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Prove Me Wrong
Treading Lightly On Powdered Sugar
Wednesday, 29 December 2004
W00T, you hosers!
Just kidding.
However, I'm moving this blog. I'm now going to be posting at
Change your links, kids,and I apologize ahead of time if it's all fucked up. You see, I'm learning HTML as I go along.
Hope to see you all there!
Unfortunately, you need an account to post as yourself, and I can understand if yall don't want to do that, so you can post anonymously and just sign your name.
Belieeeeeeeeeeeeve me, I understand.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 5:46 AM
Updated: Wednesday, 29 December 2004 8:03 AM
Monday, 20 December 2004
Random Bits From Over the Weekend
Mood:  bright
I'm starting to write again today. I will dedicate at least two hours every day to The Book, which I haven't touched or looked at in months. I have to keep the flow going, or my brain will dry up. Not that I'm using it much anymore anyway...
I seem to have a coffee fetish/obsession happening, because I was thinking about the Taster's Choice couple all weekend. Weren't they CUTE? And to make things even more wonderfuller, the hot English guy was played by the relatively unknown Anthony Stewart Head, who went on to become the oh-so-British-he's hot Rupert Giles on the Buffy. I forget, did the TC couple get together at the end?
I did all my christmas shopping for the hub-unit on the internet this year, because I realized that he is the hardest person to buy things for IN THE WORLD. When I think something is the coolest thing ever, I make a little SQUEE sound, so he has his choice of thousands of things to pick up for me. Not to say that I want it all, but if I see something so freeking adorable I want to squish it, I make a squee. Therefore, LOTS of shit to choose from. He, on the other hand, just mumbles that stuff is 'cool', and I can never dra a bead on whether it's cool and he'd like to have it, or it's just kinda nifty. Men don't squee, and therefore give no indication of niftyness. Thing is, he likes computer stuff like RAM and memory and all that small component stuff that I have no clue about, so I took the easier road. I got him a few Stephen Lynch cds, Halo 2 which he's been drooling over, and a couple of DVDs that I thought he would love. All of this stuff, while almost killing my 200 dollar agreed-upon Xmas budget, still only fits in my biggest purse, which I have been using for a hiding place. It's like eight presents, but very wee presents. I have no problem with this.
UNTIL his goofy ass goes shopping for me. He comes home with stuff SO BIG that he can't even hide it so he has to wrap it immediately. Stuff so big that I have to cover my eyes while he transports it to the wrapping room.
Now I feel bad. Not that the quantity of presents is any bigger than his, but the sheer SIZE of them makes me feel guilty. I mean, all I got him was a bunch of media stuff, nothing too massive, and he comes home with shit we could hide a cat under. Several cats, in fact. I shouldn't feel guilty, I know he'll love his gifts.
But they're so WEE. Maybe I should get him something bigger.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 3:40 AM
Wednesday, 15 December 2004
Peter! Peter's BACK!!!!!!
Come on, you know what I'm talking about. They've started playing that old Folger's Coffee ad about the guy waking everybody in the house up with a pot of coffee and the mom's so happy to see him that she nearly busts herself open.
My question, even back in the day when that commercial had even a tiny inkling of cool was, Where has Peter been?
A) Look at his sweater. THat's obviously made with the careful and over-knittyness of a mental patient who's not allowed to do anything else. Ergo, Peter's been in the nuthouse for a few years.
B) He's fairly buff for a toothpaste-white-smiley geek. He's got a tan. Ergo, he's been a poitical prisoner in Habu-Jabubi for years and had nothing to do but work out and stare at the sun awaiting a political coup.
C) He's good at being sneaky and he makes a mean cup of coffee. Add the tan, and he's been an undercover DEA agent that fell too far into his role and is overcompensating by wearing that fucking RIDICULOUS sweater when he finally realizes the folly of his ways and goes home for christmas.
I hate having a paranoid mind.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 5:33 AM
Tuesday, 14 December 2004
Alive and Kickin'
They need to kill Scott Peterson.
Why? I'll tell ya why. BECAUSE HE KILLED SOMEONE ELSE. That simple.
Now I know that I've always shied away from politicalness, because I don't vote and therefore have no right to bitch and moan, but COME ON. The guy SLAUGHTERED his wife and unborn child, and went about his business.
I'm no good at picking the bad guy. When Polly Klaas was kidnapped and murdered all those years ago, I had my finger pointed at her dad, because he looked eeeevil. I was wrong. But I digress.
But they found Scott Peterson guilty, and sentenced him to death. Problem with that is the California death penalty process is so fucked up that he'll probably never die unless someone kills his ass in jail (crossed fingers). As of now, there are 641 inmates rotting on death row in San Quentin, and none of them are movin' on up. The last execution was in 2002, for a guy who committed his crime in 19-fucking-80. This is why I adore Texas.
If these people were found guilty, and SENTENCED TO DIE, don't you think that that should happen fairly soon after having the shit passed down? This almost makes me beg for prison riots among inmates.
This is why I'm glad I don't live in California anymore.
Normally, I am a liberal type for a lot of stuff. I'm down for oscialized medicine, gay marriage, all that good hot-buttony goodness. But I still believe in my heart of hearts that if you're told that you're gonna die, you should fucking DIE, not wait fifteen years backed up in appeals court just because of fucking due process. Give them TWO appeals, that's it. Then kill 'em.
I feel better now.
Next entry.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 4:30 AM
Thursday, 9 December 2004
McZpazitron 3000, with all the guilt you can handle and MORE!
Mood:  don't ask
My mom called last night. Apparently, she had a meltdown.
Not your garden variety, call your therapist and get some pills and meditate type of meltdown, a full-scale heavy on lost her mind and had to be institutionalized breakdown. She's staying with my aunt right now, the CRAZY aunt not the cool one, and she's on a temporary break from her job. Well, two weeks isn't necessarily temporary, but we'll see.
I was okay when she called, I wasn't really affected at all. I myself can't handle real life without someone to hold my hand, hence I can't leave the house without a friend with me or clinging to my hub-unit's hand. But it's obvious my mother just can't accept what I like to call the Alternate Reality.
I call it this only in her case, because my mom knew nothing but being married and taking care of kids for twenty some odd years. After my dad pulled his shit, she just never recovered.
I've tried to tell her, time and again, that thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of middle-aged women have to start their lives over again because of some circumstance. They start over, and it's hard, and it may take years for them to get acclimated, but they do it and things are fine.
I guess I can't say that anymore.
I guess I was wrong.

I was fine until about two hours ago, and now things are starting to look glum for me. What would happen if I was presented with the same violent rip in the only world I've ever known?
There are two things:
I have had more life experience, and therefore would hold up better to the strain and would invariably start my life over again with a minimum of help, or,
I would kill myself because I would have no footprints to follow, no imprint on which to base my life.

Neither will happen, but my mother's breakdown has definitely made me think about things I wouldn't normally like to.

And now, having ruminated enough, I guess I'll just wait until she calls me back. Until then, I'll focus on my own life and pretend to be a grown-up as much as I can.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 1:37 AM
Tuesday, 7 December 2004
On the Way Down...
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Counting Crows, Counting Crows, and MORE Counting Crows
So I've been gone awhile from my regular posting duties to the general public. FUCK YOU.
No, I kid. I love everyone.
I haven't picked up the blogophone in a while because of several reasons, which I will now cover in exhausting detail because it's 2:30 in the morning and I can't sleep because there's a huge windstorm brewing outside.
My last entry? Was babbling ass-chowder. I was awake for 27 hours straight, and was cleaning for at least 20 of them. I was a fucking MANIAC. The carpets were cleaned, prompting a no-shoes rule effective THAT VERY SECOND. The slipcovers were pulled down and straightened and tucked, prompting a no-sit rule THAT VERY INSTANT. I scrubbed and bleached and scoured and sprayed and vacuumed and washed and basically FREAKED OUT for 27 hours. I cried hysterically twice. I think I tried to kill the hub-unit once, and snapped at him like a crazed fishwife CONSTANTLY. The house had to be PERFECT when my mom walked in. At least for the first twenty minutes or so, then I was probably going to take a shit in the middle of the living room floor and smear it on the walls once she saw what a good non-employed at-home-all-day housewife I was. But I digress. By the time I got around to posting that last entry, I was delirious and shaking from lack of sleep, and still yet the house was not clean. A two-bedroom apartment, and I was freaking out so bad the hub-unit thought he was going to have to institutionalize me before my mom even showed up. Finally? House got clean to my insane requirements.
Then Mom comes. I love my mom, I really do, but WTF happened to her over the last year I cannot comprehend in the SLIGHTEST. We're in Seattle, right? Picking up the mom. So we figure we can go to Pike Place Market and walk around for a while, since her plane landed around 11:30 am and we'd been up since six anyway, so why not just exhaust ourselves completely?
My mother talks to everyone. EVERYONE. She even flirts with the 26 year-old hottie at the fish stall.
As everyone on the planet EXCEPT my mother seems to know, I am not a people person. If I am in a group of people and there are TWO people I don't know, I develop instant hermit-crabbyness and must sit in the corner like a goober until it's time to go. I may be an excellent, nay, a FANTASTIC storyteller, but talking to strangers in the fish market? Not a fucking CHANCE. My mom states clearly and lucidly to me and the hub-unit that she can "talk to anyone". GOODY. And she shows off this amazing people-person talent every chance she gets, effectively making me the most awkward-feeling and uncomfortable person on the planet. Good start so far. We go home and stay up until one AM, when my mother tells me that she can no longer sleep without taking at least two Tylenol PMs. Great, now she's a freaking addict.
Hilarity ensues.
EVERY DAY she must go somewhere. She must walk. She must MOVE, which is a new thing since last year's visit where she was content sitting in a chair and reading. We were out EVERY DAY, doing something. Even if it was just going to the grocery store and Wal-Mart, we were out for HOURS.
I have no problems with road trips. The hub-unit and I make it a point every two weeks to go somewhere and experience the world, blah blah blah. But every day? We are fairly active, but we're not THAT active.
And there's my broken-ass self. I can walk for maybe two hours before my fucked up knees and back and hips start to ache just enough for me to start breathing funny and get somewhat crabby. Only somewhat, it's not like I turn into superbitch or anything. So about two hours into our four-hour walking tours of EVERYWHERE, I start to lag behind a wee bit. The hub-unit notices, but doesn't say anything until that night in bed, which is damn near every night. My mother, bless her heart, attributes my fucked-upedness to being fat, despite my protestations that I've had bad legs and knees and hips since grade school. Nope, it's cuz I'm the size of a fucking BARN. And that's why she won't buy me anything with horizontal stripes. Moving on.
Thanksgiving went extremely well, despite the fact that two days before we found out that somehow all of our money disappeared and we were BROKE with no money to buy food or anything else for that matter with at least a week left before payday. We had to get another loan, which my mom wouldn't let me forget the rest of her trip despite the fact that it only added ten dollars more a month to the payments of our current loan, which we could easily cover because for the most part we are FINANCIALLY ASTUTE.
And she does that crazy mom thing where she complains but it doesn't sound like complaining it sounds more like a statement of fact. Kind of like well DUH Queenie of COURSE she hates her job and she doesn't have a boyfriend and she had to sell the house and she has to work for the rest of her life until she DIES because no one will ever love her again and she'll have to rent for the rest of her life because everything is SO HARD and her life is OVER.
These thinly-veiled emotional owies sent me into a tailspin of bedtime sobbings. ALL I WANTED, goddammit, was for her to come visit and have a good time and a family Thanksgiving, and even then there's always something. I blamed myself a LOT.
Every night, there was a lot of whispered talkings between me and the hub-unit, and add that to the fact that we were out EVERY DAY and exhausted, things started turning sour for us. We fought bunches those last few days, ripping into each other because of lack of sleep and my nocturnal weepies that were NOT WERE NOT my fault.
So, in essence, after mom left we needed a vacation from our vacation. I've been keeping up with everyone else's postings, but I myself have not written so much as a comment. As it stands now, I can't sleep at night so I wake the unit up to go to work and then sleep all day. NOT conducive to baking Christmas cookies, I'll tell you that much.
But other than the painful insomnia, I'm okay now. Things are just now getting back to normal, and I never realized how much I appreciated my ridiculously boring life until now.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 11:57 PM
Updated: Wednesday, 8 December 2004 12:01 AM
Thursday, 18 November 2004
Mood:  caffeinated
I will be brief.
My mother arrives tomorrow, so I have NO IDEA when I will be able to post next. So if yall don't see anything in the next few days, it is because I am immersed in Mommy-type goodness. However. I will begin posting again after the 29th.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Did I mention I fucked up? I thought that her plane was arriving at 11:35 AM, so we planned around that. Turns out? She is arriving at 9:35, and now we have to wake up at FIVE IN THE MORNING to beat Seattle traffic.
Also? Have not slept since 3 PM yesterday. Am cranky.
But I need a clean and spotless and febreezed house first.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 2:15 PM
Monday, 15 November 2004
Another Late Night
Now Playing: Flowerstand Man, Faithless and Dido
But I am feeling better. Anxiety, it seems, has never been one of my strong points. Grace under pressure? DON'T fucking think so.
Before I retire, I found some great things that everyone should check out, because I said so and they're really neat:
The Dionaea House
Why? Because it's AWESOME. Trust me on this, have I ever steered you wrong?
God's Journal
Why? Because I NEED a good laugh nowadays, and I'm fairly sure that any open-minded person does too.
Ted the Caver
Why? Because I am a sucker for a creepy maybe/maybe not story.
Why? Because it's a strange, wonderful online comic about love and desperation and sin and redemption and all that crazy shit. I can NOT pimp this thing out any more than I already have, but if I could I would. I myself am over-emotional, but I cried a LOT for the little animals. NOT for the easily affronted. Seriously. It's for grown-ups, people.
And now I'm off to surf more.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 11:44 PM
Updated: Monday, 15 November 2004 11:45 PM
Sunday, 14 November 2004
Currently Bizzing in My Brain
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Perfect Blue Buildings, Counting Crows
Having a panic attack. Everyone keeps telling me that things will be fine, and I know this. Hell, I UNDERSTAND this. However, this does not stop the fact that all of a sudden (well, the past few days), I have gotten progressively worse. As I type now, it is late at night, after midnight anyway, and my hands are shaking and my mouth is dry for no fucking reason, and while I have the music cranked up to drum-shattering decibels, I can feel the wind outside rattling my bones and brain.
In the past few days, I've gotten louder, as if the world couldn't hear me already as well as the poor shmucks next to me. I'm talking at an almost constant clip, like if I stop something will happen or worse, not happen.
The reason i bring up this painful revisitation of my ever-surprising symptoms is because I have noticed that while I've kept this blog, I can almost chart my crashes and spins. I always thought that my panic attacks were few and far between, and it looks to me like I was wrong. Or maybe it's just because a "panic attack", to me, involves the rocking in a corner of a room and insomnia lasting for more than two days and the slamming of my fists into cinderblock walls. The smaller jitters and jives happen ALL THE TIME.
It's times like these, these things I remember and things I forget, that I almost consider taking up the VA on that offer of free medication and therapy. Almost.
I mean, if I can live a life that appears normal, I can't be that bad off, can I? If I can function pretty damn close to normally I can't need THAT much medical attention, right?
I can't tell my hub-unit these things, because he worries enough about me as it is. SO I write them down, and hope against hope that no one notices the contrast in moods and I can soak in the shower for a while and it will all go away.
I hope.

Rattled Out By Queenie at 9:48 PM
Thursday, 11 November 2004
Now Playing: American Jesus, Bad Religion
Right, I forgot about the news!
So the BBF and her husband are all fershnickety about where they're going to end up because of Navy stuff, orders and schools and whatnot. Her husband got picked up for HM school, which means he'll be leaving soon to go learn how to work at a hospital. This is good. However, unless he does SUPER well in school and gets to pick where he wants to go, he may get sent somewhere really far away, leaving his wife and their two kids in FL. The BBF got orders to stay in FL, which is good because having to move two kids by yourself while the hubby's away at school could suck.
Thing is, her orders to stay in FL got cancelled, because she also got picked up for HM school, believe it or not. This complicates matters more, because she may go the same time as him, or she may go a month or two after him, but either way it leaves the kids high and dry. Well, not abandoned, but they will be living with gramma and grandpa, which kind of but not really puts a strain on everyone involved.
But the big news is that they are both going to schools because the Navy finds them both such outstanding sailors that they will pay for the both of them to be retrained.
I'm pretty sure this is a good thing. However, I may cry if my bed bud on the planet gets stationed in spain or something.
You know, this seemed like better news when I got it....

Rattled Out By Queenie at 8:23 PM

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