So, I started seeing a therapist. I figured it'd help me with some of my sarcasm issues. (Me? Sarcastic? Never...) Since I get X number of free visits per year, it at least gets me out of the house and talking to someone that's being paid to pay attention. It turned out to be a very good thing for me.
I go into her office, take a seat and we begin talking. And it becomes rapidly apparent that she's a bit more talkative than I anticipated.
However, the recessive Italian genes in me wouldn't let her take my talking time away and I relentlessly continued my monologue.
In the end, she informs me that I'm one of the most interesting people she's met.
I'm a bit surprised. Does that mean I'm truly delusional? Perhaps I'm just really odd.
I suppose I'll find out at a future appointment. In the meantime, I'll take it as a compliment.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
And Then I Felt Ill
I remember my first experience with an FPS (first person shooter.)
I was dating this guy (that I'd later marry and then divorce), and he went over to his friend's house every Saturday to play Quake.
I tried it a few days after we discovered that I was going blind from the PTC/BIH. Visual disturbances and shakiness is really bad on weak eyes--- and even worse on a weak stomach.
Yeah. I lost my lunch. And my breakfast. And probably most of dinner from the night before.
Once my eyes settled down for a bit and I was able to stabilize my vision, I lucked out because FPS technology became smoother- less jerky, less constant rendering of pixels.
All this brings me to today, when I sat down and play tested the new Rachet and Clank demo. I know, it's not quite what I'd expect an FPS to be, but the constant scrolling view and endless pixellations just made me wish I'd never eaten anything today.
Overall, it was a lot of fun. The plot was a bit dull, and there were a ton of cliffs to fall off of, but in the end, it was rather nice to beat down some bad guys.
I was dating this guy (that I'd later marry and then divorce), and he went over to his friend's house every Saturday to play Quake.
I tried it a few days after we discovered that I was going blind from the PTC/BIH. Visual disturbances and shakiness is really bad on weak eyes--- and even worse on a weak stomach.
Yeah. I lost my lunch. And my breakfast. And probably most of dinner from the night before.
Once my eyes settled down for a bit and I was able to stabilize my vision, I lucked out because FPS technology became smoother- less jerky, less constant rendering of pixels.
All this brings me to today, when I sat down and play tested the new Rachet and Clank demo. I know, it's not quite what I'd expect an FPS to be, but the constant scrolling view and endless pixellations just made me wish I'd never eaten anything today.
Overall, it was a lot of fun. The plot was a bit dull, and there were a ton of cliffs to fall off of, but in the end, it was rather nice to beat down some bad guys.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
May the Yoga Gods Smite Me...
My sun salutation sucks.
I spent half my day grocery shopping with a bunch of ungrateful yahoos that followed me around calling me Mommy. Every item I toss into the cart was met with comments of "Ew" or "I hate couscous!"
And don't get me started on the eye-rolling. I mean, come on, I must have rolled my eyes at them a hundred times in two hours.
Then the Hubby joined in on the coversation, "Really, do I HAVE to eat that?"
I finally turned around and gave him the evil eye that said, "It's lamb, honey-bunny, shut your trap or wash your own socks and be a single parent." He kind of caught my gaze and turned pale; but he did shut up.
So, we get home and the boys- Doc, Chaos, and even the Hubby- sack out and start snoring. Napoleon helped me sort some of the groceries before sneaking off with my laptop and watching one of the anime I put on her approved list. (Approved- Meaning I don't find too much wrong with it such as overly sexual themes or other things I'm not ready to talk about with her yet.) She killed the battery in my laptop and wandered downstairs just as I finished unpacking everything. Uh-huh, a coincidence. Sure.
I spent the next fifteen minutes teaching her how to fine mince a carrot and sweat mirepoix. Thirty minutes later, she'd finished whining about constantly tending the pan on the stove and I finished up dinner. (Roasted chicken, vegetable couscous, garlic-parm broccoli, and cheddar biscuits)
But, during the process (in which I used several tottering yoga poses and breathing techniques) I discovered a sure-fire method to stop the whining. I just reminded Napoleon that if she didn't stop whining, she'd lose concentration and most likely chop off her fingers. (Yeah, not terribly likely, but still, it made her stop and think.)
Yes, I'm the world's meanest Mom-tator (kind of like a dictator crossed with a Mom only FAAAAR meaner) but I get results and for some odd reason my kids still love me.
Now that everyone is finally in bed, I'm going to go finish my yoga and hopefully get some sleep early tonight.
I spent half my day grocery shopping with a bunch of ungrateful yahoos that followed me around calling me Mommy. Every item I toss into the cart was met with comments of "Ew" or "I hate couscous!"
And don't get me started on the eye-rolling. I mean, come on, I must have rolled my eyes at them a hundred times in two hours.
Then the Hubby joined in on the coversation, "Really, do I HAVE to eat that?"
I finally turned around and gave him the evil eye that said, "It's lamb, honey-bunny, shut your trap or wash your own socks and be a single parent." He kind of caught my gaze and turned pale; but he did shut up.
So, we get home and the boys- Doc, Chaos, and even the Hubby- sack out and start snoring. Napoleon helped me sort some of the groceries before sneaking off with my laptop and watching one of the anime I put on her approved list. (Approved- Meaning I don't find too much wrong with it such as overly sexual themes or other things I'm not ready to talk about with her yet.) She killed the battery in my laptop and wandered downstairs just as I finished unpacking everything. Uh-huh, a coincidence. Sure.
I spent the next fifteen minutes teaching her how to fine mince a carrot and sweat mirepoix. Thirty minutes later, she'd finished whining about constantly tending the pan on the stove and I finished up dinner. (Roasted chicken, vegetable couscous, garlic-parm broccoli, and cheddar biscuits)
But, during the process (in which I used several tottering yoga poses and breathing techniques) I discovered a sure-fire method to stop the whining. I just reminded Napoleon that if she didn't stop whining, she'd lose concentration and most likely chop off her fingers. (Yeah, not terribly likely, but still, it made her stop and think.)
Yes, I'm the world's meanest Mom-tator (kind of like a dictator crossed with a Mom only FAAAAR meaner) but I get results and for some odd reason my kids still love me.
Now that everyone is finally in bed, I'm going to go finish my yoga and hopefully get some sleep early tonight.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Sweet Pickles are Icky
Most kids growing up like sweet pickles. (I guess some places call them bread and butter pickles or something innocuous like that.) I thought they'd be awesome, after all- I like bread and butter.
Yuck. Icky. EW.
Hand me a kosher dill pickle any day of the week. That salty goodness, a nice snappy crunch, and the brine is heavenly.
Even better, hand me one of the type of pickles my Mom religiously puts away every year. She grows her own grape leaves to put in the jar! They have that perfect crunchy goodness that just makes my mouth water to think about them.
Growing up, Mom used to give us a "family night" of sorts. Usually, Dad would be off working somewhere and Mom would make a huge tray of cheese, olives, homemade baby pickles, and then a ton of those chicken flavored crackers and my brothers and I would sit around, late into the night, watching Dr. Who. (The good Dr. Who- you know the series I'm talking about- there was a wild-eyed guy named Tom Baker running about in a scarf...) I think I was about seven or so, but I still remember the series finale.
And those were salty pickles.
And that's why sweet pickles seriously suck a purple gannon.
Yuck. Icky. EW.
Hand me a kosher dill pickle any day of the week. That salty goodness, a nice snappy crunch, and the brine is heavenly.
Even better, hand me one of the type of pickles my Mom religiously puts away every year. She grows her own grape leaves to put in the jar! They have that perfect crunchy goodness that just makes my mouth water to think about them.
Growing up, Mom used to give us a "family night" of sorts. Usually, Dad would be off working somewhere and Mom would make a huge tray of cheese, olives, homemade baby pickles, and then a ton of those chicken flavored crackers and my brothers and I would sit around, late into the night, watching Dr. Who. (The good Dr. Who- you know the series I'm talking about- there was a wild-eyed guy named Tom Baker running about in a scarf...) I think I was about seven or so, but I still remember the series finale.
And those were salty pickles.
And that's why sweet pickles seriously suck a purple gannon.
My Little Drama-Tween
Yesterday was Napoleon's 10th birthday.
We've started calling her Napoleon because she has some major height envy. Even for 10 she's short. Heck, at 10 she's short for a 6 year old.
This entire summer has been nothing but a long drawn out hormonal temper tantrum. I love my kids, but this whole tween-ager drama thing is wearing thin. Very thin.
She wants to stay up late (until 10 because she's 10) and that got vetoes.
She feels entitled to boss her little brothers around and then takes it personally when they don't listen to her.
She gets "sick" or "sore" or "not feeling good" at the drop of a hat. And the amount of discomfort is directly related to how little fun she finds a task. Folding laundry- yeah, she'll manage to injure herself doing it. Playing in the pool? Even with an obvious sunburn and five bruises appearing from water fights with her brother, she's feeling just fine.
Yeah... I'm secretly cursing her to have daughters that are just as dramatic as she is. And to make certain there are some traumatized little brothers in there as well. lol!
We've started calling her Napoleon because she has some major height envy. Even for 10 she's short. Heck, at 10 she's short for a 6 year old.
This entire summer has been nothing but a long drawn out hormonal temper tantrum. I love my kids, but this whole tween-ager drama thing is wearing thin. Very thin.
She wants to stay up late (until 10 because she's 10) and that got vetoes.
She feels entitled to boss her little brothers around and then takes it personally when they don't listen to her.
She gets "sick" or "sore" or "not feeling good" at the drop of a hat. And the amount of discomfort is directly related to how little fun she finds a task. Folding laundry- yeah, she'll manage to injure herself doing it. Playing in the pool? Even with an obvious sunburn and five bruises appearing from water fights with her brother, she's feeling just fine.
Yeah... I'm secretly cursing her to have daughters that are just as dramatic as she is. And to make certain there are some traumatized little brothers in there as well. lol!
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Desperate Nerds are Funny Looking
So, I play in a gamer group. At the moment, I'm the only girl. I'm also the DM. For those of you that aren't gamers, DM stands for Dungeon Master. Before you get some grand idea of kinky fun, I should probably also say that sometimes I'm called the GM- Game Master. Basically, I'm the story teller for the game.
So, today, the guys came over to game in the Wednesday night game-which I don't take part in, only the Hubby does- and they were visibly agitated.
One of our regular players quit. That drops us to three regular players and five part-timers. Apparently, this isn't good enough for the guys. They're terrified that somewhere in my vaginal-and-overly-hormonal story telling that I will kill their characters.
I was instructed to find new players to round out the party.
**shakes head**
This reminds me a bit of some of the indie-gamer-mockumentaries. I can easily see my gamer-boys as the guys in Dorkness Rising.
The Gamers: Dorkness Rising
So, today, the guys came over to game in the Wednesday night game-which I don't take part in, only the Hubby does- and they were visibly agitated.
One of our regular players quit. That drops us to three regular players and five part-timers. Apparently, this isn't good enough for the guys. They're terrified that somewhere in my vaginal-and-overly-hormonal story telling that I will kill their characters.
I was instructed to find new players to round out the party.
**shakes head**
This reminds me a bit of some of the indie-gamer-mockumentaries. I can easily see my gamer-boys as the guys in Dorkness Rising.
The Gamers: Dorkness Rising
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