So my lovely husband went out last night to buy a PlayStation and came home with a diamond engagement ring! Back when he proposed we didn’t have the money to get one; we were just trying to make ends meet and stand on our own feet. But last night made me cry, legit tears of happiness! He asked if I could, would I marry him again. I said “of course silly goose!” And then pulls out the prettiest princess cut diamond I’ve ever seen.
He really is my prince charming, he accepts me for all the strangeness that is me, and adds a smattering of his own brand of strange. which makes the perfect pot-of-soup to raise my beautiful (and also strange) step babies. We have the best home EVER.
For a while now I have been battling with myself to give up the cancer-sticks. The patch seems to work alright when I have them, but a week or so after the program I get all “give me a cigarette now or I’ll cut you!!” On my poor husband and he caves (not wanting to be cut of course.) I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate why I was under the impression that quitting would make me a better person, it doesn’t by the way. Healthier person? Yes. Better? Only if you think It’s an improvement that I shriek random curse words at others for no reason now. OK, THAT is pretty cool. unless you’re a toddler. Or that perticular toddler’s mother. (I can’t express enough how sorry I am, and dick-hole just kind-of popped right out there unexpected. SURPRISE!)
Maybe one day, far in the future (when There’s no stress and I live with mermaids) I’ll be able to give up my sweet sweet nicotine without becoming a foul mouthed ogre. I doubt that though. (The quitting, not the mermaids. Because I’m SO going to live with mermaids when I turn fifty. Don’t you judge me. You’re not God.) Until this mystical far off day (because unicorns will be there too, and they’re mystical as fuck) you can find me, outside, puffing on my l&m because I’m cool like that. Or maybe because I don’t want to cross that line between “she’s a nice girl, just a little….special.” and “holy shit-balls, that’s the lady who throws cats at you! keep your distance!” And frankly, that’s a thin line.
I am now quite a proficient knitter, but my first go around was not as successful. One of my very best friends had gotten a book on learning how to knit. (At the time I was convinced it was witch craft. “Click two sticks together over an herb fire, after sacrificing a pure white goat, and cloth will come out of the sticks!”) This book had to be THE most poorly written beginner’s guide in the history of man. It’s as if someone who had never held a set of knitting needles had written it for pure amusement. I managed to follow the instructions to cast on. (Or get the yarn onto needle number one) the instructions that followed were to move the loopies from one needle to the other. (This is not how you knit by the way. To knit you make new loopies through all existing loopies and the resulting knots should look cloth-like a few rows in. But at the time this knowledge was unavailable to me.) So I moved all the loops back and forth betwixt two needles (chanting what I imagine to be an incantation) and nothing was happening! (ok maybe I was raising up a dead person somewhere, but no cloth was happening.)
Both me and my future stitch-and-bitch buddy stared at the tangle I was making in frustration. Then we made an executive decision. Knitting WAS witchcraft and we should stick to drinking coffee. Ironically a few weeks later over coffee someone actually sat down and taught my friend how to knit, and she passed the wisdom onto me. So our decision was indeed a genius one. Or the universe was tired of our insolence in the non-knitting department. Whichever one we are now something like knitting ninjas, except cooler, and with better moves.
It must be a sign that I’m Pennsylvania raised, because everyone I know has a goose attack story.
Mine starts on a blissfully cool evening when I was approximately fourteen years of age. We lacked the luxury of window screens but I was determined to keep my window open to let in the lovely night air. Seeing as we lived by a creek I assumed the worst that would come in were a few mosquitoes.
Now at this same time my mother and step father would always visit carnivals and bring me back lovely stuffed animals to decorate my room. They were out that night as I went to sleep. I woke up to THE most realistic new stuffed goose I had ever seen! And was thrilled! Until I reached to snuggle my new cuddle-bucket and it bit me. I shouted “What the shit!” As this killer goose raised itself to attack again hissing ferociously. Being the valiant Knight I am (on the inside) I grabbed the touch lamp (remember those?? All metal and glass! The perfect shield! Kind of!) And armed myself with a fly swatter. I did every sword fighting move I’ve ever seen in the movies whilst shielding myself from the dragon-like speed of the angry beast. I managed to beat the demon out into the kitchen and through the door (“THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!”) and only receive minor injuries. Puffed up with pride I spun to see my mother, who had witnessed the ending of the event, who then began berating me for playing with wild animals.
Parents just don’t understand.
just to start, my name is heather, and I do indeed have a potty mouth. which is ok in most social circles. as is my ranting about words that make me angry; like jetskis, they should have been called boatercycles. ok. maybe that’s only acceptable in my circle. Which shows you how screwed up most social circles are. shame on you for having an unaccepting circle!
i knit obsessivly, crochet a lot, and love cats. (especially strays i feed outside.) and love every bit of my life a little too much. (like dancing-with-strangers-in-the-street too much. especially with my style of dancing. i can do the running man like it’s no body’s business.)
in short I’m the person your parents want you to avoid. and I’m more than content to stay this way.