This is probably how constipation starts in most people.

Today, I was being a dutiful daughter. My mom is going to participate with the church choir again after a year's hiatus, so she has started attending practices for the Easter Vigil mass. It so happens that these practices are on Monday nights, during the same time that Ben and I attend a class nearby. So, it only made sense for us to drop her off at practice, then pick her up after class.

Upon arriving at our drop point, my mother assured us that she would call me if her friend couldn't give her a ride home. I saw this as a moot point, since we would be out of class right around the time her practice would wrap, and I planned on driving her home, anyway. She insisted, however, that if her friend could drive her home, she would call me.

"I'm going to have my phone on 'silent,'" I warned her. "I don't want my phone to ring in the middle of class. I won't know if you've called until I leave the room."

"Well," she started as she got out of the car, "Don't you have a vibrator?"

Dead silence from Ben and me for a good twenty seconds. She continued to stare at me, with little to no affect on her face, waiting for my answer.

I looked in the rearview mirror, back at Ben, who looked as if he was going to either barf, start crying hysterically or pinch off the biggest loaf in the history of loaves.

---Sorry, no image available.---

"What?" was all I could eke out after the never-ending silence.

Now, Perla was getting a tad impatient. "You know," she said as she stood there, "Where instead of ringing, your phone vibrates to let you know you have a call?" This was said, mind you, with all the annoyance of one who is quite aware of such technology. It's quite funny, coming from the woman who is famous for hanging up the cordless phone, then pointing the same at the television in order to change the channel.


Seriously. You don't want to vex her. She will straight up bitch slap you.

"Oh, yeah," I replied, finally understanding what she really meant. "Sure. I'll have it on 'meeting.'" With that, she shut the car door and headed into her practice.

Within moments, I pulled away from the church to find parking for our class. Ben could hold his hysterics in no longer. I teared up a little from laughter, especially after we thought up some clever things I could (but never would) have said:

• "Don't I? Who doesn't?!"
• "Well, Ma, shit, does it really look like I need one at this point?" here, I'd be gesturing back to Ben, who would wave happily.
• "It's in the shop."
• "No, I put it in with our other donations to Goodwill."
• "No, not since you bitched about how high the utility bill was last month!"
• "Didn't you find it next to the gas mask and bottle of lube when you went through my shit last week?"
• "Not anymore. Ben's borrowing it. Right now. Give you three guesses as to where it is." Again, I would need his assistance in this scenario. Of course, it would end with "And honestly, at this point, I don't think I really want it back."

Just file this under the new label: Stories to tell the children grandkids absolutely nobody when we're older.

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Another lesson.

It's the middle of the week, and things couldn't be going slower. I've got less than three hours left at the office, and it seems like it took forever to get to this very moment...

As I typed the above statement, everything started happening at once. It is now 3:00, and I have an hour left here. In the past two hours, I have helped a patient apply for assistance through two different foundations, started rudimentary plans for starting a food pantry for the patients in our branch office, tried to get prescription authorizations: the usual.

But perhaps the most important thing I did today was listen to a patient's spouse fret over her husband's rapid deterioration. He has cancer, and he now weighs less than his own father did when he succumbed to it. She says he can barely stand now, let alone walk. Her tears are stubborn, like her, but they are there, hovering, waiting.

I look at him and see his mouth scrunched up, the lips curling inwards towards his mouth, as if he is in a perpetual scowl, or waiting for his insides to swallow him up out of existence. He sees my gaze and manages to eke out a small smile. I know it's a smile, because the twinkle in his eyes, although duller, is still there.

Their savings are dwindling; she spends hundreds a month on food, because his appetite fluctuates so greatly that whenever he has a craving for any food at all, she rushes to take advantage of those rare moments. She tells me how she could win an Oscar with the performance she puts up for him. She tries not to let the worry and fear show through on her face, especially when what he puts in his body won't stay there for very long, and he slowly fades.

Moment by moment, he disappears, and disappears, and disappears. She says it's not a matter of how anymore, but when, and she doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when the next day comes, then the next, then the next.

This sturdy woman, shorter than I, forever clad in muumuus of varying purple shades, always bringing the staff Thank You cards, little deli trays, boxes of candy in gratitude, summarizes her life with her husband: a mix of anticipation and dread, hope and despair, everything and nothing. Their whole life together is no longer defined by who they were when they married, who they grew into when they raised children, or who they became in their careers. Their life is now defined by phone calls to case managers, scheduling scans and appointments, budgeting to afford prescriptions, gas, life. It's about calling the immediate family together to reminisce, to say goodbye without using the actual words. Their life is now about preparing for a future together, different than what they'd planned for before... dreading the time they know will come.

Then, a future apart... A future without each other.

A future alone.

I look at her. I can't see her without seeing him, and can't think of him without thinking of her. That day will come when I won't see him anymore. I may see her once or twice after that. Soon I won't see her, either.

After talking with her, and watching her struggle to keep a stoic face, and him struggle to, for her sake, pretend he doesn't see her struggle, it seems ridiculous for me to complain about time creeping by. It's trivial to complain about far away parking spaces, encounters with people who do stupid things, running out of diet root beer in the break room fridge. It serves no purpose, really, to get bent out of shape over something said by a loved one in a tone you don't quite grasp, or to worry, worry, worry about tomorrow, next week, next year. All that energy wasted, when it could be used to appreciate right now.

None of it makes sense, and it all makes complete sense.

I've spent the last hour typing this, and now it's time for me to clock out. I know I should probably end this post by tying things together, completing a theme, making it neat. But I can't worry about making it pretty, or comprehensible, or even the least bit good.

I'm just going to leave it as it is, go see Ben, get wrapped inside his arms, tell him I love him, and not think about anything but that. Tomorrow can wait.

Isn't that the point, after all?

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Food coma and football related hypertension.

Today was just a big ball of pain and punishment. First off, I got up early to go to the Dirt Mall to get a new case for the phone, only to find that there apparently no people staffing their booths laden with open and easily accessible merchandise at 8:30 in the morning. This would not have been so terrible if I had not made a point to wake up early on a Saturday to haul my cookies down to the Dirt Mall in the Park (!), and hadn't gotten adequate sleep the night before.

After the unsuccessful trip to the DM, there was breakfast at Cracker Barrel, which is normally fantastical, except for the fact that I couldn't get a tea refill to save my life. Ben couldn't get his coffee cup to 1/3 empty before someone came by offering to top it off (something that actually irks him because it messes with his cream and sugar balance), but once he politely declined the 3,000th cup, the waitress decided that she didn't need to come back to our table for anything at all.

Now, if you know anything about my eating quirks, you know that I can rarely finish my food if I don't have accompanying beverage to wash it down with. Hence, my beloved double-side of hashbrown casserole could not be completely consumed.


This? Bountiful. Tea? Not so much.

Then, I went home, did some cleaning, then began watching the UF-Ole Miss game, which, if I talk about much here, will make my eyes start to bleed. Again. I'm just glad we have Mercy! Percy!, the one they call the Baby Rhino, and the littlest big man on kick returns, pictured below:


Brandon James, hauling ass 55 yards on a kick return. The player trying to give chase would then...


Tear at James' jersey like he was in a catfight, trying to shamefully expose his boob. (I mean, really now.)

Suffice it to say that I'm glad we came away with a win, it was valuable road game experience for the boys, and Urban will probably be tearing a whole bunch of people new assholes during practice this week because of all the penalties they amassed.

Anyway, after watching the first half at home, Ben and I made our way to Danhole's during halftime, where we watched the rest of the malady. From there, we headed to Sonny's BBQ, where we concurrently watched the Michigan-Penn State game (gah), the LSU-South Carolina game (double-gah), and the Michigan State-Notre Dame game (which, at the time was gah, but ended up being not-gah). The three of us then proceeded to go against all laws of decency and good digestive health and opted to get All-You-Can-Eat plates.

Did I mention that Sonny's will actually refill your food and drinks, and their drinks are almost the size of paint cans? And I was so happy that someone would actually refill my beverage with regularity, that my food consumption matched it?


You feelin' me, Murtaugh?

Oh dear, sweet, baby Jesus, that was hours ago, and I'm still hurting. And I'm burping up barbecue sauce like there's no tomorrow. The only consolation I have is that Danhole gave me the permission to smack him should he ever decide to break the his vow of "never ordering All You Can Eat again." Mind you, this is a vow he makes every time we go to Sonny's, and he breaks it, every time. I can't wait to go Baby Rhino on him.


No, Baby Rhino, despite your spirit and excitability, you can't do it for me. Otherwise,I'll have to tell his family how we managed to break Dan.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go pass out.

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Tagged. Like a little Bitch. Again.

And now, as is my duty, I present to you my Report on 7 Songs I am Into Right Now:

"Trogdor," by Strongbad. Since Ben has been catching up on all seasons of Buffy, the reference to Trogdor in Season 7 made me all nostalgic. Besides, there's nothing wrong with "burninating the countryside." Or the peasants, for that matter.

"Curiosity," by the Jets. Yes, you'd think that maybe "Crush On You" or "You Got It All" would be the more popular choice in my noggin. However, recently, I've become quite nostalgic about the first nine years of my life, and how much I did enjoy that pink "Jet Set" jogging suit I had when we lived in Jersey, and my brother had the 12" single of this song. Does this bring down the man-quotient of said brother, now decidedly not a fan of the Jets? All systems go on that one.

"Jealousy," by Liz Phair. Oh, let us hearken back to high school, shall we? No, the real reason I queued this song up again recently was there was a whole internal debate on whether what I was feeling was jealousy or anger. After identifying the source of this wayward emotion, and listening to this song a couple of times, I decided it was anger. Pure, unadulterated anger. Thank goodness for that, huh?

"Rump Shaker," by Wreckx-N-Effect. Maybe it's the hypnotic sax in the background. Maybe it's the unabashed use of thongs. More likely it's Spring Break time in these parts, and for some reason, I always think of this song when Spring Break rolls around. Damn you, MTV marketing! For now, all I want to do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom! Fuckers!

"Going Out Of My Head," by Fatboy Slim. I've been talking to Stumpy a bit recently, and this song always reminds me of her. Several years ago, on Valentine's Day, I took the boys with me to go see her and my old roommate D's dance troupe perform. Of course, the piece Stump was in involved several female dancers dressed up in Prohibition-era looking outfits, who, upon hearing this song, lose their minds, strip off their clothes, and start dancing around poles. By their own admission, this added up to the boys' best Valentine's Day ever.

"Cool Rider," by Michelle Pfeiffer off the Grease 2 Soundtrack. I can't believe I'm actually telling you this. Oh wait, yes I can. I got stuck in another Grease 2 craving cycle. This time around, it was this, "Girl for All Seasons," and "Charades" (wtf?). It's been an interesting couple of weeks. All I can say is that at least it wasn't a Rex Manning moment. I'm saving that for next month.

"Do Somethin'," by Britney Spears. You didn't think you could escape a list from me without a Britney reference, did you? Oh, how I miss old, non-bald, non-crazy Britney. But that's neither here nor there. Thinking about it just wastes too much of my energy. The reason this song has been on repeat lately is because it's the assigned ringtone for my little sister. And the way it came to pass is actually quite funny to me. Want to hear about it? Too bad, because here it goes:

About two years ago, right before Christmas, Lil' E was in town, and we went out to dinner with Danhole. On the way back from dinner, I have this song playing. Lil' E starts bopping around to it, and says she likes it, which is a rarity, because our musical tastes don't often intersect. This is even more surprising, because she does not have the patience for anything Britney or otherwise pop-related that I have. Pleased with this, I play it for her again, and she's singing along, dancing around in her seat. She finally asks "Who is this?" and without hesitation, I say, "Britney!" quite amused. E, on the other hand, falls very silent for the rest of the ride. Insert a Dave Chappelle "Gotcha, bitch!" here.

And there you have it. I can't think of anyone else to tag, since they've already been, other than Danhole. And the chances of him actually doing it are slim, since the last time he blogged was back in the way back. Which, of course, was a long friggin' time ago. Dammit!

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I always ruin things.

Okay, thought of something to write about.

The other day, Ben and I were at the Dirt Mall. Apparently, at the Dirt Mall way south of us that we never go to, they now have a little stage for either a live band, or... wait for it... karaoke.

I know, it's blowing your mind, the possibilities. I just heard Danhole's head exploding somewhere north of here.

Anyway, I think they were doing karaoke when we were there that afternoon. Either that, or their cover band sucks total ass. Regardless, there was a lady on stage, doing her rendition of "You Were Meant For Me," by Jewel.

I didn't particularly care for her take on the song, but it wasn't terrible; I'll give the woman credit, because she could carry a tune much better than I ever could. But, as I am wont to do, listening to a song, no matter the singer, took me back down Memory Lane. This time I went down that road to a simpler time, when Jewel was still living in her van, I wasn't up to my eyeballs in student loan debt, and no song could escape a rewrite by one or more of the Suspects.

Take, for example, "Santa Monica," by Everclear, which fell victim to myself and Amanda, aka the Sack, when we introduced the themes of a person's visage and the act of sitting into our new lyrics. I'm sure you can guess which words in the line "I am still dreaming of your face" were replaced in our version.

We did that shit all the time, mostly changing songs to be about sniffing glue, sexual innuendo, mad cow disease, and Sacky's half-Jew pride.

So, it should come to as no surprise to anyone that "You Were Meant For Me" did not escape this same fate. I shan't post the butchering we did to those two particular lyrics. But, I can at least tell you that one of the lyrics was modified along the lines of the Everclear one, and the part where she sings "I'm half alive, but I feel mostly dead" was, well, similar to the Everclear one as well. I guess some themes are more prevalent than others.


Heh-heh. Blog five!

Back to where I was originally going with this: we're walking through the Dirt Mall, and Ben puts his arms around me and stops to listen to the lady singing. As she's finishing the song, Ben leans in close and tells me that it's about us.

As romantic as the whole scenario was, what with us standing together in a sea of humanity, listening to a love song about people being meant for each other, all I could do was stand there, silently think about Jewel singing this song about oral sex instead, and burst out laughing. This effectively sucked any and all romance out of the Dirt Mall.

Needless to say, this required a maximum of explanation to effect a minimum of boyfriend ego bruising.

I told you I was always ruining shit!

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We're already wet, and we're gonna go swimming.

I know, it's been a while since I've posted a lyrical blog title, but I still have 13 Going On 30 on the brain from a few weeks ago. You'll have to forgive.


I have often found myself doing the same thing. Except without the really expensive dress. Or the bod. Crap.

Anyway, I've been spending the last few weeks thinking about blogging, so that should count for something. I've been otherwise occupied with trying to say my age without coughing uncomfortably, threatening to burn couches at a moment's notice, and fiddling with blog and MySpace layouts. Seriously. You know it's sad when I get all jazzed about changing the colors on my template and renaming everyone in my Top 20, and I still don't do dick about posting.

I should probably take a hint from Lisa and keep the MySpace layout simple. But the colors are so pretty!

Jesus, this dry spell is getting annoying.

Anyway, I managed to get through the birthday with thankfully little fanfare. I got some nice gifts, one of the greatest of which was a picture frame with four Gator Football photos: one of Tebow flying into the end zone, one of Reggie Fuckin' Nelson breaking shit up during the Alabama game, one of Urbs hugging Chris Leak after the MNC, and a black and white one of just Chris Leak. Ben did an awesome job of picking out the photos. I'll have to post a picture of it here later, so you can view it in all its glory.

I'm all over the joint, as usual. I can't focus for shit. This is probably why I can't put together a sensical post. My head is starting to hurt. I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a glass of milk and a few Peanut Butter Creme Oreos. Don't fucking judge me.

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Thirty and flirty and... oh, who am I kidding?

I swear, my main mission for the day was two-fold: get through work without killing anyone, and ending my evening watching 13 Going On 30, because, well, dammit, the day's here, and I owe it to myself. I also miss seeing La Garfleck on my tele on a regular basis, but that's neither here nor there.


Oh, come on. You know you miss them.

Alas, things didn't pan out exactly the way I had hoped. I did manage to complete my workday sans casualties, but I didn't have the time to watch La Garfleck "spectacularrrr" (imagine Uncle Jimbo from South Park during the episode when he went to Mexico with Ned to get illegal fireworks, and you've got it). Oh, well.

I did, however, manage to have a great dinner whilst sitting in a booth behind who had to be the strangest couple I have ever witnessed eating together (ever), and across from a booth occupied by what I could only conclude was a rehearsal for one of those "real-life" dining scenes on Laguna Beach.

It did get weird, however, when Mr. Pretentious (half of the Strangest Eating Team Ever power-couple) started to talk louder, thus drawing the attention of the LBers. This somehow encouraged him and he started what I guess was his style of flirting, which consisted of him getting even louder and having his two-person conversation heard by the whole restaurant, along with openly mocking the LB Rehearsal Girls. The two LBers (and the rest of the joint) grew increasingly uncomfortable, while I was just glad Ben and I were sitting behind the guy, so he couldn't really turn around and engage us in his general dickery.

Did I neglect to mention that when the Eating Team got up in the middle of their meal to burn one, it was only then that I noticed that Mr. Pretentious looked to be as tall as Danny Devito, and his female counterpart was a fucking Amazon? Sorry I forgot. But enough of my Birthday Dinner Theater.

So, this is thirty. Not much different from twenty-nine, except I referred to myself as thirty today, and the reality of those words coming out of my mouth somehow startled me. I'm not sure why.

As long as I keep getting carded for R-rated movies, however, I think I'm good.

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"But where is this all leading? We'll never know."

Yeah, I'm thinking of doing the lyrical blog title thing again. Humor me.

I have to share something really quick before I feast on a dinner of potato chips and onion dip something random from the fridge.

There are many reasons my brother, the Sideshow, is the bomb, not the least of which is his ability to suck down large portions of food at an impressive rate, then bitch about how he doesn't feel that good an hour or so later. But right now, I am briefly going to talk about one reason in particular.

I was on my second break of the workday this afternoon, when I decided to pop in on said broseph in his office. We chit-chatted for a few moments while I worked up a plan of how to tell him about my minty-fresh new boyfriend (still feels strange typing/saying/thinking that word, but in a good way). Eventually, after he showed me the pictures of young Alex dressing up as a Reaver for Halloween (that kid kicks my ass!), the following occurred:

Me: Yeah, I need to tell you something.
He: What?
Me: Well, uh, I have a boyfriend.
He: Yeah? Who?
Me: My friend Ben.
He: Really? (holds out his fist for me to bump with my fist, which I do). Cool.

I exhaled.

Then we continued to pore over the pictures he was loading onto his website.

It's just a testament to how awesome my bro is. Given my history of being quite overprotective of him, and being quite vocal in my opinions of the women he has dated, I was unsure whether I should brace myself for similar treatment.

Luckily, there isn't anything about Ben that warrants that treatment (I am quite confident that he is exponentially more sane than some of the chestnuts Sideshow used to bring by for the family to meet, which, whew. Relief!) My bro didn't jump on my ass about anything; he just gave me what is his Sideshow equivalent of a celebratory hug, then gave me some advice on how to break the news to the folks.

Which, strangely enough, was exactly what I needed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go brush up on the list of Hoff Rules.

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