Here’s What Makes Me Angry

I’m kind of stuck in the “anger” stage of not getting that house.  Please forgive me while I vent.  What makes me angry is that the people who own the house I’d hoped to be moving into next month bought that house a short time ago.  Every thing that is wrong with that house was wrong or going to go wrong with that house when they bought it.

They could not have purchased that house on the up and up and not known that the roof, plumbing, and air conditioning were all about to go.

And yet, they’re trying to move out of that house without having addressed those things, as if some other chump is going to come along and buy the house and turn around and put $15,000 (my rough guess) into the house.

I mean, people, if you were going to buy a house that costs x+$15,000 in the next three years, you could buy a house that costs that right now and it would have all those things already addressed.

Don’t get me wrong.  I think there are reasons why they’re doing what they’re doing.  It’s not my place to speculate.

It’s just that I loved that fireplace and had already been dreaming about my dog in the back yard.


The issues with the house are probably going to turn out to be insurmountable.

So, it’s probably not going to happen.

I mean, I guess they could agree to replace the roof, the air conditioner, and the plumbing, but I doubt it.

So, there’s that.

I Have to Go to the Inspection Now, but I have the Pees

Whenever I get nervous, I have to pee, a lot. I pee a lot anyway, or so my friends tell me, but when I’m nervous? Ugh. It’s like pee central. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I drink. Like when I had beers with that big shot editor over at the Scene. I drank lots of beers so that I wouldn’t care if she thought I was witty and cool, but that exacerbated the fact that, since I was nervous as hell, I had to pee like every five seconds.

Right now, same deal.

When I was in college, the Shill and I had these friends who were determined to spend all St. Patrick’s day drinking and, in order to not be thwarted by that, they put on Depends, and sat with their cooler out on the front stoop of their frat house, and refused to move until… Well, I guess until they passed out, in which case they would not be moving, or until St. Patrick’s day ended. I don’t know. Y’all know me. I probably had three beers and peed on a rock and then went home and went to bed. (I did pee on the Sigma Chi rock and they deserved it. I’d do it again. Gladly. Sober.)

Really, when you think about those guys sitting around all day, willingly, sitting around all day in their own pee, you almost marvel at how much time some of us spent (certainly NOT ME, I swear. Not me. Okay, me a little bit. Fine. Me. Me, me, me) wishing they would let us touch their penises.

Life is strange.

I really hope the inspection goes well, but I am also terrified that it will go well because that means it is really, really happening. For reals.

Excuse me…

This Isn’t Politics, This is the Most Awesome Soap Opera EVER!

Imagine, if you will, two small babies, born August 4th, 1961. One is the gentle, sweet Barack Hussein Obama, Jr. and the other is the son of Satan, himself, Barack Muhommad Hussein Obama. And, what should happen but BHOJ is smothered in the crib in the nursery by BMHO, whose goal is to switch places with BHOJ and take over the world. But, at the last minute, a nurse, through some terrible mix-up, switches BMHO with another baby, whose name was… Jeff Gordon!

And so, the son of Satan went home with the Gordons and became a NASCAR driver while the real Jeff Gordon assumed the identity of BMHO who was in the process of assuming the identity of BHOJ.

The only good that can come of this is that the Republicans can now rest assured that the man now known as Barack Obama was indeed born in the United States.

(And is it just me or is this now very close to the plot of Good Omens?)

Meanwhile, Satan, though thwarted by the unknowing nurse, tries again to influence American politics by leading McCain’s probably VP pick into temptation.

Luckily, he’s such a douchenozzle that, in spite of Satan’s every attempt to throw Him(Her)self at the future Governor of Louisiana, the future Governor remains unmoved.

And Susan should thank God for that every day, because, just like a douchenozzle, Jindal is something that should for sure be kept out of your vagina.

Where will Satan crop up next?

It’s hard saying, but you can bet that I’ll have my eye on Cindy McCain.

Picking Lavender

So, this is weird in a woo-woo sort of way.  Yesterday, I was picking lavender from my out-of-control lavendar plant out front and everything about it gave me the weirdest sense of… let’s call it pseudo deja vu.

Because, you see, I have never picked lavender before.  I have never, to my knowledge, been much closer to fresh lavender than to have smelled it in soap.  And yet, I’m sitting there cutting blossoms and feeling like… and here’s where the “pseudo” part of the “pseudo deja vu” comes in… feeling like ‘Done before’ and something like ‘Remember This from Grandma’s House’ or ‘This again from Grandma’s Garden.’

I felt like I was having an old memory, if that makes sense.  But an old memory older than me.  Not my memory.  My grandmas didn’t have lavender at their houses and my grandma A. didn’t even have a garden.

And I guess you could explain it as being, maybe, just a crossed wire in the whole collective unconscious, that my experience of cutting lavender and smelling it was so strong it evoked in me the first memory plucked out of everywhere.

But I can’t help but wonder where memory is kept.  I mean, we think of memory as being a function solely of the mind and of the mind being located solely in the brain, which resides in our heads.  But some researchers and theorists suggest that the mind is more located in the nervous system in general and the reason so many memory problems have to do with things going on in the brain is just because so many nerves are bundled in your brain.

That’s a little off-track, but my point is that the mind is probably not just in your brain but located throughout your body.  Do you have a mind even down to a genetic level?  And, if so, if mind and memory and such aren’t just sitting, precariously balanced on top of this animal we call a body, but are somehow intimately wrapped in with it, do you suppose you can sometimes inherit memories like you inheret eye color?

And, since they’re not your memories, maybe you don’t often, if ever, access them.  They just sit there seldom used, except maybe to influence a love of baking bread or to drive you to buy a bowl just like the one your grandma had, unless something, like the smell of lavender, is strong enough to release them and you “remember” a memory one of your ancestors had.

I think I told you this story, but I want to tell you it again.  My mom’s grandmother, Teckla, was the daughter of immigrants.  Hulda, Teckla’s mother, came over from Sweden when everyone’s mothers were coming to America from Sweden.  When Teckla was small, they went back to visit.  The first thing that Teckla said to Anna, Hulda’s mother, upon seeing her was “Your eyes are blue.  Just like mine.”

When I was a little girl, also carrying the name Teckla, Teckla still lived, out in California, and she sent money so that we could come out to visit her.  The first thing I said to Teckla, upon meeting her?  The thing that freaked her right the fuck out?

“Your eyes are blue.  Just like mine.”