Snippet From My Day #8

He loves lemon rice soup and orders it anytime we eat at Paragon; today was no exception. The waitress returned with his soup and plunked it down in front of him while he was preparing his coffee. She turned to me for my order.

Waitress: What'll it be?

Me: I'll have the melting pot skillet, but could you replace the American cheese with mozzarella?

I hate American cheese.

Waitress: Sure can! How do you take your eggs?

Me: Scrambled.

Waitress: Toast?

Me: Wheat, buttered.

She turned to Jim for his order, and for once, he was the one scouring the menu with indecision. He flapped his sugar packets back and forth, forcing their contents to the other end of the tiny envelope they dwell in, and made his decision.

Jim: I'll have the Confederate skillet.

Waitress: How do you take your eggs?

He tore open the sugar packets, completely bypassed his coffee and upended them directly into his soup. Without missing a beat, he nonchalantly began scooping ruined soup out of his bowl onto its accompanying saucer.

Jim: Uh, scrambled. Rye toast, buttered.

I blinked at him. Was he trying to play this off?!

Me: Did you just dump sugar in your soup?!

He glared at me.

Jim: Yes. Yes, I did.

Waitress: Oh, I'll get you another bowl! You can't eat that one, it won't taste right!

Jim: . . . thanks.

He looked like he wanted to crawl into a crack in his vinyl booth seat. I snickered at his discomfiture- this is the sort of gracelessness he usually gives me shit for. The waitress departed to retrieve his cup of do-over.

Me: I'm telling everyone. I'm sending a mass text right. now.

He whipped out his phone and waved it menacingly at me.

Jim: I'll text first and tell everyone you did it. You know they'll believe me, and your text will just make you look bitter.

It was true. Everyone would believe him, and to make matters worse, he texts much faster than I do. Reluctantly, I lowered my weapon, and he resheathed his. But that's alright, I have a secret weapon he has no defense against: a blog.

Jesus May Or May Not Be The Reason For The Season, But. . .

I was out yesterday, shopping for Christmas cards. I LOVE sending Christmas cards! It usually takes me several days of careful shopping and comparisons involving pictures of packages taken with my cell phone, labeled with the store I found the contender for the title of Christie's Christmas Card of the Year; and possibly stashing a contender in an unrelated department (if it happens to be the last of the package) while I take my time deciding if it'll make the leap from Runner Up to First Place. Once I decide, I buy pens with ink that match the card, and I buy envelope sealers that complement the card inside, and I even get complimenting address labels.

Yup, I'm obsessive about sending the perfect Christmas card.

Here are several criteria a package of cards must meet in order to be considered worthy of the 44 cent badge it'll eventually wear on its way to my loved ones:

* Size matters! I don't usually have a whole lot to say in my cards (hard to believe, right?), and nothing emphasizes that lack like a big ole card full of unused writing space. That's right, I like my cards small. So I'm looking for something around the size of a printed photo (what're those, 4 x 6?).

* The design must be simple; austere, even. I hate busy cards.

* The design can't feature anything religious. No manger scenes, no fish, no doves, no baby Jesuses, no wise men. . . you get the idea. Those usually fall under "busy" anyway.

* No funny! I've got nothing against funny cards. I like receiving them just fine, but for some reason, I just don't like buying or sending them.

* The message inside can't be religious. I'm not a religious person, and that just feels like hypocrisy.

* The message must be simple. Nobody reads all those lengthy, long-winded cards anyway. Let's face it- they're just looking for the check.

* The message MUST reference Christmas.

This last criterion's the meat and bones of the problem I encountered yesterday. I found lots of wishes for the happiness of the season, lots of season's greetings, stupid numbers of warm holiday wishes, various encouragements to enjoy the holiday season, happy holidayses, happy holiday seasonses, blah blah blah. Holidays, seasons, and holiday seasons, my friends! Very few cards outside the religious category actually said CHRISTMAS!

Now, I think I already mentioned that I am not a religious person, and yes, I'm well aware of the Christian connotation of the word "Christmas". But doesn't "Happy Holidays" just sound so dry and generic? And how many of us actually grew up saying "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings" to one another?! If there are any, I'm sure yall're in the minority; if one of my third grade class mates had said that shit to me, I'd have likely stuck a Kick Me sign on his/her back at the earliest opportunity. Say it out loud to someone today- I guarantee you'll feel and sound like a complete tool.

Most of us who celebrate December 25th grew up saying "Merry Christmas". So why is it slowly becoming more difficult to find a damn Christmas card that says Merry Christmas, and does NOT feature a manger scene or a lamb or a blue-cloaked lady holding a beatific baby? Let's hear it, Hallmark! I'm all ears!

99 Things

I haven't blogged in a bit, and I figured this would be a nice way to ease back into it. I found it on my dear, dear friend's blog, Amelioration. Check her out! You'll love her, i promise :)

So this is a list of 99 things that someone, somewhere came up with that they'd like to do over the course of their life. I need the motivation, and it was a nice trip down memory lane, too. My accomplishments are crossed out.


1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more to charity than you could afford to.
7. Been to Disney
8. climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a thunder and lightning storm
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch I'm working on crochet :D Fuck off, it IS an art.
15. Adopted a child My dog is my baby.
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the statue of liberty life
18. Grown your own vegetables I'm a home-owner. . . i should be doing this now.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train Chicago to Reno. Yeah!
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill Doing that today!
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language I learned German by playing with the neighborhood kids.
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the leaning tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing We didn't set out with the specific intention of rock climbing, but it ended up happening anyhow.
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David in person
41. Sung karaoke =/
42. Seen old faithful erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted Mum did mine and my sister's when we were little.
48. Gone deep-sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the great wall of china
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold girl scout cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Gotten flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Been sky diving
66. Visited a concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in times square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the changing of the guard in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle
79. Seen the grand canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on new year’s eve
86. Visited the white house
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Gotten a tattoo
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the great salt lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

There're quite a few things on this list that i have absolutely no interest in doing (like having or adopting a kid, or whale watching), but it's an interesting inventory of some stuff I've done. What've you done? Feel free to take the list, or just talk about one thing.

Risk

Jim: Omg, Angie thinks she can beat me at risk!

Me: I know, she told me :D

Jim: She'll be a quivering heap after the crushing beatdown she receives :P

Me: Lmao! Imma be the divisive force of shifting alliances. You'll both bow before my might.

Jim: Omg no you aren't, you're going to be Switzerland

Me: Or will I?!

Jim: Aieeeee, I'll go Kamchatka on you two!

Me: Oh, what ever! Imma be all terrorist on your ass when i take over Afghanistan and Irkutsk!

Jim: You guys are doomed. I'll sweep in from Asia.

Me: Pssh. Dream on, Genghis Kahn.

Jim: Haha, this should be fun :D

Me: Yer goin' down-down. In a lelliloorah.

Jim: I'll be your number one. With a bullet.

*cringe*

Dear Makers of Fat Girls' Clothing,

I'm not much of a shopper; jeans and tshirts comprise about 85% of my wardrobe, with the remaining 15% being undies, socks, pajama bottoms, and one skirt with dust so thick it'd be more like an excavation than merely taking it out of the closet.

But then my stepspawn went and decided to graduate after all, so I had to show up in something nice-ish. I knew this meant a shopping trip, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I mean, it's been years since last I set foot in an actual clothing store.

So five hours before he was due to fall asleep in front of the valedictorian giving a speech nobody would give a rat's ass about, I hit up a few purveyors of plus size clothing (yeah, yeah, lose weight blah blah blah. Shut up. I'm working on it, and I've got to wear something in the mean time). It was the most ghastly experience I've had in quite a long time, and not just because I dislike browsing around and trying on clothes. So I've put together a few questions and helpful hints for you of the Plus Size Clothing Industry:

* Who told you guys that us fat chicks want all of our shirts made out of t-shirt material?! Printed jersey shirts, floral jersey shirts, button down jersey shirts, "dressy" jersey shirts! I mean, a few of those shirts could've been really nice had they been made out of a nice linen or silk or satin. . or even burlap, for chrissakes. So helpful suggestion for the future: consider different fabrics when your instinct tells you your target demographic would just LOVE another chance at wearing quasi-tshirts.


* I saw some really cute blouses in the smaller sizes, and the same style of shirt was available in plus size. But somehow, you thought instead of that nice, tasteful solid colour with the embroidery around the neck and sleeves that we'd prefer huge flowers and paisleys and god-knows-what-else that was supposed to be. Newsflash! Busy print does NOT make us look thinner! It doesn't even distract from it. Nope, wearing it just makes a person think, "Oh, here comes another fat girl wearing a huge printed shirt. Who does she think she's trying to kid?! Floral prints don't hide a second chin!" Seriously, guys, fat girls have tasteful fashion sense, too. The only reason we wear that crap is it's the only thing we can find. So instead of splurging on a whole different fabric for fat girl shirts, just use the same stuff you used on the skinny girl shirt and make it bigger.


* With it being summer, it's hard as hell to find a shirt that isn't sleeveless. Why not throw a little sleeve on it? It doesn't have to be long, mind you, but you have to know that nobody wants to see these ham hock upper arms of mine. Provide them with a bit of cover-up, please! You can still be summery with a little sleeve. And the spaghetti straps? Come on. That's just uncalled for.

We'd like the opportunity to be just as cute wearing your clothing as that size 2 bitch shopping next to us while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing us with distaste. I hope you'll take these suggestions into consideration, and pass them on to the department most appropriate for effecting these tasteful changes. I'm not advocating completely doing away with the things you're making now! But with the addition of some alternatives, you'll find a wider variety of satisfied consumers, myself among them.

Christie Love.

*Insert Excuse Here*

Okie, seriously, I've been crazy-busy with trying to relocate a nuclear pharmacy (you have NO idea what kind of red tape that involves), my pottery class, my ceramics class, Mrs. C's blogging challenge (which is over, and I won *yay*), Weight Watchers, trying to get more exercise into my life, getting over being sick, and spending more time with my husband and my stepchild, who will be gone in another couple of months.

The end result of all this is I've got about five or six weeks worth of unread blogs, that I do have every intention of reading! It'll be slow, but I'll catch up.

Then my next priority is you, Ang! I WILL get my reading and blogging project blog done this week if it fucking kills me. I really don't think it will, though, I'm just being dramatic.

Ashes To Ashes

I sat on the curbside with the EMT's blanket wrapped around my shoulders, thinking about how stupid it was to try to warm a person who's just been pulled from a fire. Heat was the last thing I needed. Tears streaked my face- real tears, shed by smoke-and-ash-stung eyes, providing the perfect appearance of sorrowful shock at losing everything we owned. Well, everything I owned. After all, I was the survivor.

I savored the sight of the fire, watching the flames lick at the timber of the beautiful home it was greedily devouring. It was so easy to throw it all away- the designer furniture, the expensive private collections of art and wine, the clothing. . . the appearance of a perfect life. So easy to destroy that facade forever. I closed my eyes and replayed the night's events in my head.

***

After paying his black-haired stripper whore to deliver the divorce papers, I went home to play the jilted, wounded wife. I knew he'd come crawling back to me, telling me it was nothing, that she meant nothing to him.

"It's too bad you decided to risk our marriage over nothing," I had flung back at him, surprised at how easy it was to summon up the anger I thought had died with my love for this pathetic piece of shit philanderer. I suppose I was angry, in my own way- no woman wants to lose her man to rented pussy.

And what kind of idiot did he take me for?! I watched him spend money and time on this common street trash three times a week for a year. I listened to him lie to me about working late, weekends out of town on "business", expenses for "client entertainment"; he thought he was so fucking smart. I stifled a smile as I wondered how that was working out for him now. Being smart, that is.

Predictably, he groveled. He apologized, he promised it was over. He swore he'd change if only I wouldn't leave. Pretending to believe that bullshit almost made me physically sick. Affecting joy at being presented with the gift I knew he bought for HER for their one year anniversary fortified me for what I knew I had to do. He slipped the fifteen carat diamond choker around my neck, and I tried not to recoil from his touch or the garishness of the trinket. Then he went down to the cellar to bring up some wine.

He poured a vintage merlot into two balloon glasses and toasted the "rebirth" of our marriage. I raised my glass and smiled my brightest, most doe-eyed smile and sipped my wine, relishing the way its dryness took my breath away. We talked of the changes we'd make, the things we'd do, and I promised to call my lawyer first thing in the morning to tell him we'd healed our breach. The wine flowed like liquid love, and we drank.

Rather, he drank. I drank enough to be appropriately tipsy, but not enough to dull my wits. It didn't take long for him to pass out since he'd had so much to drink during his "breakup" with the hired cunt. I shook him vigorously, and he didn't wake. I called my neighbor, slurring my request for assistance with putting him in bed; it was a request I hadn't made in quite some time, but it was frequent enough at one point that he came over right away, wearing his best sympathetic look.

I giggled my sodden embarrassment at our overindulgence, and he Neverminded and Not At All'ed me all the way to our bedroom. I tripped over the stairs frequently enough that he planted me on my butt and then returned for me once he'd deposited my husband on the bed. He nestled me close and gently laid me on the bed next to my snoring better half. I murmured my thanks and did my best to fade out of consciousness. I heard him let himself out and I thanked him out loud for his anxiousness to gossip about this incident to our other neighbors, thus guaranteeing that my story was already in place before I even lit the cigarette.

I punched our alarm code into the wall panel above the bed, took one last drag off the cigarette, and let it fall from my fingers onto the carpet on my side of the bed. At first, nothing happened, and I thought I'd have to light another one. I was reaching toward the night stand when I saw the bed ruffle suddenly flare into life. I stared in fascination as the gluttonous little flame fed itself and grew fat, creeping across the carpet to ignite the heavy damask drapery. A small corner of my mind screamed at me to get the hell out of there and call 911, but I forced myself to be calm and let our state-of-the-art fire alarm summon the fire department for me.

I didn't expect the smoke to be so thick so suddenly. I stayed in the room as long as I could stand it, and then I went out to the top of the stairs to wait. After a few long minutes, the smoke poured after me, chasing me, accusing me.

"How do people ever burn alive in their homes?!" I demanded of the noxious fumes surrounding me, "this shit takes forever to spread!"

Irritated, I stomped back to the bedroom to check on the fire's progress and I was greeted by a roar and a blast of heat that nearly knocked me to my feet. The room was an inferno! I stood gaping at it like an idiot until the alarm shook me out of my fascinated stupor. I coughed and dropped to my knees and stayed as close to the blaze as I could bear. I could smell the hair on my arms singeing. I crept by small measures toward the stairs, the fire marching slowly after me. I couldn't breathe. Panic got the best of me, and I turned to flee down the stairs.

I underestimated how weak I would be from oxygen deprivation, and my legs gave out. I took a tumble down the stairs, and the door burst open as I hit the landing. My ever-helpful neighbor grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried me from the rapidly-erupting house. I screamed out my husband's name and my neighbor asked me where he was, yelling to be heard over the fire. I sobbed incoherently and pointed up to the second level. My neighbor contemplated the wall of flame angrily consuming the stairs I had only seconds ago been occupying with such impatience. He looked back down at me and shook his head, clutching me to his chest. The wails of the sirens drowned out his sympathies.

This was my final entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, week 10: The Perfect Crime. I made it to the final two, wish me luck!