“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard: June 01, 2008

Friday, June 06, 2008

So I've gotta go spend the weekend at my Mom's place.

That's why I'm awake at a quarter after 8 in the morning. Because I'm dreading this so much that I can't sleep.

Why am I dreading it so much? Because it's going to be in the mid 90's and the humidity out at Mom's is about 20% higher than here in town. There's no internet, only one air conditioner (and it doesn't work right) and thanks to the pollen count I can't fucking breathe out there.

Could be worse though. At least Mom isn't going to be there. Nor will my sister. See, my sister LIVES THERE, but when Mom goes out of town I have to go housesit because my sister has a wedding to go to. EVERY TIME Mom goes out of town. My sister has had to go to no less than FIVE fucking weddings in the last year and the ALL fell on a weekend when Mom was out of town and I've got to pick up the fucking slack.

Again, it's not that I don't want to help my Mom out, it's just that my family has this psychotic need to take the simplest of tasks and make them the most insurmountable obstacles since Sisyphus.

Take for example our latest argument. We've been invited to the wedding of one of Brian's sisters this month. Nothing wrong there, but because Brian's sister is a TV newscaster and she's marrying some millionaire guy Mom is obsessed with my appearance.

I have a brand new pair of pants and I'm sure I'll find a nice shirt by the time the wedding rolls around, but Mom has to make things difficult. She wants to order a new pair of pants, get it here before the wedding (on the 21st) and miraculously have them fit, thus turning me into something that doesn't look like a burlap sack filled with mashed potatoes.

I already know how this is going to go. She used to pull this same shit when I was a kid and she LIVES for finding ways to do it now that I'm (arguably) and adult. She wants me to pick a pair of pants from the catalog. She won't buy that pair. She just wants me to pick so she'll know which pair she hates. Plus, she will flat out refuse to buy black. 90% of my wardrobe (conservatively) is black. I look good in it (good as I'm gonna look anyways), I'm comfortable in it, I LIKE it. Black is ME. So she won't buy it.

So she'll pick out the pair I hate the most, it will get here two days before we leave and they won't fit. They'll have to go back and we'll have to go on some nightmare shopping trip once we get down to Kentucky (where the wedding will be held) and we still won't find something suitable and I'll end up wearing the pair of pants I've already goddamn picked out anyways.

Rather than deal with all this I just told Mom that I'm wearing my own goddamn pants or she can go without me. By that, I meant stay here at home. She agreed, but misunderstood me. So now she wants me to go all the way down to fucking KENTUCKY with her and NOT go to the wedding. I guess her plan is I'll just sit in the goddamn hotel room till it's over. And no amount of logic can make her see how insane that is.

Several people who will be at the wedding read this blog, so please, PLEASE, help me with this situation.

But this is the kind of thing I'm trying to avoid and somehow that woman can complicate EVERYTHING just like the pants thing.

I'll probably write a post or two while I'm out there, so you guys will have that to look forward to anyway.

On a completely unrelated note, many of you have been asking me why I haven't been writing about K and the misadventures in dating that I must surely be bringing upon myself through my own inept bumbling. This is not an accident. I'm not writing about dating K on the advice of my good friend Skippy at Enjoy Every Sandwich. He wisely advised me some time ago that if I liked this girl at all then by no means should I blog about her and I take that advice very seriously, because if anyone could (and SHOULD) write a book about how much blogging can fuck up your life it's Skippy.

Hell, it actually cost him at least one job and god knows how many relationships. The job was actually lost because he wrote, on more than one occasion, about the spectacular ass of the Filipino woman that emptied the office garbage cans and the things he'd be willing to do to that ass for hours on end, and I don't know about you people, but I don't want to live in a world where we can't blog freely about fantasy, semi-consentual, sodomy with illegal, immigrant, janitorial workers.

I thank god that Skippy continues to fight for such things and tonight when you say your prayers you should thank him too. Skippy is a real American hero, albiet while being Canadian, but still...

Anyways, I've got to go not sleep for a couple hours before I go out to Mom's and not eat, sleep or breathe for a few days.

Wish me luck.

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