Day 30

It's the end of Nablopomo 2007 and I'm left feeling, well, like I half-assed it. My head was full of ideas and stories but the motivation, she wasn't really there. Last year I definitely felt the pressure to push myself and I think I did. This year, the pressure felt very homeworky and being resistant to all things mandatory I performed like I normally do, with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy who's been asked to take out the trash. That kid will need a bulldozer and a barrel of vaseline to remove him from the couch.

And for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for boring anyone (all 4 of you, heh) and sorry to myself for not trying harder. But hell, I know things have been emotionally crazy for awhile and I'm checked out half the time these days. I suppose it's my way of coping. And man, I didn't want to sound like Bummer Girl here since things are OK today. I've actually felt the first twinges of excitement over moving which is really fucking cool since I wasn't sure if that would come back and so soon to boot!

I've got a bit of the Christmas spirit and have hopes for our vacation to my parents house, which will be a total disaster but at least I'm laughing about it now. And planning the cocktails. Lots and lots of cocktails. I'm doing great on my gift budget this year and haven't done my usual 1 to 1 ratio of a gift off my list and one for me. Progress! I'm going to decorate this weekend and put up our little tree since we're flying out X-mas day and will have to celebrate on our own the night before.

We finally got some much-needed rain here, albeit with trepidation since it will cause mudslides to the burn areas and jesus, please, no one needs to have what's left of their house crash down a muddy hillside too. I'm going out to brunch and doing some shopping with one my favorite friends tomorrow and I took my first round of a special antibiotic to hopefully fix my eternally fucked up stomach and I haven't barfed it up yet so that's good too.

I'll most likely try Nablopomo again next year and hopefully I'll be in a better position to get my ass in blog gear soon.

Mind over emotion

I'm totally freaking out.

Like crying, hyper-ventilating, panic-attacking, dizzy-spelling freaking out.

We're putting the house back on the market. And never mind the fact that my new real estate agent is a creepy little weasel man and his associate/assistant is persistent as a raging yeast infection and we have to re-list my home for a disgustingly rock-bottom price because the fucking housing market is being a sullen bitch, the real panic is that WE'RE MOVING.

Oh my fucking gawd. How am I going to do this? How am I going to pack up and leave the only hometown I've ever known? Leave the city I've grown up in? Start all over virtually from scratch? New state, new city, new house, new job, new set of fears, phobia's and anxieties to contend with. There's not enough medication on the West Coast.

I weighed the pros and cons forever before I decided I was ready, although I've never really been ready. I don't do well with change. I don't even like to switch brands of pens, how the fuck do I think I can move 1000 miles north?? But I know I need to do this, for a myriad of very good reasons, intellectually I realize this is something that must be done. But emotionally? I'm screaming on the inside and mentally death-gripping the doorjamb while common sense is trying to shove my fraidy-cat fat ass through it.

And I had made the decision, months ago. I was going to go and was handling it but then the condo didn't sell and we took it off the market and once again I was saddled with tons of mixed feelings because I had been so ready, or rather I was going to fucking do it and get out of here and my window of opportunity for the decision was closed. And now I'm all fucked up about it again!

But I'm also afraid that if I don't do this now, if I don't take this chance and push myself for the experience of it all I'll be stuck in a rut forever and I'm sick of the sound of my own voice complaining about things I have the power to change. But gawd damn, is it ever terrifying. Even after all the research and questions posed to strangers and family and friends and hoping that our choice of new cities will be a good fit, it's still brain-numbing petrifying.

I don't like my job- hate it in fact, I don't have nearly the amount of friends I used to, most of the people I love are peppered all over the country and aren't in my hometown. My best friend here has a chaotic, busy life and we hardly see each other. I've been riding at my barn for 16 years now and it's sort of run its course. I don't love it like I used to and our core group isn't tight like it was 5 years ago.

Whitey and I have out-grown my little 1100 square foot condo and our neighborhood isn't the kind we'd like to live it. Our windows face our neighbors, all of them, so to have privacy we have to be shut up tight as a ducks ass. We spend most of our time working or sitting at home. Our commute sucks giant, sweaty donkey balls and it's so expensive here we're both working paycheck to paycheck. Our Homeowners fees are $375 a month which sort of feels like being rammed in the ass by a Duraflame log come billing time.

The weather sucks for me 8 months of the year, it's starting to smell like Los Angeles on the bad smog days, and we don't have a yard for the dogs we so desperately want and need for our sanity. To do any of the "touristy" things we like to do we have to wait for the off-seasons or we're contending with the million people vacationing here in the summer and escaping snow in the winter. And let's not even talk about fire season.

So why am I being such a pussy about this move??

On the list

This morning I was asked what I want for Christmas this year.

I do believe I'd like one of these.

Anyone know how to add this to my Amazon.com wish list?

The Setting

For the last two nights the sky has gone crazy. Right before sunset, when I leave work, the clouds have been slicing their way across the horizon and the colors change about every 30 seconds. I've barely been able to pay attention to the road as I crane my neck and stare into my mirrors trying to catch another glance and another and another.

I'd like to try and weave in a metaphor, grab a higher meaning, ponder some philosophical point about all of this, or apologize for the photos taken with my pocket camera with urban detritus in the way, but sometimes when you over think something you just muck it to hell.

Bottom line is, it's been unreal and stunning, taking my breath away. And sometimes you just need to shut your mouth and tell your brain to take a pill. Forget all the bullshit of life for a minute, let your eyes do the work and fucking appreciate the moment.

Tonight was one of those times.

Home stretch

I sort of feel like I've been a bit of a failure in this year's Nablopomo. My motivation and energy level has been so low I haven't put the effort into it as last time. And with my work blocking almost all blogs and my connection at home sketchy, I just haven't been able to do what I did or do what I wanted to do. Such a neglectful blogger. What a bummer.

Sew my knees, please

I wrote the story below a couple of years ago and because I'm not in a tricking mood I'm confessing to the reposting not-to-mention that after all of this time I still feel the exact same way. Especially when I have a holiday like the one I just survived that included all the fun things like my family, a house full of crazy and a surprise visit from one of my brothers old high schools friends, his mail order bride and their 2 kids.

You know when you get asked a question you can't possible say no to? That's what I was caught between, a rock and a bitch place. I say no and I'm a crab not to be forgiven and my torture level would have gone to new heights. Say yes and my Thanksgiving gets further crapped up than it already was. So, when I was posed with the question if it was OK for this family to "stop by" before dinner what could I say? Hell no, keep that weirdo old stoner and his brats out of my house? Not bloody likely.

This dude showed up more than an hour later than he said he would which fucked up my plans to take my parents dogs to the dog park and shoot a bunch of photos to hopefully use in the photo-calender I'm making for my mom's X-mas present. When they got to my house we all said our hello's and the 7 adults tried to find places to sit in my tiny condo that comfortably seats 4.

The baby wasn't an issue and I didn't mind bouncing her around for a little while but the 3 year old was a holy terror with unresponsive parents that thought it was perfectly fine for him to empty my decorative dish of pot-pourri all over my coffee table then take a brand new candle holder and dump the 9 tea lights out of it before having a tantrum and throwing them all over my living room. About 25 times. All while his parents did nothing. NOTHING.

I finally put my foot down when he grabbed the stack of glass coasters I got whitey for Christmas last year and this little shits father didn't move an inch to physically take them away from the ankle biter while they dangled them over my brick fireplace. I told them all, I was a preschool teacher, I don't have a problem making a kid cry and yanked them out of his sticky hands.

It was so fucking ridiculous.

Anyway, I thought it might be fitting to revisit some thoughts I had on the subject awhile ago. Thoughts I still hold, maybe even more so now.

TICK TICK TICK

I've spent a considerable 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 its 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 miniature 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 amidst 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, infinitesimal, 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 some 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 shrill screaming of satanic 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 loofah.

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 while they waited to be entertained by the one person who thinks kids are a pain in the ass while I said to myself, how the hell did I get here? But 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.

Awwww

When things get to be too much, with emotions running at a steady high and tempers flare and life-altering HUGE decisions are being made. And you feel like a caged animal being poked by sticks from all sides sometimes it's OK, nay, necessary for your mental fucking health to take a breather, sit back and admire something like the intense love between a dog and her stuffed buffalo.









Even if that love is wildly inappropriate most of the time...

sob

Today was worse than yesterday. Sorry for the lame contribution but I don't have it in me to say much more than I'm fucking wiped out with a side of depression.

Hope everyone else had a better holiday than I did.

2 more days

In addition to things I'm truly thankful for, having my house spared from the San Diego fire storm, my wonderful boyfriend, my kitty, money in the bank, the fact that I'm not 6 feet under, yada yada I'm going nuts. Starting with the food.

We might have gotten a little overzealous with the size of turkey we thought we'd need. It really didn't look that big all wrapped up in its shiny white straight jacket. But after being tenderly caressed with herbs and spices, roasted in the oven for 5 hours and lovingly placed on a pretty platter, that thing was FUCKING HUGE.

19 pounds. Who thought we needed a 19 pound bird for 5 people? What boob brain decided having a dead hunk of poultry bigger than 4 chihuahuas put together was necessary?

Um...

That would be me.

Did I think we'd all chow down like the Donner party after they'd run out of tasty man thighs to gnaw on? Was I anticipating turkey sandwiches, for what, the next 6 months? Or maybe I'm really smart and knew in order to consume that much left-over turkey we'd need at least a ratio of 2 to 1 for gravy with means there'd have to be at least a gallon of that to go with the meat.

Man, I'm smart.

And if you're wondering, yes, I'm surviving, but barely. My brother the wunderkin can do no wrong showed up this morning and it was just SO AWESOME to watch my mothers entire demeanor change as he lumbered through my door. She was all full of "reallys" and "you don't say, you had to drive in traffic, you poor boy" and "I've heard that too, breathing is necessary" when I get "you suck" and "you don't know what you're talking about" and "I hate you."

OK, maybe she's not that severe with me but she sure is encouraging to someone who hasn't held a steady job for more than 9 months IN THE LAST 10 YEARS when he comes up with yet another hair-brained idea to make money like oh, become the next Marlboro man just because he's tall and smokes a pack and a half a day. Jesus on a day glow cross. If I even suggest that the pie crust isn't thawed all the way I get the mouth noise of disdain and a grimace followed by a snotty, "it'll be FINE and a WHATEVER." Whatever? My mother whatever'd me!

My mom doesn't just have her picture in the dictionary next to passive-aggressive, she's has a lifetime membership to Anal-Retentive Quarterly and is in the PA hall of fame with a giant mural painted in her honor on a wall of the Sigmund Freud Institute for Backhanded Comments and Maternal Manipulation.

It never, ever goes the way I hope it to, these family visits. In fact, I stopped hoping and started gearing up for what I was going to endure, which I'm still not used to. It still upsets me and I found myself in tears once today already. I have to get to that place where it doesn't bother me at all, I ignore every single comment, even the ones where she purposefully screws up what I just told her 10 seconds ago ("Oh, I thought you told me to throw the brand new can of whipped cream away when in actuality you asked me to pass it to you") and not reply back. Better yet, I don't want to feel anything but calm coursing through my veins.

Either that or Vodka laced with Ativan. And don't think I didn't do that today already.

Gah.

Not the record but...

We made it 23 hours and 42 minutes before a huge argument.

My mother has turned on the passive-aggresiveotron.

It's all downhill from here.

Pray for me.

Send booze.

~sigh~

Hit me baby one more time

As Thanksgiving approaches talk of that day is upon us. The intertubes are crammed with leaked info, the news reporters are foaming at the mouth talking about it and you just know a bazillion goons are dusting off their camping gear in anticipation of spending a chilly night on a sidewalk in front of Circuit City hoping to snag the one and only flat panel TV in stock discounted by 5%.

I'm talking about Black Friday. The day after turkey day. The biggest shopping heyday of the year. And one of the stupidest things I've ever done.

Last year I nearly killed myself getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to score all the deals I wanted to buy for Christmas.

I didn't get a single one.

The throngs of crazies beat me to it because they never went to bed the night before and stupid me thought getting up before GOD would be good enough. You really have no chance. Not when stores open earlier and earlier every year. It's insane. And with so many of the big ticket items and large stores having their sales fliers stolen and posted online, and only 1 thing per customer it seems, everyone knows where they should park their asses before the doors are unlocked.

I understand wanting and needed to save a buck, lord knows I've put myself on a very strict budget this year that I'll try to stick to, but is a $4.00 savings really worth standing in a line behind caffeine soaked scrappers, risking being trampled by sensible shoes at Michael's trying to purchase 100 feet of curling ribbon? It's just not worth it.

Personally I will never do that again. I won't wait in line like a fool for nothing. I will never, ever, ever, ever get up at 4:30 ever again.

5:00 maybe...

Dialing it in

On account of me and whitey working our collective asses off for the last 3 days getting this gawd damn house ready for my parents arrival tomorrow afternoon I am too brain dead to write much of anything. There have been multiple grocery trips, massive spit-shining, yard work, carpet cleaning, present buying, and porn hiding. I scrubbed the shower walls for fucksake. This bitch is tired.

Therefore I will gift you with another recipe that will give you multiple mouth orgasms and your guests will shower you with compliments and probably money. The angels will sing your praises, the dog will stop farting and children will behave. It's that good.

Bitter Betty's Super Fanfuckingtastic Pumpkin Cheesecake

1 cup graham-cracker crumbs
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar
6 tablespoons butter, melted
16 ounces cream cheese at room temp.
1 can (16 ounces) pumpkin
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon each ginger and nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 pint sour cream (2 cups)
1 teaspoon vanilla
optional garnishes: whipped cream, toasted almonds

Mix crumbs with 1 tbsp sugar and melted butter until blended. Press onto bottom of 8 or 9-inch springform pan; chill. Beat cream cheese and 3/4 cup sugar until well blended. Beat in pumpkin, spices and salt. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each. Pour onto prepared crust. Bake in preheated 350° oven for 50 minutes.

Remove cake: raise oven temp. to 400°. Mix well, sour cream, remaining 1/4 cup sugar and the vanilla. Spread over filling. Bake 8 minutes. Cool cake on rack. Remove sides of pan and chill.

Makes 12 servings. Calories = you don't want to know and it's a holiday. Who cares. Eat the damn cake.

This isn't as hard as it might look and I always get compliments when I bring it to a holiday dinner. Just make sure you have a good springform pan so it doesn't leak all over the oven. I usually put foil underneath just to be safe. Be prepared for people to kiss you square on the mouth and be sure to save yourself the biggest piece. Enjoy!

First place

If there were ever a prize for this sort of thing I think I would win. At least I'd be a runner-up or considered for some type of award like a diamond encrusted trash can or a sweet title such as Miss Congealed.

To give you some back story and an itty bitty explanation of how my brain works I live by the philosophy that if it doesn't matter to me it doesn't matter. Now, I'm not talking about things on a global scale but more like what goes down in my own house. I don't care about the dead spiders in my bathtub because I don't use that bathtub. It has a straight back, which is very uncomfortable, and is shallow with an emergency drainer thingy in the middle so if I want to soak in a luxurious bath with smelly oils and a trashy magazine I get a crick in my neck and my tits get cold. Not my idea of a spa night.

Others might be horrified at the thought of an arachnid graveyard in their tub but eh, I never think about it unless company is coming. Also, stuff magically goes invisible on me and can remain transparent for years. The elliptical torture machine I purchased with my tax return last year was placed in prominent view next to the dining room table. Totally disappeared from my vision and I had to step over it to answer the phone! Same with the 10 extra feet of TV cable that is hanging under my bar that's been there since I moved in 9 1/2 years ago. I just don't see it.

And lets not even talk about what's shoved in cupboards, drawers and under beds.

Pair that disorder with my mother's mixed messages of "you need to get rid of this junk" then giving me all of hers I've somehow, in the many moves I've made in I don't know how many years, inherited a plethora of sundries and kitchen paraphernalia from her that I have no crapping idea why she would think I need or want. Things like a bottle of liquid smoke, sterling silver nut picks and half a tube of anchovy paste.

Normally I wouldn't blink at such clutter way down towards the bottom shelves on the fridge door, since usually I'm only interested in the diet Coke and cheese and when I open the door 18 times in a row hoping for a tasty snack to appear, I ignore everything that doesn't have the word Whiz in it. But tonight when I was cleaning it out, in anticipation of my family coming for Thanksgiving and making room for the 4 tons of food I think we need to feed 5 people for 1 meal, I was stunned to find this:



And upon further inspection, I noticed this:



That's 1985 y'all. Eightyfuckingfive. Twenty 2 years ago. Twenty plus Two.

With that kind of longevity I didn't have the heart to throw it away. Now. Who'd like some pecan pie?

Today...

I saw a hitchhiker. I can't tell you when the last time was that I actually witnessed a person standing on the side of the road, and in this case a random spot on the freeway forgawdsake, with their thumb out trying to get a ride.

Who does that? Who would take such a chance to possibly become Dahmer-meat in some crazy mother fucker's stew? Or have your parts lopped off and thrown in a dumpster. Or become the Hoff's love slave. Not this beotch, no way no how, not even if DH wore his leather Member's Only jacket and sang Hooked on a Feelin' three times.

And what about the people who will actually pull over and pick this shlub up? Won't they feel stupid when they get a shank to the ribs 5 miles into their trek. I just think it's one of the stupidest things you can possible do. Unless you see a pregnant woman crying next to her actively burning minivan you do not stop and put them in your vehicle.

Even more so when they resemble the guy I saw today who looked exactly like this:

Blast from the past

I came across this old gem earlier in the week and I must say, I smiled at myself for having such a deliciously sarcastic reply to some ass clown accusing me a couple of years ago of "always being mean." I detest absolutes and I abhor crybabies who stick their foot in their mouth then act surprised when I follow that with my boot in their box. Don't throw your opinion out there then run away like a pussy if you can't handle a debate and don't accuse me of shit I don't do or this is what you'll get from me.

Sorry, I'd stick around and help you figure it out, but I have to rush off to my Neo Nazi Skinheads and Knitting Circle meeting. If I'm lucky, I'll get to kick a couple puppies this afternoon. I've already scheduled to make several babies cry by pinching their fat arms after lunch.

Then tonight, I'm going to throw bread at an Atkins dieter and yell "100 grams 100 grams 100 grams" while sprinkling sugar over their head. After that, I think I'll log on to the internets and send some random e-mails to shut ins and tell them about the lovely sunny walk I took after dinner where I will shoot several birds with my hollow-point BB gun. There's a nest with some newly hatched morning doves and they're ripe for the pickin!

Then it's off to be randomly mean to people on a few message boards I belong to and bully my way into the Nellie Olson Hall of Fame. A girl has to have goals. Gotta go, these steal-toed boots aren't going to kick themselves. Tah.

Man, sometimes I really like me.

Em Oh Ewe Ess Eww

A woman was questioned and caused the Pirates of the Caribbean to close at Disneyland the other day because park employees saw her deposit some kind of powder into the water while she was on the ride. She claims it was baby powder. Those in the know say it was human remains.

Um...what?

Apparently, according to some Mickyfile who runs a popular website for Disney crazies says this is an occurance that's happening more frequently.

Um...WHAT??

Now I totally understand trying to abide by someone's final wishes, and I know there are loads of people out there who are beyond cuckoo for all things Disney, but do you really want your final resting place to be inside a 40 year-old mostly meandering boat ride that while highly enchanting and nostalgic is crammed with creepy animatronic pirates and smells like a giant moldy sock?

These people need to keep Uncle Fester in the urn on the mantle or toss Grandma into the ocean like everyone else and do what the rest of us do at Disneyland. Eat so much junk food your tummy aches for a week, make fun of all the freaks from the square states wearing their black socks and sandles and get drunk off of Vodka snuck through the gates in a Gatorade bottle. You know, civilized behavior.

Squee!!

I'm sorry.

I cannot dedicate myself to a real post tonight.

I have a very important date.

I'm sure you understand.

Carry on.

Honey, I'm home

Sometimes I don't know how I got so lucky to have met the love of my life. Looking beyond the fact that every single gawd damn star had to be aligned for us to meet in the first place is the blessing that not only do I dig this guy like a giant spoonful of fudge right out of the jar but I can actually live with him. Something I've been unable to do with any other living person ever.

I'd like to blame my inability to cohabitate on everyone else, because people are crazy and impossible to live with, but I'm sure my occasional rigidity and slight OCD probably wasn't the ideal situation for my former roommates but lets face it, I'm a bright light in the crushing despair of sharing your private space with another so clearly I was less to blame. Clearly.

I traipsed off to college a little later than most. I was a few weeks shy of my 21st birthday and had made the decision to follow my then boyfriend to the school he'd transferred to the previous Spring. My only experience living with people were with my parents, my brother who moved out when I was 9 and a brief and extremely painful period of time when my divorcing Aunt and her 2 very young children lived with us before she got her own place.

I decided to live in the dorms and was happy to get placed into the same one my bf was living in but of course we weren't in the same room or even the same floor. I was randomly paired with a girl about year younger than me and a complete stranger. I remember filling out some kind of "this is the type of person I won't hate" card to get hooked up with someone remotely compatible. I think someone took that card and used it to roll a joint then smoked any hope of me rooming with an actual human to the roach.

A few days before school started we moved in. I walked through my door and there she was. Her shit spread all over the room, her ample frame lounging on my bed, the phone glued to her ear as she gave me a barely perceptible nod. I knew instantly this was going to be a nightmare and I wasn't wrong.

She routinely ate all of my food, leaving my cans of precious Pringles stealthily on my shelf where I'd find only a few sad crumbs at the bottom. She also ate my saved piece of birthday cake waiting patiently in the fridge for my sweet lips. Birthday cake!! And I never had a chance to confront her since she disappeared during the day like a vampire and came home while I was asleep.

A daily call to her mother that lasted for hours tying up our phone and every single fucking morning she'd set her alarm for 2 hours before she had to get up and 4 hours before I had to leave for class then sleep through the snooze for 5 minutes at a time until I grabbed something huge to throw against our dusty metal blinds making a racket big enough to wake the dead so she'd roll her fat ass over and turn the fucking alarm off. This happened every day.

Then there was the snoring. Snoring so boisterous and powerful she could suck up a shoe through her thundering nostrils. You could hear the cacophony from her sinus cavity at least 2 doors down and people routinely sent looks of condolence my way. One night it was so bad and the tension so tight between us I had to sleep on someones foam couch that unfolded to a small and desperately firm lump of a mattress.

A quarter and a half in and I was beyond done. I believe my exact words to the dorm association person were, "unless you want to find a dead sophomore in room 201 with a potato chip sticking out of her eye socket you'll move me to an available single before the week is done." Which they did.

The next year at school I had a terrible time as well. When I drove the 100 miles to school, showing up to collect my dorm packet without checking first to make sure everything was kosher, I was told I had no room as I'd failed to fill out another damn form somewhere along the way. Completely panicked I started calling friends from the payphone until I found space off campus with 3 girls who were going to share a 2 bedroom condo.

Thanking my lucky stars I accepted their invitation as they agreed to my sobbing pleas and the deal was made. Little did I know I was entering a den of insanity. One girl stole my clothes and absolutely refused to admit she'd done it when I'd have the evidence in my hot little hands. Another girl made a CHART WHEEL with a myriad of chores for all of us to do on any given week. Right, like I'm washing the crusty remnants of your fucking burrito adhered to cheap plastic plates.

The girl I shared a room with wasn't too bad but she had the longest list of weird idiosyncrasies ever. We actually ended up moving out of the condo after 11 weeks, each of us unable to cope with the dopes for an entire school year. But as our tenure as roomies went on the more I couldn't stand her. At least we weren't in the same room any more but she drove me fucking nuts.

She was a creature of intense habit attempting to make her world as small as possible. She refused to listen to anything resembling news, world events, entertainment gossip, local happenings or traffic reports. She didn't want to be exposed to anything. And she was going to become a teacher! She could only drive her car if she took just her left shoe off, not the right, only the left. And she only wore those cheap, flimsy Keds from K-mart with cotton stirrup pants and a t-shirt. Every day.

The only food she would eat was frozen burritos but she'd unwrap them and scoop the guts out then roll up the tortilla like a cigar and eat that last, spaghettios that would be heated then poured into a tortilla-lined bowl, apples with half of a jar of peanut butter, and an entire pint of peanut-butter chocolate Hagen Daaz consumed weekly. (That last one I actually envied.)

Since her diet consisted of super-rich and fatty food her alone-time in the bathroom would send a stench through our apartment that could knock a buzzard off a rotting corpse. Every morning she'd wash her long hair with Flex shampoo, another sickening and distinct smell, and I'd be awoken at the crack of 7:30 by a loud SMACK as she flipped her wet hair against the tub to I guess beat the water out of it but she only managed to get the entire bathroom soaked. She was a nice enough girl but as you can plainly see, a lunatic.

After I graduated and moved back home I once again lived with my parents, which is hard enough, then with my boyfriend, back with my parents, then got married. Somewhere along the way my Aunt, the same one mentioned above, moved in with my parents who then moved to another state and left me, my new husband and my Aunt living under a single roof. Needless to say, that didn't go well and is a long story for another time.

Fast forward through my divorce and finally living on my own for 7 1/2 years. Until June of 2005 when whitey hauled his juicy ass to San Diego from Northern Cal and we took the shacking up plunge. We didn't intend on living together since neither of us knew how it would work out, and I'll admit the first few months took a lot of butt-sniffing to get used to it and each other, but now more than 2 years later I can't imagine coming home to a house that didn't have my baby in it.

We do really well in our tight space and limbo-existence with most of our belongings boxed up and packed in the garage while we patiently wait for our desired future in the Pacific Northwest to begin. We laugh all the time, do our own things, hold hands watching T.V., have dinner together and sometimes alone, respect each other's space, needs, and wants, respect each other, cooperate, compromise and try to have the most fucking fun we can.

It's not perfect, sometimes I accuse him of being raised in a barn when he sprays caustic veneer-eating cleaner on my $500 coffee table, or try to ignore his bizarre humming that I know he doesn't even realize he's doing. But he also makes me laugh on a regular basis like the other night when he tuned in to a Clint Eastwood flick then gruffed when he realized it wasn't a man movie but rather "The Bridges of Fuck You." I'm still giggling over that one.

I really never thought I'd ever, ever, ever find someone who could put up with my shit and I the same but I did. And I'm so fucking lucky.

So lucky

It's been about 3 weeks since the horrible fires that ravaged San Diego and things are finally starting to calm down in my town of Rancho Bernardo. I didn't see anyone wearing a mask this weekend and the media seems to be giving us a break. The National Guard has gone home, the recovery center has disbanded and I finally saw an actual soccer game at the park that had become the hub for everything, littered with FEMA trailers and Allstate reps.

I still think about it every day and need to write down all the details so I don't forget them, but that will come at another time soon but for now it's still a bit too fresh. Since photography is my main hobby and now I practically see everything as a potential photo I've found it important for me to record some of what we went through and went on around here. To document the damage to my home town and hopefully the regrowth. You can see them here.

I haven't taken that many pictures in the last few weeks since we were trying to be extremely sensitive to our neighbors, not wanting to add to anyone's pain or invade precious privacy. And really, within a few days the lookie-loo's were so bad all the of streets that lost homes were closed to all but residents anyway and rightly so, but I think it's important to see what the earth is capable of and hopefully wake us all up to try and be proactive, just in case.

We're still cringing a little every time we hear a siren but we sure do appreciate all the hard work our firefighters and police put in to keep our homes safe from fire and theft. (I heard about one house that was looted twice while the residents were mandatory evacuated. Such assholes among heroes.) Thankfully there are good stories to go along with the bad.

And my advice to everyone - please be prepared.

Keep a small fire extinguisher next to your stove, you can get one for $16 at Target. Have important paperwork in one place and available to grab. Keep an emergency kit under your bed and in your car with a full set of clothing, gloves, flashlight, a crank radio in one, food and water. If you get the warning that something is coming don't think it'll probably be OK. I've heard more than one story where people didn't think the fire would reach them and they literally ran out of the house with the clothes on their backs (my neighbor with a 3 year-old included who regrets being unaware and caught unprepared.) You can buy pre-made kits or at least get ideas of what to put together from the Red Cross.

If you're anti-cell phone get over it. Whitey didn't have a phone (for financial reasons) during our hell and it was horrible. Trying to make sure we didn't lose each other on the roads when we had no idea where we were going or ending up after being evacuated TWICE sucked giant sweaty balls. He has a fucking phone now and it only cost $25 to get and activate with 80 minutes that are good for 6 months.

Put a kit or kits together for your animals. It's against the law to leave an animal behind and they deserve to be protected. I already had a pop-up disposable litter box for my cat, a harness and leash and big, sturdy carrier and the first thing I did was get a bag ready for her - food, litter, treats, toys, blankie. She was out-of-sorts but had everything she needed. The ASPCA has info here to give you more ideas about this.

Every morning when I walk out the house and smell the sickly stink of burned homes and hillside I feel for those who lost nearly everything, am SO grateful for what we have and vow to make sure I'm even more prepared for a disaster that I hope doesn't come in the future. I'm not the most organized pea in the pod but I have (almost all) the important stuff all in one place now. It's not that hard. And please, be safe and smart.

At least there will be turkey

OK. I've accepted the fact that I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year and forgiven my mother for calling me on a Sunday afternoon literally 2 (fucking) minutes after I laid down for a nap. A nap that never happened because she insisted on torturing me with one of her famous loop conversations where she repeats herself 9 times in row about various things I just "need to do" then chuckles that she always calls me when I'm trying to sleep because I guess when I warned everyone on the planet not to fucking dial my number between 1 and 5 on the weekends my mother was somehow exempt.

Sigh.

I even called my brother and formally invited him to our holiday dinner (the thing my mother told me on Friday I needed to do) and the conversation went surprisingly well. He was actually slightly un-morose for a few minutes there. I'm hoping he maintains that attitude until at least New Year's and I'll make sure there is plenty of beer on hand to keep everyone nice and lubricated, so to speak.

Now I've decided to think about the food. Which can be tricky because my weight has become a family issue (such a long story) so I get self-conscious about everything that goes in my mouth when I'm around them. That's why I'm on the active hunt to find recipes loaded with alcohol and hopefully no one will notice I've created a mashed potato grand canyon to contain the Colorado river of gravy I plan to pour into it. Not forgetting the forest of butter, of course.

My mom has little faith that whitey and I can pull off an entire Thanksgiving dinner but I assured her we've done this a time or 50 and we have it covered. Which is code for stay the fuck out of the kitchen, woman, or be prepared for Kahlua infused green bean casserole and wine-laced biscuits. I'll throw her a bone to keep her idle devil hands busy. She can make a pie. 1 lovely Vodka meringue pie.

If you have any good recipes to share I'd love to see them. We usually cook a turkey and do taters from scratch but everything else comes out of a jar or box, which we cannot get away with this year. The Queen does not abide by packaged stuffing.

There is one thing I'm going to make that I usually don't because my boyfriend has a defective gene and doesn't care for sweet things. This is by far my all-time favorite holiday fare and a crowd pleaser to boot. I'm going to share with y'all because I'm nice like that. I promise you or your guests won't be disappointed. It's easy peasy and deeeeeelicious, served warm or cold. Best eaten with a fork straight from the pan.

Cranberry Casserole

3 cups unpeeled apples, chopped (I use red delicious)
2 cups raw cranberries
1 1/4 cups sugar

Topping:
1 1/2 cups quick oats
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup flour
1/2 cup melted butter

Mix apples, cranberries and sugar. Put into baking dish. Sprinkle with topping. Bake at 350 degrees for 60 minutes.

I'll be enjoying mine with a nice big glass of chardonnay/Baileys/rum.

Day 10

Thank you for the nice comments in my last post. I didn't write that fishing for those but I appreciate them all the same. I'm struggling with the realization that a few things I so desire will probably never happen and it's taking the wind out of me. It changes my whole future, which is scary and a bummer, and right now the vision of my life is being stuck in places I don't like. So, yea, there's that.

In other news. It's official. My parents are coming for Thanksgiving. This mean we'll be spending both holiday's with my family. Both.

Here's my survival plan. If you have the kind of time I do at these gatherings I suggest you follow my lead.

Chocolate
Booze
Boozy chocolate
Prescriptions drugs (go Ativan!)
Sleep
Chocolate
Screaming into a pillow at regular intervals
Booze
Super quiet sex since my parents will be on the other side of a paper-thin wall
Chocolaty booze
Sleep

Repeat

~shrug~

Jesus. Am I having trouble writing every day. And it sure shows in my lack of traffic and comments. Ouch. I don't remember it being this hard last year. Was it this hard? I know last year I was able to read blogs and write during the day which I can't do now so it's making it very difficult and me sad. It's becoming agonizing sitting here late at night trying to come up with something that isn't painfully lame.

I've been increasingly worn out this week and I'm not sure what it is. Left-over fire evacuation shit? Hormones? I don't know but I'm finding myself unable to hold back tears at the littlest things. I've fucking cried during every episode of Oprah and Ellen I've seen this week. I've misted up in the car listening to the radio, I've bawled at a country music song and blubbered over a puppy in a commercial. I'm exhausted and now a little depressed and I can't stop thinking about a lot of stuff. My brain is tired.

Tonight as I sat down I started 3 different times to post. First I typed up a stupid staccato-type entry trying to be clever. Things like; I have to post. I have nothing to post. But I have to. It was bad. Next I tried writing a pithy little list of what I did today - total snore. Then I erased that crap and said, no, you can't do that to the one person still reading this shit, try something else. So I began writing a poem. A fucking poem. Which I quickly realized was so lame I wouldn't blame people for taking me off their blogroll and I laid on the backspace key like I was trying to squish a bug.

I started again and the words were all blah blah stupid stupid blah and I got rid of those too. So now I'm just going to talk a little bit because I seriously don't have the energy to try and find some humorous or interesting voice to say anything humorous or interesting.

Speaking of which, I've been thinking about my voice for awhile now. Not my actual voice, which sounds awesome inside my own head but like Minnie Mouse in real life. At least I think so. I'm talking about the written voice or an author's personality that translates to a reader and how that relates to the most successful blogs, books, etc., but in this context I'll talk blogs.

It seems that those blogs that get the most attention, and deservedly so, are written by people who are themselves, not trying too hard, just writing what they'd say to a good friend and not someone acting like they're on stage with an audience of strangers who paid to be entertained. A lot of times I feel like an actor trying to project my shtick to someone a thousand miles away. Over-laughing like Tom Cruise and hamming it up like Jim Carey. Those people are good for a few laughs but ultimately become boring. God, how many times can we see that silly face?

I'm trying to figure out my voice. What I should say and how should I say it. I've spent a good portion of my life trying to get a working balance between trying too hard and not trying hard enough and as is my challenge whenever I don't fall into a nice, steady in between it doesn't work and I fail. Or at least I'm not being successful like I want to be and this goes for anything in my life.

I think I was born a little entertainer. I was never a shy kid and didn't have a problem getting up in front of a group of people to talk or sing or do whatever. I got the taste for attention at a very early age and have craved it like crack my entire life. And when I really want it, when I send messages out to the universe that I need it, she answers back loud and clear and teaches me a lesson. Which has taken me a long time to learn to read and is usually painful.

When I want something too much I'm not going to get it. When I need attention too much I might get the opposite of what I'm hoping for, either none at all or the wrong kind. When I'm screaming into a microphone thinking that I'm just using my voice people plug their ears and run away.

So what to do when you've got a lot to say but don't know how to say it? Or you think you know how to say it and it still doesn't work? Or having it work for a few is better than none so just be satisfied with that. Is commonality that important? Because I'm not getting pregnant to join the mommy bloggers. I might want this but I'm not going that far.

But this is exactly what happens to me when I desperately want something. To be an artist, to make someone laugh, to share, to teach, to belong. I know there's another lesson here. I just need to figure out what it is. As for tonight, I'm going to bed.

Not necessarily...

Wisdom is a good thing. Sage advice is another. Cliché's, eh, maybe. We've all been bestowed with lovely little chestnuts of advisement that when in theory make sense but being the glass-half-empty realist type person that I am I can't help but seeing the flip side to all of these profundities. Not everything should be taken at face value all the time.

Never pass up the opportunity to go to pee.

Except when you're drinking.

Normally this is an extremely important endeavor, especially for chicks. Although I must confess that I don't have the rumored walnut-sized bladder that most girls do. I can really hold my stuff. But I also have an unpredictable system and there are times when my cells decided it's time to shed the water weight at the most inopportune times like when I'm stuck in traffic or in the middle of slamming my boyfriend like a 2 dollar hoor. So normally I'd make this proclamation from the highest peak, except when you're partying.

This is the one time you should forget the fact that you're consuming a liquid dinner and dessert and hold off as long as you can. Once you break that seal you are screwed. Your body is now all WOO HOO, lets eliminate! and you'll find yourself standing in line outside the bar bathroom behind 14 drunk girls who are shouting about the bartender oh my gawd!! isn't he key-oot!! I would toe'ally make out with him!!! while you're fighting the urge to jam your hands down your pants and physically shut off the valve threatening to burst. This will happen every 20 minutes for the rest of the night.

It's the thought that counts.

Unless it sucks.

Sure. Someone remembering your birthday or adding you to their Christmas list is a nice thing. Getting a gift should be appreciated and acknowledged with a thank you at the very least. But let's face it, we've all gotten a present that reeked of crap.

Receiving something hand-made is a sweet gesture and those kinds of things don't count but when you're standing around a plastic 2 foot Christmas tree with your co-workers because your boss thinks it's more important to exchange bullshit tokens at a company sponsored lunch instead of giving bonus's and the sad sack who picked your name out the hat has wrapped a box of stale candy that still has dust on it from sitting on their kitchen windowsill for the 12 months the thought that came with that was shit. Same thing when your (ex) husband decides a Thomas Guide from the gas station he picked up on the way home on your first anniversary is the perfect show of his affection. There was thought there, it just wasn't very nice.

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.

Jeez. Do I even need to explain this one?

Of course, mouths should be watched and the older I get the more I learn that not saying something is as powerful and important as saying something in warranted situations. Learning how to pick-and-choose your battles is incredibly vital to any person's mental (and sometimes physical) health. As many times as I'd like to tell the chatter sitting behind me in the movies to please STFU before I drown them in my bucket of stale popcorn you never know who's one letter shy of going postal and your moment of bravery gets you shanked with a straw in the middle of an Adam Sandler atrocity, which in itself is a nightmare.

But there is no way that all situations and/or people deserve my silence just because what they need to hear is rough or anything opposite of verbal sugar. Fuck that. If someone is being a dick you should say something. Assholery can't and shouldn't always be ignored. If you're actively trying to eff over me or a friend of mine you bet your sweet ass I'm going to tell you and them about it. I'm not interested in telling someone they look fat in those jeans but no way will I spend my life sensored into Stepfordville. No freaking way.

Trust me

I have the answer. I mean, the answer. To ev ah ree thing.

Feeling down and need a pick-me-up to jump start your giggle?

Thinks it's funny when your dog winds his head back and forth trying to figure out what that unnatural, unexplainable, other-wordly sound is coming from your computer?

Need to exact some revenge on a mother effer who did you so wrong they deserve to have the equivalent of one of those Star Trek The Movie Legend Of Kahn Part Two crazy-making ear crawling brain eating bugs bestowed upon their every sense?

Behold. It is. Teh Perfection

Signature required

I love my parents, I really do. But they don't have very healthy senses of humor. There was never a lot of laughter in my house and there still isn't. They just don't find a lot of life funny. I used to joke that they were both born 40 but now that I'm that age I realize they were just born serious. I have a very long list of subjects I keep from conversation or save for other company because my parents, well, they're both wound tight as a nuns butt.

I was a fairly good kid. I'm sure my mother would disagree (memories of her yelling "YOU WERE HELL TO RAISE dance in my head) but I didn't do some of the other things that the kids in our social circle did. I never crashed the family car into the golf course pond, I didn't have sex until after high school and I wasn't the one who got kicked out of highschool for smoking pot in the classroom while the mentally disturbed history teacher who wore his pants inside out on a regular basis was at the blackboard.

However, since I was raised by strict parents that weren't so much disciplinarians in the "you're grounded" sense rather than poo-poers of anything resembling crazy, fun or crazy fun I didn't get to do much unless I was sneaky about it. (I'm very good at sneaky.) But I was in trouble all the fucking time and on a very short leash so if I could go a little wild while avoiding a ration of shit at any cost I would.

I didn't know too many kids who were able to keep from rebelling in some way and I was no different. Hell, my "church group" was one of the rowdiest I hung with. In between singing Jesus Christ Superstar and hand-holding praying we were playing grab-ass in the choir robe closet. So it's not my fault that all my peer groups were demented.

I got away with so much stuff I can't believe it. And you might be saying, well no shit, we all got away with practically murder and our parents didn't find out. But the difference with me is that I can't confess any of my (mostly) harmless antics with my parents now that I'm a full-grown up 40 year-old adult because it would STILL MAKE THEM MAD!!

A half dozen or so years ago some of my family were together for some holiday and after dinner the subject of reports cards came up. I was an infrequent stellar student, mostly struggling or not caring and occasionally pulling out a top grade when I was interested in the subject matter or motivated by a truly good teacher. One particularly bad Spring semester in junior high I screwed the pooch but good and ended up with 4 out of my 7 grades big fat D's.

I was so terrified to show my stunning contribution towards my education to my parents that I sweated for weeks during the beginning of the summer, watching the mailbox like a hawk after a fat field mouse hoping to intercept the letter containing my biggest failure to date before my stay-at-home parents got it and I was forced to watch my father's head explode into a fine pink mist and my mother send me murderous glances until I was 27 from the shame of it all because really, what moron gets a D in Home Ec? ~raises hand~

As luck would have it my mother and father were both out of the house playing tennis or something and I had a rare afternoon alone free to watch Let's Make a Deal and raid my mothers Coffee Nips stash when I saw the mail truck pull up at the bottom of our long driveway. I shuffled my chubby ass down the hill as fast as I could go and retrieved the contents of the mailbox. With my hands shaking I rifled through the envelopes and that's when I saw my school logo.

Holy Balls. I couldn't believe my luck! I jumped around and wooted at the dog and hid that fucker in the deep recesses of my closet while my Xanadu album spun on the turntable at high volume, because this was indeed, Magic.

Then I worried for the next 10 years that one or both of my parents would suddenly be aware that there was a missing transcript somewhere and question me about it where I'd then have to come up with a lie so elaborate they'd send me off to mow all 3 acres our lawn just to get me out of their sight. I realized after it was too late to turn back that the agony of fretting about that damn report card wasn't worth the secret I was keeping from my parents.

Until that dinner. That casual conversation sitting around a table post feast when I stupidly thought enough time had passed and my mother and I were at the point in our relationship that I could confess silly school-age transgressions and I brought it up between laughter and story-telling and as I was giggling and smiling at my mother, divulging my long-ago deception, I saw the grin vanish from her face as she stiffened her spine, pursed her lips so tight her mouth nearly disappeared and hissed with the venom of 50 king cobras in heat;

"YOU. DID. WHAT?!?!?!"

My heart stopped, my eyes bulged and my face felt the sting of her verbal slap and I knew this was a place I could never take her. The past was alive and well and the carnage instant. I quickly put on the charm, playfully slapped her on the back, forced a backfire of fake laughter out of my face and said, "Noooooooooooooooo, Mom! I'm totally kidding. HA HA HA HA" and promptly poured her another glass of wine. And she bought it.

Shit. I'll never be able to tell my dad that the reason his truck smelled like curdled milk for 15 years every time it got above 79 degrees is from the time I swiped a full bottle of Kahlua from a friend's house and spilled the entire thing into the freshly laid carpet of the bed while I was making out with a freshman instead of being at the movies like I said I was.

Fuck you Farmer's

I'm not a big fan of physical violence. (Hear me out!) Even though we have a little bitty obsession with watching every brutal, action-packed bloody movie we can get our hands on, I really don't like real-life fighting such as angry fists smashing into a drunken face or chunks of hair yanked out at the roots. I've been witness to a few brawls that left me sick to my stomach and giggling uncontrollably like an escaped lunatic because I'm blessed with inappropriate reactions to extreme stress. (Don't ever hurt yourself in my presence or I'll practically piss myself laughing. Sorry in advance.)

And I especially don't like getting to that scary angry place where my eyes turn from light brown to murderous gold because it's more adrenaline than my body can handle and one of these days I'm really going to take a shovel to the back of some bitch's skull and lord knows I'll get caught and be on trial and probably an episode of Dateline, dubbed the Ample Assed Assasin, then end up in prison as some woman's wife and we all know I make a much better husband than a beotches slammer squaw.

However, there are certain people, places, times where a swift punch to the throat is not only warranted it's deserved. Very much deserved. One such person is the condescending twat from my auto insurance company I had the displeasure of speaking to recently. That bitch kept me on the phone for a useless 45 minutes before I finally had to tell her that it was all dumb and a waste of time and can you please go fuck yourself gently with a chainsaw? Kthxbai.

A few weeks ago I received a confusing letter from my insurance company asking me about how many approximate miles a year I drive. According to some mysterious information they magically obtained they realized they were off on their estimation. The letter stated if I agreed with them I could do nothing. If I protested please sign and return.

In the very small portion of my brain that's able to work out riddles of logistics I realized the way they worded the letter didn't quite make sense and I wanted to know where the hell they got this info anyway and what did it all mean. Did someone install a Lo-Jack in my ass while I wasn't looking? Just what was that nurse practitioner doing down there at my annual last year?

Anyway, I called and got an insurance drone person on the phone, we'll call her, Cunterella, and she proceeded to confuse me more by saying things like, "I don't know where we get that info" and "it might raise your rates", and "I don't know if you should sign and return if you agree so you should sign and return it." All very informative and committal, as you can plainly see.

I mentioned that I had no idea where they got the idea I only drive 7500 miles a year because I work 20 miles from my office and we don't live in a commuter city and if you think I'm taking a fucking bus anywhere you've clearly smoked your breakfast and dropped acid with your pre-lunch chocolate cherry Yoplait whipped fucking yogurt. And I shouldn't be penalized because of it. The best I could get was some hemming and hawing and an I don't know maybe. Great.

A few days later my renewal bill for the next 6 months only came in the mail with $70 added to the total. Seventy stinking bucks! Now, that might not seem like a lot, which in the scheme of things isn't, but when you've just spent a grand on an almost totally fucked up vacation and another grand on hotel rooms, air purifiers, junk food and carpet cleaners because of San Diego Fire Storm 2007, and when you took a look at the bills vs. budget death match title fight and the bills kicked the living shit out of the budget seventy dollars felt like seven fucking hundred.

I called back, extremely unhappy, to ask WTF and why for? Lucky me I once again got to speak to Cunterella and today she was wearing her slick-as-shit sweater & nothing I said got to her. The more irate I got the more condescending she became. It was infuriating. She was a frothing ass-sucking crap bag. And please understand, she earned those titles. She was rude and interruptive and the patronization dripped down her fucking chin like grease from a Paula Dean pork chop.

She actually tried to make a point by telling me she paid more than I did for her insurance. I'm sorry, am I supposed to give a flying fuck about that? Ahh...no. But the comment that really put me over the top was delivered with enough saccharine to grow a watermellon-sized tumor on a lab rat, "Insurance isn't a savings account." Oh no you di'int.

Why we blathered on for so long I have no idea. It was clearly past her closing time and nothing I said was going to do any good. I finally had to tell her the endeavor was pointless and stupid and I was done. It hadn't mattered a bit that I said her company sucked and what they did to me sucked and I wouldn't have been so pissed if I was told WHEN I CALLED THE FIRST TIME that my rate was going to go up like that because I'm in the corporate world too and I know better. I know someone would have been able to tell me a definitive yes, we will be bending you over your checkbook you'll take it and like it, bitch. Then I wouldn't have been so surprised by the shaft shoved up my butt.

I just hate insurance companies. Or at least I hate the way they do business. I'm glad they're there and I've been fortunate to save a lot of money in the last few years because I'm no cheap date, but I loathe the way they have you by the balls all the time. They make billions upon billions while we get barely get compensated. We pay them thousands of our hard-earned dollars and they act like they're going to file chapter 11 if they have to pay out the 10% it costs them when there's a normal claim. I firmly believe insurance agencies are the legalized mafia. Just without the shiny track suits. They have doctors in their back pockets and decide our fates at every turn, mostly not in the consumers favor. I fucking hate it.

I sincerely hope the thousand plus people in my town who lost homes last month in the fires don't run up against this kind of shit. Gawd help those people or supply them with lots of brand new shovels.

Fluff

Because this is Sunday and not only did I clean the bathroom (blick) and finished up my five millionth load of fucking laundry, I took a time-change nap that had me waking up feeling like someone had slipped some rufies into my Crystal Light. The brain, she is fuzzy. I won't even mention my surprise period attack this afternoon that left me screeching "Too soon! TOO SOON!" because when I checked my calender I counted exactly 23 days from the start of my last shark week, for christeffingsakes, which means I enjoyed exactly 16 days of flow-free days and that is a fucking ripoff, yo.

I have a crapload of glimpses of blogging ideas for this month of torture, ahem, I mean great daily writing but nothing is solidified in my mind yet. So I'm going to steal from Krishanna who so kindly linked me on the main Nablopomo site (and I in turn linked her back - kisses!) and who I'm sure it a perfectly lovely person who shares my penchant for the cranky and dang if she didn't make a good point that hopefully (for me) new people are cruising by and some of you might want to know a thing or three about me. And you go ahead and jank this from me if you're so inclined. I cut out a lot of the question cuz I got hungry mid-way through and left to go munch.

Do you have any weird things in your room?:
Since I'm trying to sell my condo all the weird stuff is packed and in the garage. Unless you count what's in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. There's a couple of things in there that could be mistaken for a giant ear cleaner, if you know whatta mean.

If you could have any pet what would you have?:
Dogs dogs dogs dogs dogs. (May they come with a purple Dyson.)

Best thing to do on a rainy day?:
Since we only get 4 of those a year here in Southern California I like to wrap up in a fuzzy blanket and watch movies or read next to a window. Of course I'd only last about an hour before needing to turn the AC back on but a girl can dream.

How many movies do you own?:
Oh shit, I don't know. Half the DVD's I've bought are still in the fucking wrapping. That stuff is like impossible to get off.

Best vacation you've ever gone on?:
I have yet to be able to claim any one trip I've taken as the best vacation. I mostly visit family on any time off I earn and we all know that doesn't qualify. Jeez. I just made myself really depressed.

Coolest person you've ever met?:
My boyfriend. (Please don't puke, it's true.)

Ever taken a trip on a bus?:
Ew, gross, no. Oh wait, in 8th grade I went skiing in Utah with my jr. high ski club. And that's when my body decided to enter me into womanhood for the very first time somewhere between Vegas and Brianhead. Oh. The Joy.

Wildest thing you've done while drunk?:
There are too many to count. And I could be giving away future posts. Y'all will have to wait.

Best time you've ever had at a playground?:
Making out with my bff Matty while we were in high school. And before he was "out."

Ever almost get hit by a train?:
What is this, Oklahoma? No.

Has anyone ever sent you flowers, why?:
Of course, lots, because I'm fabulous.

Ever have an imaginary friend?:
I tried to make one up when I was in grade school but I already knew then it was stupid and fake and my stuffed animals were better conversationalists anyway.

Best color of eyes?:
Personally I like grey eyes but mine are shit brown.

Ever electrocute yourself?:
Holy gawd, did I ever. Once when I was about 19 my bff Shawna and I went to Sea World. After going to the Shamu show and being soaked from head-to-toe with marine mammal poo water we hit the bathroom to pee and clean up. Thinking I'd be oh-so-clever and copy Madonna's little armpit over the dryer thing from Desperately Seeking Susan and I grabbed the damn thing with both wet hands. I felt that shock hit my feet and instantly felt like someone had just shoved a cattle prod up my ass. The pain traveled back up to my head for the next 2 hours before I was OK. One (of many) of the dumbest things I've done for a laugh.

How many phones do you own?:
2. One land line, 1 cell.

Do you collect anything cool?:
I'm a pack rat with a shopping addiction. You do the math. Right now it's photography equipment, which I think is very cool.

How often do you clean your room/house?:
HAHAHAHAHA. ~takes breath~ HAHAHAHAHA.

Best thing to watch late at night?:
Conan. He's high-larious.

What friend do you have the most fun with?:
My boyfriend. He's high-larious. And cute.

Ever caused or been involved in a car crash?:
Oi. Yes, 3 of them, all not my fault. The first was a high-speed (over 100 mph) single car crash that we literally walked away from, albeit limping. Still can't believe we survived it.

Are you creative?:
Oh, I so hope I am.

Favorite class you took in high school?:
Odd enough, Health. Even though the teacher was an asshole extraordinaire.

Something you like to eat that everyone else thinks is gross?:
Spaghettios right out of the can.

Ever think you were going to die?:
Sooner than later? Yes. It's one of my new obsessions, unfortunately.

Have anything on your computer you wouldn't want people to see?:
Heck yes. My scanned high school senior picture for one thing.

What do you think of tongue piercing?:
If you want to go ahead and risk losing your sense of smell and taste be my guest. They are fun to kiss, though.

Favorite place to get food from?:
We are so addicted to Del Taco it's obscene.

Favorite thing to sleep in?:
Tank-top and shorts.

Ever slept outside?:
Yes. I had the misfortune of camping quite a few times as a kid or getting the delusional thought
that spending a night in the backyard would be fun. I HATED it every stinking time.

What's the worst day of your life?:
Three-way tie. The day I had to put my dog to sleep, the day I was told I had cancer, evacuating our home during the fires the week before last.

What did you dream last night?
I can't remember last night but right before I woke up from my nap I dreamt I was with a group of girls and someone was making us swim through water and under rocks or something to go fake SCUBA diving with only our clothes on. It was weird.

Are you having a good day today?:
Yea, sure, it's been alright.

Supah Stah

What is it with guys and comic books? Are they hard-wired to love this stuff? Is there some undiscovered teeny tiny mutation on a chromosome somewhere in the shape of the Superman logo? Is this really a mystery we should unravel? I'm thinking, no. One thing I'm certain of, it's some serious shit. Do not get between a man and his Super.

I've never dated or hung out with a guy that was in to this. Until now. And even then I was fooled for a long time because it just didn't come up. But as Hollywood churns out one action flick after another I've come to the realization that I'm in love with a comic book geek. A person who has carved out and saved a very large portion of his mind for storing, organizing, cataloging, and recalling more comic characters than I could guess.

He seems normal enough on the outside. Multiple tattoos, piercings, likes girls. You know, the regular stuff. And not that he still isn't the coolest mother fucker I've ever known, but I have to tell you. It's more than a little disturbing when you're watching Spiderman 3 (a complete ass-fest, may I add) and when a seemingly nondescript by-character picks up a shirt to replace his prison jumpsuit and your boyfriend casually mentions, "Oh. It's the Sandman." It makes one stop.

"And how the fuck do you know that", I asked. "Can you tell FROM THE SHIRT??"

"Yea", he says, like that saved bit of info in his genius brain is not only important but vital.

And that's not all he knows. We've watched, and I'm not exaggerating here, a few dozen movies that I had absolutely no idea had anything whatsoever to do with any minuscule relation to a comic book and he's busting out detailed trivia so specific I can't believe he still doesn't have a four foot stack of comic books next to the toilet for daily in-depth review.

"Oh", he'll say, "That's the Crap Man. His poo dissolves metal." "And that's Projecto. He blames everything on his friends and makes them feel really bad." "Aww, look, it's Porcupine Pete. He shoots deadly quills from his ass. He's one of my favorites."

I did not make the last one up, I'm sorry to say.

I just had no idea, and unfortunately now I have some idea, the massive scope of comic books, companies, heroes, villains, super powers, semi powers, lame powers, cool powers, and useless characters in existence. I know who Stan Lee is by sight, people. By sight!

And what's with these boys hating any girl that comes near their beloved Boner Boy? What? The poor kid from planet Copulate who fell to earth and right into a giant vat of Viagra isn't allowed to have a girlfriend? What's up with that? Are you afraid his 10 foot phallus won't work if he gets some on the side? How do you know she's a bitch?

But I guess us girls don't have anything to complain or be judgemental about. I'm sure there are a million chicks out there who can tell you the names of every My Little Pony what his or her body color was, butt markings, mane color, and personalities. (Let's not get into their particular scents, shall we?)

As I was doing my journalistic (4 second) research while writing this I came across a site that, well, stunned even me. This gem on one of the pages took the cake:

"It could be said that Pony Utopia is a happy place in my imagination, a land filled with frolicking ponies, green leafy trees, soft yellow butterflies, pink buildings, and blue sparkling water. Then again, it could also be said that I am a raving loonie for loving these little plastic horses with the silky, brushable hair."

Yes. Yes you are. A raving loonie. Hair on fire fucking freak. You. Are.

So I guess boys have their things and we have ours, neither sex is innocent from the lame or weird or obsessive compulsive mania. Let your freak flag fly, brothers, just don't get mad when I make fun of your strange little ass.

TGIF?

Do you know what's worse than spending a week trying to recover from the fact that your neighborhood nearly burned to the ground and you've been driving past armored National Guard vehicles at your local Longs and the roads are crowded with news vans and gawkers and your kitty gives you the hairy eyeball every time you come near her because she's afraid you're going to pick her up and stuff her into her crate then drive her around for 2 hours in the car and your house stinks like smoke and you're grateful and sad all at the same time and your sugar levels are somewhere around 40 blazillion from all the "but it's a mini" Halloween candy you ate and you're getting your period and this month your boobs are so tender that when you carelessly grazed a nipple with your hairbrush it felt like someone had stomped on it with a steel-toed work boot then set it on fire and your insane co-worker had a spaz attack on your face within 5 minutes of entering the building and some dillhole decided to throw a fake bomb on a nearby freeway that they completely shut down in both directions for hours thus fucking to hell your already shitty commute home and you peed a little when you sneezed which makes you feel like 40 might as well be 70?

Having Mmm-Bop stuck on a continuous loop in your head.

That's what.

I (she) was (not) amused...

She (I) loves them.

She (I) can't wait to put them on.

She (I) couldn't decided between the 2.

She (I) was extremely happy about it.

She (I) paid for her eventual bad attitude.

With interrupted sleep.

But it was worth it.






Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get rid of (eat) the metric ton of candy I have left over since we only got 5 stinking trick-or-treators and I think 1 of them was a 30 year-old with a sugar tooth.