The phone call

Every year on my birthday, I could count on the phone call. It always came in the morning, because that's when she wasn't drunk yet (or at least still mostly coherent). It always made me late for work. It always annoyed me.

{bbrrrrnnngggg}
Hello?
Hello, Jayne, this is your mother.
Yes, I know it's you. What's going on?
Well, I just thought I'd call and wish you a Happy Birthday.
Ummm, well, thanks, but I've rea . . .
And the reason I know it's your birthday is because I was there.
. . . lly got to get going, I'm late for work.
And the reason I was there is because I was having you.

Whereupon I had to sit through the torturous story of my birth, complete with her eating chocolates in the delivery room, sending my father off to work because he was hovering, and me for once actually being on time, just after my father arrived back at the hospital. Nobody, but nobody could tell a story like my mom, full of pathos and humor all at the same time.

I don't get that call anymore, and it's one of the things I miss most.

But at least now I'll know how to completely annoy my kids on their birthdays. Thanks, Mommy.

2005 vs. 2006

Instead of waiting for the end of the calendar year to look back on all that's happened in my life in the past year, it seems like my birthday is the right time. So, let's compare and contrast last year's birthday and this year's birthday, shall we?

Last year: worked 12+ grueling hours
This year: working 8 easy peasy hours
Last year: nobody recognized my birthday
This year: okay, not so much better in this category, but it's far from the end of the day
Last year: was making subpar money
This year: am making more than I've ever made for easy work
Last year: received a card from Auntiemomma saying not to call her if I got arrested (you can look back in the archives, I'm sure I posted about this)
This year: haven't got one from her yet, which is unusual, but the one I got from another aunt is tres cute
Last year: was in a hovel in Arlington and about to be evicted
This year: am in a hovel in DC, but at least I'm up to date on the rent and the hovelord is a cool guy
Last year: was living with The Cuz
This year: living alone again
Last year: went home to an overly al dente Hamburger Helper meal with burnt meat, but it was at least cooked for me with love by The Cuz; she tried
This year: going to get my hair done tonight, then out for drinks with a friend, then out for sushi and drinks tomorrow night with a group
Last year: basically wallowed in self-pity for my birthday's lack of anything
This year: made my own plans to do fun stuff
Last year: couldn't afford to breathe
This year: had a small, gorgeous, perfect, elegant pair of diamond earrings made

To sum up, this year's birthday is one helluva lot better than last year's already.

It's my Birthday and I'll blog if I want to

Despite the fact that I've only received one birthday card in the mail (and that one not even from the aunt who raised me), that now my washing machine appears to be unplugged so I can't even have crunchy clothes, that my toilet won't stop running, that taking some time off one job and quitting the restaurant has left me in a wee bit of financial trouble again, that I was harassed on my fucking birthday on the bus this morning, that I was over an hour late for work today thanks to Metro (well, not entirely thanks to Metro, but they certainly didn't help), that almost nobody has recognized my birthday, and that I gained back a few pounds that I'd lost . . .

I'm in a pretty damn good mood.

I also have done a lot of thinking in the past few weeks, and I foresee lots of blogging this afternoon. Just thought I'd warn you.

But for now, research calls.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Hey, ASSHOLE!

Yes, you, the one in the silver Porsche Boxster racing down 17th Street at approximately 9:13 this morning. The one who blew through the red light and almost killed me while I was minding my own business crossing the street legally, in the crosswalk, on the walk light. If I ever find your punk ass, you are MINE, you fucking shitstain of a human being.

Yes, see in the pic, how the scenery is rushing by? That's about how fast this guy was going this morning. In the second lane of 3. While the other cars were stopped. While I was crossing in the fucking crosswalk.

I was not a very happy camper. I mean, he could have really messed up my hot ass suede boots. I sprayed them with that waterproofing crap, but I don't think it works for blood or brain matter.

For that old farm feeling

Cruising through the craigslist ads for free pets, as one does (okay, so I got the new cat back in May, but old habits are hard to break!), I found this gem:

I have two very colorful and sweet miniature roosters. They are great because they are not aggresive and they are small, and you still get the rooster sound, although not as loud. Good homes only.

WTF? Yes, I'm sure all the urban dwellers formerly known as farm kids like myself are gonna be all over this ad!

All Work and No Play

Makes Y very boring indeed. So I took Friday off (for obvious reasons, crying in the office is so not in these days) and we had Monday off as a holiday. Not that I got much of anything accomplished on either of those days, but lying around, watching tv, taking a walk in the rain, recovering from hangovers, and playing with the cats . . . well, there are certainly worse things I could think of to do.

So I've been thinking about this restaurant gig for a while now. And to be honest, I really need a break. Even though the 2 jobs are so different, I just never have time for myself. NEVER. And don't give me that shit about having every evening to myself - I don't get home until about 7:30 on average, and that barely leaves me time to do one chore, cook myself some dinner and eat it, and crawl into bed in time to watch a tv show and fall asleep by 10. I can't help it that I wake up at 5-ish and I need my beauty sleep, y'all. You don't think I look like that pic naturally, do you?

Where was I? Ah, yes, the restaurant. So I really want my weekends back, but I'm a greedy, materialistic evil slut and I like the money from the place. Cash money, baby. And every other week, a nice little paycheck, too. So I've been toying with asking the new manager (now that's a whole other story right there for another day) if I could go to every other week, or maybe do 2 weeks on, 2 weeks off. So I did. On Sunday. And guess what? She said she thinks it might be doable.

YEE-FUCKING-HAW!!!!

Now, should this come to pass, my plans fall into the 2 on-2 off perfectly. Party for my birthday weekend (the 27th, remember?), go to New York the following weekend, work for 2 weekends, then off to London and a weekend at home to relax, then work for 2 more weekends, then have off over Christmas and New Years.

Is it possible? Could something this right be happening to me?

Damn, I shouldn't have even thought it. Now I've probably gone and fucked it all up. Guess I'll find out this weekend.

But it was a nice dream while it lasted.

PS - I'm fine. Thank you all for the kind thoughts and comments. Life, as always, goes on. Obla-di-obla-dah . . .

Crying

I'm so sorry, but I am. Crying, that is. I wish I wasn't, I wish things were different, but they aren't, and I am me, and here I am crying. Nobody's fault, it just is what it is. Cheers.

Failure

So in the end, the truth is that I just couldn't handle the truth. Couldn't handle the fact that I would always be second best. That no matter how much he wanted to be with me, there was always a family between us.

And in the end, it's not the fact that there's a family out there that I was stealing time from, it's more that I'm a selfish bitch.

Truth is, if you're gonna be with me, BE with me. All night, not getting up at midnight to go home to your wife.

So goodbye Chepe, I will miss you terribly and the one of the hardest things I've done was send you home, but this is the way it has to be.

I really never thought I'd fail at something by being too selfish.