I hate the sound of my voice

Have you ever lost your cell phone in your house and borrowed another phone to call it? Sometimes you're still listening for the ringing when all the ringing runs out and you catch a snippet of your own voice on your out-going message. The same thing happens when you have some reason to speak into a microphone. Whenever I have to speak into a microphone I have a hard time focusing on what I'm supposed to be saying because I'm fascinated with the sound coming out of the speakers. Really? I walk around sounding like that? And people put up with me?

Um, that's not really what I'm talking about. I'm just not sure if I like my writing voice. Unlike hearing a recording or an amplification of my speaking voice, there is no way for me to know what my written voice is like to other people. Most things I write sound good in my head as I'm writing them, but later I just don't care for it. When I read blogs I like I think, "Oh Schmutzie, Fluid Pudding, Lady Linoleum, and cake wrecks Jen--I like you. You sound funny and interesting and I think we have stuff in common." But even though I am me--I just don't feel that way about my own writing.

That's right, I feel that I have nothing in common with......MYSELF.

I think I sound like a big dork, and sometimes like a big pretentious dork. Ug.

Country Cooking form South Austin: Baked Ziti (Farce Ziti Double) OR Alone in the Kitchen with String Cheese

Ingredients:
What ever is in your refrigerator or pantry four days before Christmas
An itunes library full of the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and Lady Gaga's new album

Step 1 -Decide that going to the store to obtain enough materials to cook a meal would be tantamount with giving up on all of your convictions as you are unemployed and not up for leaving the house more than once in any day.

Step 2- Call your boyfriend's stepmother to ask what she puts in her baked ziti instead of ricotta. Discuss how much not having a job sucks, but how the economy is bound to turn up and you will both be gainfully employed within a matter of weeks.*

Step 3- Turn up volume on computer so that it can be heard in kitchen, but be sure to run back any time Lady Gaga comes on. Disregard feelings of neighbors about having to hear your music warbled through the wall.

Step 4- Boil your pasta. Baked ziti usually contains something small and tubular, but you have the choice between little shells, bowties, linguine that is infested with pantry bugs, or spaghetti. You choose little shells. Test occasionally--burn mouth each time.

Step 5- While pasta is boiling unwrap and slice lengthwise your string cheese snacks. While slicing prepare mentally for boyfriend's disgust, amusement, or amazement that you have used string cheese thusly.

Step 6- Drain pasta and add the rest of your tub of cream cheese even though boyfriend's stepmother said sour cream.

Step 7- Add two handfuls of whatever else you have in the fridge.

Step 8- Consider stopping here and having mac and cheese for dinner.

Step 9- Eat at least five spoonfuls of this just to make sure--different spoon each time.

Step 10- Remember that boyfriend is no fan of mac and cheese and add bottle of Ragu.

Step 11- Pour into Santa Claus baking dish that you got for free when you bought boyfriend some Dolche and Gabbana cologne four years ago.

Step 12- Look up on recipezaar.com how long people cook baked ziti.

Step 13- Skip the Lady Gaga song that's just come on your computer.

*neither of you believes this

Last Day Together

On my last day with her, her hands were really bleeding. Her arms too. All of the skin on her arms seemed to be only held together by the variety of bandages. I had to take care of the bleeding because I was scared of her blood. I took out some hydrogen peroxide, some gauze, and some tape. I placed her hand over the rail and pulled up a chair. I hurt her, I know that I did. I told her that I knew it hurt. I told her to pretend she was getting a manicure. The tape had to be wound around every finger, the gauze had to go all the way around her knuckles. I couldn't bring myself to tackle her arms. They could not take any more tape. So I put socks over her arms. To protect myself...to protect the next woman.

It was actually a beautiful time together. I spoke to her from my heart. No, I spoke to her through my heart. I thanked her for letting me be there. I apologized for not being good at understanding her. I reminded her that she could let go at any time. We had no business keeping her here. I did not, as other people have claimed to, know that she would choose the next day. I was too worried about trying to find someone to cover Tuesday's night shift.

The next day was my day off, but I stopped by to drop off some oxycodone. Then, of course, I came by later that night to call and tell people what had happened. I had to witness the hospice nurse destroy all of her medicine, I had to put the baby to sleep.