Bitch-A-Rama, Buffy, and Buzzcuts.
December 11th, 2001 by Kevin
Warning: Serious bitching, whining, and griping to follow.(It’s best that I just get it out of my system now.)
OK, I have thought about this whole Pennsylvania thing for about twelve hours straight now, and I am getting more and more depressed at the thought of it.
I really, really, really don’t want to go.
I see no reason why we should spend Christmas day in the car for eight damn hours.
I told my mom today, and she is having a stroke. She actually told me that I need to leave J. with her for Christmas(suuuuure), and that I was totally screwing her holiday, and that D. and I are basically mean little selfish trolls. That made me feel great. I’m a bad mom and a bad daughter, all in one rotten remark.
I kind of don’t blame her. If J. told me he was driving halfway across the country on his Big Wheel and was not going to be here for Christmas, I’d be a little miffed. Good thing he can’t cross the street yet.
I really don’t know what the hell to do. I can’t give him an ultimatum. I can’t really bitch too much, because we’ve spent every other holiday this year with my family.
Not to mention the fact that D. is paying all bills and paying for all Christmas gifts, which automatically makes me feel obligated to do whatever the hell he wants.
If I wasn’t on disability and didn’t feel like he was footing the bill for everything, I would be much more likely to throw a fit, but I just don’t feel like I’m in any position to do so. I’m nine again. I can’t drive, I’m not working, and I’m completely dependent on D. at the moment. I feel like one of those damn prehistoric women who is being dragged around by the hair. All the way to Butt Crack, Pennsylvania.
OK, that was unfair. I’m just really bummed out.
If I hear “Independent Women” on the radio today, someone’s going to get hurt.
I would really sell my left boob to be working again, driving around, Christmas shopping, being a productive member of society, and making my own decisions about where the hell I spend the holidays. I’m the quintessential workaholic control freak, and suddenly becoming June freakin’ Cleaver has done nothing for my self-esteem. I hate it.
I want to have money in the bank. I want to wear a damn suit, and not just jeans or sweats. I want to run back to the cold, cold arms of corporate America and regain my sense of self. I want to make important decisions. I do NOT want to be Little Jenny Yes, Sir who just goes with the flow.
If you would have told me two years ago that I’d be sitting around in a bathrobe at 9 AM on a Tuesday morning, I’d have sent you for a drug screen.
Seasonal depression, anyone?
I would like to smoke an entire pack of Newports right about now, and top them off with a chocolate cheesecake. Instead, I am having fried egg whites and black coffee. Breakfast of champions.
I have also had a big fat whomping migraine since this whole damn issue reared its ugly little head.
I promise that I am not going to spend the next two weeks whining about this like a two-year-old.
We now return to your regularly scheduled entry, where Trance will discuss topics that are light and frothy, much like a Starbucks cappucino.
If my TV guide is correct, my very favorite Buffy episode of all time is on tonight. It’s the only one that is actually really scary. There is no dialogue for 80% of the show, because these freaky, nasty, ugly little men that float a foot off the ground are stealing voices. It is quite cool - I highly recommend it. I STILL have not seen the Buffy/Spike sex episode(the only damn one I’ve missed in years), because my negligent father keeps forgetting to bring the tape over. I can’t wait. Buffy porn. It just doesn’t get any better than that.
I’m not homophobic in the least, but for some reason the whole Tara/Willow relationship totally icked me out. The two of them together were just cheesy and smarmy as hell. I think that even if Tara would have been a man, it would have been equally yucky. I don’t hate lesbians. Really. If Willow and Anya had hooked up, that would have been fine. Tara just has that hangdog whiny persona that annoys me. I want my TV lesbians to be spunky.
D. gave J. a haircut the other day, and it is dorky as can be. I have to bite my tongue to not make fun of it because it took about an hour of some very delicate clipper action, but the poor kid looks like a Waldo. I’m a fan of the preppy little Gap Kid haircut on little boys, but D. just sheared the yuppie spawn-ness right off of him. He essentially has a buzzcut with a little extra in the front. He almost looks like one of those rotten, FuBu-sporting teenagers that I see at the mall, minus the gel.
He is totally self-conscious about it, too. He keeps checking his hair in the full-length mirror in my room, looking completely perplexed.
Sometimes it’s very, very difficult to stifle the Inner Smartass. I have to bite back things like, “Nice hair, Buzz,” and, “Alrighty, Captain Crewcut!”.
It’s tough, but I’m really trying to be a kind and supportive mommy and let it slide. Poor little fuzzy kid.
One of these days, my adult son is going to find the Trance Diary archives on the Internet, and he is going to hate me.
I just got my fourth Harry Potter. I had every intention of waiting for it to come out in paperback, but I just couldn’t do it. It’s about twice as thick as the first three, so I’m pretty damn excited. I have to go see that movie soon. Even though I know it’s probably going to suck compared to the visuals that my overactive imagination has concocted, I absolutely cannot wait.
Today is Cookie Preparation Day. I need to sit down with a calculator and figure out exactly what I need for the Great Bakeoff. So far, I have a list of about thirty people. I’m going to have to go to Sam’s club and load up on chocolate chips, vanilla, sprinkles, cute little boxes, and about a hundred bucks worth of other crap; and then spend a good three days baking up a storm. This will ensure that every friend and relative will call me a week after Christmas and whine about how they gained ten pounds, and it’s all my fault. Then I can feel superior knowing that I ate my sugar-free peanut butter cookies like a good little obsessive.
Hey, better them than me.
However, if my stress level keeps rising, I might be found on the kitchen floor at 3 AM, covered in flour, with my face in a five-pound bag of chocolate chips.
You never know.
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