Thursday, December 30, 2004

Take my face, please

It was a hot summer day in Southern California. The kind of blistering heat that could fry an egg on the pavement before noon. The air thick and stifling. Weak whiff's of wind choked with oppressive warmth.

The year was 19seventybeforeyouwereborn and the neighborhood daredevils had assembled late in the afternoon to see what kind of trouble we could get into. This was long before the days of parents knowing every move their kids were making, thus none had any indication of our impending plans to tackle, The Hill.

The Hill was north of our street, but in plain view from all of our houses. A giant marker of doom. It was daunting and mysterious, seemingly looming to the heavens, and most of all steep. Very, very steep. Steeeeeeeeeep.

This was our quest for the day. Not only to brave The Hill, but to have a little contest to see who could travel the fastest on our respective and beloved bicycles down The Hill. I blame Evil Knievel. Him and his sexy American flag leather suit. Only later did we learn he was loaded for every jump across the Grand Fucking Canyon. Asshole.

Me and most of the Myers kids pushed our multicolored bikes to the top of The Hill, or at least to the point where our lungs gave out and was far enough to have a decent go at our competition.

We looked like a Boogie Night's rainbow nightmare. Me with my yellow girlie bike with the flowered seat and white wicker basket. (Thanks mother, that was so not my style. I was a lover of all things black, even at 6 1/2.) Karen with her coveted blue sparkly number with the tassled handlebars. Her younger brother Jim sported a hot red Huffy and their older sister Kristy had a green big-girl's bike.

We lined up like thoroughbred's at the gate. Our houses far off on the horizon looking like pin-prick's in the distance. It was like another world up on The Hill. I took a deep breath and readied myself, bursting with anticipation and primed to conquer not only this makeshift racetrack but also crush my opponents in sweet victory. I was blissfully clueless to my near and bloody future...

First went little Jim, zoom, no problem. Then his older sister Kristy, woosh, again, no problem. It was now between me and Karen. She just sat there, clutching her fringed grips, eyes wide with fear. Her mouth pursed with pussosity. It was obvious she was chickening out. Wuss.

I climbed aboard my bike, squared my shoulders and started working my little legs at fast as they would go. My light-blue corduroy pants making a high-pitched zip-zip sound. (Don't ask me why the hell I was wearing corduroy pants, with a bikini top no less, when it was 190 thousand degrees outside in the middle of the summer. I was a kid, thus brain damaged.)

Shwing! I was literally soaring down The Hill at a dizzying speed. Suck it Myers! I'm gonna win! And hmm. Funny thing about gravity, I really didn't need to assist my bike with any peddling at all, but by the time I discovered this scientific fact, it was too late.

My bike started to shake, then wobble. The handlebars were wrentched from my sweaty grip and then, CRASH. I went flying. Then tumbling. Then OOF. The next thing I remember is sitting on the molten lava-hot curb holding my face in my hands with blood pouring out from between my fingers. Jim was starting at me and I guess Kristy had already left to get her mom. Karen stood about 10 feet away, useless as usual.

In what seemed like 5 years, I lift my broken head to see our brown fake-wood-paneled stationwagon heading up The Hill towards us and what was left of my noggin. My dad gets out of the car, collects me and takes me back to our house. Wait. Back to our house!?! Not the hospital, the house. Sigh, poor dumb dad. He proceeds to put a paper towel under my bloody chin and asked me to open my mouth. After some coaxing, I complied, and when he saw the bony tip of MY SKULL, he finally decided the ER would be a good place to go.

I had literally ripped the flesh from my face when I hit the pavement with my cheek and they had to sew it back onto my jaw from joint-to-joint. And luckily for me, they did this from inside of my mouth. I had broken my chin horizontally, but thankfully not my jaw, so I didn't have to get my head wired shut, to the chagrin of everyone who had to listen to my constant little girl chatter, I'm sure.

Things get sketchy after I arrived at the hospital, I recall something about an x-ray machine, visiting my dentists office, and having wheelchair races with the doc. I think that last image is a result of minor morphine. Go drugs!

My face looked like road kill and I had a small rock embedded in my right hand. But it could have been much worse, since I really wasn't wearing much above the waist, and that hill would claim many a victim after me who didn't fare half as well. My chin was numb for about 2 years after that and my need for speed was permanently squelched. I have no idea where my mother was throughout this ordeal.

I spent the rest of the summer healing and it pretty much sucked. No swimming. No slumber parties. No solid food. But since I was so young, you can't tell a thing by looking at me. No obvious scars unless you get right up in my face and take a gander really closely. And you need persmission for that. I do get a crooked little smile every now and then, but only when I'm drunk. It's fucking charming. Just like the rest of me.

My fruity sissy bike survived the accident so I still had adolescent transportation until I was big enough to inherit my brother's 10-speed with the straight bar that crushed my cootch more than once.

But that's another story.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Incongruitous Maximus

One thing that I've learned about myself, so much more in the last two years than the previous 35, is that I'm a copiousness of contradictions. And depending on my given emotional temperature, how the planets are aligned, and if CSI is in re-runs, this can be viewed as an advantage or a detriment. See, I told you.

I've covered this topic before, in small doses, but have found myself stuck in a mind-loop the past few days. Several loops in fact. Actually, more like a roller coaster with twists and turns that hurt your head and makes you feel a little barfy.

This is always the result of family fallout. A substantial and unpredictable supply of reflections, covering self and others. The period of said considerations also being a fickle bitch, as I never know how long it will take over space in my mind, setting up camp like a squatter. The new employee decorating the cubicle in my brain with beenie babies and plastic picture frames until they one day disappear without notice.

Being a deep thinker is a burden. That might sound incredibly arrogant, but too fucking bad. It's true. To borrow from one of my favorite movies, I take a problem, chew on it until all the flavor's gone, then stick it in my hair. This is not limited to problems either. My mind never stops. Until I manually put on the brakes and allow myself to disengage into someone else's world, or turn on the T.V. That's the best remedy for me. Turn on the idiot box and let myself become one just for a break.

And lately I can't even read without my mind wandering 2 sentences in to a paragraph. Fragmented thoughts polluting what is supposed to be a relaxing endeavor. WTF?

I'm a lover of analogies. They help put things into a clearer perspective for me and I pride myself with the talent I have for giving birth to some great ones. Today I envisioned myself as a glass paperweight. Sturdy, strong, pretty to look at and could bash someone's head in if need be. But drop me from a decent height and I'll shatter, hopefully breaking someone's toe in the process.

Another one that's been mulling it's way around in my head came to me when I was talking to my baby on the phone Christmas night. Ironically I was applying this comparison to someone else, but in my resistant admittance, I think it applies to me as well. We were discussing those who fight against any kind of change, cementing themselves in some past time that will forever be looked upon as "the best". This is a sinking ship and one too many of are guilty of, myself included. My reply was this, why do those that insist on standing in the middle of the stream react with surprise when continually hit with debris?

I was accused by someone who spat on our life-long friendship recently, that I go through life clawing at the door-jams, screaming and fighting while she whispers that things aren't all aces. While that comment stung, and is a gross exaggeration fuck you very much, there is a ring of truth. I don't like change. It scares me and usually means bad things are coming my way. I've had enough proof to believe this. I've answered the phone enough times with devastating news on the other end.

However, I am learning and I am trying to accept and embrace transition. Change is not an event and no one, no one, should put that restriction on anyone else. We are not made of stone with singular stances or static personalities.

I'm also letting myself be incredibly excited about the future and what it contains, will contain, hopefully will contain. I'm taking responsibility for what is in my control and what isn't. That's no easy feat, but I know I have the balls to do it. I also don't want to skip the fact that I'm the luckiest Princess in the world and am grateful to my core to have found love again, with an extraordinary human being. Even though it's scary. My heart is open.

As I continually search for answers, postulate and formulate Pythagora's theorem in this fucking self-discovery shit, I'm becoming more settled and accepting of the fact that the changes I've gone through and will continue to, are alright, or eventually will be, despite the 14 million freak-out tantrums I'll have. And I'm fortunate that the awesome people in my life seem to be understanding of these. (Please continue to be, please).

God, this all sounds so fucking I'm O.K., You're O.K. And once again I'm all over the place and can't put a decent thought process in a straight line. I haven't had the mental capacity to finish almost anything I've started in the last couple weeks. I'm seriously neglecting the blogs I love to read and haven't left any comments anywhere. So I apologize sincerely. Give me a few more days and I'll pull my head out of my ass.

God damn holiday's. Mess me up.

Monday, December 27, 2004

He asked for it!

I received a call from the X today. No, not that X. Not the one that was a fucker of epic proportions and the lucky recipient of a fist sandwich lovingly made by moi the last time we shared hostile physical space together after he attempted his impression of an NFL offensive tackle and I successfully thwarted his plan.

This X was not a fucker. An occasional lameass, but no fucker. F was a fun time most of the time, although I was compelled to issue a warning that I might have to kill him. This caution was given on many an occasion. And with good cause too.

F is a very happy-go-lucky guy. I oft compared him to a big goofy puppy. He has an easy smile and is so out-going I literally had to drag him away from the 4 million strangers he would talk to a day. Warning: do not allow this man to attend a swap meet. You will never, ever leave. One can only watch the "Super Chopper" for so long before visions of manual strangulation start to dance across your mind. And to make matters worse, I would stand there with my single-language thumb up my ass while he spoke Spanish with rapid-fire pacing, even to people who couldn't speak it! Ha! Dumbass.

F is a very helpful person. But sometimes helpful meant, annoying. He's proud of the knowledge he's gained in his chosen career, which is great, but sometimes doesn't know when to keep his yapper shut, or to give anyone with enough brain power to make a spark their due credit for the ability to grasp a simple concept of something like, oh, let's say, being thirsty equals a need for fluids. Ya think? In fact, F has a theory that all ills can be treated with, or at least traced back to, proper hydration or a lack thereof.

"I have a headache." "Maybe you need to drink some water."

"I think I broke my finger." "Here, have some water."

"My grandmother passed away". "How much water have you had today?"

"I just got into a CAR ACCIDENT!!". "Make sure you drink some WATER!!"

Ooooooo. I'd get SO PISSED about the FARGING WATER! How's about I jam a garden hose up your ass and we never have to talk about the fucking water again? OK? OK.

Another classic that F layed on me one time will live on in infamy. Mostly because I'm a bitch and tell this story to everyone who will let me, thus proving what a boner he could be and causing empathetic eyes to roll in my direction with understanding and commiseration. As much as I adored him, there were times when he should have been flushed down a toilet.

We were hiking in Montana, and since I'm 5'4" and F is 6'2", you can imagine his stride is quite a bit longer than mine. And even though he's a big boy, he's in freakishly good shape. Me, ah...yea, short and curvy. Me no walky fasty. So, we're walking along the trail and I need to stop and stretch my non-limber legs, that are always as tight as fucking banjo strings. F immediately thought there was something wrong and just had to offer some of his stellar advice. He looks me right in the face with a serious cast on his, as I'm oo-ing and ah-ing in mild discomfort, and says,

"Well? Are you walking heel/toe?".

What? Stutter sputter. What did you just say to me? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you seriously just asked me if I'm walking heel/toe. Because I distinctly heard you ask, me, if I'm actually walking, heel, toe. HEEL. TOE. Wait, did you? I think you just. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I'm sorry, but I'll have to kill you now. (And I could have. We were waaaaay out in the woods.)

Ah yea, I've been doing that little heel/toe thing since I was about, oh, I don't know, 9 months old, with the exception of some drunken staggering and accidental tripping, but on the whole, I've managed to master the CORRECT way of walking for quite some time. Especially when I abandoned my previous method of ASS/ELBOW. I just couldn't get very far with that!! Was I walking heel toe. Fahcrissake.

We really didn't fight that much, at least not that I can remember. But something strange happened every time we went roller blading. I seriously wanted to hurt him. Every single time. I'd get so mad that I'd fantasize that he'd totally eat shit on the path and go flying into the sand or something. I didn't want him to get hurt, just banged up a little. Is that wrong? Good. Because you just don't know.

He put out this total dickish vibe as soon as he'd strap on those blades and you'd want to hurt him too! And I'm sure this had nothing to do with my yelling "KITTY KITTY KITTY" at psychotic decibels in public every time I saw a cat. I'm sure of it. Or maybe it was the fact that he dragged my ass out of a warm bed on a Sunday morning to go propel ourselves on little rubber wheels for 8 FUCKING MILES.

All-in-all, we did have tons of fun. F got me into SCUBA diving and I have a myriad of great memories filed away and learned a new skill to torture my parents with since they think everything I do is crazy anyway. We laughed a ton and were always busy doing something. He was very affectionate and a great guy. It was a wonderful time in my life, for the most part, and I owe him a lot thanks. And some over-due wedgies.

I'm grateful we came out of this relationship as friends and we're both happy for each other as we move on to new relationships and experiences. (Even though I never, ever want to hear about the women in his life. I'll just pretend they don't exist and we'll all be happy. OK? OK.) Yes, I know I'm nuts.

So thanks F. Thanks for always supporting me and boosting confidences I didn't have before we met. Thanks for giving me such great memories and helping me to be a better person. Thanks for putting up with my kooky ways and being a good friend.

I also owe you apology for all of the times I plugged your nose while you lay peacefully sleeping-like-the-dead causing you to rise straight up and gasp for air clutching at your face and asking "what, who, what" as I faked being asleep. It was my little revenge for you occasionally bashing me in the face with your giant arm and spending night after night after night not getting one damn wink of sleep while you fell unconscious before your head hit the pillow. Those dreams you used to have that you were drowning? Yea, that was me.


Friday, December 24, 2004

Merry Christmas Famdamily

The energy source has left and the house is quiet. Too quiet. Everything inside is as still as it is outside. No birds flittering about the branches of the stately pines. No snow weighing down the boughs. No movement apparent. The air is cold and still. The light dimly grey in every direction. Even the sounds of the house settling have a mournful tone.

The child has gone home to her mother, taking her grumpy papa with her. This is a many-edged sword, bringing with it relief and sadness, tangled emotions confusing and convoluted. Although par for the course when dealing with families I suppose.

I was informed back in September that my caustically divorced brother would be bringing my niece to visit my parents for a pre-Christmas vacation at their abode in Montana. He would have to oblige with the court-mandated vacation schedule kidlet swap with my x sister-in-law on Christmas Eve, but would be spending the previous week with Grandma & Grandpa. And would I like to join everyone?

For some, this would be a no-brainer, for me, not so much. The opportunity to see my niece was the major draw. Spending time with my parents can be a crap-shoot. Sometimes it goes O.K., others it's a disaster that takes me considerable time to recover from. Parental hangovers last a long time and no amount of mental Alka-Seltzer can touch it. My biggest concern, however, was my brother. We hadn't spoken in 18 months, and for good god damn reason too.

He went through a very nasty divorce a few years ago and lost his damn mind in the process. He's put my parents through hell and drug everyone in his path down with him. He's emotional quicksand and a giant misogynistic asshole and I tend to react negatively to people who are threatening to bash my face in when they're called to the carpet for being a disrespectful selfish prick fucker dickhead retarded insane ass. Therefore, you don't get to spew your venom on me anymore and I don't have to listen to 20 minute renditions of "My x-wife is a cunt". Ta da!

Needless to say, my virtual invitation had to float around in my head for a couple weeks before I made my decision. Having a buffer person in the Big Sky homestead is always to my advantage. My parents shift their behavior up a notch which makes a more pleasant experience for all involved. With that in mind, I put my faith into that little kid to hold everyone together by our crazy seams and booked my plane tickets.

I purposefully had myself arrive 2 days after my brother and leaving 2 days later. This gave my parents more time with their grand-daughter and only 3 full days of me having to be around my brother. He literally emanates hate. Hostility steams from his pours. His head is so heavy with self-imposed burdens he doesn't lift it to an upright position. He's hunched over at the neck like a grizzly bear.

I managed to ignore him most of the time, and really, he didn't speak much, so we were all spared his infamous tirades. He's so self-absorbed that the few times we all made an attempt at conversation he didn't realize his incessant ill informed countering of anyone's point or opinion was met with zero resistance. This is not the result of anyone being schooled by the more knowledgeable party. This is the by-product of witnessing year after year of a withdrawal from reality and a mind so closed it's a total waste to spend any energy belaboring a futile point. It's staring at an old bear in a dilapidated enclosure in a broken-down zoo. It's a reaction to the pathetic. And he has no idea.

Despite some discounting of obtuse utterings and a pestering pre-tween, there has been laughter, a little stress, narrowly avoided heated debates, a few tears, and many hugs given by a little blond monkey who delights in teasing and being as irritating as possible. And don't forget the alcohol.

We celebrated Christmas yesterday and it was a good time had by all. Her Auntie Betty managed to teach her a few new annoying tricks to bring home with her, like any cool Auntie should. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when she whips out the face lick on the next unsuspecting person trying to pin her down in a wrestling match. That was always my ace in the hole. Ha! Take that! SLURP.

Unfortunately, I wasn't prepared for this feeling of emptiness today. She snuck into my room before they left and gave me a goodbye squeeze and said "I love you". I thought I'd fall right back to sleep but to no avail. My mind woke up and the past few days are whizzing around in there as my heart feels, I don't know, numb.

I anticipate my parents returning from the airport shortly and having to nurse their sadness until I leave in a couple days. My dad is in failing health and although I'm trying to cherish all the time we spend together, a conversation we had the other day keeps revisiting my mind and manages to bum me out for a moment. I recover quickly, but since today feels so weird, it's coming back up like last nights dessert.

Eh, I don't know. This entry is all over the place and I can't seem to put down all the great things that I'm thinking about. Like next week, and the incredible man I'm in love with who I'll get to squeeze for 4 days. Maybe I need to go shopping. I guess today I'm pensively numb, if that's possible. I'm sure this too will pass. Just like the fucking PMS I've had all week. PFT.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Tick, tick, tick

I've spent a considerble amount of time with both children and animals in my life, and particularly today, while being poked, prodded, bothered, bugged, teased, tormented, and irritated by my niece, I've come to this conclusion. I do not have a ticking timepiece in my loins wanting for an offspring to go forth and prosper. I yearn for a puppy. A dog. Any dog. In fact I want lots of them.

I do not have a biological clock, I have a dogilogical one.

And that fucker isn't echoing through the halls with a gentle plink plink plink. It's a giant gong and it's shaking the mother off it's foundation.

I've never been one of those girls who knew they always wanted kids. I didn't dress up my dollies and lovingly push them in a minature carriage cooing and fussing over imaginary wet diapers and play bottles full of fake milk. I forced my cat into a pink dress with matching bloomers and maryjane shoes amist screeching and flying fur and chased her through the house yelling "kitty kitty kitty, pretty kitty".

I don't posses the ability to try and talk myself into it. The thought has always scared the shit out of me, even if I might, and I mean might have ever for a fleeting, minute, infintesimal, weensy, pocket-sized nano-second ever had a slight cervical twinge to maybe one-day spawn, it was gone before you could say mucous plug .

This involuntary flinching of my fallopians has been reinforced by the gory and elaborate details I've been subjected to at the thousands of grueling baby showers I've had to sit through. O.K., maybe there haven't been thousands, but it sure as hell seems like it when you're sitting there trying to keep your knees daintily together and not loaf on someone's mother's floral sofa like the pig you really are while attempting to stifle the huge burp crawling up your throat.

And whoever in the fucking world thought it would be cute to pin a fake piece of shit on my $100.00 Nordstrom blouse only later to rip it off of me with some shrill screaming of statanic glee shall I accidentally utter the word "baby" at a fucking "baby" fucking shower?? Oh yea, can I get a lifetime membership to that club please? I only go to those things to win the prizes, lame as they may be, and I don't care if you're 8 months pregnant. I'll knock your ass over to get that mini shower gel with the matching loofa.

By some twist of sadistic fate, after I graduated from college I found myself at the head of a preschool classroom staring at 16 little grimy faces waiting to be entertained by the one person who thinks kids are a pain in the ass. How the hell did I get here?

I took my job seriously and really got into it. I was a great teacher and most of the kids and parents loved me. But I tell you what. That's the hardest god damn job I've ever had and I never want to do it again. I love being an educator, and plan on making that my next career move, but not the little guys. They can be sweet, but it was hard enough dealing with my boyfriend at the time let alone being the stand-in parent for thirty 4 year-olds all day long. I only lasted 2 years and I learned some valuable lessons. Among other things, kids can do a lot more then most people give them credit for, and they're a pain in the ass!

One of the things that bugs me the most, and this is hard to choose since so much chaps my ass, but I get this one all the time and I'm losing my ability to respond with patience and kindness. "But you'd be such a good parent". Even my MOTHER threw this one at me recently. MY MOTHER!!

Maybe, yes, I'm sure I would, but really, why is it so important to people that we all procreate? It's THE MOST IMPORTANT thing you'll ever do and I for one do not want any Joe Blow Dipshit popping out a bunch of babies if they're not sure. This is not a color choice for carpet people. I can't say, aw damn, I should have gotten the sand dune instead of the wheat field and order up another roll.

I've always, always, had an affinity for animals instead of people. The only scene in Jaws I care about is when the dog gets whacked in the first five minutes. Damn you George Lucas! Damn you to hell! Dogs are especially dear to my heart. Maybe I was a wolf in a past life (insert bitch jokes here, har har). My black lab Casey was the love of my life. I can't imagine loving a child more than I loved her. Ah yes, I know that there's no love greater, yada yada, and everyone with kids didn't think so either until they placed that squirming pile of goo in your hands, blah blah, but I don't have any other reference point so throw me a bone.

Casey was the sweetest, smartest, funniest, (yes, funny), baby girl that ever walked the earth. And I still miss her so much it hurts. By far the worst day in my entire life was the day I had to put her to sleep. And that even beats the day I was told I had cancer. Casey and I were best friends and she got me through some tough times. She learned new tricks right up until the end, even though she'd gone almost entirely deaf. That smart cookie learned sign language! I even looked the other way when she apparently grew 12 more appendages at night that all managed to jab me in the ribs and push me to the very edge of the bed. If I could just kiss her sweet head one more time...

I haven't gotten another dog because of my work/life schedule. I didn't want to leave an animal that by nature runs in packs and would be home alone and sad all day and in the worst case scenario, destroying my furniture from severe separation anxiety. I would still love that puppy, but don't be eatin' mama's fucking couch a'ight?

I vowed that I would get another dog if I had another significant other and we got one together, or adopt 2 dogs so they had a buddy to hang with during the day. (I'm a huge advocate of adopting adult dogs from shelters by the way). But all of a sudden, it's been 6 years since my Casey has been gone and wow, I don't have another dog. Something is wrong with this picture.

So, today, as I was taking a walk in the snow with my mom & her dog, a friend of hers & her dog, and my niece, I felt my dogilogical clock ring louder than I've ever heard. We were walking down a trail, hard snow crunching under our feet, while our dogs ran like salt and pepper bullets back and forth. My parents have a black lab mix that isn't that much fun. I think she is schizophrenic or something, but the other dog we were with was this big, lovable yellow lab. And I fell instantly in love.

This is not to say that I don't love my niece, or some kids in general. They can be cute as hell, and funny and entertaining and I know they're all special. But I really think I'm meant to raise animals and not people. And that's O.K. So everybody, stay out of my uterus and I'll keep my foot out of your ass.

And future puppy, mama's on her way.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Trend Sucker

I was getting ready for my vacation tonight, packing, re-packing, and packing some more. Earlier in the day I had waded through the ceiling-high crap in my guestroom closet to attempt a retrieval of my suitcase. And that's when I saw it. Sitting there. Dusty. Unused. Mocking me. My last "this will change my life" purchase.

Awhile back I woke up at some ungodly hour of the morning, when the entire world is still asleep, except for criminals and mall walkers. I'd spent the previous night thinking I was a rock star and trying to party like one. Since it was the ass-crack of dawn, my choices for entertainment were early morning cable T.V. or laying in bed listening to the sound of brain throbbing. I chose the former. While surfing through endless channels of infomercials, I came across a gem called "The Firm".

Actually, I came across it about 5 times, but settled on a station and instantly became transfixed. I was feeling pretty bad, hung over, disappointed that I'd done it again, drank too much, tried to soak up alcohol with a midnight run to Jack-in-the-Crack, and hadn't been to the gym in months.

And there they were. Real life women in skimpy, tight spandex talking about getting that kick-ass shape just from jumping around their living rooms and holding weights as heavy as my toothbrush. I thought, I can do this. I too can be all that I can be. I will wear butt floss with pride!! If I don't make it to the gym, I'll work out at home!

A long-absent energy started to wash over me. My headache was dissipating, the pillow lines on my face fading. I mustered the energy to move one arm and picked up the phone, made the call, and ordered my miracle. I was anxious for its arrival. I even paid extra for super duper speedy shipping. Everyday I came home expecting to see this huge box at my door. Day after day I waited. This was the first sign...

After 4 phone calls and 5 weeks, I finally got my "step system". It was a double set of two steps, one able to stack on top of the other, (when I progressed enough to avoid an asthma attack in the first 2 minutes), and 3 videos of increasing difficulty. I tore open the packaging and ripped through the celophane with animated fervor. I made as much space in my living room as possible, gathered up my hand weights and put on my best exercise outfit. I was pumped up and ready to get back into shape.

I put in the first tape and patiently listened to the introduction, then fast forwarded to the work-out since the woman chirping her hello's like a bird outside your window at 5 a.m. on a Saturday managed to instantly surface long ago supressed feelings and high school fantasies of stuffing perky pom-pom girls into trashcans lined with lunch left-overs.

Trying to shed my lazy demeaner and cynical attitude, I vowed to give it a college try. Which should have been an even bigger clue to my lame attempts at snake-oil cures right there since all I did in college was drink and fuck my boyfriend. However, I was a good girl and started stepping. One two, down up. Three four kiss my butt. Five six hate this chick. Seven eight I'm a dick.

And guess what? It sucks. The tapes are boring, the women are annoying, I have no room in my house to flip around in tights without breaking a lamp or a toe, and now I'm getting some type of "supplement" every few months, at $30 a pop, that I'm convinced will cause me to grow a tail or at the very least cause such intestinal distress that I'll have to strap a bucket to my ass.

So, it's in the closet. Waiting for a garage sale price tag. My dream squashed like a snail on the sidewalk. And now they're selling this shit at discount stores for a 10th of what I paid for it. I am a sucker.

You'd think I would have learned from the NADS fiasco.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Ebay Virgin

I should have known better. I knew there was something that had kept me away from this site for so long. Oh sure, I had scanned it a few times. Checked things out. Pondered the notion of selling a thing or two. But I never let the thought of actually purchasing anything cross my mind. Have I mentioned I have a little, teeny, tiny problem with shopping? Shocking, I know. And you see, I can rationalize the purchase of just about anything. It's impressive actually, in my humble opinion

I just had to have those obnoxiously expensive up-to-the-knee snow boots with their brightly colored ribbons sewn around the white gortex. Because you know, in Southern California the temperature can drop to an ass-biting 50 degrees in the dead of winter and I MIGHT SHIVER! And how could I pass up that Craftsman 9 volt cordless drill with the multi-position clutch, rechargeable batteries and drill kit? It was on sale!

Since it’s close to Christmas, I, like many others, are thinking about that perfect gift for the special people in our lives. I am no different. In fact, it becomes something of a gift quest for me every year. I don’t have sugarplums dancing in my head, more like sales flyers and shipping rates. And I have a strict one for them, two for me gift policy during the holidays to reward myself for all of the time and effort I put into making my loved ones happy. Hey, works for me. I told you I was good.

Then it finally happened. I was staring at my monitor, fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, relaxed, calm, the day winding down like a leaf gently wafting to the ground. Suddenly, in perfect concert, into my mind popped an idea as my fingers began to fly.

And there it was. All of those categories. All of that stuff! I entered my most excellent Christmas gift idea into the search field. Bada-bing! It was there! Hooah! This was pretty cool, I thought. My eyes quickly darted to the prices. Hmm, not too bad. I can swing this. I’ll give it a go. I quickly registered, entered a bid, and placed it. Bid accepted. Woo hoo! Easy right? Fun right?

Now, to backtrack just a wee bit. I discovered not too many years ago, when I made my first odyssey to Las Vegas, that I might have a lil bit of a gambling problem. If things got out of control, I don’t let it, but it’s a big “if”. I’m considerably competitive by nature, even against an inanimate object such as a slot machine, always mocking me with its bing-bong chling chling Wheel…of…Fortune. When I have the chance to play against the infernal electronic beast, I sit down with my game face on, let the machine eat my twenty while quietly chanting “You're mine beotch.” When in reality, I'm its bitch, ass-pounding prison style bitch.

So, needless to say, I should have predicted a similar issue would rear its ugly head. But I didn’t know. It was supposed to be just like shopping! Find your thing, clicky clicky, enter credit card, Fed-X man brings to house. Alas, this is not how it all went down.

After my pleasant, and quite painless first-time bidding experience, I hadn’t given it another thought. I innocently powered up my system only to find a nasty-gram in my e-mail announcing that I had been out-bid. WHAT?? I’ve lost my perfect gift to some cyber pirate?? This cannot be! I quickly went back to the site and found my freshly-lost treasure. Well who the crap does this person think they are? No way. I will win! -silently puts curse on other bidders genitals-

I hit the “place bid” button. I’m smiling. The screen flashes. Big read letters pop up. “You have been outbid”. Screen flashes again. I am not smiling. WTF? I bid again, smile, flash, “outbid”, smile gone. Well HELL! Bid, outbid, repeat, repeat, again, again, again, again. My eyes turned into rainbow pinwheels. I’m not blinking. My lips pursed, determination is my face. Bid, bid, bid. Finally, justice prevails!! AH HA! My bid is accepted. I AM THE HIGHEST BIDDER!! My head falls back, I let out a maniacal laugh. MUHAHAHA! That’s right mutha fucka. It’s mine, all mine! BWAHAHAHA!

Uh oh. Aww dayum. Moment over. Eyes back to normal. Face melding into regret. Vehement victory vanishing.

And on the screen, there’s my login, there’s my major award, there’s the price…

Starting bid...$1.00

My bid.........$250.00

I will be enjoying my Authentic Flying Ace Snoopy Telephone for a long, long, time.

Bahhhhhhhhhh Humbug

I'm so fucking miserably cranky I'm reading about serial killers.

For fun.

Fuckity Fuck. Back to work.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Dear Blogger

You suck. I fixed it myself. Again.

Lick. My. Ass.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Feeling left-out

I don't get enough comments and it's pissing me off.

Yes, I'm a baby.


Monday, December 13, 2004

It wasn't my fault

Hi, I'm Betty, and I am a shopoholic. Hi Betty!

I can't help it. I cannot be blamed. It's ingrained in my DNA. I'm convinced that if a lab ran my chromosomes through their chromosomometer at least one pair would resemble dollar signs. I'm hard-wired to spend money and I'm a true-blue believer in retail therapy. Ya'll can have your comfort food and cigarettes, I'll take Target.

Since I spend a fair amount of my time meandering through department stores, ogling wares, feeling up clothing and molesting the merchandise, I seem to find myself occasionally resembling a bull in a china shop. This too, is not my fault. (Well, most of the time).

I will admit, despite being incredibly coordinated and situationally athletic, I am accident-prone to the 11th degree. I'm the person who's movin' her booty on the dance floor like a pro causing envy and lust from all who witness my most excellent shakin' of dat ass, when I slip on an olive and go sailing under the nearest table while pulling a groin muscle and ripping my favorite jeans. I'm the person who tore a ligament in her pinkie putting her hair into a ponytail. I'm a living oxymoron.

This charming trait of mine is not aided by my surroundings. Chairs jump into my path, walls lean over and smash my head and drawers magically shut on my fingers. If being in the comfort of my own home wasn't hazardous enough, venturing out into the retail world sometimes proves to be littered with landmines.

There's the obligatory clothing that always, always, always, comes spontaneously flying off the hanger as soon as I get near it. And stores that jam all their shit so tight and stacked so high that you can't help but pull it all onto your head when you're just trying to find your size! And let's face it, quality is hard to find. It's not my fault that Inspector 14 was hung-over that one Thursday and let all those precious products roll on by with fatal flaws.

And it's because of this, that I'm now afraid of an inanimate object. An innocent collectable that millions of people display with pride and adoration on a million shelves in a million homes. A simple souvenir minding its own business. A harmless, insignificant knickknack that should not illicit anxiety and ass-squenching making me run the other direction less I actually touch one, but does. A new phobia was created and added to my collection one particular Christmas season and it's not my fault.

I was cruising the gifty areas of a large department store, relaxed and happy, silently gathering useful potential-gift information. I'd hit the jewelry counter, sauntered through the shoes then headed up to the third floor to check out housewares. After nixing the knives and poo-pooing the plates, I came upon a large display of snow globes. There were globes of all sizes. Big ones, small ones, medium ones, and itty-bitty teeny-tiny ones.

They were mostly Christmassy scenes with little houses, wintry trees and snowmen. A few contained a maniacal Santa busting a gut with his gloved paws on what I'm sure was supposed to be his big jolly belly, but once again, that lazy bitch Inspector 14 was sauced up at her station and let a gaggle of Chris Kringle's go by with him obviously grabbing his North Pole and Jingle Bells.

I continued to scan the array of orb's filled with their glitter and snow and drifty drift junk inside. I picked up a few and gave a tester shake to watch the magical sparkly filler spin and float around, landing on the permanently affixed object inside. I wondered to myself who (maybe me) of my friends (possibly me) would appreciate and receive this for Christmas (most likely me).

Then I saw a really elaborate large-sized globe that seemed pretty cool. It was an ornate winter wonderland scene complete with several cabins, their little windows glowing from fireplaces inside, a forest surrounding the houses, children's sleighs resting in the snow banks. It was colorful and festive. And HUGE.

I don't know why I treated this one differently than all the previous globes I'd so thoughtfully and gently examined, but this time I decided to turn it totally upside down instead of giving a delicate wee shake. It wasn't even a conscience decision. It was a reflex really. In fact, maybe I had had a miniature shopping seizure. Whatever it was, it wasn't my fault.

I held the trinket in both hands, and with a quick turn of my wrists, I flipped it. Before I could blink...CRASH!!! The globe separated from its base faster than whale shit in an ice flow. In what seemed like slow motion, I watched it fall to the ground and literally explode on the scuffed tile floor. My ears ringing from the deafening concussion of glass shattering. It sounded like a grenade had had been launched right there in the middle of Macy's, briefly silencing the Christmas muzak playing overhead.

There was a little old lady nearby who let out a little old lady squeal. I was mortified. I was frozen. I tried to kick-start my brain and process what just happened. My only recourse? GET THE HELL OUT! I quickly put down what was left of the globe, the little wooden corpse that was still in my hand, and did an about-face; sweat tickling my forehead as I made a quick trek back to the escalator. My face hot and flushed with horror.

I thought I was home free until I spied a sales lady staring at me, her lips puckered into a tight frown, while she gave me an icy-cold up-and-down. Finally settling her steely eyes on my feet. She hadn't seen it, I was sure, so how could she know that apocalypse had been me?? That's when I looked down and saw the evidence of my snow-globe murder. My jeans and shoes were shimmering with the dripping evidence. From the knees down I was saturated with magical sparkly globe water and covered with snowflakes.

Our eyes locked on each other. Mine wide with guilt. I mustered a panicked, phony grin, nervously giggled, said "Merry Christmas". Then ran away.

It wasn't my fault.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Clean up the eggshells...

we don't need them anymore.

I just survived another visit with my parents. And, by some supernatural divine intervention miracle of the universe, it all went well. Not one single cross word exchanged by anyone. I'm paranoid that this is a good-rehersal, bad performance situation, and Christmas will go down in infamy with bloodshed and wills sacrificed to flames. Oh the theater we can perform. But hopefully not.

My family has had an exorbitant amount of crap storms in the last few years. And most recently, we've been affected by too many deaths to believe, a divorce, putting a family dog to sleep, and cancer. We don't handle these situations well as a pack. Independently we deal, but get us in the same room when emotions are high with verbal sparks flying, and it's akin to a bunch of wet cats stuffed into a single cage. Avoiding these quagmires takes a fair amount of self-restraint. And alcohol. Lines will get crossed and irrecovable words will be spilled. It's fucked, but I suppose normal.

However, after a very hard (bad, awful, heart-wrenching, soul-draining) visit I made to their place in Montana last September, I was naturally concerned of a repeat. But this time it was O.K. Blessedly, O.K. My parents traveled last weekend to Southern Cal to bury my fathers best friend of 60 years. My dad didn't speak much. This worries me to no end, but there's not much anyone can do. Can't force an old man to chat. And I know he was glad to be with family.

They decided to come down a few days early and help me with some chores around the house. This killed two birds with one stone since I work 4 million hours a week and spend 2 million more stuck in fuckass traffic. Damn but I need a wife. Anyway, I came up with some jobs and this time they asked very specific questions and followed my directions to a "T". Yay Mom & Dad! They tend to get creative and this makes it hard to be appreciative, especially when you didn't really ask them to THROW AWAY all of your dishes even if they were ugly! Oops. And, ARGGG!!

Needless to say, I'm thrilled at this outcome and despite being the bitter, spazzoid, worry-wort, freak that I am all day every day, I'm very happy we had an excellent sojourn. Both 'rents were thankfully distracted and pleased with all of the progess made. Mom and I even went on a short shopping trip at Target and I only tried to hit her with the cart once! Yay me! After deciding to write a short entry about it, I was reminded of another time when things went pretty damn good and I wrote about it. So, for your reading pleasure, I present to you...


The phone call came, the arrangements were made, the schedule was set. My mom was coming for a visit, all by herself, just me and mom, alone, together, just the two of us, in my house… for 7...whole…days. Mamapalooza 2003. Maybe this trip would go better than the last. Maybe we could get past the first 20 minutes in each others presence without lip-pursing and eye-rolling, eventually ending in the type of family drama and dysfunction seen only on Lifetime, television for Prozac. Maybe.

It was requested that a series of projects were available for mom, since I would be working full time and mom alone in my house with idle hands and a head full of “great” ideas was as dangerous as a child playing with razor sharp knives. For example, the aforementioned first visit, known as Mamagate 2002, had a very unfortunate pruning episode of my prized ficus tree. I say tree because the one plant that I’ve managed not to kill had not only flourished, but also had taken its plant initiative and busted through the bottom of its wooden pot and rooted. I really appreciated this plant. Not only for having the fortitude to go out on its own but relieving me of several responsibilities, watering, the 3 seconds of uncomfortable guilt I’d feel after killing it, and the incredible pain in the ass of trying to get rid of a dead 6 foot fucking ficus.

Mamagate 2002 was given the project of cleaning up the patio. This was to consist of sweeping, pulling some dead leaves, disposing of the dead plants and general tidiness. This was not to be the case. I came home from work to find pruning shears sitting on the kitchen counter. My first thought, oh…fuck.

I quickly dashed onto the patio, did a cursory scan, my eyes eventually trying to focus on the carnage in the corner. My big old beautiful boy had been butchered. Now, mind you, I had not told her to specifically stay away from that plant, but after reviewing what she’d done it was all I could do to keep my eyes from falling out of my head. She had decided it was time for a little “trim” for my beloved bush, but mom apparently didn’t put in the effort to tilt her head back and realize it had grown rather tall. This actualization was made AFTER cutting had commenced, and continued, until Mr. Ficus looked distinctly like a very skinny man with a very large afro. Needless to say, I was rather upset at this foolish looking foliage, promptly hid the sheers and banned mom from any pruning duties until said plant prohibition was lifted. And yes, it’s still active.

Moving on to Mamapalooza 2003. I arrived home from work last Monday to mom finishing up this year’s patio cleanup. Everything looked good. Whew. No need for bloodshed yet. I had brought some dinner home, made sure there was wine in the house, and the night went well. “Holy crap” I thought, this might go ok. Only 6 more days to go.

Project number 2 was super simple. I had cleaned out my closet the previous weekend and ended up with about 5 bags of clothes and shoes. (Part of the curse of being a shopoholic). This was a slam-dunk. Pick up the bags, throw them in the car, dump them at shelter. Or so I thought. I get home Tuesday night, all bags are gone. Yay! Then I look in my laundry room. Hmm. Something is different. Oh, I thought, the towels were organized. All nice and neat. How nice. Wait. Hmm. There’s an awful lot of shelf room here. Hmm.

“Oh mother?” “What happened to my towels?”

“I took some of them with the clothes”

“Which ones did you take”

“I don’t remember”

“You don’t remember which towels you took just a few hours ago?”

“No, I don’t remember”

“Were they the pink ones?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t remember”

“Were they the tan ones?”

“Maybe, they weren’t very nice.”

“The pink ones were ok, and they were the only ones that had those big bath sheets”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.”



“Sigh, no, that’s ok, thanks for taking the stuff.”

Wednesday’s conversation…

"Were they the pink ones?”

“I don’t remember.”


“What other projects can I do?”

“I’m sorry, your project privileges have been revoked. You went beyond the appointed task. Thank you, but I don’t have anything else.”

“How about some painting?”

-big cheesy smile- mouth silently forms the word "no".

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, all pass by without a hitch. Slap my ass, I think we’re gonna make it. And I choose to completely ignore the fact that every time I go to work, she rearranges the furniture in my living room. Every day, she moves the ottoman against the wall, and every night I move it back. It was kinda like a little game. A little game that I chose to ignore. A little game that would have turned into a fight if SHE FRIGGEN MOVED THAT OTTOMAN ONE MORE FRIGGEN TIME. But it’s cool, I didn’t say anything about that. I’m cool.

-big cheesy smile-

Sunday arrives. Mamapalooza 2003 is coming to a close. The last act will be on stage shortly. We decide to go brunch. Mom chooses the restaurant, despite my warnings. I told her the food sucked, but no, she wouldn’t listen. Guess what? It sucked. But things were still going well. I was on the countdown now. Feeling the tension. If we could just make it through the next few hours, it would be the most successful visit in a long-ass time.

We decide to run one last errand. My mom insisted on driving. Now, let me explain a few things about my moms driving. First off, she drives a brand-new, gigantic Yukon. Why on earth she needs to be driving that kind of acreage on wheels I have no idea, but she does. Now, secondly, she drives like shit. And it’s not just the fact that she doesn’t pay a lot of attention to her surroundings, but she does that thing. You know that thing where people drive .06758 miles per hour everywhere??

We’re slowly pulling out of the parking lot on our way to Home Depot, and she’s covering ground slower than a slug on sedatives. And given the fact that I had just been reminded of how bad my breakfast looked for the last half hour (silently saying I told you so), and the nicotine fit I was having was beginning to physically hurt, I felt my chest start to tighten while that inner voice in my head started screaming “THE FUCKING GAS PEDAL IS ON THE RIGHT!!” “FOR GODSSAKE, HIT THE GODDAMN GAS!!” But I gathered some type of strength from somewhere, gritted my teeth, and continued to somehow breath without saying a word.

Things almost went south in the store. I definitely felt the verbal bullets start to whiz by my head. But somehow it wasn’t escalating into anything worthy of one of our famous fights. I seriously don’t know how we escaped it. I thought for sure buying paint would be the catalyst to a brawl. Since I’m a Dove girl and mom is strictly vanilla, so to speak, my paint choices were getting “the face”. Daughters might be more familiar with "the face" then sons, but imagine someone just passed a big old turd right under Mama's nose. But she managed to hold her tongue.

We drove home, crawled rather, and once again I felt my shoulders lifting up over my ears with tension, watching the speedometer bounce around the 5. How does she get the car to go that slow? Jesus. Anyway, we made it home. Only a few hours till her departure. Could we make it?

I didn’t want to get too cocky, but I was feeling pretty confident. I decided to join mom on the patio for one last chat. Uh oh. THE subject came up. Oh shit. I don’t remember who said it first. The one subject that gets us both on guard. Opposing teams. Fist-a-cuffs at the ready. My brother. Yikes, I can see her eyes getting red. She’s not in the mood. I’m not agreeing. We’re almost arguing. Oh jeez! I knew it! I knew something would happen.

Then, all of a sudden, as soon as it started it was over. No fight. No claws. No blood. We made it! I almost broke into song. I was feeling rather giddy, actually. Or I was high from the 12 purple peeps I ate that day, whatever. We loaded her car, hugged, said I love you, and I watched her slowly drive away.

I walked back to my condo and went outside to my sweet little patio. Lit a much-needed cigarette, stared at my unscathed ficus and took a deep, deep breath. Yea, I love my mom.

-big cheesy smile-

Friday, December 10, 2004

He shoots, he misses

It was Christmas morning, 1980-flibbershlingfing and our house was, in a rare moment, relaxed, warm and inviting. Aromas of the cooking turkey and cooling pie’s wafting through the halls. The family in pj's, strewn about the living room, feverishly eyeing the tree with its prizes spilling out from under the fragrant boughs.

I truly love my parents, even if I want to stuff them into a man-hole now and then, and I am a daddy's girl through-and-through. I've been very fortunate in my life that my parents have always been generous and make sure everyone receives multiple gifts for special occasions, even if there's not a ton of money spent, we try to make sure there are lots of presents under the tree.

My parents have also have a tradition of splitting the gift buying between them, and let’s just say that, on occasion, you have to take a moment and ponder just what the hell they were thinking. This particular Christmas, when I was a junior in high school and a very typical teenage girl, my Dad was in charge of "finishing up" my portion of the holiday haul. And bless his clueless heart, he totally blew it.

I had been sizing up my packages and saving what I thought was the best for last. Hoarding my stash until the end when I'd be the only one left with presents to open in full gloating glory of everyone in the room. They, seething with envy and regret that they had plowed through their red foil wrapping paper and shiny bows in a lightning fury, a graveyard of boxes at their feet. My hasty kin left only with fuzzy slippers and 3-pack's of tighty whities, while I stared at my loot, devilish stars swirling in my eyes. Ah-hah suckas! It’s all about me now!!

My Dad sat across the room, tipped on the edge of his chair looking at me with a catch in his breath, obviously excited to watch his gift-giving triumph unfold. I grabbed a perfectly wrapped small box, gave it a little shake for good measure and listened to the strange sound inside. It didn't make the telltale-muted shuffle of a puzzle. There was no sweet chime of a music box. I ripped the paper across the top and saw a glimpse of color. What could it be? What could it be? My eyes focused on what I was seeing while I let my mind catch up. It was a 3 box set of Bic pens. Huh?

Well, that's ok, I had a big pile to get through of all shapes and sizes, there's got to be something wonderful and exciting to follow. A large smile grew back across my face. I grabbed the next box, tore the paper, and just as I was ready to let out a shout of appreciative glee, I looked down to witness what was actually in my hands. A stapler.

OK now, I'm starting to sense a theme here. This might not be good. Another package, another rip. Calculator. And again, a thesaurus. Pick up box, rip paper, look, repeat. Pencils. Dictionary. Erasers. WTF? I am sorta stunned. Where's my Hunky Men of Southern California calendar? Where's my giant makeup case with 4,000 eye shadows? Where's my Caboodle?

I look up at my father with my big brown blinking eyes, he looks back at me, then quickly up at the ceiling. I turn my gaze to my mother. She's glaring at my father, burning a telepathic hole into the side of his head.

I have one package left. It's heavy. It's sparkly. It's mine. Squee! I haven't given up hope. This will be it. The pièce de résistance. My black porche 911 stuffed into a shoebox.

I heave it onto my lap. The weight of the box sitting heavily on my legs. Slowly slipping the ribbon off the sharp corners, carefully undoing the wrapping this time, letting the anticipation build. Everyone in the room is holding their breath.

Finally, after painstakingly removing the green and red paper, the gift is exposed. My face, drained of color and shrouded with chagrin, my smile fading with lightning speed, gazes upon my last chance at the big Christmas score. My last hope at receiving the perfect present to parade in front of my peers with pride and prejudice. My final chance at my major award.

And in my disappointed and resigned sad little hands electric pencil sharpener.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

I'll have the box lunch please

When it comes to bedroom olympics, all men are not created equal. This can be a good thing, or it can require a certain amount of theatrical embellishments and the delicate balance of continuing to sound like a porn star while simultaneously drafting a to do list in your head for the following week (and you know you've all done it so don't even bother trying to lie to me).

Mind you, I don't condone the "fake". I've never done it and I never will, but there are fragile ego's involved here and no matter how much bravado your man has dripping down his chin, this must be taken into consideration and handled accordingly.

Communication can be a tricky thing in the boudoir. Especially if you're having a one or two-night stand or if the relationship is new. Hell, I've been with someone for years and still couldn't find an opening, pardon the pun, to bring up what often turns into a sacred subject. How do you tell your beloved, sorry, but you're hung like a 4 year-old and if you don't jam me like you're trying to pile-drive your dick through a cement slab I'm going to slip into a coma. And don't think I won't fire up my electronics after you fall asleep so I may actually feel a moment of pleasure in my nethers. Tricky sitch, this is what I'm saying.

I love men. My motto? I gotta have the dick. I might someday let a woman mack on me for awhile, but in the end, I must have penis. I love just about everything about the opposite sex. The way their thighs curve towards their hip bones. Their broad shoulders and carved biceps. Even their musky odor. I love having my small hand enveloped by a man's. I love running my fingers across their head. And I love sucking cock.

Every person I've been with romantically has had something to offer. Some little personal idiosyncracy, quirk, skill, or craft that they brought to the bed, the floor, the backseat of my car. But some have been a disaster of momentous proportions. And guess what fella's? We bitches tell our friends. All of them. When you suck at it.

Despite the many hours of fun and frolic I've had playing pimp and ho, I've unfortunately had terrible luck with people trying to go downtown. And in case you have't a clue what I'm talking about I'll spell it out for you. Cunnilingus. Tasting the cookie. Carpet licking. Munching Box. Basting the clam. Muff diving. Enjoying a tuna taco. Diving at the Y. Cunt sucking. Surrendering the pink.

I'm not sure if I have some fucked up anatomy or something, but I've had more disappointing experiences than not. One guy I was with went after me like a hyena on a fresh kill. Fuck dude! All that shit is attached and I'd like to keep it that way! Another guy dove in like he was trying to win the blue ribbon at the state fair's pie eating contest. Settle down there Sparky! We've got all night Mr. Turbo Tongue. Are you actually chewing me like a dog on a bone? OK, time for you to come back up for air and leave my Nancy alone. Psycho.

And you all quit it with that alphabet shit. I know it was a funny routine by Sam Kinnison a hundred years ago, before he smashed his fat guts out on a desert road in Nevada, but it's fucking annoying! It's does not get anyone off and frankly, it will do the exact opposite you thought it would. So if you're spelling your name with your tongue, stop it, or I will yank your ears off and stick them up your ass. And don't think I won't know when you've thrown a random "W" in there. CAUSE I WILL!

The best thing we can all do is ask, talk, listen and learn. Shake it up a bit. There's a lot of body parts to play with, don't neglect anything. We're all different and we all like things done a variety of ways. You have to stay on your toes because preferences are rarely constant over a lifetime. What blew your dress up last year might not work next time. The finger swirl that made your eyes roll back in your head has been replaced by the bent-over backwards thrust. Altoids are out. Friction-activated heated Astroglide is in.

In closing, I must recommend that everyone in the free world read this. Be you man, woman, or my incestual cats. It should be printed and posted in every bathroom in every bar in every galaxy. It's not the box bible by any means, but it's the most comprehensive thing I've ever seen written on the subject and I found myself audibly shouting in agreement while reading it.

Then I went and wacked off.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Hey! Dumbass!

I'm in a bad fucking mood. The kind of mood that warrants the removal of my person from society and most all outside stimuli save bad afternoon television and greasy drive-through food while being quarantined in my house and restricted from communicating in any way shape or form with anyone in the entire world that I know. Irrationality and crankiness rule me today. So look out. I need a serious dose of attention and don't see that happening. Fucker fuck fuck me fuck you.

Dear neighbor who stole my trashcan;

I suppose the confusing concept of the unspoken rule was too much for you. The one where you keep your grubby mitts off my stuff because it doesn’t belong to you. Or perhaps you were feeling an overwhelming need to pilfer someone else’s property, like assholes tend to do when they are deprived of the minimum amount of oxygen to complete a rational thought due to their heads being firmly jammed up their asses.

I’m still perplexed as to your inability to read the BRIGHT YELLOW numbers scrawled on the top of our GIANT plastic city-issued garbage cans that we all wheel to the curb every Monday night. In the same place. Every. Monday. Same place. Granted, my can is haphazardly scribbled with my house number, but it's still there. In fucking plain fucking view.

I realize the 5 simple digits corresponding to our house numbers are not that legible, since our homeowners association is notoriously retarded and issued the refuse receptacles before painting “official” numbers on them. And those of us with real lives didn’t adhere to their demand to leave the muck buckets out on a short-noticed pre-ordained night to be marked, yet again, since I was busy getting drunk and laid by the young intern at work that night. So sorry fuckers, I was busy.

But for god damn. It’s not that hard to figure this out. At least for those of us with IQ’s higher than the number of cousins in your family that have been joined in holy matrimony, ay-mayen. Why must you insist on taking the wrong fucking can? This is not an isolated incident garbage stealer. You’ve done this to me before, and I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. Left your can out at the curb until you got the hint. Or taken mine in right away as to avoid this veiled mix-up.

But this last time. You fucked up again and now you can keep it you stupid shithole. I’m not taking your crappy can in exchange. Your stupid stinky broken pail with the crooked wheel that squeeks so loud it makes my ears bleed and shimmy's back-and-forth with enough force to practically twist my arms off. I’m going to report mine stolen and get a new one. And I know you're the one who stuffed a bunch of garbage into my can after the trashmen had been there. I'm watching you.

And oh, by the way, those little brown things stuck all over the inside? And that overpowering stench that slams into your olfactory senses upon cracking the lid reminiscent of a scene from CSI? Those are the oozing, pustule-laden, rotting maggots from the bag of raw chicken I threw away on a blazing hot summer day a few months ago, 4 days before pick-up day. Enjoy my trashcan you filthy thief, cuz it’s yours now. Dumbass.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004


I'm feeling a bit floopy today and something has been on my mind. Something that I don't think I've given the proper amount of attention to. And now, since my brain seems to be stuck on a thought loop, like a skipping 45 bleating out a single word over and over and over (A 45 is a record young boys and girls. Those big, black, round things made out of vinyl that played music on turntables. A turntable is...awww, forget it), I'm compelled to write about this because, well, I fucking feel like it.

So there's this guy. This amazing, incredible, brilliant guy. Let me tell you a little bit about him. He's one talented mother fucker. And I'm dead serious about this. I'm in constant awe over the words he artistically crafts across a page. It's just not possible to read his textual gems without uttering an audible "wow". Not only is he funny as shit, but he weaves a tale vivid with eloquence and unexampled exposition. He gives great story.

Most people go through life in a daze. Not him. He soaks it all in. Most people see black and white. Not him. He sees shades of gray. In fact he sees colors that most of us can't, like his eyes are made of some supernatural material that allows more life in. He's like a silent sponge ingesting his surroundings and letting the unnecessary clamber and clutter roll off without a letting the ineffectual make a dent in his armor. And he's able to shut it all down when the rest of us are fretting about inconsequential crap.

He doesn't try too hard, grabbing you by the neck, shaking the life out of you so he can selfishly use it for his own purposes. Although I'm sure he's pinched a few fuckers when they've gotten too close. A man needs his space. He's lived 10 lives around mine, in his 29 years, and is the coolest person on the planet. He can hold his liquor and his low, sexy voice rocks me to the core. Speaking to him on the phone is enough to make me feel like I'm wrapped in a warm blanket with someone gently kissing my face.

He's HOT. And not just hot in the way that I want to grab his face and jam my tongue down his throat, then smother his head between my tits. His body puts out enough heat to melt buttah, or at least keep a cabin in the woods warm for the WHOLE WINTER. He's got an internal combustion system that should be studied by science. (I suspect he's an X-men and one day I'll witness flames shooting out of his ass.) But mostly he's so adorable that I can't keep my hands off of him and his fuzzy head.

He doesn't hand the lighter to you, he's a gentleman and flicks the bic for you. He's the master of his own life and appreciates a good thing. He'd never let his own shit interfere with anyone else's, be you friend or foe, if he can help it. He's got an envious set of pipes that puts Lars Ulrich to shame. He's a great kisser with the best lips. He gives me aftershocks from 500 miles away. He makes me dissolve with bliss every time he calls me baby.

He's not afraid to say "I love you".

I'm quite sure I haven't done justice enough for how I truly feel about him, but this man rocks my world, makes me laugh, makes me feel safe and valued, and I love him. More every day.

And that, my friends, was gushing.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Another fine mess

I was standing on my patio today, having a smoke, and was reminded of another one of my famous fuck-ups. There are many you see, and as I believe my purpose in life is to educate people, it's my obligation, nay, my duty to share these little chestnuts of calamity. This is not to say I don't learn from my mistakes, but I do have my moments of botardation. So pay attention people, and learn.

In the spring of 2001 one of my best girlfriends enticed me with a night on the town, perusing my favorite bar and dance club and forgetting my troubles for a few hours. I wasn't feeling so great you see. In fact, I was feeling like I'd been hit by a train. Things at work sucked, trouble in paradise with my boyfriend, and I had just been in a car accident. A teenager ran a stop-sign as and made the mistake of turning right in front of me. My car had no where to go but smack-dab into the side of hers. Two solid objects cannot supply the same space at the same time kind-of-thing. Everyone was alright for the most part, both cars had to be towed away, but it sucked donkey dick and I was left shaken and limping.

My car is now in the shop being put back together, I'm all jacked up and in desparate need of some alcohol-soaked fun. (Sidenote - I learned a year later that not only did I dislocate my shoulder, but I broke a bone in my foot too. Fucking HMO's...but I digress). I completely appreciated being taken out for the night, even though I had to drive a considerable distance to get there. Unfortunately I wasn't in any shape for my usual partying, and after throwing back a few spirit and body warming beverages, I had to call it a night. It was a long way home; I couldn't dance because of my worn-out and wounded body, and had spent enough time gimping around downtown like a qausi-qausi-modo.

I slumped myself into my rental car and made it home in one sore and tired piece. This is where things went horribly, horribly wrong. Earlier that night I had conceived the brilliant idea of taking the rental car key off of my key chain and throwing ALL of my other keys into the middle consol for safe keeping and so I only needed one key in my pocket. I pulled into my detached garage (this is an important element to the story and please note: only opened with a key), got out, sliped my arm into the garage and used the garage-opener button on the inside of my garage to close it, quickly getting out of the way of the closing door like I do everyday. It was a rote move, done without a second thought.

I had taken about 10 gimpy steps, thinking of nothing but visiting the bathroom and crumpling into a heap on my beckoning bed. That's when it hit me. Christ, mother fucker, shit, damn, hell. I can't open the front door with a CAR KEY...OH..FUCK...

Now, my house keys are locked in my car, which is safely and tightly locked inside my garage. I have only a cell phone, with about 4 minutes left of juice, a car key, and 47 cents in my pocket. My house is burglar, and now incredibly Princess proof. I went back to the garage and yanked on the garage door in a futile attempt at what, breaking in? My arm was useless anyway, and even though I could kick a few people's asses, I'm not strong enough to break a frigging garage door. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My next thought was calling a locksmith. Yea, that's the ticket. Someone will just come over and help me get into my house. I called 411 and prayed my phone would hold out. I played the lame operator game for what seemed like an eternity, trying to find help. After an hour on the phone, sitting outside my own house, I cannot find a locksmith to come help me. I wonder if the fact it was 1:30 in the a.m. had anything to do with it? But seriously, I begged this one motherfucker to come to my rescue and he shut me down right quick. Asshole.

I went onto my patio and just stood, pathetically pouting and staring from the outside in, at the bathroom door mocking me. The warmth of the soft hallway light washing onto my face and flipping me off. My only recourse, the only thing I can think of to do to get me out of my outdoor prison and back into my house? Break a window pane in my French doors, reach up and undo the bolt lock at the top of the door, and slink in like the dumb rat I'd become. Just in case one of my neighbors heard the impending racket, I actually called the local police station to tell them that I'm currently breaking into my own house so don't come arrest me and perchance can you maybe, please send someone to help me? Needless to say, they didn't give a crap. Nor did they bat a blue eye at my plight. Assholes.

Luckily (?) I had the "shit shovel" on my patio that my parents use when they visit with their crap-machine dogs, and they'd just been here the week prior, so it was still nice and covered with poo. Yay. But it was the only thing I had. I certainly wasn't going to shove a fist through glass. I positioned myself in front of the doors. I zeroed in on the chosen window; I braced myself for the tinkle of broken glass. Ready! Set! Ram! Nothin'. WTF? No breakage. Ok, deep breath, reposition, one, two, ram, nothin'. It doesn't look like thick glass, why the HELL won't it break? Again, ram, nothing. Ram, rinse, repeat. FUCK.

On my 14th or 15th fucking try, KABOOM!! Success! Finally! But, the familiar gentle movie-like chime sound of broken glass you so often hear was replaced by the real sound of a real EXPLODING pane of a heat-treated, tempered glass. It actually blew up like someone had wired the door with TNT. I was showered from head-to-toe with a million shards of broken glass. It flew with super-sonic force 10 feet in both directions. My patio looked like it was covered with snow. The inside of my house was sparkling in the moonlight like glitter.

After I composed myself, and carefully brushed off as much glass and I could, shaking it out of my long hair and cleavage, I reached up, undid the bolt and turned the doorknob. Ready. Set. Turn. Nuthin'. What...thee...frigging...hell. It took me about 2 seconds to realize that someone (my Dad) had depressed the doorknob lock the previous week when he was visiting. The lock that I never use. The lock the I forgot was there.

Now, said lock was about 4 feet away from the bolt, and I had broken the highest windowpane thinking that it was my best choice. My pride didn't just fade, it ran screaming and on fire. So, I'm still outside, I still have to pee, and I still feel like I was run over by a train.

Next brilliant idea. I stack my patio chairs on top of each other, precariously perch a big plastic tub on top of those, and try to cram myself through the broken window. Now mind you, I'm talking about a pane that's about 12" x 8". I'm standing on one precariously placed foot on my tippy-toe, one arm dangling towards the now-evil doorknob from hell, only getting one sad little finger on it, and my riteous rack almost became my doom. I'm sporting some double D's y'all, and while they serve me well in most situations, playing Cirque du Soleil contortionist in the middle of the night while trying to cram myself through a tiny hole is not one of them.

Yep, you got it. I got stuck. I felt like that dumb kid that gets their head caught in the stair railing, but it was my left tit instead. After a brief moment of panic, I managed to get myself out of that jam and release my girl from the window. I crawled down and prayed my phone had enough power left it in to call a friend. Which I did. At 2:30 in the morning. She and her husband came over and after a few tries of shoving him through the tight space, he was able to reach the doorknob and finally, I was in.

The window got fixed. I'm still finding glass in the carpet, a thousand years later, and there's an extra key to the house and the garage hidden outside. I make sure my phone is always with me and charged up, and am thankful I have friends that will rescue me in the middle of the night.