All I want for Xmas is my GOD DAMN SECOND BATHROOM FINISHED!

Dear Wyatt,

You know I love you very much, right? And, I know that you are beyond annoyed by my "nagging about the bathroom", which is why I am blogging about it-- mostly because I know you aren't interested enough to actually read anything I put on here, and you don't even really understand the point of a blog... but I need to bitch about this to someone... again.

For our anniversary, I asked that the only present I wanted, for our FIRST wedding anniversary, was that you finish the half finished bathroom. In February of 2009, just a mere five months after we moved into our first home, you decided to spend the majority of the $7500 refund we received for our house purchase on gutting and remodeling the bathroom. Now, despite the fact that one of the major things I was most excited about when we bought this house was the fact that my entire life I lived in a house with one bathroom, I allowed this. I grew up in a world where it had become acceptable for the other females in my family to walk into the bathroom while I was showering, and sit down to take a crap. Actually, my mother liked to use this time for bonding-- taking the time to talk to me about my day and any of the problems I might have been having. This is the world I grew up in. This was an everyday occurrence in my most formative years. Knowing this, how can there be any mystery why I am absolutely fucked up.

With this in mind, the idea of the luxury of a second bathroom seemed like a glorious move up the social ladder for me. Sadly, I only was able to enjoy this luxury for a few priceless months before Wyatt destroyed all functionality of my second bathroom, and left it a naked husk; a shell of what was once a bathroom. We spent the majority of that refund money on that bathroom-- three different kinds of tile, new fixtures, a new sink and toilet, exposed aggregate concrete counter top, shower shelf, and shower bench that look like beautiful replicas of the remains from Pompeii that my father in law made himself...

But, alas, my beautiful bathroom sits half finished because someone whose idea it was to start this fucking project got pissed halfway through because laying tile "is frustrating" and, now has lost all the will and motivation to finish it... for almost three years.

So what happens? I have to wait when Wyatt is in the bathroom, whether I need to shower or dry my hair or even just brush my teeth, for up to a half an hour some times. When we are getting ready, and a sudden "urge" hits, I am forced to blow dry my hair in the hallway with the dryer cord pinned in the door frame or put my make up on in the bedroom or brush my teeth in the kitchen sink... of course, that's if I am lucky to catch him before and am able to retrieve the things I need before he goes to do the deed. SO, when I don't catch him in time, and I have to wait to use the bathroom, I get yelled at for "always taking to long". Well, you know what? Maybe if I didn't have to wait for the half life of that radioactive waste you just dumped in the bathroom for it to be safe to enter, then maybe, just maybe, we could leave the fucking house on time.

It's always my fault. I'm the bad guy. I annoy him and nag too much. I need to drop it. I'm getting on his nerves.

All I ask for as a my FIRST wedding anniversary present was a finished bathroom-- a gift that would have been completely free being as everything for the fucking project has been bought and paid for, and sitting in my damn dining room for three years... or at least until I made him move it into the unused space of the bathroom so I didn't have two totally useless rooms in my house. But, I guess that being "frustrated" by tile is just too much of a hassle to please your beloved wife on the anniversary of the day she chose to spend of the rest of her life with you, and only you until death. Poor Wyatt. I am such a horrible bitch, aren't I? I am amazed he hasn't left me yet for being so demanding and unreasonable...

Now, both Xmas and my 25th birthday are coming up in December, and you know what? I'd even let him off the hook for presents for each holiday-- because, yes, my birthday is a holiday-- if he would just get over himself and finish that god damn bathroom. I am begging at this point. If he thinks he is tired of hearing me bitch, then he obviously has to idea how tired I am of bitching about it. Just make it happen, and wouldn't you know it? I would shut the hell up! Please? PLEASE!? Do this for me and the sake of the stability of our marriage. I've even offered to do it myself if he would just help me, as I have never tiled before. God forbid I fuck it up and hear about it forever.

What more do I have to do? How much longer can I stand this? How much longer can he honestly keep putting it off? Really?

If you want everyone to stop giving you shit, me to stop bringing it up, and if you want to have a happy wife... Please... FINISH THE FUCKING BATHROOM BEFORE I FINALLY SNAP AND TAKE YOU OUT WITH THE TOILET LID.

Love,

Bekki

River Song must be a Capricorn.

Today, we were finishing up some projects we had been delaying around the house. Darryl came over to help, and afterwards while I worked on homework, he wandered into the office-- mostly to play with Rigby I think, who happened to be in there as well-- and noticed one of the books I had on my shelf.

"Sextrology?" He asked, and I assume raised an eyebrow-- I'm not sure if he can even raise an eyebrow (I know I can't), because honestly I wasn't looking when he said it. But, in my mind, he did because it adds a descriptive flair to visualize the scene. I'm a writer... I take these kinds of liberties.

"It's not really so much about sex. I mean, that stuff's in there, but it's more about the genders." I said grabbing the book off the shelf. "Here, take a look. It's weird how accurate it really is."

As Darryl read his chapter on Virgos, he decided he didn't like the book because, as I had said, it was too eerily accurate. Then he found the section on zodiac specific turn ons. Wyatt and Darryl laughed over their supposed Virgo turn ons. Now, I bought this book when I was really into Astrology in high school, and to be honest I really haven't read it since. But, it's a neat book, so I held on to it.

"Read the Capricorn ones. I haven't read this in forever, and I can't remember them."

The following is a few of the listed Capricorn turn ons:

dark, wavy hair
lanky physiques
collegiates, intellectuals
tweed, flannel suits
strangers or travelers
big noses, chins
stoicsim

...Remind you of anyone?



Oh, this explains so very, very much.

Ill-annoying.

Not too long ago, I was watching "How the State Got their Shapes", and they had a whole segment of the show about people from Nevada bitching about people mispronouncing their state's name. Apparently, it's Ne-vad-a, not Ne-vaw-da. Oh, boo hoo. Get over it. Tell me this mister Nevadian- How do you pronounce Illinois? Because, I'd bet twenty dollars you pronounce the fucking "s".

Alright, I never took french, but I know that the "s" in Illinois is silent. Yet, no-one save the residents of the state itself, can figure this out. It's quickly becoming one of my biggest pet peeves.

Then, yesterday during observation, one of the girls was doing a report and when she said Illinois, she pronounce the "s". Is this ignorance spreading? How can it be infecting our own residents? Granted, she is twelve and I can forgive her, but if she said it, it means she's heard it from an adult in her life. Ugh! How can we be letting this happen?

I can even understand there might by a bit of confusion because there are states that end in "s" that pronounce them. Texas. Kansas. Okay. But, do you hear anyone pronouncing Arkansas, Ar-Kan-Sass? No. And, it even has the word Kansas in it-- a take that pronounces the "s".

My plea to America-- please stop pronouncing it "Illinoise".

A message to the black guys who shouted at me on 15th street.

For any of you who live in the area, you know that 15th street here in Springfield isn't the classiest of places. It is what one would consider the ghetto. There are boarded up houses and couches on front porches. There are always people outside hanging out on the street in big groups like they are waiting for a bus. Now, I know that insulting this neighborhood is racist-- the people here did not have the advantages I have had, and that does not make me better than them. But, that also does not give them the right to assume that I am a uptight white girl.

I have been doing my observation for a week at the Capital College Preparatory Academy that shares the building with Feitshans Elementary. Thus far in the five minutes, twice a day it takes to walk from my car to the building and back again from the building to my car, I have already been catcalled and had a big black car with giant chrome rims slow down as I crossed at a crosswalk to watch my ass, during which the driver shouted. "Wooooo. Hey girl."

I am not the kind of girl used to having to deal with this kind of disrespect because I don't hang out where this kind of stuff happens. Sure, have I been out at a bar, and had to deliver the bad news to some drunk douchebaggy tool that his mechanics of flirting need a tune up and that his "charms" are not working on me? Yes. Which is why I don't usually go out to bars. I don't like being in situations where guys try to pick me up, especially since I have been in a relationship for seven years and have been married one. The guys that always hit on me in bars work there angle so strong I feel like I'm in a high-pressure sales pitch for a crappy used car or a money-pit time share. Dude, get the picture, if I was single, I'm not the type of girl who would pick up a guy at a bar, let a lone date or be looking for a relationship with. IF I had to be single now, I would probably shoot myself just to save me the trouble of dating.

I digress-- so, after having to deal with being treated like a walking vagina for the last week, I'm getting a little gun-shy about interacting with the guys from the neighborhood. Which is why when I came out of the door, and saw a group of three guys walking down the sidewalk the direction I was headed, I hesitated at on the steps. I wasn't being racist- I swear. It was not because they were black. I am on their fucking side. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. I want to teach at a school with diversity so I can reach out to minority kids and encourage those who don't have the opportunities every child should! But, the community track record with me had not been positive. I had a bag full of heavy books that was kind of awkward to lug around and I had just gotten a text message as I came out the door. The last thing I wanted to do attempt to be sarcastic and clever to outsmart them as they tried to hit on me as I tried to balance a tote bag full of textbooks and text. So, I put my bag down and answered the text message as I waited for them to pass. That is when I heard...

"Hey-ay!"

I didn't even look up, hoping to give them the impression I was not interested, and replied "Hello." It was the polite thing to do.

Then, I heard, a little bitterly...

"You were going to walk this way until you saw us coming."

Fuck me. What was I supposed to say now. Yes?

"I'm just trying to answer a text message." replied, trying my best to seem like a nice person who was in no way a racist, "I'm just not very good at texting and walking."

And, then I realized something. Why was I pandering to them? Why was I trying to seem like I was not embarrassed by what they said.

Let us examine the situation:

I am a five foot tall, 130 lb, white girl who, in my opinion, was looking pretty damn good that day. Down the street came a trio of baggy pants, long T, sideways flat billed hat wearing, deviant looking, obviously unemployed or else they wouldn't have been walking the streets at 2:00 PM in the afternoon, wannabe thugs. Oh, did I mention the part where they were rapping to themselves as they walked down the street? Sorry, they were doing that. One small girl against three guys, what was I supposed to do?

You are a living stereotype. And, I have been dealing with disrespectful assholes like you all god damn week. Let us examine why a girl like me might be hesitant to walk down the street with a group of people like you. Perhaps if you didn't look like the personification of a walking, talking gangbang, I might have been more apt to interact with you. I certainly would not have hesitated if a group of clean cut, normally dressed black guys came strolling down the sidewalk. On the opposite side of that, if a bunch of punk trashy looking white guys came down the street I would have also wanted to hesitate.

For the record, it wasn't the color of your skin you ignorant jerk, it was the fact that you dress like a fucking delinquent. It was the fact that your entire neighborhood treats women like streetwalkers, who you seem to think that just by walking down the street are out advertising that we are just waiting for you to roll up in your pimped out Buick and pick us up.

Fuck you guys. If you don't want people to assume the worst about you-- if you don't want people to judge you, don't look like a punk thug.