Panty Hose

I always wondered about those panty hose with Extra Support. I now know why.

Thanks for the support with the caving-dickhole-problem.

Let's just say I'm not good at listening, I hate taking advice, and I really need to learn for myself... but I'm trying.

That's about all I can give you right now.

Atleast he's keeping up his end of the deal right? It just sucks that it's so easy for him to ignore me, not call, and be an ass in general.

Send me some Panty Hose Support. Please.

You're In My Head, Now Find Your Way Out

(This is for Kimberly. She's going to love it most of all.)


Psychological Psychology really is physiological psychology. Makes more sense that way, but also makes it much much harder. It's going to be a cheery semester, with a three month research project on The Biology of Suicide. Not to worry, the - tanning bed tan pop the collar of your brand name polo while you write in your color coded notebooks with pens that have glitter that swirls around - senior sits next to me and should keep the class entertained.

Spanish 201 calls itself intermediate, but really it's for smart freshman who placed into an upper level language. Oh, and for me, the third year idiot who thinks taking Spanish for fun would be, well, fun.

Luckily Senora Robin (make sure you add a swirl over that n. sen-yor-ah...) says she's more mom than professor and we can ask her if we should do our load of colors in hot or cold. (I'd choose warm anyway.) Perhaps we should have called her when our dishwasher wouldn't turn on. Instead we called maintenance to come fix it. The secretary asked us if we flipped the switch. What switch you ask? Oh, the one on the wall that doesn't belong to any lights in the room. Oh, yes. That switch. Oh and, friendly reminder, you have to put special dishwasher soap into the dishwasher. Not Joy dish soap. (Thanks Secretary. They should pay you extra money for that kind of advice.)

Philosophy is taught by an old BC professor. (Boston College, he's quite young.) He opened class with a joke - How do you know the toothbrush was made in Kentucky? If it was made anywhere else it would have been called the "teeth" brush. Har har. He then had us introduce ourselves by telling about an experience over the summer that was in some way true, good, or beautiful. I was going to mention my baby spiders that infested TFS, but instead brought up the kids dancing in front of the security camera. I'm not sure if anyone else sees my philosophical vision about this, but maybe I can convince them of the beauty and goodness of kids dancing in a bank another day.

~~

Other than classes there is Doug. Perhaps I should phrase this differently. In Psych we were talking about the mind-body problem. To define the body we said our physical being. To define the mind we said it was our non-physical being. We could come up with so many other definitions of body, but no more for mind. All it entailed was what the body wasn't.

There is Tom, then there is the non-Tom. Right now that's Doug. He's nice, I must admit, but I'm afraid of hurting him. I'm really not ready for a relationship. We're going so slow and I still feel like things are moving to fast.... I really shouldn't get involved at all. I'm just going to create a disaster.

I guess it's better than sitting here wondering when Tom is going to get ahold of me so I can bitch him out. Which is probably what Tom is thinking about, if he would think about it. Which would be a great reason not to call me, so we're going to play this silly game until someone, me, caves.

GREAT.

I find myself wishing the world was all color coded and the empty spaces were filled with glitter that swirled around and around, giving you that content, drugged high. Then again, I'd probably have to pop my collar and stop being translucent.

It really isn't worth it then.

Woof

We adopted a dog yesterday, he comes home Friday.

No, I'm not lying.

Any ideas on a name? I feel like I should take part in the naming of the mutt, even though I'll only be living with him for an evening.

Kelly refuses to agree on the name, she's going to call the dog Bob (the fourth). Everyone else refuses to call him Bob since all of Kelly's fish named Bob have met an unfortunate death. (Lack of clean enviornment and starvation.)

So?

Waiting to Exhale

I don't remember when I stopped enjoying swimming. I remember the kid who had chicken pox who still came to lessons, I can recall gracefully diving into the deep end. I know the butterfly, and the breaststroke. I loved the backstroke.

I could never float though. Even at a young age I couldn't trust enough and give up control - I'd begin kicking my legs and fear would take over and I'd sink to the bottom and come up sputtering.

Fear grew. Soon I was swimming the required laps across the pool without turning to breathe. Holding my breath, squeezing my eyes shut, and hoping I wasn't going to run into the wall at the other end.

Waiting to exhale.

Now I feel like I'm doing the same with my life. Sinking to the bottom as I wildly flail my arms, hoping to get somewhere without running into the rough edges.

Mommy Dearest

My mother was mad at me yesterday. Mad probably isn't the correct word. Furious. All over something she herself called petty. When it comes down to it, it doesn't matter why she was mad, just how she was mad.

She was downstairs in the basement and came storming up to yell at me. I'm upstairs in my room, so she stood at the bottom of the steps yelling random comments my direction. She's never asking me a favor again, I shouldn't expect anything from her, she's taking back all the things she bought me for the apartment. She'll never buy me gas again, (which she did only twice this summer,) never take me shopping again, I should leave the house and never come back.

After she finished and went downstairs again, (possibly because I told her to stop it and refused to argue back,) I rushed downstairs to pack up the car and eat before I left for Kris' party. I'm downstairs microwaving some leftovers and Mom must have heard the timer go off, because she comes back up to continue her ranting.

She repeated what she already said, then goes on to tell me that she shouldn't even let me go tonight, (to my best friend's 21st birthday party.) I become more annoyed than I already am, and tell her that if she doesn't stop this screaming I'm going to leave and just order pizza from Kristin's.

That was a mistake. She starts yelling about how I don't have any money to blow, and tells me that I shouldn't spend any money because she's now going to make me pay my whole car bill from when they took my car to get it fixed. (Without my permission mind you, I didn't care if it made funny noises.) So the three hundred dollars my father told me he'd help me pay for (three hundred dollars which is 3/4ths of a paycheck,) is now mine to pay in full.

So by now I'm running out the door. Stumbling because I'm trying to carry everything in one load and have to many things to shoulder, but trying to move as fast as possible to get away from her craziness. I'm seriously opening the door when she puts in one more jab. I have to pick up my sister from work at two the next day. This is the first time, the first time she's mentioned it. Never asked me either, it was a command. An, "or else." I turn around, half falling over and tell her no. I have a hair appointment at noon, and don't expect to be finished in time to make it to the mall by two. I'm probably going to be hung over besides, and don't see why I would do anything for her when she's been irrationally screaming at me for half an hour.

I walk out the door and shut it behind me. Mom opens it and starts yelling again, threatening to make me stay home, (she would have had to tackle me and tie me up,) telling me again to leave and never come back. (Contradicting herself.) My sister said after I left she ran up to her room and slammed the door like we used to do when we were kids.

I'm bawling by the time I get to Kris' house. Mrs. L stood and held me while I cried for a good five minutes, rubbing my back and telling me that even the best mom's can be bitches, and that she herself is Queen Bitch. They feed me leftovers from Bucca's, give me a jello shot and some cake and ice cream, and adore my powerpoint slide show.

Later that night, many drinks later that night, I'm helping Kris clean up the kitchen and I'm thinking again about my mother. How often when I was younger I would scream and shout irrationally at my parents, telling them I hated them, threatening to run away, saying I'll never do any chore for them again. How similar my mother's behavior was to my own years prior. How similar my own children one day will act. It's almost inevitable, at one time or another your children, (or your parents in this case,) will think they hate you. They will scream at you and shout, and bang many doors. If you're brave, you'll stand there silently and let them release their frustrations. Perhaps one day you will be frustrated and shout back. And even though you know, in your heart, that they don't mean anything they are saying, and that they will regret their spiteful words the next morning, it still hurts. It causes pain that once they turn their backs makes the tears fall from your eyes.

Now that I'm older, and I know what it feels like to be the receiver of all that wrath, I regret again all the times I shouted similar sayings at my parents. My parents know that I love them, and that's what helps you be brave in such an attack. I know my mother loves me, that's the only way I could have stood strong yesterday. I hope my children one day know that I love them, and no matter how much they shout about how they hate me, or (God forbid,) if I ever shout at them how much I hate them, I pray that they know it's not true, and that I will always love them, whatever they do.

Breakdance

When you walk into Third Federal, the first thing you see is yourself... on our security TV. It becomes entertainment when kids come into the branch. Some, frequent bank robbers, already know of the TV, and come in dancing. (They also know where the suckers are, and leave skid marks on the floor when they round the corner running.) Others don't notice the TV at first, and don't believe it's real. They test it, slowly raising an arm, running left and right, jumping up and down, while the whole time watching themselves carefully. Once they figure the big TV secret out, they begin dancing.

I haven't figured out why they dance. Perhaps it's just a adrenaline rush, to see themselves on TV dancing away. What I have figured out, is that every child who notices themselves on camera begins to dance. For some it takes a few minutes, other will wait until Mom is dragging them out the door before they do a quick shimmy. But they all dance.

I think it's something we all need to do more often. Perhaps it would make us happier.


Moral of the story: Don't come into Third Federal angry and mean, I may make you dance in front of the security camera while eating a rootbeer lollipop.