thorvalson.net : babble ether

Totally gonna brag now. Just for a minute.

GUESS WHERE I'M GOING FOR THANKSGIVING!!!!

Here!

With this guy!

And here! (Well, for a day).

And here!

And here!

To see this guy!

I'm gonna pee!

Chillin'

It Only Gets Better

Miss Thang, en route to shoe shopping with Mom. Between yesterday's original rock hit and today's ensemble, I'm almost expecting a posse of Japanese girls by next week.
Bling bling, mothafuckaz.

Oh. My. God.

Maddie is in the bathtub, and she is singing to herself.

"IF I EAT ICE CREAM, IT MAKES ME ROCK
COME ON EVERYBODY, LET'S GET NAKED AND
COME ON DO THE BATHTUB ROCK
COME ON DO THE BATHTUB ROCK."

The scariest part is, the kid's got rhythm. It actually sounds pretty good.

I opened up my blog page today, and it yelled at me. It said, "I am neglected! I long for your bullshit!" It feels like it's been a while since I've posted anything beyond a picture or two, and while the main reason for this is that I tend to avoid the internet whenever I'm going through a period of major stress (yes, I do care about your well-being and don't want to bring you down; also I want to protect the innocent), it adds up to a big fat goose egg in terms of posting. My apologies for the lack of content.

Celebrating...

My bankruptcy is one step closer to being filed. I normally wouldn't divulge this information in such a public forum - not because I'm embarassed, but because it's simply no one's business but my own - but I post this hoping it may help someone else out there who is filing or thinking of filing (I would recommend Bruce Lanser as an attorney if you are in Milwaukee - good man). Bankruptcy, thanks to our Congress, is as of last week much harder to file if you're an Average Joe like myself. I don't know what the new laws are exactly, but I've been told that the bottom line is that Chapter Seven bankruptcy (which I'm filing) will be only for extreme cases, and that in most cases, people will be forced to pay off a minimum of $5,000 of their debt in a Chapter 13 (11?) bankruptcy. Here's where I insert a HUGE THANK YOU to my mom and to Greg for helping me get the retainer in so quickly - I mailed it in the same day that Congress took their vote (wiping sweat from brow...). Thanks also to Chris for being so helpful in providing information and recommending Bruce. Kudos to you, buddy. If I remember correctly, Chris's specialty in law is wrongful termination of employment. Insert enthusiastic recommendation here (that's Christopher J. Johnson).
While sparing you of all of the excruciating details of dollar amounts, etc., I do want to say that filing has so far been surprisingly easy. I met with an attorney, got the basic info, made my decision, and mailed him a check for the retainer fee and court costs. Last week, I got a detailed letter in the mail requesting my financial information (income, expenses, assets, accounts, etc.), and once I mail that back to him, I will be given a court date. Then I simply show up and cross my fingers, hoping that whatever judge my case is assigned to will look upon me favorably ("Have you seen my daughter, Your Honor? Look at that face! Maddiesweetie, quick, say something cute.") and grant me the right to move on with my life, lesson learned.
Truth be told, my overall debt is not much compared to most people who file - under $15,000, not counting student loans, which aren't eligible to be cleared in a bankruptcy. But when you take into consideration that my minimum monthly payment on the credit card portion of that debt is probably (I haven't done the math yet) about 25% of my income, plus the fact that I haven't even been able to pay anything on the rest of the debt (day care), plus cost of living, child care expenses, etc... Well, you get the point. I've been robbing Judas to pay Peter to request a deference fom Paul for over two years, and needless to say, I am PRAYING, literally, PRAYING that this bankruptcy will be honored. The light at the end of the tunnel has finally been sighted, and I'm beginning to feel the first faint little glimmer of hope that my days of financial... well, drowning, are coming to an end. There's a little bubbly air pocket around here somewhere, and I'm gonna find it. Amen.
All that said, if anyone reading this has questions regarding bankruptcy, please do not hesitate to contact me. Not because I'm an expert - I'm not at all - but because I'm actually doing it and may be able to answer some questions in a non-judgmental way, with no stick up the ass whatsoever. Just wanted to put that out there.

In other news... Because I am not a heroin-addicted rock star, I have been allowed to see my 27th birthday come and go without any subsequent gunshots to the head or overdoses, whether accidental or intentional. I was talking to Greg the other day about a woman I used to babysit for, and at that time, I remember thinking she was so... not old, but definitely a capital-A Adult. I was 12. She was a 27-year-old mother of a 2-year-old at the time. And now here I am, only my daughter is two years older than hers was. Weird.
I do feel a little different. For whatever reason, I have always equated the age of 27 with Official Adulthood, much in the same way many people view 30. There is Officially No More Fucking Around when you're 27. Get Your Shit Together, 'Cause You're Not Going to Get Any Younger. When I bought nicotine patches at Walgreen's last night, the register automatically prompted the clerk, "ID if under age 27." THAT'S NOT ME ANYMORE! She took one look at me and went straight to the cash drawer. "Don't need to card this one. She's 27."
People often ask me at work how old I am. "26." And they get this sort of, "Oh, you're borderline," look on their faces: Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman. Uh-uh. No more of that shit. 27, bitch. I know who I am and I know what I want. And you ain't it.
There is no longer any justification for my not owning and carrying a purse. What if my daughter had an accident? I'd need her medical card! What if I get raped in an alley?! I need my "In Case of Emergency, Notify..." card! What if I decide to stop by Target on the way home from the HiFi?! I NEED MY TARGET GIFT CARD! What if I decide to stop by Greg's house, drunk on a Wednesday night, on my way home from work?! I NEED MY KEY CARD!
Which brings up another topic: There is Officially No More Getting Drunk on Wednesdays. On occasion, fine. Generally speaking, no. I must say I've been really good about this these last few months. Correct me if I'm wrong, (ahem, Greg), but I'm getting pretty tame in my old age (cough). Rarely do I order a pint simply because I know the taps are there and functioning. I actually think about it. And you know what? Sometimes, I really don't want a pint! Sometimes I want wine. Most of the time, however, I just want a glass of water. With a lemon. And maybe a hot toddie before bed. THAT'S RIGHT. I WANT LEMON WITH MY WATER. No longer do I roll my eyes at the patrons who request this. Now, when a woman says to me, "...with a lemon. And I'd like my dressing on the side," I simply think, "Fair play. You know what you want. Good for you, sista." And I walk off to fetch her lemon.

Oh, and I might be going to Ireland again this year. And this time? I'm actually going to read whatever book I bring. And take lots of walks. And not drink any of that crazy French shit that got me all fucked up and proclaiming to Greg (and the entire Midland region), "YOU HAVE TO MARRY ME!" on the front steps of Castledaly Manor.

Fetching a lemon, humility intact...

still, a pretty good year

(Almost) Happy Birthday to Me: A Lot of Numbers.

"How old are you going to be on your birthday, Mama?"
"Guess."
"12?"
"Thank you, but, no. Older."
"Thirteen?"
"Older."
"Fourteen?"
"Keep going."

(This continues up to twenty-seven.)

"Twenty-FIVE! Twenty-SIX! Twenty-SEVEN!"
"Stop! That's it!"
"Twenty-SEVEN? That's a lot of numbers, Mom."

Because you deserve your own entry,

Happy Birthday, Dave. Can't wait to see you back on the mainland!

Love,
Steph

...And if the County Clare Irish Inn and Pub is booked this Thursday for St. Patrick's (and it is)...

...may I suggest the new County Clare Rooming House, located conveniently only three blocks away, now featuring JUST ABOUT AS MUCH FUCKING GREEN.

Okay, now that that's out of my system...

This entry serves multiple purposes:

1) to show Mrs. Janice Kay Katherine Schroer Carpenter and her lovely husband Bill precisely what I spent their gift certificate on,
2) to thank them for said gift certificate,
3) to show off the new boudoir-ness of my boudoir, which will now officially be referred to as "The Love Den,"
4) to lament the lack of lovers in the love den, and to make a public plea to the one particular person who could do something about that, and who damn well should, because I never would have had this stupid curtains-in-the-doorway idea if it weren't for him. Said person will probably never read this entry, but at least the thought is out there.

So there you have it. Mrs. Carpenter will be happy to know that what was once erroneously dubbed "the living room" now has a sexy new title, and what was formerly known as "the dining room" shall henceforth be deemed "the living room," because,
"Why would you call it the dining room when you have your davenport and chairs in there? It's a LIVING ROOM."

"Davenport," Janice Kay? "DAVENPORT"? You know, I had toyed with the idea of publishing your actual age on the internet, today being your birthday and all, but decided against it in the interest of our friendship. But then you went and called a couch a "davenport," and you've completely ruined the credibility of my intended lie. No one would have known! Everyone in the wide open internet would have thought, "How nice that Stephanie finally has another female friend that's her age." They would've bought it!
AND THEN YOU SAID "DAVENPORT."
Well, tough cookies for you, then.

HAPPY 51ST BIRTHDAY, JANICE KAY KATHERINE SCHROER CARPENTER!
I love you. :)

Never Pay For: Sex, Drugs, Office Supplies.... and Smut!

My daughter is a criminal. Witness the booty she hath stolen from the new grocery store in my childhood neighborhood:

You know what the worst part is? She was with my mother. AND MY MOTHER DID NOT MAKE HER RETURN IT TO THE STORE.
If I, as a child, would have known that my mother was such a pushover for shoplifting, I would have had a much more impressive Nintendo game selection. Or at least the full anthology of Motley Crue.

You wanna know your summer horoscope, Maddie? Here's what your mother has "to reveal about your Love, Money, Health, Career, and Leisure" for the summer of 2005:
I Don't Think So, You Ain't Got None (and If You Do, Cough It Up Already), Stop Whining and Just Take a Nap For Chrissake, When You Gonna Get a Job, and Leisure? SHOW ME SOMETHING YOU DO THAT ISN'T CONSIDERED A LEISURE ACTIVITY.

A Brilliant Start to My Future as a Country Singer

So I got dumped, then I got sick, then my daughter got sick, then my car got towed and blah blah blah blah blah...

This is all I have to say: Shoelace.

"'When it rains, it pours...'"
"That's why you should carry an umbrella."
"Yeah? IT'S IN THE CAR."

I Want My Mommy!

I love my mommy.

I Am Sofa King We Todd It

So I got off of work last night, went to the Palm for a quiet nightcap, came home, sent out an email, got drunk text messaged (warning: the following entry stands in complete defiance of any and all rules of the English language) by Billy ("HI! I'M DRUNK! I WAS JUST AT THE CLARE!"), and went directly to bed. Do not pass Go, do not remove the $200 you just made at work, do not even change into pajamas. Just lay that greasy hair down, fully aware that the odor emanating from the bedsheets is a direct result of the hush puppy parasites (do hush puppies get fleas?) now migrating from your jeans to said sheets, but too tired to give a shit, a rat's ass, or a flying fuck.
Dear God. Look at that sentence. If that sentence isn't enough - on so many levels - to repel any man from ever climbing into my bed again, then I don't know what is.
So I woke up at 11:30 this morning, feeling like those eight hours of sleep could easily be stretched into another ten, but reluctantly got out of bed to commence frantic last-minute packing for the weekend. Must pick up Maddie. Must drive to Rockford. Must go shopping for Tracey's birthday present. Must... Must.... AHHHHH.

Baby steps. Step One: Pick Up Your Daughter.

*** Flakiness 101: a How-To Guide ***

Ten minutes, two backpacks, and one cup of coffee after waking, get on the road to Riverwest. Do not shower. Do not brush teeth. Get in car and Go. Realize you are, in fact, still wearing the same clothes you worked in last night. In a bar. With hush puppies.
Arrive at destination to find gate locked. Jump gate, land squarely and safely on icy path thanks to dried Kitchen Gunk trapped in treads of shoes. Proceed to front door.
Knock. Note the only sound you hear: the chirping of birds, and a band practicing in the basement of the house next door. No running feet from within the house you are at. Chirp chirp.
Knock again. Mutter under your breath, "Where the fuck is he?" Wonder to yourself why the father of your daughter would not be home at the time you are scheduled to pick her up. Knock louder. Through clenched teeth, sharply whisper, "jeezus."
Walk away. Remember the last time you jumped this gate, and how, when you were leaving the courtyard, you had almost jumped back over the gate to get out, forgetting that you could simply OPEN THE GATE FROM THE INSIDE. Remember who witnessed - and shared! - your lack of common sense in that moment. Smile.
As you are approaching your vehicle, realize you left your doors unlocked. Thank the Powers That Be that this is one of those nice blocks in Riverwest in which you can leave two backpacks, a purse, AND YOUR GUITAR in your unlocked vehicle for 10 minutes without someone coming along and stealing it. Them. Whatever.
Slowly become conscious of a dull ache spreading over your entire cortex. Notice the blockage of your left nostril. Mutter, "Shit."
Fall into driver's seat, rest forehead on steering wheel, and suddenly get struck with a revelation: This is where Dashboard Confessional got their name. This Very Moment could go into the dictionary as an italicized example of a Dashboard Confessional, if only you'd start talking to yourself. Note genius of local musicians.

Repeat, "Shit." Start thinking of where the nearest pay phone is so that you may call your daughter's father, determine their whereabouts, pick up your daughter, and proceed to Rockford. Try not to get all pissy and annoyed.

And then, right then, realize IT'S NOT YOUR WEEKEND TO HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. Daughter and father are off galavanting, spanning time, with no consideration of your frustration because THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING. You didn't have to be here. You're sticky, you're stinky, your teeth are growing carpet and the carpet's growing hair, and YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO BE HERE. You could be home, in your bed, right now.
Realize that the question, "Where the fuck is he?" is obsolete, and the real question remains: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. Or, more accurately, WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR BRAIN?

Right there. Aching, throbbing, and pulsating within the dense walls of your numb skull.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TRACEY!

Happy 27 to my best friend in the whole wide world, who is also the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world, and who deserves to have cheesecake for breakfast and then fly off to Vegas more than anyone else in the whole wide world. If any of you see this woman in the grocery store, in the casino, or shopping at Target, give her a big hug and tell her how the flaky bits of dried carrot mush on her shirt really compliment her skin tone and accentuate the blueness of her mystical eyes. She will giggle and tell you to stop.
Don't stop. Give this woman love. And cheesecake. And a big hug from me, too.

I love you, Tracey Melissa Johnson Gessner, and nothing brings me more joy than to tell you - year after year after year - Happy Birthday, my cheesehead, my soul sista, my partner in crime, my Best Friend. May the heavens open up here on earth to shower you with goodness and warmth (and, this weekend, thousands and thousands of dollars).

Have fun in Vegas (again!). Please get very drunk and smoke cigars and refer to yourself in the third person as "Bunny."

"Bunny like casino chips."
"Bunny like cheesecake."
"Bunny like hot tubs."

p.s. Juli and Maddie want to go to the country line dancing bar tomorrow night - hope you don't mind. I thought we'd get drunk and paint a mural on the new Pergo. Maybe watch some porn.
Pizza in living room, baby in oven. No. Wait. That's not right... Lemme see here...

It's a Hard Knock Life

Maddie. Dusting. And I didn't ask her to.
Her thumb. Is raisin-y. From the damp cloth.
Damp Cloth. My daughter. Cleaning.
I am in shock.
......

I love this child! Where did she come from? Send me more of these cleaning things!

Alright! Who's coming with me!?

I'm completely serious.
I've been waiting for this exhibit to come to the Midwestern US since A&P II, two years ago.
Admission is $21 for adults, $17 for students (with valid ID), and $11 for kids (ages 3-11).
I would like to go on either Sat., March 12th or Sat., March 26th, as these are the only two days this month I will not have Maddie. As much interest as she's shown in the subject of death recently, somehow I think viewing actual corpses is just a teensy-weensy bit too much. I can just hear the argument now...
"MOOoommm... I WANNA go to the mu-ZEE-um... I WANNA see dead pee-puhlllll..."
"Sorry, sweetie. Corpses are for big girls."

Call me if you want to go, because weekend tickets will probably sell fast. There are just that many sick people out there. :)

Why I Blog: Reason #637

Amen, sister.

Word of the Day, Part Two

Last night, Maddie asked to see the ring Greg gave me and asked what it meant.
"The crown stands for Loyalty, the hands for Friendship, and the heart is for Love."
"What's lo- ... loooyyltily?"

loy-al (loi-uhl) adj. steadfast in one's allegiance to a person or cause or to one's country. loy'al-ly adv. loy-al-ty (loi-uhl-tee) n. (pl. -ties).
(Source: Oxford American Dictionary, Heald Colleges Edition.)

What Happens When We Die

This is Maddie's puppy. His name is Worry.
Worry had an unfortunate accident with his leash.
When Worry was dying, his voice got real low and quiet, because "I'm siiiiiiick. I'm dyyyyyying. That's why my voooooice sounds like thiiiiis. Oooooooh."
Then Worry hung himself with his leash.
Worry is now dead. Maddie is going to have a funeral for Worry, where she plans to say nice things about her puppy. Things like, "Worry was a nice puppy, even though he don't - didn't - act berry nice to Vi-o-let, 'cause Vi-o-let's a kitty and puppies don't like kitties." At the appropriate moment after her speech, she will perform acts of such kindness and love that Worry will be magically brought back to life.
"When people are sick and when they're dyyyyying, you have to take care of them."
(hug)
(kiss)
(pause)
(sharp inhalation) "Worry! You're a-LIVE!"

The same ritual of resurrection was performed this afternoon on Lila, Polly Pocket's best friend. Lila drowned in the bathtub after getting stuck in the drain, poor girl. She had so much life ahead of her. It's a shame.
If the next stuffed animal's name is "Lazarus," I may seek professional help.

"just because you're paranoid don't mean they're not after you."

I swear to God, the Universe is really out to get me. I swear. EVERY SINGLE TIME I try to move on with my thought process, something comes swirling and whirling from the ether to smack me in the face: "STOP DENYING YOUR FEELINGS," it says. "You wanted love? YOU GOT IT. NOW DEAL WITH IT."
Last week, I got dumped to the "Rushmore" soundtrack.
The next day, in the middle of one of my "See? This ain't so bad..." moments, I walked into the kitchen of the Palomino and got smacked in the face with John Lennon's "Oh Yoko" blasting from the boombox. Yes, I just said "boombox". And yes, I made a relatively empathetic reference to John And Yoko, Inc.
Deal.
So JUST NOW, just when I hit the "rebuild" button to upload the last entry (read: DO NOT LISTEN TO DINOSAUR JR.), I got a new bulletin message on MySpace.
Livin' all over me, indeed. "HEY, THORVALSON! YOU LOVE THAT GUY! NYAH, NYAH, NYAH-NYAH, NYAH! HAHAHHAHAHA!"

Fuckers. FUCKERS!

Shopping. Seriously. Go give your kid a bath and get out of that fucking door before Robert Bloody Smith starts singing on tv commercials again and fucks you all up for the day.
Go.

Stop the press!

I just read the BEST fucking metaphorical sentence I have read all week. THIS is why I blog. This. (Yes, I was an English major, and yes, you can all bite me.)

Ladies and gentlemen, the award for Best Metaphorical Imagery of a Teetering Emotional State goes to...

Mimi Smartypants:
"...we move on with our lives, and then later that evening I will spend entirely too much time wandering around in the abandoned produce market of my mind, amongst bins of moldy Guilt Melons and bags of wrinkly Despair Grapes and rotten heaps of Sad Potatoes, while the fluorescent lights flicker overhead."

Moving on to Female Hero Number Two of this week...
Jen Schefft, aka, The Bachelorette. Stay with me, folks. There's a moral here.
I do not normally advocate the use of hard reality television, but occasional use - balanced with a healthy diet and rigorous exericise - can be beneficial to those who may otherwise choose to spend their time examining their sweater lint, analyzing exactly what was in that Italian sausage that would make the cat's flatulence SO INCREDIBLY FOUL (gee, EVERYTHING, maybe?), or pacing endlessly between the computer and the phone, trying all the while to ignore the fact that neither of them are responding with the email address or voice of the one person you want to hear from.
In these situations, only one thing can help you: Mindless Television, preferably the kind that allows you to live vicariously through other people. In the psych world, this is known as Escapism. And if it's keeping you from the sweater lint, then it's PERFECTLY OKAY.
That said...
Jen Schefft should be given a medal. I have not followed the entire season of "The Bachelorette," but I have seen enough to appreciate the melodrama of the Final Rose Ceremony. The bottom line of last night's "After the Final Rose" live coverage of Jen rejecting her second proposal was outstanding. Not because it's a great show, and certainly not because of the obnoxious host, but because of Jen. I watched - along with millions of other losers - as Jen told Jerry, sweetly but firmly, "I think we're just better off as friends."
GASP! SHOCK! HORROR!
After the initial wave had retreated, the audience was allowed to ask questions. And one woman, THAT HORRIBLE WOMAN (yes I said it, and I hope she reads it somewhere), stood up and asked Jen, "I'm sorry, Jen, but what is it going to take for you (to be happy)?"
Ahem.
Maybe her happiness doesn't revolve around having a goddamn ring on her finger just for the sake of pleasing LOSERS LIKE YOU. Maybe having the strength and the courage to reject someone WITH CLASS AND COMPASSION on live national television is more honorable than accepting the proposal half-heartedly, only to break his heart even worse two months down the road. She has walked away from two years of public scrutiny with something she would never have found in any one other person: her own self-respect. That is her prize. SO FUCK YOU, AUDIENCE LADY.

Female Hero of the Week Number Three (saving the best for last):
My mom.
My mom gets a friggin' medal for,
a) sending Maddie and me presents :)
b) putting up with pacers-by-the-door at work while she is obviously
c) entirely wrapped up in highly confidential, top-secret, potentially dangerous, Big Business Stuff: listening to, gently and respectfully supporting, me and the people I love. :) (Thanks, Mom! xoxox)

To Do List:
1. go to bank
2. mail retainer fee to attorney for BANKRUPTCY! YAY!
3. work on another Female Hero's birthday present... (shhh!)
4. shopping!

Do's and Don'ts intended more for myself than any of you, but included here for educational purposes should anyone in similar life circumstances be reading:

DO NOT, Under Any Circumstances, Read, Watch, or Listen To Any of the Following:
Pablo Neruda, W.B Yeats, anything Irish, anything Russian, "Eternal Sunshine...", Buffy Season Two, Buffy Season 5, Dinosaur Jr., Bob Mould, Ida, Peter Fucking Gabriel For Cryin' Out Loud. You busted out the Neruda last night, thinkin' you were all bad ass 'n shit, and one look at one line nearly knocked you on your ass.
DO NOT smoke. :)

DO:
go shopping. take a shower. love your feet.
hope, but not hopelessly. I Corinthians 13.
throw away your calendar and saddle up your salamander.
remember you are loved.
eat.
take pictures of your daughter making fabulous jewelry for the cat. like this:

Tree huggin'

Two weeks ago, a couple of fine young bartenders from the Nomad and Hi Hat approached me at the Palomino regarding Milwaukee SOS (Service Offering Service). They are a very young grassroots organization, aiming to round up a group of charitable service industry individuals and businesses willing to donate a portion (or all!) of their tips on selected evenings to donate to various worthy causes (this first one was for Tsunami Relief).
They have no religious or political affiliations; they're just good folks. If you're in the service industry - servers, bartenders, beauticians, massage therapists, etc. - in Milwaukee, check these people out. Or we'll sic Amy's dog on you. :)

On that note, if you're not in the service industry, donate anyway. If you have a roof over your head and a pot to piss in, you're doing waaaay better than the 943,000 people who have been made homeless. Score karmic points. Use it to pick up chicks: "Hi. I donated money to tsunami relief. I'm sensitive." A dollar. Some supplies. Auction off your bratty kid sister. Whatever.
And if you've already donated, then... well... sheesh. Yer just peachy.