And this, dear readers, is what we call...

My 400th post here in the B-World Blog. Holy crap.

It's taken me almost four years to get here. That's four hurricanes, four digital cameras, three jobs, three Gator National Championship titles, countless threats of bitchslapping, $240 worth of pudding, one amazing fiance, and one timeless joke about the Greek Army, to get to right here, right now. Yikes.

The irony of me going through yet another one of my fabulous writer's-block-it's-just-a-dry-spell-no-inspiration-to-be-had-bullshit episodes is not lost on me, friends.

I try to think about why I've been so neglectful of writing here. Someone told me once that sometimes you stop writing in your blog or your journal because things are going so well that you don't have anything to write about. I don't know if I agree with that. Sure, I've been known to fire off a missive when I'm feeling particularly riled about something, or when I feel the intense need to over-share. Sometimes, absolutely small, crazy, and wonderful things happen, and I want to write about those, too.

But I don't.

Then I peek at all those wonderful blog writers who have allowed me to come into their world for a few brief moments every so often, whose voices I can hear in my head when I see their written words, and I'm so inspired!

Then I don't do shit.

On the plus side, things are going pretty well.

Work has been very calm the past couple of months, since the ouster of our biggest "issue" here. Wedding plans are chugging along, and I am just pretty much telling my mom to get all crazygonuts if she wants, but I am still keeping final word on certain things. The stress is just not worth it, and heck, I think it gives her joy to be doing this.

Maybe it's true: I can't write because there's nothing for me to bitch about.

Or I just haven't figured out how to highlight the good stuff, to write about it in a way that truly conveys what's going on, and have it make sense.

Any suggestions on how to do that?

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Waylaid by bronchitis... Again.

We're rounding out Week Two of this season's epic battle with bronchitis (I actually went home early yesterday and proceeded to spend much of last night coughing, which resulted in my waking up this morning with my well-hidden abdominal muscles afire). I elected to stay home today, where much of my schedule was as follows:

1.) Take medicine.
2.) Sleep.
3.) Become conscious enough to realize I cannot breathe out of one side of my head.
4.) In state of half-consciousness, turn over.
5.) Sleep.
6.) Get awakened by my mother with things she's "heard" from other people, or ideas she's gotten from extensive internal reviews of previous weddings she's attended.
7.) In state of half-consciousness, agree with whatever she says (upon further review, this may come back to bite me huge).
8.) Bolt upright in bed and proceed to actually listen to whatever she's saying.
9.) Fall asleep sitting upright, because, surprisingly enough, this is the only way I can guarantee breathing from both sides of my face.

And so on.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go repeat steps 1-5 now.

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Another gem from my mother.

Despite the fact that in the past six days, any and all talk of wedding planning has made me want to commit "quality matricide," as Buffy would put it, I have to share just a small thing before I retire for the evening.

Moments ago, I asked my mom what the heck she was still doing up at this hour. She then dutifully informed me that she was watching America's Best Dance Crew. An entire episode. And she had opinions on each crew competing!

"I don't understand why they call them 'dance crews,'" she said. "It's more like calisthenics!"

Oh, the whole thing was too cute; I just had to enjoy.

So kudos to Perla for her cultural immersion! Too bad she'll probably start talking politics to piss me off next.

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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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Excuses.

Oddly enough, I don't have any really good ones for being absent so long (yet again)... I thought of perhaps taking the stance that my web silence was in quiet support of the striking writers; but we all know that one has absolutely nothing to do with the other, and it would also mean I'm taking my verbal shenanigans way too seriously. So, out of respect for striking writers, I will not use them as my convenient excuse for blog slacking.


Again, they have nothing to do with my laziness.

Instead, I shall explain away my lack of blog effort on footbaw(!), work, family, my new mp3 player, and life in general.


Me, as recently as four hours ago.

Now that I have established myself in an office almost all my own (I share with one of the doctors two days a week), I may be able to sneak in a post once in a while, assuming the mood strikes.

For now, I'm off to have my fourth can of Sprite Zero since I got here this morning. It's like Hades in here.

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Reason #74 Why I Love My Little Sister.

Amongst other things, it's the text message I received from her at 11:15 this evening:

Ha ha. Duke can kiss my ass!

Weird thing is, I was thinking the exact same thing at that very moment.

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Tube tops and the Nativity.

And so, we conclude yet another Christmas Holiday with my family, complete with all the ensuing drama that comes with shopping like an idiot, encountering relatives and other people you don't see all year who routinely question your sexuality and/or your ability to produce viable grandchildren, and shoveling food into your face until you've gotten way past critical mass.

Makes me long for the days of yore when I had nothing to do but watch Alias DVDs and play online games.

APO members who play online poker together...

Or, I can watch them playing online games on the Alias DVDs. Whatever. My collection still lacks seasons 4 and 5, so I'm still S.O.L. anyway. Sigh.

Anyway, back to the holiday and the dreaded Holiday Party from Hell.

Every year, my next door neighbors throw this shindig. This family is originally from Canada, and moved down here permanently the same year we did. Coincidentally, the husband is the brother of the woman we bought our house from, who, not so coincidentally, is a classmate of my mother's from nursing school in the Philippines. Every time someone explains this scenario, I want to blurt out, "What does that make us? Absolutely nothing!"


Me, left, with my neighbor at this year's party.

Okay, I'm back.

So, I have traditionally hated going to this thing. Mostly, because their kids went to Florida State, and for every year during my college and grad school careers, I got nothing but shit from their kids about Florida, whether we beat them that year or not. During the ensuing years, I got less shit about going to Florida from the kids and more shit from the elders about whether or not I was happy with my job, and when I was going to give my parents grandchildren. This last one they spring alternately on my brother or me, whoever they happen to catch first.

This year, after my father pulled his infamous "disappear into the mist/back to our house to watch football" trick (that bugger is amazing; I don't know how he does it and stays under the radar), I sensed the interrogation would start soon after all the baby carrying and coddling that was going on. After just about having my fill of the holiday spirit, I bugged out of there graciously.

I would later find out that soon after my exit, they got to my brother, who was given the option of either getting together with some random girl there who I remember as annoying as shit when we were in high school together, or with the single mom in the tube top and jeans who brought her kid, who looked to be about twenty-two years old. The Old Sideshow politely declined both tantalizing offers.

Christ, we have to get better neighbors.

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