Today was family orientation day at Grace's pre-school. Do you know what that means? It means that Grace goes back to pre-school on Monday. Of course, they send half the class on Monday and half the class on Tuesday. Grace chose Monday. I guess it's all for the better, though I would have chosen the Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday deal. But her first ballet class is Tuesday evening and it may be better if she isn't all rialed up after her first day of class.
I also signed her up for an art class today. It lasts for four weeks, one day a week, being Wednesday. But I'm thinking Grace is going to be a pretty gifted child in way of the arts. There's something about her. I can't draw a straight line with a ruler, so I guess that I have to swallow the pill and contribute her artistic ability to the sperm donor. I told the teachers that she would be late for the first four Wednesdays of school. But better late than never, right?
I'm happy to say that my Aunt D is still with us--so far.
And now to the drama....
Da Man got fired from the pizza shop. The reason was that he was problems baking. I don't know what the problem is. The other night a dude was taken from there in an ambulance because he was all hopped up on pills and was having seizures of sorts. But yet Da Man loses his job and the fucking crackhead was the one who answered the phone when he called.
And what exactly does one like myself say to a 32 year old man who spent a couple of hours uttering nothing much more than a "What the hell's the matter with me? I got fired from a fucking pizza shop?" I really didn't give much of an answer except a flippant "Everything happens for a reason." I couldn't give much more than that because I was sitting on the other end of the couch thinking to myself, "What the hell's the matter with him? He got fired from a fucking pizza shop!"
I have spent two days and almost three hundred dollars driving Daisy, my beloved old Durango, to garages so I can get an inspection sticker on her. The neighbor has driven around for a year on a busted sticker, but I am not usually the type to have that kind of luck. Today's bill of $189. 85 really bit me. And mostly because we stopped at the shop and I told Da Man to go in and tell the guy that we're coming up short on cash (refer to the "getting fired from a fucking pizza shop" paragraph). So Da Man disappears inside the garage. He saunters back to the van, gets in, and just sits there. Upon my asking what the guy said I was told, "Oh. The part is being delivered and I told him to go ahead and fix it."
That wasn't the right answer.
He asked what he had done to piss me off to which I answered, "It's just like the other night when you went to Subway and I told you I wanted a tuna sub with cheese and pickles. You had to have the lettuce and black olives put on the damned thing because it looked pretty. So today you waltz your ass in the garage and tell him to fix the truck when I told you to tell him to hold off for a week or two because we're broke." I wasn't a happy camper.
I hope that the dude will just slap a sticker on my girl tomorrow and the whole long and ugly thing will be done and over. The being broke part will seem much better if I have a truck that's legal.
Let's see...what else...
I have spent way too much time in front of that tube lately, hanging out with Nancy Grace. I know that there are some people on here who are right smack dab in the middle of missing Caylee in Florida, so I'm not going to say too much so as not to offend. But bet your asses that you're lucky to not have to live with me while I'm glued in front of the tube. I will say this though: I believe that we should be able to use the same interrogation maneuvers on Miss Thang, the mother, that we use on prisoners in our government prisons. That's right: I think someone should be able to fucking interrogate that chick until she breaks. Beat her down or something because it sickens me, the whole demented thing. Just tell someone where your daughter is! I honestly don't give much of a damn about the mother, but the baby girl needs to be brought home.
I sat and cried tonight while watching. And not the sobbing kind of cry, but the feeling like someone punched you in the gut cry. Silent tears. I was sick to my stomach when they were talking about the chloroform being found in her car and the web pages on her computer. What. The. Fuck.
Ech. I'm getting all stirred up again so it's time to switch gears....
I believe I am going to attend my first FRG meeting this Friday. You know, it's the Family Readiness Group for Da Man's National Guard unit. I don't know the slightest thing about this military stuff, but I'm going to give it a go. At least once. Just to see what it's about. The only thing I know about the FRG is that all the pretty women from "Army Wives" walk around and pass out baked goods. We'll see.
So that's it in a nut shell. Life as I have known it for the past couple of months has changed. Again. Ha. At least The Universe seems to share my odd and sometimes crass sense of humor, eh.