I'm Bipolar

Ha.  Me likey.

Tears Follow Me

My brother's birthday was this week.  The little booger turned 21, and is freaking excited he can finally go into bars and drink legally.  In fact, he is coming to stay with me tonight, and we're going to hit up some hot spots in Nashvegas.

On Monday night, we had a little family party for him, complete with cheesecake for his birthday dessert.  He doesn't really care for actual cake.  But cheesecake, he could eat an entire one all by himself.  We also had him a bunch of presents.  I of course got him a bottle of vodka, his favorite liquor.

Grandma came that night, also.  And when he unwrapped the present she gave him, we all began to cry.  Inside was a simple wooden jewelry box containing an old beat up belt buckle and a pipe.

We are not a complete family anymore.  Papa passed away in 2008 after a short illness that took his mind from us first.  We are close knit.  We love each other dearly, and we all live less than a mile away from each other.  When Papa died, we were all heartbroken, and although its been over two years now, there are still moments when we are all together that we reminisce and begin to cry.

The jewelry box was his.  The pipe was the one he had forever, but only smoked once.  The belt buckle was the one he wore to church every Sunday, and nowhere else.  When Matt (brother dear) opened the box, Papa's smell of Old Spice filled the room, and it felt like he was there in the room with us.

My brother is around 6' 4", and weighs around 280 pounds.  To see tears dripping down his face is not a common occurrence.  Which made all the rest of us cry even harder.  And when he said "Thank you" to grandma, it was so heartfelt.

Although it was a moment of sadness and happiness in remembering the dearest man on earth to me, next to my daddy and Patrick, it is a memory I will always cherish.  My family is one full of love for each other.  We may mess up and make mistakes, but we will always be there for each other.

Happy birthday, kiddo.  Love you.

Not Pregnant

I get the weirdest looks from people all the time for one of my favorite sandwiches.  It is not your "normal" sandwich, although the person who gets to judge what is normal in this life does not always coincide with my own thoughts on normalcy.
The sandwich in question (which I am happily munching on right now) is pickle, lettuce, and pretzel with a drizzle of dijon mustard.

See, I told you.  I see the looks out there.  Except for you, making the yummy face.  You get ten points.

It is a strange concoction, I will admit.  But to me, the tangy and crunchy makes my taste buds happy.  Adding cucumber is also a refreshing treat, but alas, no cucumbers in my kitchen today.

Weird sandwiches has been passed down to me, though.  My dad's favorite sandwich was peanut butter and mayonnaise.  When mom was too busy or had to go in to work early, dad would be in charge of making our breakfasts.  And more likely than not, he would be slathering up the bread with PB and Mayo to put on our plates, and a huge glass of ice cold milk to wash it down.
It's actually really tasty.  Don't knock it until you've tried it.

Another good one is peanut butter and jelly with sour cream and onion chips in the middle.

When you think about it, I'm sure everyone has some weird food concoction that they think is just mouth watering, but everyone else warily stares it down.  As if it will jump off their friend's plate and try to scurry down their throat, gags aplenty.

So what is yours?  I'm all ears.

Throw Me That Apron

I am renting a house right now.  I don't know if I ever told any of you about that, yet.  November 2009, we (Patrick and I) found this little place in a tiny dead-end neighborhood in Nashville, TN.  We rented it, found a room mate, and are spending the beginnings of "us" in this 2 bedroom, 1 bath.

It is only the 2nd actual place I have considered my home since I left my parents' house in 2003.  I had a one bedroom apartment briefly in Knoxville that felt like home to me.  But that lasted a year before I wanted to move elsewhere.  I've considered myself a nomad up until last year, and this boy finally settled me.  So now I play house, and little housewife, and domesticize myself to death.

I've only had apartments or condos until now, so I have never been completely familiar with the general upkeep of a house.  I mean, my father was a plumber/electrician and I had a brother, so I never had to fix a sink, toilet, blown fuse, or mow.  But now I am learning to do all of those things and more.

Not to mention housework.  And you know what?  I love every damn minute of it.  All I want to do when I have to go to my job is stay at home and make sure all the laundry is done, the living room is clean, the bed is made, the toilet and shower are clean, and that the kitchen is filled with some sort of wholesome food.

I realize some of you feminism loving females out there are sneering your nose right now.  Trust me, I am still all for feminism.  I am not selling out.  Or maybe I am.  A part of feminism is choice, and I choose to love doing these things.  He does not force me to do them, or require it of me.  In fact, if I had a penny for every time he says,"I just want you to be happy.  You do whatever you want with your life, and I'll be right there beside you." then neither of us would ever have to work a day in our lives again.  

Right now, my feet are stained green with the juice of fresh cut grass, and the blisters are forming on my thumbs.  And I am aching inside to write down the stories rolling in my head.

But I am content.  I am happy.  And I will attempt once again to fall asleep tonight.

Good night, all.

Catharsis

I remember when a day passing between my writing fits was uncommon.

It has been literally months now since I have penned anything of substance.  Ideas roll about in my head, but for some reason I just do not allow them to escape.  I know part of the problem is fear.  But that is a topic for another day.

My emotions are having an adverse reaction to my writing celibacy.  And I am fairly certain that my beloved would lock me in our bedroom with a pencil and a pad of paper if he thought it would help.

Perhaps that's what I need.  I keep putting every other action item on my multiple "To-Do" lists above the simple act of writing.  Or, as I take it, catharsis.

Even now, 2 AM, I sit here, unable to fall asleep, my mind tumbling.  Reading didn't bring about the heavy eyelids as it normally does, so my only thought was to pull my lap top covertly under the covers so the light doesn't wake my snoring dear.

I hate when the cursor blinks at me repeatedly over and over, like someone stomping their foot impatiently waiting for you to do or say something.  To make up your mind.  Keep blinking, little black line.  You only spur me to keep my fingers flying across this keyboard.

God.  I have started talking to my computer.  I need to get my butt down to writing so they don't commit me this early in life.

Of course, it did work well for Sylvia Plath.  Except for the suicide.  I'll try to steer clear of that.

Weird Side Effect

I was listening to the television in the background (Who Wants To Be a Millionaire) as I was cleaning the house. A drug commercial came on, as they seem to be prevalently mid-day, and I heard the weirdest possible side effect ever.

BURPING.

This drug, for whatever reason, causes chronic and severe burping in certain cases. Hmmm...

It sounds like something Bart Simpson would put in someone's drink.