All the girlie girls are here — let the pillow fights begin!

Ok, getting very irritated with my host — my site’s been up and down for a few days now, nevermind the other slew of problems I’ve been having with them. Who do you use? Are you happy with them?
Anyway — T-minus 2 to the girlie sleepover! A little insight into how I usually clean the house:
I walked into the kitchen with the intent to mop the floor, saw the sink had stuff in it and started to load the dishwasher. Thought I remembered seeing glasses in the living room, so left the dishwasher open and went in search of dirty glasses. Saw that the slipcovers on the couches were uneven, so took all the blankets and pillows off and readjusted the covers, smacking my hand between the couch and the wall at one point. Um, ow?
Started straightening up the rest of the living room when I realized I was thirsty. Stepped over the blankets on the floor, made my way into the kitchen, almost walked into the open dishwasher door. Closed it, opened the fridge and saw how messy it was. Started throwing things out, finished up, went back into the living room, saw the dirty glasses, brought them into the kitchen, back into the living room, thought about getting something to drink, stared at the pillows on the floor, remembered that I meant to start laundry two hours ago, forgot to start the dishwasher, never got the drink –
and I still haven’t mopped the floor.
I’m a mess.

Alisa posted last night about some of the latest budget cuts, and the effect it’s going to have on our work and on the teens.
I can’t help but feel like we’re on this little island with all of them, and chunks of the islands are falling off and being whisked out to sea, and we’re all huddled tightly on what’s left behind –
and I can’t help but wonder who’s going to fall into the ocean first when there’s no island left and no where else to go, knowing that I can only hold on to so many.
(edited — Alisa had a good addition: “Except Romney is standing there with a jack hammer, laughing and saying we’ll be fine.” That’s exactly how it feels these days.)

This is why I love my job:
I didn’t feel like having a “real” meeting today for Activism, so I brought in all my soap and molds and scents and colors and let the girls make soaps for an hour. It was a great getting-to-bond activity, since a lot of the girls are new and just getting to know each other — and they had lots of fun!
I had a brief Creative Writing class, mostly to finish up the plans for next week’s reading as part of the city’s Women’s Week celebration.
Then I got to bring eight girls to see the local production of The Vagina Monologues. What an eye-opening, empowering experience!
And tomorrow, I get to work from home! (And it’s the girlie sleepover, even though that has nothing to do with work.)
On a different note — my brother and Danielle are having a little boy, and they’re naming him Stephen Jonah. Yay for a little boy! And I love the name Jonah, but it’s just a testament to how different I am from the rest of my family. My brother came upon the name while reading the Bible in bed one night; one of my biggest worries about having a baby is trying to explain to my mom just why we’re not going to baptize our kid — especially since I’m sure she thinks I’m a heathen and that she’s failed me since I don’t believe in God.
Hey, someone’s got to be the black sheep, right? I’m okay with that — she raised me to be strong-minded and vocal; we both just happen to be strong-minded and vocal on the complete opposite opinions of almost everything. I don’t mind it, though, since I know I’m right.
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

It drives me nuts that people cannot pronounce Jay’s last name. Maffetore. Maff-eh-tor-ee. Not hard people.
Ericalynn pulled a prank call on Jay a few months ago, and fittingly, she started out the message, “Mr. Ma-Ma…Maff..Maffetor?”
I haven’t changed my name over to his, and I don’t have any plans to. I’m still a Lanier, and very proud to be so. I’m also proud to be part of the Maffetore family, but I’m not so quick or willing to give up the Lanier in me. I don’t see why I should change my name, short of making the occasional paperwork easier. He doesn’t have to take my name, even though we’re equal partners, right? (For the record, he really doesn’t care what we do.) He’s as much part of the Lanier family now as I am of the Maffetore family. As long as the kids have his last name, it really doesn’t matter what we do. (There are lots of Laniers; he’s the last born-Maffetore in his family.) We even toyed with combining our names into some sort of mix, or both taking the hyphenated name, but it just seems easier to keep on the way we’ve been our whole lives. Our name is a huge part of our identity, right? I’ve taken on the new title of wife; that’s enough for me.
I’m his wife, he’s my husband, and that’s enough for us. I put Lanier-Maffetore on our marriage certificate. It gives me the room to play — one day, I’m very definitively a Lanier. Another, I might change it up for fun. All that matters to me is that I pledged to stand by his side for the rest of his life, and he by mine.
So why is that so hard for the rest of the world to get, dammit?

Fred Rogers, host of ‘Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood’, dies of cancer at 74 .
Perhaps now is not the most appropriate time to discuss how much that man weirded me out as a small child? And those kingdom puppets — those were just creepy.
Then again, I was a sucker for braided hippie chicks singing to a pink squirrel named Sherlock.
Either way, a part of our childhood is gone now. Sad.

Is it a really bad sign that I crawl into bed and then lie there and wonder if anyone’s emailed me or commented, and then I drag myself out of bed to check, just because I know I won’t sleep unless I do, and then I get all sorts of wrapped up in other blogs, only to feel so incredibly sleepy that I crawl into bed and start the whole evil cycle all over again?
Hi, I’m Erika, and I’m addicted. Your comments and posts and emails — all so very evil. So give me a reason to crawl out of bed every fifteen minutes. I’ve got three hours until Jay gets home from the phish show and gives me a reason to crawl back into bed.
(Did I just say that? Whatever, I’m a wife now, I can say whatever I want.
Anyway, give me late-night luvins! Make crawling out of bed worth it! Help support the evil cycle, be an enabler of my addiction! Tell me fun and exciting things, like which sock you put on first. Or why Cool Whip is so damned tasty. Mmmm….Cool Whip. Velveeta. Wispride Cheese. There’s just something so damn yummy about processed food stuff.
Holy shit. I’m a wife. When did that happen?
I’m going to go brush my teeth again. I used to be so good at being alone. I also used to have a lot more enamel on my teeth. Brusha-brusha-brusha.)

I am wiped out.
We found out yesterday afternoon that a project needed to be ready to be shown to funders for this morning. Worked yesterday from 10-6, got home at 7, worked until 1am, woke up at 7, worked until 11, went into work from 12-8. I’ve worked 26 of the last 36 hours. Bailed on the Phish show tonight so that I could come home and regroup. Tomorrow? Looking at 11 or so hours — of course, 4 of that will be taking the girls to see The Vagina Monologues, but still. Sleeeeeeeeeeep. Must sleeeeeeeeeep.
And man, I’m one crabby bitch if I don’t get my 8 hours of sleep.

I am hereby declaring myself the High Priestess in the Church of Flat Tires and Broken Glasses. (Does this mean I have to give up my title of Never-Worthy Ever-Worshipping Subject in the Church of Bran?)
I knocked over yet another wine glass this morning. That makes probably three total that I’ve broken in the last six months, not including regular glasses and/or mugs. I swear, I pick up a glass and it falls apart in my hands. It’s like when streetlights go out as I drive under them — I swear, my energy is just so off-kilter and scattered and high-pitched that I break things just by walking by them. I am also the self-appointed Queen of the Jamming Photocopier & Crashing Computers society.
I can’t even call myself a klutz; I know it’s because I’m always in such a rush. Jay just shrugs it off and says things like, “Those glasses were so thin anyway.” What a good husband.
Su, our law school student and now pothole lawsuit expert, did some research for me last night. Apparently, I can’t fight for retribution on property damage. I seemingly can, however, fight for personal injury — possibly claim $350-$400 in emotional distress and negligence (the stress of having to 1. stop and fix a tire, 2. on storrow, 3. at night, 4. in the snow) — a personal injury tort claim that is recoverable under ch. 81, sec. 18.
Is it possible to take the state to small claims court? Judge Judy, here I come!

Ok, so I called the Metropolitan District Commission again, armed with Chapter 84: Section 15. I put on my best professional voice, spoke with the law department, and let her know that they had referred to Chapter 92: Section 36, which says lots about personal injury and NOTHING about personal property. Chapter 84: Section 15, on the other hand, distinctly states that:

If a person sustains bodily injury or damage in his property by reason of a defect or a want of repair … and such injury or damage might have been prevented, or such defect or want of repair or want of railing might have been remedied by reasonable care and diligence on the part of the county, city, town or person by law obliged to repair the same, he may, if such county, city, town or person had or, by the exercise of proper care and diligence, might have had reasonable notice of the defect or want of repair or want of a sufficient railing, recover damages therefor from such county, city, town or person.

And the conversation went like this:
Me: Blah blah blah, quoting from above.
Her: It’s not that simple. We have different guidelines.
Me: Oh really? So you don’t fall under Massachusetts STATE LAW?
Her: It’s not that simple.
So she supposed to fax me the three or four pages of the law that somehow negates the section above that they don’t need to pay for the repair. Alisa thinks they’re running me around in circles, hoping I won’t dig and will get tired and give up. But ooooh no. I’m not going anywhere.
And I’m still waiting for the fax. Any bets that she never sends it?
At least she didn’t call me sweetheart this time. Oh, I’m sure she’s not calling me sweetheart right now.