Impulse buy

In the midst of what feels like the Karma train running back and forth over my ass every 10 minutes after stopping for passengers and fuel, I caught a fucking break yesterday. Work on the house is still not done, I have a raging case of near-suicidal PMS ~shakes fists at hormones~, the beast woman at work who is so brutal to talk to I'd rather have a loop of Julia Roberts annoying trumpet laugh playing in my head has now kidnapped me under her wing as a special project, and I need to bleach my upper lip before people start calling me sir.

Oh yea, the break. So yesterday morning about 9:45 I'm wallowing like a pig in my situational depression and boo-hooing a stupid laundry list of stupidity when I hear the radio station I'm listening to comment about something that peaked my interest. What is that they're saying? Did I hear correctly? Have I possibly gotten a bit of information before it's too late instead of after? Is God kissing my weary head RIGHT NOW!?!

And the answer was YES!! YES HE WAS. And I did go forth and log in to the internets and I whipped out my credit card and after I fixed my fuck up of locking my account because apparently you can't hit the refresh button too many time I did it!! I succeeded! I FINALLY DIDN'T GET SCREWED OVER!! And....

I. GOT. MY. TICKETS!!!!

WOOT WOOT!!

I'M GOING!!

Jun 23, 2007
Los Angeles
CA
US
Dodger Stadium
Sold Out



Did you notice the "Sold Out"?? Didya?? Well it's not Sold Out for me, baby! Ha ha! We're going! I have no idea where we'll be living at the time but I don't care! I'm going to fly to LA if I have to and stay in a hotel and I'm going to see Sting and maybe he'll look right at me and smile and I'll know he's singing Do Do Do just for me and I will dig my old jean jacket with the ripped sleeve and rhinestone fish pin out of storage and I will wear it.

I will take a long nap in the afternoon so I can stay up past 10:00!! I will drink plenty of water and bring earplugs because it's going to be too loud but I will go! And I will love them and I will be 17 again and I will have a great time!! I will stand in line to pee and to buy booze and to purchase a t-shirt I will never wear!! And I will love it!!

And then I will mourn the loss of $238.00 for the tickets because fuck me, that's a lot of money.

But I don't care!! It's Sting and The Police and an experience to treasure forever and it will please me immensely. And make me smile fondly at my youth. And remind me you're only as old as you feel/act/dress, and it will be good. And I will be happy. And really, that's all that matters. Isn't it?

I can't wait!

Uh...duh...

Wow. I just have nothing of interest to say. Doesn't it suck when you take the time to log in, now using my retardedly long g-mail address fuckyouverymuch Blogger, and stare at a blank new post and can't think of anything pithy to post? No? Have no idea what I'm talking about? Well FINE. It's just me! WHATEVER!

My brain, she is blank. I just can't think of anything to write that won't send you all into a snoring coma so I will ramble on. That I know I can pull out of my ass.

We spent another weekend working in the house. I took Monday off to work some more and have my agent come over and give a quick tour to see how things are progressing and she was very impressed, might I add. Looks like the house, after some final projects and finishing touches, will be on the market in the next week or so. And this is where I shit my pants.

Change. Big change. BIG HUGE CHANGE. GAH!!

How about that American Idol? Hey boys - you suck! Hey girls - you're all gonna lose to Lakisha! My baby is doing some hilarious write-ups. Go check it.

Despite AI keeping us slightly entertained a few nights a week, and Survivor now getting into full swing, I will not be right until America's Next Top Model returns. Which I just found out will be next Tuesday. Come back to me, Tyra. You and all your not-fatness. I love you...

Also, waiting for Heroes on Monday night has left us with a prime-time gap, which we are filling with Wife Swap. If you haven't seen this you must, now, immediately. In short order the producers of this show went from switching the slightly prissy mother from Midwest suburbia with the occasionally spicy mom from another Midwest suburbia who lets her hair down by riding Harley's with her accountant husband on the weekends to finding the craziest bitches at the opposite ends of whatever spectrum they're playing with that week.

For instance, they pluck one wife from a chaotic house of rock-n-roll where the kids have no rules, swear, watch their parents party, and go to bed when they want and switch her with a mother living an evangelical life devoted to God, her husband, and her 3 non-pants wearing daughters. Picture fish out of water flopping around on a hot frying pan while someone sprinkles them with acid. It's awesome. And to add some extra flavor to the mix each wife must live by the house rules for 1 week then they get to set their own rules for the second week. And let me tell you, without fail they got apeshit nuts with those.

This week was not only awesome it was disturbing as we witnessed a wealthy urban mom from San Francisco with an obsession for cleaning and education switch lives with a complete freak farmer who decided with her drama-queen farmer husband that their entire family would embrace germs as their friends and eat nothing but raw food. Raw food including meat, eggs, some rancid yogurt crap that looked like a jar full of choade, and a host of other medievil concoctions.

The farmer family also rejected water as being a deadly "solvent" and nearly forbade their teenage children from consuming any. When they decided to brush their teeth (which was rare) they used a home-made goop of butter and clay. Yes. I said butter and clay. When anyone was having a stressful moment they would do a shot of raw egg and serious attitude adjustments required the gnawing on a chunk of 4 month-old raw beef. The kids didn't attend school or receive any schooling at home because the family thought it was stupid and a waste of time. The whole house looked like an abandoned crack den and the toilet was beyond your imagination.

San Fran mother could not deal and left early, which I don't blame her at all. I let my long hair pile up a bit on the sink but we aren't shitting in brown-encrusted commodes. Freak farmer mama abides by most of the rules set forth by San Fran mama but when it's her turn to set the rules the attempt at showing 2 young boys a live chicken slaughter pushed San Fran father to the edge and he put the stop on that little exercise. You'd just have to see this one to fully experience the dichotomies at work, but it was great. I highly recommend it.

Well, if anyone is still reading, that's about it. Some day my life won't be all about semi-gloss paint and re-arranging the garage and I will tell a story. Until then, coma.

Ugly is the new beautiful

I can clearly remember the times in my life when Valentine's Day was a big freakin' deal. My delicate self esteem hanging in the balance between a night alone and a heart-shaped box full of substandard chocolate. Watching your fellow office bitches mates getting flowers delivered. It's so stupidly stressful. But at the time it hurts. I'm glad those days are over.

It's equally stupid to hear people (men) make a big dramatic show about how VD is a commercially run enterprise invented by Hallmark. Whatever, dudes, it's here to stay so suck it up and if it's important to your gal then quit being a whiny pussy and buy her a card and some candy. If you don't want to hassle with it then don't date a chick who needs a proclamation of love on February 14th in the form of a red Mercedes with a giant bow on top. Jesus. It's not that big a deal.

Since my days crying about being alone on a lover's holiday are over, and I really don't care about it anymore because I can buy my own damn chocolate (and do every day), I thought it would be fun to start a new tradition with my baby and take the hyper hype out of it. I'm blessed with the most awesome relationship I've ever had, one that is easy and fun, so I knew he'd be right there with me.

My idea? Instead of lamenting over the "perfect gift", especially so fucking close to Christmas where we all go insane anyway, I thought, let's go for the ugly. Seek out with minimal effort the most hideous, unappealing, awesomely horrible total and complete crap we could find and present it to each other for some always-needed belly laughs and a story to go along with it. Pick an under $10 limit, agree on having a semi-special dinner, and there you have it. In my opinionn that makes a great night.

He heartily agreed so we both set out on our separate quests to find the most appropriate atrocity. I hit the mother load at a newly-found discount home store with a clearance isle that left me with too many things to choose from. The stuffed kitty with the porcelain head wearing a feather boa? The wooden frog with the giant inflated pink lips? Or the coat rack made from 3 small smiling maniacal pig heads across the top. What to do. What to do.

I started gathering items (read: really hideous junk) and couldn't contain my laughter at some of the grotesque and confusing things. Why? Why would anyone want or need or think by any fathom of the imagination that a resin statue of 2 red-assed monkey's kissing is a good idea? Does a desk lamp really require a pink cowboy boot as the base? No, no thank you. I would not prefer to have a naked chubby cherub covered in glitter paint perched on my patio.

I finally had to explain why I had tears streaming down my face and was shaking with the giggles to a clerk who looked at me as if she might need to call for back up in the Shit Isle to help the crazy lady. After I explained what I was doing the young girl gave me some sincere support for the great plan and helped me decide on the stupendously terrible token of my affection. Which I did. And it is terrible.

Cut to Wednesday night and after having our dinner plans effed up a bit, (I was trying to bring home sushi for me and Japanese beef for him), we said fuck it and went through a drive thru. Which was perfect too. Snorfing down junk food on your own couch in comfy clothes with your favorite person on the planet is one good holiday in my book. Well, it's pretty much every Saturday too but we like it so whatever.

And then it was time to exchange our, ah..."gifts". I had to explain that I'd slightly broken the rules and purchased 2 things. One being his gift and one for our future home because, dammit, I could not forsake the ghastly treasure and you'll see why in a minute.

I also threw in a caveat that I didn't wrap anything because fuck that noise too, we don't care about such things. If it's not my birthday, the Supreme Day of all Days, then I don't give a hole about wrapping paper. Plus his present weighed like 10 pounds and I was not wrestling that bitch into a pretty bow the cat will only later eat and then barf up on the carpet.

I went into the guest room where my loot was stashed and said, OK, here I come, and lovingly, tenderly, joyously heaved it towards him and presented the love of my life with this.



Oh, you'd like to see another view? Why certainly.



After we caught our breath and successfully did not soil the floor we still didn't have any idea what the fucking fuck he'd do with such a perplexing and bizarre...container? Plant box? Crematorium decor? But it was unanimous that it was indeed beyond awful and perfect. Success!

Now it was my turn. I was instructed to close my eyes and with a rustling of a plastic bag I was commanded to look at my major reward. Which I love. So very, very, very much. Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce to you, Chef Froggy Von Assy.



Please don't hug him too tight. He came from Big Lots and we're pretty sure he's got a poop stain on him somewhere.

Of course I was jumping up and down like a schoolgirl and flinging myself over at the waist trying not to piss myself and we kept laughing and asking, why, why, WHY? Who comes up with this shit? Who does the initial sketch? Launches the pitch? OKAYS THIS BRILLIANTLY REPULSIVE CRAP? It's a conundrum, but we don't care. We love it. Oh so much.

And if this doesn't make you seethe with jealousy that it won't be hanging proudly on your front door, well then, frankly, we probably can't be friends.

What fucking day is it?

I think there is light at the end of the tunnel. At least it looks like a light. Could be a vision problem. Or a stroke. God, I hope it's not a stroke. Does anyone else taste burning?

Mama-san's visit hung around me like stink on a wet dog. And subsequent conversations have been almost as stupid. "Yea, I want to drive around the whole city, all of my special places and take lots of pictures before we move so I can remember everything. Make a big San Diego scrapbook you know?" "That is so silly." ~head explodes~ But I'm shaking it off now and I've been so busy I haven't had time to think about it all that much.

Thanks for the encouraging words and blogging advice. I was told this entry was the last time I can log into old blogger so a switch is inevitable. I no likey change as it is and forcing me to do something I don't want to do makes me very cranky. I'm going to check out Lynn's advice (hi, Lynn!!) and see if I can figure it out without smashing something with a hammer.

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Time has turned into a ravaging monster eating itself to death on my flesh. Still. I think we're going on week number four million and thirty of working on the house and me running around throwing cash at surly Target clerks and lecherous orange-vested weirdos at Home Depot. No, Mr. Grout man, trowels are not sexy and stop picturing me rubbing caulk all over my body. Sicko.

Talk about over-budget. EESH. And now I'm really pissed at my favorite home improvement shows Sell This House and Designed to Sell because fuck you two times for your reasonable budgets and super transformations. YOU. ARE. LYING. There's no way in effing hell you can re-do a bathroom, buy furniture, paint 900 square feet of walls, and get a crapload of accessories for what you spend. IT CAN'T BE DONE. And I know - my bank account or lack thereof is proof! And I'll see you tonight at 8:00! Assholes.

The tile guy arrived on Saturday morning at 7:00. And again at that same time on Sunday. Somehow waking up around the asscrack of dawn on your own isn't half as painful as having to wake up to let a total stranger into your house who's going to rip up your carpet and put your toilet on the patio. And my boobs weren't ready for a bra yet! The girls were not happy at all.

I went riding both Sat and Sun which is not the norm for me but since I've paid for my training and missed 3 weekends in a row due to illness, death, and mother, I had make-ups. This was perhaps a stupid choice on my part. In addition to riding and using up almost all of my energy reserves for the day I decided to shop for more crap then PAINT EACH BATHROOM. TWO COATS.

I, of course, did not do the painting by myself. Whitey and I tackled the guest bath on Saturday and the master on Sunday like the awesome team of champs we are. But hell, that is tiring work. I got the vapors by the end of the day on Sunday and barely finished my portion. And the tile boy ran out of tile. ARGH.

The house is still a mess and the cat is unhappy. Very unhappy. She's making her distaste for the interlopers and disruption in her Queendom known by getting into precarious things she's not allowed near and puking every god damn day. OK, kitty, we're taught. We get it. This sucks, in that we agree. Please stop horking all of your expensive food on my floor. Mama will stop locking you up in the guest room soon. Promise. (Well, until people start looking at the house.) Are plastic runners still tacky? Oi.

There's a sob-inducing long list of things to take care of but my goal is to be ready by the end of the weekend to get this bitch on the market. My real estate agent is coming over Monday morning , of which I've taken the day off, to see our progress and I'm going to beg, plead and probably sleep with her to make sure she gets me top dollar. (Hope you don't mind, baby.) Oi. Can't wait until our lives are our own again. Oi. Oi.

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Did anyone catch The Police on the Grammy's? I love Sting and I love the band and I will never forgive myself for not seeing them back in 1984 or whatever year it was in high school when I was wearing bandana's tied around my thighs and 14 Swatches up my left arm (which I still love, btw, my birthday is in September.) But Roxanne? And a lackluster version at that? Come on, guys. I know it's been awhile but that was a bummer. And Sting? Keep your solo singy Fields of Gold stuff far away from Police songs and you won't get hurt.

Despite that I still want to see them and I will dress in neon orange and spray a pink stripe in my hair and dance on my chair singing every word to every song with the other 40 thousand middle-agers wearing comfortable shoes sipping on plastic cups full of cheap chardonnay then standing in line at the souvenir table while Amex gold cards are passed back and forth, one of which will be mine because, yes, I will take one of everything, please.

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Whitey and I started a tradition last year that we would only get each other a small gift for Valentines day, something between $5 and $10 and it had to be the most botarded, ugly, horrendously awesome thing we could find. I highly recommend this. It takes the hype and pressure out of the holiday and it's fucking fun as hell. Go ahead. Copy us. We'll be flattered.

Blah

Yea. So, I have a little depression thing going on. And I'm waiting for my entire head to grow back since my mother left. So there's that too.

It was just so bad. So stupidly, unnecessarily, time-wasting bad. Sometimes I think my mother is a pod person and she's really not my mom but some alien poison ivy from planet Passiva Aggresivia and her tanned outer shell is merely a ruse for the pulsing labyrinth of goopy invader guts with an evil plot to drive me insane by rearranging my furniture and not believing me when I say I did check. Yes. I did. I checked the whole cupboard. I don't have any. MOM! I don't have any!! YES, MOM. I CHECKED. I DID IT. I SAID I DID!!! Then she goes and checks herself. GAH.

I'd hoped I would be snapped out of this by now since I left her in the care of my (asshole) brother on Saturday and under his responsibility to get her to the airport the next day. A whole night early. But alas, I'm still in a funk. I knew my blues were sticking around when I burst into tears last night after a tile guy I was trying to hire said he was busy for 3 months. So lame. And I sent my mother flowers yesterday because she did do a shitload of work in my house and she called to thank me sounding all chipper and normal and What the Fucking Fuck is that? Sigh.

I suppose my plate is overflowing at the moment with the loss of Diane, work being a fucker and the never-ending list of shit to take care of so I can sell this damn house and move. And my doc wants me to do another thyroid cancer scan before we leave which I was supposed to be able to skip this year and it involves 6 weeks of shit and expense and me feeling like fucking hell so I'm none to happy about it AT ALL. That's all it took for my brain to snap into cancer-girl mode, which I hate.

And I'm all out of cookie dough!!!

At least Lost is starting up again tonight and a new season of Survivor begins tomorrow. Thank God. But those people at Lost had better resolve some shit or I'm going to declare that show officially shark jumped because damn, I don't like those "Others" and that beady-eyed leader and the mumbler chick fucking with Jack's head and did anyone else have a huge problem with Kate and Sawyer doing it in the bear cage? All I could think about was how out-of-control her bush must have been after 3 months on the island and he must have smelled like the ass of a road-killed raccoon covered in rotten eggs under a noon-day sun. Ew. Although I love it when he calls her freckles and some of his looks could melt the ice off my mother's ass. So, I'm still in.

Meanwhile I'll be working on shaking off these blues and thinking of something more interesting to write about than my poopy mood. Also, Blogger is being a constant dick and it's probably time to move this bitch to something better. Can anyone recommend another host? Let me know. Thanks!

Scoreboard

Momgate. Day 6. Shall we survive. Outlook unknown.

Favorite broken bowls that "just went FLYING off the dishrack I didn't even TOUCH it" - 1

Hacked beyond recognition ficus plant I never told her to touch that now looks like total crap - 1

Doors ruined by slathering wood oil on a faux-finish that now looks like someone's greasy hands have rubbed all over it - 1

Ruined brick patio covered in white paint because the sun came out for 23 minutes during a 24-hour rainstorm but she thought it would be a good idea to paint the outdoor shelf which then proceeded to get hammered with rain all night and splattered watery white paint everywhere - 1

Minutes I spent on my hands and knees yesterday morning on the wet bricks sobbing and trying to get the white paint off with windex and a scrub brush - 32

Paint drops and smears on carpet because she didn't use provided drop cloth - 2

Rugs speckled with bleach drops - 1

Everyday towels packed without permission because she thought we were keeping them in a stupid place, you know, like the laundry room - 15

Blue paint on ceiling because she refused to let me buy her a new brush for cutting in - all the fucking way across the wall

Crying fits - 3; 2 for me, 1 for her

Crying hugs - 2

Apologies - 2

Apologies retracted because she can't ever just say I'm sorry for fucking up - 2

Passive Aggressive statements - 195

Contrary opinions just to be contrary - 133

Indignant tones - 57

Pissy faces - 45

Ativan I've taken - 9

Bottles of wine consumed - 2

Periods with great fucking timing arriving - 1

Squares of raw cookie dough eaten from package - 8

Upset stomach's from squares of raw cookie dough eaten from package - 3

Days left - 4

Sanity level - 35%

Chocolate on planet to assuage this assault on my psyche - NOT NEARLY ENOUGH

Guilt - a little

Frustration - A LOT