I'm pissed...

I'm pissed that I have to do the fucking dishes.
I'm pissed that I have no money.
I'm pissed that even if I tried to get a job, I can't get more than flipping burgers, even though I have a damn college degree.
I'm pissed that my husband can't wash the one fucking pan that I wanted him to wash.
I'm pissed that stupid Bieber is on CSI.
I'm pissed that I missed almost my daughter's entire soccer game looking for a fucking key that fell off my husband's key chain.
I'm pissed that I didn't find the damn key.
I'm pissed that lately the only thing that keeps me from being bored out of my fucking mind is organizing the school library.
I'm pissed that even after I write this blog, I'm still going to be pissed.
I'm pissed she was murdered.
I'm pissed that I can' t go to her funeral.
I'm pissed that...

Happenings

Well, I was not hired on as a second photographer, due to my (lack of) "creativity level."  Sigh. 
So, this week I will be registering to begin NYIP courses in professional photography.  I hope this will jump start my career as a photographer.  Scared shitless.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH

Okay, I had to get that out.  I'm freaking out a bit because on Saturday I am working as an 'intern' for a possible position as a second photographer.  This would be a great opportunity for me, and I would love to learn more about the business.  If I don't get this position, I am really considering taking the next step with my own photography business.  To be honest, that first step to making a true career out of being a photographer scares the hell out of me.  There are so many what ifs.  So, until Saturday....

By the way, this image I took is why I love what I do. Such happiness.  Such love.

Brawny Man

Dear Brawny Lumberjack,

What has become of you? I enjoyed the rugged woodsman look you once had, with your groomed mustache, 1970s flare, and top button open leaving us to believe you were ripped under that shirt. I was convinced that Brawny paper towels were truly '"The strength to get things done." But now, look at you. You have become a metro sexual, looking more like a lumberjack with a log up his ass. Your goofy grin says to me, "Hey, look how super soft our paper towels are, perfect for my delicate skin." You now wear an undershirt and have more concern for you looks than your product. All I can say is "When did it all go wrong, Mr. Brawny Man, when?"

Please go back to your old look. And for the love of all things good, stop trying to sing.

Sincerely,

A concerned customer

I'm not fat.

I'm not fat. It has taken me 10 years to say that and mean it. Ten years!  I could always use exercise, tone up my body a bit, but I'm not fat. Even when a little over a year ago, when physically I was in the best shape I had ever been in my life, I still thought I was fat. I am not sure why now, this month, this year, this day, I can honestly say to myself, and believe it, that I am not fat.
I have struggled with weight issues since the 8th grade. I was never fat then, but I truly, whole heartedly thought I was. If I couldn't see each one of my ribs, I was fat. When I got to college, if I wasn't less than 100 pounds, I was fat. I remember hitting 99 and be so damn proud of myself. I am not sure if I was a true anorexic. I ate. Some days more than others. I called myself a 'borderline anorexic'. I'm not sure if this is an actual term meaning something completely different, but I thought since I ate, I wasn't an anorexic, therefore, just on the border of becoming one. I think the lowest I ever got was 97 pounds. Funny thing is, no one really knew, and I'm not sure if anyone really noticed either (at no fault of their own). I hid it well.

I have also suffered from depression since 8th grade as well, but that's a whole other blog all in itself, and I'm not quite ready to let all the out.
Point is, I'm not fat. I am 5'5 (and three fourths) in height and 133 lbs. If I lose some weight, great, if I gain a little, okay. I will never be a size 2 again, I have hips damnit, and that's okay too.  I'm not fat.

I want to suck your blood!

I realized the my blood type is rare, if not the rarest blood type out there.  AB neg.  Kinda cool.  I made a comment to my husband that I need to go donate blood, and he said, no way, it's rare, you need what you got!  Okay, it made me laugh, but I guess you had to have been there.  Anyway, I have never given blood.  The one time I tried to, I was underweight (ahh, high school).  I know I meet the weight requirement now, and I'm pretty sure I meet all the other requirements as well.  So, why don't I just go give blood?  Well, to be honest I'm not sure where to go.   Also, I'm not scared of needles, but I am scared that I might have some freakish reaction and passout.  Ugh.  So don't want to do that.  Hopefully, within the years I am here on this planet I will muster up the courage to go give blood.  I'm sure someone out there could use it.

Santa Letters

My kiddos each wrote a letter to Santa. Well, Thing 2 had a bit of help from me, but she did manage to write most of her name :) I mailed them to the North Pole Canada. I had to explain to my son that since the real North Pole is so far away their letters may take months to get there. So, I continued, Santa set up a North Pole in Canada run by Santa's most trusted elves, a Special Operations team of sort. That way, the letters would only take about a week to get there, and Santa would definitely get word of what you want for Christmas. Luckily, my son was satisfied with this answer.


When I went to mail their letters, the postal worker asked me why I just don't email Santa. Seriously? Email? Hell, why email, I'll just tweet the jolly dude. I guess I am just old fashioned because I think that the whole part of writing a letter to Santa is using actual paper and pen, sealing the envelope, and hoping it reaches the North Pole in time. I loved watching my kids carefully pen each word, especially my son, who made sure each letter was perfect, each word spelled correctly, and a polite thank you added to the bottom of the page. My daughter loved telling me what to add to her list and made sure I was writing it all down, with nod and smile of satisfaction on her face. I can't see how typing an email to Santa would be fun. It is so impersonal. I don't think seeing the glow of the computer screen reflecting off their faces, pecking at each letter, using spell check, and hitting send, has that Christmassy spirit to it.  So, no emailing Santa for this family.

By the way, anyone know where to get a 'real giraffe' and an elf?