This will not be funny. Sorry. Earlier today I was starting to put together a funny post but in light of this evening's events, I've opted for something of a more serious nature.
My uncle died on September 1st. He was only 49 when he died. His death was not entirely unexpected but that doesn't make it any easier and I'm sure anyone who's lost anyone can attest to this.
My uncle was a quadriplegic and had been for nearly 30 years at the time of his death.
For those of you who don't know what that means, it means he was paralyzed from the neck down. Actually, he did have some range of motion in his shoulders so he could operate his power chair, feed himself, type, etc. However, for many people this would not have been enough. This would have given them every excuse to be a bitter hateful and angry person.
Steve was the opposite of all of these things.
There is nobody I tried harder to be funnier around and secretly swelled with pride when something I said did make him laugh. He was so fucking funny. He was smart. We took one University class together and it was another of the proudest moments of my life. I kept up with him in class and took great delight in this. Not out of competitive spirit, well maybe a little, but mostly out of pride and the sheer desire to make him proud of me.
And I know that he was because he told me.
This was a man who rarely had a negative word for anyone unless they truly deserved it and in the end he usually could find something good about absolutely anyone. When I think of how negative and critical I often am, it makes me feel badly that I'm not as generous in spirit as he was.
Music makes our world go round in this house and that is due to two people, my mother and Steve. Steve bought me my first record-Michael Jackson's Thriller. He bought me cassette tapes for my birthday and gritted his teeth when I chose Milli Vanilli and agreed only to buy it if I got Belinda Carlisle as well.
He was a better writer than I can ever hope to be, which is clearly evidenced by this post. Thanks for bearing with me through my memories.
Our family is not functional and we don't even come close to putting the "fun in dysfunctional". There is nothing fun about it. Especially this evening.
There is only hate and pettiness and hurt.
These are words I would never associate with Steve but tonight, someone else chose to invoke those exact sentiments with their words.
I miss my uncle terribly. Heartbreakingly so. Today though, I had a better day. I started to feel like life was resuming some normalcy. And not thirty minutes ago I sat in front of this very computer vibrating with anger.
It was one of those moments where I was tempted to use my phrase: "I hate people". Something, again, Steve wouldn't say but tonight, it's how I felt. Only people work as hard to hurt one another as badly as possible and in this case, as publicly as possible.
To do that right now though, when maybe our best has been lost? Is beyond my comprehension.
All I can do is my best not to do that. At anytime. Unless called for...
We all remember my penchant for mafia and retaliation, right?
If not, I once was delighted to receive my very own limited edition of Scarface for Christmas from my husband, then another Christmas it was The Godfather Trilogy. I loved the Sopranos and now I have a club of motorcycle enthusiasts after my own heart in Charming (Sons of Anarchy, keep up, won't you?) Bottom line is, while I do not endorse the murder or any other illegal activities, I do endorse protecting your own and making those who hurt yours, pay. I'm not going to shank anyone or anything like that. I've always been much better with words. And words, I will use and with more effect, style and strength than he could ever hope to.
In closing, I choose to believe in Heaven. A Heaven where Steve walks and runs and dances to all the greatest music this world has to offer. He is up there having a great time with my uncles Ken and Doug. And I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm even a little jealous because he gets to be with his dad, my Grandpa, again. Losing Steve has only been second to losing my Grandpa for me and now they are together. Trying to outdo one another with their humour, wit and maybe even playing some dirty pool. I would say may the best man win, but in this case it can only ever be a tie.
Showing posts with label Sons of Anarchy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sons of Anarchy. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I'm Not Your Bitch
I overreact. I'm much like Chevy Chase's character from all of those Vacation movies. My favourite is Christmas Vacation and I'm him. I build things up in my mind and get all excited at how truly AWESOME and AMAZING whatever event, Christmas included, and then become increasingly distraught (read: bitchy) when it doesn't go as planned or anticipated.
I overreact on a daily basis. If I were to frame this positively, I would say I am a passionate person. This is true, I suppose but passion has it's time and place. Like say when enjoying chocolate covered pretzels and milk, grape vodka and Sprite, and Jax from Sons of Anarchy.
Tonight, passion arrived when I was asking my son, who is 17, why he felt it was okay to leave the remnants of every snack he's eaten tonight on the counter. His response, whilst lying in a prone position on the couch: "Oh, what, do you want me to run out to the recycling bin right away?" This was said with more than a touch of sarcasm. Sarcasm has it's time and place. Like when I speak. I prefer not to be spoken to in that manner though and least of all by my children. Double standard or not, that's how I roll. I advised him that at the very least he could throw out the plastic bag inside the box and then flatten it and leave it on the counter. Here is how the rest of the conversation played out:
Him: "I'm not the only one who does it!!"
Me: "Did I say you were the only one? I know you're not the only one! Did you want me to wait until I could get you all together and we'll have a family meeting about it?!"
Him: "Well you make it sound like it's only me."
Me: "No, it's all of you because I'm all of yours [sic] bitch. I'm work's bitch, I'm your bitch!"
This was said as I stormed up the stairs. I stormed and fumed a little about poor sentence structure and my fast loss of control of the situation. I came downstairs a few minutes later and he and I resumed a normal conversation about football. He and I are one and the same in that manner. Basically we can become instantly angered but get over it almost as quickly. It works for us so don't judge. And besides, if you start judging us we'll become angry again and then we're both huge assholes so it's really up to you...
To be clear, I do not feel like I am "work's bitch". Last week was a little rough but I do believe hormones played an unfortunate role in my perception of the circumstances. I also don't really feel like I am my family's bitch. Most of the time anyway. I just became instantly annoyed at his annoyance with me.
And again, for clarification, being someones bitch and being a bitch are two very different things. I am most definitely a bitch. A smart bitch, a funny bitch, a mean bitch; take your pick, I graciously accept any one of these roles but that's where it ends.
Bitchy lunatic? Yes.
'Your' bitch? No.
'His' bitch? Nope.
Anybody's bitch? Absolutely not.
I'm just me. An exceptionally passionate woman who angers easily and relies heavily on sarcasm to communicate any thought, feeling and emotion she possesses. I've said it before, I'll say it again, my husband is a lucky man.
I overreact on a daily basis. If I were to frame this positively, I would say I am a passionate person. This is true, I suppose but passion has it's time and place. Like say when enjoying chocolate covered pretzels and milk, grape vodka and Sprite, and Jax from Sons of Anarchy.
Tonight, passion arrived when I was asking my son, who is 17, why he felt it was okay to leave the remnants of every snack he's eaten tonight on the counter. His response, whilst lying in a prone position on the couch: "Oh, what, do you want me to run out to the recycling bin right away?" This was said with more than a touch of sarcasm. Sarcasm has it's time and place. Like when I speak. I prefer not to be spoken to in that manner though and least of all by my children. Double standard or not, that's how I roll. I advised him that at the very least he could throw out the plastic bag inside the box and then flatten it and leave it on the counter. Here is how the rest of the conversation played out:
Him: "I'm not the only one who does it!!"
Me: "Did I say you were the only one? I know you're not the only one! Did you want me to wait until I could get you all together and we'll have a family meeting about it?!"
Him: "Well you make it sound like it's only me."
Me: "No, it's all of you because I'm all of yours [sic] bitch. I'm work's bitch, I'm your bitch!"
This was said as I stormed up the stairs. I stormed and fumed a little about poor sentence structure and my fast loss of control of the situation. I came downstairs a few minutes later and he and I resumed a normal conversation about football. He and I are one and the same in that manner. Basically we can become instantly angered but get over it almost as quickly. It works for us so don't judge. And besides, if you start judging us we'll become angry again and then we're both huge assholes so it's really up to you...
To be clear, I do not feel like I am "work's bitch". Last week was a little rough but I do believe hormones played an unfortunate role in my perception of the circumstances. I also don't really feel like I am my family's bitch. Most of the time anyway. I just became instantly annoyed at his annoyance with me.
And again, for clarification, being someones bitch and being a bitch are two very different things. I am most definitely a bitch. A smart bitch, a funny bitch, a mean bitch; take your pick, I graciously accept any one of these roles but that's where it ends.
Bitchy lunatic? Yes.
'Your' bitch? No.
'His' bitch? Nope.
Anybody's bitch? Absolutely not.
I'm just me. An exceptionally passionate woman who angers easily and relies heavily on sarcasm to communicate any thought, feeling and emotion she possesses. I've said it before, I'll say it again, my husband is a lucky man.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Crushed Dreams & Brush Cuts
I am the only still up. I should go to bed but can't. I feel ill at ease or something. It's nothing serious. I honestly believe a good part of this discontent stems from American Idol. I watched it tonight and got all caught up in the "magic" of it. Then I remembered there is no magic here. Since I can remember, I've wanted to be a singer. I sang and still do sing my heart out given the opportunity. And while sometimes I can do a pretty mean mimic, I cannot actually sing. I do not know the notes, I can't hit the notes; Lauren Alaina (sp?) I am not. And I am definitely not Hailey. I'd really like to be Hailey. I'd like to be 17 and look like that, sing like that and move like that.
Instead I'm 34. Apple shaped. About 1/2 inch of grey roots on the go and my moves are limited to switching laundry loads, vacumning and toilet cleansing. A lot of that means I'm bent over, so maybe that counts for something? Well it might, if I still worked out. It would likely also be of benefit if I weren't usually wearing a pair of sweat pants that make it look as though I've shit myself.
Sigh.
Now come on, some positive scanning, some Oprah gratitude. I am not a Butterface. In fact, I'm likely the opposite. Don't know what a Butterface is? Please go over to Pretty All True and she will enlighten you. My kids are intelligent, socially adept and attractive. Yes I'm mentioning looks and yes it does matter. We can all pretend it doesn't, but really, if you have social skills and people don't suggest a bag over your head as an accessory, chances are you will have some level of success in this world. Even if you are just clean and have social skills, you'll get your foot in the door to wherever it is you need or want to be. So I am grateful for their non-hideousness and non-assholeness.
Except, as not ugly as I am, and as charming, funny, witty and plain fucking fantastic as I am, I am not and will never be a rock star. Not even a pop star. My voice is rightfully confined to my home, car and any place that serves alcohol.
Oh and there's one more thing, I've also always wanted to be a biker or just affiliated with that sort of club. Then I found Sons of Anarchy and even though it's a television show, each season, I live SOA and convince myself I am Gemma's apprentice. And that Jax knows I'm out here and is just waiting for the right time. There is no man more gorgeous and....sigh, I can't put what I want to put here because my kids read this and they are already disturbed by his topless photo on my laptops desktop. It's from some men's Fitness magazine. He's oiled up and...
Now I'm distracted.
Anyway, I would be Jax's old lady in a heartbeat. Yes, of course at first I would need to drop about 40 pounds and get some 'work' done, but then I'd be all his. And he would be all mine. This would include his hair. I have liked boys with long hair since I first started noticing boys. So imagine my horror, my woe, if you will, at finding out Jax cut his hair. He's got what pretty much amounts to a brush cut. This is not okay. This is breaking the rules. If I'm willing to go under the knife for him (no I'm not that delusional but in my pretend world, there is a chance for he and I) then the least he could do is not cut his hair. Ever.
Sigh.
It's been a heck of an evening. American Idol, once again, crushed my hopes and dreams of singing stardom and my #1 fantasy boyfriend betrayed me with a hair cut. No wonder I can't sleep. Where will the madness end?
Instead I'm 34. Apple shaped. About 1/2 inch of grey roots on the go and my moves are limited to switching laundry loads, vacumning and toilet cleansing. A lot of that means I'm bent over, so maybe that counts for something? Well it might, if I still worked out. It would likely also be of benefit if I weren't usually wearing a pair of sweat pants that make it look as though I've shit myself.
Sigh.
Now come on, some positive scanning, some Oprah gratitude. I am not a Butterface. In fact, I'm likely the opposite. Don't know what a Butterface is? Please go over to Pretty All True and she will enlighten you. My kids are intelligent, socially adept and attractive. Yes I'm mentioning looks and yes it does matter. We can all pretend it doesn't, but really, if you have social skills and people don't suggest a bag over your head as an accessory, chances are you will have some level of success in this world. Even if you are just clean and have social skills, you'll get your foot in the door to wherever it is you need or want to be. So I am grateful for their non-hideousness and non-assholeness.
Except, as not ugly as I am, and as charming, funny, witty and plain fucking fantastic as I am, I am not and will never be a rock star. Not even a pop star. My voice is rightfully confined to my home, car and any place that serves alcohol.
Oh and there's one more thing, I've also always wanted to be a biker or just affiliated with that sort of club. Then I found Sons of Anarchy and even though it's a television show, each season, I live SOA and convince myself I am Gemma's apprentice. And that Jax knows I'm out here and is just waiting for the right time. There is no man more gorgeous and....sigh, I can't put what I want to put here because my kids read this and they are already disturbed by his topless photo on my laptops desktop. It's from some men's Fitness magazine. He's oiled up and...
Now I'm distracted.
Anyway, I would be Jax's old lady in a heartbeat. Yes, of course at first I would need to drop about 40 pounds and get some 'work' done, but then I'd be all his. And he would be all mine. This would include his hair. I have liked boys with long hair since I first started noticing boys. So imagine my horror, my woe, if you will, at finding out Jax cut his hair. He's got what pretty much amounts to a brush cut. This is not okay. This is breaking the rules. If I'm willing to go under the knife for him (no I'm not that delusional but in my pretend world, there is a chance for he and I) then the least he could do is not cut his hair. Ever.
Sigh.
It's been a heck of an evening. American Idol, once again, crushed my hopes and dreams of singing stardom and my #1 fantasy boyfriend betrayed me with a hair cut. No wonder I can't sleep. Where will the madness end?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Frustration
I am becoming increasingly bothered by my lack of time to blog. I've taken the last half an hour to get caught up on my email and such and in that time, I realized how out of the loop I am. I can't remember the last time I read Pretty All True which became glaringly evident when I noted today, via Facebook, she is having a contest of sorts and posting her favourite blogs. Guess who's not even in the running?
Me.
Why?
I didn't know about it because I don't have time to read it and when I do get any down time, as of late, I use it to either a) sit like a zombie in front of the TV or b) eat something not good for me or c) both of the above.
This sucks ass. For any of you who've been around for any length of time you likely have caught on that I idolize Kris over there at PAT and it would be the ultimate validation or reward to have her recommend my blog and post it right there on hers. It would be akin to Jax from Sons of Anarchy showing up at my house on his Harley and declaring his love for this mother of four who has neglected the gym for quite some time now while at the same time paying extra-special attention to cookies, chocolate and ice cream (in no particular order). He'd be all like, "Oooh, it's so sexy they way you're all nice and soft and squishy; I hate women with flat stomachs and pert breasts". Then he'd tell me I'm insanely sexy not only because my roots are showing and that the white patch of hair at the very front of my head is driving him wild with desire but that he also can't get enough of my sweat pants. He's wax on poetic about the wiles of women in elastic waisted pants. Then he'd throw me on the back of his bike and we'd ride off into the sunset (Charming) where I'd become Gemma's protege, because I'm seriously more bad ass than Tara, and his old lady for keeps.
Or something along those lines anyway; I really haven't given it much thought.
For the time being though, I need to finish making supper, feed these people, drive my daughter to Drama rehearsal, make a couple of work-related phone calls, bathe some of these people and then work on a my other website. The only chance of any part of the above fantasy coming true is the fact that I am currently wearing sweat pants and my roots are showing. I'm not expecting Jax; instead my own husband, in a Chevy half-ton, who never appreciates my sweat pants for their hidden sex appeal.
Jerk.
Me.
Why?
I didn't know about it because I don't have time to read it and when I do get any down time, as of late, I use it to either a) sit like a zombie in front of the TV or b) eat something not good for me or c) both of the above.
This sucks ass. For any of you who've been around for any length of time you likely have caught on that I idolize Kris over there at PAT and it would be the ultimate validation or reward to have her recommend my blog and post it right there on hers. It would be akin to Jax from Sons of Anarchy showing up at my house on his Harley and declaring his love for this mother of four who has neglected the gym for quite some time now while at the same time paying extra-special attention to cookies, chocolate and ice cream (in no particular order). He'd be all like, "Oooh, it's so sexy they way you're all nice and soft and squishy; I hate women with flat stomachs and pert breasts". Then he'd tell me I'm insanely sexy not only because my roots are showing and that the white patch of hair at the very front of my head is driving him wild with desire but that he also can't get enough of my sweat pants. He's wax on poetic about the wiles of women in elastic waisted pants. Then he'd throw me on the back of his bike and we'd ride off into the sunset (Charming) where I'd become Gemma's protege, because I'm seriously more bad ass than Tara, and his old lady for keeps.
Or something along those lines anyway; I really haven't given it much thought.
For the time being though, I need to finish making supper, feed these people, drive my daughter to Drama rehearsal, make a couple of work-related phone calls, bathe some of these people and then work on a my other website. The only chance of any part of the above fantasy coming true is the fact that I am currently wearing sweat pants and my roots are showing. I'm not expecting Jax; instead my own husband, in a Chevy half-ton, who never appreciates my sweat pants for their hidden sex appeal.
Jerk.
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Hate Jersey Shore
At the urging of a most trusted friend, I watched my first episode of Jersey Shore last night. She is no longer trustworthy. She is still my friend only because this is her first real slip of any kind. Where do I begin? With why I hated the show or how this has cast a dark shadow on a once pristine friendship?
Let's begin with the sheer hatred I have for the cast of Jersey Shore. They sweat profusely. They are not fun to watch party while intoxicated. They are the kind of people I would steer clear of at all costs if I actually had a social life and didn't spend the better part of my days cleaning up after the five ungrateful a-holes I live with. The Situation is a fucking dink. Seriously. The episode I watched had him trying to steal his friend's ultra-hot Romanian model girlfriend and smacking Snooki on the mouth when he was ready to leave the bar and she didn't want to. And Snooki looks like a Troll doll. A slutty little Troll Doll.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Now the Troll doll is incapable of eating or consuming alcohol so it doesn't have quite the same level of curvaceousness as Snooki but take note of the wide eyes, unnatural skin tone and clearly inspiration for the 'pouf'.
She seems like a nice enough girl but I need her to do a better job of keeping her ass and va-jay-jay under wraps. I don't want to see it. I also am tired of looking at her tits and I've only watched one episode; watched her on Leno once and laughed at her on Ellen when she guessed one of the 12 Original Colonies was Canada. She also dances like a whore and did I mention the profuse sweating?
Back to the Situation. Douche. The End.
They are all so unbelievably unintelligent and vapid and while I loves me some Reality TV; I can't stomach this.
Back to the damaged friendship; I gave her Sons of Anarchy. Which includes Jax. The mother trucking hottest bad ass biker there ever was. He's smart. He's tough. He rides a Harley. Pauly D has fucked up hair and a bad tan. SOA also has Gemma. She's smart. She's got biker chick down to fine form and she will cutabitch, if the situation presents itself. Gemma and Jax are both in possession of a natural skin tone and anti-perspirant.
So where will 'Stacey' and I go from here? I'm not sure but it's going to entail drinking our calories, chips and dip, five cent candies, chocolate and Season 2 of SOA. It's the least she can do for taking away approximately 40 minutes of my life I will never get back (thank God I recorded it and could fast forward through the commercials).
What I don't get is the huge following Jersey Shore has? What is wrong with you people? I am committed to, in no particular order, The Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race, Big Brother, 19 and Counting, Hoarders, Intervention...it's a long list. I like reality TV. If Jersey Shore is to be categorized as such, and I believe it is, who the fucks reality is that?
Who?
Yesterday, before watching Jersey Shore, I was feeling all grateful and in a Thanksgiving-y kind of mood (for my American friends, it is Thanksgiving in Canada today). Then I watched that and spent the better part of today cleaning toilets and doing laundry so gone is grateful and here is bitchy.
Happy Thanksgiving Mother Truckers and a solid set of Double F's to Stacey...with Love.
Let's begin with the sheer hatred I have for the cast of Jersey Shore. They sweat profusely. They are not fun to watch party while intoxicated. They are the kind of people I would steer clear of at all costs if I actually had a social life and didn't spend the better part of my days cleaning up after the five ungrateful a-holes I live with. The Situation is a fucking dink. Seriously. The episode I watched had him trying to steal his friend's ultra-hot Romanian model girlfriend and smacking Snooki on the mouth when he was ready to leave the bar and she didn't want to. And Snooki looks like a Troll doll. A slutty little Troll Doll.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Now the Troll doll is incapable of eating or consuming alcohol so it doesn't have quite the same level of curvaceousness as Snooki but take note of the wide eyes, unnatural skin tone and clearly inspiration for the 'pouf'.
She seems like a nice enough girl but I need her to do a better job of keeping her ass and va-jay-jay under wraps. I don't want to see it. I also am tired of looking at her tits and I've only watched one episode; watched her on Leno once and laughed at her on Ellen when she guessed one of the 12 Original Colonies was Canada. She also dances like a whore and did I mention the profuse sweating?
Back to the Situation. Douche. The End.
They are all so unbelievably unintelligent and vapid and while I loves me some Reality TV; I can't stomach this.
Back to the damaged friendship; I gave her Sons of Anarchy. Which includes Jax. The mother trucking hottest bad ass biker there ever was. He's smart. He's tough. He rides a Harley. Pauly D has fucked up hair and a bad tan. SOA also has Gemma. She's smart. She's got biker chick down to fine form and she will cutabitch, if the situation presents itself. Gemma and Jax are both in possession of a natural skin tone and anti-perspirant.
So where will 'Stacey' and I go from here? I'm not sure but it's going to entail drinking our calories, chips and dip, five cent candies, chocolate and Season 2 of SOA. It's the least she can do for taking away approximately 40 minutes of my life I will never get back (thank God I recorded it and could fast forward through the commercials).
What I don't get is the huge following Jersey Shore has? What is wrong with you people? I am committed to, in no particular order, The Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race, Big Brother, 19 and Counting, Hoarders, Intervention...it's a long list. I like reality TV. If Jersey Shore is to be categorized as such, and I believe it is, who the fucks reality is that?
Who?
Yesterday, before watching Jersey Shore, I was feeling all grateful and in a Thanksgiving-y kind of mood (for my American friends, it is Thanksgiving in Canada today). Then I watched that and spent the better part of today cleaning toilets and doing laundry so gone is grateful and here is bitchy.
Happy Thanksgiving Mother Truckers and a solid set of Double F's to Stacey...with Love.
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