Rebel Rescuer

My Karma is Jacked

Obviously I ran over an old person.  Or maybe I made fun of someone with a speech impediment.

Whatever it is that I did, it has my Karma jacked up six ways to Sunday. 

Here's a partial list from the past two weeks.......

*PG's truck (that we bought used just two weeks prior) broke down.  The fuel pump is dead, and at the same time the ignition broke.  Three tow-jobs later (and a $1200 quote from the dealership) and its still broken.  But I'm going to fix it tomorrow....or die trying.

*The kitchen sink drain (that I thought was fixed) simply isn't.  I want to shove dynamite down it and blow it back to the hell from which it came.

*Two dogs that were adopted over a year ago (one of them two years ago) had to come back to rescue.  One of them is facing $1000 worth of surgery.

*We got the vet bill for the three-legged foster dog's amputation.  Yup, $1900.

*I got a nail in my tire and had to buy two new tires.  Apparently my alignment is jacked up as well.

*Tuesday night a lightning bolt hit the tree outside of the kitchen.  It blew the trunk up, which in turn destroyed an entire panel of the fence.  We're talking toothpicks.  I don't know if the tree will survive, but I know its been here a hell of a lot longer than the house, and I don't want to lose it.  :(

*PG worked 37 straight hours.  Part of which was while we were waiting to have his truck towed off the highway ramp.  Yes, thanks to the Devil Crackberry, one really CAN work with folks in Japan while broken down along the highway in the pouring rain.

*My Twilight DVD cracked completely through, killing it completely.  I have no idea how this happened.

*I have some sort of allergy or something that has me hacking like the TB Ward and makes my eyes red like I've been toking on a bong for six days straight.  (PS--I've never toked on a bong, but I'm sure people are wondering if I have the munchies.)

So there ya have it.  If you have any suggestions for smacking my Karma into submission (or at least changing its attitude a bit) please let me know.  I'm almost afraid to leave the house these days.

Scars

I think its safe to say that we all bear scars.  Be they on the inside or out, they are there and little reminders of how things just didn't go right. 

Some scars are beautiful, whether the bearer knows it or not.  Sometimes that line of healed skin has so much to say:  I survived, I healed, I'm OK now.  And in them there is an acknowledgment of uniqueness, of strength.  And at the same time, there is a memory that is painful, but sometimes beautiful at the same time.

I have a scar on my right wrist.  Its not much, just a little over an inch of jagged white line.  But in its memory, I learned about boundaries, patience, and agendas.  There was a time when I tried to communicate with a creature, I wanted him to understand that I was there to help, that he didn't need to be afraid of me.

But I did it on my terms, not his.  I did it in my way, not his.  And I pushed it too far.

And in my unbending effort to make him understand me, it only frightened him further.  I forced something that would have happened in its own time anyway, yet that wasn't good enough for me then.  I needed him to understand me, but I lost sight of understanding him.

And in his frightened state, he did the only thing he could to let me know that it wasn't OK.  He pushed back.  It was quick and at first, painless.  They say that the element of surprise is a powerful weapon and I agree.  Before the message could reach my mind, his shiny white teeth were on my wrist.  I jerked back, dragging those daggers through my skin.

He was instantly sorry.  But as I stood there bleeding, I knew that I was more sorry.  In my desire to communicate, I'd failed miserably.  I stood there bleeding, he stood there shaking, and we stared at each other.  Then I crumpled to the ground and cried.  Not for the pain, not for the blood, and not for myself.  I cried for him, and for my failure to see things from his perspective.  I saw the tragedy in forgetting patience, and the horror in his eyes.  But mostly, I saw myself...maybe for the first time.

And I was more ashamed than I'd ever been.

This scar still resides prominently on my wrist.  It is there, shiny and pale, during every task and every moment.  And it reminds me to be patient, to find understanding, and to empathize.  It reminds me that things cannot always go the way I want them to, when I want them to. 

It is at once my badge of shame and my badge of pride. 

Shame because I was ignorant, shame because I was impatient.  Pride because it represents one of the most important lessons of my life...

Sometimes it is those that bite us the hardest that teach us the most.

This Day Can Kiss My Ass.

No seriously.  This has been my fucking evening so far...

PG calls to say that his truck has broken down on the side of the highway.    Something about it shutting off and the ignition set is spinning freely.  So I hop in my car and run to the parts store for a new lockset.  I install it, but of course, the security codes don't match.  Thankfully we're well out of traffic and off in the grass.

Call a locksmith to come out and re-key the new lockset.  Since its after hours, I can't just run it to a dealership.  Wait two hours for this process to be over.

Ignition installed, keyed properly, fucking truck won't start.  Look at the gas gauge and its low, but not close to empty.  But since its on a hill, we decide to try that.

Go to a gas station and the very foreign dude reluctantly loans us his gas can.  Then tries to cheat a lady on her prepaid gas purchase.  They get into a confrontation in the parking lot and the cops are called.

We put the gas in the truck and return the gas can.

Still no worky.

I'm inches from calling a tow truck to have it towed to my mom's house when PG announces that some hardworking Koreans or Japanese people or something need some kind of contracts first thing in the morning.  He's receiving info by Crackberry.  He says he needs to go back to work for the night.  Calls are flying like crazy.  Him to work people, me to anyone that knows anything about why the fucking truck won't start.

Then it starts raining.

Empty the truck of anything and everything, put it in my car, and start driving PG the 45 minutes across town to his office.  One of his coworkers has AAA and has offered to take him back to the truck and have it towed.  Nice lady.  I tell him that he should take her to breakfast.

Then I wonder if that's what swingers say to each other.

But then we have to meet her husband in a parking lot to pick up some things she needs to get through the Japanese/Korean/Whatever all night contract-fest.  We do so, and he (the husband) looks as thrilled as I do.  I wonder aloud if he and I should go drinking.  I decide against that as a DUI isn't on my to do list for tonight.

Drop hubby and his Redbulls off at the office.  Start the 45 minute drive back home.

Get stuck for thirty minutes in road construction.  At night.

Get close to home and run into severe rain and lightning.  I can't drive more than 15mph because of the rain.  Can't see anything because the lightning is so bright that it blinds me.  I can't see at night anyway.  I now know how Ray Charles feels when he's driving.

Finally get home to find that one of my dogs is afraid of lightning and won't come out from behind the toilet.  Find that another dog who is apparently NOT afraid of lightning has figured out the babylocks on the wastebasket and has raided it.

Lightning stops so I check email.  THREE new dogs needing to come in, not including the two that are coming into rescue next week.  One of the dogs was adopted from us a couple of years ago, but now needs $1000 worth of surgery and his owner can't afford it.  Another has a tendency to bite people and other dogs.  The third...well who knows.  And oh yeah, the vet bill came in for Tripod and that's a mere $1200.

So there ya have it. 

This day can kiss my ass.

I get him now.

Thanks in part to a giant vet bill, I've been riding the card tables like a maniac lately.  Its normal for me to play maybe twice a week.  But lately its been nearly every day.

Its like having a job.

And like every job, there are upsides and downsides.  Sure, I can make my own hours.  If I'm running late in the morning, its no big deal.  If I need to leave early to make an appointment, no problemo.  I can listen to my iPod, enjoy comped lunches, and take smoke breaks whenever I feel the need.  I can make phone calls, read a book, and even enjoy free drinks (though I rarely...if ever...have a drink while playing).  It can be very profitable.

But there are the downsides too.  It can be mind-numbingly boring.  Twelve hours of sitting can make one stiff and sore.  Its rare to be on a table without at least one nasty jerk (ask me about it....I'm a girl).  Something exciting may happen only once an hour.  And of course, there are days when no profit is made at all and you pack up your buy-in and head home.

(Fortunately that hasn't happened often lately.)

So after yet another long day yesterday, I was whining to PG about being tired and fried.  And being the logical person that he is, he wondered why I do it at all.

Silly men.

At that question, I quickly jumped to defend my favorite game and past-time.  And job.

And my answer to him was that it tires out my very overactive brain.  I can listen to people, and watch them, and yet not have to engage in conversation with them.  I can run numbers, watch tiny tells, and observe humans in a theoretical battle-like situation.  I can watch men flex their mental muscles, and the occasional woman flex her girliness.  And with that, we all dance 'round and 'round the table.  Sometimes fading, sometimes thrusting.  We dance in a cycle of lying, bullying, tricking and trapping.  It is a macabre ballet of wit and brainpower, habits and ticks, odds and outs.

And the best dancer wins.

But most of all, it allows me to use my mind, and every trick stored there.  Which is a good thing for someone that spends a lot of nights sitting up and thinking. 

I come home tired, and that's priceless.

(And a side benefit is that I come home with money, and that's always a good thing.)

Anyway, after explaining all of this to PG (who himself picks up the cards every now and then) I think he finally got where I was coming from. 

And then he smiled.  Yeah, THAT smile that says, "are you listening to yourself?"

And then it dawned on me.  THESE are exactly the same reasons that he does what he does.  This is why he works so much, and has more passion for work than (I thought) was healthy.  He feels the same way about his work as I do about poker.  THIS is why he can't leave it at the office.  Its because he truly loves it, just as I truly love poker.  The dance that I enjoy so much at the card tables, is the same dance that he loves in the boardroom. 

Eleven years of marriage and I finally get him.  Huh.

And we agreed that we will continue to support each other in our passions.  I will (try to) stop nagging about his work.  He will happily heat up leftovers when I'm on the tables.  We will continue to back each other's play...only maybe more so now.

And we will both be all the happier for it.

I get him now.  And its nice to be gotten.

*******

(I've always liked these lyrics.)

Jekyll and Hyde

Jekyll today, Hyde tomorrow.

Today I was the epitome of domestic Goddessness.  Roast in the crock pot by 9am (rubbed, browned and deglazed with wine).  By noon the yard was mowed and trimmed.  Five loads of laundry, two loaves of banana bread, and the kitchen cleaned.  I rocked the domesticity today.

Tomorrow I'll be Hyde.  I'll get up and take care of the hounds.  I'll tire them out, feed them, give them lovies.  And then I'll point my car straight out of the driveway and hit the card tables where (after Friday), I'm known as the "chick that called AA with a 9-7 offsuit and flopped the freaking straight".

Oh yes I did.  It was a gut feeling.

And it was against a friend.  Well, he used to be a friend.  I'm not so sure now.

And once there I'll play until I've tripled up or lost everything I have with me (that's my rule ya know) or until I get bored out of my mind.  That happens sometimes.

There are leftovers for tomorrow night, in case it proves to be a good day.  PG knows that he may or may not see me until the late night hours.  But he also knows that a couple of times a week I have to get out of here and at least I'm not out screwing a show salesman or something.

When I shut my eyes tonight, I'll put away Dr. Jekyll.

And when they open, it's all Hyde, Baby.

 

Romance is here, ya'll

Apparently there's romanza in the air around Rebville.

Nicko is going to kill me for writing this, but I think I'm winning her over in the Battle of the Makeover.  She wants a guy, I want to highlight her hair and slap a coat of war paint on her.  I think I have her worn down to the point of victory. 

I'm going to win this one.

As long as she stops wearing her "Look at these guns" t-shirt.

(She's seriously going to punch me in the face for this.)

But someday she'll thank me.  Just as soon as she snags that hawt cop we saw the other night running crowd control.  HHHAAWWWWTTT (or so she tells me).

THEN......

There's my mom.  She knows this guy we're going to call Johnny.  Now Johnny has been my uncle's best friend since something like 1970.  And strangely enough, my mom has dated him every ten years since.  But for one reason or another, they go their seperate ways.  Well sure enough, they met up again at the Small Town Wingding.  Mom assured me that (and I quote), "I'm not interested in dating anyone ever again.  I'm done with men and dating all of that."  And for the past nine years, she's held to that maxim.  I told Nicko and PG that I'd believe it when I saw it, and that I'd place money on the odds that my mom would go out with Johnny again.

So I call her today and....

She's going out on a date with Johnny.

Heh heh.  My mom is going out on a date (though she's pretending to do so reluctantly...but when asked what she was going to wear, she said she's going to get something new.  Heh heh).  And she SHOULD go out with him.  He's a great guy, has known her forever, and simply isn't a jerk.  Heck, he's like part of the extended family anyway.

And besides, mom just finished losing a lot of poundage and well, she's looking hawt.

I say, "Get on with your bad self, Mom.  I'm behind you 100%".

And to Nicko I say, "I have lipstick and I know where you live."

Here's to romance, makeovers, and snagging that one special person to be yours for life.

(This song choice brought to you by PG.  Whose definition of romance isn't the same as mine....)

iPod fodder

SInce technology isn't my forte, I'm continually fascinated by.....

My iPod.

I love it.  A lot.  It is my best poker/lawn mowing/writing/going to sleep buddy.  I'm rarely without it.  At the card tables, I get pretty tired of listening to the constant complaining about bad beats and it helps to have something else to listen to.  And everyone knows that music and mowing go together like peanut butter and hookers. 

I am SO kidding about that one.

Today I broke out a brand new gift card and started buying.  Here are some shiney new (new to my iPod)  songs that are sitting pretty inside my little, white plastic portable jukebox junkie device.

Go ahead, fellow poker players, complain about the cards.  I won't be listening.

Crackberry

Last night, the whole Fam Damily went off to our town's big wingding.  Parade, rootbeer floats, etc etc etc.  And the whole time PG was on his Crackberry talking/emailing/texting people from here to Japan and back.  I could tell he was trying to participate, but hey, Nicko, Myself, and my family just aren't as exciting as Japanese businessmen.

And in my head, I was running through various ways to take that little lump of plastic and kill it.  I mean obliterate it, so that at least we could have ONE evening that was email-free.

(Did you catch that PG-San?  Dead Crackberry.  Swimming with the fishies.)

Meanwhile, every time I rolled my eyes as far into my head as they would go, my mom shot me that "You need to be supportive and patient" look.  And I just wanted to run off and slam a door and yell "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" like I used to when I was 16.  Then dress in all-black, skip school, and drink peach schnapps right from the bottle in the bathroom of a pool hall. 

Memmmmmmories......

Anyway, I think he's traveling next week, and I think its to a coast, though I don't know which coast.  Thankfully its hot most everywhere this time of year so I don't have to worry about whether to pack his winter parka or swim trunks.  And since he's off doing something in the back of the house, I just emailed him to ask.  Heh heh, strong enough hint, do ya think?

I know he's trying to be everywhere right now, and I AM trying to be supportive and nice and all sorts of "there for him".  But damn, its not easy.

Maybe I need a conference room.  Yeah that's it, I'll re-design the living room to look like a conference room and he'll feel more at home.  Then instead of the romantic conversations we used to have while snuggled on the couch, we can have meetings and teleconferencing and catered lunches while we discuss who's going to aerate the lawn.

I am SO kidding. 

Anyway, thanks again for letting me vent (and for reading it).  Its a weird time here in Rebville right now and as long as I'm bitching here, I'm not bitching at him.

And I'm sure he's thankful for that.

Sayonara.

Confessions and Other Weirdness

Random confessions.....

Sometimes late at night when PG is sleeping, I sneak out of the house and drive around in the dark and listen to the radio loudly.  And sing.  And sometimes cry.

Other times, I sit out on the deck in the dark and smoke cigars.

I have a new-found like for champagne.  I'm not sure why, nor what kind to buy, but lately poker and a glass of champagne seem to go together.

I can wear a different navy blue hoodie everyday for two and a half weeks.  I like navy blue hoodies.

I often want to tear my house down and rebuild it a little differently.

I still have the intact Easter basket my grandma gave me just days before she died unexpectedly.  It included oranges which I carefully dried and they now are light as a feather and preserved. 

My brother-in-law said that I'd be a MILF if I had kids.  I should be creeped out by that, but I'm not.  It was kind of flattering really.

I don't know if I'll ever be ready for kids.

Kids scare me a little.

When it rains I run outside and grab the worms off the sidewalk and throw them back in the grass.  Being dried to death seems a horrible way to go.

I have no tolerance for drug use, but am horribly addicted to nicotine.

I want to put a streak of blue in my hair.  But I also wonder if I'm too old for that.  Part of me doesn't care.

Between my two ears, I have seven piercings.  And I have a tattoo, but not on my ear.

I want another tattoo.

I hate company Christmas parties.

But not as much as I hate company birthday parties.

I don't like to talk to on the phone.  I dread every time the phone rings because I don't know if I'll have the answers that the person on the other end needs.  I'm not great at conversation.

I'm addicted to people-watching, but I rarely actually speak to those people.  I just like to watch 'em.

I don't like seeing people hurt, suffering, or in need.  If I can help them, I will do anything to make them better.  I donate blood regularly, and am on the marrow list.  I've had adopted poor families before and am on the list for another.

My fantasy vacation would be a week in Vegas followed by a week in a cabin on the Washington coast...painting, reading, and writing.

I like loud music and crazy people, but not nightclubs.

Carnivals have always scared the shit out of me.  I get all panicky and hate them.  I like amusement parks though.

I will never enjoy home decorating as much as my mom thinks I should.

I'm thinking about having a tiny bit of botox shot into my forehead to erase a small wrinkle between my eyebrows that has come with too much thinking.  But part of me thinks that's just lame.

I don't sleep in bed much, because I don't sleep much at all.

I've trained my cat to lick my nose on command.  She's pretty trainable for a cat.

My life is a constant argument between Good Reb and Bad Reb.  Good Reb irons, cleans, makes cookies.  Bad Reb jumps in her car and goes and does whatever seems fun at the time, no matter what time it is. 

I haven't balanced our personal checkbook in eleven years.

A crossdresser grabbed my boob once.  But only because I grabbed his first.  I was drunk, and somehow the only straight girl at a lesbian bar.

Sometimes on Christmas Eve, I sneak out of the house and go downtown to the big Catholic church and attend Mass.  I'm not Catholic but I went to Catholic school for a while (my choice).  I like the smell of the incense.  PG feels obligated to go if he knows I'm going, so I let him sleep and go alone.

I don't mind being alone on Christmas Eve.

I have fantasies about throwing a brick through the tv.  Especially when PG is zoned out in front of it, absorbed by lame shows like "Ice Road Truckers".

I used to want to be a truck driver, back when I was four years old.

I've "willed" PG to Nicko if something ever happens to me.  They'd be perfect for each other, and if I end up dead, at least I could rest easily knowing that neither is alone.  Though I have no idea who would handle the cooking (sorry Nicko, I had to throw that in!).

There ya have it for another bunch of Confessions by Reb.

How 'bout a song....one of my all time favorites.

Not Your Mama's Paper Dolls

If you're easily offended (or my mom...which you aren't because she doesn't even know how to find this blog) then please move your cursor upwards and find something else to read today.

But if you're Nicko, or anyone else that knows I'm crazy, and isn't offended by that,...then keep reading.

I think I've mentioned before that I spend a lot of nights writing.  I've been deep into a dark, psychological diner scene lately.  Pretty intense stuff.  Part of me likes that sort of thing, but part of me wants to just slam some frivolous mind-puke down like John Wayne on a cattle rustler.

Well, I think I've told you before that Nicko and PG have (somewhat) jokingly tried to convince me to write things that are well, a little more racy.  Ok, call a spade a spade, they think I'd be good at romance/chick porn writing.

And since I injured myself working in the Yard from Hell the other day, I'm somewhat laid up (haha no pun inteded) and in need of something not-so-intense to write.  My mind gets drained with the hard stuff (no pun intended) and that leaves too many hours in the day when one is somewhat wounded and can't go have fun.

And since I'm a pushover for peer pressure, I'm going to give this a try.  What's the worst that can happen?  If it comes out lame, I can hit DELETE and go back to my regularly scheduled programming.

But since I'm a visual person, I like to look at things that I'm writing about.  I have a large poster, right here in my kitchen where I stick photos of things that I may need to inspire/describe when writing.  It helps me to be able to really feel something, and describe it accurately.

So what does a visual person do to prepare for writing something a little hotter?

Well I'll tell you what she does!!

She makes paper dolls out of porn magazines!!  Oh yes she does.

Why not just stick romantic photos to the poster?

Because paper dolls are much more fun, that's why.

Wish me luck in this writing venture.  Its either going to come out fairly well, or come out cheesier than the Velveeta factory before Super Bowl Sunday.

(Sorry, no photos of the paper dolls.  I don't have one of those over 18 thingies on this blog.)