Thursday, April 28, 2005

Long ass weekend of ass

That's right. I'm gonna be gettin' some and then some this weekend. My baby is on the road right now heading in my direction. My anticipation is hardly allowing me to breathe and I can't wait to be in his arms again so I can do just that. I don't even care if we leave the house, just as long as he's in my presence for 3.7 days.

I nearly killed myself cleaning the house and haven't had any time to finish the 14 blog entries I've started. I even wrote out 2 of them long hand when I was in useless training hell last week. With a pen! And I'll tell you my story of the unbelievable shit-storm I weathered in the last week when my blood pressure finally goes back to normal. Picture a feeding frenzy of sharks and me wrapped in tuna steaks. Yea, it was so much fucking fun. People are assholes, s'all I'm sayin'.

I'm not sure when we'll be coming up for air in the next few days, so I'll leave you with some pic's I took around the house last night in a rare moment of cleanly de-cluttered bliss. It only happens about 4 times a year, so it warranted photographic proof. Have a great weekend and don't take no shit from nobody.

Here's my crib, yo. Clicken to enbiggen.

The den of love. Bow chica.
house 002

The never-clean dresser. Notice the crown on the lamp.
house 003

Where I surf for porn and waste the rest of my life.
house 004

A bad shot of my living room. Thank god my crappy camera doesn't pick up the cat hair.
house 005

The dining area. I swear, my world is not a putrid shade of yellow.
house 006

World's largest frame holder.
house 009

Where food goes to rot.
house 007

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

The Exorcist was a pussy

I've been trying to keep this from you. But alas, I must confess. Yes, I'm a cat owner. OK, make that catssss. I have 2 of them, alright? And don't be sitting there smug and smirkey saying "I knew it!" like you're all Sherlock Holmes and shit, because truth be told I'm more of a dog person. I like cats just fine, but dogs make me squeal like a 2 year old high on cotton candy and I want to kiss them and hug them and call them George. Whereas cats make little horns pop out of my head and I want to do naughty things like put tape on their paws and flick drops of water their direction just to see them freak out upon getting hit with the evil acid mystery water from the sky.

And also don't think I'm being mean because I know those bitches would kill me if they could figure out how. I've seen them staring at me with that look in their eyes. You know the one. The one that says, "You're so lucky I don't have opposable thumbs, you loathsome fool, or you'd be a red stain in my poop by now. I will let you live another day..."

Don't get me wrong, I'm a HUGE animal lover. In fact, I like animals more than people. Most of them at least. Save for the occasional (make that all) snakes and usually (every damn one) spiders will die if you come into my house. It's like the Dracula principal. If you're not invited to cross my personal threshold but manage to get in, I'm going to go Banzai Buffy on your ass and you might not do that cool poof-to-ashes thing but you'll be a black stain torn to pieces right darn quick.

I've hesitated writing about my girls thus making this blog into another all-cats-all-the-time page. I'm sure there are some great stories out there, heh, but I didn't want to be litterbox-holed into a crazy cat lady, and I have no intention of doing that. But my particular felines, whom I lovingly refer to as The Nocturnal Bastards are truly special, very, very weird, and a constant source of entertainment and aggravation. The later two descriptions being interchangeable on a daily basis.

Therefore I will now regale you with endless tales of life with cat. s. You have been warned.

There are a myriad of whacky things the kooks do that I'll mention from time-to-time. Really cute things like walking across my guts at 5 a.m. and drinking my diet coke with a paw fresh from the shitbox. And like all pet owners who are also crazy, I have a million clever and high-larious nicknames sure to cause your head to nod with solidarity, you closet cat lover cowards. But today I'm particularly exacerbated about the rudest, most horrible, disgusting, annoying, continuous crappy thing I have to deal with and that I did not sign up for.

The puking. All the puking! All the GOD. DAMN. PUKING!!

What is it with cats and barfing? Seriously? Is this some form of reverse evolution going on or have we ruined kitty's digestion tract with processed food in the shape of little fish that smells like fermented shit and motor oil? Is this revenge for depriving them of the rotting roadkill, lizard tales and long strands of brightly colored ribbon they really desire to eat?

I mean, I know animals are inherently gross. They eat crap and sniff assholes and lick, everything. I can understand how they'd occasionally ingest something that would have a hard time making it all the way through, since they use their tongues like we use our fingers. Puke is my kryptonite. So when it comes to the fair percentage of nastiness I should have to deal with, I got screw-hoo-hoo-hoo-hewd.

My cats are sisters. I saved them from being sent to a sure death since my neighbor had gotten knocked up, was single, and had enough on her plate. She didn't want to deal with 2 cats who shed the equivalent of a metric ton per year. If I didn't take them they were off to the pound, and most likely the gas chamber. I couldn't let that happen so I agreed to take them. I should have known something was amiss when she brought me their stuff and it contained my very own puke spatula. WTF? And without getting too graphic, the one and only time I used "the spatula" I had to drop it mid scrape and relieve myself of my dinner into the kitchen sink.

I was a naive new owner. I'd had cats before, but they never acted like these freaks. And they didn't need special apparati to clean up body fluids. I also didn't realize the fuckers would spend the entire day I was at work eating my plants. That in turn made them very sick and I was greeted by a floor covered with green and foamy landmines covering my living room. The hell? Did Godzilla explode in here? Nice.

I figured out the plant thing, the kitties recovered and I thought all was well. One blessed day of barfless bliss. Then, in the middle of the fucking night, after I've finally fallen asleep, I'm woken in the middle of the fucking night by that unmistakable sound like non other, in the middle of the fucking night. The noise that only comes from the belly of the beast and the bowels of hell.


Jesus H on a hocky stick! Is she leaning over a fucking microphone? How in the hell can something that weighs 10 pounds make that sound?

I jump out of bed thinking a giant is stomping through the house only to find the cats head spining completely around and the contents flying across the carpet at bullet speed. My eyes are wide as saucers, my hand clasped tightly over my threatening-to-gag mouth. She daintily licks her lips, looks at me like, "what?", then saunters past me as if the hurl holocaust didn't just happen in the hallway. And did I mention? IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT!

There are certain things I don't mind doing on my hands and knees at 3 a.m. Cleaning cat puke it not one of them.

Ahh, ignorance is such bliss. I thought those first few weeks were a fluke. That maybe it was an adjustment period thing. I took the Super Puker to the vet, at the tune of $300, only to find out they don't know why she throws up half the time she eats. Yes, HALF. Why thank you medical professional. Thank you for letting me enjoy my Saturday chasing and tackling a frantic cat, spending 10 bloody minutes trying to stuff her into a carrier box and stop my wounds from bleeding, then listening to her pathetically wail for an hour. Having her poked with needles and fingers, so you can tell me, "hrm, I don't know." Cuz that was super! And I don't even want to know how you got the urine sample.

In the end, It's been a year and a half of fun and frolic. The one cat pukes almost every day. Yes. Every. God. Damn. Day. I've all gotten used to it and I have the carpets regularly cleaned. It's now my norm. And sometimes I even sleep through it.


They might look cute and innocent, but let me tell the knives.


Friday, April 22, 2005

Friday Free Flaunt

One of the funniest people in the history of funny. Go potty first, then read.

The Straightjacket Fits

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Livin' la vida bullshito

Hey little bunny. Awww, aren't you cute? Look at your floppy ears and your cute fluffy tail and those little beady eyes...and um...those sharp pointed fangs? Hey! Wait a minute! You're not a bunny! You're a big old ugly snake!!

I'm sure we've all encountered these kinds of people. The ones who present themselves as one thing and in reality are something completely different? Most of time we think of this as the wolf in sheeps clothing. I prefer the bunny analogy, since it more gender nuetral. And being of the chick persuasion, I've had more dealings with bullshitting bunnies than wily wolves anyway.

I'm speaking individuals who will use you for their own gain, taking any and all advantages that they can. But there are different kinds of false personas and it's important to watch out for all of them, because they are sneaky my friends, they are sneaky. And you'll eventually have the bite marks to prove it.

The Smarmy Egomaniac is fairly easy to spot. They go on endlessly about themselves and embellish with abandon. They'll never ask you how you are but upon meeting will immediately go into a 4 part series of their latest accomplishments. You'll find yourself involuntarily rolling your eyes enough to cause an astigmatism. This person will throw you away like a used condom in a frat house. They'll empty their greedy heads into you until you're full, then move on to the next receptacle. Tread carefully.

Then there's the Charmer. They will focus almost exclusively on you. They'll ply you with compliments so outlandish you'll probably question them at first, but then it'll become like a smooth stroke down your back. You'll hardly notice after time. They're like one of those worms that slowly screws into your skin. They’ll give you gifts for what seems like no reason. They’ll pay for dinner, for the movies, for the wine.

And they’ll say they want nothing in return, but they do. They want everything in return. They want your soul. These individuals set such absurdly high standards you can’t possibly ever treat them as they treat you, and you’ll pay the price for that. You’ll soon learn they’ve set you up for failure, and placed all blame on your shoulders. Attempting to buy love with false hope. These people are broken and insecure, and could be crazy. Tread lightly.

This person is rare, but does exist. Mr/Ms Nothin' Bother's Me. The one who doesn't care about anything. Maybe taking the stand that they don’t let shit get them down. Let it all roll down their back. Don't sweat, well, any stuff. The eletcric bill didn't get paid? Whatever, light a candle. Walked in on their man fucking another woman, eh, have a nice life. They can be so laid back any shitty situation is livable.

Even though they tend to be the least offensive of the fakers, they can be a bomb waiting to go off. When finally that ignored stressor crushes the zen, they blow, like the feather that lands on the trigger. Picture a former CEO from the gated community now a postal worker in a trailer. Tread quietly.

Perhaps the most untrustworthy person of all presents with perjured perfection. The Phoney Faker Full of Shit. They promote themselves as golden children. With unblemished lives, utopian relationships, successful careers, mindful children. They feign not just a neutral stance in every debate, but display a great displeasure at the tension, when in reality they're lapping it up like a kitten on a teat. They brag about how nice they are. How they could never do anyone wrong.

No one has a life unmarred by strife. No one is that amiable. No one has zero worries. No one likes everyone. No one.

I don’t trust these people as far as I could throw them, and believe me, I’d like to throw them. Into a pit of broken glass. I don't put credence into anyone who doesn't have an opinion. I don't give merit to anyone who attempts to sway others with such a false persona in order to be liked. In my book, you might as well be standing in a wax museum between Elvis and Dolly Parton's tits. Because you're about as real.

In my experience, this is the most dangerous of all. These people with gleaming smiles on their faces and crossed fingers behind their backs. Their closets jammed full of skeletons wearing pretty party dresses and paper hats. Throwing a rose-colored shroud over your eyes. What they really are are smug, narcissistic vipers with hidden agenda's and poisonous mouths.

Don't tread, just run. Because eventually, they will try to fuck you over. With a grin of innocence on their face.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Grateful two times

Thank you, from the bottom of my overwhelmed little heart. Thank you to everyone who left comments, personal anecdotes and words of encouragement. Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions and be kind.

I am just like you, and occasionally shy to comment, so I appreciate it immensely if you broke your normal pattern and left one.

There is one thing I do need to clarify. My main question was not so much regarding the comments and my lack thereof. It's true that I measure myself against them sometimes, and I do bug about it when I write something and there's not much feedback. It's perplexing to me. Why some blogs get tons and others hardly any. It might be a silly question, of course we all have our preferences of matter, but I remain curious.

Ever so often, it feels like I'm alone on an empty stage with the occasional passerby glancing at me, stopping and giving a smile. While other times a look of, "that poor crazy girl, talking to herself again". And there are instances when I feel the warmth of applause, I would never discount that. As a very talented and wise friend of mine said recently, "no one wants to talk to the bottom of a well unless he's 5-years old, or insane". I love that line. I wonder if spitting off a bridge is comparable. Anyway...

This time I was more interested in what keeps you all going, for those of you who are sending your words out into the blogosphere. I personally feel that it's a brave move to do this. I'm sure there are those who don't care, or those that have clear agenda's, but this is still rather new to me and with a mood swing built for the likes of Shrek's ass, I still have anxieties. You see, my feelings about most things rotate like a pig on a spit. They're not a constant. And very hard to keep up with. Fucking A to that.

What I've discovered from your replies, doing some reading and a lot of thinking, is that people do this for all kinds of reasons. What matters most is figuring out why I'm doing it. And why I should keep doing it. It's becoming clear. I do have a need to write. More than ever in my life, a need to purge what's bouncing around in my head. Clear out this bingo-spinner of thoughts.

A life-long fault of mine continues to rear its ugly head. When I try too hard, paired with expectations, throw in a dash of anxiety and worry, it's a recipe for failure. Intellectually I recognize this in myself. Emotionally, Quick-Draw-McIrrational-Grumpybutt forgets. Last week I forgot.

The most important realization I've learned in the last year is directly related to my on-going experiences with cancer. When you go through a traumatic event in your life, be it a death, an illness, an accident, whatever red-lines on the shit meter, you have to create a "new normal".

Reacting to an every day event can be completely unpredictable. It's surprising, then scary, then sad. It's not something you can really prepare for. And you can't figure it out until you've gone all the way through it, like a bull in a china shop. You turn around and say, "Holy crap!" "Did I break all that stuff?" "How the hell did that happen?" "Ohhhhh, I know. I ran through there waving my arms like a crazy person. Next time I'd better keep my hands safely in my pockets." "Duhh."

Then you hope you'll remember. And if you don't, you'll try again the next time. And as predicted, another situation arises and you have to figure out how to handle that one, because most of your old tricks and tactics just don't work anymore.

I suppose these types of changes everyone experiences. As we move through life, growing and maturing, they're subtle. Being thrust into a life-altering situation speeds up the process and it takes your head awhile to catch up.

This is what I've experienced as a result of that stupid fender-bender. The day of the accident I was all kinds of breezy. Understanding, cool, calm, cofuckingllected. Then the next day I woke up sore, shaken, and exhausted from spending the entire day on the phone being poked and prodded by insurance companies. And kaboom. My new peaceful demeanor was as scratched and dented as my bumpers.

I was shocked and disappointed. Throttled with worries. Tripped by insecurities, imagined and battled. It's disappointing to know that I still have triggers that will send me sailing 10 paces backwards, but this is my new normal. My emotions have been re-wired and I'm still learning the manual. And I fucking hate reading directions.

But I'm shaking it off, like the kick-ass rockstar I am, and I will figure it out. As I do this, I'll write about it. And I hope you'll enjoy it with me.

Thank you again. And then one more time.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Enlighten me, please

I'm not getting the blogging thing lately. I know there are tons of opinions and information out there, but I'm not sure why some blogs become popular and some don't. Why some people get shitloads of comments and others, nothing.

Do you enjoy reading but are comment shy? Have you established cyber rings of blogger friendships and you're sticking together? Did you fall into it and your page magically took off or did it take time? Is this like any other relationship in life and you have to have a tough skin and no expectations? What is the key?

I guess not everyone is cut out for even the smallest amount of public exposure, even if you have turned into pixels on a screen, there's still a real person behind the prose. Half the time this thing is an exercise in agony for me. It's complicated and difficult to explain feeling naked and ignored at the same time. The peril of the vunerable. The rawness of the soul. The regret of the presumption.

I'm really curious about these things because I'm considering doing "something" and wonder what makes some of ya'll keep going.

Indulge me, just this once. Thanks.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Comfort Zoned

It's a sad state of affairs when you've spent such an enormous amount of time at work that you've become completely absorbed by your surroundings and forget where you are. It all becomes a blur. That water stain on the ceiling is now invisible, that pile of paperwork you were going to put away last year is covered in dust and the ignored notice on the bulletin board for the "ice cream social, bring your own spoon!" is 9 months old.

But what is perhaps the worst side effect of all, due to the inevitable morping into corporate drones that comes from day-in day-out laboring in the same cube farm, the ever-flattering fluorescent lighting pounding into the top of your head, and the oh-so-delightful decor in your tiny office, is your manners tend to disappear too. Familiarity is anesthesia for etiquette.

I don't know why more companies won't allow their employees to telecommute from home. It's a proven fact that it saves money and your various corporations could bask in the dillusional goodness that you're not sitting around in your unwashed sweats and stained t-shirts surfing porn and playing Doom instead of making work calls and answering business e-mails. I waste half the day reading blogs and playing solitaire as it is, I might as well be in the comfort of my own home and saving my co-workers from my new-found shame.

Spending the majority of your waking hours in office surroundings lends itself to a few bad habits, and I seem to have picked up all of them. Behaviors reserved for the privacy of your home start to bleed into your daily life. For instance, last week I got up to take a whiz. Normal enough. But as I walked out of my office into the hallway, one that I share with no less than 20 people, I noticed that I was a bit moist under the arm. Without taking a nanosecond to ponder the appropriateness of my next move, I whipped my right arm up and sniffed my pit.


I immediately snapped back to reality and said to myself, self, WTF? Luckily I wasn't caught. Not that I would lay down and die if anyone saw me do that, but I have enough trouble with these people thinking I'm a loose cannon, they don't need to witness me smelling myself, making a face then administering self-admonisment outloud.

And just today it happened again. I was enjoying a decidedly substandard chicken cesar salad and diet coke from our crapateria and I felt some pressure rising in my gut. I've always been an excellent burper. It's a source of pride for me. I enjoy it and the reactions I get (especially from my mother, evil, evil). After I had surgery on my throat, they became even more powerful and impressive. However, expressing that particular bodily function with abandon does not belong at the office. Today I omitted that important little tidbit of information from the files and as I felt the soda bubble crawl up my neck I simply opened my mouth and let the cakehole cacophony fly.


Thank dog my door was closed. But I must admit, this was not the first time I've done this and I suspect it won't be the last. (Alright, I'll fess up that it's actually really funny and if any of my super-square all corporate rah rah annoyingly ass-kissing coworkers did catch me ripping a huge burp I would giggle with devilish glee as they walked by all open-jawed and googly eyed. Ha! Take that, Poindexter Prissypants).

I wish I could end my admission here. But alas, there is more. I have also gone into a daze, staring at my monitor for endless hours and after feeling some low-level stirrings, absent-mindedly lifted an ass cheek off my chair only to hear the tell-tale frrrrrwwwwwppppp.


Then there's scratching in inappropriate places, maayyyyyybeee a quick nose mining, chunky throat-clearing, gaping-maw yawning, zit popping, teeth flossing, and loudly yelling profanaties when the situation warrants. (I like that one too, even though I get in trouble. PFT, fucking Prissypants everywhere). And I have been caught with both hands down my pants readjusting my underwear, if you know what I mean. That's my story and I'm sticking to it, pervs.

On one hand, I can see how getting to this relaxed state of mind can save your sorry soul and numb the pain of asshole coworkers and jerkoff customers. When everything becomes a rote move and you can put your brain in neutral, coasting through the day. Such sweet relief. But on the other hand, it can be very embarrassing and even though I'm as fucking charming as a tiara wearin' debutante and therefore should be immune to general decorum standards, If I EVER saw my boss roughly pawing his twig and berries I'd have to quit. File for mental distress and sue. AND I DON'T NEED THE HASSLE!


'Scuse me.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Cerulean clouds

And then she was depressed.

I'm tired and I'm tired. The sneaky epiphany I had a few weeks ago seems to have dissipated. I got the bad news of "The Shadow" and later that day, as I was driving to the grocery store, of all things, a peace washed over me. It was a lovely cool breeze wafting over my face and I felt the tension I was carrying melt away. Life is good. I'm not going to be scared anymore. And everything's going to be OK. Today? Not so much.

Despite the every-day and not-so-everyday hassles and pressures of all the crap I have to deal with, I was hanging tough. Holding steady and still feeling that sense of calm. Monday my car got smashed. I was still alright, reasonable and forgiving, confident all would be taken care of in due time. Then I went to bed.

What is it about that midnight turnover from one day to the next that changes it all? Was it the muscle relaxer I took to quell my angry neck, pissed off from being whipped around like a lariat that altered my brain? Was it the fucking cat who tried to climb onto my guts all night long? The dream (nightmare) I had where I was forced to get back together with my x-husband? Was it the stupid earthquake that woke us up at 4:10 in the morning that has left me shaking long after the earth stopped?

I'm not sure. But I'm blue. Pissy. Depressed. Bummed. Overwhelmed. Depleted. Worried.

I believe everything happens for a reason. Man, I wish someone would come up with a better phrase that isn't so barfingly over-used and eye-rolling cliché now. But it's true. I believe there is a lesson to be learned from everything that happens to us and every path we choose. I'm not a "why me?" person. Most of the time I say, well, of course me! Sometimes that's self-deprecating, sometimes it's pathetic, sometimes it makes me stronger.

But right now? I'm not seeing the reason for this latest turn of events. I have medical bills coming out of my ass. I'm quickly getting into a position where I won't be able to purchase the drugs I need to stay alive. I'm once again hurt, not badly, but being woken up in the middle of the night with shoulder cramps sucks. My car might be totaled and I can't afford another one. I spent the entire day yesterday making phone calls, begging for discounts, understanding, and more time. And I'm really, really scared this new mind-set I was thoroughly enjoying is gone forever.

I won't even go into interpersonal drama's. Good God. Do those ever stop?

We all know what happens when the depression train is chugging down the tracks. Its black smoke clogging the skies. It causes a vortex that sucks every crappy, negative thing with it. It's not enough to be dealing with a potential cancer recurrence, and now this car accident, but I'll roll this snowball of shit into a Guinness Records sized orb that contains the most legitimate and important down to the inconsequential and dumb. For instance, my smile is a little bit teeny tiny on one side crooked. Don't think I didn't spend a good hour beating myself up for that one.

So dumb...

Intellectually, I know this all will pass. Everything will be OK. In the scheme of things, it's not that bad. I'm still lucky and grateful. I just wish I could get this soaking wet, stinking wool coat of gloom lifted off my throbbing shoulders.

p.s. Even though you're technically working, have a good time in Vegas, baby. I'll miss our daily e-mails. Be safe. -frown-

Monday, April 11, 2005

Right on schedule

Almost 4 years ago, to the day, I was in a car accident. A teenager looked right but failed to look left, and pulled out in front of me. I smashed into the side of her car while hitting my brake so hard I broke a bone in my foot, among other small injuries that never seem to heal. Two miliseconds earlier and I probably would have killed her. We were all relatively OK and my car was repaired.

This morning I was rear-ended by another teenager. He slammed into the back of the same car that survived the crash in '01, and caused me to hit the person in front of me. My car suffered the most damage being the frosting in the middle of this Oreo fender-bender and I'm off to the doctor to attend to this whiplash crawling down my back.

Everyone is OK, I'm hoping my car gets fixed, and I assured the very sorry and angst-ridden kid that all would be well. They were just cars and everyone was fine. He seemed appreciative to not be dealing with hysterical assholes. What would be the point? He didn't mean to do it, thus the definition of 'accident'.

So, when shit happens that can be classified as a hassle and not a calamity, always try to remember it could have been worse and be thankful it wasn't. It'll keep everyone's blood pressure in check and show your fellow humans that crap can be dealt with sans screaming and delirium. I sincerely hope the three of us went about our day without it being completely ruined because we treated each other with concern and respect.

And if any of you have a child who will be a driving teenager in April 2009, I can pencil you in anytime after the 10th.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Another look...

Re-posted for a certain someone who needs to read this. Then refocus on their own life, their own significant other and brace themselves for the shit-storm coming their way.

I was tempted to alter the content to fit a recent situation, but decided to leave all my original words intact. I'd write a more detailed intro/explanation, but I have an appointment to sharpen my claws and buff my boots.

Calling all bitches. And I say this with the utmost love and respect. Please explain something to me. But give me a second, I'll get to it.

I've been waxing all philosophical and shit lately. This is what happens when you're an over thinker and you have too much alone time on your hands. My mind rarely stops, I've talked about this before, and I have to make legitimate, purposeful efforts to push my personal pause button and give it a rest. God forbid I wake up during the night, which happens every night, and my switch flips back to the "on" position. I'm guaranteed at least an hour of crack-of-dawn pondering over the current drama's weighing on my skull. It's so annoying.

I'm a student of behavior. I have a fucking degree in it forchrissakes, not that that means a damn thing anyway, but tonight, a particular topic is perplexing me and I'm seriously curious for an answer. An explanation I either didn't receive in college or don't remember talking about. And this issue sucks. Pisses me right off and sucks.

Why the fuck do some women (notice the use of the word "some", I do this on purpose as I detest absolutes and think anyone who uses them is always a retard. OK, that was a joke, but you get my point) feel the need, nay, the compulsion to seek out and stalk like a slutty cat in heat, men who have clearly given their hearts to another?

Why do they do this?

Is it ingrained into the female DNA? Is it an accepted societal norm? Is it the scripted dance between ALL species of the opposite sex? Can these women help themselves or are they pre-programmed fembots with vagina's? Am I fooling myself into thinking anything on the entire planet can truly be monogamous?

One thing that I believe is that women are in constant competition with men and women. As opposed to males who only contend with other males. We chicks really aren't a part of that equation. But take a girl against anyone else, be them male or female, and out come the claws or more likely, master manipulations that most men are oblivious to and some women can't do much about. Sorry guys, but you hardly ever know when you're being played. That's just the way it is.

Women are equally as dumb to the games men get away with. But we definitely have a clue when a woman is trying to hand down some serious bullshit. And this is what pisses me off. The need for attention that is so overwhelming by some women it's like a black hole in the universe that attempts to suck every living thing into their own selfish prick of a world. And this is usually done right in the face of another woman.

I can't tell you how many times I've seen some bitch, not a female I respect on any level, go after, not flirt, not tell a good dirty joke, not be friendly, but throw themselves at another woman's man. Right in front of his significant other. And fuck me if these ho's don't win some of the time. They’re like that weird kid who had the triple scoop double dutch chocolate ice cream in the waffle cone with whipped cream but just had to have your single scoop bubble gum ice cream in the cup. Nobody liked that kid. Get your own fucking desert.

And I must add a caveat apologizing for not being able to come up with a better descriptor for my insinuation of the word "belong". I'm a firm believer that no one belongs to anyone else. I don't own anyone but my cats. I'm not responsible for anyone but myself. I don't want to control anyone else, and I don't have a desire to be any person's parental unit. I don't "let" anyone I'm with do anything. I fucking hate that shit. Courtesy is one thing, but some of this permission crap is out of control and I want no part of it. You are responsible for your own actions and you face the consequences of breaking any trust in a relationship. You fuck up, you pay, I leave.

Flirting on a certain level is fine. Terms of endearment are great. Everyone needs attention. Everyone likes to be flattered. It's natural and I'm no different. I'm a total attention whore. But I'm not such a whore that I'd shamelessly throw myself at a person who's in a committed relationship. So take note you women who think it's cool to do this. Or cute. Or harmless. I might have tinges of jealousy, I will admit that, but this has nothing to do with that. It has to do with the extreme level of disrespect some women have for each other that's stumping me for an explanation.

Giving your heart to another person is a serious thing in my book. I don't do this easily and it's a big deal. In return, if I'm lucky enough for someone to entrust me with theirs, I will honor and cherish it. I respect this in other people's relationships as well. And god dammit, there are lines you just don't cross. If you do, and you do this as a big "fuck you" right in someone else's face, well, then you're an asshole and I wouldn't give you the satisfaction to gather the energy to spit in your face. Although I would muster the force to kick you in your crusty crotch before stomping on your soul.

But heed this, violators of the unwritten female code. I'm also confident in myself. Confident enough to know that you're pathetic and not part of the equation. And if you ever do become a part, I hope you and the useless, weak, limp dick of a person who fell for your pitiful pussy have a happy life together. Until some other cunt does the same thing to you. If you've acted like my friend, and he's broken a promise, then I'm better off without either of you.

Obnoxious people are good for a quick laugh, but you're soon tiring. It gets old but quick, and you'll be left with yourself and your raunchy schtick, eyes of repugnance staring, trash talk at your back. Everyone, everyone, gets sick of the one trick pony. Been there, done that. Ad nauseum. So when you think you're being clever, again, you're not.

Come on girls. We have enough to deal with in our society. We have enough to sort out in our own heads. We don't need to be at each other's throats, or in everyone else's pants. By all means, I'm not suggesting we sit in sewing circles singing kumbaya and braiding our hair, but get some dignity why don'tcha.

I love men. I love women. But I have NO USE for a woman who spews platitudes about being a "sister" then vomits bullshit all over her fellow females with such disgusting disregard.

Have a little bit more respect for others and you'll naturally have more respect for yourself.

Or else be ready for my foot up your ass.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Howdy Pard'ner

It was that time of day. The urge hit. Stuff was...ah...moving. I had to go. And when I say go, I mean -wink wink- go.

Now, I don't know what kind of environment you grew up in, but I was raised in a proper home where we used a number system and euphemisms for anything to do with the private zone. #1 for the pee and #2 for the poo. Kept everyone safe and embarrassment to a minimum. It wasn't kosher in my house to talk about your hoo-ha or crinkle star.

(However, with age my parents have lost their personal-space inhibitions and I can't tell you how many times I've walked past a bathroom only to see one of them pondering their feet with pants pooled on the floor. Hell-O people. Shut the damn door. It's more traumatic then catching them canoodling under the sheets. Trust me.)

It's strange that despite my closed-minded upbringing, I've always had no problems talking about any subject in any context and will one day (hopefully) be pursuing a career in Human Sexuality, much to the dismay of my parents, but when it comes to the actual act of my personal, err...evacuation, I'm a totally freakish introvert. Private private don't listen don't watch don't talk don't think about me.

I am not an open-door restroomteur. I'd hermetically seal that sucker if I could. I don't want to share the experience with anyone. If some chick grabs my hand to go run off together to el baño, you'd better hope there's at least a partition between you and me. Unless I'm planning on putting my mouth on some of your parts during the evening, keep them away from my eyeballs too.

And I didn't used to be this bad. You can blame my x-husband, who with his asshole-of-torture ways would stand outside the bathroom and in a high-pitched cartoon voice say "kerrrrplunk". No, that is not funny. No, it would not be hilarious to do that to me now. And if anyone gets the bright idea to do that let me promise you this, I will smother you in your sleep with a pillow, bring you back from the brink of death, then smother you again. Got it?

And let me just say that most potty vents are too weak to mask every possible (probable) sound that will be emanating from my nether regions. And yours, may I add. Someday I'm going to build a house. And in that house will be bathrooms. And in those bathrooms will be fans so loud they will mimic a jet engine landing in a wind tunnel flanked by a tornado. Some people want walls, I want that.

Having to be away from home for the majority of my day does not afford me the luxury of relieving myself in private or perching my princess pooper on my own personal pot. Or assuring that I'll be exposing myself to only my germs. Gah. These are two facts that I cannot avoid, but try to put in the back of my mind, lest I invest in depends or butt plugs. I already checked on using the hill behind the building but the bitches in HR said no.

I have to share a bathroom with a whole building of people. It's AWFUL. There are 4 stalls in the only women's bathroom on my floor, one being a larger handicapable lavatory at the far end of the room, and my preferred location. If someone is in there and I have serious business to attend to, I'll haul my clenched ass downstairs to the other bathroom which isn't used as much. I'm a secret shitter and I will not apologize.

Today was no different than any other. I attended a meeting. (Of course.) Ate a small breakfast of 2 hard-boiled eggs. (Damn you carbs. Damn you to hell.) And within the appropriate amount of time had to lay some rope. (Here we go again.) I'm always anticipating what I'll find when I open that door. Will I have my hoped-for empty ladies room, or will I have bide my time distracting myself and trying to abate nature from taking its inevitable course. Waiting until whomever is in there gets their ass out.

To my chagrin, as I went into the washroom I saw stall number 1 was occupado. "Crap it all!" I said to myself. Dammit, dammit. And since I pulled my usual move of fucking around in my office until the last second, I didn't have time to get downstairs. I'd have to hurry it into the last stall and wait it out, if I could, and hope stall number 1 hurries the fuck up and gets out of here before things happen. Did I get my wish? Not so much.

Oh man, I thought inside my head, wrinkling my face with disgust. Doesn't she know what I'm doing down here? Shake it off and get the fluck outta here woman! This is the unwritten rule of the bathroom. Someone comes in, you hear the unzip and rustling of clothes. The tell-tale crinkle of an ass gasket being placed on the seat. Then nothing.

Don't you know what this silence means? Don't you get it when there's no gentle tinkle into the toilet? Yea, that's right. There's no peeing going on down here. There's STUFF. Private STUFF. Stuff that I don't want anyone else to experience with me! Hi! Get out! Brush your teeth at home!

Then I realized, to my horror, there were no sounds coming from stall number 1 either. This can only mean one thing, she was also in there to drop some kids off at the pool, and as the realization hit me cringing with resignation, she also had an apprehensive ass.

It was the dreaded sit-off at the P.U. Corral.

I began to sweat with anxiety. I was dead still. The muscles in my lower half starting to twitch. She was as silent as I. Neither of us were moving. Anything. OMG. The pressure was crawling up to my eyes. I couldn't take much more. There would be involuntary things. I don't have kegel muscles in my butt!

There was no way she was anywhere near completion of her task and leaving so I could be left in peace. Damn her. Now what do I do? I'll tell you what I did. I did the only thing a self-respecting coy crapper would do. I coughed like I was trying to hack up a chicken bone. I shuffled my feet and loudly unrolled enough toilet paper to cover the forests of Yellowstone National Park, and I blew my nose about 40 times.

I lost. I caved. I went. I humbly tip my hat to Stall Number One and her Supreme Sphincter.

I hope the feeling comes back into my legs soon...

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Yourassic park

I swear. Some days I feel like a T-rex with that big scary eye and razor sharp teeth. Frustrated by my useless, wee arms. My short attention span turning to whomever's waving the severed goat leg.

If only Jeff Goldblum were here so I could shred his thigh like a hunk of string cheese.

Hey, you with the low IQ!!

Yo, fuckwit! You are a depraved individual with the sense of an ass hair. You lame mutant. You're not worthy of being a sideshow attraction in a Mexican circus. How you've made it into adulthood and hold a paying job is a miracle that should be studied.

Would you be floating in the ocean as fodder for poor unsuspecting sea life, you would be passed over for gallons of raw sewage pumping into the waters, based solely on your steaming lack of smarts sensed by even the lowest life forms on earth.

You are the reason hair dryers and vacuum cleaners say "DO NOT USE IN SHOWER". This is not rocket science. You're not trying to perfect the friggen human jet-pack or clone the Pope, for the love of Pete!

Can you not muster the intelligence of a mole rat and follow simple instructions? You make garden slugs look like Nobel prize winners. Are you missing a chromosome? I'm embarrassed to be the same species as you. You are blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

Can you please close your gaping maw for one second and focus your vacuous stare to keep an eye on your property? Is it too much to ask that you take some responsibility for your own actions and not subject the rest of us to your unbelievable brainless behavior? It's not like this appliance hasn't been around for 30 fucking years. You are daft to infinity. As sharp as a marble.

May you someday, in deference to the rest of us that suffer for your idiocy, take a leap out of the primordial soup you splash around in and gather enough sense to put a coherent thought together, use those two weeping orbs in the front of your deformed, drooling face and read the simple few important words on the package and hopefully, by all that is good and holy in the universe, manage to:


You dick.

Have my eyes fallen out yet?

If anyone out there in the internets has any suggestions for migraine relief, that are just short of taking a chainsaw to my cerebral cortex, please e-mail me at or leave a comment below.

I thank you from the bottom of my throbbing fucking head.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Somebody slap me

I've written about my lack of a biological time-piece before. There is no ticking in my loins. I do not crave a lifetime of sleepless nights or puke stains on my suede coat, that were not caused by too much tequila. And I suspect me and the ladies at the PTA would not get along.

But dayum.

You read something like this and I swear I felt an ovary tingle and a motherish pang.

God damn Ben Franklin and his daylight savings. Messes with my head.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Freakin' chicks

We all have inner voices. Sometimes they're loud, screaming in your ear like a drunken friend proclaiming their equally undying love for you and midnight chili cheese fries. Sometimes they're deceptively soft, a faint whisper brushing past your ear like a lovers lips. Sometimes they lift you up, give encouragement and will your feet to move. Too many times they poison the waters, as damaging as being struck by an angry hand.

I think these internal mumblings are primarily at work in the mind of the female. Yes, ladies, this one is about us. Whether it's the by-product of DNA, societal pressures or bad after-school specials, too often we listen to a nasty, negative voice and dismiss that confident girl with the clever instincts and fabulous hair. We let that rabid skank rule.

The battles we wage within ourselves are enough to drive anyone insane and if ever brought into any type of real combat, would send the toughest green beret crying for his mommy.

No one can be as mean to me as I can be to myself.

And I know I'm not alone. Being a rockstar does not make you immune to that bitch in your head telling you your ass is the size of a Buick, 50 fucking times a day. We don't like these voices and rightly so. At least not the ones who are completely critical, void of constructive criticism and only serve to make you feel like shit. We would never allow someone to stand behind us in the shower and give us a breakdown of all our faults, every single day.

This is precisely why it drives me batshit crazy when I take the time to express my adoration towards someone and they rebuke my energies with a rude poo-poo, thusly implying I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. And I'm sure it makes those who I cast off want to slam my head into a cement slab. I know we all fight the nasty cunt in our own heads, but if you can't believe her, then at least give me the benefit of the doubt. I'm no liar, and I don't waste my time with false idols.

We all crave flattery. We all need positive feedback. It feels good, it's important and it's essential. But if you keep deflecting those who are trying to give you exactly what you want and need, don't be crying when they give up. No one likes to be doubted every time they open their damn mouth. And anyone would get tired of consistently being told they're wrong, especially when trying to be nice.

When someone gives you a compliment, makes an effort to express and share how they think you're smart, cool, talented, pretty, caring, loyal, whatever, stop and listen. Brushing that off, not honoring those who love and support you and think you're special in some way, is not only insulting to those dishing out the sentiments, but it's a great disservice to yourself. You can cancel out that beotch in your head. So, the next time someone is giving you praise, no matter how small, stop. Shut the fuck up and just stop.


Say "thank you."

Then, believe it. And I'll do the same.

Friday, April 01, 2005

April's Fool

For the person who found this blog by searching "injecting vodka anal", I'm sorry, but you'll only find references to my foot up asses here.

And I would never waste good vodka in that manner.

However, I could be persueded to crack an empty over your sick head. PHA-REAK!