2002-09-01 - 4:45 p.m.

Well, well, well. See you in Septembre indeed. Yes, I intended the French version. I'm so tired. I guess I still haven't caught up on my sleep from the big trip. That and the little pink pills Kelly gave me are making it hard to concentrate, let alone type. Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

Wednesday was my birthday. It's true, it's true. The big 2-4. What a useless number. I had fun. Many online cards and regular cards and well-wishers. So that pleased me. And those that forgot already know of my scorn, so no big deal there.

I got up early on my birthday for two reasons. 1: I wanted to be up for as much of my special day as possible, and 2: There was a huge construction machine-type bang bang making construct outside my window that was operating with unhealthy amounts of diesel. ("Was it running on diesel gas, or was that the name of the machine?" - T.C.) So I finally lurched out of bed when my first phone call came in around 8:30. The winner? Aunt Linda. She asked me for more details about our troubles in Utah and I filled her in the best I could. It was early in the morn and I had been up late so my voice was even scratchier than usual. Linda asked if it was a result from too much smoking. I replied, QUITE UNDERSTANDABLY, with "Are you fucking kidding me?". And then I realized I used the F-Word to Aunt Linda. And with that realization, I knew it would be on the front page of the Citizen within minutes (effectively pushing a pumpkin-painting Shumway and I off the front page). After I hung up with her it did manage to reach the rest of the family in minutes. It even made it into one of the Slopp's Online Journals! (Albeit a grammatically incorrect and Slopptastically sloppy online journal at best). So whatever. I heard from my other Aunts, my parents, and friends all morning and was basically hoping from one call to the next all day. Yes, I'm THAT cool. When Nanny didn't call by noon I was slightly worried, half expecting her to be honking in my driveway, or getting ticketed for a non-visible handicap sticker somewhere, but it turns out she was just trying to let me sleep.

I spent much of the morning doing laundry as well, until Brad and my mother showed up. What do I say here? B-Slopp is reading this part with interest, curious how I will describe how the next few hours unfolded. It was ok. I got some really cool shirts from my mom and I gave the assorted trinkets and gifts I picked up for her on the road. It went ok. Well, somewhat ok. Despite it being my special day, my mother and my attitudes towards each other didn't take too much of a day off. I swear that our blood pressures both must go through the roof when we're near the other one. Every once in a while, we do get along great, but for the most part, we are a tragically odd couple. I think my mother is overly-sensitive over everything. And no, I don't think that's a generalization. She thinks I am overly-critical about everything. Anyone who's ever met either of us would probably attest that both of those statements are true. I think what usually ends up setting me off the most when I'm with her boils down to one thing: I often try (though apparently not very well) to be funny or humorous when I'm with her (if there's a familial audience, in this case -and in most cases- Brad, than even moreso) and she totally takes it the wrong way and gets all emotional and freaks. Which only sets me off because it's my own fucking mother and she doesn't even get my sense of humor. Now, I'm not trying to play the innocent here. I know my "sense of humor" isn't unicorns, flowers, and puppy dog tails. It's more quick and biting. But seriously, my mother has an emotional breakdown every time I so much as sigh, roll my eyes, make a disparaging noise, etc. And there is NO SUCH THING as trying to "save a situation" when it comes to my mother. I can save them with my father, or at the very least, give him and I the 5 minutes it takes to cool down and we're fine, but not with my mom. She'll put on a good face for all my friends at Margaritas, and pretend she's having fun, but really be pissed at me the whole time. All because of something stupid like me commenting on the fact that I didn't want to walk a half mile to the post office and could she park closer. She wonders where I get my grudge holding behaviors from. Don't believe me? She still hasn't spoken to me since my birthday. And the worst part? If I called her and accused her of not speaking to me, she'd deny it and say she didn't notice and that she was just busy. Ok, no more venting on this. I could go on for hours, but you people seem to enjoy the Fred Track Lists and me getting thrown in the pokey type entries more than me bitching about my mother type entries. So enough.

Margaritas was fun though and through the evidence of four college ID's Brooke, Rich, Jimbo, Ben, Brad, Rich, Andrea, my mother and I were able to get cheaper margaritas and 2 meals taken off the bill. Sweet.

Even more sweet? My little surprise when I got home from dinner. On the way home, I called Brett and Monique to thank them for the exquisite gifts I recieved from the local post office via auto gyro. [Gifts = Alf pencil, Gremlins trading cards, TMNT trading cards, a Radiohead bootleg ("No fair." - H.E.E.) and most superest duperest of all? GARBAGE PAIL KIDS CARDS!!! Sweet. If Zach Plaque had been in there I think I would have fainted dead away.) So ANYWAY, I called them in the brookiest of lynns to thank them for the aforementioned gifts and they weren't home so I left a message. They weren't home because, as I found out 20 minutes after calling them, they were on their way to NH from NY to surprise me on my birthday! Via Brett's 19th Century Honda motorcycle they pulled a Peter Farmer and came out of nowhere to apperate in time for the 28th day of August. We played beirut under the watchful eye of Ms. Tierney from the newly restored Scotland, PA poster that Andrea rescued from the recesses of my mind (a place I put memories of my nice things that are no longer nice, so I banish them so not to have to think of them ever again.) After it got mauled, I never wanted to speak of it again - despite the arduous process of getting it here from Canada and spending an amount of money o it that will join the ranks of "Las Vegas expenditures" and "Braves tickets for Chad, Tim, & Zach" as amounts that will never be fully disclosed. But now it looks like new. I love it. And the David Byrne poster than Andrea got off eBay and had framed ceratinly wasn't too shabby itself! Brett was a Beirut virgin, so we worked him in and now he's juuuste fine. Actually, Rich and I were having an off night and he kicked our asses. There, I said it.

The next few days were a tired blur, and all I can really recall is that I didn't get any of my comics. I did get my pictures from the trip though, so that was cool. The "Dangerous Poisonous Snakes" picture did not come out though, so that was not cool.

I think I've been drinking too much lately. This morning was the second morning this week where I woke up knowing I told my brain to remember something from the night before and that it was very important (like more important than "'keeping your pot handles IN!' important") and I have failed to remember on both occassions. This happend Thursday morning too. I'm thinking that it's not the alcohol and that someone's slipping dummy juice into my ear while I sleep. And since Rich has slept within 20 feet of me both nights it has happened, I'm pointing my accusing finger at him. Perhaps he has something to hide that he keeps making me forget . . . hmmmmmm.

So I'm typing this from the Shumway's beach cottage in Maine. Ben and I came up after the Joe Rogan show last night. The show was insanely good and insanely dirty. Joe works very blue. Me like blue. Me like Joe. I can't believe I actually got to see one of my hallowed WNYX-er's in the flesh. A person who will remain un-named said he thought I was going to charge the stage yelling "You've touched her skin, now I've touched your skin! It's like me touching her skin!" But I did no such thing. Ben and I plan on buying his CD now. Jeff has it and we were going to burn it, but we never heard it after he got it. The show was great, the opener was good and the fat man that fell on his table, crashed to the floor and passed out cold behind Phil & Andrea was certainly a highlight. I would talk about some of Joe's jokes but I'm afraid I'd be arrested. Needless to say, " . . . and start you up like a lawnmower" has been a favorite way to end sentences around here this weekend. Ben and I drove up here afterwards and met up with Kelly, Liz, Abby, Rich, and Jimbo. Everyone but Rich and I (the only two who hadn't been here that day) looked like red raccoons from all the sun. We stayed up playing cards and making fun of the way Liz talks. Rich continued to punch me if I so much as looked at him, and I kept accidently squeezing the sharp rocking chair leg down on my bare heels. To which I would squeal "I hate it when I sit on me!" Hardy fucking har.

Abby is yelling at me to see what I want for dinner, while Kelly and her watch High Crimes and Ben sleeps out on the beach hammock. Liz is sleeping across the hall as I type. The boogie boarding wiped her out. Rich went home to his parents for a party with Freddy Mercury, and Jimbo is napping right by the water. If Jimbo sweeps out to sea there is no way that I'm gonna be the one that has to tell John and Diane.

It's been real,

The Lifesaver

ps - 2 hours later: Kelly & Abby & I still aren't quite sure what the deal with the "dumb Hispanic Ben" was.

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