I remember holding her in the hospital when Meara and I came to visit.

If my dad turns up dead, I was with y'all, right? My god, even when he helps me out, he makes me want to die.

That's awesome, askye.

Burrell... Are they expired? Cause I will totally eat them if not. I just figured you never got around to buying them!

Happy birthday, Emeline! I still love telling the story from the SF f2f of me swearing after stabbing myself with a safety pin while putting on my belly dance costume, only to hear a small voice echo "oh, shit!" and remember Emeline was there. Aims just shrugged at my apology and said, "She didn't learn it from you."

If my dad turns up dead, I was with y'all, right? My god, even when he helps me out, he makes me want to die.

erika, I don't have a tenth of the issues with my dad that you do with yours, and he can be so annoying when he's helpful or when he's "helpful." And yes, you were here with me, pass me that paint brush?

Happy Birthday Emeline!

Cool, thanks. I'm getting a percentage of his Social Security when he retires. Which, you'd think would be good news, right? Not by the time he finishes with it...

Happy Birthday Emeline!

In random cat news: I hadn't planned on washing my hair this morning, but when I got up in the middle of the night to use the loo the cats snuck into my bedroom and Malachi spent most of the morning attempting to groom me (I think, either that or he wanted to eat my hair) so I woke up with a hairline stinking of catspit. Ick!

My god, even when he helps me out, he makes me want to die.

Ugh. As Shel Silverstein once observed, "Some kind of help is the kind of help we can all do without."

yeah, well, the thing is, I think I was supposed to hear about this a few months ago. Somehow, I didn't...fuck if I know why. But that doesn't stop him from thinking his daughter, the college graduate who speaks two languages, can't take or leave a phone message, or respond to official letters in the mail. Really? And I honestly think the bump will be comparatively modest for all this psychodrama, but his money is normal and my money is magic and spends 400 times. In his head, he's totes setting me up for life so it's the only thing we've talked about all year.(I mean, hey, more is better, but a Brinks truck is not pulling up to my house any time soon.) Honestly, twenty years on benefits makes me feel like the Loser lizard Queen anyway. And he is just looking for a ticket out of my life, anyway. And then he starts in on my attitude, and how I should feel, which always makes me want to be Tony Soprano so I can growl "I'm sorry, with all I have to do today, I don't have time to suck your dick.(um, not literally, all his scars are internal.) Basically, I'm not sixteen. Although things aren't as different from that as I'd like to be.

Happy Birthday, Em!