Oh, what the hell

Still too snarly for my own (or your) good today. Snarly, bitchy, mopey, suddenly teary-eyed for no apparent reason. Ain't addiction grand? Children and small pets are afraid of me right now.

So I think I'll try my hand at the meme I dug over at Susie's pad.

I am from:

I am from paper moustache, from Pop-Tarts and Tang.

I am from the big white house, crammed full of family and family stuff, haunted, you can hear the voices if you're all quiet enough.

I am from the white birch in the back yard, the ubiquitous tulips that I never fully appreciated until just recently.

I am from loudly sung Irish songs, and from bad feet, from Don and Jackie and Genevieve.

I am from the oversexed and musically inclined.

From thinking for years that Goldilocks jumped out the window, broke both her legs, and had to drag herself home; and Dad's recitation of his original chiller poem, The Crollymog. From "Gotta watch out for that 3:30 traffic." and Mom's valium before she got in the car with all of us for those 8-hour trips in the summer.

I am from deep and stubborn Catholic roots. From my uncle the priest and my dad who was in the seminary for a year before he decided to pursue the husband angle. From family members on my dad's side who are not happy at all with my rejection of the church. I love 'em anyway. We just don't talk a lot.

I'm from Kentucky and Ireland and Germany, from Spam and fried baloney.

From the brother Timmy who, when given a moldy hot dog by Mom, threw it against the kitchen wall and declared, "Ugh! You gave me a moldy hot dog!", the brother Timmy who gave me the nickname "Bucky Four-Eyes" more years ago than I care to admit, and the sister Squirl who kindly took it upon herself to explain birth control to me in plain language when I was 12 (thank you, I said childlessly).

I am from from all the paintings Tardist has done just for me, from the silly recordings he and I have made and will probably make again; from Timmy's kids, my nephews and niece, who have grown up so much more well-adjusted than any relative of mine has a right to be; from the folders on my hard drive that have all the old family photos that have been scanned in (and some are just waiting to be defaced and posted here); from the CDs of JD's music, which sounds just as good to me today as it did when I was a teenager; from the rum cake Squirl makes me to undo everything I accomplish at the gym; from the arms of parents who actively encouraged all of us to pursue our creative tendencies.

I need to quit my bitchin'. I'm one lucky twat.