Drifting thoughts of a snowflake

Friday, July 30, 2004


Last night I had dinner with the hubby to discuss final arrangements. Does final arrangements sound like funeral planning? Regardless it went something like this:

Hubby: “You can have that. That, too. I never liked that.”
Me: You don’t like that? Why did we buy that if you don’t like it?
Hubby: It just doesn’t look like me
Me: I just don’t see why we bought it, if you don’t like it.
Hubby: It looks like us. Not me.

Who knew a couple of cranberry couches looked like us together, but neither of us apart from one another? I had no idea. Looks like I have my old couch back. Oh I shouldn’t forget, I also get half of his debt as a consultation prize. Yea me! Taking apart everything you built together is an alien feeling to me. Sure I’ve been through the break-ups, but nothing at this level. At one point, I expected us to discuss who’s taking the imaginary children’s names we came up with together. “You can’t use Julia, that’s my mom’s name”.

The roommate’s girlfriend inspired the oddest part of last night. As I was folding my laundry, she went in and sat next to him on the couch. They proceeded to talk about situations at his work I knew nothing about. Who could know more about the hubby than me? Evidently she does. Then she starts telling me about how she hangs out with him and what they watch on TV. Bizarre. Is this the roommate’s girl, or his girl?

All of a sudden, I’m a visitor in my own home. I ask for a glass of wine, or a napkin. At the same time, I clean the countertops. I wonder who these people are. I’ve never met the girlfriend before, but evidently she knows where the baggies and toothpicks are. I’m glad I still pay the mortgage there.

With the hubby starting his master’s degree next month, I wonder how long all of this will take. Will I start to be invited to parties at my own house? Will I be asked for over for a house warming if the girlfriend officially moves in? Will people start to email me gossip about the hubby? Or will I just read about him in the newspapers when things happen with his job? More than any of this, I wonder when all of this will start to hurt my feelings. I feel so numb to all of this. I walk through my life like a ghost. The most intimate people in my life are walking through me. We cross through one another, with no trace of the other left on us.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

She’s claiming that shit for Spain and the revolution!

I have spent the last week entertaining a cousin-in-law from Spain. I’ll just borrow the name Tequila Rosa for blog sake. TR is nineteen with a body comparable to Jennifer Lopez, just a little thicker. She’s beautiful in an exotic way, and her little tops and super low pants have insured her several dates in Austin. Follow this up with her sexy brown eyes that scream “Take advantage of me I am 19 and far away from home”, and she’s the center of attention wherever we go. (Compliments to Cal on reading her eyes)

By this point you might have realized, I love the limelight. It suits me, it does. I don’t have to be the prettiest girl in the room, as long as I can be the second prettiest girl with the best personality. Okay I’ll take 4th or 5th on a bad night, but I’ll be back with a vengeance. Let’s just hope I don’t drink too much and announce that to my competition.

Last night we took TR out to Havana for a mojito. The patio was open, a nice breeze flowed throughout the room, and the Spanish music helped us feel festive. Simon was working, and we asked him to come over and meet TR. Simon has waited on us a couple of times, and I like to think of him as my own personal member of MENUDO.He looks like one of the former members of the infamous boy band, and has a nervous giggle that reminds me of the days of graphix bongs and Cheetos.

I’ll be damned if our little Latin lover didn’t come up to the table and sweep TR off her feet. Words like “Que ricccccooo” came out of his little mouth, along with “Ahh, Rossssa – que bonittaaa”. By the end of the night she was fanning herself with his number.

What’s this? I’ve been in there several times, and was never offered a number. How can this be? Perhaps at 31, it’s time for me to realize my glorious days as the star of the show are dimming. I’m more likely to introduce than to be introduced.

That being said, I just went shopping and bought a pair of jeans to accentuate my bootiful bootie and a little black top to accentuate my bounty. One more stab at center stage couldn’t hurt. If all else fails, I’ll move on to 50 year-old men. On second thought, it’s not so bad. I don’t mind being a wallflower.

(I should mention the clichés in this blog are complements of someone other than yours truly)

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Gimme a 5

Yesterday my boss told me I had to complete a survey on myself for the company. This survey will supposedly help them know if I am ready for certain challenges. My ears heard, “this will let us know if you will ever get promoted, or if you truly are the physco we think you are”.

Fabulous. I just completed the survey. The first section asked me to rate myself from one to five on various personality characteristics. On a scale of 1 to 5, rate how dependable you are. Hmm, that’s a tuffy. Considering how much I go out, and how time is not the pinnacle of my life I had to rate myself a 3. I stroll in a couple of minutes late each day, and I often have morning “errands” that prohibit me from showing up at the ungodly hour of 7am each morning. However, I rarely leave for lunch and always stay late. Is there a 1 through 5 on “I don’t give a fuck what time I show up, cause I don’t leave on time either”? Nope.

The next section asks me to rate what I think other people think of me. It’s a bad idea to ask a narcissist what others think of them. Spirited? Hell ya – give me a 5 on that one! Fussy? Who me? I’m a 1 on that. Also, exactly who are these “other people”? My friends would have a completely different opinion of me than my coworkers. Rate her 1 to 5 on loyalty. I guarantee all my friends would give me a 5. Ask a coworker; they would give me a 1. So, I discuss job opportunities that come my way with people at work. Maybe they want the job, if I don’t. I guess that makes me a 5 on the considerate question.

Questions I think they could ask that would be far more interesting:

1)How likely are you to believe in 100-pound birds that can fly off small children? My answer: 5)

2)How likely are you to throw out a Beastie Boy lyric in a meeting: My answer: 5 (“God damn that DJ made my day!”)

3)How likely are you to be loyal enough to show up at your 7:30 am job after a night of drinking until 2am? My answer: 4

4)How likely are you to wear panties to your job? My answer: 1

5)How likely are you to blog, shop on line, or email your pals at work: My answer 4

6)How likely are you to yell out “Damn I’m good!” at your desk: My answer: 5

7)How likely are you to call out your fellow coworkers at work and tell them to “Fuck off” on your first day at the job: My answer: 5

8)How likely are you to throw organized chair races in the halls of your office? My answer: 5

9)How likely are you to piss off admin people by hoarding supplies in your office, and then denying it when they ask for them? My answer:5 (I also like to wrap up office supplies and give them to coworkers as "gifts" on their birthday)

10)How likely are you to get drunk with your boss, tell him to stop sleeping with the new girl, and then tell him you know he's gay when he hits on you? My answer: 5 (BTW I have begged that man to not to worry about being gay for years. He denies it, but based on his love for his designer iron, and the fact that he brings 2 bags for every one of mine on business trips, I've known the truth for years. I love him just the same. Oh and there was the trip to the Sonanop in Vail with his lover that tipped me off, too.)

See now, didn't you learn more about me from that? I should be a personality specialist.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Holy fork!

How could I be so shallow? Yesterday was Mick’s 61st birthday, and I forgot to even mention him. If nothing else, he finally climbed out of my grey matter and that deserves some form of recognition. So – Happy Birthday Mick!

On another note, my company has a problem with all things that aid in comforting the human stomach. Ever worked at a Not-for-profit that charged 60 cents for a coke? We pay $12 a year for the delights of Folgers’ coffee each morning, and you best bring your own damn mug. No free food, no free drinks, and no slap on the ass. No cups, no silverware, and everyone is forced to clean the break room for one week each year.

Today I pulled my little couscous and chicken out of the fridge, and realized I had no fork. Ahh! No fork! No fork! I desperately searched each and every empty drawer in the kitchen. Hot mustard packets and pink sweet and lo squares laughed and mocked me. “There’s no fork here, missy!” What am I going to do with a company fork? I’m fucking 31 years old. My silverware actually matches at this point in my life. I have no need for yours! (side note: damn, I am getting old!)

My coworker catches me scrambling through the drawers. She looks over and asks me if I want to use hers. I’m not much for girl crushes, but she could make me change my mind. I’ve always thought she was beautiful, in a quirky Goth way. Black short hair, pale face, beautiful green eyes and nice legs with short skirts with high heels. Delicious.

"Sure”, I mutter and then I blush! Me? Blush? I have the mouth of a sailor and am always talking about sex. Barely anything embarrasses me. Why this? I saw her downtown at a bar a couple of weeks ago. She had on a tank top, and that’s when I realized both her arms were adorned with flaming tattoos. They were quite sexy on her, but I don’t really like women. Right?

I accepted the fork, and felt uncomfortable plunging it into my couscous. I felt more uncomfortable putting it in my mouth. Odd. It’s just a girl. Do I have a girl crush?

I cleaned that fork better than Mr. Clean every dreamed of, and slipped it back into her lunch box. Tonight I’m going out and investing in a box of plastic utensils for my office, simply because the last thing I need is a crush.

Damn all I needed was a fork!

Friday, July 23, 2004


I have to tell you a story about my sister.  If you want to get an idea of what she’s like before hand, read this.

The short story about her is that she is a very devote Christian.  It’s not irritating, because she keeps it to herself and doesn’t usually push it on me.  She is, without a doubt, the sweetest person I know. 

Right now my sister is having a pool and pool house built.  It’s been an extensive hassle due to the rain and other construction woes.  One morning she puts her kids into their little wetsuits and they go out for a swim before the workers start.  When the workers show up, she rounds up the kids and goes back inside.  The minute she gets inside she realizes she left her watch by the pool.  She runs back down to the pool, only to find the watch is missing.  She searches for the watch for twenty minutes with the only worker that was there.  He helps her, but atlas there is no watch to be found. 

A week goes by and my sis asks every possible worker if they have seen it.  Nothing.  They talk to the contractor and tell him they just want the watch back, and that they don’t care who took and it’s no big deal – they just want it back.  My sister keeps thinking back to when she lost it, noting the only person there was this one guy – “the Preacher Man”.  The contractor is threatening to make all the workers take a lie detector test.

“The Preacher Man” is one of the workers who formed a quick nickname around the house.  Saturday mornings at 8 am he’s there in the backyard setting up his radio so he can listen to the most militantly horrific sounding Spanish religious broadcast.  It’s creepy.  From what I can understand of the show, we all suck and should be ashamed that God has to even look down at us occasionally.  To make matters worse the Preacher Man yells at the other workers in the same commanding voice as the radio entertainer.  So everyday sounds like a bad religious sermon in my sister’s backyard.

Convinced the PM stole her watch, she tells the general contractor she wants him off the job. Sorry, but she can’t trust him.  She doesn’t want this man at her house.  My sister agonized over actually telling the contractor to get rid of him.  So she prays and prays over the matter and even though she feels bad about it, she makes the man leave.

A couple of days later, she’s in the shower when her 5 year old comes in and tells her the PM is in the living room waiting to talk to her.  Scared to death that Boo (my nephew) let this guy in the house, she rushes out and finds him standing in middle of the living room looking down at the floor.
 She asks him why he’s there, and he begins to cry.  He tells her he had the watch in his pocket the whole time he helped her look for it.  He further explains that once he took the watch, the guilt grew and grew until he went and talked to his pastor the night before.  The pastor told him to go apologize to her.  At this point he hasn’t given her the watch back, and she feels horrible that he is crying.  He begins to beg her not to tell his boss he stole the watch.  He knows he’ll get fired, and he really needs the job.  My sister walks over to him, hugs him and then lectures him about how God wants him to do the right things.  He gives her the watch, and she tells the man’s boss it was in the towels all along.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Welcome back
As I walk up to the front of the building, I see him waiting in the grass under a tree.  He smiles and I look down.  I’m glad I have my sunglasses on, and hope he can’t see my expression.  We talk about nothing on the way up the stairs.  We flip the light switch and wait our turn on the smallest couch I’ve ever seen.  He seems like a stranger. He feels like someone from my past who I can barely recall playing with as a child.
Miss Suzanna greets us and shows us to her office.  We play with her standard poodle as she gets situated.  It’s all business talking about the divorce.  I have nothing to say and just cry, waiting for our 50- minute session to end.  We always do well with the business aspect of our life together, and it’s not hard talking about numbers.  We both deal with numbers everyday.  There’s nothing to cry about over a 5 or 10, unless you just lost a bet.
He asks if I am going to keep his name and my ring.  I want both, but I can’t get the words to come out of my mouth.  I look down and wipe up my tears, the Kleenex shredding into little balls on my face.  You get a mediator, you get a realtor, and you outsource your love life so someone will kill it off for you.
I get in the car and stare out the window. I should turn the car on. I end up at the convenience store in a daze buying Tecate and limes.  I need a pack of smokes and damn I’m hungry.  I end up at Miss K’s; my safe haven when thing are out of control.  Get high.  Take a drink.  Have a cigarette.  Laugh.  I look at her as she cleans her apartment, and realize how much time has passed since we lived in San Marcos.  I laugh because we’re exactly the same.  Ten years later and we’re mending broken hearts, cussing men, and trying to get our shit together.
On the way home I put the top down on the car.  I think how fortunate I am to have the wind blow the tears off of my face.  How fortunate I am that I married a good guy.  How fortunate I am to have these friends.  At one point in the night Miss K stops cleaning, looks over at me while I cry and says, “You’re life is like a movie!  Anything is possible for you now.  I can’t wait to see what happens in your life over the next 2 years!”
Me too, Miss K.  Me too. I just gotta make it through today.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

I’m mad and I’m angry and I can’t see straight to make it out of my cube.  I’m sick of it, all of it.  The mere thought of one more person not telling me how it is or what they want makes my head spin off my shoulders.
Why can’t we just say what we want and have a meaningful conversation?  Why can’t we get what we fucking want sometimes?  I feel like I’ve been lied to so much my heart doesn’t care any more.  It’ll just beat the same old song of denial for me to march on to.
I guess this explains why I haven’t written much lately.  There is only so much of this I can take, so I know you don’t want to read it.  I keep walking and eventually I know I’ll end up in the right place. 

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Mick Jagger and tiny leather pants

Mick Jagger’s raspy voice is trapped in my head. He somehow popped into my brain around 3:30 this morning, and hasn’t left. I’m not sure why he continues to stay curled up in my grey matter, as I am undeniably not his type. As 5’4 brunette the only thing I resemble on Terry Hall is her pubic hair.

Regardless he is up there belting out, “You can’t always get what you want”. How could he piss me off more? As if his surgically lifted eyes and gigantic mouth aren’t irritating enough, I now feel as if a tiny version of him will scale out of my ear and start performing on my desk. Knowing Mick, he’ll probably violate my pencils and slide around on my ruler in little leather pants. Mockingly I am singing back to him, “You might just get what you need!” and wishing that he would leave me alone.

At 4:30 a.m. this morning, I slightly appreciated him singing to me. I lay in bed wondering why it is that men who drive you to the breaking point of a psychotic episode are the ones that you can’t let go. What is that? I hate my stubborn side. Therefore, I reviewed my love life in order to see where I could make a change.

Boyfriend #1 told me didn’t love anymore in a very dramatic way in high school. I sought revenge. We were married two years ago, and he now worships the ground I walk on. Don’t get me wrong; I worship him like some worship the Dali Lama or mint chochalte chip icecream.

Boyfriend #2-4 I don’t remember.

Boyfriend #5 dumped me for some girl with a nose the size of a ripe banana. My revenge was to date his roommate for a several years on and off and be as loud as possible when we went to bed.

Boyfriend #6 is the roommate. It’s my understanding, now at 31; the roommate never really wanted me. Although I was a screamer, so perhaps he found me entertaining. Do to the fact he wasn’t terribly interested in me, I stayed around for three years begging for his intention.

Boyfriend #7 had multiple personality disorder, so it was a constant battle. Not only did I have to be the center of his attention, but also the focus for 4 other people that resided in his brain. While his suffocating attention drove me off, a couple of the other personalities I saw in him worked wonders. I just wasn’t sure how to bring them out on a regular basis, so I decided one night when he transformed into a child called “Nick” to leave him.

Boyfriend #8 was a vato from Westside San Antonio. I broke up with only to find out he was fucking some girl who could actually speak Spanish and communicate with his family. I was happy to write him off, as he thought my thighs were too big. Come to find out the woman he was playing around with was twice my size, and had an unquenchable desire for burritos.

Boyfriend #9 is actually Boyfriend #1 who became said husband.

Lover #10 is the one who has spawned Mick Jagger to appear in my head making late night appearances. He has the uncanny ability to always keep me wanting something he won’t deliver. Some days I am number 1 one his list, and other days surfing, drinking, or mental distraction for all other living life forms takes my place. His ability to put my on a continual gerbil loop, in which I run and run and can never quite catch him, keeps me enraptured. Perhaps it’s time I jump off the track.

I wonder about the line, “You might just get what you need”. Did I ever really get what I needed? What I really need is a good slap in the face, and a calm person to explain to me that I have two choices. The options are either the unobtainable, which will always fascinate me, or keep the men who adore me. While it’s good to be adored, I need a little chase. So for the time being, I’ll keep running. But damn, I’m gonna make that man beg. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just start dating little Mick.

Friday, July 02, 2004


Please be patient. I will write more later when life is less stressful (relationships worked out, and I am done cramming for the CPA exam). Since that’s not going to happen over night I thought I would talk about how even my vibrator is depressing me.

I went home a couple of weeks ago to grab some stuff. All of sudden the memory of my little vibrating friend popped up in my mind. Now there’s something I can take comfort it; the ability to at least physically please myself. After relocating every dust ball under the bed, I found the glorious box containing my little pal. Like an anxious child, I ran straight home to play with my new toy.

After adjusting all my fluffy pillows and soft sheets in the necessary order and performing the task at hand, I felt disappointed. What kind of trick is this? I use to be in love with this thing, and now it just resembles something far removed from a man or much pleasure.

A couple of nights later, my stubborn side came out again and I decided this time would be better. It wasn’t. It’s just a reminder that there was no man tangled on top of me. There’s no one kissing me and saying dirty things in my ear. More than that, no one’s there to cuddle with afterwards and laugh with. Damn you old friend, you’ve changed.

My friend assures me this is because of my present state, and that once my over all mood changes our friendship will rekindle. She also assures me that the longer I go without the real thing; the more I will like him. (I hope it’s a him). Is she right? Is the romance gone? Could it be true that we’ve moved on and changed too much for one another?

I can’t give up. This weekend, I’ll give him one more chance. It’s so hard to let go. Sigh.

Free Counter