I had since written off has resurfaced, although neither as intense nor as often as before. It comes in short sparks, like if I touch you in the heat of the moment, you’ll feel the jolt of my directed discontent. When a good friend advised me to blow it off, I did, but soon found some other little grain of sand stuck in my eye.

I am like the whirlpool in the glass; empty in the middle - chaotic, but completely contained because I am without alcohol (and grateful to be so, despite my desolation).

I hope this is not the beginnings of “the itch”. I long for some big change fairly frequently after moving around so much of my life. Sometimes it’s the hair, one time is was the husband, most of the time it’s location - when will I learn to be content and just be?

Le Re - veeewww!

Hey! Hey!

Guess how many AWESOME pictures I have from Roi! Guess! Guess!

None.

Why? Because I suck, that’s why. TFQ and I were in such a hurry to get down to the terminal that we BOTH forgot picture-taking apparatus. Apparati? For Pete’s Sake.

The trip was truly a comedy of errors. Starting from the VERY beginning. As we awaited our plane, TFQ sat down next to me on the bench. “SHIT!” she jumped up, exposing quite a large wet spot on her left buttock (hello, Forrest Gump!). Wanting to hide that just wet your pants look, she sat down farther away from me. “SHIT!!!!” she exclaimed, standing up AGAIN to show me a matching wet spot on her right buttock. At this point I am laughing so hard I thought I was going to wet myself. I laughed even harder as TFQ approached the vending machines sideways, keeping her rear end to the wall at all times.

SO funny was this, in fact, that after we ate our chips, I folded up my bags and threw them in the trash, not noticing that I had also disposed of my boarding pass. Because that’s not too important, you know. When I finally noticed that it was gone, I had to go over and dig through the very large and slightly full trash can in front of a bunch of people that I know. Revenge is sweet, and I’m sure TFQ got as big of a kick out of my dumpster diving as I did of her wet butt.

The flight up was breathtaking. Clear turquoise water dotted with what appeared to be huge coral heads, all fenced in by the islands of the atoll. I could take that flight back and forth and back and forth (and back and forth around again) and never get bored, I think.

As we landed, a friend told us there was a group of people gathered up at the Parrothead for the sunset. We hitched a ride in Bill’s truck, dumped our bags, and hitched a ride back with the firemen, who gave us door to shack service. Although we kept to ourselves at first, feet up on the railing of the shack, the hospitality and friendliness of the locals won out, and we soon found ourselves ensconced in conversations and good music.

The next day we were invited down to the surf shack for some sun and fun and what a time it was. We played football (full contact, woot woot!) windsurfed, played Baggo, and sat in these glorious plastic chair contraptions that float on the water just so that should be mandatory wherever there is a beach. Unlike Kwaj, the beach on Roi just stretches on and on and on. One of the men up there noted that he went there for his lunch breaks, and I felt a mighty green streak spread down my back. Sometime in between our arrival and my intentions to try wakeboarding (because one can never have enough water shoved up one’s nose at the speed of light), I noticed that my wedding rings had been taken in sacrifice to Poseidon. Well, that lousy bastard can have my rings. I’m not thrilled about it, but there was really nothing I could do at that point.

The thoughtfulness of the locals came through again, and people searched and searched and snorkeled for my rings for over an hour. I will say this: I will NEVER wear expensive jewelry again. My replacement rings will be fashioned from CZ and silver, and that way if I lose them, I won’t feel a twang whenever I think about dh’s nervous, shaky hands holding out my engagement ring to me.

We spent our last day on Roi enjoying the serenity of the island and their extra TV stations (which show AWESOME! CURRENT! movies) before we got back on our flight to Kwaj. As we departed the ticket agent said, ‘Come back again ladies!’ and I am sure that I will go back as soon as I get the chance.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y!

Apparently today is worker appreciation day.

Dh says that he pretends to work, and they pretend to appreciate him. Although I am usually LOVING my job with a capital “LOVING”, today I can’t wait to get out of here.

Why on earth are you in such a hurry, you ask?

I’m going up to Roi-Namur with a companion (now tell me, honestly, what do you think when I type that word? Because even though it is perfectly legal and all, it makes me think about dogs or mistresses or mistressers. But she’s not. She’s TGQ - The Gumbo Queen) to sit and enjoy the scenery.

Truth be told, I’m a bit anxious about the plane ride. There’s no potty on the plane. At least, I don’t think there is. And even though it’s only a 20 minute ride or whatever, I still have residual anxiety about NO POTTY! NO WHERE!

I am also deathly afraid of how my emotions will unleash themselves when I least want it (DAMN YOU!) seeing as how something that I laughed about the day before reduced me to tears in the middle of an AA meeting. And I didn’t even know it bothered me. It was fabulous, let me tell you. Mascara running down my face betwixt my anonymous alkie buddies. BLARGH. If I were spongebob squarepants the tears would just soak in to my face. What if my head and bladder simultaneously combust because there are no facilities?

Yes, I am an adult.

I will take my camera and regale you with tales of the serene and the peace upon my return.

Happy Weekend, y’all.

Peas in a Pod.

Remember when I bought this?

Yes, Virginia! You *MAY* click to read what I was blathering on about nearly three years ago! (Tangent: Would you hate it if your name was Virginia? I mean, I work with a lady named Virginia, and I have never directly told her that there is a Santa Clause, per se, but I am hardly the most obnoxious of the bunch. Excuse me. I just got struck by lightning.)

Well, well, well…step right up! It appears that I have finally found the perfect mate for my reduced fat bread.

Are you ready?

Are you ready?

Wait, wait, wait. Are you sure you’re ready?

Why don’t you count to five first?

Wait. Why don’t you sit down first?

Oh. You are sitting? You mean you don’t type standing up like I do? What?! That’s weird?

You’re the one talking back to something I wrote on the computer and you’re calling ME weird?

Humph.

Oh. You just want to see the picture?

Are you ready?

Are you sure?

Let me be the first to say that “I don’t think you’re ready, for this jelly.”

My Shriveled Little Heart

A.k.a.: WAYS to TORTURE ME, 101 (Attention: Men and small children take note).

Please, please, please, whenever I try to exit or enter the trailer, jump spread-eagled through the wooden beads (bought for the very purpose of distracting you from the DOOR OF FREEDOM, well that, and they look so! hip! and! so! cool!) and land not on any of the steps, but on the actual pavement itself (attention Jackass boys whom I worship for their stupidity and saggy old man balls: not to be confused with Raab himself.) about 3 feet away WHERE I CANNOT REACH YOU, not even if I were the Flo and The Jo all rolled up together in kitschy goodness what with the one legged unitard and the nails that should be a safety hazard.

AS SOON AS YOU LAND, and not a millisecond later, please, please, please, run as fast as you can under the trailer so that I, the one who loves you the MOST OBSESSIVELY BECAUSE YOU ARE SO LITTLE AND YOU LICK MY EYELASHES UNTIL YOU FALL ASLEEP AT NIGHT, I cannot reach you and instead smack my head against the side of the trailer with a dull thud that will surely leave a lovely mark.

Photographer’s note: Apparently, in my inability to keep Slater in the trailer, I have also forfeited my ability to take decent pictures. My camera manual failed to mention that it has a setting called “so fucking blurry that 1 beer really seems like 14 shots of tequila”. Or, for my non-alcoholic brethren, “so fucking blurry I mixed up my Lexapro with my sleeping pills AGAIN”.

Once you have nestled yourself in the dirt and rat poison and cigarette butts and Mexican hats (I’m not EVEN lying) and assorted PVC pipe, please, please, please remain just out of reach so that I can coo to you from my knees with my striped ass waving in the air for all to see. Because, secretly, the exhibitionist in me really loves to do that, and I hope my perspective boss can bicycle by at JUST THAT MOMENT to see the nice, young, promising girl with a wonderful future ahead of her (his words, not mine. bwahahahahahahhahaha…hunh? Oh, excuse me) with her A to the double SSS-O (take that, retired rapper whose name I refuse to remember but whom I know is boinking Beyonce) jauntily placed in the upright position for at least 20 minutes shouting at what appears to be but a spec of dust underneath her domicile.

Then, when you have had your way with the world, crawl dustily back and wipe your dirty paws all over my BARBIE WORK CLOTHES so that I look professionally aged and used for our upcoming inspection. They really like people who work with children to be filthy. And smelly. Because the smell under there is not peaches and cream. Or even rotting peaches. Or rotting cream.

Once I have dusted you off and placed you ever so gently by the door, please stalk the swinging obstruction so that you can make your run to the great beyond whenever anybody enters or exits. At least 5 times a day so I can really rub my knees raw on the pavement crawling around after you.

Please, please, please.

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Up to No Good.

I was going to write some long diatribe about how some minorities were being wrongfully stereotyped, but then I thought, “What the hell, it’s Saturday!” and God doesn’t drop such wonderful afternoons in your lap all the time, so fucking enjoy it already!

And as I was giving myself the what for, I came up on this treasure nestled ever so gently on the back of my trailer.

Now, it may look like a simple roll of caution tape to you, dear friend, and you would be right.

It is the words that are priceless:

Imagine the fashion possibilities! No longer would we be subjected to the stray peeks of cooch britney, paris, tara, OR denise! One small piece of this tape would make the internet SAFE! FOR! WORK! and for the kids!

No longer would unsuspecting males want to dip their penii into the collective hoo-has! Celebrity or otherwise! Our open trench super special warning tape would keep those rising phallices at bay. Yay, world peace! Stop world hunger!

Now, who wants a piece?