Someone take my face, please

Thank you all so much for the kind words and most of all for the perspective you've given me this week. Diane told me at our visit in December that she was leaving this world without regret, then said she worried her mothering might not have always been the best which I disagreed with (anyone who cracks their 2 teenage daughters heads together when they're being bitches gets an A+ in my book), but I was glad to hear that she didn't have any monkeys hanging out on her back at the end of her life.

Thinking about my last day with her and from reading your comments (3 times each) it made me look at the subject of regret differently, since I've been beating my own ass pretty darn good the last couple of days. I've always thought that anyone without remorse or thoughts of self-accusation were lying to themselves. In fact, I still think it's dangerous to meet anyone who says they regret nothing they do because what stops them from perpetrating whatever harmful thing they want? They won't care so what's preventing them from eating a bag of puppies or worse? It's a scary thought, isn't it.

But perhaps there's a fine line between regret and truly letting go of things you cannot change. Maybe when you're on your death bed, or hell, in living your life too, it's not about fooling your own mind but accepting that things cannot be changed now. I know so many of us spend lifetimes kicking the shit out of ourselves over situations that happened a hundred million years ago. Circumstances beyond our control, or happenstances that took twists and turns and the universe was dictating the tides of change and whatever shit went down it's done and over with now. A bell cannot be unrung so stop squeezing it with all your might. You know?

Things happen the way they happen and it's time to stop staring backwards and pay attention to today while looking forward to tomorrow. Move on and savor every fucking minute you can. Of course, the threat of regret, having a moral compass and being a person who possesses sympathy and empathy keeps people from devouring that bag of puppies, but it's a waste of precious time and energy to wallow in the past. The most important thing is to learn from your mistakes or situations that went belly up but do not harbor regrets forever, dragging them around like invisible balls and chains. Eventually they'll weigh you down for real.

Life is too fucking short.

It's true. I didn't see her one last time. It just didn't work out. And if I'm in that situation again I won't let that happen, I'll do more, try harder. But we had a wonderful time on that Saturday afternoon and we both got say how much we loved each other, how much we meant to each other, and I was able to tell her how special she was to me. I was lucky to have had the 30 + years of experiences with her. And that's what I will now carry with me forever.

_____________________________________________________

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Still sick. Still with the hacking and sneezing and FREAKING NOSE TICKLE. This fucking cold has been like a week-long allergy attack with a hangover and constipation. Don't think I'm kidding about the constipation, either, stupid cold medicine. And (once again) thank you for all the nice comments you left. I was going to reply on that post but I don't want to get my viral germs all over you nice people.

By Saturday morning I knew my crud had taken a turn for the worse and I drove my snotting ass to urgent care where I witnessed a teenager sobbing and holding her guts with her mother staring in the opposite direction, lips pursed in disgust, knuckles white from clutching her handbag in anger. Me thinks the head cheerleader had more fun than I did on Friday night but ended up feeling much worse by the morning. I felt like shit but at least I hadn't puked peppermint Schnapps for 5 hours straight and I wasn't going to be grounded until the age of 25.

I was finally called back to the triage area and after I refused to step on the scale (nurse: but you have to, me smiling: no I don't) the doc spent a quality 4 minutes with me and diagnosed acute bronchitis of which I said, "Really? Was it my impersonation of an asthmatic sea lion that gave it away?" That did not get a laugh, can you believe that? Someone in the medical profession who doesn't possess a sense of humor. Shocking. I. Know.

I, in fact, was actually told I have asthma late last year so I guess this bronchitis thing is nothing to scoff at since I got a wide-eyed and poignant warning from Dr. Chuckles that THIS IS SERIOUS, YOUNG LADY, TAKE THE MEDICATION AND KEEP YOUR INHALER CLOSE BY. Jeez, doc, OK. Chill out. ~bark~

I went to the pharmacy and got a bottle of bright red prescription extra special cough syrup that was supposed to be jam-packed with codeine but let me tell you, not a fucking deine have I found. Not only does it taste like liquid asshole but it doesn't give me even a hint of a buzz. I get a better high from the Vick's Vapor rub I've been slathering all over my chest. What a rip.

While I was at the drugstore a poor little old lady in front of me was arguing that her "diabeetus" strips couldn't possible cost that much and there's no way she'll pay that amount and the little girl with the white coat said, I'm sorry ma'am, but you did pay that much last month and your insurance sets the price then the entire 4 sentence exchange was repeated again and again and again. I felt bad for the geezer but fucking hell, just call your insurance company and get the fuck out of my way before I cough up a lung.

Then some dude was trying to give everyone behind the counter shit about having to wait another 5 minutes for his toe-jam cream or whatever and launched into a tirade about why does it take so long it's never taken longer than 10 minutes before and finally I'd had enough of humans so I raised my raspy voice and said "it took longer because it's a Saturday morning at the height of cold and flu season SO STOP GIVING THEM SHIT!" He looked a little scared, grabbed his paper bag and left. Everyone behind the counter smiled at me except I sort of scared the kid ringing me up too. Sheesh, people are so sensitive. ~hack~

Since I was again loaded up with drugs and lots of free time with the sneezing and the pouting I picked up some movies to pass the time while I was consumed with consumption in bed. I decided to get flicks that I would consider chick-ish, or at least things whitey wouldn't be interested in seeing since he had still gone on our mini-vacation to vist his friend where he was busy having fun and NOT CALLING TO CHECK ON ME. Ahem. (Sorry, babe, but you deserve a little sac pinching over that one.)

Anyway, I picked up 4 movies that I will now warn you NOT to get because they were each exceptionally awful in their own unique ways.

Brain-sucking dung:

John Tucker Must Die. What a pile of teenage excrement. You could practically smell the beer and sliced carrots laced crap. Despite this fact this one was the by far the least offensive shitbag I watched, it was still nearly unbearable and I think I lost about 5 IQ points in 90 minutes. Unbelievable characters. Unbelievable circumstances. Unbelievable that I paid for it.

Someone on the IMDB message boards had the audacity to compare this brainless pile of poo to Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Of which I say, listen you uneducated panty-sniffing heathen. John Tucker couldn't share the same air in the same country on the same planet as Ferris Bueller. John Tucker isn't worth the tiny shreds of shed skin on the soap scum floating in the used bathwater of Ferris Bueller. John Tucker is not, never was, has no hopes in every layer of hell that exists, ever going to come close to the perfection that is, FBDO. So SUCK IT hottboi105. You are an idiot.

Next up and hide the sharp knives:

Friends With Money. Ugh. I didn't find out that this one was a Sundance submission until after I watched it or else I would have thrown it onto the ground of Hollywood video and run the other way. The story was like a book that had 100 chapters but every other page ended in a fragmented sentence with ellipses at the end and nothing was ever really resolved. I kept saying to myself, wha? Huh? What about? WHA? And the ending left more shit up in the air with also a way-too-convenient ending for Jennifer I Have The Acting Range Of A Turnip Aniston, which, glarg. Stupid.

And I could not get past Frances McDormands hair, which was actually part of the story-line but why bother? Her coif looks like wind-blown shit in every movie she does where she's just dialing it in (Laurel Canyon, Something's Gotta Give, North Country, Six Feet Under, need I go on?) I bet they had to add the story-line of her skanky hair into the movie after they started shooting because everyone was like, fucking A, Frankie, would you run a comb through that rats nest once and awhile? And she was like, I'm an Oscar winner and I went to Yale and I'm married to a Coen brother. I don't need to brush my hair. To which I say, yes, Frances, yes you do.

My biggest warning:

The Black Dahlia. This one really pissed me off. I was pissed that I didn't listen to my instincts and the few reviews that I had heard that is was just horrible and pissed that they took a mystery I happen to be fascinated with and trounced all over it like little nasty monkey children through a mud puddle. The first 20 seconds had me rolling my eyes when who's that kid, that kid some girls swoon over but he's fairly untalented and too skinny and also has hair issues? Oh yea, Josh Hartnett. When Josh was shown on screen swaggering about with his own voice doing a very bad imitation of a classic film noir movie from the 40's.

The storyline is confusing, the acting deplorable, the characters retarded, and it has virtually nothing to do with the original case. Well, it might have farther in but I couldn't take any more at about minute 31 and turned this piece of shite off. Anyone who gave this movie more than 2 stars on Netflix is not to be trusted. Just. Say. No.

I, um, can't explain why:

Step Up. I pretty much deserve everything I get for putting this into my DVD machine and hitting play. Be kind. I'm sick. ~hack~

Interlude

I had a post ready to go tonight, thanking everyone for the nice comments wishing me well while I'm sick (which I still do), then some complaining about still being sick, rounding out with movie reviews of stupid shit I watched this weekend, but that will all have to wait. I just received a phone call from my ex-friend K's brother that their mother passed away last night after her valiant battle against breast cancer. The woman I wrote about recently here.

I never got the chance to see her one last time and for that I will be forever guilty. I don't really have a good excuse, although I've come up with about 20 of them, all sounding weak and stupid once they leave my lips. I could have and didn't, for whatever pathetic reasons I told myself, I didn't. I hope you can forgive me, Diane. I'm sorry.

She was a rare find in this world of mediocrity. A woman who so thoroughly effected me that I would not be the person I am today without knowing her. And for that I will be forever indebted. She was an example of what we should try to be, hope to be. What I will spend the rest of my life working to be.

I don't really feel like writing anything else so I'll borrow one of my favorite poems, modified to fit this situation. That will have to do.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: 'I was wrong'

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Diane, you will be missed.


(Picture taken 12/23/06. The last time I saw her.)

Which one of you infected me?

Well, that's what I get for having a tantrum at the universe for letting the great white shark go before I could see it. I'm sick as a dog. With the hacking and the runny nose and the weeping eyes and that horrible, annoying sinus tickle that makes you want to shove a rusty fork into your brain and swirl it around to make it stop. For the love of Christ, make it stop!

I drove my diseased ass to CVS this morning to get some type of medication I can take that won't induce a killer heart spasm since my stupid over-sensitive delicate system can't take any normal cold remedies like Alka-Seltzer or Nyquil. No decongestants of any kind. Thank you thyroid cancer! I thought I'd run it by the pharmacist before I bought anything since I don't get colds often and needed some help.

After being ignored at the drug counter for awhile I finally got her attention and explained my dilemma. I don't have a thyroid, blah blah, I'm on medication where I have to be hyperthyroid, yada yada, I can't take anything that has a stimulant in it like Sudafed so what can I take? Without missing a beat she says to me, "How about Sudafed?"

Fucking hell.

I reiterate again that no, you stupid fuckface, I cannot take Sudafed, so she tells me to take Tylenol. OK, I know you look like you're 16 but I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you're an educated person and a licensed pharmacist, so let's start over. I NEED COLD MEDICATION NOT SOMETHING FOR A HEADACHE!! Then I sneezed on her face.

Alright, I didn't sneeze on her face but I wanted to. I ended up collecting a pathetic basket full of things like Kleenex and nasal spray and I did end up getting some liquid Nyquil-type Tylenol shit that was supposed to take care of my runny nose and cough and general achyness and was all laced with something called "Cool Burst" which tasted like liquid Bengay and coats the throat with a thick syrup making it feel like I was sucking on an iceberg in a wind tunnel for about 20 minutes. Not. Pleasant.

It did make me drowsy but only enough to miss any of the daytime TV that doesn't suck, drifting in and out of a nap peppered with trippy dreams and waking back up just as soon as my cable went out. Sigh. I should probably spend the weekend in bed but I'm determined to go on this mini-vacation and have some fucking fun. So, off we go tomorrow to salvage the trip we planned over a month ago and hopefully my ear drums won't burst at 35 thousand feet and whitey's friends won't look at me like a leper.

Now excuse me while I have another coughing fit. And have a good weekend, kids!

**UPDATE:

I didn't freaking go!! I tried. I took a shower and shaved my legs and everything. But then I got woozy and I'm hacking every 2 seconds and BLAH. We decided I'm too sick. I'm SO DAMN UPSET but I'm getting worse and how not fun would it be to travel and have what's supposed to be a great weekend ruined by watching snot drip down my swollen face? So I put whitey on the plane so at least he can have a good weekend with his friend and we'll try for a do-over in a couple weeks.

I'm gonna go pout for the next 48 hours now.

Hi. The universe hates me.

Idea hatched - check

Research done - check

Dates picked - check

Time off approved - check

Plane tickets purchased - check

Hotel reservations - check

Car reserved - check

Spending money we don't really have - check

Arrangements to hook up with friends in bay area - check

Camera batteries charged - check

Itinerary confirmed - check

Talked about fun weekend plans to everyone I know - check

Wardrobe planned - check

14 million loads of laundry done - check

Worked ass off in house so can take weekend away - check

Barely containing ever-growing excitement in anticipation of seeing a mind-blowing on my top 10 favorites list of magnificent creatures of which this one I'll probably never get to witness with my own eyeballs in person ever in my lifetime except for now lucky me - check check check

Cruise by website to see if any events happening while we're there - check

FUCKING GOD DAMN FUCKING HELL SHIT FUCK!!! - check

Hi. My mother hated me.

Oi. Vey. Why doesn't someone stop me before I post crap like I did the other day? While I support what I said, I firmly believe most people suck and always will, the way I finished my little rant left me cringing. "Most likely forever." Gawd. Sometimes I want to kick my own ass. I don't like to pull words I've committed to because it's how I felt at the time. What I fail to remember is that I'll feel differently in another 10 minutes, then 10 minutes after that, and so on. So, yea, ahem. Thanks for the feedback is what I'm trying to say.

~~~~~

Also - something is wrong with blogger, wrong with the "old" version of blogger I'm using (since I'm afraid of change and won't switch to the new one), or my company is effing with my head because I can't seem to post from work. If this posts it was attempt #4. And I can't edit anything I've started nor will any of the buttons work - not the preview, not the italics, not the very important spell checker, nothing. So if there are typos in this thing, which there will be because I have to read and fix every entry 9 fucking times, I apologize. My grammar and spelling sucks but I can usually correct most of it, unless it was done on purpose. Ha.

~~~~~

Anywho, in my crankyness I totally forgot to tell you what happened on Sunday while I was doing my impersonation of Cinderfuckin'rella spending a thousand hours cleaning and packing and folding and dancing with animated mice in pants. I'd bought some extra yoog storage containers to house all of my stuffed animals because hi, I'm 11 years old and can't get rid of any of them. So, in the middle of my chorey day I found myself rooting around in the (fucking silverfish) garage, again.

My precious plushies have been kept in dusty garbage bags and now required additional protection so they may rot in expensive molded-plastic bins instead of flimsy trash sacks. As I ripped open one stinky bag crammed full of among other things, bears and dogs and 2 very large stuffed with ancient sawdust county fair snakes (why?) I saw it. One of the contributors to my weird childhood and vivid nightmares. The thing I'd hoped was gone forever. The near-living entity I'd imagined had been sucked back into the evil realm from which it came.

The Boy. The EVIL BOY. With THE FACE! The face that was now staring back at me with the crazy eyes and creepy frozen smile and stuffing spilling out here and there oozing like alien blood. The demented doll I wrote about here. The pillowy puppet that I'm sure tried to kill me in my sleep if only I'd let a toe fall over the edge of the bed but HA HA, SATAN'S LITTLE HELPER, I DIDN'T!! I smothered and sweltered under those covers because you weren't going to feed on this bitch's flesh. NO WAY.

After re-reading that long-ago entry I realized I'd messed up a few details, but hey, it's been about 20 years since I laid eyes on this thing. 20 glorious years. But observe, I was NOT WRONG about the maniacal and evil. And it was the only thing in the bag chewed and shat upon by a rat. SATAN'S RAT, no doubt.

(click to engorge and see explanatory notes)



How'd you like to wake up to this?



I DIDN'T THINK SO!

I picked a bad day to give up carbs

I got disappointing news about a supposed friend last week. Yet another person I thought I could trust acting like some double agent with diarrhea of the mouth. It's left me sour and scowling and will take a few days to shake the crank off. That paired with the 12 fucking hours I spent cleaning out the closets and boxing up 2 giant bookshelves of dusty books on Sunday (the day of rest my ass) and today I'm serving up hot plate full of crab to everyone. With a side of piss & vinegar. Hold the piss you say? NO! You'll get piss and you'll like it!

Why? Why is it sometimes so fucking hard to be friends with some people? I swear to Christ it's like juggling 3 working chainsaws, a pissed off badgers and 9 flaming tampons while you're walking across a tightrope greased with bacon fat sprinkled with broken glass and rusty staples and your underwear is up your butt.

I put the emphasis on sometimes because it's not all the time. Some people are a breeze to be around. You laugh easily and there are no awkward silences and you have an unspoken arrangement that they'd hold your hair back after consuming too many "free drinks" in Vegas and they would never let walk out of the house wearing red & purple together.

However, they are the exceptions to the rule. And I think this is more of a girl thing than a boy thing so maybe it's an estrogen thing? Although my very best gay boy has similar problems so it can't just be because you have lady parts are you a bitch. Just hang out in the Castro on a Friday night. There are way more cat fights down there than in a girl's high school locker room at when half have PMS at the same time.

Anyway, people are nuts is what I'm trying to say.

Friends come and go for a gajillion different reasons. Friends for a season, a reason, a bank heist, yada yada yada. I've had intense friendships that burned out like a hot flame and others that meandered for years without much there. I've had girlfriends in my life for 30 plus years that turned into psycho fuckers who did things I never thought they'd do. I've had others who can pick up where we left off without a request to kiss their ass in penance for time apart.

But the older I get the harder I find it is to make a good, true friend. A not gonna fuck me over someday friend. A real, sustaining friendship that isn't interrupted by insanity or general assory. Because inevitably, in most cases, some stupid remark is made or a giant betrayal is perpetrated or any manner of situations in between and the relationship is changed. In an instant. Just like that.

I know I'm more sensitive than normal most people. I'm reactive and emotional and cranky. And I might, once-in-awhile maybe perhaps I'll deny it if asked, take things the wrong way. Or sort of kind of very infrequently so shut up, over-analyze a wee tiny bit. And I'm far from guiltless. But I'm also a good person. I care. I give good advice. I'm loyal to a fault. And I'm smart. I pride myself on having a highly tuned bullshit meter and I can smell a rat from a mile away. I'm sort of like a German shepard but I don't shed, lick my butt, or stink. (Much.)

But I'm not so good with the sneaky snakes who wind their way around my neck talking pretty in my ear then bite a chunk out of my face. The charmers that feed me what I want to hear with sugar on top but poison underneath, or at least a hairy piece of candy from the bottom of their purse. The people who gain your trust with interest and promises all the while crossing their fingers behind their backs. Rats I can sniff out, evil bastards, not so much.

Years ago while I was talking to a co-worker, who happened to become one of those hot flame people (but not in a sexual way, much to my chagrin), he put it better than I've ever heard. He explained that he puts everyone he meets over here (he gestures to his right) and those people will stay over here (gestures to his right) unless they fuck up. You fuck up? You get moved over there (gestures to his left.) Simple, no?

Well, not so simple for chicks. At least not for this chick. I don't have a right or left side with a clear division in the middle. I have categories. Lots and lots of categories. It's like trying to keep a sock drawer as big as a football field organized. Friends you can only tell so much to, others you can't travel with, one person is good at listening, the next will tell you the exact opposite of what you should do but they make me laugh. Etc. Etc. It's fucking exhausting but it's how it goes.

The thing that's bothering me right now is the amount of new people coming into my life who seem like they're cool only to discover they are far from cool. They are on another continent from cool. In fact, I'm fairly certain they are on some mission from middle earth to jack with my head, or at least the world's head, I won't take all the credit. Bottom line. They end up sucking the high hard one.

In light of that fact, my ability to move people around gets easier and easier. Which sometimes disturbs me. Or maybe this is a good thing? I don't know. Am I protecting myself or being hasty? I'd like to think it's the former. I've been fucked over so many times by people who poured love all over me like a bucket of Tang then punched me right in the eye from out of nowhere that now I'm less trusting than ever. Add the internet to that and yikes, it's a wonder I talk to anyone. I get a whiff of rat? You get moved into a new category.

I still think there are good people out there, you know, one or two, and of course I give chances, too many sometimes, but there's also an endless supply of kooks and assholes. And let me tell you, if some people show me a hint of either of those things I'm moving you from over here, to over there, and you will never get back over here. You might be able to move a few spaces from over there to over there, but you won't ever get back over HERE. That I can promise you.

I will most likely show respect.

I will most likely stay friendly.

But my feelings will have changed.

Most likely forever.

Happy...New Year?

It was the last day of 1982. I was 15.3 years old and dumb as shit. Without benefit of any measurable wisdom or possession of a fully formed brain, my head was a labyrinth of Swiss cheese and painfully slow synapses firing at about the rate of a snail oozing down a dry sidewalk in the noon day sun. This, however, did not stop me from forming a plot. A plan. A wicked proposal to bestow upon my parents a fabrication so transparent it could have been arrested for indecent exposure. A huge mistake.

I was a grade-A, semi-professional fibber and usually got away with it. But my inflated teenage ego and cheese brain didn't seem to grasp the idea that this was New Year's fucking Eve and I was at the prime age to get myself into big ass trouble. Of which my father knew better. Much better than I. He was wrapped around my finger but no dummy when it came to me, a holiday known for debauchery, and the liquor cabinet. This nights points would all go to dad. And then some.

By the time I was a sophomore in High School I hadn't had much experience with booze. A childhood of sipping drinks from my parents and one super-lame episode of taking miniscule tastes of Gin, Vodka and Scotch, all from square tupperware containers covered in saran wrap snuck out of a friends house. Then "acting" as if wasted from a negligible amount of alcohol. All at the tender age of stupidlevin. So it was fair to say I didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

At that time in my life I was bff's with a girl who lived directly across the street. A strange girl named Debbie who was lost in the middle of a large blended family of insane step-siblings, insane full siblings, one unfortunate product of the marriage, and bizarre absentee parents who drove matching Mercedes and kept very large sex toys on their dresser. This family was the talk of the neighborhood and hanging out at their house was like being in a live-action soap opera. It was great.

Debbie was one year my junior but a total gamer. In fact, she'd grow up to be a much bigger gamer than me, although her weekend habits came with a huge dose of crazy. One episode was so heinous that I was through with her after witnessing one particularly bad screaming freak-out over nothing. But on this night Debbie and I were still tight and decided that since both sets of parents were going to be out for the night we'd do some of our own partying.

Debbie was already at my house to play some "board games" and witnessed the warning speech I received from my dad. Before my parental units had left for their shindig my father looked me right in the face and said, "Betty. Do not touch the alcohol. Betty. Do you hear me? Do. Not. Touch. The. Alcohol. BETTY! You're not going to touch the alcohol are you? DON'T TOUCH THE ALCOHOL!!"

I batted my eyelashes and clicked my tongue, cocked my head sideways and with righteous indignation said, "Like, oh mah gawd, Dad. Like NO WAY. Like, I don't even like like the taste of Al-Coh-Haul. Like, COME ON. NO WAY. JEEZE."

And he smirked at me wearing a disbelieving "uh huh, right" look on his face and with an air of suspicion told me to be a good girl and they'd see me later. My mother never said a word but I'm sure they'd talked about it. They proceeded to leave in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and Old Spice and left me alone with Debbie and a liquor cabinet stuffed to the edges with bottles. No good could come of this.

Before we got down to the business of being very stupid I needed to prepare myself. I'd heard something about not drinking on an empty stomach and devised another brilliant plan to line my guts with what I thought would be the perfect antidote to the drinking I was planning on doing. So I scarfed down a huge toasted bagel loaded with three quarters of a brick of cream cheese. Did you know dairy totally curdles in a system drowning in booze? Neither did I.

After my really smart dinner we opened the cupboard and chose our poison. Vodka.

Straight Vodka.

After deciding that it tasted like rubbing alcohol and burned the first layer of skin off my tender lips we got a little inventive. First we added some orange juice then mixed it with some Coke. Ah, OK, now we're getting somewhere. I was still pretty full from that bagel but you can't just sit around and drink without having some appetizers, right? A few green olives, some left-over Christmas cookies and a few sweet pickles. Perfect.

After we'd consumed Jebus knows how much Vodka we decided to go gallivanting around the neighborhood. What a perfect way for 2 teenage girls to spend New Years Eve. Traipsing up and down dark streets without anyone knowing where we were. This plan was getting even more genius by the minute.

We went over to Debbie's house first where we discovered her insane slightly molesting older step brother had swiped an unopened bottle of Triple Sec and hid it in his closet. Thanks to her hooligan weird little brothers, they'd stolen the bottle from the older brother and gave it to us. They were in for quite the ass-pounding later on but for now it was all ours. I'd never heard of the stuff but it looked OK and I'd pretty much numbed my taste buds to nothing by now anyway so what the hell, crack it open and let's give it a try.

More drinking ensued, but we didn't feel like hanging out with 2 annoying grade school boys who's idea of a good time was farting in our faces so Debbie thought it would be fun to go hang out at another kids house somewhere in the neighborhood.

Now, mind you, when I say "somewhere in the neighborhood" I'm not talking about a quaint little area where your friends live a stones throw away. We didn't reside in little houses all nestled together like sardines in a can. Every house was huge, they sat on lots anywhere from 1 to 3 acres, we didn't even have sidewalks, and it was hilly. Really fucking hilly.

I didn't really know who this chick was except she was also a freshmen and after we got to her place I realized it was the same house who'd found my runaway doggie a couple years before and planned on keeping her and totally ignored the lost dog sigs we'd plastered all over a 5 mile radius. Except I'd found out they had her by accident when I was crying about it on the bus and some kid heard me talking and told me their neighbor had found a dog like that so I didn't like this girl out of principal because the hell? Tried to keep my fucking puppy. Didn't stop me from raiding her parents liquor cabinet, though.

Let's take a count of consumed drinks, shall we? There'd been anywhere from 2 to 9 shots of Vodka consumed at my house. We'd each taken many hearty swigs of Triple Sec at Debbie's house then proceeded to drink more from the bottle as we walked the thousand miles to the dog nappers house. So that makes...um...2 very drunk teenagers.

Now, since our Swiss Cheese Very Stupid brains were floating around in our dumb heads on a sea of booze, we thought it would be cool to drink some more. As we stared at all the bottles to choose from someone, I will not take credit for this although I don't remember who came up with it, said, "Let's make Suicides." Then someone, again, I will not take cop to this, asked, "What's a Suicide?" And it was told by someone, I don't know who, that a Suicide was a drink consisting of all the liquors you have. Brilliant.

We fished through the kitchen and found the perfect containers for our refreshment. Giant plastic cups the size of a claw-foot bathtub. Someone began pouring. A splash of this, a glug of that, a drop, a snort, a recipe for fucking disaster that's what that was. We raised our Very Bad Idea's Suicide's in the air, toasted the holiday, and began to drink. I'm sure I proclaimed it tasted great but really, at that point you could have served me a steaming pint of dog shit and I would have thanked you kindly for the sweet elixir.

As my eyes began to swim in my head Debbie and I bailed on the beotch and managed to stumble back to her house, where we found ourselves standing outside her bedroom window swaying in front of the bushes and trying to figure out how we were going to get our drunk asses back in. A karate chop was executed and a screen was murdered and we sommersaulted through the opening onto her floor laughing like morons.

Things get really fuzzy from here but I distinctly remember her evil little brothers coming in to the very spinny room and yelling about how bad I stunk then force-feeding me toothpaste straight from the tube to mask the smell of the 4 gallons of rotgut I'd consumed. Debbie was nowhere to be found so I can only imagine what she was up to. And I think I kissed a dog on the mouth.

I woke up, passed out, woke up, spun in a tight circle, passed out, woke up, watched a giant poster of a crashing wave threaten to drown me, then hauled my wasted self to the open window where I hurled a technicolor yawn onto the nextdoor neighbors iceplant 10 feet away. I think there was a sonic boom reported about the same time.

The next morning, after a fitful, sloshy sleep, I woke up next to Debbie, both of us fully clothed in dirty pants and puke-stained shirts and felt like someone had put a foot up my ass, poured lighter fluid and battery acid down my throat, threw fiberglass into my eyes, stuffed my ears with a thousand tiny crashing cymbals, put my nipples into a set of jumper cables, lined the insde of my shoes with thumbtacks, rolled a cement block across my back, pulled both arms out of their sockets, and ran over my entire head with a tour bus full of fat fucking frenzied Falco fans.

I quickly prayed for death than changed my mind and opted to guzzle a glass of tepid tap water from a dirty bathroom sink instead and started the trek home. 2 minutes later as I was barfing that entire glass of water on Debbie's driveway, and pushing my eyeballs back into my skull, I was forming a dazzling lie to tell my parents. Food poisoning. Yes! That's what this clearly was. They'll buy that for sure.

I dragged my corpse up the 90 degree hill that was my side of the street and through the kitchen door where I was greeted by my mother who just slowly shook her head at me as I stammered something through my drooling maw that sounded normal inside my pounding head but came out reminiscent of a belching bullfrog being squeezed through a keyhole.

Gaaaaaarrrrrr bluuuuurgh raaaalllllloooooob. I'm sick.

She looked at my bruised face and ratted hair. Surveyed the purple circles crawling across my eyes like rabid slugs and gave a sniff of suspicion towards my walking-distillery self. Then she sent me to bed where I remained until dinner time alternately shaking and sweating with a few trips to the toilet where my body wretched and heaved until every drop of moisture was expelled through a variety of orifi.

No one came to check on me the whole day which normally would have concerned me because, wtf? I had food poisoning here. But I was so sick and slightly worried that I might die at any moment so I didn't much notice the absence of parental concern. About 6:00, our normal dinner time, I was called to the table. I tried to refuse but my mother was adamant. Get your ass in here NOW.

I shuffled down the hallway trying to keep all of my skin from sliding off and within a few steps the overwhelming aroma of some nasty Italian concoction smashed me square in the face. You might have well stuck a clove of garlic up my nose and simmered the house in tomato sauce.

I gingerly sat down at the table where my father was already seated, clenching his jaw and sending a steaming stream of fury my way. I was 90% retarded at this point and still didn't get it. Had no idea my jig was long up. Until my mother sat a piping hot, greasy, cheese smothered, dripping, repulsive, the most disgusting food I've ever seen something she'd never made before and never made again, plate of oily pungent putrid chicken parmesan in front of me.

It was a red nightmare.

That I had to eat.

She made it.

To gross me out.

On purpose.

It worked.

I sighed and held my taxed tummy and took a bite. Chewing with a half-hearted effort I attempted to ignore the flavor explosion in my mouth. A mouth that should have avoided any and all food for at least 24 hours. A mouth that was ready to give up solids forever.

I managed to gulp a few bites down before I gave my mother the saddest most sincere Bambi eyes I could muster and breathlessly begged to be excused. My father continued to fume and was about to deny my request when my mother pulled an extremely uncharacteristic move of actually being on my side and throwing me a bone of sympathy, of which I can literally count on one hand in my whole life that she's done this, and laser-beamed my dad across the table. Before he could squeak a word out she let me go back to bed, leaving the congealing mess of a dinner behind.

I slept for 12 hours straight and gingerly approached my mom the next day since she wasn't chopping me into tiny pieces with one look like my dad was. She barely held back her laughter and asked me if I really expected them to believe my cacamamie story and by the way, dad MARKED THE BOTTLES YOU IDIOT CHILD.

I was shocked! She also told me that my dad was so mad he'd gone on and on the whole day hoping that I'd puke again and again and again. I was pissed about that for a long time but I get it now. How could I have been so stupid? Swiss cheese brain, that's how. Stupid, dumb, botarded 15 year-old asshat Swiss cheese damn brain. Stupid.

I waited a whole year before I did that again.

Day 1

I don't feel any different.

I think this New Year thing is broken.

In review

I do seem to have some much needed extra time on my hands this last weekend of the year, but I'm hoping to spend it sprucing up this place. It's starting to look like a college dorm room after 2 semesters with a psychotic roommate who breaks your hotplate and eats all your Pringles. The carpet needs cleaning, the pile of laundry needs sorting and what is that smell? So, I'm hoping to update my semi-pathetic blogroll and fix these crampy borders and get a masthead that doesn't make me depressed.

With all of these ambitious ideas for the blawg, and with the other crap to take care of amongst the napping and Grey's Anatomy watching I plan on doing, I'm not sure I'll write anything in the next few days. But I have lofty goals of being the anti-slacker after the first! We'll see how that pans out since now there's no prizes involved now. Man, I love prizes.

Therefore I will do the question/answer thingy that's going around to do my own personal year in review. Here we go.

1. What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before?
Well here I go boring you right out of the box. I don't know if I did anything new and exciting this year. I had a death-defying horse fall, that was a pivotal moment. I also saw 5 black bears in Yellowstone in the span of an hour, I found that most pleasing and thrilling. Um...I'm saving up a bunch of never done before's for next year. Yes. That's it. I will thrill you with tales of adventure in a year. Stay tuned.

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Dude, I never got around to making any. I thought about it but I'm just that lazy. This year that will be number 1 on my list. Don't be so la...eh, I'll finish that thought later.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I know quite a few people who had giant cows, another chick who shit a brick and one more who laid an enormous egg of insanity. But humans shooting through vaginas? No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
I wouldn't say they were close to me but yes, I lost 2 people who made indelible impacts on my life one way or another and both of their passings hit me harder than I could have imagined.

5. What countries did you visit?
Like I own a passport and I don't go to Mexico anymore. You live a stone's throw from Tijuana your whole life and the thought of crossing a border loses its charm. I think it's the overpowering smell of trash and ass. Plus I can't begin to think about crossing the whole ocean in a plane. Give me a stroke, whydontcha.

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?
Less fucking anxiety attacks for starters. I'd also like to have a nice house with my baby including a jacuzzi and add at least 2 dogs and 2 more cats into our lives and find a job and a career that doesn't make me want to staple someone's upper lip to their forehead every damn day.

7. What dates from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
February 10th. Clean scan, currently, officially, thyroid cancer free. That was a fucking good day. September, 19th, my birthday. Was relaxing and special. September 29th, the day we lost Boo. Was an excrutiating day. December 25th, simply lovely.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I'm a terrible judge of these kinds of things. I never think I've done enough or accomplished anything that can be measured against anything. I guess I'd have to say that I keep plugging along. I want to give up all the time but I don't. I'm an enduring little bitch. I might complain a lot but I endure. And I was really proud of myself over the work I did in NaBoPloMo and with some of my photography. Yea, I kicked some ass with that shit.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Oh, lerd. Not taking care of myself. I have no excuses for the bad things I'm doing to my body on a daily basis other than self-mutilation and that shit has got to stop. Major failure for me.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Would you like the short or long list? Wait, there is no short list. I'll have to give a global answer of YES. I am the girl who's shut her left nipple in a desk drawer and tore a tendon in my pinkie by performing the hazardous feat of putting my hair into a ponytail. Have I suffered an injury. What do you think? I was also, diagnosed with asthma which I'm very unhappy about. I told those assholes back in gym that I couldn't breathe when I ran!! I hate it when I'm right about stuff like that.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My Nikon D50 digital SLR. I want to fuck that thing.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
whitey's. He puts up with my crazy shit every day. And Rascals'. It's morbid but she's a much happier and funner cat since her sister died.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Everyone else's.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Target!! Didn't yours go there? I thought it was the law.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Our trip to Montana in September. And the prospect of moving to Portland. Well, that goes back and forth from abject panic to excitement but the excitement is there!

16. What song will always remind you of 2006?
I'm not a music head so I don't pay that much attention to it and I'd hardly be able to associate any song to a particular year, but if I had to choose one it would be that song they used when they kicked off the women on So You Think You Can Dance. Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall. Especially now that they're playing it on the radio every 5 fucking minutes which will surely burn the melody into my brain forever and kill any affection I had for it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier. Yay me!
b) thinner or fatter? A little less fat and fuck you for asking!
c) richer or poorer? Poorer and now I'm sadder for thinking of it, thank you very much!

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Theme of the day (since my tummy is pissed off for all the crap I've been pouring down it for weeks) taken much better care of myself.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Wasting mental energy on assholes. And sitting in fuck-ass traffic.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
Already done had it, out of date meme. Sheesh.

21. Did you fall in love in 2006?
I fall more in love with whitey all the time. No puking over that you cynics!

22. How many one-night stands?
Stupid question.

23. What was your favorite TV program?
Hands down you're a moron if you don't watch it - The Office. "You can't fire me! I don't work in this van!!"

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Hate would mean I care enough to put that kind of thought into it, so no. Sure, I have felt short-term hate for people that were on the OK list last year, but my anger is like a volcano. I erupt, spit hot fire on you, then go back to doing my thing and you're just a petrified fucker at the bottom of the hill.

25. What was the best book you read?
A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson. He manages to weave historical and scientific fact, personal opinion, auto-biographical notes, and lore into a travel book and personal journal without being boring or condescending. It's genius. And he's fucking funny as hell.

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Like I said, not a music head so I don't pay much attention, but I was blown away by Imogene Heap and her haunting song Hide and Seek. I can't listen to it without crying.

27. What did you want and get?
My fancy camera.

28. What did you want and not get?
Money for that stupid car accident last year. And deserved retribution against a person who should be canned in a town square then shunned into a forest of rabid rats to live out their miserable life alone with their stupid thoughts and crappy behaviors. But I do not hate!

29. What was your favorite film of this year?
It was not a good year for movies and we rarely go to the theater because, you know, there's people there, so I'd have to say Slither. We saw it recently on DVD and were pleasantly surprised. I had such high hopes for Pirates: installment 2, but they pushed it with the CGI stuff and the icky pirate ship scenes needed to be cut down by about 30 minutes. Then it would have been my first choice.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
My, my, aren't we nosy? I turned 39 this year and plan on being even more kick-ass when I turn 40. I took the day off work, got a near-inappropriate massage and an awesome pedicure, hung out at home with my kitties, took a nap, and had take-out sushi from my favorite place. We tried to go to Sea World a couple weeks later but you know how that worked out. Next year will be another blow-out party.

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Less bloating. Fuck.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?
How sloppy can I dress at work and get away with it? That and hail all ye yoga pants and braless boobs. That's my uniform of choice at home. Can't wear that a work, though. They might be tolerating my dirty tennis shoes and jeans on non-Friday's but my girls could not fly free. That would cause an issue.

33. What kept you sane?
whitey. Ativan. Chocolate. In that order.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Fancy? What is this, Britain? Are you going to ask me my favourite colour next? I've got it bad for The Depp.

35. What political issue stirred you the most?
Politics doesn't stir me, although our shitty president gets a notice.

36. Who did you miss?
Boo kitty. Like fucking crazy.

37. Who was the best new person you met?
whitey's mom! You rock the Eagle, woman! YOU ROCK IT!

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006.
That meme's ask stupid questions. No, I kid. Who can put something like that into a nutshell? Nutshells are very small and life lessons usually aren't. I learned a lot this year. I tried to shift some important focus's around but the one thing that seems new to me is what helped me make the final decision to move from my home town to a new city and state. I need to do something I'm afraid of. Something that I paralyze myself from doing because of my own fears. Something that I have (some) control over. It's going to be harder than I can imagine, and trust me, I spend a lot of time imagining this life-altering change, but I need to do it. I need to face this fear for the good of my pysche and my soul. I can't even remember who said it or where I heard it, probably Oprah, but someone said "do something that scares you" and I thought to myself. Yep, that's right on. I have a long list of complaints about my living situation but I was too scared of changing them. So now I'm doing something that terrifies the bajeezus out of me and for even making this decision I consider it a triumph in my life.

39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
So delicious (It's hot, hot)
So delicious (I put them boys on rock, rock)
So delicious (they wanna slice of what I got)
Fergalicious (t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty)

Really, there was no other choice.

Now you kids go and have yourselves a very Happy New Year AND STAY SAFE OR ELSE!!

Ketchup & stuff

Did everyone have a nice Christmas or your specific holiday of a personal religion/non-religion or just an extra day off from putting up with stupid co-workers and their lame bullshit? I know I did!

I had another typical weekend of ups and downs, good stuff and bad and one near vivisection of a fucking asshole who thought it would be OK to push me into a stack of bushes at Sea World.

Someday I'm actually going to take 4 days off in a row and not run around like a maniac leaving certain things to the last minute (Walmart again!), having to brave public places and talk to people. Instead I'll not get out of my pajamas, eat a diet consisting of chips & dip and watch bad horror movies. I might even go unwashed. I have goals, you know. But all-in-all it was a lovely extended weekend.

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The slightly bad stuff:

Last Thursday I got home, after braving 92 minutes of fuck-ass holiday traffic, to find a Christmas card and braggy-brag letter from my (ex) friend K. I've written about K in this blog several times before, it's all buried in the archives somewhere, and our ultimate demise as friends a couple of years ago (totally HER fault.)

K and I were introduced as neighbors the year we turned 6 and lived across the street from each other for 17 years. Now we're both heading to our 40th birthday's in 2007 and all the many years in between have been met with an endless supply of girl-problems and fights and a million very hard times. You ladies know the drill.

My relationship with K has always been difficult and there was always our other friend J mucking it up to hell too. You just can't have 3 little girls hanging out together, it won't work. Two's company, three's a crowd, I was always the crowd, yada yada. It wasn't pleasant a lot of the time is which is a nice version of they were horrible often.

Anyway, there's too many stories about that to tell but the bottom line is K acted like the worst jerk in the entire universe when I was diagnosed with cancer and for whatever excuse of the week she came up with treated me like shit and we stopped talking because fuck you, I had (and have) enough to deal with I don't need to keep a relationship going that's the equivalent of eating a shit sandwich every day. Plus she did unforgivable things, in my opinion, so fuck it.

Problem is, I was like a member of her family. Her parents were my surrogates (I have no family here in this town), they were friends with my parents, we all had over 30 years invested in knowing and loving each other and the whole fucking thing has remained an open wound with me for the last 3 years. When I stopped talking to K I also stopped talking to her whole family by default. Now, mind you, my phone hasn't rung but I didn't dial it either so I supposed we're all to blame.

So in this letter, after I hear about how great her kid is doing and how awesome her husband is and how incredible all of their European fancy trips were she saves the last paragraph to tell everyone that her mother's cancer came back this year and was determined to be terminal in August, they almost lost her in early December but everyone's confident she'll be around through New Year's.

Um...WHAT??

So typical. I was immediately sickened and furious that once again, neither K or our other useless friend J had had the balls to contact me about this in any way. And I'd just talked to J about 3 months ago! While I vacillated between anguish and fantasizing about punching some bitches in the face, and crying, I decided enough was enough. It was time to heal some wounds and make my stubborn feet take the first step.

I called K's dad on Friday and his excitement at hearing my voice nearly made my throat shut tight. We set up a time to get together on Saturday and boy was I nervous. I went over with a bottle of wine and a couple of framed photos of mine as a gift and once I got past the inner shock of how frail and aged she looked (and acted) I was just so fucking relieved to be there again. With her holding my hand and telling me how much they love me, cracking some jokes and catching up on everyone's lives, it was like old times. Sort of.

I cried on-and-off and of course the subject of K and J and their shitty stuff came up and K's dad gruffed and growled and said us girls just needed to get the fuck over it but dude, we don't do that. We are chicks. The harboring of hurt feelings last forever. K's mom said we needed to all get together and fix this crap once and for all because it would be a gift to her. And how can you deny a dying woman something like that? You simply can't.

I'm going over this coming Saturday armed again with booze and my self-worth and who knows what will come of it. I've promised not to "rehash old things" which sucks because boy, would I like to rehash them. I'd like to rehash them with a mighty ass-kicking, finger pointing and scary screaming, but I won't.

And I figure if this can close an open and perpetually painful chapter in my life all the better for me. I can be there for someone who's at the end of her too-short life, be around people that I've loved almost my entire existance and hang out again for the short time I'll still be living here. Hell, maybe I'll be able to stop these damn bad dreams I constantly have about it. I just need to watch my alcohol intake so the sharp-tongued truth monster in me will not be unleashed. Wish me luck.

Update: No need to wish me luck. I got home tonight to find an e-mail from K thanking me for visiting her mom and cancelling our meeting on Saturday. Looks like she hasn't lost any of her selfish ways in the last 2 years. Unbelievable.
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The stupid stuff:

Sunday whitey and I decided...OK. Not whitey and I. Me, it was all me, it was my idea and he obliged because he's good like that. We left the house. In a very crowded tourist town known for its near-perfect year-round weather that attracts many people, a lot of whom are annoying and clueless as hell, and went to Sea World. Oh my god. What was I thinking? Why did I even fathom that this world-renown place wouldn't be packed with crazy people on a holiday weekend.

Well, I'll tell you why. Because 2 years ago we went there on New Year's day and the place was virtually empty. It was awesome. We didn't stand in line behind any screaming kids or sweaty men from Oklahoma. We got to do and go wherever we wanted. The animals were active and not over-stimulated from being poked and prodded by a zillion freaks all day and the weather was perfect. I was tricked by a fluke.

So we went. And it was packed. And an older lady elbowed me in the tit then a rude guy nearly shoved me into a scratchy looking bush and I had to get a little rough and we tried to see the sharks without success and it was horrible crowded just like it was a few months ago and we had to leave. Which is a bummer because we have free passes that expire on the 31st and I want to do things in San Diego that I'll probably never get to do again once we move away but bah, it wasn't to be.

Then we got stuck running retarded errands for hours and I had a sugar crash and whining fit and Big Macs should not be eaten in the car in a parking lot in front of a grocery store because it makes you drop a plop of ketchup on your current favorite white t-shirt!! We finally made it home and I put myself on a time out and took a nap and everything was cool again. But don't rent Talladega Nights. YAWN.

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The really great stuff:

Christmas day was so very nice. I got up early and wrapped the last remaining packages I needed to and tried to fake my boy out by weighting down a big box with soup cans then putting a gift certificate for Guitar Center inside. By the way, NEVER setting FOOT inside THERE again. Game Stop is bad enough, gettin' the stink of gaming nerds all over me, but Guitar Center? That's a whole 'nother thing and no thank you, sir. Not again. Then I hid his Gamecube in the dryer and wrapped a teeny tiny box with a note inside telling him to go look there. It was a hit.

As we opened our presents I was delighted to see that the box I suspected was a tripod for my camera was not only what I wanted but way better than I asked for. It is fancy and pretty and I love it. I also received the photoshop software I wanted and can't wait to try it out just as soon as I get it loaded onto my system. I was also very surprised to open a box containing a Survivor hat and buff from one of my very favorite seasons. I literally squealed.

I also surprised myself with a couple of things that I'd bought and wrapped for myself and marked them from "Santa", then forgot that I'd done it. Sometimes I'm about as sharp as a marble and I got laughed at for my goof. The present-opening portion of our day was a great success and I was so thankful that for our third official Christmas together that we were finally in the same place and being alone for this one was nice and serene.

We had a lovely afternoon of lounging around, him playing video games, me napping, then he prepared and began cooking the prime rib. And let me tell you, it made the house smell so good we probably could have eaten the walls with a side of gravy. And kitty was high as a kite from rolling around in the fresh catnip she got in her stocking giving us much entertainment as she flipped around like a harbor seal.

We then had our dinner time a little pooped upon with waiting for my friend Matty to show up for a quick visit with some friends of his, who finally arrived right when all of our food was done. But they only stayed long enough for one of the girls to slightly insult me about 3 times and act generally obnoxiously which I chose not to get mad about until the next day so Merry Fucking Christmas beyotch, you got a free pass.

After they all left we finally got to enjoy our (reheated) meal which was superb in it's simplicity and once we figure out how to get the rock-salt coating off that kind of meat we'll definitely have it again because, Jesus, prime rib. I couldn't decide if I should eat it or rub it on my boobs. The end to our nice day was spent watching a movie with our little Christmas tree twinkling away and then retiring to bed.

It was all I'd hoped for and more.

Have a good one!

Little Susie would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

Just as soon as she stops screaming.



If you're bored for a minute today, in between cooking the turkey, breaking up fights between your drunk cousins, and trying to sneak shots of tequila in the kitchen, go check her and some of her friends out.

(This is one of the only reasons I sometimes wonder about having kids. You just know a child of mine would lose their shit 9 ways to Sunday on a mall Santa. And how very awesome that would be.)

Have a great day!!

Talk about cute

Who could resist buying this (chubby) child every present on the earth? No one! That's who.



Please ignore Santa's seemingly inappropriate hand placement. It was the 70's, we didn't get all hyper about that shit.

God damn Christmas

All of the stockings were hung by the chimney with care;
In anticipation of my fucking credit card statement would soon be here.

I swear to Christ, how do I manage to do it every year? With the shopping and the fretting and bad decision making. And the money. ALL. THE. MONEY. Spent on who (Whom? I never get that right), I ask you?

My list of people to buy for is short by industry standards. I'm not speaking to my asshole brother so he's still on the naughty list. I don't have but 4 friends to exchange with. One set of parents. One boyfriend. One large and hungry cat. How the hell does my budget get blown to smithereens every damn time?

When it's not the holidaze season I'll walk through the drugstore or Target and think to myself, I could find everything for every person I could fathom that would require a gift or 3 from me in this one store in a mere few hours of a shopping trip for a budget that would scarce leave a scratch on my bank account.

But nooooooooooo. Do I do that? Not on your life. My generous budget went out the window when I decided to get up at 4 fucking 30 in the morning the day after Crapsgiving, I went way overboard, my great and wonderful artistic/crafty/yummy/cheap ideas got all jumbled in my head like a bag of marbles, and I went crazy. Again. And once more I fall back on the old standard rationalizations of it's only money, fuck it I don't care, it'll make the people I care about happy, it'll make some needy kids happy, fuck it I don't care. Then I'm poor.

Aww, fuck it.

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Also filed under Christmas: Crazy was my quest for decor. I was mentally consumed with having a Christmas tree this year. I've lived in my condo for 9 Exmasses now and nary a tree have I had, unless you count the 16 incher with the glued-on mini plastic ornaments my mother bought for me a church bizarre fashioned by some sweet old church lady with blue hair and a used kleenex peeking out from her sweater sleeve. It has served its purpose well but holiday cheer shouldn't fit into a shoebox, in my opinion.

I'd been doing my normal obsessive hunting for the perfect tree, going to some stores more than once (read: 4 times), and decided that my picky nature for a tree that looks better than real was not possible this year. And due to my crazy shopping-going since turkey day I just couldn't see myself shelling out $200 + for faux foliage.

During my lamenting about this dilemma I've had several friends suggest I get one on sale after the holiday, which I then give them a look like, "did a bobcat just crawl up your ass and eat your brain, stupid? I want a tree FOR Christmas. Not AFTER. Jeezus."

I'd finally given up on my expedition and felt good about not spending any more money frivolously (hahahahaha, even that made me laugh because, ha, the spending), which in itself is dumb on my part because the money? It goes through my fingers like grains of sand.

I needed to go to Walmart because I like pain. No, actually I've been testing out their online photo-ordering system and needed to pick up another batch of prints, which they fucked to the wall, btw, and I had to wait another 2 hours since their machine had broken. Remind me to call and complain about that because fuck, I pay like twice as much to pick those bitches up in an hour and they're never ready in an hour.

I now had some people time to kill, which let me tell you, is a shear joy. Nothing like wandering around fucking Walmart on a Saturday afternoon in December. I haven't spent much time in any Walmart store since Target is my house of worship so I wasn't fully prepared for what I'm now calling the Throngs from Hell. Because they are. From hell.

I rammed into several slow-moving assholes mosied over to the Holiday Extravaganza area which, oof, the Throngs were thick as thieves. But I wanted one more look at the artificial trees to see if, per chance, I could still pull this off and not feel like I was wasting money on total crap or wasting money in general. I called whitey since I like to share my pain and fuck if he gets to spend all day playing video games while I'm being subjected to random smells and screaming children at a local discount super store by myself.

(Although I do have to thank him for being who he is. He might not give a flying fuck about decorating or sweater choices or which sparkly candles should go where but he'll still have a legitimate conversation about it. Love you, baby. )

Anyway, I saw a stack of small boxes containing artificial trees and a sign posted saying "$19.97." Hmm, I thought, this is probably crap, but for $20 how bad can it be? If it totally sucks we'll chuck it and I'm out an amount less than what you'd pay for a diet coke at the movies.

So, I bought it. I took it home. I done decorated it. And damn if it isn't as cute a bug!

See?



And I only had to run down one old lady and a smelly guy with an eye patch to get it.

Merry Christmas, every one.

Do YOU know about periods?

I...wha...fuh...er...ah...THE FUCKING HELL?

Just watch it.

You'll be scarred for life, but WATCH IT!!

S'all good

Friends of the internets! We have cause for celebration today!! Mind you, it's nothing worthy of a full-scale ticker tape parade with marching bands and a Grand Marshal riding in a powder-blue T-bird. Although an appearance by David Hasslehoff serenading me with his latest big hit would be a treat. (I'm not sorry I did that to you.) But some partying shall commence!

I can usually turn every triumph no matter the size into a cause for a major reward, but today is a little different. This boob stuff scared the piss out of me. I held myself together surprisingly well and I'm actually very proud of myself for not falling completely apart or tearing the dreadlocks out of the head of the retarded fucking clerk at Old Navy who could not multitask beyond blinking and scanning bar codes let alone doing my exchange and talking on the phone causing her to nearly charge me thrice over for a single shirt. That's how much of a trooper I was.

Oh, I totally forgot to tell you the details. After many phone calls and 2 episodes of bursting into tears later, I finally got a call from my gyno doc herself last night where she explained to me with an almost-believable amount of fake sincerity for my sanity and well-being that yes indeedy the second set of magnified images showed nothing unusual. Nada. Zip. Zilch to be worried about. And the "useless" ultrasound while ineffective in detecting cancer does pick up cysts and shit but even if it was a waste of time for my type of big ol' girls the mammo was our ticket out of Insanityville.

Why the fuck the first 5 people I talked to earlier in the day couldn't explain any of that I don't know. I'm not your average patient and I want answers and explanations and I understand stuff so don't patronize me, alright? Just answer the question, Claire, ANSWER THE GOD DAMN QUESTION!! Ahem.

And here's a little message to the asshole woman wearing the Jehovah Lives t-shirt who was also called back for another mammogram the day I was there;

Don't give the technicians shit because you had to drive all the way from whatever shack you came from for another test. Don't pester and argue about how it's too far and you always have to come back for more pictures as if some pimple-faced kid at the photomat got a booger on your kids birthday photos instead of a mammogram with questionable results.

These people are trying to make sure you don't have fucking cancer eating away at your insides you ignorant bitch. I would drive A THOUSAND FUCKING MILES on the back of a Harley with no muffler, worn-out seats and a raging case of diarrhea for peace of mind that a second set of pictures and a closer look can give. This is not being done to inconvenience you or tear you away from the bingo hall. It's for your life so whip your tit out, shut the fuck up and say THANK YOU.

My lerd but was this a stressful week. I don't think I slept more than 3 hours every night, but bottom line, this too has past. And now we will celebrate with sushi for me, fully cooked beef for the fraidy cat non-raw fish eater, and booze. We also have a party to go to tomorrow night and I for one am glad of the story I won't be telling. I can stick with that one time I was thrown out of a Tijuana strip club instead. (That really happened, as if there where any doubt.)

I lift my glass to everyone who sent vibes and showed me support. That shit works, don't ever doubt it. Knowing that my baby, my friends, and virtual friend alike had and will always have my back makes me breathe easier. And for that, I thank you with a toast.

Here's to my tit who's been A OK'd
Much thanks to all of you who prayed
May your weekend be full of good friends & food
And If you think of it raise a glass for my boob.

Cheers!

I weeeeeen

I knew I was the only one to enter her little contest. I friggen KNEW it!

But I don't care. I finally won a prize! YAY!

A prize originally from NaBloPoMo. YAY!

A writing prize by default, apathy and no competition! YAY!

Wait...

No, no, it's still good.

YAY!

Limbo

First off - thank you so much for the comments all of you left yesterday. Just knowing there are friends and strangers alike taking the time to leave a note helped scrape me off the ceiling a bit. This is where things are right now; I went down to the radiology place yesterday and got lefty naked and ready where she was pulled and squeezed and smashy smashed 4 separate times then covered in goo and ultrasounded. She was very upset so later I bought her something shiny to make up for it.

All the boob wranglers were very nice, which is not the norm but much appreciated, and since they all knew why I was there kept asking me how I was doing. Such a refreshing change from being barked at by Nurse Ratchet to get naked and put this recycled from tumblweeds paper square the size of a McDonald's napkin over your lady parts only to be talked over and not to then whisked out of the office in 30 seconds but not after we try to stab you with a rusty fork 9 times to get a blood sample and if you're really lucky we'll call you fat to your face. So yesterday, although not fun and quite unsettling, wasn't too bad.

Unfortunately the ultrasound chick said my boob was too dense for her to see anything which was taken the wrong way and my stressed-out little sweater muffin got all offended at being called stupid and lashed out at the tech, punching her in the face getting that gel in her eye and the tech screamed "it burns it burns" and we tried to hightail it out of there because lefty has already had trouble with the law from that dowtown nightclub dancing in the window escapade which really wasn't her fault because what bar has giant windows facing the street anyway? They practically beg for a flashing then we all realized that breastzilla had taken the label "dense" the wrong way and we all had a good laugh.

As you can see, I'm trying very, very, VERY hard not to make anything of this before there is a this, but in my circumstance it's difficult because dammit, here we are again. A routine test has gone awry. They see something funny(my boob says 'funny, ha ha, like a clown? Do I fucking amuse you?') and need to investigate further.

This happens to me all the time. I've had countless MRI's and CT's and X-rays for all kinds of things in the past 3 years, especially 2006, Year of the Scan. Thyroid, lungs, head, neck, foot, etc. All to take a better look at the wheezing, the creaking, the aching, the hope it's shrinking stuff. And I'm always slightly bracing myself for the possibility that they'll find more than a little arthritis on my butt or a giant gas bubble in my guts, or more nasty thyroid cells trying to make pathetic a come-back like those boys from Van Halen. Dudes! JUST SAY NO! But this last thing, this one has stopped me in my tracks, for a moment.

When you've already been delivered the news that you have cancer, it's very hard to put that out of your head whenever things aren't perfectly normal. Normal for me, anyway which really means something added to my less than normal every day goings on. Every migraine makes me think it's a newly formed tumor pressing on my optic nerve. My throat has a tickle and I immediately go to lung cancer. That ingrown hair? I don't even want to think about it.

You see, once your body chemistry has gone all kerflooey you never quite trust it to behave again. The kind of cancer I had was extremely rare, has a great success rate but a 30% recurrence rate. All of that I can handle. I know what it will mean if it comes back and what I'll have to do and I'll manage. But when one of the (fucker asshole) doctors (that I don't see anymore because I don't think I'd be able to control my urge to tear his balls off with my bare hands) leaned back in his chair and smuggly said to me, "You know, your chances of getting another kind of cancer has just gone up 25%", Well, I think I went into a permanent state of panic attack that I've never, ever be able to shake off.

When the breast center called me Monday night, which they've never done before, my mind went there. You know where there is. That place in your head that remembers what it feels like to be given life-altering crap-ass news. The dark corner where the psycho clowns wait in the shadows for the right moment to jump out and flash their flesh-tearing teeth at you. The space in your brain reserved for terror. And I can't help it. I can't help being fucking freaked out because this doesn't feel routine. This one is new and worrisome and scary as fuck.

I live in a constant state of paranoia. It takes different forms and has varying degrees, but it's always there like a question mark bouncing around in my mind. Probably nothing, maybe something, definitely a thing, perhaps not. Bouncing bouncing bouncing. Like a god damn Tigger on crack and Nyquil. I hate that guy. And he doesn't share his drugs.

Most of the time I can keep it under control with chocolate and living my very good life and trying not to to let too much of my day spent being obsessed. But it's how I'm wired and I'll thank anyone not to fucking tell me how to feel about any of it (specifically, stupid co-worker). If you're going to start any sentences with "you just have to" I will not be responsible for my actions. My very painful to your person actions. And I understand the well-meaning "It's probably nothing"'s but those words fall on my deaf ears because once you bank of that being the case, and one time it's so far from the case, they don't work any more.

If you walked across a frozen lake that looked rock fucking solid, imagining inches upon inches of solid ice under your feet then you took an innocent step only to feel everything split and crumble under you with a sickening crack and your next realization being you're are falling to your possible death as you felt the freezing water rush over you, sucking the breath right from your chest rendering you momentarily paralyzed with fear and shock, you'd be pretty fucking wary of ever taking a stroll like that again, wouldn't you? I'll stay on the shore, thank you very much.

But people say, awww, come on, what are the odds that'll happen again? It's safe! I'm sure it's frozen this time. You still want to stick out a toe and take that chance? Maybe, and I think it's important to not miss out on those kinds of adventures, but I bet you won't ever forget what happened that one time. Your body will remember what it felt like to have the world fall out from under you. And you are no pussy for being careful and being prepared, just in case.

And that's what I'm doing. I hope it's nothing. I hope I'll laugh about this in a week and say "whew" all that worrying for nothing. But I'm also getting ready for another battle I might have to fight. I'm being realistic and dusting off my warrior gear. I need to handle this my way.

Just in case.

Speaking of tits...

Messages you don't want to come home to on your answering maching:

"Hello Ms. Bitter, this is so-and-so from the Tit Smasher Breast Center. Please give me a call regarding your recent mammogram."

Please excuse me while I go shit my pants for the next 12 hours.

Update: I called. There's something wrong with my left girl. I have to go back in today for more smashing and an ultrasound.

I need another pair of pants and 2 14 valium.

Hey you, cocktit!

Listen ladies. I have but one request for you today. It's not huge, alright? Don't get all panicky thinking I'm going to ask you to balance my checkbook or demand a juggling act with broken glass and a running chainsaw. This will not require money, illegal action, or assistance from an outside party. It's not going to hurt. It'll take about 4 seconds of your life and could change your day. I know it will certainly change mine.

You have GOT to straighten out your nipples before you leave the house.

Tweak 'em, rub a little ice on 'em, or stick 'em in your dustbuster, I don't care, but you need to pay attention to which way they're pointing so if a cold wind kicks up, you sneeze, or the fucking over-producing AC in your office showers you with freezing air all fucking day and gives you some spectacular glass cutters it won't look like Marty God Damn Feldmen has crawled into your shirt.

I cannot look at your face when you're smuggling peas with lefty pointing directly at my face and the other towards the South Pole. One of these days I'm going to send my pinching fingers in for sweet revenge and give you a tweak that'll bring tears to your eyes. The askew boob is distracting, yo.

And it's OK. I have a set of cans on me that are impressive, although I think they belong between the pages of National Geographic instead of Playboy, so I get it. I developed much like Wynonna Ryder and Kirsten Dunst, without the tiny waists and non-existent assess but with what I like to call The Pendulous Breasts. They have a natural swing and weight and unruly nipples that need a little post-bra wrangling to get situated for the day.

But even if you're not plenteous in the chestal region you still need to take the time to level it all up. Hard nips are hot. Cocktits are not.

STRAIGHTEN THAT SHIT OUT!

OK? OK.

Honk Honk

Ahh, San Francisco. The place where some people leave their hearts. I, however, leave my money because that place is fucking expensive! Fuck! And have you heard that it's crowded there? Yes. It is!

I once again had a good time mixed with sore feet, a few things that went sideways and one near throw-down in the airport all wrapped up with a spectacular ending to the weekend. (Thanks, baby.) And since my ridiculously delicate system has turned from soft as a peach to thin as rice paper spending a weekend consuming 4 paltry cocktails, some diet coke, and running around more than usual I was rendered exhausted and threat-level red moody grumpy I hate everything for 2 whole days afterward.

And I've also gotten very lazy since I don't have to write every day (boo, no prizes!!) even though I want to. I swear, I'd work my ass off at the office if I there was a potential for a prize with my paycheck every 2 weeks. I could possibly take home a dancing Santa that flashes his ass? I'LL PUT IN 90 HOURS!! I'm so dumb. Anyway, onto the recap.

I hadn't been feeling well for a few days before I left and had to push visions of spending the entire weekend laying in my bed at home out of my head, because that was a much-craved prospect. But I can usually rally myself and scrape up some energy reserved for naughty talk and shopping so I was hoping this trip would be no exception. And after taking a little nap peppered with panic attacks on the plane I was a little bit refreshed. And sweaty. Refreshingly sweaty.

Matty met me soon after I picked up my suitcase and we headed for the train. We made it back to his apartment without incident (thank you for not being scary this time public transportation!), changed and headed to the Hyatt Regency for dinner and drinks and one most kick-ass glass of wine that I highly recommend and we got the pleasure of being seated next to a couple who loudly argued for 20 minutes about how he never comes over to her place and cuts her off mid-sent...shut up already. Fuck.

(clicky to make bigger)










I took my camera in hopes of photographing the astounding amount of lights the Hyatt puts up every year but I'm not that happy with the outcome of 99% of my shots this weekend, (again.) It seems to be hit-or-miss with me in the photography department which is exactly why I'm having an elicit affair with my digital camera since I can shoot 500 frames and erase them all and start over if I want to. But hell, it would be nice to have more than a couple to share. Bah.

The next morning we got ready and headed to the biggest mall west of the Mississippi which did not impress, by the way. I don't like a shopping center that acts like a 29-armed octopus and their food court sucked. Only in SF could you not find a fucking Hot Dog on a Stick but come across fusion free range organic grilled platypus skewers on every corner. For a small fee of one paycheck, please. At least they had plenty of my bff diet coke to take me from a pre-migraine head-splitter into a Christmas shopper. And the platypus wasn't bad.



Between struggling through the throngs of a gazillion Saturday browsers and paying $6.00 & change for 4 small pieces of gourmet chocolate we hit the street to shop there, where we found the rest of the population of Northern California and quite a few yelly homeless people and one dude screaming about Jesus into a megaphone. Nothing like hearing about the Almighty Lord through a distorted speaker and impatient taxi horn honks.





We hit a toy store later because I loves me some toys, and when we walked in we spied a little boy sitting in a little car pretending to drive. And being the world's educator that I am, I said to him, "You say honk, honk, GET OUTTA MY WAY." And like a good little parrot he repeated me exactly. Then I got in trouble for being a bad influence.

Finally I found one, count it, one Christmas gift of the whole weekend and we headed off for a cocktail because, shit, we needed a cocktail. Honk, honk, GET OUTTA MY WAY.



On the way back to the apartment to relax before our dinner plans we can across the famous parrots of Telegraph Hill being fed by a group of people in the park next to Matty's apartment building. It was really exciting. I used to be petrified of birds but when the man with the giant sack of seeds offered me a handful I didn't hesitate and in less than a second I was mobbed. Crazy little fuckers.









After decorating Matty's cute little balcony with some lights we headed over to the gayborhood for some Sushi where another million people were all crammed into tiny establishments and there was a long and many-subject argument with me yelling "And how do you know my ass doesn't get eaten on a regular basis!?!" which is something I didn't think I'd ever utter not-to-mention argue about and a certain someone did something naughty and I got really mad but then we made up and after a drink was spilled it was determined that I was right and probably always am. GET OUTTA MY WAY!

The last stop of the night was to wish a friend a happy birthday in a giant lesbian bar where a miniature lesbian barback kept ramming into my butt (seriously, it's not that huge tiny lesbian!) and someone puked and we left. Then Matty and I had a great convo in the cab and the driver complimented our relationship and in his thick Russian accent said we were "very good conversational" which we really are. One last ciggie on the balcony and it was off to bed.





I woke up early the next morning without a raging headache which is a miracle on account of I was served rat piss in the name of wine the night before (is chardonnay supposed to be the color of rancid apple juice?) and saw an interesting sunrise trying to break through the haze. It was so bright I was sure my retinas had popped out of my head an onto the floor so I closed my eyes, lifted the camera and clicked. Notice the askew...





Sunday got a bit screwed up with the plans and brunch was scratched and time for more shopping slipped away. New friends flew in for a visit so they picked us up in their rental car, we dropped them off after an hour-long trek through a 5 mile long street with a Catholic church on every corner, and after snagging the rental car for ourselves were off to the airport for my late afternoon flight. Matty and said a quick goodbye and I was on my way.



After a semi-uneventful plane ride, with only one panic attack (go me!), we landed back in San Diego and I mosied to baggage claim to get my suitcase. And this is where I almost killed a queen.

I was standing there minding my own business when the turnstyle started up and bags were catapulting down the slide. My side of the baggage thingy had gotten really crowded but there was plenty of room on the other side. I would have moved accept I was there first and the crowd had grown 3 people thick behind me.

Without warning this guy shrieks in an extremely annoyed voice, "EXCUSE ME", then GRIPS his hand ON my arm and SHOVES me to the left and out of his bony assed way. Well, that pissed me right the fuck off. I'm not easily intimidated and I'm sick to shit of people being assholes because they're banking on the fact that most people won't challenge them. But guess what, mother effer, I'm not most people.

The first thing that popped out of my mouth was the retro pre-school teacher in me and with a raised voice I said,

"Hey! Words work you know!!"

I wasn't satisfied with that so I added, "DON'T TOUCH ME!!"

The self-entitled pissy queen hissed as me and snotilly said, "WELL! Someone's had a bad day."

Which I then replied, "No, you are being a jerk."

And then he said "You don't have to be such a nasty BITCH about it!"

Oh. No. You did NOT go there, little man. I am tired. I just FLEW on an AIRPLANE which I HATE and I was standing here MINDING my own BUSINESS and you didn't even give me a CHANCE to get out of your WAY before you PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME without my PERMISSON and have you NOTICED that I OUTWEIGH your skinny ass by MANY pounds?

You can call me a cunt. You can call me an idiot. But when you call me a bitch is usually means I'm standing up for myself against some fucker who thinks they can say or do whatever the hell they want to and them thar are figthing words to me. So through my growing red face I pursed my lips and tersely said;

"You. Shouldn't. SHOVE. People."

Which I was hoping would be the end of it because I was right and he was wrong but no. He just had to open his yapper again and spat, "I didn't shove you" and made a snorty sound so I finished it off by roaring;

"OH SHUT THE FUCK UP!!"

Then I keeeled him.

Alright, I didn't kill him but man, was I PISSED. If he'd said one more thing, looked at me with even the corner of his beady little eye, or breathed the wrong way I was prepared to tackle him to the ground scratch his eyes out then shove my boarding pass into his skull. And to make matters worse some little whore standing next to me made oh my god faces at her travel companion then proceeded to giggle patronizingly until I got my bag an excrutiating 10 minutes later and left.

I went outside to cool off and call for the park-n-ride shuttle van, thinking that my most unpleasant experience was over and done with. Little did I know. I made my way up the very wide and spacious sidewalk ramp, stopped over to the left and started to dial. No sooner did I get my cell phone out did a mother pushing a stroller past me spew another snippy and undeserved "EX-CA-USE ME!" And I was like, what the fuck is going on here?

She had at least 4 feet of space to push her rat through and since I didn't have to move a fucking muscle obviously she knew it too, she just wanted to be a crab. And once again, another fucker couldn't leave it at that. She just had to put the cherry on my shit evening and added, "Gawd, you're totally standing in the middle." Which is clear to all of us I was not!

So, I keeeled her too.

No, I didn't. But I did kind of really lose it this time and in front of a shit-ton of people and shuttle vehicles, turned towards the bitchy bitcher and yelled;

"JESUS CHRIST! FUCK OFF!!"

I didn't waste a second to see if she'd heard me or reacted and I went back to dialing my phone were I politely and nicely asked for a pick up then turned around to see the 2 GOD DAMN GIGGLING WOMEN STANDING 3 FEET BEHIND ME.

~sigh~

I managed to get home without incident, magically irritating anyone else or committing strangercide and into the arms of my baby who had a pizza, chicken kickers and gooey cheesy bread waiting for me. Then I shagged the shit out of him and went to bed.

The End.

NaBlo(PoMo) Me!!

I DIDN'T WIN NUTHIN'!!

NUTHIN'!!

Not even the dog bones that I would have been thrilled to have even though I don't have a god damn dog because it's still a prize!!

And I really wanted that turkey painting.

:(

TGIFucking hell

Dear Week,

You can stop kicking my ass now.

Thanks,

Betty


Jebus H. on a popsicle stick, has this one been extra super duper rough. It was a shit show. And now I physically feel like I drank my own personal bottle of cheap tequila, ate the worm on a sesame cracker, smoked 14 packs of no name cigarettes and didn't sleep for 3 days straight. None of which I did since that kind of activity usually comes with mind-blowing fun and nakedness. Having a simulated hangover without any preceding monkey sex just isn't fair, god dammit.

I hope I'm not coming down with something real, as opposed to the fake "I think I'm coming down with something" symptoms I have every other day. My body likes to play a cute little game of cat & mouse with me where illness is concerned. I'll wake up one morning hacking and feverish and I'll be convinced I've been infected with some kind of mutated virus from a silverfish and I'll be going into multiple organ failure by lunch.

Then it goes away a day later and once again, I've been faked out. I guess I shouldn't complain about not getting some big payoff of the killer flu, but feeling like i'm almost getting the killer flu for days at a time and then it going away then coming back again is retarded. Fucking hormones. Being a girl is hard! And stress. Stress sucks too! Hmf.

I would love to spend the weekend laying around my house watching Season 1 of Grey's Anatomy because I'm bound and determined to get on that train, baby! I'm comin' for ya Dr. McDreamy!! And snogging with my man, but nay, I'm flying to San Fran tonight for a weekend of shopping, picture taking, and mild debauchery since I'm not in the mood for extreme debauchery. Those boys in the gayborhood will just have to lay off my boobs this time. I ain't in the mood.

Hopefully I can catch a much-needed nap on the plane and I know that if I'm truly out of steam we can always go back to my best friend Matty's house and sit around staring at the wall because he's one of those people who DON'T HAVE A T.V. I know! I've been really looking forward to this trip so I hope I snap out of this crud I feel invading my system soon. Bleh.

Like I said, I'm bringing my camera and hopefully will get some more cool shots of the city. I've been told it's mandatory we go watch the ice skaters at the seasonal outdoor rink and I, in kind, have warned massive and painful bodily injury on Matt is there there is any nagging or harassing for me to get into a pair of ice skates. I can barely stand on my own feet let alone sharp, metal blades attached to plastic boots that raise my ass another 4 inches off the floor. That would be bad, people, bad.

So you all have a nice weekend and I'll be back on Sunday with a melted credit card and NO pictures of naked penii. (This time.)