Day 30

Daily posting for the month of November has come to an end. It wasn't that hard this year. I really didn't stress about it. I'm sure there are quite a few crap entries but at least I didn't give up or get all bent out of shape trying to be perfect cause we all know there's no such thing and perfectionism leads to inevitable failure which leads to bad feelings which lead to eating mass quantities of chocolate and the eating of chocolate should always be for a happy reason. Well, unless your mother is involved then pound away.

We're also winding down to the close of another year and with Thanksgiving being all stupidly late it feels like Christmas and New Years will be here in fricken blink and how the fuck am I suppose to redecorate the entire house before my boyfriend's mother gets here when I only have like 2 gawd damn days? I'd like to write a terse letter to whoever decides that shit.

In the meantime, I will keep working on not getting stressed out and taking the time to have fun, pay attention to the right things and reflect on the year. And if that involves large glasses of wine then so be it. As long as I'm not driving or throwing air punches at old ladies cutting in my Target line then it's A. O. K. Friends don't let friends drink and shop.

And even though we have another whole 30 days until the the calender turns over to 2009 I'm going to issue a challenge now since I think it takes some practice to get this right. I want you to be nicer to yourself. Take some time to pay attention to how you treat yourself and what your inner voice sounds like.

Does she sound like a nasty teenage girl cutting you down every chance she gets? Is it a viscous guy tearing you apart because you don't look like an airbrushed, anorexic model straddling seatless bike on the cover of Maxim? Do you tell yourself things you wouldn't up with from anyone? Are you nice to yourself?

Now, before you start to think, jesus h., she's given up the bitter for benevolent don't' worry, I'm still a crusty crank and always will be but I've had it up to "here" with beating my own self up for shit I can't change or letting myself either wallow in the boo-hoo's for the things that will be hard to change or sticking my lovely face in the sand and ignoring stuff all-together and it's time to stop that.

That's not saying that there are certainly times when existing on auto-pilot isn't OK and extremely justified. There is nothing wrong with that, it's part of self-preservation and I support it whole-heartedly. It's the letting that turn into crap habits that is the problem. So, here's the deal, my own personal goal,and challenge for anyone else out there wanting to change some undesirable factor in your life is to adopt a simple word, a pledge, a mantra.

Enough.

That's it. That's all you have to do. Be it out loud, whispered quietly, in your own mind, or shouted from the rooftops just say that tiny six lettered word. Enough.

Say it to stop the bullet train of negative thoughts in your head. The next time you're tearing yourself apart for having a fat belly, crows feat, hammer toes, tell yourself "ENOUGH". If you want to lose that fat belly then after the 20th m-n-m you're shoving into your maw say enough.

If you're in a relationship that sucks the soul out of you, is harmful, wrong or dangerous, resolve that it's enough and make the right moves to change it. Know without a doubt that if anyone ever tries to tell you that you aren't enough, you tell yourself you are. Fuck that, of course you are. If some asshole doesn't see it then that's their problem, not yours. Enough!

Have a shitty person in your life that constantly brings you down? Enough! Reaching for that last tequila shot that will cause your panties to drop and a day worth of puking ahead? Enough. Been in that crap-ass job for far too long and hear yourself complaining endlessly? Killing yourself trying to be perfect? Do you think you're not worthy unless something else wants you? Well, let me tell you, you are. Enough.

Spent way to long laying on that couch wallowing in self-pity, self-doubt, self-loathing, self-absorption? Tired of being a zombie living a half-life, dragging around the past like a ball-and-chain? Are you so over being weighed down by regret and flesh and ghosts of the past? That's enough, babe. Enough.

You are enough.

Now go buy yourself something pretty!

The escapist

I'm still a bit high from my 28 hours of non-carnage Thanksgiving with my family. That's not to say there were pa-lenty of times that I mentally rolled my eyed and called my brother an asshole under my breath. And I'm still giving myself props for not losing my shit in a monstrous way when I heard my brother say the exact same thing verbatim that I did to my mom last Christmas that caused her to unhinge her jaws and swallow me whole and treating me like a leper with weeping sores for an entire week saying no much more than go to hell and please pass the gravy.

Somehow I managed to stay breezy the whole time and didn't let any stomach acid of stress boil over or be reactive in any way. I just let it go, which for me is not an easy task. Telling myself that my mom treats me different and always will and it doesn't make me any better or more importantly, worse than my brother or niece or anyone else so fuck it. I'm not getting my ass hair in a knot over it.

Look at me, all healthy and shit.

Dinner was fabulous but as I've been fighting the stupid tummy troubles I didn't eat too much so I wasn't rolling around like a beached whale moaning about being stuffed like everyone else was. And frankly, my mother's inventive style of passive-aggressive cooking always leaves me a little leery. There are plenty of things she's does well but she has this subconscious hangup about putting a twist on food that sets you up for failure.

The stuffing was from a Trader Joe's box that I've made myself before and tastes great on its own if you follow the simple directions. My mother gets the bright idea of adding to it but you end up with a few moist bread crumbs amidst 4 thousand pieces of celery, which I'm allergic to. And I did my best to encourage her not to eat the pumpkin pie that inexplicably grew a colorful and thick layer of mold over night but she wouldn't hear of it and I watched as she scraped a little off with a knife then cut herself a nice, big slice.

Dear Mother - DO NOT EAT MOLDY FOOD. We have a WHOLE NOTHER PIE.

At least we've gotten her to stop putting the turkey guts in the gravy. It's impossible to pick out specks of pulverized spleen from your mashed potatoes, I'll have you know. Plus my dad can't keep his hands off the boiling gizzard, neck, bunghole or whatever disgusting bird organ he so desperately loves so there's nothing left over to make gravy with except the beautiful, beautiful juices.

Things almost took a turn as I was being dropped off at the platform to make my way home. There was a 20 minute debate on where I should be standing (granted, it was a bit confusing with 2 tracks with matching platforms and misleading signs) and my brother's inner grizzly bear was starting to show his fangs, but thankfully my train approached (as my father stood in the middle of the tracks to watch it for fuckssake!) and was stopped long enough for me to ask a porter if it was the right one. I was relieved beyond measure.

My train rides to and from my brother's house were a mini adventure, to say the least. I saw many walks of life and restrained from pounding the cranky old lady who tapped me on the head to tell me to move my suitcase to give another passenger a seat on the crowded train leaving San Diego. Apparently the 10 seconds it was taking me to get situation was a lifetime to wait.

I upgraded to business class on my last train home and was given a complimentary glass of wine that I gladly accepted. It helped alleviate the desire to break the ankles of the woman fucking around with the foot rest on the back of my seat the whole way. Seriously, there were 50 plus fucking empty seats and she sits right behind my stupid ass. Naturally. But I was not murdered in Union Station during my layover in Los Angles so I'd call that also a success.

Best thing of the whole deal? Making this gingerbread trailer with my niece and mom. It was hysterical. A total mess but hysterical. I highly recommend making one. Hope you all had a great turkey day and thank gawd Nabloblahblah is almost over!

WHEW!

I made it. More than 24 hours with my family and nothing bad happened. Not one thing! And despite public transportation freakies and nusances, internally rolling my eyes about 20 times at stuff and having the obligatory worries about my dad, it all went smashingly well without any real smashing!

I'd call that a Success!!

YAY!

Happy Turkey Day

I have so much to be thankful for. And I will be thinking of it all while I'm drinking in the bar car. Wish me luck and have a great day!

Is it over yet?

I'm so looking forward to this 4 day weekend I could cry gravy. 4 whole days. In a row. NO. WORK. It's going to be glorious. Although I'm quite nervous about the next 36 hours since I'm spending Thanksgiving with my family sans whitey and spending the night at my brother's house. With my parents, their 2 dogs and my niece. In a 2 bedroom condo. Pray for me.

I decided not to make the 4 to 5 hour drive since I'm still having that stupid panic attack thing when I'm driving on the freeway (gawd, I feel like an imbecile over that) so I'm taking the train for the very first time. I've been on trains before but not like this so I hope it'll be fun and not a giant suckfest. And there's always the bar car to visit.

I figure that's another good reason not to drive. Since we all haven't been together since Fuckass Christmas 2007 Extravaganza of Shit I'm petrified another show-down will take place so I'm planning on lubricating myself on the way up and then I can drink to forget or celebrate, whichever is required, on the way home Friday night.

I've planned a few things to keep everyone busy, or at least me and the kid, and since my mother won't let me go near the food I don't have to cook. But it's really not my fault that I'm a menace to society when playing chef, my mother never taught me anything, I've had to wing it on my own but I will admit, I, ah, have a little bit of trouble in the kitchen.

The first turkey I ever cooked turned out awesome but it had a slight tinge of a plastic aroma to it since I accidentally left the baggie of turkey guts inside. And I swear I fisted the shit out of that bird and I could not find it. It was exactly like when someone is "changing" a "lightbulb" naked in the "shower" and "slips" off the "ladder" and "falls" onto the flashlight that's now lodged up in their grill. That stuff was jammed way up and in tight. But the people who ate it didn't complain, they just made fun of me a lot.

These days I'm not allowed in the kitchen very often since my idea of a decent dinner is spaghettios straight from the can. And no, I'm not kidding. Don't get me wrong though, I can bake like a fiend. Despite that one banana cream pie that turned out more like banana man creamed in the pie, but I have a pretty big repertoire of goodies that I kick ass making. And I can do a few choice appetizers too. But when things involve, oh, stuff like anything besides cookies it's bound to be a disaster.

Foods such as meat, vegetables and casseroles? Forget it. My chicken is raw in the inside, black on the outside and tastes like whatever was cooked in the pan the time before. With garlic. Burnt garlic.

My vegetables turn gray and my attempt at casseroles resemble the sweepings from a Denney's floor after the dinner rush. I managed to explode an entire Pyrex dish once by putting a rock-solid frozen steak straight from the freezer into a piping hot oven. It's a gift.

Pasta is easy, right? Not when I make it. My al dente will chip a tooth. Want me to add a little extra something to the sauce? No, you don't. Because I will add celery seeds and nutmeg to the ground beef. Those are spices right? Herbs? No? I don't know.

Poultry is cooked at 250 for 3 hours, right? 450 for 5? More salt the better, yes? Would you like another helping? WHY NOT?

Like I said, I blame this on my mother. She never taught me how to cook and even though she can throw some tasty meals together she cuts the mold off cheese and thinks beet juice is better than a fine wine. My father is even worse. The man puts ketchup on lettuce and calls it a salad. When I was in school I'd open my wrinkled re-used utterly embarrassing kill me now full-sized grocery bag at lunchtime to find peanut butter and butter sandwiches. Or peanut butter and mayonnaise. Mayonnaise, people.

And if I was really lucky? Peanut butter and tuna. OK, I made the last one up but I did get the other 2 and how gross is the thought of peanut butter and mayo? Pretty fucking gross, I'll tell you what.

So, I will help where I can on Thursday, trying to stay out of the way. And even though I won't be doing any of the cooking per say, I do have a pretty good recipe for stuffing. Of which I will share with you now. At least this is how I make it.

~ Open pre-made box of stuffing
~ Wrestle with hermetically sealed inner bag
~ Get out sharp knife to finally open stupid impenetrable inner bag
~ Cut finger
~ Silently swear
~ Wrap dirty paper towel around bleeding appendage
~ Drink glass of wine
~ Pour contents of bag into plastic bowl
~ Boil water in glass measuring cup in microwave
~ Sustain steam burn on hand reaching into microwave
~ Swear louder
~ Pour hot water over contents in plastic bowl
~ Splash boiling water on hands and stuffing crumbs into eyes
~ Fucking hell fucking fuck
~ Wipe face with egg-yolk encrusted dish rag
~ Watch plastic bowl melt
~ Stare as contents pour down side of cabinet onto floor
~ God dammit fuckity fuck
~ Drink glass of wine
~ Check to see if someones watching
~ Scoop up contents from floor
~ Transfer to glass bowl
~ Pick out cat hair
~ Stir
~ Drink glass of wine
~ Serve

Voila!

The author takes no responsibility for injuries to important body parts to anyone attempting this recipe. I suggest you have 911 on speed dial.

Just a number

I've often said that I'm a 17 year old trapped in the body of a 40-something woman. Or sometimes it's 22, depending on if I need an ID to drink or get into a bar or buy porn. I've, on occasion, felt like I've reached a certain age that whatever I want to wear/do/see/be isn't appropriate for the number on my driver's license.

I remember shopping one time and seeing some trendy frock and thinking, crap, I can't wear that anymore. But as I get older I realize that most of that kind of thinking is just bullshit. Well, within reason. If I left the house wearing a onesie with glitter lipstick I'd look like a mental patient but for the most part getting older gives you the right to do what you want when you want without having to apologize for it. And if anyone gives you crap about the decisions you make for yourself that don't interfere with anyone else, yourself, or the law than I say go for it! I might make fun of you but who cares!

I still love stuffed animals. I have to stop myself from buying every cute plush thing I see because frankly I don't have the room but sometimes I splurge and why not? Who cares if I have a 4 foot dolphin on the bed? (I will get that someday, I will.) I like toys. 99% of time I buy a happy meal because of the goodie that comes with it. (Ironic that the one I purchased yesterday came with the hippo from Madagascar 2, no?)

I like to step on dried up leaves to hear them crunch under my feet. I covet wee little purses and own several yummy smelling lip glosses from Bonnie Bell. I think farting is hysterical. My adoration for crappy pop music is legendary (I'm downloading the new Mylie Cyrus song right now) and my idea of a good time is playing games until I win them all.

I want a gumball machine in my house and the best present I got for my birthday was a giant lava lamp. I don a tiara any chance I can get, wear my hair in pigtails, paint my toes bright blue, and buy magazines mostly for the pictures. I have a life-long love affair with Snoopy. I wouldn't say no to drinking a cocktail with a curly straw. My dream is to having an entire wall in my kitchen covered in chalkboard paint.

My parents think I'm mostly silly, but silly is fun! I don't ever want to stop being silly. I will never stop being silly. Life is too short not to be silly. And I'm sure Jenny Joseph agrees with me, although I'm wearing purple now.


When I am Old I will wear Purple!
When I am an old woman,
I shall wear purple - -
With a red hat which doesn't go,
and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves and satin sandals,
And say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
and gobble up samples in shops
and press alarm bells
and run with my stick along public railings,
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit!
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at ago,
or only bread and pickles for a week,
and hoard pens and pencils
and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
and pay our rent
and not swear in the street,
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner
and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know meare not too shocked and surprised
when suddenly I am old,
And start to wear purple!

--Jenny Joseph

Doubleyou Tee Eff!!

Is it wrong that I'm SO EFFING PISSED about this?

I DIDN'T THINK SO!!

Snapshot Sunday

In honor of the city I didn't get to play around in this weekend due to the cementbrainia I have going on here are a few shots I took on my last trip in February. It was a great time and hopefully I can do back in a couple of week.

The entire set can be seen here.

Saturday

Dear Universe,

I would just like to get behind the wheel of my beloved car and NOT encounter 15 FUCKING ASSHOLES every 4 miles who put my life in danger by driving like headless IDIOTS who couldn't rub 2 brain cells together to make a fucking SPARK if their very existence depended on it!!

If you could arrange that I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks,

Betty

Sigh

So, I had an x-ray of my head today and will get the results sometime next week to see if there's anything in there. Ah, I mean anything nefarious, not the evidence of actual brain matter. Although a lot of times that fact is in question also judging by the amount of times I injure myself while doing completely insane and risky things like putting on my pants (smashed toe into closet door this morning.)

I went to my allergist dude today and he diagnosed me with a fucked up sinus cavity and in his words I'm "allergic to the world" and he's surprised I don't feel like shit all the time and I said for fuck's sake, doc I DO. So he ordered the fancy brain pikshure, threw some drugs my way and told me it was probably a good idea that I didn't get on a plane today or I could have 'sploded all over the cabin in a not-so-feminine splash of snot and skull fragments.

And that is not how I'd like to finally end up in the pages of People.

Bummed

I just cancelled my weekend trip to San Francisco because it still feels like my head is going to explode at any minute and the high pitched squeal in my right ear reached a maximum high today driving me nearly bonkers and I'm totally bummed. And scared it's something more serious than mystery congestion. And really bummed.

And that's all I have to say about that.

P.U.

It's 1980-something and I'm a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed teenager. OK, I'm a smart-mouthed pain-in-the-ass but somehow I sweet-talked my parents into leaving me home alone while they went traipsing off to Montana for a couple of weeks in the years before they moved there for goo.

I'm left with the house and our 2 dogs to take care of, was given a whopping $60.00 and instructions to "not touch the alcohol, sweetie". Sweetie was said through slightly clenched teeth due to a previous un-heeded warning I've written about before that involved me being very, very stupid with many, many cups of alcohol and my parents getting very, very mad after my many, many trips to puke in the toilet.

Everything goes just fine the first night, until I decide to finish the book Pet Sematary by Stephen King at 1 a.m. on a dark and scary night and the minute I read the last word the dogs started going batshit crazy barking in the garage over I'm sure a demon who wanted to eat my face. Needless to say the dog's got to sleep inside that night and I watched bad late night TV until I finally fell asleep with a crazy lab and a protective doberman on each side of me.

After I survived the scary night and the demon I decided to invite a couple of girlfriends over to "not touch the alcohol, sweetie" and we're having a good time with our naked pillow-fight, cause you know we really do that. Again, I hear those damn dogs going batshit crazy outside in the backyard and I run to the sliding glass door to holler their noisy asses back inside.

And that's when it hit me.

Like and atom bomb of shit.

Right in the nose.

SKUNK.

Oh shit, oh no, not this. Skunk? Damn those dogs! They had chased that fucking skunk again and got sprayed. Now the whole damn house is gonna smell all damn night!

I go into the garage to reprimand the pooches and that’s when I realize...um...there’s like no oxygen in here. WTF? It had been completely evaporated by the fresh ass blast of the scaredy cat skunk. And in all my life I have never experienced anything like that before. I couldn’t breath.

I immediately started gagging. I looked at my dobie and she was foaming at the mouth and squinting, unable to open her eyes. So of course I did the natural thing and grabbed her, drug her over the hose and tried to rinse out the offending substance. This however is where I met my own fate. I too was now covered in skunk butt juice.

I checked my lab and of course her whole neck was soaked. Yay! Another dose of puke smell all over me! Now I’m screaming for my friends to help me, they’re screaming and holding their noses and the dogs are foaming, spitting, snorting and barking at the screaming girls.

I lock them in the garage (the dogs, not girls), grab some money and hop in my car. My only choice is 7-11 since this was pre all-night grocery stores. I hauled ass through the streets, ran into the store, grabbed all the super size cans of tomato juice and plunked them on the counter.

The clerk starts to sniff the air with a look on his face like he just ate a rancid pickle. “Hey, do you smell something”? I say, “Ah…no, I don’t smell anything”, hoping he's none the wise. I pay for juice and haul ass back home. I dash through the house grabbing both dogs on the way and throw them in the bathroom and start filling the tub when I then had to DRAG both chicken shit scared of a little water dogs into the bath to start “the treatment”.

3 giant cans of cold, nasty tomato juice is not my idea of a day at the spa, btw.

Now I’m covered with skunk, tomato juice and dog hair, the muts are shivering and trying to escape from the tub and this shit it’s NOT taking away the smell one little bit and to top it all off now my white lab is a pretty shade of pink.

My mostly useless friends finally did pitch in to help me clean the dogs and get them dried off and just as we’re finally seeing the humor in this nightmare, laughing about the whole ordeal and wondering when I’m going to stop smelling like a wet dog, an Italian restaurant and ass (it was 3 days btw), our lovely state of California decides it’s time to relieve a little tectonic pressure and we have a fucking earthquake.

More screaming girls, more barking dogs and that’s when we touched the alcohol, sweetie.

Tip for Tuesday

If you need a good laugh go to these places. They will make it so.

http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/

http://waiterrant.net/

http://failblog.org/

http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/

http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/

Hey 1950, I miss you!

You know, I'm an independent person, probably too independent, and I'm not one to hang onto the antiquated notions about what the particular sexes should and should not do. Girls not calling boys? Why ever not? Boys can't appreciate nice decor or that makes them fruity - preposterous. A woman can't be president! Well, never mind about that one. But there are certain things that have gone out the window that fall into traditional roles and it PISSES ME OFF!

I've recently had a man let a door slam onto my body when I was going through right behind him. The fuck, dude? I know you saw me! We walked across the parking lot almost in tandem. You couldn't hold the fucking door for me? Fuck forbid you actually let me go through first, like a gentleman would, but to let the shit slam onto my arm? You're a douchebag who needs to pull your head out of your self-absorbed bunghole, you rude jerk.

A few years ago I had 2 flat tires in as many months, both times stranded in busy areas with lots of cars whizzing past me as I struggled and sweat and cursed my way through putting my spare on. Did one fucker stop to help me? No. And the second time I made it to a gas station/convenient mart in a heavily populated area. I mean, I know I don't fit the typical Southern California Hooters girl profile but jesus, you'd think at one person would have stopped to ask if I needed help.

And then there's today. I'm walking to yet another doctors appointment to figure out what the heck is wrong with my dizzy head and hopefully get a solution and I see a fragile, little old lady standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the office building. (Why the fuck there isn't a ramp there I don't know.) And I see several people pass her by without a glance.

I was wondering if she needed help or if she was waiting for someone and before I could inquire she said to no one in particular, "Can someone please help me up these stairs?" as loudly as her shakey, elderly voice could muster. And the 2 men walking past her didn't even entertain the thought of giving assistance. Not a break in their stride.

The younger guy looked back but kept going. The medical person with the white coat standing 8 feet away didn't budge. So of course I went over to her and had to haul her walker thing up the flight of stairs (with my still healing busted elbow screaming with displeasure) and help her keep her balance at the same time while trying to keep mine as well and I made sure she made it all the way into her doctors office.

She was very sweet and thanked me profusely calling me her angel for the day but god dammit I was mad! There must have been 20 individuals that walked past her and didn't even think to ask if she needed a hand. What is wrong with people?

You know - I complain about my parents sometimes, they have their faults and warts and hang-ups, but they fucking taught me to get involved when the situation calls for it. No way would either of them walk by a little old lady looking wantonly up a stack of steps without asking if she's OK. And my dad is 83 years old!! They taught me to be caring and aware and to do the right thing.

I'm not perfect but I hold doors open, I let fuckers merge onto the freeway (unlike the dick who didn't let me on this morning and got my middle finger in his face for his trouble), and I help when I can! I try not to be in my own world or have the "I don't want to get involved" attitude if the situation is right.

There are a lot of studies that show a woman calling rape doesn't get a response from anyone but if she yells "fire" a brigade of heroes come running. There are too many people who have the "it's none of my business" attitude. But what about the every day instances that is being just plain courteous? Looking out for your fellow humans, or animals for that matter? What happened to doing the right thing?

I think those values were left back in the 50's or 60's. I really do. Those people might have been square and hiding all kinds of addictions and secrets and there was way too much oppression but can you get a kid to rescue a cat from a grandma's tree? I doubt it. They're all too busy yanking their pants 14 inches past their asses to care.

Now, I know it would be stupid to pull over on a dark highway at night by myself to help a group of guys in a broken down car, but if I saw a couple having a nasty screaming match with a baby between them at Red Robin I wouldn't walk away. The least I'd do is call mall security. You, of course, have to look out for your own welfare but fucking hell, if you can, lend a hand! I don't want things to go backwards but I sure as shit would like to see an increase in thoughtfulness in the world I live in. That sure would be swell.

Snapshot Sunday

Since I've spent the weekend in bed trying to keep my head from spinning, without the fun of earning it with alcohol, my plans of shooting some new pics didn't come to fruition so I'll have to post some stuff I shot this summer.

At the end of September my beloved and I set off for a monumental road trip. 3012 miles over 7 states in 8 days. Our goal, to have a short but sweet visit with my parents, then his family, then a couple of days to ourselves.

We met those goals but it wasn't easy spending hours upon hours in the car every day. I'd do a road trip again but not like that. However, the visits went surprisingly well (with the exception of one ruined evening with his crazy, drunk uncle) I was thrilled that we escaped my parents house without any type of repeat Christmas incident and whitey & I got along great. Thank the lerd.

We're both lucky to have family living in Montana and before you make a bunch of unibomber black helicopter hick ass jokes Montana is a beautiful state with a lot to offer, even if some of the people are backwoods weirdos. And I had to take most of my photos from a moving automobile, but I was pleased with a few.

Taken in Yellowstone


Lower Falls


America's Next Top Model


The world's shortest river


Desert highway


The entire set can be seen here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bitterbetty/sets/72157608015415491/

Again

My heart goes out to Los Angeles and Orange County. We almost lost our house last year in the San Diego fires and I know first-hand how terrifying it is. I really hope the firefighters can knock the fires out and nothing starts up in SD. No one wants to go through that again.

Spinning

So I have a raging case of vertigo, of all stupid fucking things. I've been having little twinges of dizziness and ear pain for about a month but this week it kicked into high gear and has gotten worse since Monday. Today I feel like some invisable asshole is slowly turning me upside down and I'm spending a good portion of every hour trying not to hurl the pomegranate tootsie pop I ate earlier. I'd joke around and say it's probably a gawd damn tumor but I've had a real gawd damn tumor so it's not that funny.

I happened to have a doctor's appointment yesterday for some other stuff and told her I was spinning right round baby right round and she kept asking me what kind of dizziness. Um, the kind that makes you feel dizzy? Yes, but what kind of dizziness? Is the room spinning or do you feel faint. Well, neither, I said. It sort of feels like a head rush. Then she asked me again, what kind of dizziness. Gah!

Then after she slammed me onto the exam table a couple of times and made me touch my finger to my nose then to her finger (I passed that little sobriety test with flying colors) she determined that she really didn't know what was causing it - maybe an inner ear virus or allergies - and it'll go away. When? I don't know but it should be fun to get on an airplane next week and see if the pressure makes my head explode at 30 thousand feet!

I'm going to leave work early and go get some sea sickness pills, a vat of chocolate and a gallon of Propel. I've never experience motion sickness and always thought those that did were being wussies. I owe you all an apology. So, from the bottom of my dizzy, nauseous heart, I'm sorry. I'm not going to hold your hair while you're puking over the side of a boat or anything but I won't make fun of you any more. Much.

A little off the top, please

Personal grooming and how much maintenance you want to do on your own body is up to you. I know it changes with cultures (I'm looking at your hairy armpits, France) and with generations (remember when it was a whispered topic of scandal if a lady colored her hair?) and changes with age (my upper lip is a bit fuzzy, eh, whatever.)

But, I do believe looking good equates to feeling good and letting yourself totally go like a hippie living on a commune using a bucket for a toilet and having dreadlocks down to your taint is unappetizing for everyone. I also understand if a mom is so tired and haggard trying to corral rugrats all day she can't see the point of donning more than sweats that will just be puked on my noon and piling dirty hair into a ponytail, however, looking like you just crawled out of a Walmart hole is not good for you or anyone else. I might not be a supermodel but I'm clean and smell good 99% of the time.

That being said, I have some advice for what not to do concerning hair. These may or may not be from personal and excruciating experience.

Hair coloring:
Do not buy a container of funky hair color and apply it to your dark brown hair without knowing the first fecking thing about the process. Oh, important things like lifting the natural color of your hair before depositing the contents of Paul Mitchell's Cool Blue onto auburn locks which will not be a lovely shade of azure but more like guacamole vomit. Let a professional do what they're trained to do. That's why they get paid good money, to not fuck up your hair. Or be prepared to explain why the bottom 5 inches of your long locks look like toxic waste.

Hair conditioning:
Despite what you might have heard out of the corner of your ear while flipping channels on a hungover Sunday morning smooshing an entire over-ripe banana does not add moisture, shine nor body to your hair. It will, I promise you, disintegrate into a slimy, stinking mess of fruit jizz snot hardening into a quick-set cement causing you to spend the next several days and endless washings trying to get the hot mess off your skull. Save your pennies, buy something from the beauty supply and keep products from the kitchen away from your body.

Hair trimming:
(No, I'm not talking about the hair on your head, I've never in my life cut my own hair because my mother probably threatened me with a slow and painful death if I ever put a pair of scissors near my noggin' and I never wanted it screwed up worse than she did herself when trying to "tidy up my bangs" which always ended up with me crying, her yelling and my hair looking like a fell face first into a fan. I'm talking about downtown.)

Do not use razor sharp nail scissors to trim your trim. I'm a believer in keeping the forest cleared, if you know what I mean. No wild woods on this woman. Sure, when I've been single and going through dry spells I let things get all granola but I prefer not to mess around with all that jazz and I know my partner appreciates it but there are better, safer ways to take care of this if you want avoid the dreaded Brazilian but they don't involve squatting over a cracked mirror and using microscopic but deadly scissors that will catch a chunk of oh-so-delicate skin. And while you're sitting there bleeding all over the bathroom floor wondering how you're going to explain this to the guy stitching you up at the Urgent Care you will regret that decision.

Hair trimming part 2:
Do not use a dull razor to shave your asshole. I believe that is self-explanatory. (And don't get all ew, that chick has hair on her bunghole because ya'll know you have it too. I don't know why God decided your crinkle star needs a few stray hairs in that area but there you have it.)

Hair waxing:
Do not wax yourself. Just don't. Because let me just tell you, if do you choose to do some home waxing with one of those kits where you warm up the goo and try to spread the thick layer of molten lava onto any part of your tender anatomy do not, I repeat, DO NOT wait ONE SECOND longer than the instructions recommend or you will feel an unholy pain that will bring forth salty tears of instant regret and slam your asshole involuntarily shut for at least an hour. And there may be some puking. And bleeding.

11/12

14 years ago today I walked down the aisle and married the biggest asshole ever.

OK, he wasn't an asshole immediately before and after the wedding but I knew it would never last and shouldn't have gotten married and went through the whole exercise in pain for the wrong reasons but I tell ya, it was one hell of a great fuckin' party and I looked awesome.

However, I don't recommend doing what I did. I was a stupid 27 year-old kid who'd been with a motherfucker for almost 6 years already and was miserable part of the time through most of it. I knew 6 months into the twisted relationship that it wasn't right, good or healthy but I was too chicken to leave. I vividly recall the instant the tide turned and I knew, knew I'd just made a huge mistake.

We were driving somewhere and having a normal conversation but I inadvertently hit some hot button and he about ripped my head off going 75 mph on the freeway past the mall. I remember sitting there, choosing to hold my tongue and thinking, I just created a pattern. If I don't tell him he's shithouse crazy if he thinks he can talk to me like that then he will do it again. But, that stupid wuss fear got in the way and I kept my mouth shut.

And who knows if it truly would have made a difference if I spoke up at that moment. If I made him take the next exit and drive me home, making a loud-and-clear statement. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't have changed the course of our relationship. I doubt it. I was too dependant on having someone "want" me to feel worthy. I needed to have a boyfriend then a husband to prove that if a man chose me then I was good enough.

I don't feel that way anymore.

I'm in a relationship because I want to be there, not because I need to be there. Took me a long time to figure that out and I would never say I don't have my insecure moments, but I know I'm fine on my own and what I think of myself is the most important thing before what someone else thinks of me.

I'm much, much better at picking and chosing my battles. At paying and giving attention to the important things. I've worked hard on my communication skills and picked a guy who does the same, has the same goals, is in it for the same healthy reasons. The road isn't smooth as glass but it's a hell of a lot better than something littered with killer landmines.

As for my x-husband? I knew on the last day of my honeymoon I was in deep doodoo. I realized as I was crying alone in the bathroom on our first Valentines day as a married couple that I wanted out and agreed with myself I needed to stay a year so my parents didn't have tandem heart attacks over the 20 grand they'd just spent on my big, fat white wedding. I ended up lasting more than 2. 2+ years that took me 5 to get over. But that's all another story for another time.

I'm sure the fucker is out there somewhere, wearing his dirty sweats, taking advantage of his parents and being a dick to some other girl. I don't think of him often, except for the thousand dollars he never paid me back, that I'd like to see but I think icicles would be hanging from my tits before that happened.

This day doesn't mean anything to me any more but a tiny little wee small part tucked back in the recesses of the naughty part in my brain hopes he thinks of me before the night is through and this is what he sees.



Ha ha. Eff you, a-hole.

7 days later

One week ago my country voted in a new president. A man who has restored my hope. A man that I pray will fix the things that need to be fixed. A man that has made history. Wonderful, rightful history. I can finally say again that I'm proud to be an American, something I've struggled with for the last few years.

I don't get political very often but I've been in a state of bliss for a week, excited at the prospect of the good that can come. Now, I'd like to say the same about California. But that will take reversing this stupid, discriminatory, assbackwards, offending piece of shit Proposition 8. I pray to my God, the one who loves everyone, that this can be done.

As I told my gay best friend, who's much more affected by this, and rightly so, you are not less by the color of your skin, you are not less by the size of your body, and you are not less by the person you love.

I don't know anything about Keith Olberman (apparently he might be nuts?) but I think he sums it up with a powerful and extremely well-said message.



Get your shit together, California. Take Obama's lead and get your shit together.

Crushin'

Sometimes I'm a little late to the party. Be it circumstance, innocent ignorance or my rejection of most things wildly popular until the hype wears off and then I'll get on the bandwagon. Like with SUV's. I sure picked a great year to buy one of those! But most of the time it's something I didn't give a lot of thought to until I tripped over it on my own then said to myself, why the hell didn't I do this sooner?!?

Since the writers strike fucked up our television watching for nearly a year and this summer I couldn't take Dirty Dancing one more effing time I started to rent TV shows from Netflix. And that's where I discovered Dexter. Seriously, if you haven't watched this show or you've caught it on broadcast channels I implore you to rent every season you can on DVD and pay your cable company whatever they want for Showtime on Demand and catch up with the rest of us. It's that good.

It's grizzly as fuck but the story lines are entertaining and the tension is almost too much to bear but not quite and the music will haunt your dreams in a good way. It's funny, too. The cast is superb and writing top notch, although I can't figure out why the freck they put the female police chief in the worst wardrobe of pastel nightmare suits every single week. She looks like a demented Easter bunny with tits. So distracting. Beyond that, it's an absolute must see. If you loved Six Feet Under you will love Dexter.

As I was finishing up the last season of Dexter on DVD my friends started talking about a new show and giving it rave reviews. I knew it was on HBO and my HBO was currently screwed up because my dumb cable company is just that, dumb. So I called and told them to stop being dumb and fix my shit and btw, please give me extra stuff with On Demand type things and they did and that's when I discovered I could finally see the show my friends had told me to see and thank you LORDY LORD that I did because now I'm OBSESSED with this:

Oh my good gawd am I obsessed. There's only been 10 episodes so far but they are 10 packed-with-awesomness episodes and let me tell you, if you google this guy you won't get much. It'l be a whatever endeavor because really, he's sort of a plain Wayne in his past roles, but holy crap on a stake, is he not ever sexy brooding you can suck on my neck anytime HOT when he's playing Bill the vampire.

And this isn't the very best pic but the brood thing - this is what I'm talking about.

That man can give brood like no other. And that accent. ~swoon~ And when his fangs pop out with that little whoosh-click, quick as could be, well, I'd let him bite me wherever he wanted to. He could pinch the fat on my underarms. He could borrow $50 bucks and not pay it back. Just chomp on my neck for awhile and give me that look. Sex. On. A. Stick.

Oh, and this show also has great writing and is entertaining as hell and I've discovered I have a major boner for vampires. Probably something I've been repressing for a long time but not any more! I love vampires and I'm not afraid to say it! At least the kind like Bill. Nice Southern gentlemen blood suckers that give you the big "O" after draining a pint or two. Maybe from my inner thigh...

Man, I can't wait for Sunday.

Snapshot Sunday

Well, I must say, I let things get too far and I think what weakened pulse my blog had left before I joined NaBloPoMo this year is nearly gone. Disappointing but true. I'm trying to find the point of keepin' on keepin' on. I've never been one to shout to hear my own echo. It's not as fun if someone isn't there with you to hear your voice reverberate off the mountain. I dunno. I'll give it a couple more days but it might be time to close the old gal down for good. We'll see.

In the meantime, I've been having a ball playing with new and old photos in my jr. version of Photoshop, adding layers and textures and playing with doo-dads I keep finding as I fiddle around. It's a major time sucker, though. I can spend a good 2 hours screwing around with one photo and that doesn't get me any closer to the long list of to-do's I've got going right now. Especially for my Etsy shop. But it sure is fun to see a previously discarded as crap photo turn into something sorta cool.

Here are some I've made recently.

Love

My 10 favorite things today:

1. Naps
2. Ice cold water
3. Naps
4. A surprise present from a friend
5. Naps
6. Saltine crackers
7. Naps
8. A long, hot shower
9. Naps
10. Naps

Voyeur

I love people watching. Going to a really populated place like Disneyland is ripe for this and whenever I go I try to take some time to just sit and observe the folks walking by. Or count how many black socks with sandals combos I can find. Then I go nuts because crowds make me crazy and I'll have a melt-down tantrum if I don't get the fuck outta there.

Today I was in Walmart. Yes, I know, boo hiss scratch my eyes out but I'm broke as a joke and they be cheap so put on a curse on me and be done with it. And when when I'm there I'm usually so freaked by the jammed up aisles I start to scream on the inside until once again, I can get the fuck outta there.

Somehow this morning I remained fairly calm and took note of the usual freaks on parade with more observant eyes. Which is seriously the only way you can survive that fucking place because gawd damn, what a freakin' nightmare. It's almost not worth it to save 50 cents on a box of 100 calorie fake ding dongs. Christ.

Unfortunately some things I saw were disturbing to say the least but I held it together. And I do my best not to be a judgmental asshole, but I can't always help it. Like when I meandered down the craft lane looking for a supply I need and as I got about 5 feet away from an elderly Walmartian woman stocking a shelf she let out an audible and slightly impressive gurgly poot from her nether regions without so much as a glimmer of embarrassment on her face.

And as I turned my cart around as fast as possible, but not obviously so, to avoid walking through her freshly emitted ass cloud I thought to myself, you go on with your farty self old lady! That's right! Let 'er rip! You've earned the right to cough in your pants whenever you want! And then I threw up just a little.

Next I ran across an adorable young family. Young mom. Young dad. And cute little baby in the cart. Cute little boy cherub with a cute little crew cut and not so cute caterpillar eyebrows engulfing his wee little face. I know a baby can't help it but dammit, that poor kid looked like a tiny version of Groucho Marx minus the mustache. Seriously, I ran into them about 5 times and it just got worse. I feel bad for the little tyke but that was weird! I've never in my life seen a baby with eyebrows let alone big, thick, dark mini bushes crawling across his forehead. Eesh.

As my claustrophobia meter was about to go off I encountered one more oddity I wasn't prepared for. Another Walmart employee came dashing down my aisle and atop his head sat the worst toupee I've ever seen in my life. This thing looked like a road killed skunk. A pile of soiled brillo pads. A petrified wolverine. It was spectacularly awful, adhered all askew to his dome with wispy tufts of fuzzy gray hair sticking out the bottom.

I mean, my lord, is that better than being bald. Really? Looking like you have the muffs of 10 hippie chicks glued to your skull? That is preferred over a shiny pate? I wanted to pull him aside and say "Bald is beautiful, man! Throw that fried squirrel away!" But he was gone in a flash and I didn't want to get bashed in the face with discount chips.

I'm no better than anyone else and I know there was probably someone looking at me going, Oh Emm Gee, Becky, look at the size of her butt, but I tell ya, people watching is Eff Uu Enn.

This is what I get

An acquaintance of mine has been touting the succulent wonders of a certain candy bar that I've never had. I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm a crack smoking idiot if I don't run right out and purchase said goody but it has proven to be an elusive bitch and as much as I've been looking I haven't come across her beloved bar until yesterday.

As I was returning back to work after picking up my automobile from the ripoff over-priced whores Honda service department I felt a little peckish and stopped to pick up some lunch at one of the hoity-toity groceries in La Jolla you'reaworthlesspigifyoudon'tdriveahummer, California near my workplace.

While cruising through the throngs of Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses and designer dogs, trying to find some sushi among the free range starfruit and Peruvian purified by pious part-time priests bottled water, I spied the candy aisle. Sorry, the Ruelle de Sucrerie, shoo shoo poo poo. And what did my little eye spy but a Zagnut bar! The one and only sweet my friend has been bugging the shit out of me about.

Not one to pass an opportunity to munch on something bad for me I snatched it from the shelf with cat-like speed and trotted to the checkout (where I was soundly reprimanded by the snooty clerk for fucking up the cash back feature that, may I say, was stupid beyond all measure and their electronic cc slider thingy was over-sensitive and tried to give me $200 instead of $20 because when I gently and delicately barely touched the zero button it fucking freaked out and ran across the damn screen.) But I digress...

After returning to work and eating my over-priced and substandard sushi it was time to finally consume the candy confection I've heard so much about. I picked it up and scanned the packaging and was surprised to see there was no chocolate involved in this tantalizing treat. Hmm, I said to myself, I wonder what could be so good about it. No chocolate = no fun but I'm a gamer and a sugar fiend and would probably eat a dog turd if it was covered in frosting.

I pealed back the red wrapper and was perplexed by what I saw. It looked...fuzzy. Sort of like a fish stick. And not a color found in nature. This could be bad, I said to myself. I ingest enough cat hair to choke a chicken, I don't want to purposefully gobble up the edible equivalent of a mohair sweater covered in tuna sprinkled with pesticide but what the hell, I'll give it a shot.

I took a hearty bite, this was candy after all, and my first impression was, shit, I just bit into a compressed stick of wood shavings but then the taste hit my buds and it was good! Wait. Toasted freeze-dried coconut bits? Bad. But wait! A delightful peanutty taste. Good! Wait. Freeze-dried coconut PLUS a peanutty taste. BAD. But wait! It's sugary and sweet and not so awful. T'was GOOD! But wait again!

GAWD DAMMIT. THIS SHIT IS ALL STUCK IN MY TEETH LIKE HARDENED LAVA AND MY SHIRT LOOKS LIKE I RAN THROUGH A SAW MILL IN A HIGH WIND AFTER BEING DOUSED WITH HONEY! WTF?!?

Then I proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes picking pulverized floor laminate lodged in my molars but hey, it was sweet and not so horrible but kind of a waste of calories and without chocolate it's sort of like eating white label cookies that are crushed at the bottom of the bag. They're no Oreo but will do in a pinch. So, in conclusion, and on a scale of 1 to awsome, I give the Zagnut a big, fat MEH.

Can I get a Wah Wah?

One of the best things I've ever witnessed in all my life has become a joyful, internal mantra of mine. An inside joke running through my own head I enjoy endlessly. Sometimes paired with a loud verbal proclamation that usually causes those within earshot to wonder what the hell I'm talking about and just what exactly is my problem. This, of course, makes me even happier because I'm inherently evil and making someones prim little head snap around in surprise makes the devil on my left shoulder giggle like a schoolgirl. It just never gets old.

I've also attempted to epitomize the players in this story, borrowing lines and actions with thankful glee, to gain an advantage during a tense situation a few times. Although something usually gets lost in the translation and my efforts to weasel out of a predicament fall short. However, I encourage you to use the following and see where it gets you. Might be surprised. And besides, it's fun.

It was a normal Saturday afternoon and I was shopping in Target. Or it could have been a Thursday night. Or a Monday afternoon. Or any friggen day of the week since most people know Target is my self-proclaimed house of worship and on this particular occasion the angels sang on high and communion was served. Granted, it was musak being pumped through a loudspeaker, a bag of Hershey kisses and a liter of diet coke in my shiny red cart, but it still counts.

I'd made my way around the right side perimeter of the store, as is my usual Target trekking style. Past the clothing, jammies, purses, jewelry. Cruising through the shoes and picking up a few things here and there. (Very important necessary items, so shut up). Ignoring the men's clothing and hardware, but looking wantonly at the doggie isle.

My next move is usually down the home section for some decorating ideas, but today I made a right instead of a left. And I'm eternally grateful that I did. Inexplicably, perhaps through divine intervention (love you Target!) I ended up in a toy isle. Shielding my eyes from the blindingly pink Barbie boxes and getting wistfully woozy over the Easy Bake Oven.

And dammit, I never got one of those as a kid and I'll never forgive my parents for it, even though they knew I'd eat the cake batter in it's little miniature cake pan before it ever had the chance to slowly broil under the power of a 60 watt light bulb, they still should have gotten me one. Now I can't cook worth a crap and I still eat batter so who didn't learn their lesson? Huh mom and dad? WHO? But I digress...hmf.

I love toys and always will, so I was somewhat mesmerized and having fun silently oo-ing and awe-ing over the new-fangled play dough accoutrement's that involved shapes and squeezy things and bright colored doo-dads instead of my mother's broken, oily rolling pin. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an obviously haggard young mother toting 3 very small children turning up my isle.

She was pushing the cart with a big fat baby stuffed into the front seat. His chubby, naked feet hanging through the leg holes. There was a young toe-headed boy standing quiet as a mouse at his mothers hip that appeared to be about 3 1/2 and a wee girl, long ringlets spilling down her back, who looked about 2. (Jesus lady, tell your husband to get off ya once and awhile.)

There seemed to be a little scuffle and I was trying to not give my eves-dropping away while I inched ever closer to the scene unfolding before me. Like a Ninja, I am. The mother grabbed the little girl with one hand and took the baby's foot with the other and I heard her loudly, but with straining restraint say "What did you do??" "What DID you do!?!"

I couldn't figure out what the hubbub was about since I hadn't seen anything obvious out of the corner of my voyeuristic eye and none of the kids had made a peep but it was clear something heinous had gone down.

And that's when all hell broke loose.

Or rather the baby, who I realized had been been doing one of those 5 minute inhales of rugrat rage finally exhaled with a scream that could shatter glass, melt your eardrums right down your face and kill a full-grown dog dead on the spot. With his next opened-mouthed pause between howls I heard the mother once again ask the little girl, who was now sporting an impressive pout, "Did you bite your brother's foot??" "DID YOU?"

The bitee was calming down pretty quickly, so now it was the biters turn to express herself. The mother was still pointing to the baby's foot and was leaning down into the little offenders face making it very clear that "you DO NOT EVER put your MOUTH on your BABY BROTHER and BITE him. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

I could barely contain myself. It was like theater. I felt for all of them. The exhausted mom, the poor kid with teeth impressions in his toes and the little girl who, I imagine, felt completely warranted in dishing out her own rough justice however, getting caught sucks. Getting caught and your ass ripped by your mom in public sucks double. And I know a thing or eleventy thousand about that.

Little Shirley Temper, in all her awesomely selfish 2 year-old glory, did not care a fucking wit about the pain she herself had inflicted on her brother and no doubt having a damn good reason in her own mind for doing so. With her pudgy arms tightly folded across her chest and her bottom lip pushed out as far as it would go she stomped her foot and hmph'd loudly, completely ignoring the angry inquisition and giving her irritated mama a little taste of the hormonal teenage years to come.

The requested apology was not coming and I had a feeling hell could freeze over right there between the action figures and Lego's before any true remorse would be shared. And then it happened. A moment of truth so pure I still wish to this day that could have soaked up this scene just a little longer.

The little girl had reached her end. She threw her head back in glorious melodramatic fashion. Sucked in a huge, weepy breath in short staccato bursts. And with all the diva drama of an academy award winner proclaimed with great fervent indignation as powerful as her little voice could profess she said:

"I WANT TO BE HAP-PEEEEEEEEEE!"

And really, who can argue with that?

Too nervous

Too keyed up to think. After months and months of having daily political enemas it all comes down to tonight. I'm so afraid the way I want things to go will not. And baby doesn't like not getting her way.

I feel like this country is a drowning victim that has been left to splash in shark infested waters for so long its skin is pickled and raw and there's only a few last breaths left before the carcass sinks to the bottom of the ocean. Please, let a life ring be thrown. Let the hypothetical coast guard come with warm blankets and cool, fresh water, and please, please let the healing begin.

Clearly the only way to get through this night, while we anxiously wait for the news on important Props and the biggest race of them all, praying for the rescue we all need, is drinking Irish whisky and watching Michael Myers chop up horny teens on TV. Clearly.

Eff you, Hershey

I love Halloween. I've often said it's my favorite holiday but I don't think that's true any more. For a long time I hated, nay, rejected with a pissy passion, Christmas, but now I'm fuckall crazy about it again. (I don't even mind that little plastic mangers are jammed up against the skeleton candles on store shelves but Christmas music playing within hours of stumbling home from the party where you drank too many booberry martini's and flirted with Darth Vader? Really? Just, no.)

And since the boy and I started our super rockstar kickass tradition of finding each other the most hideously awesome Valentine's Day gifts for 10 dollars or under that holiday fights for one of the best but I will admit, there's still something super fun about Halloween and it just might have something to do with the candy.

I mean, I know I'm an adult and I can buy anything I want at any time but feasting on fun size Snickers for breakfast and pawing through the candy bowl inbetween tricker treaters to snag a coveted 100 Grand bar (screw that little Velma, she can have the Twix) it's just somehow more fun.

Until now.

Christ on a sugar cookie am I candied out. I don't even want to think about chewy caramel or tasty chocolate or the thought of picking remnants of Skor out of my teeth. I don't want to hear the crinkle of a wrapper or imagine the pop of a Crunch bar or contemplate the goodness of a Peanut Butter Cup melting on my tongue.

I want to brush my teeth for a year, eat vegetables and take a walk instead of finishing off the potof hot fudge, for gawd's sake. I OD'd. And how. So no more spending the day licking the sweet bits of cocoa from the corners of my mouth. Walk past the co-worker's desk with the full jar beckoning. DON'T BE WEAK TO THE SWEETS!

Ironic that my dentist's office called me today to set up an appointment for my overdue cleaning. I'm just praying I don't have 14 cavities because after all the sugary confections I've consumed in the last week I won't be surprised if half my teeth fall out before next Monday.

Now excuse me while I go spend the next 3 months on the treadmill.

Snapshot Sunday

Last week I took my best friend out for a little birthday excursion of scenic driving, photo-ing and pie eating. We headed up to a small town called Julian that rests in the Eastern part of San Diego county, our version of the country, and known for its rustic flavor, apple orchards and bakeries. (Mmmm, pie.)

The old-fashioned soda fountain also cooks a mean burger even though you might get some pervy attention by one of the town "characters" dressed in full Tombstone-era regalia who stares a second too long at your boobs but whatever, the iced tea was cold and the price was right.

One of our goals of the trip was to find the town cemetery and hopefully get some good shots, a location we've both been wanting to hit. We quickly found it a the top of a huge hill and made our trek up the crude, railroad tie steps to the graves, hoping to find some really cool, old headstones. What we hadn't really counted on was how sad some of the markers would be.

Of course, death is inevitable but it still sucks and seeing the babies graves was heart wrenching, as were the young people and headstones that gave a lot of information. "Wife and mother." "Beloved brother, father, son, and friend." "He always took the short cut home." But we also saw a lot of people that lived long, long lives. We hoped fulfilling ones.

As melancholy as it was, we tried to be respectful and it's a good reminder that life is short. Shorter still for some, so you'd better make it good. Flowers grow in the middle of poop, you know. (Hey, I should stitch that on a pillow.) So take a moment at least once a day to say, you know, I have a lot to be thankful for. I swear, it helps you see right through the stinky shit.

OK. Enough lecture. Here are some pics. The rest can be seen on my Flickr account.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaack

I've set the lofty goal of posting every day in November to participate in NaBloPoMo. Which is funny coming from someone who's written, what, 4 times this year? But I'll do my procrastinating best. I can't promise entertainment but at least I'll be here!

Maybe I can distract you with shiny objects and candy. If not, I put out, so there's always that...