So, I remember now that beef stroganoff is on my No Fly List of foods. Only thing is: I remembered it a regrettable hour after the fact, as I was buckling down on the can, using the five-point harness to avoid being launched into the stratosphere by my own ass. I really hate my ass sometimes. I mean, really hate. Like, Hitler hate. Like, Michael Bay hate. Real, terrific vitriol over here, kids. But the damn thing follows me wherever I go and there's no escaping it. Is there such a thing as an ass-ectomy? Maybe I should just have the thing removed.
...
It's 12:37 and I don't want to go to bed because tomorrow I gotta get up. And do all of this shit over again. The job hunt. The holding my breath for a rejection that I know is coming. The waiting for responses that may have never been emailed. The utterly deep, soulful fatigue. The realization that I'm now one day closer to my third arriving and I'm still not ready for her to be here. Not yet. Not now, anyhow.
...
I guess I'll shut down for the night and build that glass house of hope while I sleep ... and try and figure out which institution will lob rocks at me come sunrise. |
You know that girl you met? She was perfect for you. Not perfect. But perfect for you. You like lots of the same stuff, have common interests. She's goofy when needs be, serious when the situation calls for it. And she keeps you on your toes. But in a good way; not the I'm Picky About Everything You Do, way.
And then, inexplicably, she passes you over for someone else. A kind note and a "have a good life," and she's gone.
Yeah, it's just like that.
Except it wasn't a girl.
It was a job. The interview was spot on. The position was perfect. A work-from-home gig that paid enough and solved 99% of my problems. And ... no dice. I just got the word.
To say I'm crushed (yet again) is a little obvious.
Not sure how many more of these I can take. I guess as many as I have to. Or until I keel over from sheer disappointment.
I'm sure there have been worse points in my life, but from Dec. 5 of last year, it's been nothing but a 7-month shit fest. And I'm getting real goddamn tired of it.
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My cousin Kate got married this past weekend. She was a beautiful bride and everything (parties, receptions, ceremonies) were fantastic. I only spoke, in passing, to the groom--but he seemed like a nice enough guy. And Kate likes him, so that's enough for me. The food kicked many asses, in a good way. It very well might be the best wedding food I've ever had. (Of course, this was the only wedding I've been sober at in years, due to daddy responsibilities the next day, so that might have something to do with it. I don't even remember what was served at mine or my brother's.) I don't get to see my extended family nearly as much as I'd like to, but it's always great to see everyone. I've got, like, 20 bazzillion cousins, of which I'm the second oldest. It's odd for me to see some of them with beers in their hands, because I remember many of them when they were in diapers. With beers. (No joke: One 4th of July my baby cousin Joe was found sucking on the keg tap.)
I bought a new belt today. My waistline changed in the past few weeks/months in a positive direction. (I was on the tightest notch on the old belt, and it was falling apart.) I was tired of showing my asscrack in public, even though the hoots and hollars were spiritually uplifting. The trouser hatches have been battened down and my pants are now seaworthy.
Abby's done with school, as of last Friday, so I'm Mr. Mom all day, every day with her. Autumn still goes to school 1/2 time, three days a week. Kerri's gone for 12 or more hours, 5 to 7 days out of the week, working her little bottom off at the hospital before she graduates in August. To say I'm proud of her is an understatement. She manages me (a full-time job, no doubt), kids, a pregnant belly, and a frustratlingly stupid faculty. Her sainthood, I'm sure, is forthcoming.
Today, I got a call back for a part-time job and an email back for a full-time job. I'm not holding my breath for either, given the track record I've had 'lo these past six months. Either would be fine, though, at this point. I guess I'll do a phone interview with both this week and see what's what.
I've been sorely tempted to actual write down the story that's been in my head for months and months now. I recently unearthed some quirks/abnormalities about my heroine and hero, and I quite like them. Every night as I lay my head down on the pillow I seem to be narrating more of the story in my head, working out scenes, before I drift off. If I was a more dedicated writer, I'd be getting up and scribbling it all down. But I seem to be remembering all the important stuff still by morning and I think I have the skeleton of the bitch all laid out. (She has a hunchback, he has an overly large tumor on the left side of his chest.) Part of me is lazy and part of me is scared. Settling down to write, after so long an absence, is ... well, it's like going to the gym after becoming a fat slob. It's hard work. It's endurance running. And these days it seems I have a hard enough time just getting through the days, trying to find work and being a semi-servicible parent, without breaking down from the stress. But it might be one of the few things that saves me. In the past, when I had a job I didn't like, it didn't matter, because it wasn't who I was: I was always really a writer. The daytime stuff was irrelevant other than a means to an end. But at some point, not producing and not selling, and not working the craft over like a speed bag, learning how to use the different tools of the trade ... I realized I was (am?) becoming the 50-year-old waitress who says, "Actually, I'm an actress." And yet, you know she's not.
A mad shoutout needs to be slung over to a buddy of mine who's been hooking me up with freelance work since January. It's not enough to support a family, but it a) keeps me from going insane and playing with my toes, and b) stems the flow of cash from my savings account. Matt, you are the little dutch boy standing at the dike of my bank account. Bless you and your tiny, soft fingers. (Also, you look quite fetching in those Euro-shorts.)
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Autumn, dutiful daughter that she is, is doing her best to help out the family finances. Kerri picked her up from daycare today and she (Autumn) had found a 100 rupee (Indian) note. (Not to be confused with the Pakistani, Nepalese, Sri Lankan, Indonesian, or Maldivian rupee.)
It's got Ben Kingsley on it and everything.  See for yourself:
...
Damn.
I just did the currency conversion and it turns out we're not as rich as I'd thought. Before paying the bank to exchange the currency, it's worth about $2.12 U.S.
Another dozen or so of those and I can buy some tandoori chicken.
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The best news I've heard all year:
Chuck's getting 13 more episodes in the fall!
This is, far and away, the best show on television. I'm sooo happy it's coming back!
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I forgot to share this from last week; filed under Kids Say The Darndest Things.
Abigail's class huddled and came up with a giant-sized list of boys names and girls names, broken out into columns. Kerri and I were scanning the list when Abby brought it home, then stopped short when we both read, "Mudbutt."
I can't believe a kid came up with Mudbutt.
I can't believe the teacher wrote down Mudbutt.
Kerri and I agreed, totally, that we would've used that name. Alas, though, it was in the "boys" column, and since we're clearly having a girl, I guess some other lucky family will have to abscond with that name.
"Mudbutt Murphy" does have a certain ring to it, though. I won't lie.
EDIT: Kerri informs me that the name was "Mudbud," not "Mudbutt." I attribute this to me only glancing at the page AND, I think, miscommunication between the children and the teacher. Clearly, "Mudbutt" was implied. Damn Kerri and her attention to detail!
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I can't believe I'm the father of a 6 year old. (And a 3 year old and a negative 6 month old!)
I'm feeling old.
Thanks for letting me play with your Star Wars LEGOs, sweetie. That Darth Vader TIE fighter is awesome. |
Or, maybe it's just my seasonal allergies acting up.
My biggest fear in all this crazy H1N1 brouhaha, however, is that people are irrationally slaughtering pigs, not for meat, but to dispose of the potential disease vectors.
And friends, I say this to you now: Wasting bacon is wasting life.
If there's a run on bacon, someone's going to be sorry. I can't be spending no $45 on a bacon cheeseburger just to slake my bacon thirst. |
I have been to hell. And survived.
We had a birthday party for Abigail on Saturday. Seven 6-year-olds, all having fun. Only Kerri and I stood the line between order and chaos. Salvation and destruction.
Generally speaking, they were all good kids. But ... there were just so many of them.
This will be my life, three times a year. May, August (September?) and November for the next 10 to 15 years.
I have been to hell. And survived.
And I'll eventually have to go back. |
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