beyond the pale

So, um, this is kinda awkward, like I’m asking you to go out with me or something. But here goes:

If I’m on your blogroll as Worship Naked, would you mind updating it to Beyond the Pale?

Or, also an option: Seizing the opportunity to dump me and ask for all your shirts back.

Just know that they all have stains on them.

Or, ALSO an option: Realizing you’re desperately in love with me in that pleasant, non-stalkery way and you want to take this relationship to the next level by adding me to your blogroll.

Just know that I’m happily married and, therefore, our relationship is doomed.

Hm. How do I always manage to make things sound so unappealing?

To Beyond the Pale, and the housewarming party for my new blog home!

It’s here! You’re here! Hoooray!

Now I know that the newness of everything around here may take an adjustment. Change always does. So … let’s get the process started right now — grab a cuppa coffee, kick off your shoes, and get comfy!

Before I say anything else, I need to extend heartfelt thanks to phin over at Apothegm Designs for making a reality of everything that was in my head. He was unfailingly patient and supportive through the entire process and there was not a question I had that he did not have — or find — the answer for. So thank you again and again for everything. And for me, this blog is just how I pictured it, just how I want it to be. But, of course, I’ve had the advantage of seeing it grow and change behind the scenes for a while now. You’ve just clicked over here to a place where everything’s different — (but me!) — and there are still some minor tweaks to be made; still, I hope you’ll all be patient, stick around, and allow yourselves the chance to feel right at home here. I sure want you to.

Oh, and more on my banner girl — and the others — later. Much more.

But for now, welcome again, blog friends!!

This is all random, but I am live blogging our HOA meeting.

You are live blogging your HOA MEETING, Trace?

YES, I AM. I am indeed!

Well, now that I think about it, it’s more like “relaying dispatches from the field,” or something than live blogging. Eh. Well.

Okay. So our neighbors in our little six-unit townhome complex are freakin’ INSANE. There’s the gay couple next door, Mike and Lee — they’re “Appalachia Gay” so their house is a veritable Wonderland of Junk. And they wonder why isn’t our unit selling? Why? WHY? They keep lowering the price, which definitely doesn’t help the value of our place one tiny bit. Keeps us from refinancing. Not that we need to or anything. I mean, everything’s OKEY DOKEY! So okay. Gay guy Mike doesn’t speak to Unit 4, Miss Lonely Hearts, who is bitter and mean and built like an ant with spindly arms sprouting from a small torso segment and spindly legs sprouting from a large ass segment. She sues the HOA at least once a year. She thinks our reserves are her personal bank account, I guess. So let’s call her Sue, because that is, in fact, her ACTUAL name and I just can’t resist it. So Mike and Sue hate each other. Mike also hates Unit 6. His last fight with Unit 6 prompted Mike AND Lee to have The Hissy Fit to end all hissy fits and put their unit on the market — where it’s been for 8 months because, you remember, it is a veritable Wonderland of Junk.

See how it all makes sense? Then there’s Father Tawny or Father Jibbly, take your pick. He’s Australian, so he’s naturally insane. But insane in that “I’M OBSEEEESSED WITH AUSSIE RULES FOOTBALL” kind of way. Aside from the jibblies, I actually like him. But he doesn’t like Mike — because Mike is always having the hissy fits — or Sue, because, well, of the suing. Unit 1 has renters and they are sane, but have no voice in anything.

So — My Poor Beloved is president of this HOA of the Damned. He hates doing it, because, he says, “It’s like frickin’ Romper Room with these people.” He’s right. He won’t even let me go to the meetings anymore. Last meeting ended with Unit 6 calling on his cellphone, getting mad and calling everyone “a bunch of f***ing girls.”

So THIS meeting was supposed to start at 4, out under The Tree. MB is there, Mike and Lee. Oh, and Sue never shows up to the meetings, unless Mike’s NOT there. Dude pulls up in car. “I’m here on behalf of Father Jibbly. He’s got a flat tire. He’ll be here in a bit.”

Okay.

Then Unit 6 shows up. MB and Mike and Lee say, “Hi, Unit 6.”

“I need a damn shower. I just got home.”

Mike, instantly amped. “Come on. We had a meeting scheduled!”

Unit 6, “Okay. How ’bout you f*** off? I’m not coming!”

So …. I didn’t know this had happened, but I could see everyone as they marched past our window to their units. There goes Unit 6, marching. Mike and Lee, marchy-marchy. Oh, and here’s MB, marching and laughing. He comes in and tells me:

“Well, we just had our first fight.” And he told me what happened. He’d been gone, like, 5 minutes.

“So what have you guys talked about?” I asked.

“NOTHING! The meeting hasn’t even started yet. Lee’s trying to talk to Unit 6. I just wanted some iced coffee for strength. All right. I’m going back.”

He turned to me at the door.

“You should live blog this. They’re all INSANE!” he whispered.

Haha. I just saw Unit 6 stomp past the window with his hair all wet. Guess he decided to show up.

Stay tuned. I’m gonna go eavesdrop.

Film at 11.

Lemme tell you a little secret about me. Shhh. Come closer. Closer.

Good. Here goes:

I really, REALLY dislike it when somone decides to comment on one of my posts — for the very first time, no less — by correcting my grammar. Even if you were right — and you were — it is rude. Sometimes, I miskey or make a careless mistake, BUT, Potential New commenter Who May Like to Correct My Grammar, I’ve actually taught English and I know, oh, a thing or two. Please don’t grudgingly acknowledge you liked the post and then take it upon yourself to point — and point and point — out my idiocy.

Would you go to someone’s home for dinner, compliment the meal, but in the same breath, tell your hostess that, oh, too bad, the table isn’t set properly? Well, maybe you would. But the hostess might spit in your tiramisu before serving it to you.

Seriously, Peaches, it’s not exactly bewitching me.

And on a post where I talked about rudeness at The Beanhouse, too. We all know how I LOVE that. I love it and I ALWAYS ignore it.

So where IS my comment, you may ask, Potential New Commenter?

Oh, hm. I dunno. I may have miskeyed.

If I’m being totally honest ….

1. I love my mom because she’s my mom, but I do not like her.

2. I struggle too often with, um, a potty mouth.

3. I am a Christian and there are people I hate.

4. One of them being my former best friend.

5. I have not forgiven her.

6. I know I haven’t because I still hear that one line from a book I read on forgiveness pounding in my head: Forgiveness is not anti-anger; it is anti-hate.

7. I am not there yet.

8. I question my salvation. A lot.

9. I don’t get over things quickly or easily. Obviously.

10. Because I try to do it all through my flesh.

11. Which is a joke.

12. Haha.

13. I have not entirely gotten over the loss of my performing arts teaching job.

14. Two years ago.

15. I’ve never even finished the story of how I lost that job, because, well, I guess I’m scared to.

16. I struggle with depression, but feel unsure about medication.

17. I hide so much behind the mask of this blog.

18. I struggle to write even one paragraph — one paragraph can take an hour.

19. And then I’m always deeply disappointed with it anyway.

20. But I can’t … stop.

21. I will never get over not being a mom. Never.

22. I can’t get past feeling like a failure. In life.

23. I’m afraid of this post sitting in total silence — because you’ve hated this — because maybe masks are useful things.

Or maybe someone else wants to be totally honest, too.

The blog disappeared yesterday …. again. And now it’s back. And I don’t even know why. Because the account wasn’t paid and I haven’t paid it yet, so …. um ….

Okay. Here’s the deal.

Someone else pays the hosting on this current blog. It’s complicated, so don’t ask. But it costs like, oh, 2 bucks a month or something, apparently. I’ve tried to offer payment and it’s never been accepted. I’ve tried contacting the person and gotten no response. I don’t think this person even reads this blog, anymore but if you do, please, please contact me!!

In the meantime, peeps, I’m going quick like a bunny — as mom always used to say — to make arrangements to take over the payments, if such a thing can even be done. It’s kinda ridiculous because the new blog will be here very soon, with a completely different host that I just signed up for last week. So I’m paying for THAT one that isn’t up yet and not paying for THIS one that IS up — sometimes — and, well, it’s just WEIRD.

SELF (to man at the counter): What can I get for you?

MAN: Calm down! I just walked in the damn door!

***

SELF (to dude and chick standing at counter, talking about someone named “Sharon”): What can I get for you?

DUDE: Um, are you in a big hurry or something?! We’re just talking about what we want to get!

(They continue to talk about poor “Sharon.” I walk away.)

***

MAN: I want hummus with my bagel. Do you have hummus?

SELF: Umm, no.

MAN: Well, sheesh! Do you have any peanut butter?

SELF: No, I’m sorry.

(We are not a grocery store, Slappy — but hey, guess what! — that big building across the street that says “R-A-L-P-H-S,” um, IS.)

***

HOMELESS MAN (staggering from the bathroom with a GIANT wet spot on his crotch): Hey! Hey! You’re stho preddy.

SELF: (shiver, shudder) Uhh, thanks.

***

The homeless dude with scuzzy blonde dreadlocks, hunched at a table on the patio, muttering to his friend — a good-sized doll head with blonde hair and black lips and a big black shiner. He was later asked to leave because he was scaring other customers.

Too bad he took the doll head. I kinda wanted it.

— I just can’t stop listening to Corinne Bailey Rae’s “Put Your Records On.”

— My Beloved and I drove around Sunday, randomly blaring the stereo, singing whatever came on the radio next. “Big Shot,” Billy Joel. Criticizing each other’s “OH-OH-ohohohohoh.” You know that part, right? The part that goes “OH-OH-ohohohohoh”? Yeah, well, turns out it’s pretty easy to start quibbling, oh, say, like this: “You didn’t do the right number of “oh-ohs.” “Yes, I did, you didn’t hear it. You’re singing too loud.” “Huh-uh. I don’t think you did ’em.” And, you know …. ad nauseum.

— Then it was “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake. Fond remembrances of the video with that tramp Tawny Kitaen writhing around atop a couple of Jaguars. Well, “fond,” more for one of us than the other, I guess.

— Oh, and I can’t stop thinking about the lady with the low-cut top. The probably 60-year-old lady with the low-cut top, sitting at her table, doodling huge crayon flowers, swaying and wiggling in her chair to the music. The more she wiggled, the bigger her flowers got. Which sounds really wrong. She seemed indiscriminately happy or like she taught Creativity Workshops. And the more she wiggled, the more it seemed like her low-slung breasts and her low-slung top were in a cheery rhumba race to see which would hit the floor first.

— Um, have I mentioned I canNOT stop listening to “Put Your Records On” by Corinne Bailey Rae? I have? Well, it really bears repeating. Really.

Um, sorry to have to do this, but …. comments now go into moderation unless and until you have an “approved” comment. Because I am hopelessly moronic about stuff like this, I think — and only “think” — that this means the next time any of you comment here, it will go into moderation, you will wring your hands and such — “oh, will she approve it??” — and most likely, I WILL — unless you’re talking about p*rn or p*nises or n*ked pa*la a*dul. Ew. You may, however, speak freely and openly about sentient wine corks whenever you like.

Oh, and then, after a comment is approved and you’ve proven your non-pervo good intentions, you will be able to “be” a commenter here.

It is utterly ridiculous, I know. Could be worse, though. RTG sends her commenters to the gulags.