Drifting thoughts of a snowflake

Monday, March 28, 2005

Because you can’t and won’t and you don’t stop

Costanza has text messaged and called me at least 3 times a day since I met him.

One would think the lack of interest might clue him in to my resistance. As a Costanza I thought surely he would “dump” me before I would have to call him out. Big buzzer. I was wrong again. This weekend he cluttered up my SIM card with Easter wishes and messages asking me if I was okay. Since when do acquaintances worry about other people’s well being instead of feeling blown off? I should have listened to you all. Brutal honesty really is the way to go.

Instead I took my regular stubborn route and ended up with an email from the balding short man this morning. No doubt he typed it over his Hawaiian shirt’s girth with the laptop resting on his khaki shorts that shamefully present his chicken legs.

I decided to reply telling him that I haven’t been in the mood for company and that right now I feel like keeping to myself. I cheered it up at the end wishing him good luck with his endeavors with a bartender in town he has the hots for. Subtle clue. Slight shove. This will work.

10 minutes later another email comes back from the little man and he is spouting Joel Osteen’s Easter sermon to me. I would have no clue who this Osteen character is, except my oldest sister was going on and on about him on Friday night. Has this guy invaded every materialistic soulless dweller in Houston?

At first I tried to be open to the idea. I like God, he seems like a great guy to me. So I read and read and then I realized Costanza quoted about 5 paragraphs from Osteen’s sermon. Did he print it out from the web after church? Did he take notes during on Sunday with a laptop? What the hell is this? It basically gives information about not being depressed, and conquering your life.

Who the hell is this guy? If I’m not a tad depressed after a divorce, when can I be? Since when do I have to feel social all the time? Just because I opt out of calling people and doing things for a week doesn’t mean that I’m on my way to hell. It just means I need a break.

Then it goes on to tell me about how Jesus is here to save me from myself and yada yada. Boy, if I wanted organized religion there are hundred of churches I could go to. I’m a spiritual person in a very private way, and I don’t appreciate these guilt-ridden tactics from someone I talked to for a couple of hours one day. Take your westernized white man’s Jesus and shove it up your fat little ass. Let me know if you find the answer in that.

My idea of spirituality includes the concept of God, and I don’t have any problems with people who go to church. I just ask that people don’t bring the church into my life. When I want to learn about your ways, I will. Until then stop judging me and let me be.

He signed off hoping the message might “strengthen me”. The only way that I could get any stronger at this point is if I picked up his bible and beat the shit out of him with it. What’s with religion these days that it comes from a point of judgment and despair to help people because there is something wrong with them? What kind of teachings lead us to believe the people that create this world are all so bad they need saving? I don’t want a religion that creates its foundation believing that people are non-thinking, weak, and sin ridden.

If there is a religion that starts out believing that people are growing learning beautiful creatures seeking out how to be better people, I’ll go there. As for Castanza and his “I think I was meant to help you attitude”… Sorry, but I’m looking for someone who realizes I don’t need help and that I can manage on my own. I’m not looking to be saved, just appreciated for who I am.

Friday, March 25, 2005

The sun is shining and the men are out

I think it might be Good Friday or something like that. I’m not sure because my head is not attached to my body right now. Yes, rest assured your little snowflake is recovering from a hang over. Right now I am somewhere between feeling a bit tipsy and needing a nap. I’m trying very hard not to work today. I’m also realizing how fun the Coke bubbles feel on my mouth tongue. Carbonation is a great thing.

But I digress; today’s post is dedicated to firemen. I love firemen. **Sigh** I think it might be the only clean and tidy kind of man I’m really attracted to. I think policemen are evil, other public servants are boring and have those silly mustaches, doctors are just too busy to deal with and I think they all cheat of their girls for some reason, and well I can’t think of another type of clean and tidy guy. I much prefer a washed, but dishevel type of guy who’s laid back and doesn’t need to shave everyday.

Back to my point about loving the men with the big hoses… Well my lucky streak is continuing because this week in Austin is the Firemen’s boot drive. On every street you can find a fireman with a boot walking through traffic collecting donations. Could I love my cabrio-gay any more than I already do right now? I’m going to hit the streets of Austin like a sex-starved perv at strip club. I’m going to the bank after work to get $40 in ones and then I’m off. I’m going to put the top of the car down, put on something cute and hit the traffic. I can put on some happy music and drive through the streets admiring the men collecting donations. Does life get any better than this?

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

I should have guessed his name was Mulva

George Castanza has entered my life and won’t go away. I’m not kidding. In case you skipped a blog the other day, Castanza Man entered my life on Saturday night. He’s my x-brother-in-laws best friend. Let me know if you need a diagram. I’ve known of him since high school, but he’s never registered on my radar. Not because I’m better than he is, but because he’s well….he’s just like George Castanza. I think I’ve spent the last 15 years trying to forget him.

Evidently I’ve done a pretty good job. When I saw him on Saturday my mind drew a blank and I had to introduce myself to him. He laughed and explained that we had met probably 20 times over the years. I blinked and look confused, but smiled and went on about watching the show. Turns out the guy is really funny. Well, I should qualify that. I thought the guy was funny because I was on my 3rd beer and pretty much would have laughed my head off at anything by that point. Helen Keller jokes? Hilarious at that point.

Oh and it turned out that we had all these things in common. We both like San Diego and sushi. We both hate homeless people who just threw up on themselves and won’t stop talking to you. Which, for me, boils down to having the same thing in common with at least 5 million people.

Castanza felt differently. Due to my beer luster state, I agreed to grab a bite with him after the show. I’m thinking it’s a family friend kind of thing to do, and this guy is thinking it’s a full-blown date. We sit down and I start analyzing his appearance. I finally left it at frat boy meets balding 35 year old who presumes that he is the shit because he has released a CD.

I had to listen to this man go on and on about all the music we could make together. Literally. Then he delves into the realization that we were meant to be and he has been waiting for the X and I to break up since the beginning of time. Nice to know people were rooting for us, huh? Next up he tells me how I am so much more myself than I use to be with the X. Impressive for someone whose name I didn’t know until 3 hours previously. He then brags about how much he makes, about the 20 year old women he dates, and his “music career”. My slight memory of the music career is that he released a CD, which was horrible, and forced all of his friends to buy one. I think the family has about 20 of them if you want one.

The whole time he is making terrible jokes to the waitress who only wants to serve us food and get out of the whole SXSW cluster fuck that Austin became over the weekend. I’m staring at him in disbelief. I’m wondering if he thinks that his newly purchased vintage shirt really works in Austin and if he should consider hair plugs. I mean he looks like the kind of guy who would get hair plugs anyway, so what would it hurt.

He then orders me another beer, which I reject, and then forced the irritated waitress to bring it for me anyway. The waitress and I roll our eyes at one another and the beer shows up in a flash. I proceed to tell the man that I don’t answer my cell phone and I don’t ever want to hang out with him.

The outcome? He’s called me roughly 10 times a day since Saturday. Including once when he got home after we had dinner together. I have countless messages that sound like a car salesman on my phone. “Hey, there! It’s me. Guess you really don’t answer your phone. I guess I’ll just keep calling until I get you.” And priceless text messages also. Things like, “you’re ass looks good from here”. That’ll win a girl over in heartbeat. Does that mean my ass is so large he can see it across town or is he imagining my ass from where he is? Either possibility mortifies me.

Why do I feel like I’m going to have to call this little man and ask him to stop calling me? Why can’t he take a hint? I think cupid is punishing me again. I hate that little flying baby.**

**Apologies to the Playa MC who loves cupid. I’m sure I’ll change my mind one day.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Put a feather in my cap!

I really can’t say that nothing good ever happens to me. I once slept with a sailor who told me about real life pirates who would try and capture his boat. I thought he was the luckiest guy in the world, and then I worried if I could catch some type of scurvy from him. Soon afterwards I broke it off (the relationship, dirty minded reader). I’d catch scurvy for a pirate, but a simple sailor? No way.

Turns out the man was telling the truth about these savage boys of the sea. Check itout! Looks like pirate activity is up, ladies. Maybe we can catch a little of the action.

Oh, and cheers to the Austin pirate who gave me a good “RRRRR” the other night. I got his RRRR right here. Maybe next time he’ll cross the street and shiver me timbers.

Monday, March 21, 2005

Thank God for hot men with guitars

One day my blog won’t be about my divorce, and I can’t wait for that day. Bear with me. It’s been a long weekend of digging in the past. My x- family –in-law came in for SXSW and wanted to get together. I spent Saturday morning working on the house and then ran out to meet them at a show. I was walking through the park on my way, trying to hold back the tears. I miss my little nieces. I miss their little blond hair, blue-eyed ways that remind me what amazing parents they have. “Aunt Mandy! Look what I made you! I miss you!” They were all hugs and full of things to show me. It was great to see the X-mom and brother-in-law, too. I felt more like myself around them than I have since high school. I didn’t feel the pressure of measuring up to wifey and it showed. Maybe it showed too much, because one of the brother-in-law’s friends hit on me all night. Later on he revealed that he always thought about me and wanted me from the first minute he met me. He now thinks that it is destiny that we “ran into each other again”. Except he tells me this after mentioning the only reason he came out was because he heard I was meeting up with everyone. Super sigh. I found it not only repulsive that he would do that to my X, as they are childhood friends, but the guy is an exact replica of George Castanza. He has called me 8 times since Saturday night. None of his calls will ever be returned.

Sunday was the X’s day to work on the house with his brother and my replacement (the new girl friend). Maybe I should jot down a thank you note to her for working on my house. Then again I sold her my used husband, so she must have her hands full. I got home in time to eat a bite and then rush out to a show. I ran into the X who was put out from working 9 hours on the house. Since I spend about 15 hours a week on the house, I decided to ignore him and close the door in his face. Alexi Murdoch was amazing and if it wasn’t for him, I could have skipped the weekend all together. I can’t recommend his music enough. Go here now.

This morning I got a call from the X wanting to get the specs on my engagement ring. “Why?” I asked in shock. “I thought you wanted to sell it and we could split the profit,” he muttered. I instantly began crying, which he turned into “me having a fit”. A fit Mr. X, is me slapping you across the face for wanting to sell something that isn’t yours and take half the profit. Me crying qualifies as me allowing you to yet again pull my heart out with your teeth. He states that he thought this is what I wanted and since I broke my promise of being with him forever, he now believes he has the right to take it back and sell it. Unbelievable.

I look at that ring and this is what I see –

Remember what I’m about to say to you, because our grandchildren will ask you to tell them this story..”

Waking up the next morning after we were engaged and crying because I never thought I could be so happy.

Making sparkles of light in my car while sitting in Houston traffic, knowing that I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Spending every morning cleaning it because I was so proud of my husband and my life.

And now he wants to sell it because he feels bad about the debt he left me with. Funny, isn’t it? He wants to sell it and take half of the profit for himself. Pretty neat way to help yourself and others, isn’t it? Can I have the keys to your car? I’m going to sell it and give you half of what I make.

What a bargain!

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Please hold for the next available Snowflake

I feel like everything in my life is on hold right now. Social life? Please hold until Snowflake completes her big ass task at work. Workout routine? Please wait until the next available time when Snowflake doesn’t have to work until the cows come home. Fun? Hold. Nephews? Hold. Happiness? Hold, please.

I’m stuck in a waiting line that feels like it’s going to continue for months. I’m waiting on my house to sell, so that I can be happy again. I’ve tried a feel a little of that bliss on my shoulders while I’ve been there, but its too hard. I’ve found numerous reminders of my wedding. Every time I walk into a room, I feel like my husband or my dog should be in there waiting for me. I pass the threshold and realize it’s just me in there. Alone. And then I realize he’s at his girlfriend’s, with my dog, probably snuggled up on the couch watching TV.

Wasn’t I the one who wanted a divorce? Why is this bothering me?

Last night he stopped by to wash the dog and pick up some stuff. My guess is the new girl doesn’t approve of dogs getting a bath where she places her derrière. Regardless, the two of them bounded in the house and felt like strangers to me. Well, mainly just him. I’m not so sure that dogs can ever qualify as just an acquaintance after they’ve licked your face a 1,000 times. He did his thing and I did mine. Barely speaking. He left and came back right when I was on my way out with the Playa MC.

I wished him a goodnight and felt empty inside. Where am I going without him? When did he become a stranger to me? When did we stop being friends? When will I get over this? Loosing your best friend and your childhood dreams in one-fail swoop sucks. I’m ready to feel like my life will go on and will be better than ever. I’m ready for my little rock star self to come back into the picture.

Someone take me off hold.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Can you see the horizon?

I’m working too much right now. Finish up, hurry home, eat, sleep, make sure I’ve set the alarm 5 times because I’d hate to be late tomorrow. All this and I just realized I’ve spent the last 16 hours doing something wrong. So I’m not the smartest accountant I know. I never wanted to be one anyway.

This lifestyle leaves me little to blog about. I don’t suspect you want to hear the ins and outs of my dreary days. There’s still a little drama, but it seems so repetitive. I could do without the unkind words and new girlfriends who are now raising my dog.

But I’m storing up my energy to come back with something fresh. I’ll take care of myself and put on a new smile. I miss writing in this little guy.

So take care, I’ll be back on the 1st with a new outlook.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


If you read only one of my posts this year, I beg that you read this one. I know it’s long, but it’s worth it. I’m super hella busy at work and the Playa MC has graciously allowed me to publish his childhood trauma right here to entertain you all. So without further adu, I bring you the baddest man in in the ATX – the Playa MC:

Hey Snowflake fans. Amanda has been kind enough to lend me her fine blog for long enough to get something off of my chest. It’s the Bert Incident, you see. The single most important event of my life. Travel back with me to the mid 80’s, back before Dora the Explorer, Blue’s Clues, and even that dreaded purple dinosaur Barney had their turn ruling the public airwaves. It was a time when things were good and pure, and everyone could tell you how to get to Sesame Street. But a monster lives on Sesame Street. And it’s not the Snuffleupagus.

The story actually begins not when I was the biggest Sesame Street fan, in my kindergarten and pre-K years, but instead later, when I was at the age of 8-12 or so (I don't remember exactly when.) I was a relatively rambunctious and stubborn kid; quiet in school, but not really shy or withdrawn. Probably close to the way I am today, except much fatter and with leopard-spotted dork glasses. Then the Bert Incident occurred, and I totally changed personalities overnight. I became sullen, withdrawn, and untrusting. I credit the Bert Incident as the reason why I did band instead of sports, didn't date anyone until my senior year of high school, didn't lose my virginity until the summer after my freshman year of college, didn't drink until after I graduated from college, and played WAY too much computer games and Dungeons and Dragons throughout my J-high and early high school days. In other words, while I was a nerd before the Bert Incident, I was a total geek afterwards, and I don't think I really escaped my geekiness until college. As you can see from the date of the E-mails below, it took me almost 10 years to even get the nerve to talk about the Incident with my brother. He’s 2 years older than me, and he and I are the only witnesses to the Incident that are still alive.

All dramatic stuff, I know. And all this drama is built up around nothing more than a Bert handpuppet.

My grandmother is integral to the story. We called her Mee-maw, and she was a tiny little old lady (she was, like, 5 feet tall or so.) She loved to lecture us about all things conservative. Me and her always got along pretty well BEFORE the Incident, but I hardly ever spoke to her afterwards, and never without family present if I could help it. She died a couple of years after the E-mail exchange below. As my brother and I used my grandfather’s fireplace tools to bury the urn that held her ashes, her elderly brother looked on and commented, "Yep. It's just like planting okra, ain't it boys?" The surreal follows Mee-maw around like a shadow, even in death.

Anyway. I wrote the E-mail below just about a year after graduating from college, and over ten years after the Incident. It was the first time my brother and I had ever discussed the Incident--we didn't even talk about it right after it happened:

Subj: Me and Ernie have a bit too much in common

Date: 07/13/97

To: [the Playa MC’s brother]


I thought I'd drop in out of the blue and discuss early childhood experiences that involved muppets that scarred me for life. But that's a little redundant. What child can escape ANY experience with a muppet unscarred? Anyway, I refer to the infamous and long repressed "Me, Bert, & Mee-maw Triangle o' Disturbance."

Do you remember the event in question? Lets set the scene. We were young. And spending the weekend at the woodywoods. (possibly week? The events that are to follow could have only occurred after a great deal of severe mental trauma... most likely Mee-maw induced. I'm bankin' on a week long stay.... ) It is night. You and I are in the Vomitous "Lion Room" upstairs. You know... the one with the lion heads scattered all over the beds. You are near the bed against the wall. I am IN the other bed. Ummmmmm.... I also happen to have been stark naked and lying next to a Bert handpuppet, I do believe.

We will shoot by the incredibly disturbing "why?" question and cut to the Moment of Crisis. Mee-maw walks into the room. I panic and attempt to... I dunno what? Hide Bert? Squirm back into my pants? I'm not sure what. Anyway, Mee-maw notices my struggling and removes the covers. She sees me lying naked in bed next to Bert.

At this point, I've managed to successfully block almost everything else out. I seem to recall her screaming something Mee-maw-like like "Do you know what this is? This is GAY!" And me screaming something else back at her, something most likely profane. The rest is squeezed down deep inside me in a tight little ball of rage and humiliation. My next memory is of her lecturing us as she drove us home, and of me sitting in the backseat honestly considering bashing in her skull as she drives. And that's the story! I think, deep down inside, I've hated Mee-maw ever since. The End!

Recently, I finally let the parts of this story that I wrote above come back to me, and even told the story to a couple of my friends. They enjoyed it tremendously, and enjoy teasing me about it even more. I can't walk into a toy store with any of them without being showered with Bert Puppets. Fearsome.

But now its time to take the next step, and as the only other witness to this event (aside from the Mee-mawnator) I want you to fill in the holes. How much did I manage to repress? Is there any more to this story that I've blocked out? Did I do anything awesome like push her down or spit in her face? That would rock. But even if I wasn't THAT cool, I'd still like to know what all you remember. Most importantly:

1.) What the HELL was I doing naked in bed with a Bert Puppet?

2.) What did I scream back at Mee-maw? Did she say anything else particularly cool back to me?

3.) How did this all end? Did I chase her from the room with a hatchet?

4.) What the hell were you doing all this time?

Also, if you remember things any way differently, please let me know. I think with these questions answered, the Healing can begin.

Some good has come of this. [An ex-girlfriend] just gleefully sent me a web address that she thought I would appreciate in light of this story. It may be the coolest thing I have ever seen. Check it out: http://fractalcow.com/bert/bert.htm. It explains a LOT. [Sadly, the website referred to is long gone. It was shut down exactly one month after September 11 when Bert's evilness was connected with none other than Osama Bin Laden. No joke! There is conclusive proof that Bert is one of the evildoers that our president is always droning on about. Read all about it at http://www.snopes.com/rumors/bert.htm ]

My brother responded a few days later:

Subj: Re: Me and Ernie have a bit too much in common

Date: 97-07-15 16:51:21 EDT

From: [The Playa MC’s Brother]

To: [The Playa MC]

[Playa] --

Yes, of course I recall the event in question -- in fact, I knew immediately from the subject heading of your e-mail what event you were referencing. You see, I too have a Bert-shaped scar at the core of my being.

The residual humiliation stemming from the event still troubles me from time to time -- which is ridiculous, considering that the goings-on in question were all perfectly innocent. I recall thusly:

You were frolicking nude in bed with Bert; I was prancing around in a latex Catwoman outfit, masturbating onto a stack of Saline crackers. Mee-maw came in and accused us of being faggots. You called her Satan's cunt, then whipped out a fan knife and opened her up like a can of Vienna sausages.

She rolled around screaming for a while, trying to collect her slippery innards in her tiny hands; we bludgeoned her with kitty pillows until she grew still and cold. Then we hauled her down to the bathroom and dismembered her lifeless corpse in the tub, sealing her limbs and viscera in cellophane and washing the remaining gore down the drain with tapwater and a couple of bath pearls.

We were afraid Granddad would realize what had transpired, but he proved to be occupied with sitting at the kitchen table, shelling peas and mumbling like an autistic. We smuggled the chunks of her body out of the house one at a time and buried them in the creek, pausing a moment to urinate on the disturbed ground before returning to the house.

Everything was fine for about a week. Then Duke [their pet dog] dug up her decomposing head and began batting it around the front yard like an old Nerf volleyball. We both pled insanity.

See, you didn't repress much.

No, seriously. I pretty much remember it like you do, with a couple of additions:

1) The all-important "what the fuck were we doing, anyway?" question: I'm a bit sketchy here, but I'm quite certain it didn't involve any sort of faggotry. (Sorry; I just love the word "faggotry.") As I remember, we were engaged in a sort of spontaneous game that involved my repeatedly leaving and re-entering the room; each time I re-entered the room, you would have arranged some sort of humorous tableau involving Bert: Bert throttling a stuffed kitty, Bert hanging himself, Bert in flagrante delicto. You were obviously running out of ideas when Mee-maw made her entrance.

I am certain that this is the proper answer to the "what were we doing" question based on my second recollection:

2) The "what was I doing" question: I was not, as you mentioned, sitting on the other bed -- at least, not at first. When Mee-maw entered, I was on my hands and knees sucking your toes. Just kidding. I was standing by the cabinets, having just entered the room to witness the scene you had constructed. Later, after Mee-maw had begun her lengthy lecture on all things sexually questionable, I took my place on the other bed and dug in for the long haul.

3) The bad news is, that's about all I remember. I do remember you engaging in a bit of a tussle with Mee-maw when she first charged into the room, but if you threw any elbows or did any serious damage, I don't recall. I also remember you screaming something at Mee-maw, and it seems like it may have been profane, but I'm damned if I can remember what it was. As to how it all ended -- I don't remember that either. In many ways . . . it will never end.

We should have sent her to hell when we had the chance.


So that’s my story. I already feel much better having shared it with you all. I think with this step, it’s finally all behind me, and I will no longer cringe when I catch sight of yellow objects out of the corner of my eye. But if you only learn one thing from this story, learn this... if you’re walking downtown on a sunshiney day, and you look up and see Bert headed your way -- cross the street. That puppet is one bad muthafucka.

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