Finished The Bell Jar and I enjoyed it very much. Sylvia Plath's writing was very clear in addition to being strong; whenever I think of "recommended reading," I think that it's a hard slog, like I've found Virginia Woolf so far (I'll keep trying with her). Anyway, well shit, what can I say? It was Plath's first and only novel. I wasn't aware that she off'd herself when she was only thirty, jeez. What a waste. But if they'd subjected me to electroshock treatments, I think I'd off myself too. Here's to antidepressants {gulping down pills}.
P'Nut, thanks for the comment regarding the hanging sisal post. Bummer, I didn't know that. I think, though, that I can create a base of some kind with some scrap lumber and scrap carpet, maybe find something that'll weigh it down, and create a regular standing sisal post. Shouldn't be too difficult.
My mom's betta splendens is on its last legs. She's had that fish for two or three years, I can't remember, and they're not very long-lived. Before she and my dad acquired my two dogs, they doted on that fish like you wouldn't believe. Told me stories about its antics. She takes meticulous care of the tank, keeping it sparkling clean. Well, I want to get her a "designer" fish as a replacement, not some pet store betta. The only source I know is Betta Talk by Faith, where I've bought bettas before (at high prices). I know the investment would be worth it for my mom, since she'd take good care of it.
A cousin of my dad's, who I remember from early childhood, told me that my mother was obsessed--her word--with potty training me. That my mom would round me up to go potty minutes after I'd already gone. She was a harsh and unyielding mother, she was. I'd even use the word fanatical. It wasn't so bad if there was someone around to intervene, like my Oma or other relatives, but usually there wasn't.
My childhood has always been my ammunition for not having kids of my own, and I stand by that decision. I remember, even as a young teen, swearing that I wouldn't inflict this misery upon another living being.
On a more light-hearted note, my niece couldn't say my name and instead called me "A-a-ant."
1:39 PM
I'm eating taco-flavored Hamburger Helper and it's pretty good. Say yuck if you want to, but to me it's a home-cooked meal. Plus I figure, it probably contains the same ingredients as a meal at Taco Hell.
I put some diatomaceous earth in my Hamburger Helper. I couldn't tell it was there, beyond a slightly discernable grit. See, when I was in tenth grade, my biology teacher was Mrs. Hibb. That old biddy has no business teaching, she was out of her mind. At least a million years old. She had aborted human fetuses in jars that she made us pass around and told us the story behind each one ("that belonged to a 15-year-old girl who was on drugs and she tried to give herself an abortion with a coat hanger"). The students liked her, not in a complimentary way, but because she was so easily distracted from the lesson and would go off on all these insane tangents. On hickeys: "Girls, don't you let some guy suck on your neck. If he wants to suck on something, give him your thumb." On Adam and Eve: "It's not true that it's Eve's fault they got thrown out of the Garden of Eden. If Adam had any sense, he would have kicked her in the pants." But I think her favorite subject was worms. As in, intestinal, parasitic worms. She told us we all had worms. I don't know how many hours she spent talking about worms. Well, even to this day I sometimes fear, however irrationally, that I've got worms, so that's why I put the diatomaceous earth in my food, just in case. If nothing else, it contains trace minerals.
Some days I just can't organize my time. I like it when all the pieces of the puzzle fit together, like, I'll do this and then I'll shower and then I'll do this and this and this. But usually I'm like, I need to do this but I can't until I do this, which I can't do until I do that, blah blah blah. Today's a good example: I need to work on my dolls, but I need to go check my email before the end of the workday and there's a rush for the computer, but before I do that I should take a shower, but I'd rather go for a run before showering, but now I can't run because I just ate.
It's raining. I like rain. Like that Garbage song, "I'm only happy when it rains."
I try to like my SIL. I mean, sometimes she can be okay. But take Sunday, for instance. My mom and my brother let Niecey splash in the lake and Niecey's clothes got wet. Oh my gawd, call the militia. How many opportunities does Niecey get to spend time at a lake? Answer: not many. So SIL got all pissed that Niecey was wet, changed her clothes and then she was a cunt all day. I mean, y'know? I don't have time for people like that.
posted by Newpeep, N.D. (neurotic depressive) @ 8:47 AM
3 Comments:
From rotten eggs, to jarred fetuses, worms to parenting, I think you covered everything today. :)
Lois Lane
"My mom's betta splendens is on its last legs." Um...fish don't really have legs, do they?
Guess I shoulda said, "the fish is almost belly-up" ...
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