Sleep Deprivation and LCE Deprivation Make Me Grumpy

When I purchased this house last year, I was struck by the serene feeling it evoked in me. Hundreds of birds were quietly chirping, the road noise was minimal, and the house felt to me as though nothing bad had ever happened to it.

So I bought it. I was on the run from the Tricky Man and needed a haven.

And the house has never disappointed me. The neighbours, on the other hand, never fail to disappoint.

I live on a corner. On the other corner are three houses in a row. Filled with people who love to PARTAY and have no issues with listening to ACDC's "TNT" 5 times in a five hour period at full volume.

I am not feeling well, but it isn't anything that penicillan won't cure (heh heh), but was looking forward to a peaceful night's sleep on a Sunday night. At 1:30 a.m. I was jolted awake by:

"RONALD YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE I FUCKING HATE YOU RONALD PUT OUT THE FIRE RONALD BRING ME A FUCKING BEER RONALD."

Both Bob the Dog and I sat bolt upright. I thought "oh goddess, Ronald just bring her that beer so I can get back to sleep." And then there were silence. Prayers answered.

Five minutes later "AND I'M T-N-T...DYNAMITE...T-N-T, I'M OUTTA SIGHT...." so loud that my walls were literally vibrating.

"Ugh" I thought, and reached for the phone. I called the non-emergency number and said "Hi, it's [Killer] again. Yeah. They're at it again. Yep, only played it once so far, but it IS Sunday night. Yep. That would be great. Thanks. Yes, they ARE assholes. Thanks. Bye."

It must have been a busy night for my police friends. It took them an hour to come. In the meantime, I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard "pop pop pop pop" followed by a scream.

Fireworks? Gun fire? Bob wasn't taking any chances, and crawled on top of me, shaking and looking for protection. Thanks, 92-pound guard dog.

Within 10 minutes 5 police vehicles descended on the neighbourhood. There were spotlights and red and blue lights everywhere. If it hadn't been a school night I would have sat on my deck and watched the show.

I couldn't tell if any arrests were made, but about an hour later, after all this activity, I heard the following exchange:

Cop: "SO YOU ARE GOING TO SHUT DOWN THE LOUD PARTY NOW, RIGHT?"

Mouth-breathing Troglodyte: "FUCK YOU. I KNOW MY RIGHTS. AND I GOTTA FIGHT FOR MY RIGHT TO PARTY." Yes friends, he DID quote the Beastie Boys.

Cop: "NO SERIOUSLY. YOU GOTTA SHUT IT DOWN, OR I'LL HAVE TO TAKE YOU GUYS TO JAIL." No really, I thought, take them. I don't mind.

Mouth-breathing Trogoldyte: "YEAH FUCK, WHATEVER."

Cop: "WELL, OK THEN." What, what, what??? That didn't sound very sincere to me. Come on!! You aren't going to believe him and leave the neighbourhood to his tender mercies, are you?

So the police left. And I guess, gentle reader, it wouldn't surprise you that they didn't shut it down. And they did play TNT a few more times. Because that is how they roll. So my mission: get them the hell out of my neighbourhood. Mark my words, I WILL ensure that they leave. My sick days were not intended to catch up on sleep lost because of inconsiderate ass clowns.

In other news, Liquid Chocolate Eyes is once again pulling a disappearing act. So I am about ready to pull the plug and put my line back in the water. How is it that one week a guy can be making you cheesecake and giving you a back rub, and the next week he barely talks to you? Weird. And you know, that is probably making me more grumpy than the assclowns across the street. Boys suck.

I find pictures of SS's girlfriend and why my friends are the best friends in the world.....

So last night my friend Tequila and I got together for a catch up dinner. We have been friends for 16 years, since pretty much the very first day of law school. Through the 16 years both of us have been to hell in back, had some amazingly wonderful things happen, and in the end we came out in very different places. Tequila has a husband, 2 kids and 2 step kids. I have...a brown hound. But no matter what the differences in our lifestyles, when we finally have a chance to catch up, it is like the time just falls away, and we are back to being relatively innocent and wild 20 somethings.

Tequila is possibly more disappointed that the love of my life and I didn't end up together than I am. For 16 years she has had the proverbial candle in the window for Sex on a Stick and I. Sadly, I think I can safely say that that ship has sailed. He took up with a girl 14 years his junior and has been living quite comfortably with her for the last 5 years.

But Tequila never fails to ask, when she and I get together, whether I have heard from him, seen him, etc.. The answers to these questions are generally "no", although I do hear from him once in a blue moon. And we did get together twice about a year and a half ago when him and his Zygote Girlfriend were having problems.

So Tequila and I looked for SS on my blackberry facebook last night. And we actually found him!! So this morning I took a better look on my home computer, and I found the Zygote girlfriend's last name. And of course I googled her and came up with her hi5 page, complete with pictures.

I immediately emailed the link to Squirrel Dater for analysis. Our opinion: we dub her Squishy Face. Childish? Completely. Mean? Absolutely. But Squirrel Dater, being a loyal friend, agreed that, while she had a nice body (who doesn't at 30??), her face was weird. Like she could compete with Sarah Jessica Parker and Kirsten Dunst in a "Nice-Body-Weird-Face" competition.

Squirrel Dater, like Tequila, is a loyal friend, a friend who I know will be in my corner, come what may. In my life, over the course of the last 25 years I have accumulated a handful of friends like these. Boys have come and gone. Jobs have started and stopped. I have moved half a country away. But I have been blessed with friends who have been a lifeline and a salvation for me. So SS may have taken up with Squishy Face, but at least I now have assurances that I am prettier and that he is likely never going to be over me. Because that is what friends do for friends - they agree that the old boyfriend's new girlfriend is a complete dog. Thank you friends.

Twitterpated??

Ok, I bit the bullet and joined Twitter yesterday. I know, I know, sooooo last month of me. But I have been busy mooning over Liquid Chocolate Eyes (who makes a pretty good cheesecake, by the way), and haven't had a chance to hop on the latest trend.

So on Twitter, I "follow" a diverse group of people: Kevin Smith, Deepak Chopra, Springsteen, etc. But what I found puzzling was that within 5 posts I had 13 people following ME. 13 random people with no connection to me who found either my 3 word profile or my 140 word posts so compelling that they want a running update on their home page.

I feel a certain pressure to entertain, which is hard to do in 140 words or less, dear readers. I much prefer this forum where I can expand on my random thoughts (I know, much to your chagrin).

I am loving Stephen Colbert's tweets, and Jon Stewart's mom's tweets are pretty funny as well: "Kim Kardashian thinks she is a mermaid." I am categorically refusing to follow Ashton Kutcher or Demi Moore, because that would be lame, right? 1 day on twitter and I am already a twitter snob.

I find myself thinking that maybe Twitter is the middle of the end of a literate and rational society. The beginning is, of course, the advent of text speak. LOL, LMAO, WTF, U R WEAR? Yesterday in court, an older judge was addressing an accused, asking them what they wanted to do about a charge - did the accused want to plead guilty or not guilty to a charge of mischief to a local business? The accused responded "well, I can't afford a lawyer because I lost my job, LOL."

Do you hear that, gentle readers? That sucking sound? God just opened the valve and started letting the air out of the earth.

Oompa Loompa Lawyers

I am a Crown Prosecutor. For those of you who are ill-acquainted with Canadian law, that means that my job is to convict the guilty. Part of my job involves interacting with a species called "Male Lawyers".

My friend, Tequila and I were in law school together when we noticed something unusual about our habitat. It was mostly filled with small, aggressive, vertically challenged penis-ridden individuals. They were everywhere, it was like being surrounded by rammy little oompa loompas.

Tequila and I came up with a theory to explain why 8/10 law male law students were 5'5" and below. At least 7/10 of that group were insanely and ridiculously competitive. Our theory was that those who were picked last in dodgeball concentrated on academics and not athletics, and they ended up being the ones who had the marks to go to law school. Now there are exceptions to the rule, of course. Every once in a while I end up running across a tall, dark handsome lawyer with no trace of the proverbial short man complex. So there is no hard and fast rule.

I should say here that I am not extraordinariy tall. I am 5' 3 1/2". Not at all tall. So this essay was not aimed at promoting sizism or any other ism. And in fact, Oompa Loompa Lawyers are not necessarily short. Basically, I have refined the definition of Oompa Loompa Lawyer to include any lawyer who might have been shoved repeatedly into his locker as a kid in high school. It makes an Oompa Loompa Lawyer grow up mean. Hungry for power. Petty. Dangerous.

When dealing with an Oompa Loompa Lawyer, one should studiously avoid staring at the tops of their heads or at their ill-fitting suit or bad haircut as you speak to them. To do so, is to wave the red flag at the proverbial bull.

A colleague of mine just won a 2nd degree murder conviction against an Oompa Loompa Lawyer. This particular Oompa Loompa Lawyer is of the Ned Flanders category. He literally reeks of geek. You look at Ned Flanders Lawyer and you know he ended up in his locker a lot. Probably got pants a lot. But Ned Flanders Lawyer thinks he is very smart. In fact, he thought that he could win the acquittal of his client based on an obscure concept called nautical twilight. But in the end, twelve common sensical persons in the jury looked at what his client did and said "um, no...that's definitely murder." And they convicted a man for taking another human's life.

But Ned Flanders Lawyer couldn't take being beaten by a girl. A girl who he regards as being his intellectual inferior. And so, after my colleague beat him like a rented mule, he committed an egregious assault on our professionalism. He made disparaging remarks about her character in Court and then....he refused to shake her hand.

In our profession, we argue for a living. It's part of the reason most people hate us. But the majority of lawyers try to be objective and impartial about their client and their case. To allow emotion to creep is to undercut our ability to make rational decisions and to give useful advice to our clients.

So we argue like crazy on behalf of our clients. And then, when the dust clears, we shake hands and maybe even go for a beer.

So tonight I find myself disappointed in Ned Flanders Lawyer. No matter how many lockers we get shoved into in life, it does not excuse being a mean person.

Secret Decoder Rings

Everyone who has ever dated knows this stage of a relationship. It's the no-man's land between first meeting someone groovy and exclusivity. I have been at this stage more times than I care to remember with a motley crew (no, I did not date the band) of assorted lunatics, do-it-yourself projects and relatively nice guys.

So, as some of you know, I met Liquid Chocolate Eyes (I know - it's a horrible nickname - I have to work on a new one) online. Things have been going swimingly. However, both of us are still on the online dating website, a fact which makes me go a little loco from time to time. But, in the interests of being a "cool chick" I am trying to keep my jealousy under wraps.

LCE, however, displayed a good dose of it earlier this week. The simple fact is that, on this particular site, the men outnumber the women. And, ergo, I get way more emails. One day we were both online at the same time, and he msn'ed me to say "Hey." The exchange was a weird one, and it became apparent that he might be a scooch jealous (yay! a break through). When I tried to talk to him about it, he had to sign off. Abruptly.

I sent him an email indicating that I was considering taking my profile off, that I hadn't gone on a date since the first time he kissed me, and that, if he didn't want to take his profile off, that was his business, but that I didn't think I could continue indefinitely down the path we were going if he was actively seeking out other women.

Reponse to email:

Radio silence. Almost completely.

It has never been mentioned, and LCE was VERY absent this week. And then the following text exchange yesterday (reproduced only in part to avoid boring you, sweet audience):

LCE: Hey what's up this weekend? Are you doing renos?

Me: I know where there is free beer. However, there are also parental units :( And you might have to paint a deck.

LCE: You want me to drink beer around your parents?

Me: I don't think they would care much. I am 39 years old after all. All kidding aside, you are more than welcome to pop by this weekend, however, I assume that you have the typical male parental-unit aversion. If so, they leave Sunday afternoon :)

There was a pause of about 15 minutes. I opened up the next text message, which simply read:

LCE: Can I bring my parents?

At this point, I actually did laugh out loud.

Me: My mother just said to my father "You want a banana, big boy?" Shudder.

LCE: What did your father say?

Me: He simply turned down his hearing aids and went to his happy place - Deafville.

Another pause of about 15 minutes.

LCE: So you're saying my folks can't come?

Me: Sure they can, the more the merrier. Maybe my mother can offer them a banana too.

And suddenly everything was ok.

What has become absolutely apparent to me is that I might be dating my father. My mother is, for lack of a better term, a bit of a freak. You never have to worry about what my mother is thinking, she just opens her mouth and it all comes tumbling out, a torrent of her wants, needs and desires.

My father, on the other hand, is a "doer". He has told me he loves me just a handful of times in my life. We don't have great conversations about the meaning of life. He just does "things" and I apply the Dad Decoder Ring.

For instance. He is here this weekend, helping me with my deck. He is turning 70 this year. The translation of this is: "you are my daughter, I love you, and I am proud that you bought a house all on your own. And I want you to love your house and be happy here"

He'll make sure that my oil is changed. The translation of this: "you are my daughter. I love you. I want you to be safe. I have visions of your engine seizing in the middle of a scary place. So I am going to do everything in my power to protect you."

He once drove for 17 hours straight to help me move from Vancouver to Kamloops. He was in his 60s at the time. Translation: "This city is big and scary, and I think it is eating you alive. I want you to be in a small place, because they are safer. I love you. You are my daughter."

In this day and age where we do a lot of talking about our feelings, maybe a guy that can't talk about his is ok. As long as you get the secret decoder ring and know how to translate.

LCE and I spent almost 70 hours together in 1 week. And in that week, he stroked my hair as I fell asleep. He was offended when I put the water jug onto the dispenser and didn't ask him for help. When I had a sore back, he wordlessly got up, retreived my magic bag, popped it in the microwave and brought it to me for application.

Translation?

So maybe the fact that he didn't respond to my email about my feelings is ok. He still took the time to check in, to see what I was up to, and to make me laugh.

If a man that doesn't want to grow up is called Peter Pan.....

It occurred to me, as I was helping Cap'n Crunch locate his sled dog this morning on the back of my cereal box, that I might be regressing.

A little more than a year ago I was a de facto wife and mother. At 5:50 am I would likely have been putting in a load of laundry and starting lunches. When I left the Tricky Man, I left behind all but the most basic of responsibilities.

So this is a shout out to all of the women who have careers and kids and husbands, and who manage to do it all. What I remember about those years with the Tricky Man is a feeling of utter exhaustion and a simmering resentment. It didn't help that my partner was, well, useless. It seemed like the work was neverending, the appreciation sparse, and the house was just plain gross, no matter how hard I tried to keep it up.

I remember doing 14 loads of laundry one Saturday. I painstakingly folded and put away the Tricky Offsprings' underroos and grey-looking socks.

Almost immediately following the last load, I walked into the youngest Tricky Offspring's cave to find that, in looking for a favorite pair of jeans, the Offspring set off a laundry bomb. Clothes were ground into the chip-crumb covered floor by careless feet. I could no longer tell what was clean and what was dirty.

I grabbed a leash, I grabbed a dog (we had 4), and I hit the road. I don't know how far I walked. All I knew that if I stayed in the Pink House of Stress one more minute, the news story would end with "and then she turned the gun on herself."

When I walked back into the Pink House of Stress, I took a look around with fresh eyes. The dogs had shed with impunity, clearly having ignored my efforts to sweep that morning. The stove that I had scrubbed the day before was caked with a brown scorched substance that was unidentifiable. The sink was filled with dirty dishes with food still in them, despite the fact that I had unloaded the dishwasher and announced this loudly to the inhabitants of the Pink House of Stress. There was a wide debris field of kid's clothing, video games, chip bags, half-finished cans of pop and dog toys that stretched the entire main floor of the house. Alot of the debris field was left by a then-40 year old man.

I cried.

So fast forward to today. I woke up to a clean house. i woke up with only 1 shedding dog. I have sat here leisurely checking my emails, blogging and sipping my morning coffee. I will take the dog for a stroll. I would like to think that if I do settle down again and have a family, that it would be different. That my children would joyously stow their toys away after they are done with them in Ikea cupboards in their shiny and sunny playroom. That I would awake every morning with my loving and supportive husband in sheets that smelled like sunshine.

All I know is that the Pink House of Stress seems like a distant nightmare today. Thank goddess.

So far...so neurotic

So I had a little bit of a moment last week. A neurotic moment. It was embarrassing. Liquid Chocolate Eyes and I were messaging back and forth and I said something along the lines of "soooo just so you know, if you are playing the field and I am playing the field, we shouldn't be sleeping together."

Which is an entirely valid point. But it was a classic case of not saying what I mean. The translation of this was "I really really like you, don't want anyone else to have you, and want you to declare right here and right now that you don't want to see anyone else ever again. My image is burned on your corneas and I have ruined you for all others."

His response: what you might expect to such gameplaying. He hadn't thought about it. He hadn't dated anyone else for awhile, hadn't slept with anyone else for a while, but thought I should do whatever was best. If that meant that I needed to go date other people, then I should do that.

So then I freaked out inside while trying to play it unutterably cool. Not to a major extent, but it did involve a fair amount of sleeplessness that night. What had precipitated this conversation was his unavailability this past weekend because he was going to visit his nieces in a place about 3 hour from here. And I was busy the next weekend because my parental units are swooping into town. I immediately thought: what if he meets someone else. I know the rational response to that is that, if he does, then he does and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

My grandmother had a saying about boys. You should pay attention to where their feet are. And his feet ended up being in my house after all this weekend for another 30 hours or so.

I went to the City with Squirrel Dater, came home a little less neurotic after buying the proverbial shoes and purse, and was looking forward to a Saturday night of being curled on my chaise lounge when my phone rang. LCE had decided not to go visit his nieces that night after all and wanted to come and visit me. And stayed for 30 hours.

I guess that it has been a really, really long time since I really, really liked someone. I know that sounds sad, but it seems like the last 10 years or so, I settled for guys who were nice on some levels, but that had some issues or some problems or weren't quite the right fit.

LCE fits just fine, and that is what scares the absolute bejesus out of me. When I dated Mongo, and it didn't work out, it was ok, because I realized I didn't like him all that much. When I dated my high school sweetheart again after 17 years, and it didn't work out, it was ok, because he was a sociopath. When I dated Tricky Man, and it didn't work out, it was ok, because he was fundamentally not so bright and sometimes I wanted to staple something to his forehead. And when the Elf didn't work out, I practically jumped for joy, because he was just really very weird.

So, my goal this week, is to be cool, stop being so neurotic, and trust that if things are supposed to work out, they will. To pay attention to where his feet are, just like grandma said. And to avoid sabatoging a very promising start.