Ruby Tuesday and Teeth Trauma

I’m not a vain person.  I’ve never considered myself vain in any way (come on—with hair like mine, you can’t be)—and I never would have thought I was vain about anything at all, until today.  While brushing my teeth, I noticed that my top teeth—the two next to my very front ones—are growing…crooked.  I had an effing cow.

My teeth can’t get crooked!  My top teeth are perfect and always have been and I love them and I want them to stay perfect, damn it!  My smile is my trademark.  It is.  And this didn’t really mean anything to me until today when I noticed the slight slant of those two teeth.  Suddenly, my entire life flashed before my eyes.  (Okay, I exaggerate, but different random things did pop in to my head!)  My smile’s my best feature; I know it is.  That’s what people always tell me—“you have such a cute smile”.  Even Milo said so.  If my perfect upper teeth get crooked, I’ll flip out.

Those damned wisdom teeth have to come out!

I picked up Psychobrat from work tonight, and she was telling me she’d gone to Ruby Tuesday for lunch.  I knew Mark was working a double shift today, so he had to have been there, and so I said, “Your waiter wasn’t Mark, was he?”

“I don’t know; what did he look like?”

“Oh, tall, dark hair, not bad-looking, really….”

“Did he look like a young Brendan Fraser a little?”

I hadn’t thought that, but I could maybe sort of see where she’d get that idea.

“Yeah, a little, I guess,” I said.

She told me how he’d pulled up a chair to their table and sat and talked to them about everything under the sun, and I’m like, “Yeah, that’s him.”

He called tonight.  Left a message, because I, of course, did not answer.  He explained that he hadn’t called before because he’d worked double shifts today and yesterday, but that he wanted to know if I could hang out next time I’ve got free time, and if I didn’t get the message tonight, he’d just call tomorrow, no problem.



Weekend Uproar

Of course, we had one of many Weekend Uproars this morning (oh, SNL is starting in a bit, isn’t it?).

Here’s the scene:  I’m in the rocker reading a deliciously funny book; my mom’s on the computer studying the budget; my dad’s trying to fix the handle on the sliding back door again, because it’s constantly being broken somehow.  The kids are both out.  Everything is calm and quiet.

Suddenly, my dad throws down the tools angrily and stomps through the kitchen, to the garage.  He yells loudly, “FUCK IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  And then we hear crashing sounds, like things being thrown around, knocked over, and broken.

Then he stomped into his room and was singing something in a loud, taunting, annoying voice.  I couldn’t make out any of the words.  And finally he came out and said in that Voice of Pissed-Off Arrogance, “OOH, he was a REALLY nice person, WASN’T HE!?”

We’re like, “Who?”

“JOB!” he said.  “JOB was a really nice person!  Oh, but he loved God, though, didn’t he?  He went through ALL those tribulations, just because he loved God!  And God REWARRRRDED him in the end, didn’t he!?!?”

Neither of us said anything.  That’s pointless in these situations.

And then he’s back with the tools and the door, just muttering, “Job loved God so much, he killed his whole family, and God blessed him for it—gave him another one!  Just gave him another one.  He was a really nice guy.  God loved Job!  So this means that if somebody came in here and started abusing all of you, oh well that’s fine, I should just let it happen, because God’ll give me a second family, a better one this time!  Ohh, we have a really good God, don’t we?  Some God.”

I’m Ginny, and this has been Weekend Uproar.  Tune in tomorrow—the stories never end.

Second Day of Classes and Random Moping

Second day of classes.  The first one was Intro. To Lit. with another of my favorite teachers.  The guy is still as cheesy as ever—gotta love him.  I really think I’m going to enjoy this class.

History, too.  It’s going to be, as I expected, the same things we learned about in American History, except from the European point of view.  So excited about that.

The Know-It-All guy (the one who lacks social skills) is in both History and Creative Writing with me now.  Then in History there’s also this guy in the History class I dropped over the summer.  He’s another of those nerds who doesn’t quite know how to get along with other people…in fact, I call him Gune, because he reminds me of that really weird and creepy little round alien from Titan A.E.  Not only does he act like Gune, but he looks like him, too.  It’s…scary.

So there’s the two of them. And Kara’s in there; she sits next to me.  The teacher is so sweet; I love her, too.  I like being in classes with three of my favorite teachers.  It was really funny; about 95% of the class is from my high school.

I neglected to mention this yesterday, but The Third Wilson Brother asked me what I’m planning to do after this, my last semester at FSCJ, and when I told him I’m majoring in English lit., he said, “Oh, you’re going that route, huh?”  And at first I thought he meant this in a bad way, but then he said, “That’s what I did, too.  So you gonna join a fraternity, all that?”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.  And I meant it.  Joining a fraternity would be fun.

I feel really scatterbrained tonight.  I’m not really staying in order of anything that happened…not really.  Tonight, after the initial fight between the parental units had calmed a bit, I headed into the room, and Dad asked if I know what I’m planning to do with my future.

Well, for the first time ever, I’m sure.  And I told him so.

He said, “If you want to be a writer, don’t you think you should be writing now?”

And for the first time ever, I could actually, legitimately defend myself.

“I do write,” I said, “it’s about all I do anymore.”

I felt bad when he said he’s never seen anything I write, and he’d like to.  I mean, he is my dad…but I can’t show him or my mom this blog because of some of the content….  Just…no.  And besides, I complain about him and Psychobrat on more than one occasion in it.  So I just…didn’t say anything.

He asked, “What kinds of things do you want to write novels about?”

I wasn’t really sure how to answer that.  Because some of the main ideas I have right now are autobiographical.  And of course, I feel panicked every time I say that I want to be a writer, because I’ve never, ever believed that I’m really a good writer.  I’m like…how the hell am I supposed to make it out there?  I can’t!  I can’t do it!  I have self-esteem issues.  I always have.  But I know perfectly well that my ideas don’t extend past my own life—which shouldn’t be a problem, because I have plenty of stories about things that I’ve done, and things I’ve dreamt.  I don’t know…I’m a good judge of character, yeah, but I’m not too versed in the ways of the world.  That’s not good for one who wants to write novels, I wouldn’t think.

Of course, that’s not even going to be my main profession.  I’m going to be a journalist; but even that worries me.  Even though I got an A in that class, and I didn’t have much trouble with it…that was easy stuff.  How will I continue to think up story ideas constantly?  I mean, I can’t always rely on an editor to give me ideas, or…he or she would get frustrated with me quite quickly, I would imagine.

I stress a lot.  It’s because I don’t believe I can do anything.  Ever.  I don’t know if I can ever change that mindset, because I’ve been this way for as long as I can recall.

So there’s this evil girl at work.  Well–I don’t know that she’s really evil so much as just wannabe-evil.  The comments she makes make it sound as though she’s trying.  It’s quite annoying.  Like tonight, while watching the news:

Evil Girl:  I just remembered my step-sister was just going through Texas.

Me:  Oh, my god—

Evil Girl:  Oh, *laugh* I don’t care, I’m just saying….

I just turned around and went back to my dinner.  But then I suddenly remembered that Bridget and Jason had been living in NO…so I called Bridget’s cell first thing when I got home tonight…and got some guy named Isaac, who very pleasantly told me that I must have the wrong number.

They probably weren’t there.  They’re both in the Army now, I think.  They’ve probably moved by now.

I dropped my Management class.  It was unnecessary; and I’ll be getting money back for it.  That’s more of a necessity now.  Especially since one of my more substantial forms of monthly income is now gone—no more $120/month from Watson…the manager I worked for just quit.

I’m going to just start giving my parents all of my money, except what I pay for my car.  They need it more than I do—besides, it’s really all theirs, anyway, when you figure in gas, cell phone, and…*sigh*…insurance.

I feel like Oliver Twist.

Red Lobster, a Brother Remark, and a Milo Dream

Hung out with Lisa, Monica, and Gary last night, as a going-away dinner (sort of—only Gary really ate dinner) for Monica.  I had a really good time; I always do when I’m with them, we just rarely ever see each other.  So we chilled at Red Lobster and then went to walk around Walmart and had a lot of fun.

The rest of this is mostly going to be old stuff because I’ve been slacking on the updates.

First of all, I wanted to make note of something that Brother said the other day, because it was just…well, you’ll see.

He had a couple of friends over, and they were all doing that trick where you flick the card off your finger without moving the coin, and I finally said, “Okay, let me try it.”  I figured there was no way I was going to get it, and I was right, I didn’t, but what was cool was when Brother said, “Yeah, let Ginny try it; Ginny can do anything.”

Now contrast that with what Psychobrat used to tell me every single day behind closed doors:  that I was worthless, stupid, ugly, boring, that she couldn’t believe I had any friends at all, that the friends I had talked about me behind my back, that it made perfect sense to her why I had never had a boyfriend, and that I never would, and she didn’t understand my purpose in being.

“Ginny can do anything.”  No wonder Brother and I get along so much better.

I had a yet another dream about Milo.  I had gone to work as a journalist in this building that very much resembled a grocery store—one that I had seen in my dreams before.  There were even people walking in and out of it, like a woman holding a little girl by the hands.  People coming out with shopping carts.  But I don’t think it really looked like a grocery store inside; and besides that, everything was really dark, like the whole dream took place in the middle of the night.

Anyway, so I arrive to work at this place, as a replacement for Milo, it turns out.  (Not sure if I knew him in the dream or not.)  Milo was, tragically, dead, but probably by suicide.  Anyway, nobody was investigating it, which surprised me, because I thought it was all really mysterious, and I was convinced he had been murdered.  I decided to hunt down his murderer.  Everybody thought I was crazy, because he’d died the year before, it was all over, it had been handled.  But I didn’t care.

So then I get a note.  A clue, it seems, actually, left on my desk.  It’s to me specifically, and it’s a clue to find out just what happened to Milo.  (Don’t ask, I have no idea what it said.)  And I follow it, of course, and then I’m just finding more of these all over…and then it turns out that the clues have all been left by Milo–like, ahead of time, I guess.  Creepy.

Well in the end, I follow the clues all the way to another country (maybe several, but I definitely end up on the other side of an ocean), where I find…Milo.  Alive.  Turned out he’d set up the whole thing to find me—or, have me find him, rather.

It made so much more sense while I was sleeping, because then I had far more details.

Illogical Logic

Here’s a good, brief example of my dad’s impossible-to-argue-with-illogical-round-logic.

Last night, he was scolding everybody because all the lights were on in the house, all of them, and we’re broke as it is.

“It’s going to be the air conditioning or the lights, take your pick!”

I didn’t say anything.  See, everybody else in the house knows that I, who am very conscientious about saving money, am constantly walking around the house reminding people to turn off lights.  It’s the first thing I do every night when I come home—turn off the lights in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom, and demand to know why they’re on when nobody is using them.  Every night, Psychobrat has some sort of smartass response about how I’m not paying the electric bills, so I shouldn’t worry about it, she can turn it off if she wants, turn it off myself, yada yada yada.  So yes, they all know.  Except my dad, who refuses to believe anything good of me, ever.

So he’s suggesting to Psychobrat that when she leaves the house in the mornings, she might think about turning off her television, radio, light, and fan, which are all always on all day.  (Not the ceiling fan; I mean my fan that she stole from my room.)

She said something like, “I like to leave them on so they’re already on when I get home.”

He said, “So you just let everything run all day long!?  You don’t come home until 10:00 at night!”

She said, “I like to have a light on when I get home!”

He said, “You could still turn stuff off!  You get home when it’s still light out!”

She gets home when it’s still light out…at 10:00 at night?  Um…okay.

I’m not sure if she responded to that or not, because that was the moment I chose to say, “I always turn all the lights out.  That’s all I ever do is turn lights out, turn televisions and radios off.”

He looked at me for the briefest of moments and then turned right back around to bitch at Psychobrat some more.  Hahaha.  It’s like, “Shut up, O Stupid Daughter, you’re not even worthy of an argument.”  I do, however, love that Psychobrat was getting the bitching instead of me.  I was on his side here, however illogical his logic.

Ah…good times.

A Rant in One Act

This is my one week off.  It’s the week when I can stay up until 5 or 6:00 in the morning reading and then sleep all day if I want to, and damn the consequences (because there aren’t any).  I should be able to enjoy this.

I should not be woken up at 11:15 by a call from Psychobrat asking me to please come by the high school with a pair of jeans for her.

Of course, being not entirely coherent, I didn’t realize at the time that I could say no, that there probably wasn’t that much pleading in her voice because Mom or Dad had told her to call me so they wouldn’t have to leave work, that it was probably there because she didn’t want to have to go to them.  No, I didn’t think about that.  At first.

As time went on, of course, and I tried to work out how I could sleep a little bit longer, I became more awake.

“And when do I have to be out there, exactly?”


“I can’t get there now.”

“Well how soon can you get here?”

“Whenever I can.  I’m sleeping.  I have the day off.”

“But I need you to be here now.”

A voice from the background.

“You can just bring them to the main off–”

“I have to go inside?  Well, of course I do, they won’t exactly let you walk out to the car to meet me.  Well that puts a whole new spin on things.  I’ve got to get dressed, I’ve got to get a shower–”

“No you don’t, you can just come in the way you are, it doesn’t matter.”

Basically, I had two options:  a) I could get up from my comfortable bed where I had been in the middle of a very pleasant dream about a certain person, drive all the way out to the school and back in the heat, when I’m trying to save on gas because everybody here is broke, and actually walk into the school, where I shall be treated very rudely because that’s just how they operate over there, if they even let me into the building in the first place….

Or b) I could let the selfish bitch suffer the consequences for being too damned stupid to care about the dress code on the second bloody day of school.

Right.  Option ‘b’ it is, then.  I went back to sleep.

Of course, I didn’t stay there for very long, in case she called my dad who would force me to go out there.  But as she was still waiting for my call (I’d asked what would happen if I didn’t show up, she’d said she would get I.S.S.P., I said I’d think about it, she said she’d pay me $10, I said if I showed up, I expected to be paid, she said she didn’t have the money on her, I said, “Right, see you later, then” and that’s when I hung up)…anyway, as she was still waiting for my call, I decided to call my mom first.  I explained the situation and asked if I was obligated to go out there.  She said no.  I went back to sleep for two minutes but by then was wide awake and had to get up, anyway.  Wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s still sitting there waiting for me to call or if they just went ahead and gave her I.S.S.P.  (Why is it called I.S.S.P., anyhow?  That makes no sense to me.  In Virginia it was I.S.S., because it’s “in-school suspension”.  When did “sus” and “pension” become two separate words?)

I never broke dress code, not once; I don’t know why she should have such a problem with it.  Everywhere she goes—school, soccer practice (where all the mothers on the team complain that her shorts are too short, but she doesn’t understand what the problem is)…no, I think it’s high time she understood.  At least take a pair of jeans herself if she knows she’s going to be stupid, so nobody else has to drive out there.  So effing selfish.  If it hadn’t been my day off, one of my parents would have had to take off from work to do it instead, but she wouldn’t care, because that’s how she is.


Meat, Liver, and Chicken Paste

We had chicken and dumplings for dinner tonight.

All day long, I was under the impression that we would be having chicken livers and vegetables for dinner.  I was…a bit creeped out by the livers idea, and was just going to skip that and have a bagel or something.

But then I decided to interrogate my mom to find out just how different chicken livers are to the parts of the chicken we usually eat.  How were the flavors and textures different?  For that matter, what part of the chicken did we usually eat, anyway?

“Mom, what part of the chicken is the meat?”

“…It’s…the meat.  What do you mean?”

“Yeah, I know, but what part is it?  Is it muscle?”

“No, it’s not muscle.”

“Well, is it like liver?”

“Liver is an organ.”

“So meat doesn’t come from organs?”


“Well, so what’s meat?  What exactly is a chicken leg?  I mean, it’s not muscle, and it’s not skin….”

“No…it’s meat.”

“But what is meat?  What is a chicken leg?  Is ‘meat’ the scientific term for it?”

“I don’t know what the scientific term is; but it’s just like with every other animal.  We always eat the meat—cows, chickens, sheep….”

“I know that, but what is the meat?  Do I have meat on me?  Is it attached to the skin?”  Here I attempted to pull the skin on my leg away from the bone and prodded around looking for the “meat”.

“Yes, you have meat, just a little bit.”

I knew I must; otherwise, what the hell do cannibals eat?

“But what is—[I interrupted myself and changed tactics]—if I showed you a picture of the human body, could you point out the meat?”

This question induced laughter from my mother, who never was able to explain the concept of meat.  So I decided to find out more about liver.

“It’s squishy,” she said, “and you can mash it up to make liverwurst.”

“That’s what liverwurst is?  Mashed liver?”

“What did you think it was?”

“I thought it was just some weird German word that randomly had the word ‘liver’ stuck to the beginning!  I didn’t know it was…mashed liver…yuck.  So it tastes different?”

“Yes, it tastes darker.”

“Is it really bloody?”

“No, it’s not bloody.”

“Is there any blood in it at all?”

“No blood.”

“Is it what McNuggets are made of?”


“Are there bits of it in McNuggets?”

“Well, probably.”

“Does it have urine in it, or is that kidneys?”

“That’s the bladder.”

“Oh…right.  Well…I don’t think I want to eat any…chicken paste.”

So then, when everything was cooked at last, my mom went and got a bowl, and I looked grudgingly at her bowl and said, “All right, I’ll taste the chicken paste,” and she held out her fork so I could try it, and I said, “But it looks just like regular chicken!”

Turns out, it was regular chicken; my dad hadn’t cooked the liver yet.