Happy Birthday, Aunt!

Today is my aunt's birthday.  It's worth mentioning that my aunt was my bastion of hope growing up.  Saying that I didn't grow up with many positive role models is a slight understatement.  However, seeing that I had one sane family member with a happy life made me realize, early on, that people can survive my family and come out alright.

I remember that when things got particularly tough throughout my childhood, I would always consider calling her to come and get me.  I always pictured moving in with her to finish my childhood like a normal person, and her phone number was the first number I ever memorized.  I still know it.

I'm actually glad that I never had to move in with her.  My life story would be so much less interesting, and I fear that the high pedestal that I hold her on might have crumbled a little.  It's too hard to enjoy every moment with someone you live with.  That's life.

Thanks for introducing me to Phil Collins and Michael Jackson and Wilson Phillips and Madonna.  I owe any knowledge of classic rock to you (since my house played classic country music exclusively).  Thanks for getting me into Fossil Watches (I'm wearing one right now), and thanks for taking me to the Lion King when it came out, since I didn't get to go to the theaters very much until middle school.  You've spent way too much money on me over the years on Christmas and Birthday presents, and you were the only person to send me money when I started this blog, cuz you read between the lines that I was having real financial trouble.  You really are the cool aunt that everyone wishes they had, and I hope this is a great birthday!  Let's hope this is your last birthday in IL!

Yes, my hair was that long at one point!

Oh, and you're no angel either.  Don't forget, I drove you around after your party at Hooters in 2005.  You giggled like a sorority girl in the back.  I know you can party, and I know that your blog would be just as interesting as mine, if you wrote one.

So, Happy Birthday, Aunt!
~RoB

The Thought That Counts

You've heard the old adage "It's the thought that counts!"  Is it really?  Really?

Today, I brought some experimental S'mores Bars to work that looked amazing on a food blog someone had in their Google chat status.  It's one coworkers last day, and I thought it would be cool to bring in delicious cookies.  (They look like food porn on that link, right?)

Well, my oven apparently cooks hot and they got a little over-cooked.  They're not awful, but they're not amazing.  (I also didn't double the recipe and had to wing the top crust, but that's totally on me.)  As I was deciding between bringing them or just stuffing them in my face by myself in a dark corner of my kitchen later tonight, I caught myself thinking "well, it's the thought that counts."  Then, I called bull$h*t!  (A few more weeks of lent before we return to my unedited language).

It's NOT the thought that counts.  That saying was clearly made by people who purchase $h*tty presents and need to feel better about themselves.  The seed for this thought was planted last night while I was purchasing the S'mores Bars ingredients at a grocery store.  Someone reached in front of me to grab one of these:

(not the old lady, a gift card)

If you have come to the point of gift buying and you have no ideas, do not grab one of these "I thought of you while I was buying diapers at the grocery store" gift cards.  These are the sleaziest merchandise to have taken over our stores.  Multiply that by 10 if you are buying somebody digital credits for Farmville or anything like that.  At least give cash or a check for spending without having to do it where you decided on a thoughtless whim.  (Plus that lets me know exactly how much you spent, so I don't have to price my presents online after I open them.)

Here's a hint, ASK people what they want.  For as long as I can remember, my aunt has always bought me the best Xmas presents, even though we rarely see each other.  How?  She asks me, specifically, what I want.  I know, it takes some of the surprise out of it, but the surprise of getting a crappy present isn't a good surprise.  If you are really close to someone (like how I can read Annie's mind), then feel free to surprise them.  Unless you live with her, you don't know every one of your mom's interests this year.  Maybe she's really thinking about that iPad-thingy, and you had no idea.

Anyway, in terms of spontaneous gifts (like cookies for a coworkers last day), I decided to bring them.  I'll admit that they're over-cooked.  However, I will not say 'it's the thought...'.  Don't want 'em?  Screw you, I'll eat 'em!  I guess I should just give more gifts that I'd be happy to keep...

Step up your game, gift-givers,
~RoB

My Family

You ever see those crazy southerners on TV talking about aliens or floods or 'nados in their curlers and mumus?  Ever wonder what the rest of their family thinks of them?  Are they all that fucked up?  I always pictured they were a band of rednecks roaming the countryside like the Beverly Hillbillies.  Then it happened to me.

Apparently my cousin is suing a firefighter for allowing him to run into a pump truck.  It was interesting and twisted enough that it got picked up by the local news.  My lethal aunt enters stage right to tell the reporters to fuck off.  This is a great example of the dysfunction I told you all I grew up with:
http://www.wxyz.com/dpp/news/local_news/investigations/man-sues-firefighter-who-helped-save-his-life%3B-could-it-end-up-costing-taxpayers%3F

Did I Ever Tell You...

The most significant July 4th memory I have was at the house featured in that news footage.  There was a big, all-day barbecue (most likely a hobo dinner, which I refuse to explain).  It turned into a drunken brawl.  The kids ran over (we had been hanging out across the street at my mom's boyfriend's).  In an attempt to break up the (at this point, bloody) fighting, my cousin (a girl) punched her dad in the face, my mom's boyfriend's daughter was swinging around a baseball bat, and I pushed down and sat on my mom (who was getting her ass kicked).  My mom leaned up and bit the back of my arm.  Hard.  I didn't hit her, but I remember wanting to.  I don't think I've ever been so mad in my life, before or since.  I got over it in the typical "don't take it personally, she's drunk" that those of us from dysfunctional families come to be skilled at.

In a discussion with my aunt in Chicago about rather I should take the current job offer or not, I mentioned that I felt bad about dragging Annie away from all her family here, in northern California.  She laughed it off, saying that she didn't really know what a strong family bond was like.  She knew I understood where she was coming from, because I feel the same way.

This footage is one of the reasons I don't want kids,
~RoB