Fucking Crickets

September 7th, 2004

(As I am still trying to beat Blogger into submission, here are links to my last two entries:Babies Send in the Clowns)

While lying (laying, whatever grammar nazis) in bed this evening with Tony, I heard a noise. You know it, the sound of a cricket chirping its’ ass off. I figured it was outside since my head was about 2 feet from the window.

No problem, outside is their domain. They can have the woods and the grass and the trees, I have the house. Eventually, even I couldn’t remain slothful so I drug myself out of bed to do something or the other. As I opened the bedroom door, I heard it.

That son-0f-a-bitch was not outside. Oh, no, as the opening in the doorway became larger, the sound became louder and louder.

There was a fucking cricket in my house. Now, I’m not afraid of them, they don’t bite or sting, they just make me want to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “la la la la la, I can’t hear you” like I’m a four year old parent abusing child.

I crept down the hallway, very slowly in hopes of figuring out where that dastardly noise was coming from. Aha! The green menace was in the bathroom.

I stepped into the bathroom, flipped on the light.

Chirp! Chirp!

It wasn’t coming from the bathroom. That bastard was in the kitchen. I moved as stealthily as a fat, gimpy woman can, down the hall, towards the kitchen. I was so quiet that I could hear the little bastard breathing.

Until, I actually stepped in the kitchen.

Nothing. Not a sound could be heard in the entire house. The fucker is playing with me.

I went about my business, shuffling about in hopes that the cricket would start again so I could hunt it down and send it outside. My tasks finished, I headed back towards the bedroom.

Step, step, clunk, step, step, clunk.

As I stepped past the bathroom.

Chirp! Chirp!

The little bastard started again. And, now it sounded like he was in the living room. I flipped around, waving my cane like a samurai sword and headed back to finish him off.

As the doorjam between the kitchen and living room met my foot, it got quiet. He could sense my presence. I stood still, not even daring to breath in hopes of throwing the cricket off.

Nothing.

Back down the hall towards the bedroom I clumped again. Fuck it! It’s just a cricket, I can ignore it.

No more had my ass hit my chair that I heard a roar of a chirp from somewhere else in the house. I have gone back with the broom poking into corners. I flipped on lights, sat as still as a mouse.

The menace is nowhere to be found. I know he’s there. I can hear him right now, above the sound of the computer and air conditioner. Yet, I know as soon as I head out to find it, the sound will cease.

I have not conceded defeat. Oh, no. I will win. As God as my witness, I will not allow a creature that weighs less than an ounce and is less than an inch in length (unless this is some gigantic cricket-like creature) beat me. I will win.

And, when I do, you will hear my victory song no matter where you are. I will be victorious!

Or, I’ll buy ear plugs and learn to live like that for the next 3 months.

-

Send in the Clowns…

September 4th, 2004

My parents are evil. No, hear me out before you think it’s the typical whining. Let me set the stage for you:

My Mom was 17 when I was born, Dad was 21. I was a doted on, spoiled child. They took me everywhere with them. I was a lucky little girl.

When I was just a couple of years old, before any of my siblings were even born, my parents took me to a parade. I don’t know how many of you remember circus parades but, I do. When the circus came to town they would have a huge parade with elephants, acrobats, lions, dancing girls, and clowns.

And, we would go to the parades. Mom, Dad, and little tiny Suzy. This time, the one of which I am speaking of, it was still cold in Niagara Falls. The parents still wanted to go to see the circus parade, so they packed the three of us into the car and headed to the parade route.

We sat on the side of the road, me in the middle of them, watching the animals roar or giggle or whatever that certain type of animal did.

“Elephant, Mama.”

“Pretty Lady, Daddy.”

Ohhs, and ahhs abounded from my little 2 year old self, I mean this was big stuff there were women in beautiful, flowing dresses, men in sparkly outfits, animals as far as the eyes could see.

I was enthralled. I clapped and hoorayed. My little 2 year old self, blond haired, green eyed and just bubbly as small children are. I jumped from Mom to Dad and back again overflowing with excitement at the wonder that was in front of me.

Then, then, I screamed. An earth shattering, blood curdling, that child is being hurt horribly scream. I jump from Daddy’s lap across the car, begging Mom to save me.

In the window of the car, talking to me, was this giant, horrific, huge lipped, happy faced, pale as the dead, clown.

Y’all, I lost my shit over a clown. I screamed, I cried, I begged them to take me out of there. The clown beat feet the hell out of there, back to the street, surely to relive the horror of making a 2 year old shiver in fear over and over again.

My parents, loving parents that they are, calmed me down, got me a drink, assured me I would be fine.

Then, those bastards, drove to the END OF THE PARADE ROUTE. They parked again and waited. The animals, oh, the people, the sparkley clothes. I was happy again.

“Elephant, Mama.”

“Pretty Lady, Daddy.”

I was not aware of the impending doom. They had saved me from the grease painted being. I clapped and ahhed and ohhed.

Until, around the corner came a bright wig. No biggie, look at the bear, Mama.

My Daddy (that traitor) motioned someone towards the car. I paid no attention there were twirling women to be seen. I grinned and clapped, then looked over to my Daddy.

The fucking clown was back. My parents, the ones who had vowed to protect me from all pain and harm they could, had set me up. Those bastards had taken me around to see the horrible thing again.

I screamed bloody murder and threw myself to the floor. This scream (so I’m told) could be heard all the way in Virginia where my Granny and Papa lived. I freaked out.

And, they, my loving parents LAUGHED. Instead of comforting me, they guffawed until tears were streaming down their faces. Unalduterated glee filled their eyes as they rolled on the ground, holding their sides in pain from the laughter.

Now, obviously, I don’t conciously remember this. I’ve heard the story time and again as they get some hideous evil glee at sharing my pain with anyone who will listen.

The torture has not stopped since that day. On our wedding day, following our reception when Tony opened the door for me to settle into the passenger seat as we left, there was a clown doll in the passenger seat. One with curly hair that looked like me.

In the driver’s seat was another clown doll, with long brown hair. Across the backseat (belted in!) were 4 slightly smaller clown dolls. All of them handmade with loving care by my Aunt Rosie.

I was 23 when I got married, 21 years after my freakout of that hideous creature they were still torturing me with them. On my wedding day, y’all, my wedding day. When we got to the hotel where we were staying for our wedding night, Tony walked me to the back of the car so I could see what was hanging off the back of the car.

Not beer cans, oh no, there were fucking clown heads! Little plastic clown heads, damnit. I’ll never hear the end of this, never. I’m 29 and they still pick on me about this.

I mean come on, I may have gotten over it, had they just let me be scared one time. But, no, not my parents, they had to let me see the clown again so they could laugh their asses off at me.

Fucking clowns.

-

SnobbyWhoreCon

September 2nd, 2004

Oh, yes, SnobbyWhoreCondotcom is now open for your viewing pleasure. Keli, of Perpeptual Blonde made the above graphic.

You can go here to register and login here to post.

Anyone can join the portal unless you’re an assmunch, which, really you know if you’re an assmunch.

-

Babies, real and imagined…

August 31st, 2004

This is Tre`, my darling just turned one year old nephew. He and I spend our days together while his parents work.

I love this little fellow as if he were my own child. Every day with him is wonderful, even when he’s having a rough day, like when he’s teething (two teeth to date) or sick or just clingy and refusing to allow me out of his sight.



Today was a clingy day. Hold me, love me, give me lots of kisses. When he kisses, he scrunches up his little face and purses his lips. You can not refuse him as it is just too adorable. This morning, I received approximately 100 kisses as he was in a kissy mood.

Postnap doldrums. After he woke up, I attacked with the camera. Unfortunately if I don’t use the red eye flash his little blue eyes turn demonic. He hates the flash, makes mean faces, and will growl at me when he’s fed up with it.

I don’t mind as he’s so photogenic, even when he’s tired. And, really who wouldn’t want to capture every moment of a child this beautiful.



Tre` and his bottle. He loves that damn thing. When you bring it to him, all full of milk, he claps for it.

Hell, when you enter a room he applauds. That really makes a person feel loved. I mean damn, he is so happy to see you he bounces up and down and claps.

Other cute things he does:

He dances. When the song “Save a Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” by Big and Rich comes on the television he stops in the middle of whatever he is doing goes to the tv and boogies. If I happen to play the CD (Horse of a Different Color, buy it) he looks at the TV for the video.

Tre`’s dance moves consist of bending his knees, bouncing up and down or stomping his feet. This evening he was squatting and bouncing with glee to Big and Rich and Gretchen Wilson (Here for the Party, buy it.)

I’m writing about him here for me. I want to remember some of these cute things he does in the years as he grows.

Mom has a bookshelf that has a bunch of stuffed animals which happen to be frogs on it. Now, this shelf is the perfect height for a baby. As soon as he gets here in the morning, he rampages the frogs and throws them to the floor. No matter how many times you put them up on the shelf, he knocks them down.

He doesn’t do it with malice but, with reason. Frogs belong on the floor with the rest of the toys.

Speaking of toys, he is the only 1 year old I have ever seen who will play by himself. He goes to his toybox pulls out his toys and plays. Cars race, babies are cuddled, blocks are gnawed on and examined.

He’ll sit there alone for long periods of time, then run up to me with his little arms raised for a cuddle and a kiss. He doesn’t stay in my lap for long, as soon as he’s ready he wiggles down and goes back to his play.

When he’s tired, he whines a little bit, and stumbles to you. I still rock him down, as there is nothing better on this earth than holding a tiny, sleepy baby who loves you.

There are times when he is asleep and I’m looking down at that angelic little face that I just smile. He is just a beautiful child and has such a sweet disposition.

I thank God, every day for bringing my niece, nephews, and friends’ children into my life. I love kids more than I can even explain here. I don’t have any of my own and I will never have a biological child here on earth.

I used to write about my infertility, a lot. I had numerous readers who were here mainly for that. Due to various reasons I don’t discuss it as much. It’s been 7 years since we started trying for a child. It isn’t happening.

We’re not ready, financially, or otherwise, to start the adoption process, and we may never be. At times I dream of a little girl. One with straight dark hair and a darker skin tone than my husband or I. It is always the same little girl.

Who knows if this will ever come true. For now, I love the children that are in my life, helping their parents, as I can, with them. The past 5.5 years since I became disabled have been a blessing and a curse.

The loss of my ability to work outside the home cost us a lot. Our home, our independence, just a place to call our own. But, the disability allowed me to take care of my niece, Kyrsie for several years, and now Tre`.

When Kyrsie went into daycare, it crushed me. I cried for a week. When it is time for Tre` to move on to a preschool setting, or Tony and I move, I’ll go through the same thing. He is part of my heart. I cherish every moment. Well, almost every the days when he is sick and miserable aren’t the greatest.

I know these are stolen moments, moments his parents should be having but, I am grateful to them. I get to take care of a child even though my body won’t allow me to have one of my own.

In my dream world, I’m a Mom of 3. 2 girls, 1 little boy. The above mentioned little girl, 1 who is pale and red haired, and a little boy who remains foggy. In my dreams, I’m not sitting here writing about my lack of children, but, holding my own. I’m rocking my little baby in a nursery decorated in bright colors with stars stenciled to the walls.

In my dream world, I’m not disabled. I never started down this path. But, if my dream world were to come true, I wouldn’t have spent all these years with Kyrsie and Tre`.

And, I’m not sure I could give that up. They are real and here and I can hug them and kiss them. They are known quantities.

My dream children are just that, dreams.

-

Finishing up JournalCon…

August 29th, 2004

First of before I even get into this entry. If you are one of those fundamentalist wierdos who feels the need to tell others how to live thier lives? Go away. Don’t leave a comment, don’t email me, don’t fucking bug me. Especially when you write on your site about how God will give you gills to swim, then they turn into lungs on land. I believe in God but, if he really wanted to help me I wouldn’t be disabled, broke, and unable to actually see a doctor to help me.

Be gone with you, you zealot.

Ahem, as I was saying. Part OnePart TwoPictures

After the end of the first session we met up with a bunch from The Usual Suspects for lunch. A couple blocks away from the Helix was this small, rundown looking restaurant called Ila Bella (or something similar.) Now, Tony and I are not all that adventerous when it comes to food. We had never eaten at an Ethiopian restaurant before.

Nor, did we know what to expect. Well, I knew about the eating with your fingers bit. The menu went into great detail about each dish. Which is a good thing as I was worried about my allergies (Even though, Karen had checked them out, I’m a worrier, it is my nature and really I can’t help it.) It wasn’t until the ride home on Sunday that I realized obviously Ethiopian food wouldn’t involve seafood or mushrooms. I mean, duh, in a country that has had massive years of drought, where the hell would it come from?

Hey, I never said I was the brightest crayon in the box. I ate lamb something or other and we talked with those close to us. The lamb? Oh my, just thinking about it makes me want to drive to DC to eat that one dish again and again. It was just fabulous.

I had to leave the group to prepare for my panel with Jen, Weetabix, and Mo. Now, these three women are rock stars. I couldn’t have asked for a better group to work with. I mean, hell, I did ask them. But, really they carried the panel. I don’t think any of the JournalCon committee actually made it into the panel, which is a disappointment as I was hoping for their feedback. Everyone there seemed to enjoy the panel and the mimosas, which I heard were good but, I do not do champagne so I left them for everyone else.

Mo, Jen, and Weetabix, I need your addresses as I would like to send you all something to thank you. I thought the committee would do that but, who knows? Email me.

The rest of the day was a blur. The sex panel was interesting, we had a little while to relax before dinner but, not nearly long enough. We met up with 3WAers at RFD. RFD has their address wrong on their website but, the cab driver found it for us. Even though he overcharged us, it was worth it. (You think he could tell we were tourists? Duh).

After dinner came the cab ride from hell. Now, this driver was seemingly nice, but, dude when you have to turn the wheel half way around, constantly, to just keep the damn car going straight? You need to get your steering fixed. On top of that he proceeded to cut off every car in sight and drive about 20 miles an hour above the speed limit.

Now, I’m a control freak, I do not like to ride with others driving in the first place, that nearly sent me over the edge. I maintained, we got to where Karaoke (yes, the infamous Karanoke) was supposed to be held.

Here is where things went to shit. Now, I had constantly reminded people that things had to be accessible. I’m a gimp. I’m on a cane or in a wheelchair. That’s my life. I know this and I also know that most people never even think about that unless it is part of their life.

Well, I knew from when the initial discussion for this year’s JournalCon came up that I would be in attendance and that so would others who have mobility issues at times.

The bar we were at? Not only inacessible but, it had a large flight of stairs up to it. I came so close to just bursting into tears. And, really as I’m sitting here now, they are burning the back of my eyes.

All this time, all the money, all the anticipation and another fucking obstacle thrown in my path. The Helix was barely accessible, without Tony I would have been in a world of hurt. There was no way he could carry my big ass up that many stairs.

But, I refused to give in. By using my arms and my good leg, I made it up stairs. I hurt, good God, it hurt so fucking bad. I’m stupid though and refused to show how much pain I was in. I collapsed into my chair and just looked at Tony. He knew I was hurting but, also knew how much this weekend meant to me.

I had a couple drinks, talked to a few people but, really I was done for. I was trying to enjoy myself but, I hurt, the music was too loud, the bartender was just fucking bitchy, the alcohol was bad (hello, I drink cheap vodka, the vodka at this bar tasted like rubbing alcohol), there was no karaoke, and I knew that to escape this place I had to go back down the stairs.

Again, on my arms and my good leg, I hobbled back down the stairs, collapsed in my chair and we went back to our room. A couple people had given me their room numbers but, I just couldn’t do it. I was tired, I hurt, and I just wanted to be left alone.

And, now I really feel like shit as I really do like Kalamity, Russiagirl, and Booger but, the bar situation just sucked. If you are ever planning on hosting JournalCon, or hell anything like this, please go to the places you have talked to, make sure they are accessible. Don’t take their word for it. This is the second internet gathering (RABcon was the first, fucking hotel owners that lie) I have gone to, where the organizers have been lied to about accessiblity. In fact, this is the reason, I haven’t met more people that from online. I can’t take the chance of driving for a couple hours than not being able to actually get into the joint. JournalCon was the last time I’m risking something like that. If it is not accessible I will not go in, fuck it, I’ll go back to the hotel and party with others.

Okay, I’m down with the whining. Sunday morning was good, I attended the invited readings, read an old entry of mine (that you can find here), listened to some other wonderful entries, then went to the parenting in the online world panel. Rob, Erin, and Whitney did a hell of a job on their panel but, I felt odd as the only nonparent there. And, I had to miss the redesign panel so, I didn’t get a Hussified.com koozie, that really makes me sad as, I just adore Coleen.

After the panels were done, everyone was wandering off, I got to talk to Kat for a few more minutes as we waited for our lunch group to get it together. Kat has the sweetest voice and she’s just really incredibly nice. Not to mention how gorgeous she is. Eventually our group got it together and we wandered the streets of DC looking for a place to eat lunch.

We stumbled into the Filibuster grill where we got the worst service, a clueless waiter, and a staff that took 30 minutes to figure out how to split our check up. But, I got to meet several people that I had been wanting to meet. The list is up over here.

Following lunch, we got the hell out of dodge, heading home to VA in a round about manner due to bad directions (again, the evil mapquest) and 95 being like a parking lot.

Would I go to JournalCon, again? Yep. Other than the bar, I enjoyed myself. And, the people I got to talk to at the bar (Sassy, Sockgirlie, Chickie, Shmuel, etc. etc.) made it worthwhile. What would I do differently?

– Panels aren’t the end all, be all. Next time, I will spend more time talking to people less time at panels.

– Room parties. Fuck the bar, I’m getting a suite and drinking with as many people as I can fit in my room (or taking people up on the offer to go to their rooms.)

– No more Mapquest. They fucking suck.

– If it isn’t accessible, it isn’t worth it.

– Sleeping pills, take some.

– The people are what makes the weekend worthwhile.

-