40 years ago today a young woman, probably alone and scared, pushed me into this world and did the most unselfish thing possible and gave me away in the knowledge that I'd be better taken care of. Or else she didn't have room in her VW bug for a baby and her bongo drums, but whatever. In any case, September 19th was my debut and I've taking extra bows ever since.
The big birthdays always give me some growing pains. I remember turning 10 and a friend of my mother's making a big deal about being "2 digits! You're 2 digits now! You'll never be anything else but 2 digits!" and I thought nervously to myself, well shit, maybe 2 digits is too much to handle, jeez lady, get a grip and shut up you're freaking me out!! Then I ate cake. Of course looking back now it was silly but my sensitive cheese-brain got a little stressed out over it.
Photographic evidence: Home haircut and 2 giant front teeth swallowing my whole face.
Then there was 13. The intro age into teenagerdome. The time when I was straddling between being a little kid and being a little lady. Barbies in one hand and lip gloss in the other. I clearly recall loving that age because for a short time I could bounce between those 2 worlds with ease. Until the zits and periods showed up that same year (on the school sanctioned 4 day ski trip thank you very fucking much.)
Photographic evidence: High waisted pants and feathered hair.
Then there was sweet 16. People really make a big stink about that one. In my day it was left-overs from the 50's when 16 meant you were about a minute from being engaged so your family could marry you off the day after graduation with corresponding songs by bouffant haired blonds crowding the airwaves. Now it's the second or third? MTV generation with the spoiled rich bitches sobbing onto their Escalade dashboards when mommy won't let them wear nothing but duct tape to their party. Mean mommy!
I was really excited about my 16th birthday and started planning my party a couple of months in advance. For some reason my mother felt a party that year was unnecessary. I think it was because she turned 16 in that golden age I mentioned above but her family didn't have the money or inclination to celebrate beyond a family mention and maybe a cake, so she put the stop on that. It was horrible a the time but I get it now. I was allowed to invite 1 special friend to a fancy restaurant and had an OK time.
Photographic evidence: Very liberally applied gray eye shadow. Oi.
Then there was 18. I think I had a big party. I can't really remember but I do recollect being a slight bit worried that I was now "legal" and could get arrested for statutory rape so I needed to be careful. Christ on a crutch, the things that go through my dumb brain. Like that would ever happen, not-to-mention I was still a virgin. Tard.
Photographic evidence: ??
21 had it's pressure to be perfect with the perfect amount of debauchery and hope that I'd finally get to whip out my ID and the bar would have to serve me because HA HA! I'm legal now boyee. I've always looked younger than I am and the ID scramble lost its magic a few years later and now I just laugh HA HA HA and thank them.
I turned the magic age of drinking on a Monday night. Not the best part of the week for partying. I went out with my then boyfriend and best girlfriend and we bar hopped from one empty establishment to the next pouring booze down my throat until I was literally blind. Of course the next day I was sick as a dog but I supposed I reached my goal.
Photographic evidence: The universe's largest shoulder pads holding up my giant head of hair.
When I turned 30 I was in a weird place in my life. I'd filed for divorce, finally got my asshole husband out of the house and wasn't feeling like a penis magnet. At the last minute I decided, screw it, I'm throwing myself a fucking party and that's just what I did. I rented out a private loft at my favorite bar, invited a plethora of friends and acquaintances, got properly hammered and made out with a 24 year old stranger I met on the dance floor. It changed my way of thinking forever.
Photographic evidence: Me and the stud bleary eyed with pink rings of my lipstick smeared around our mouths. Excellent.
Today I turn 40. Life has gone in a zillion different directions in the last 10 years. Some good, some bad, some I never dreamed of for all varieties of reasons. Big birthdays like this always make your life score-card pop up in front of your face. Accomplishments, goals, obstacles overcome. What's the score?
I've been having a hard time with this one but I did with all the others too. And with age hopefully comes wisdom and I know it's just a stupid number and I can't let that panicky voice in my head take over telling me I can't do stuff now because it's never too late and one of the perks of getting old is not giving a fuck what other people think. So there. And of course there have been triumphs and if I want more it's up to me to do it.
I'm so grateful for what I have. A few years ago I was afraid I'd never make it to this age and I'm so glad to be here. Looking beyond the number, because GAH! 40! How the fuck did that happen? I choose to celebrate the awesome stuff about myself and focus on the good things in my life.
I'm so fortunate to be with the love of my life. As lame as it may sound, I didn't know it could be like this. Even when he leaves the oven on and he's snoring and I want to smother him a wee bit with a pillow, I'm still blown away by the love I feel for him and from him.
I have some of the most spectacular friends a person could hope to have. They are funny and kind and tough when they need to be and aren't scared away by my shit. My famdamily is like every other, a bunch of weirdo's with baggage but I've had a good life and have always been taken care of and I love them. Even my jerky brother.
Today I salute the woman who gave birth to me and the parents who did the rest of the very hard work. I thank my lovely friends and send kisses to my family. Virtual hugs for my online friends for being so kick freaking ass. Love and all that shit for you all! And for my baby, I cherish you for taking such good care of my heart. You've kept your promise and I love you more than my luggage.
I took the day off today to lounge and relax and eat chocolate until I go into a sugar coma. I'll put the final plans into place for my party this weekend, which happens to be at the same bar from 10 years ago, and eat my favorite junk food. I will take a nice long nap. I will be nice to myself. I'd like it if you would do the same.
Photographic evidence: You'll just have to wait and see.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Boo!
While flipping channels today I zoomed past a war movie I had the misfortune of seeing as a young girl in the summer of 1976. I recognized it right away, which is funny since that was about a million years ago and after looking up the year it came out was surprised at the date and the age I was when I got to witness 2 hours of WWII carnage that left me slightly scarred with the image of Charlton Heston, or whoever, burning alive in his crashing Corsair.
I remember being dropped off by my mother with my bff and her younger brother at the only movie theater within 15 miles. A small hole of a room with exceptionally sticky floors and a questionable staff of be-fro'd burnouts. I think Gene Simmons worked the soda machine.
It was a very hot July day and no doubt my mother could have done without me under her feet whining about the temperature, my unending boredom and begging for sugary treats. So, my little ass was deposited at the theater for a double feature. Forget the fact that were 9 and 8 respectively (good gawd) we were seeing unrated (?) movies never meant for people our age but no one gave that a thought.
After the intermission, peeling our keds off the floor, pee break, and popcorn refill, we took our seat again for the second feature. This one would prove even worse than the first and would haunt me for weeks to come. Bigfoot. That big damn hairy scary fucking Bigfoot. Nevermind the fact that we were alone at that age, but we shouldn't have seen either of those movies!
That effing monster movie Messed. Me. Up. I couldn't sleep for weeks without my parents both being in my room trying to convince me that there was no Bigfoot looming in the doorway or scary things under the bed or in the closet or monsters waiting to eat my face when the lights went out. Although we all know differently, don't we. Just ask Stephen King.
Another movie that jacked me up for half of my life was some B creature feature where some guy tries to save his wife by keeping only her head alive in a fucking pan of juices after she's decapitated in a car accident. I saw this when I was 5 years old after a day of kindergarten happily eating paste and showing my panties to the boys. I was never the same again.
I've had a strange relationship with all things creepy. In junior high I would regularly check out fiction and nonfiction accounts of ghost stories and look at freak show and circus people pictures that seemed to be oddly abundant in our small library. Lobster men, parasitic twins, conjoined heads floating in pickle jars. I was a tad obsessed.
At the same time I couldn't handle more than a few minutes in a campfire round of scare the shit out of the kids. I'd start to shake and cry and through my chattering teeth beg to be anywhere but in the middle of a tale involving a beating heart under the floorboards or Lizzy Borden coming to get me with a sharpened axe.
Things didn't improve when my 6th grade teacher showed our class some bizarre film about a farmer from the 1800's tending to his freshly dead wife on the kitchen table, cleaning her skin and dressing her in a fresh bonnet when all the time she was really alive or zombified or something horrible and when he's out on the farm she gets into a brawl with a mountain lion who fucks her up and kills her for real and he finds the aftermath which is shown in a series of strobe-light bursts.
WTF, teacher? WTF late 70's? WTF?
By my junior year in high school things began to change. Watching scary movies with a group of friends was a fun thing to do and my intense reaction was starting to wear off. Somehow a tradition started between my best friend Matty and I and every Sunday we'd rent a few slasher flicks, get a can of nacho cheese and some chips and spend the afternoon squealing and laughing and overdosing on junk food. It's one of my fondest memories.
Now, I can't get enough. We go out of our way to see as many scary movies as we can that are worth a look and I am a religious King follower. I've always loved Halloween and look forward to the season more and more every year. Decorating the house with spooky stuff and planning out a month of horror movies to watch. The dark skies and ghost stories shared on the radio. I love it all.
I still get scared sometimes and can work myself up in instant, seeing things out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to reach for that lightswitch in the pitch dark, just knowing something is reaching for me at the same time, and I don't like it when the cat jerks her head up at the ceiling looking at nothing. But a good scare gets the blood flowing. Well placed words that bring the hair up on the back of your neck is a thrill. Watching Paris Hilton cut into tiny pieces is delicious.
I might be turning 40 in a few days but I'll never stop enjoying a good old-fashioned fright.
Even if I have do to occasionally watch through my fingers.
I remember being dropped off by my mother with my bff and her younger brother at the only movie theater within 15 miles. A small hole of a room with exceptionally sticky floors and a questionable staff of be-fro'd burnouts. I think Gene Simmons worked the soda machine.
It was a very hot July day and no doubt my mother could have done without me under her feet whining about the temperature, my unending boredom and begging for sugary treats. So, my little ass was deposited at the theater for a double feature. Forget the fact that were 9 and 8 respectively (good gawd) we were seeing unrated (?) movies never meant for people our age but no one gave that a thought.
After the intermission, peeling our keds off the floor, pee break, and popcorn refill, we took our seat again for the second feature. This one would prove even worse than the first and would haunt me for weeks to come. Bigfoot. That big damn hairy scary fucking Bigfoot. Nevermind the fact that we were alone at that age, but we shouldn't have seen either of those movies!
That effing monster movie Messed. Me. Up. I couldn't sleep for weeks without my parents both being in my room trying to convince me that there was no Bigfoot looming in the doorway or scary things under the bed or in the closet or monsters waiting to eat my face when the lights went out. Although we all know differently, don't we. Just ask Stephen King.
Another movie that jacked me up for half of my life was some B creature feature where some guy tries to save his wife by keeping only her head alive in a fucking pan of juices after she's decapitated in a car accident. I saw this when I was 5 years old after a day of kindergarten happily eating paste and showing my panties to the boys. I was never the same again.
I've had a strange relationship with all things creepy. In junior high I would regularly check out fiction and nonfiction accounts of ghost stories and look at freak show and circus people pictures that seemed to be oddly abundant in our small library. Lobster men, parasitic twins, conjoined heads floating in pickle jars. I was a tad obsessed.
At the same time I couldn't handle more than a few minutes in a campfire round of scare the shit out of the kids. I'd start to shake and cry and through my chattering teeth beg to be anywhere but in the middle of a tale involving a beating heart under the floorboards or Lizzy Borden coming to get me with a sharpened axe.
Things didn't improve when my 6th grade teacher showed our class some bizarre film about a farmer from the 1800's tending to his freshly dead wife on the kitchen table, cleaning her skin and dressing her in a fresh bonnet when all the time she was really alive or zombified or something horrible and when he's out on the farm she gets into a brawl with a mountain lion who fucks her up and kills her for real and he finds the aftermath which is shown in a series of strobe-light bursts.
WTF, teacher? WTF late 70's? WTF?
By my junior year in high school things began to change. Watching scary movies with a group of friends was a fun thing to do and my intense reaction was starting to wear off. Somehow a tradition started between my best friend Matty and I and every Sunday we'd rent a few slasher flicks, get a can of nacho cheese and some chips and spend the afternoon squealing and laughing and overdosing on junk food. It's one of my fondest memories.
Now, I can't get enough. We go out of our way to see as many scary movies as we can that are worth a look and I am a religious King follower. I've always loved Halloween and look forward to the season more and more every year. Decorating the house with spooky stuff and planning out a month of horror movies to watch. The dark skies and ghost stories shared on the radio. I love it all.
I still get scared sometimes and can work myself up in instant, seeing things out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to reach for that lightswitch in the pitch dark, just knowing something is reaching for me at the same time, and I don't like it when the cat jerks her head up at the ceiling looking at nothing. But a good scare gets the blood flowing. Well placed words that bring the hair up on the back of your neck is a thrill. Watching Paris Hilton cut into tiny pieces is delicious.
I might be turning 40 in a few days but I'll never stop enjoying a good old-fashioned fright.
Even if I have do to occasionally watch through my fingers.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Is it fall yet?
Picture me gritting my teeth. Please envision me making a fist, pursing my pouty lips and flaring my nostrils. Then imagine I'm breathing heavy and turning red and reaching for a very large hammer. Now run away.
I'm having system issues. Both at work AND at home. Problems that make my computers freeze, lock, hang, swoon, hiccup, block, weep, gossip, binge, purge, write bad checks, and in all general terms of intense annoyance NOT FUCKING WORK RIGHT.
My work puter acts like a surly teenager sunk deep into the couch and barely lifts their half-lidded eyes when you ask it to do something. Now, please. Right now. Please do it now. NOW! RIGHT NOW. FOR FUCKSSAKE GET OFF YOUR ASS AND DO IT NOW! But they still don't move a slack muscle and in fact fall into a deep and comatose sleep while you wait and wait and stomp your feet and have a stroke and get very pissed, not accomplishing what you want to do.
Half the sites I try to open simply won't, half the links on this blog are now blocked, and random pics are missing then show up then go missing again. In a word. It sucks. Right in the middle of trying to post this entry Blogger was blocked for not being a "work related" site. RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE. They're so on to me. Assholes.
And now my system at home has apparently been bogged down by the 20,000 photos I've (accidentally many, many times) uploaded and (accidentally) shared between 4 different editing programs and/or it's haunted since my keyboard decides not to work whenever it damn well feels like it.
This all leads to much rebooting, frustration, hair pulling, screaming, tantrums, and threats of throwing heavy equipment onto the ground in hopes it will implode in a fiery mass of shitty non-working wires and motherboards. Not to mention the massive cramp that's been put into my time-wasting at my retarded job and creative-outlet avoiding at home because gawd knows I have the patience of a short statured flea and cannot wait 60 seconds for a page to load.
Christ. Almighty.
Hopefully I can at least get things running better at home because I'm close to going crazy and I don't think whitey can handle one more of my whining fits while I pound my hands on a dead keyboard growling like a drunk monkey. It's not attractive, is what I'm saying.
~~~~~
We've finally gotten a weather break and the temps have gone from uninhabitable to I think I'll keep my skin after all. It was hotter than Satan's balls in a broiler pan the entire Labor Day weekend and any hint of a possible plan to venture out of the house was scrapped when I heard a warning on the radio to be careful while driving since the heat could cause hot tires to explode. What is this, Phoenix for crapsake?
I didn't step outside but about 4 times from Saturday afternoon until Tuesday morning. Although I was desperate to take a photo of something other than the cat and the one flower that's still alive on my patio so I took an early morning walk around my neighborhood on Monday.
It wasn't even 9:00 a.m. yet and within 100 yards of my front door I had sweat rolling down my back and steam fogging my sunglasses. The shorts I was wearing were made of cotton and defective lycra and have a tendency to lose their shape a little bit and while I walked around they began to slip down to a level lower than appropriate. And because I was so sticky with sweat when I crouched down to shoot a rose I plumber-cracked my entire neighborhood and those damn shorts got stuck like that. I pulled and tugged and balanced camera equipment with holding my pants up and finally said fuck it and went home, took a cold shower and stayed the fuck inside.
Summer really belongs to kids anyway. No school. All play all the time. Swimming. Games. Hide-n-seek until the street lights came on then running home for a bar-b-que'd dinner. Sugary, cold popsicles for dessert. It was non-stop good times. Well, most of it.
I'm having system issues. Both at work AND at home. Problems that make my computers freeze, lock, hang, swoon, hiccup, block, weep, gossip, binge, purge, write bad checks, and in all general terms of intense annoyance NOT FUCKING WORK RIGHT.
My work puter acts like a surly teenager sunk deep into the couch and barely lifts their half-lidded eyes when you ask it to do something. Now, please. Right now. Please do it now. NOW! RIGHT NOW. FOR FUCKSSAKE GET OFF YOUR ASS AND DO IT NOW! But they still don't move a slack muscle and in fact fall into a deep and comatose sleep while you wait and wait and stomp your feet and have a stroke and get very pissed, not accomplishing what you want to do.
Half the sites I try to open simply won't, half the links on this blog are now blocked, and random pics are missing then show up then go missing again. In a word. It sucks. Right in the middle of trying to post this entry Blogger was blocked for not being a "work related" site. RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE. They're so on to me. Assholes.
And now my system at home has apparently been bogged down by the 20,000 photos I've (accidentally many, many times) uploaded and (accidentally) shared between 4 different editing programs and/or it's haunted since my keyboard decides not to work whenever it damn well feels like it.
This all leads to much rebooting, frustration, hair pulling, screaming, tantrums, and threats of throwing heavy equipment onto the ground in hopes it will implode in a fiery mass of shitty non-working wires and motherboards. Not to mention the massive cramp that's been put into my time-wasting at my retarded job and creative-outlet avoiding at home because gawd knows I have the patience of a short statured flea and cannot wait 60 seconds for a page to load.
Christ. Almighty.
Hopefully I can at least get things running better at home because I'm close to going crazy and I don't think whitey can handle one more of my whining fits while I pound my hands on a dead keyboard growling like a drunk monkey. It's not attractive, is what I'm saying.
~~~~~
We've finally gotten a weather break and the temps have gone from uninhabitable to I think I'll keep my skin after all. It was hotter than Satan's balls in a broiler pan the entire Labor Day weekend and any hint of a possible plan to venture out of the house was scrapped when I heard a warning on the radio to be careful while driving since the heat could cause hot tires to explode. What is this, Phoenix for crapsake?
I didn't step outside but about 4 times from Saturday afternoon until Tuesday morning. Although I was desperate to take a photo of something other than the cat and the one flower that's still alive on my patio so I took an early morning walk around my neighborhood on Monday.
It wasn't even 9:00 a.m. yet and within 100 yards of my front door I had sweat rolling down my back and steam fogging my sunglasses. The shorts I was wearing were made of cotton and defective lycra and have a tendency to lose their shape a little bit and while I walked around they began to slip down to a level lower than appropriate. And because I was so sticky with sweat when I crouched down to shoot a rose I plumber-cracked my entire neighborhood and those damn shorts got stuck like that. I pulled and tugged and balanced camera equipment with holding my pants up and finally said fuck it and went home, took a cold shower and stayed the fuck inside.
Summer really belongs to kids anyway. No school. All play all the time. Swimming. Games. Hide-n-seek until the street lights came on then running home for a bar-b-que'd dinner. Sugary, cold popsicles for dessert. It was non-stop good times. Well, most of it.
Like 90% of the houses on our street we had a pool, which was a blast, but swimming on the day the pool man came meant chemical poisoning and squinty eyes for the night. How the hell we didn't all grow an extra head I don't know.
All of us kids would watch whatever cute high school boy was working his summer job throw a handful of this and a cup of that then a thingamajig into the deep end where bubbles would rise and fizz and a soup of caustic substances would be deposited into our wet playland to keep it fresh and blue. We'd barely make it the requisite hour waiting time then happily jump in, swimming and splashing for hours, getting out smelling like a fresh jug of bleach and unable to see. It was great.
And I don't think our parents ever let us in the house. We were ordered outside all damn day no matter how effing hot it was. Although I really can't blame them. We were dirty rats getting into all kinds of trouble and I wouldn't want 5 unruly hooligans dripping otter pops all over my light colored carpet. (Didn't those things rip the shit out of your mouth? It was worth it but damn.)
Now I associate summer with blinding sun, migraines, chafed tits, and a searing hot steering wheel. Ah well. At least now I don't smell like chlorine, I can spend the whole weekend in bed if I want to and my AC unit could put frost on your ovaries. And that, my friends, is what I call a good time.
All of us kids would watch whatever cute high school boy was working his summer job throw a handful of this and a cup of that then a thingamajig into the deep end where bubbles would rise and fizz and a soup of caustic substances would be deposited into our wet playland to keep it fresh and blue. We'd barely make it the requisite hour waiting time then happily jump in, swimming and splashing for hours, getting out smelling like a fresh jug of bleach and unable to see. It was great.
And I don't think our parents ever let us in the house. We were ordered outside all damn day no matter how effing hot it was. Although I really can't blame them. We were dirty rats getting into all kinds of trouble and I wouldn't want 5 unruly hooligans dripping otter pops all over my light colored carpet. (Didn't those things rip the shit out of your mouth? It was worth it but damn.)
Now I associate summer with blinding sun, migraines, chafed tits, and a searing hot steering wheel. Ah well. At least now I don't smell like chlorine, I can spend the whole weekend in bed if I want to and my AC unit could put frost on your ovaries. And that, my friends, is what I call a good time.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Reunion
I do believe I'm fully recovered from that damn reunion. It sort of seems like a blur anyway, which might or might not have anything to do with the fact that I was nervous, it was 100,000 degrees that day and the only thing I consumed in the way of food was half of a Jack-n-the-Crack kids-meal cheeseburger 8 hours before drinking a gallon of white wine.
In a word? It was weird. So, so weird.
Matty and I were both jittery, some from excitement (mostly him) and some from dread (mostly me) and some from holy shit we're going to see people from 20 years ago (mostly both.) So after getting appropriately fabulous and cleavaged we headed down to the hotel lobby for a pre-soiree drinky-poo to take our edges off. ($28.00 for 2 drinks, wtf W??)
After we'd drained our cocktails we hopped in a cab for the mile drive to the fucking boat this party was being held on which was possibly the worst choice for a venue I could think of. No climate control, no big room for mulling about, and it was fugly.
I'd like to send a terse letter to the genius who thought it was a good idea to host a reunion on a floating museum with 7 foot ceilings that trapped the summer heat like a sauna full of old men with B.O. because they should be fired from whatever volunteer position they'd signed up for. Hello! Ladies in nice dresses that don't want to peel the paper ass-gaskets off their butts in the bathroom! Hi! Didn't really want to spend the night daintily wiping the running sweat from my forehead! High heals on uneven floors! Jesus, that part sucked.
Since one little ol' drink wasn't enough to calm our nerves we decided to head straight for the bar when we joined party. As we were shuffling and scooting between the bodies in this god damn small space I recognized the guy I took to my junior prom. Even 22 years later the face was (sort of) the same. I grabbed Matty and loudly whispered, hey, I think that's J!! And then proceeded to yell J's name.
J whipped his head around and looked at me, trying to figure it out. We ran over to him and the group he was standing with. As we all merged and looked at the name tags the hoopin' & hollerin' began. "OMG it's YOU!!" "OMG it's YOU!!"
More of our old friends were nearby and came over to us. They all recognized me immediately with the claim that I hadn't changed a bit which is really not the compliment it seems to be. Hell yes I've changed! Hopefully for the better, you fuckers. One girl did say I was pretty which finally made me feel like there had been at least some type of improvement from my 80''s feathered mullet and grey eye shadow. For fucksake, people.
As more old friends were recognized, cries of recognition commenced and the how-are-yous were asked and a pattern began to emerge. Everyone was GREAT and we said we were GREAT and everything was GREAT which we all know is a total lie but that's what you do at these things. Some people we thought were going to be there weren't and they were sorely missed. Some people we didn't think would should up in a million years and we had no idea what had happened to them were there and we were happy. Go figure.
It was all going well and a bunch of us sat down for some dinner, I'll keep my liquid thankyouverymuch, and even though I didn't know everyone at the stupid boat booth, the conversation was going well, centered around number of kids, marital status, etc.
One of the (many) guys I'd had a mad crush on in high school but whom I'd irritated constantly with my obnoxious antics was sitting to my right. He's become a working actor/musician and we were all excited & proud for him. As he and I were chatting I suddenly became retarded when I thought I was going to be charming. As is the long-standing tradition of my big stupid mouth I looked him right in his nice face and blurted, "Wow, so like I'm like so totally sorry I was like such a pain in the ass to you in high school."
His smile faded to a little sneer and he said to me, "I have no idea what you're talking about and if you hadn't said anything I would never have thought about it (you stupid idiot)." I tried to play it off but he chose to torture me about it all night bringing it up over and over but changing it to me being mean to him when in actuality I was mean to everyone else but him. To him I was annoying which is completely different and by the end of the night I really don't think he was kidding about it at all. :(
As the evening wore on old personalities took over and it was just weird. Some truths about hard times were slipping out but the whole thing was so frenetic and booze-laced I don't remember much until it was midnight and the party was over. At least half the crowd of reunionors walked across the street to the nearest hotel to continue the night at the bar but being San Diego it was already closed. God forbid you want to party after 12:00 around here.
After much drunken shouting of plans we decided to have people come back to our room with a stop for more refreshments on the way, which also didn't work out because liquor stores close at midnight too. Some people began walking, some jumped in cars blah blah, we ended up with a group of about 10 people in our room with a few booze-hounds getting lost along the way but hey, we're all adults, they'll be fine. Again I didn't know everyone in the room but whatever, we had a mini bar!
We raided the tiny bottles in the tiny fridge and had a lot of laughs, told some old stories, passed around some old pictures and a yearbook, and promised to keep in touch. Which probably won't happen. I learned, again, that people really don't change that much and some people I don't need to see again and some I hope I do, although my expectations are unfortunately low.
I went to bed with a million mixed emotions which lasted for a few days beyond that. As I whined to Matty fretting that I'd probably said many stupid things and I really think I offended that one person by not clarifying that I was kidding when I really was and failed miserably at conveying my true feelings that I just hope everyone is happy in their lives and wish them nothing but well. Damn my tough-chick persona that always pops out when I'm trying to protect myself. Or drunk.
Sweet Matt kept telling me that these people haven't spent any real time with me in the last 20 years nor had they really in a few short hours on one crazy night so they don't know who I really am which is not that 17 year-old fool from 1985. Therefore, I dunno. It was bizarre and good and strange and poked at old wounds and was weird and fun all at once.
I came to the conclusion many years ago that High School is the 4 years you never get over. Unless you've spent a crapload of time with childhood friends people are locked into your memory banks back in that time and really, life doesn't get much different. People aren't much different. Every time I hear someone say, "this isn't High School" or some derivation of the phrase I think to myself, fuck yea it is. Behavior doesn't change that much. But I will give everyone the benefit of the doubt, which I hope they give me, and wish them happiness and all that shit.
All-in-all I'm glad I went and I'm glad I could be there for my beloved Matty, but I don't think I can go through that again. Unless I become a rich and famous artist. Then I might consider it.
In a word? It was weird. So, so weird.
Matty and I were both jittery, some from excitement (mostly him) and some from dread (mostly me) and some from holy shit we're going to see people from 20 years ago (mostly both.) So after getting appropriately fabulous and cleavaged we headed down to the hotel lobby for a pre-soiree drinky-poo to take our edges off. ($28.00 for 2 drinks, wtf W??)
After we'd drained our cocktails we hopped in a cab for the mile drive to the fucking boat this party was being held on which was possibly the worst choice for a venue I could think of. No climate control, no big room for mulling about, and it was fugly.
I'd like to send a terse letter to the genius who thought it was a good idea to host a reunion on a floating museum with 7 foot ceilings that trapped the summer heat like a sauna full of old men with B.O. because they should be fired from whatever volunteer position they'd signed up for. Hello! Ladies in nice dresses that don't want to peel the paper ass-gaskets off their butts in the bathroom! Hi! Didn't really want to spend the night daintily wiping the running sweat from my forehead! High heals on uneven floors! Jesus, that part sucked.
Since one little ol' drink wasn't enough to calm our nerves we decided to head straight for the bar when we joined party. As we were shuffling and scooting between the bodies in this god damn small space I recognized the guy I took to my junior prom. Even 22 years later the face was (sort of) the same. I grabbed Matty and loudly whispered, hey, I think that's J!! And then proceeded to yell J's name.
J whipped his head around and looked at me, trying to figure it out. We ran over to him and the group he was standing with. As we all merged and looked at the name tags the hoopin' & hollerin' began. "OMG it's YOU!!" "OMG it's YOU!!"
More of our old friends were nearby and came over to us. They all recognized me immediately with the claim that I hadn't changed a bit which is really not the compliment it seems to be. Hell yes I've changed! Hopefully for the better, you fuckers. One girl did say I was pretty which finally made me feel like there had been at least some type of improvement from my 80''s feathered mullet and grey eye shadow. For fucksake, people.
As more old friends were recognized, cries of recognition commenced and the how-are-yous were asked and a pattern began to emerge. Everyone was GREAT and we said we were GREAT and everything was GREAT which we all know is a total lie but that's what you do at these things. Some people we thought were going to be there weren't and they were sorely missed. Some people we didn't think would should up in a million years and we had no idea what had happened to them were there and we were happy. Go figure.
It was all going well and a bunch of us sat down for some dinner, I'll keep my liquid thankyouverymuch, and even though I didn't know everyone at the stupid boat booth, the conversation was going well, centered around number of kids, marital status, etc.
One of the (many) guys I'd had a mad crush on in high school but whom I'd irritated constantly with my obnoxious antics was sitting to my right. He's become a working actor/musician and we were all excited & proud for him. As he and I were chatting I suddenly became retarded when I thought I was going to be charming. As is the long-standing tradition of my big stupid mouth I looked him right in his nice face and blurted, "Wow, so like I'm like so totally sorry I was like such a pain in the ass to you in high school."
His smile faded to a little sneer and he said to me, "I have no idea what you're talking about and if you hadn't said anything I would never have thought about it (you stupid idiot)." I tried to play it off but he chose to torture me about it all night bringing it up over and over but changing it to me being mean to him when in actuality I was mean to everyone else but him. To him I was annoying which is completely different and by the end of the night I really don't think he was kidding about it at all. :(
As the evening wore on old personalities took over and it was just weird. Some truths about hard times were slipping out but the whole thing was so frenetic and booze-laced I don't remember much until it was midnight and the party was over. At least half the crowd of reunionors walked across the street to the nearest hotel to continue the night at the bar but being San Diego it was already closed. God forbid you want to party after 12:00 around here.
After much drunken shouting of plans we decided to have people come back to our room with a stop for more refreshments on the way, which also didn't work out because liquor stores close at midnight too. Some people began walking, some jumped in cars blah blah, we ended up with a group of about 10 people in our room with a few booze-hounds getting lost along the way but hey, we're all adults, they'll be fine. Again I didn't know everyone in the room but whatever, we had a mini bar!
We raided the tiny bottles in the tiny fridge and had a lot of laughs, told some old stories, passed around some old pictures and a yearbook, and promised to keep in touch. Which probably won't happen. I learned, again, that people really don't change that much and some people I don't need to see again and some I hope I do, although my expectations are unfortunately low.
I went to bed with a million mixed emotions which lasted for a few days beyond that. As I whined to Matty fretting that I'd probably said many stupid things and I really think I offended that one person by not clarifying that I was kidding when I really was and failed miserably at conveying my true feelings that I just hope everyone is happy in their lives and wish them nothing but well. Damn my tough-chick persona that always pops out when I'm trying to protect myself. Or drunk.
Sweet Matt kept telling me that these people haven't spent any real time with me in the last 20 years nor had they really in a few short hours on one crazy night so they don't know who I really am which is not that 17 year-old fool from 1985. Therefore, I dunno. It was bizarre and good and strange and poked at old wounds and was weird and fun all at once.
I came to the conclusion many years ago that High School is the 4 years you never get over. Unless you've spent a crapload of time with childhood friends people are locked into your memory banks back in that time and really, life doesn't get much different. People aren't much different. Every time I hear someone say, "this isn't High School" or some derivation of the phrase I think to myself, fuck yea it is. Behavior doesn't change that much. But I will give everyone the benefit of the doubt, which I hope they give me, and wish them happiness and all that shit.
All-in-all I'm glad I went and I'm glad I could be there for my beloved Matty, but I don't think I can go through that again. Unless I become a rich and famous artist. Then I might consider it.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Is this too much to ask?
I want someone to tell me that spending 6 hours with people you haven't seen in 20 years, most of whom you will never see again, is nothing to become so obsessed about that you actually lose sleep over agonizing that you did or said something wrong making these virtual strangers think, Jesus, she hasn't changed at all, when in fact you have changed a lot despite falling right back into old patterns of jokes underlined with threats that I will still fuck your shit up when in reality I just wanted to kiss every single person square on the mouth and tell them that all I wish is that they're happy but maybe it came out wrong and please forget that I became the fat one.
I would like someone to point out the fact that turning 40 is no big deal and the alternative is not turning 40 which means that you've been sprinkled over your favorite cliff by drunk and crying (you'd better be crying) friends so it's entirely stupid to fret over it and remember that you, in fact, are indeed not a total failure and do not possess a retarded "must be accomplished by" list folded and worn, deep in the back part of your wallet and it's not too late to start over in any manner of things you want to change and you're not stuck in a shitty career that's not a career anyway but a dumb job and you can move and you will alter your life for the better because you are not powerless over every single thing and age is just a stinking number even though you'll have to check a new age-range box on surveys but life is what you make it and there won't be a mob of angry villagers chasing you out of Sephora to confiscate your pink glitter lip gloss.
I need someone to distract me with something shiny.
Thank you.
I would like someone to point out the fact that turning 40 is no big deal and the alternative is not turning 40 which means that you've been sprinkled over your favorite cliff by drunk and crying (you'd better be crying) friends so it's entirely stupid to fret over it and remember that you, in fact, are indeed not a total failure and do not possess a retarded "must be accomplished by" list folded and worn, deep in the back part of your wallet and it's not too late to start over in any manner of things you want to change and you're not stuck in a shitty career that's not a career anyway but a dumb job and you can move and you will alter your life for the better because you are not powerless over every single thing and age is just a stinking number even though you'll have to check a new age-range box on surveys but life is what you make it and there won't be a mob of angry villagers chasing you out of Sephora to confiscate your pink glitter lip gloss.
I need someone to distract me with something shiny.
Thank you.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Such a tough girl
I've stolen a meme. It wasn't given to me so I took it. And you can't do anything about it. Whatcha gonna do? Call the meme police? Just go ahead and try. I bet they're stupid anyway. A bunch of posers with carpal tunnel and Halloween costume cop hats. They can't do anything to me. I'm untouchable. So here I go, flaunting my 5 finger discounted meme which I'll just use up and throw away anyhow because I don't even like the word meme and this one isn't that interesting but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a bad ass motherfucker who shoplifted the meme.
~flips off security camera~
Yea.
5 THINGS ABOUT YOURS TRULY
Five favorite days of the year
Besides Saturday and Sunday when I get to do whatever the feck I want to, ride my horse, shop, nap, eat nothing but half a tube of low-fat chips-a-hoy (not that I did that last weekend)?
1. My birthday - should be recognized as a national holiday. Will someone please get on that?
2. Halloween - despite the lack of awesome parties I never get to go to or the ability to show off the most righteous costumes I come up with, I love this day and the creepy, fall, crisp-air, monster-movie vibes that come with it. (And the shit piles of candy)
3. Christmas - day off, pressies, duh. It's good.
4. Thanksgiving - license to pig.
5. Any day I don't feel like crap.
Five things I watched this week
You might sense a theme here...
1. Big Brother - for chrissakes, Amber! STOP FUCKING CRYING!!
2. Hell's Kitchen - thanks for giving me the phrase "You fucking donk-ay!!" I will use it with pride.
3. Real World 492 - Australia - another group of egotistical assholes. It's gonna be delicious.
4. So You Think You Can Dance - I'm over it already.
5. Porn. What?
Five things you don't want to do but should
This is stupid because everyone is going to have the same answers, eat better, sleep more, blah blah blah and I'm no different. Let's see if I can shock you.
1. Go to the bathroom in a timely manner. Seriously, since I was a kid I hated taking time out for this. Now that I'm a bit - ahem - older, I can't play that particular game of Russian roulette, if you know what I mean.
2. Talk to HR about my fuckface boss. I know damn well HR is only there to protect the company but I need to nut up and get something on record if shit goes down. But I don't wanna.
3. Do my physical therapy exercises.
4. Alright, I'm caving. Eat better.
5. Leave more comments on blogs I like. It's the one area I get stupidly shy.
Five things you want to learn
There are too many to list but here's the current things on my radar.
1. Photography
2. Dog training
3. Photography
4. Photography
5. Whistle with my fingers
Five animals you've had as or have pets who impacted you
I like animals more than people. Nuff said.
1. Dogs, especially Casey my baby girl forever, Chance and Ginger
2. Cats - RIP Boo Boo Kitty, love you Rass, you were totally kick-ass, Precious.
3. Hamsters - oh, my first taste of death. How you rocked me to the core.
4. Rats - science experiment that turned out pretty darn cool.
5. I had a horse for about 5 fucking minutes but couldn't keep him because of $$ and I've regretted it ever since. I still love him and always will and wish he'd been mine for all this time because now all I can do is kiss his sweet face.
Five favorite pieces of clothing
1. Black yoga pants.
2. Black yoga pants.
3. Black yoga pants.
4. Pajamas.
5. Latest cleavage top.
Five things you enjoy in the summer
1. Hibernating in my super-air-conditioned house napping and watching bad Lifetime movies with my baby. That's pretty much it.
Five foods you don't like
Well, if you're going to make me narrow it down to 5!
1. Bell peppers - gross, gag, ack, barf, puke. How do people eat that shit?
2. Carrots - raw, semi-raw, semi-cooked, cooked, pureed, sliced, diced, mashed, etc etc etc. NO. Carrot cake. YES. Go figure.
3. Raisins - blech. Chocolate covered raisins. Delightful.
4. Tapioca. Might as well eat a slice of hell.
5. Any meat stranger than chicken, pig or grown cow. No venison, no elk, no buffalo, no lamb, no duck, no shark (for other reasons), no antelope, no game hen, no veal, no Thumper, no snake, no frog, no alligator, no oxtail, maybe quail egg. All sushi exempt.
Five things that are not where they belong
1. My brand new contacts are not in my eyeballs because they are defective and I can't fricken see.
2. I have a crazy space in my second and third teeth from the front. Get back in your right spot, tooth!
3. Whitey and I. Wrong state. SOMEONE BUY MY STINKING HOUSE!!
4. My sacroiliac. WAY out of joint.
5. My bank account. Needs a few more zeroooooooooooooooooooooooooo's.
You are given $50,000 to give to 5 people as $10,000 cash gifts, who and why
1. whitey so he can pay off a dept and breathe a little easier for awhile.
2. My best friend Shawna so she can get on her feet and out of the hood.
3. My parents which could possibly be a loan repayment...
4. A random person sitting on a bus bench. San Diego is not a public transit-friendly city and taking a bus anywhere sucks a special kind of ass.
5. The Humane Society so maybe a few more puppies and kitties could avoid the gas chamber a few more days.
And now I feel a little guilty for my gross theft. Darn being raised by a middle class professional shamer mom.
~flips off security camera~
Yea.
5 THINGS ABOUT YOURS TRULY
Five favorite days of the year
Besides Saturday and Sunday when I get to do whatever the feck I want to, ride my horse, shop, nap, eat nothing but half a tube of low-fat chips-a-hoy (not that I did that last weekend)?
1. My birthday - should be recognized as a national holiday. Will someone please get on that?
2. Halloween - despite the lack of awesome parties I never get to go to or the ability to show off the most righteous costumes I come up with, I love this day and the creepy, fall, crisp-air, monster-movie vibes that come with it. (And the shit piles of candy)
3. Christmas - day off, pressies, duh. It's good.
4. Thanksgiving - license to pig.
5. Any day I don't feel like crap.
Five things I watched this week
You might sense a theme here...
1. Big Brother - for chrissakes, Amber! STOP FUCKING CRYING!!
2. Hell's Kitchen - thanks for giving me the phrase "You fucking donk-ay!!" I will use it with pride.
3. Real World 492 - Australia - another group of egotistical assholes. It's gonna be delicious.
4. So You Think You Can Dance - I'm over it already.
5. Porn. What?
Five things you don't want to do but should
This is stupid because everyone is going to have the same answers, eat better, sleep more, blah blah blah and I'm no different. Let's see if I can shock you.
1. Go to the bathroom in a timely manner. Seriously, since I was a kid I hated taking time out for this. Now that I'm a bit - ahem - older, I can't play that particular game of Russian roulette, if you know what I mean.
2. Talk to HR about my fuckface boss. I know damn well HR is only there to protect the company but I need to nut up and get something on record if shit goes down. But I don't wanna.
3. Do my physical therapy exercises.
4. Alright, I'm caving. Eat better.
5. Leave more comments on blogs I like. It's the one area I get stupidly shy.
Five things you want to learn
There are too many to list but here's the current things on my radar.
1. Photography
2. Dog training
3. Photography
4. Photography
5. Whistle with my fingers
Five animals you've had as or have pets who impacted you
I like animals more than people. Nuff said.
1. Dogs, especially Casey my baby girl forever, Chance and Ginger
2. Cats - RIP Boo Boo Kitty, love you Rass, you were totally kick-ass, Precious.
3. Hamsters - oh, my first taste of death. How you rocked me to the core.
4. Rats - science experiment that turned out pretty darn cool.
5. I had a horse for about 5 fucking minutes but couldn't keep him because of $$ and I've regretted it ever since. I still love him and always will and wish he'd been mine for all this time because now all I can do is kiss his sweet face.
Five favorite pieces of clothing
1. Black yoga pants.
2. Black yoga pants.
3. Black yoga pants.
4. Pajamas.
5. Latest cleavage top.
Five things you enjoy in the summer
1. Hibernating in my super-air-conditioned house napping and watching bad Lifetime movies with my baby. That's pretty much it.
Five foods you don't like
Well, if you're going to make me narrow it down to 5!
1. Bell peppers - gross, gag, ack, barf, puke. How do people eat that shit?
2. Carrots - raw, semi-raw, semi-cooked, cooked, pureed, sliced, diced, mashed, etc etc etc. NO. Carrot cake. YES. Go figure.
3. Raisins - blech. Chocolate covered raisins. Delightful.
4. Tapioca. Might as well eat a slice of hell.
5. Any meat stranger than chicken, pig or grown cow. No venison, no elk, no buffalo, no lamb, no duck, no shark (for other reasons), no antelope, no game hen, no veal, no Thumper, no snake, no frog, no alligator, no oxtail, maybe quail egg. All sushi exempt.
Five things that are not where they belong
1. My brand new contacts are not in my eyeballs because they are defective and I can't fricken see.
2. I have a crazy space in my second and third teeth from the front. Get back in your right spot, tooth!
3. Whitey and I. Wrong state. SOMEONE BUY MY STINKING HOUSE!!
4. My sacroiliac. WAY out of joint.
5. My bank account. Needs a few more zeroooooooooooooooooooooooooo's.
You are given $50,000 to give to 5 people as $10,000 cash gifts, who and why
1. whitey so he can pay off a dept and breathe a little easier for awhile.
2. My best friend Shawna so she can get on her feet and out of the hood.
3. My parents which could possibly be a loan repayment...
4. A random person sitting on a bus bench. San Diego is not a public transit-friendly city and taking a bus anywhere sucks a special kind of ass.
5. The Humane Society so maybe a few more puppies and kitties could avoid the gas chamber a few more days.
And now I feel a little guilty for my gross theft. Darn being raised by a middle class professional shamer mom.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
I hate summer
Too long days
Traffic jams
Black socks in sandals
Giant spiders
Biting skeeters
Over-exposed love handles
Stupid tourists
Jam-packed crowds
No parking spaces
Crying kids
Slow strollers
Sticky ice cream faces
Allergies
Crushing heat
Broken bbq grill
Sweaty boobs
Chafing crack
Gigantic AC bill
Hot car
Burning metal
Infected finger splinter
Blistering sun
Sleepless nights
Damn, I miss winter
Traffic jams
Black socks in sandals
Giant spiders
Biting skeeters
Over-exposed love handles
Stupid tourists
Jam-packed crowds
No parking spaces
Crying kids
Slow strollers
Sticky ice cream faces
Allergies
Crushing heat
Broken bbq grill
Sweaty boobs
Chafing crack
Gigantic AC bill
Hot car
Burning metal
Infected finger splinter
Blistering sun
Sleepless nights
Damn, I miss winter
Thursday, August 02, 2007
I want my M T Very strong drink
I had dinner with a lovely friend of mine last Thursday and while I was sipping on a mojito and waiting for my Miami-inspired Cubanish weirdo chicken salad to arrive my cell phone rang. And I answered it. And it was my best friend Matty. Who then asked me point blank if I was going to his reunion with him or not. Then I blinked twice. Then I whined that I'm a chunker. And he had the nerve to make the tsk sound to me where I then said, alright. Fuck it. I've triumphed over bigger things than my big ass so I'll go. IN 2 WEEKS!!
Then I barfed a mint leaf.
You see, this is not just a friends random high school in Whateverville, US of A. home of the Raging Ratfucks (GO RATS!), it also MY high school with MY old crew of INSANE friends (even though they were 2 years my junior) MOST of whom I've delighted in NOT seeing or thinking about for the last 20 PLUS YEARS. We had, shall we say, theatrical and volatile relationships peppered with wine coolers, clove ciggies and CRAZY. Oh, and did I mention, we were the DRAMA fags?
Yea. We were those kids. And yes we used the term fags. It was the 80's, don't get all up in my grill over it.
We were the overly hormonal insane teenagers who practiced their scene's on the quad and cried at the drop of a wardrobe hat and were vicious, horrible assholes if you got on the wrong side of whatever faction was in control at the time. The ones who would form "I Hate So-And-So" clubs and take the air out of your tires while you innocently sat at a football game watching your team get clobbered by the low-rents from the next town over, and fill your mailbox with a spaghetti dinner complete with meatballs. Yes. These all happened to me.
Although I must admit, I wasn't an innocent victim all the time. I was, hrm, how should I put this? A bitch on wheels with a dyke haircut (before it was a dyke haircut) and a temper that could rival a pissed off cobra with PMS and an infected hangnail. Well, if cobras had nails, which they don't but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I was, in fact, (sometimes) very, very mean.
Not like now. I'm a total softy now. Quit gagging at your screen, I'm different. Sorta. I can still tear you a new one but I'd rather have a good laugh and a tight friendship. OK, I still enjoy the occasional idiot beating but I'm not bossy like I was back in high school. Yes. That's the difference. Bottom line, I've always had a low tolerance for bullshit but now I can better harness my super power and use it for good instead of evil.
Oh, who am I kidding. I was kick ass then and I'm kick ass now but now I have more money. Ha ha, I'm kidding. I have grown up and I'd like to think I'm a totally different person. I could be fooling myself but most of the time I think I'm pretty fucking awesome with a good heart, generous nature and fiercely loyal to those I love. Which is probably the same for everyone else but I'm fucking nervous as hell about this stupid party. But, I'm going. With Matty. To his freaking 20-year reunion. Even though I didn't go to my own 20 year reunion 2 years ago just to avoid the trauma that I experienced at my 10 year. But I'll go!! Because, as I've mentioned, I'm a good fucking friend!
Of course I am now obsessed, obsessed with finding the perfect outfit, shoes, accessories, make-up, handbag, underwear, nail polish, weather system, driving music, alcohol compatible drugs, and long term therapist. I'm considering renting a fancy car that probably no one will see. I've given up losing a shit ton of weight in the next 10 days since that would inevitably mean losing a limb, and as chunker as they may be, I like them all.
So I will go. As (thebestofme) is.
I will be brave and smile and crack jokes and try not to get shit faced and finally punch that smarmy bitch Suzy in the neck like she totally deserved for doing that thing with her fat face sister when we were 17. I will smile and try to be funny and know that it is what it is and my life is my life and there are good and bad things in everyone's. And I will try to pretend that no one cares that we're all fat (please god, let some of them be fatter then me) and probably not millionaires and just happy to see each other after all of these years anxious to catch up and trade a few stories.
And please, Jesus, kind and loving God, creator of chocolate & kittens, let there be an open bar.
Then I barfed a mint leaf.
You see, this is not just a friends random high school in Whateverville, US of A. home of the Raging Ratfucks (GO RATS!), it also MY high school with MY old crew of INSANE friends (even though they were 2 years my junior) MOST of whom I've delighted in NOT seeing or thinking about for the last 20 PLUS YEARS. We had, shall we say, theatrical and volatile relationships peppered with wine coolers, clove ciggies and CRAZY. Oh, and did I mention, we were the DRAMA fags?
Yea. We were those kids. And yes we used the term fags. It was the 80's, don't get all up in my grill over it.
We were the overly hormonal insane teenagers who practiced their scene's on the quad and cried at the drop of a wardrobe hat and were vicious, horrible assholes if you got on the wrong side of whatever faction was in control at the time. The ones who would form "I Hate So-And-So" clubs and take the air out of your tires while you innocently sat at a football game watching your team get clobbered by the low-rents from the next town over, and fill your mailbox with a spaghetti dinner complete with meatballs. Yes. These all happened to me.
Although I must admit, I wasn't an innocent victim all the time. I was, hrm, how should I put this? A bitch on wheels with a dyke haircut (before it was a dyke haircut) and a temper that could rival a pissed off cobra with PMS and an infected hangnail. Well, if cobras had nails, which they don't but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I was, in fact, (sometimes) very, very mean.
Not like now. I'm a total softy now. Quit gagging at your screen, I'm different. Sorta. I can still tear you a new one but I'd rather have a good laugh and a tight friendship. OK, I still enjoy the occasional idiot beating but I'm not bossy like I was back in high school. Yes. That's the difference. Bottom line, I've always had a low tolerance for bullshit but now I can better harness my super power and use it for good instead of evil.
Oh, who am I kidding. I was kick ass then and I'm kick ass now but now I have more money. Ha ha, I'm kidding. I have grown up and I'd like to think I'm a totally different person. I could be fooling myself but most of the time I think I'm pretty fucking awesome with a good heart, generous nature and fiercely loyal to those I love. Which is probably the same for everyone else but I'm fucking nervous as hell about this stupid party. But, I'm going. With Matty. To his freaking 20-year reunion. Even though I didn't go to my own 20 year reunion 2 years ago just to avoid the trauma that I experienced at my 10 year. But I'll go!! Because, as I've mentioned, I'm a good fucking friend!
Of course I am now obsessed, obsessed with finding the perfect outfit, shoes, accessories, make-up, handbag, underwear, nail polish, weather system, driving music, alcohol compatible drugs, and long term therapist. I'm considering renting a fancy car that probably no one will see. I've given up losing a shit ton of weight in the next 10 days since that would inevitably mean losing a limb, and as chunker as they may be, I like them all.
So I will go. As (thebestofme) is.
I will be brave and smile and crack jokes and try not to get shit faced and finally punch that smarmy bitch Suzy in the neck like she totally deserved for doing that thing with her fat face sister when we were 17. I will smile and try to be funny and know that it is what it is and my life is my life and there are good and bad things in everyone's. And I will try to pretend that no one cares that we're all fat (please god, let some of them be fatter then me) and probably not millionaires and just happy to see each other after all of these years anxious to catch up and trade a few stories.
And please, Jesus, kind and loving God, creator of chocolate & kittens, let there be an open bar.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Hey! You're squishing me!
Since I'd been so antsy the weekend before last, whining and moaning that I didn't know what to do with myself, I asked whitey if we could please go to the coast to take some photos. We haven't done that since last year and I felt the irrefutable need to go out into public on a Sunday because I've gotten bored with slamming my face in a cupboard door so what better way to torture myself then try and find a parking space at a San Diego beach in the middle of summer on a lovely weekend morning?
Needless to say, it was difficult. And then I had a parallel parking freak-out and we almost scrapped the idea all together (well, it was me who yelled "oh forget it" while whitey looked at me like my hair was on fire) until I found a space I could pull in to. While the boy nursed his coffee, trying to rev up his brain after I woke him at 9:30, (even though I'd been awake since 6:30 and had waited around patiently for 3 stinking hours loudly crumpling paper and maybe on purpose heavily throwing my big camera bag onto the bed hoping to stir the coma-sleeper) we got out of the car and I readied my camera and surveyed our surroundings.
Holy bajeesus, the place was packed. Unbelievably swarming with people, dogs, kids, picnics, a wedding, cars, kayaks, divers, snorklers, and cute lifeguards. I knew we had left the house too late as it was but I was mostly worried about the light, not thinking we'd be shit out of luck at our first location as we wound through the slalom course of parked cars then saw a steady stream of auto-vultures trying to wishfully find a space that was not going to become available until someone got stung by a jellyfish and went crying off to the nearest ER or the sun went all the way down.
It was daunting and a bit of a bummer, even though I know we can't expect to have any public place to ourselves, ever. Hell, I've been in what I thought was the middle of fucking nowhere in the mountains thinking there couldn't possibly be another soul around and just when I was about to drop trou and pee on a tree here comes a person whistling Dixie, blissfully unaware that they almost saw my money maker in a most unflattering way. But this was regoddamndiculous.
Crowds are something I didn't used to have a problem with. As long as I had a personal space big enough that a stranger wasn't literally crawling up my ass, I'm looking at you Disneyland lines, I was OK. I even used to like going to compacted clubs and squeezing my way into the middle of a sweaty hoard to dance off my rum & Cokes. But not any more.
These days I don't like it. I already live in a major tourist town and one of the largest cities in the United States and frankly, I'm feeling a bit claustrophobic. Squeezed out. Crowded. And besides the physical confines of living with so many damn people, it's making me think about other areas that have turned into virtual mob scenes and I just don't know if there's room for me.
Take the internet, or more specifically, blogs. There are millions upon millions of them. Is there room for another cranky girl who writes about whatever and is occasionally funny, sporadically admired or randomly read? I don't know. Why do some blogs take off in a short time and others putter along with hidden gems and no feedback?
I've had this conversation with whitey a million times and it's his opinion that a lot of bloggers whore themselves out like mad when they first come onto the scene, leaving comments on as many sites, posts, other blogs as they can just to start their own fan base. I'm inclined to agree, but that can't be the case all the time. Demographics play a part as well, I'm sure.
I don't have kids so I don't write a mom blog. I could regale you with crazy stories of my insane cat, like last night when a stranger kitty perched his orange ass on the windowsill and caused Rascal to fly into a blind rage of white fur and clawless paws and I'm sure we were 2 seconds from her crashing her hurtling body through the glass but I saved her by yanking her back through my wood blinds she was almost breaking and threw her into the bedroom with some fucking catnip. But I don't want to write about my cat all the time either, like some nameless bloggers do that get 192 comments whenever they post a fucking photo of their cats doing nothing but sitting in a box!! But I digress.
I'm not political, I don't post pictures of my tits, fabulous as they are, I'm not selling vibrators on the side. I haven't gotten fired for my blog (yet), I have no shopping section, I can't see a publisher ever asking me to submit my goofy memoires to sell on Amazon, and I'm not part of the Blogher inner circle of women writers that all seem to know each other and go weekending in Napa every 3 months having wonderful times with expensive bottles of wine and even more expensive cameras. Not that I'm jealous of that in the least. ~wahh~
It all boils down to competition, which is something I've never been very good at handling. I hate to lose. And when I use the word hate I mean hate as in I would rather dive into a pool of used syringes than take second place or worse. I'm trying to reconcile those completely rational ha ha feelings because it's stupid and eventually leads to giving up at the first sign of struggle which is also stupid. No one can win all the time and personal goals are just that, personal. There doesn't have to be a trophy at the end of every race.
A sparkly tiara, maybe.
But what if you set a goal and because of the sheer numbers of other people who have the same goal make it so your goal is never going to be reached? Is there enough room for everyone at the table?
This is what I don't know.
I've been so desperate (this could be part of the problem) to be considered an artist my entire life while watching my friends draw their little asses off while I scribbled my lopsided circles. To have something, anything that could be deemed an artistic talent. And of course I'm my own worst critic, although my mother comes in a close second (ha ha, mom, I win!) I am occasionally pleased with something I've written and now that I'm getting really passionate about photography I've experienced the same pride there.
And then I see other people's work and I think, omg, I'm crap. I have a lot to learn and I'm willing to do that work, but will it make a shit of difference? There are so many people doing the same thing. So many people that are already there. Is there room for one more and most importantly, room for me?
And what if you want to make a HUGE career change that is artistic in nature and is known for its practically unbreakable glass ceiling and high level competition. What I see now is a world saturated with people doing the same thing I want to do. Others recognized for it, some deserving, some not, others seemingly successful and happy. Does there need to be an empty space to fill before you feel content and accomplished? Should outside accolades be part of the goal? Is self-satisfaction with one's art enough? Does that really matter? Should it matter?
Is there room for one more?
Needless to say, it was difficult. And then I had a parallel parking freak-out and we almost scrapped the idea all together (well, it was me who yelled "oh forget it" while whitey looked at me like my hair was on fire) until I found a space I could pull in to. While the boy nursed his coffee, trying to rev up his brain after I woke him at 9:30, (even though I'd been awake since 6:30 and had waited around patiently for 3 stinking hours loudly crumpling paper and maybe on purpose heavily throwing my big camera bag onto the bed hoping to stir the coma-sleeper) we got out of the car and I readied my camera and surveyed our surroundings.
Holy bajeesus, the place was packed. Unbelievably swarming with people, dogs, kids, picnics, a wedding, cars, kayaks, divers, snorklers, and cute lifeguards. I knew we had left the house too late as it was but I was mostly worried about the light, not thinking we'd be shit out of luck at our first location as we wound through the slalom course of parked cars then saw a steady stream of auto-vultures trying to wishfully find a space that was not going to become available until someone got stung by a jellyfish and went crying off to the nearest ER or the sun went all the way down.
It was daunting and a bit of a bummer, even though I know we can't expect to have any public place to ourselves, ever. Hell, I've been in what I thought was the middle of fucking nowhere in the mountains thinking there couldn't possibly be another soul around and just when I was about to drop trou and pee on a tree here comes a person whistling Dixie, blissfully unaware that they almost saw my money maker in a most unflattering way. But this was regoddamndiculous.
Crowds are something I didn't used to have a problem with. As long as I had a personal space big enough that a stranger wasn't literally crawling up my ass, I'm looking at you Disneyland lines, I was OK. I even used to like going to compacted clubs and squeezing my way into the middle of a sweaty hoard to dance off my rum & Cokes. But not any more.
These days I don't like it. I already live in a major tourist town and one of the largest cities in the United States and frankly, I'm feeling a bit claustrophobic. Squeezed out. Crowded. And besides the physical confines of living with so many damn people, it's making me think about other areas that have turned into virtual mob scenes and I just don't know if there's room for me.
Take the internet, or more specifically, blogs. There are millions upon millions of them. Is there room for another cranky girl who writes about whatever and is occasionally funny, sporadically admired or randomly read? I don't know. Why do some blogs take off in a short time and others putter along with hidden gems and no feedback?
I've had this conversation with whitey a million times and it's his opinion that a lot of bloggers whore themselves out like mad when they first come onto the scene, leaving comments on as many sites, posts, other blogs as they can just to start their own fan base. I'm inclined to agree, but that can't be the case all the time. Demographics play a part as well, I'm sure.
I don't have kids so I don't write a mom blog. I could regale you with crazy stories of my insane cat, like last night when a stranger kitty perched his orange ass on the windowsill and caused Rascal to fly into a blind rage of white fur and clawless paws and I'm sure we were 2 seconds from her crashing her hurtling body through the glass but I saved her by yanking her back through my wood blinds she was almost breaking and threw her into the bedroom with some fucking catnip. But I don't want to write about my cat all the time either, like some nameless bloggers do that get 192 comments whenever they post a fucking photo of their cats doing nothing but sitting in a box!! But I digress.
I'm not political, I don't post pictures of my tits, fabulous as they are, I'm not selling vibrators on the side. I haven't gotten fired for my blog (yet), I have no shopping section, I can't see a publisher ever asking me to submit my goofy memoires to sell on Amazon, and I'm not part of the Blogher inner circle of women writers that all seem to know each other and go weekending in Napa every 3 months having wonderful times with expensive bottles of wine and even more expensive cameras. Not that I'm jealous of that in the least. ~wahh~
It all boils down to competition, which is something I've never been very good at handling. I hate to lose. And when I use the word hate I mean hate as in I would rather dive into a pool of used syringes than take second place or worse. I'm trying to reconcile those completely rational ha ha feelings because it's stupid and eventually leads to giving up at the first sign of struggle which is also stupid. No one can win all the time and personal goals are just that, personal. There doesn't have to be a trophy at the end of every race.
A sparkly tiara, maybe.
But what if you set a goal and because of the sheer numbers of other people who have the same goal make it so your goal is never going to be reached? Is there enough room for everyone at the table?
This is what I don't know.
I've been so desperate (this could be part of the problem) to be considered an artist my entire life while watching my friends draw their little asses off while I scribbled my lopsided circles. To have something, anything that could be deemed an artistic talent. And of course I'm my own worst critic, although my mother comes in a close second (ha ha, mom, I win!) I am occasionally pleased with something I've written and now that I'm getting really passionate about photography I've experienced the same pride there.
And then I see other people's work and I think, omg, I'm crap. I have a lot to learn and I'm willing to do that work, but will it make a shit of difference? There are so many people doing the same thing. So many people that are already there. Is there room for one more and most importantly, room for me?
And what if you want to make a HUGE career change that is artistic in nature and is known for its practically unbreakable glass ceiling and high level competition. What I see now is a world saturated with people doing the same thing I want to do. Others recognized for it, some deserving, some not, others seemingly successful and happy. Does there need to be an empty space to fill before you feel content and accomplished? Should outside accolades be part of the goal? Is self-satisfaction with one's art enough? Does that really matter? Should it matter?
Is there room for one more?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Splish splash
Well, summer is in full-swing here in Southern Cal which means the temps are starting to climb up towards the 90's and no doubt will break the 100 mark within a few weeks. ~barf~ Which is all about 40+ degrees hotter than my sweating, red, whiny ass can take. ~hurl~ And I just checked our current gas & electric bill and was pleasantly surprised to see it was only $130.00. Clearly there's a lot wrong with that picture. ~gag~
Last summer I took a day off to attend a memorial service and get-together to say goodbye to a dear lady and fellow riding buddy who lost her long and valiant battle with cancer. Unfortunately her timing, which was notoriously bad, differed not a bit on that day since she decided to leave this world during a heat-wave and about 70 of us tried not to expire ourselves as we told stories of our lady through tears and sweat under a blistering 103 degree sun. It sucked the high hard one but we knew she'd be laughing and saying, suck it up and have another sangria.
When I was younger and living far inland from the beach, which hasn't fucking changed at all since I still live 20 miles from any kind of semblance of a refreshing breeze, we'd head to the ocean for a break and some boogie-boarding when boards were made of burlapish covered styrofoam (don't think I'm kidding.) My parents didn't take us very often since they weren't the "take the kids somewhere fun" kind of people but I did get to go now-and-then and usually loved it.
One such excursion was with the youth group I was involved in at my church. They piled a large group of us in the half-rusted church van and various station wagons and headed for the shore for the day. One thing that bears explaning is this church group was not your typical bunch of Christian kids reading the bible in their spare time, volunteering at old-age homes and treating each other with kindness. (That's typical, right?)
We were kids of privilege and sported attitudes and were on our way to being professional back-stabbers with no grasp on the concept that there was only one ultimate judge and it wasn't our pimply selves. Needless to say, we were up to our assholes in judgement of each other and the leaders were party animals and basically it was like a bad John Hughes movie with crosses and no fairytale endings.
I don't even know why I signed up for this stupid outing since my few years hanging with these people, most of whom were complete assholes and my closest friends, (which is totally interchangeable when you're a 14 year-old girl), and there was a major issue causing me mountains of anxiety. An undeniable fact that has burdened me my whole life. An experience-altering situation that effected almost everything.
I was a chunker.
I was born a chunker, I grew up a chunker, I will always be. A chunker.
It's the way my DNA is built. My little double helix is thick and crowned with a ding-dong. I've craved sugar since I took my first breath and even if I ate nothing but bean sprouts and carrot tops I'd have boobs that could smother a small child and an ass Sir Mixalot would be proud to tap. Of course I'd like to be different and blah blah that's a topic for another time but my point is, the chunker was going to the beach. With people. And would have to wear, I'm sure you'll feel my pain...
A bathing suit.
I was totally worried about it since the girls I grew up with, and who were my direct competition, were fucking built like fucking chopsticks with feathered fucking hair. One friend was actually too skinny and looking back now I wasn't like a mack truck or anything but standing next to her even a normal sized person would appear to be one wafer-thin mint away from exploding.
I couldn't talk to my mother about my woes since she was naturally thin and has never understood my struggles and frankly I wanted the entire universe to pretend I didn't have this problem. Instead I had a crying fit and proclaimed, while standing in front of my stuffed closet, that I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WEAR and please why can't I have a NEW SUIT all my old ones are HORRIBLE and UGLY.
Which was true. I grew up in a house with a pool, as did all the neighborhood kids, and our swimsuits were hammered, faded, misshapen messes before we reached the halfway mark of our summer vacations. My mother obliged my tantrum but neglected to take me with her to make a decision on the perfect torture accoutrement and when I got home from school the day before I was going to the beach with all of those thin people, I found this on my bed:
When, pulled over my fluffy flesh, looked more like this:
Which caused my selfish, ungrateful eyes to well with tears because, GAH, pink! I had a healthy hate-hate relationship with pink and saved a special animosity for hot pink. This was the WORST possible choice in the history of choices but my other suits were tattered shit and I had no alternative. I tried not to get hysterical and mustered up some bravery and wore it. And hell, I was a character and funny and maybe no one would notice my hot pink nightmare stretching across my butt.
The next day I was dropped off at the church, met up with the group and we headed for the crowded beach. It was amazing how many people had crammed onto the limited supply of sand and the waters were full of swimmers, surfers and the like. Things were going surprisingly well and I'd gained a bit of confidence throughout the day and decided to ditch my t-shirt and take a dip in the ocean to cool off. Big pink ass and all.
I was by myself and swam out past the breaking waves and was bobbing along in the water peaceful and happy. Minding my own business and perfectly fine I decided to do this little maneuver that I often did in my own pool, sinking under the water and slowly breaking through the surface by doing a modified breast stroke. Instead of pushing the water behind me while being horizontal to the water I pointed both hands towards the sky and pushed them down to my sides with popping myself through the surface.
It really was a zen thing for me and I was a very strong swimmer with approximately 12 years of water time under my belt and in no way was I in any type of physical jeopardy whatsofuckingever.
Which apparently escaped the psychotic and overzealous female lifeguard who mistook my controlled and untroubled floating in 8 fucking feet of calm water as hysterical drowning and took it upon herself to "save" me by screaming in my face, flipping me on my back and smothering me with her rescue buoy strapped around my chubby middle where she then proceeded to kick the living shit out of me while hauling my now air-deprived carcass as she violently yanked me through and under the water exposing my face in the direct line of crashing swells and maniacally dragged me by my hot pink swimsuit until the back side was crammed so far up my crack it took a professional spelunker and a jar of vaseline to get it out and I was deposited choking and sputtering in all manners of public humiliation neon mightaswellhavebeenabeaconofwhitehotpinkglory by the beserk wanna-be super hero right in front of 4 thousand beach-goers and my 28 friends. And chaperones.
That suit mysteriously disappeared soon after.
Last summer I took a day off to attend a memorial service and get-together to say goodbye to a dear lady and fellow riding buddy who lost her long and valiant battle with cancer. Unfortunately her timing, which was notoriously bad, differed not a bit on that day since she decided to leave this world during a heat-wave and about 70 of us tried not to expire ourselves as we told stories of our lady through tears and sweat under a blistering 103 degree sun. It sucked the high hard one but we knew she'd be laughing and saying, suck it up and have another sangria.
When I was younger and living far inland from the beach, which hasn't fucking changed at all since I still live 20 miles from any kind of semblance of a refreshing breeze, we'd head to the ocean for a break and some boogie-boarding when boards were made of burlapish covered styrofoam (don't think I'm kidding.) My parents didn't take us very often since they weren't the "take the kids somewhere fun" kind of people but I did get to go now-and-then and usually loved it.
One such excursion was with the youth group I was involved in at my church. They piled a large group of us in the half-rusted church van and various station wagons and headed for the shore for the day. One thing that bears explaning is this church group was not your typical bunch of Christian kids reading the bible in their spare time, volunteering at old-age homes and treating each other with kindness. (That's typical, right?)
We were kids of privilege and sported attitudes and were on our way to being professional back-stabbers with no grasp on the concept that there was only one ultimate judge and it wasn't our pimply selves. Needless to say, we were up to our assholes in judgement of each other and the leaders were party animals and basically it was like a bad John Hughes movie with crosses and no fairytale endings.
I don't even know why I signed up for this stupid outing since my few years hanging with these people, most of whom were complete assholes and my closest friends, (which is totally interchangeable when you're a 14 year-old girl), and there was a major issue causing me mountains of anxiety. An undeniable fact that has burdened me my whole life. An experience-altering situation that effected almost everything.
I was a chunker.
I was born a chunker, I grew up a chunker, I will always be. A chunker.
It's the way my DNA is built. My little double helix is thick and crowned with a ding-dong. I've craved sugar since I took my first breath and even if I ate nothing but bean sprouts and carrot tops I'd have boobs that could smother a small child and an ass Sir Mixalot would be proud to tap. Of course I'd like to be different and blah blah that's a topic for another time but my point is, the chunker was going to the beach. With people. And would have to wear, I'm sure you'll feel my pain...
A bathing suit.
I was totally worried about it since the girls I grew up with, and who were my direct competition, were fucking built like fucking chopsticks with feathered fucking hair. One friend was actually too skinny and looking back now I wasn't like a mack truck or anything but standing next to her even a normal sized person would appear to be one wafer-thin mint away from exploding.
I couldn't talk to my mother about my woes since she was naturally thin and has never understood my struggles and frankly I wanted the entire universe to pretend I didn't have this problem. Instead I had a crying fit and proclaimed, while standing in front of my stuffed closet, that I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WEAR and please why can't I have a NEW SUIT all my old ones are HORRIBLE and UGLY.
Which was true. I grew up in a house with a pool, as did all the neighborhood kids, and our swimsuits were hammered, faded, misshapen messes before we reached the halfway mark of our summer vacations. My mother obliged my tantrum but neglected to take me with her to make a decision on the perfect torture accoutrement and when I got home from school the day before I was going to the beach with all of those thin people, I found this on my bed:
When, pulled over my fluffy flesh, looked more like this:
Which caused my selfish, ungrateful eyes to well with tears because, GAH, pink! I had a healthy hate-hate relationship with pink and saved a special animosity for hot pink. This was the WORST possible choice in the history of choices but my other suits were tattered shit and I had no alternative. I tried not to get hysterical and mustered up some bravery and wore it. And hell, I was a character and funny and maybe no one would notice my hot pink nightmare stretching across my butt.
The next day I was dropped off at the church, met up with the group and we headed for the crowded beach. It was amazing how many people had crammed onto the limited supply of sand and the waters were full of swimmers, surfers and the like. Things were going surprisingly well and I'd gained a bit of confidence throughout the day and decided to ditch my t-shirt and take a dip in the ocean to cool off. Big pink ass and all.
I was by myself and swam out past the breaking waves and was bobbing along in the water peaceful and happy. Minding my own business and perfectly fine I decided to do this little maneuver that I often did in my own pool, sinking under the water and slowly breaking through the surface by doing a modified breast stroke. Instead of pushing the water behind me while being horizontal to the water I pointed both hands towards the sky and pushed them down to my sides with popping myself through the surface.
It really was a zen thing for me and I was a very strong swimmer with approximately 12 years of water time under my belt and in no way was I in any type of physical jeopardy whatsofuckingever.
Which apparently escaped the psychotic and overzealous female lifeguard who mistook my controlled and untroubled floating in 8 fucking feet of calm water as hysterical drowning and took it upon herself to "save" me by screaming in my face, flipping me on my back and smothering me with her rescue buoy strapped around my chubby middle where she then proceeded to kick the living shit out of me while hauling my now air-deprived carcass as she violently yanked me through and under the water exposing my face in the direct line of crashing swells and maniacally dragged me by my hot pink swimsuit until the back side was crammed so far up my crack it took a professional spelunker and a jar of vaseline to get it out and I was deposited choking and sputtering in all manners of public humiliation neon mightaswellhavebeenabeaconofwhitehotpinkglory by the beserk wanna-be super hero right in front of 4 thousand beach-goers and my 28 friends. And chaperones.
That suit mysteriously disappeared soon after.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Do they have a cream for
WRITERS BLOCK!!!!!????
A pill? A shot? A fancy hat? Hello?
I open this blog 20 times a day and nada. It's not coming. This page has turned into Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction. She keeps sticking her head in the door and sneering, "I WON'T BE IGNORED, DAAAAAAAAAAN" but I'm that asshole Micheal Douglas who does indeed give her the brush-off and gets a boiled bunny for his trouble. Bah.
What do you say after you spend a full week with your family then top it off with air travel and an esophageal endoscopy? Thank you sir may I have another? If it's not one thing it's your mother? How about, GIVE ME THE DRUGS AND KEEP 'EM COMIN! Because that's exactly what I said but they didn't give me the requested "take home" supply I so nicely asked for. Such jerks.
Backing things up quite a bit, The Police were great. We trudged through hours upon hours of Los Angles traffic, getting lost along the way (thank you Westin shitass directions) but had a fab time despite the compost greenhouse temperature of our swank hotel room and the closing of the late-night bar in our faces. It was a dream come true for me and I rub Sting's face on my chest whenever I wear one of my two $35.00 concert t-shirts. I took some pic's of LA and the aquarium in Long Beach which are here and here if you'd like to take a look.
Myvacation visit was hard. It literally takes me 2 weeks to recover from one of those and this year was no different. I go because it's my family and we do have some good times. But I also go because my dad is a few days shy of 82 and although I don't like to even say this kind of stuff out loud I know time is precious and I'd better savor what I can since we live over 1000 miles apart and don't see each other very often as it is.
I was also hoping to reconnect with my brother but he proved to be the stupid asshole he is the whole fucking time. But I held my tongue when he spewed crap because I'm the GOOD kid! Not that you'd know it by the way my mother says nothing to the assholenish coming from him but yells at me if I voice a thought she doesn't think is reasonable like being afraid my very much needed (and only) flight home might be canceled due to the thunder and lightening storm blowing through the skies. (It wasn't, by the way, has been before but clearly my 2 hours of crying got me a break from Mother Nature.)
A pill? A shot? A fancy hat? Hello?
I open this blog 20 times a day and nada. It's not coming. This page has turned into Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction. She keeps sticking her head in the door and sneering, "I WON'T BE IGNORED, DAAAAAAAAAAN" but I'm that asshole Micheal Douglas who does indeed give her the brush-off and gets a boiled bunny for his trouble. Bah.
What do you say after you spend a full week with your family then top it off with air travel and an esophageal endoscopy? Thank you sir may I have another? If it's not one thing it's your mother? How about, GIVE ME THE DRUGS AND KEEP 'EM COMIN! Because that's exactly what I said but they didn't give me the requested "take home" supply I so nicely asked for. Such jerks.
Backing things up quite a bit, The Police were great. We trudged through hours upon hours of Los Angles traffic, getting lost along the way (thank you Westin shitass directions) but had a fab time despite the compost greenhouse temperature of our swank hotel room and the closing of the late-night bar in our faces. It was a dream come true for me and I rub Sting's face on my chest whenever I wear one of my two $35.00 concert t-shirts. I took some pic's of LA and the aquarium in Long Beach which are here and here if you'd like to take a look.
My
I was also hoping to reconnect with my brother but he proved to be the stupid asshole he is the whole fucking time. But I held my tongue when he spewed crap because I'm the GOOD kid! Not that you'd know it by the way my mother says nothing to the assholenish coming from him but yells at me if I voice a thought she doesn't think is reasonable like being afraid my very much needed (and only) flight home might be canceled due to the thunder and lightening storm blowing through the skies. (It wasn't, by the way, has been before but clearly my 2 hours of crying got me a break from Mother Nature.)
I did have some nice moments with my family and went into Yellowstone by myself twice to take some photos and have a few hours of peace & quiet, which was oddly calming since I generally don't like doing things like that solo. Although I missed my bf like crazy and wished he were there with me. Those pic's are here and here, if you're so inclined.
Consequently I arrived home completely emotionally spent. I'm remiss to discover it takes me longer to recover from these trips when in reality it should be the opposite, no? I'm old enough to have figured out how to let this shit slide off my back but alas, it is not the case. Seeing the breakdown of my family in living color is hard. Watching my dad fade into a sad, old man who gets treated like shit by my mother is unbearable. Not being able to do anything about these stupid things is frustrating. Knowing my mother loves my brother more than me when he's such a fucking asshole is something I can barely describe. (Boy is there a lot of back story there.)
This paired with the prospect that my house is either never going to sell or I'm going to have to dump it at a price that will fuck my future for good has me feeling intermittently (I say intermittently because it's not all the time but I haven't been able to shake it full-time. It's like I'm walking around in wet clothes and for the most part I don't notice but if the circumstances change then ugh, wet jeans. Is there anything worse?) pretty fucking blue. And I feel bad that all of this crap is visited on my boyfriend who is the best and doesn't deserve more shit piled on top of his own shit.
And oh yea, I had to have a camera snaked down to my belly button which revealed nothing of why my stomach hurts every day. That was fun! But let's shift gears since I'm tired of this boo-hooing.
I reported for jury duty yesterday and had detailed fantasies of hurting the woman who stole my seat (she was sitting 2 seats from me and watched me go to the vending machine) when I got up to get some water but since there were oh, like 29 cops within 80 feet of me I opted to send out my best "you're a fucker" vibes which I think worked a little because she about folded in on herself to read her library book. Stupid bitch. And lucky for her we were all released at 11:00 because all the trial cases "went away", whatever that means.
While I was sitting there, sending out the hate, I opened the blank journal I brought with me in case anything (finally) struck me to write about and I had to document it right then and there and was surprised to find a few pages were already filled with blather and ideas (I use the term loosely), some of which made me cringe, most I didn't remember, and some I couldn't read at all.
I won't give it all away (since I might use some in the future) but let me just say we should all be grateful that my idea for a rant aimed towards dumb T.V. channels dedicated to inane things like golf and poker hasn't surfaced yet since my suggestions for new all this thing all the time stations were "The Pap Smear Channel" and "World Series of Booger Flicking."
Another asterisked paragraph said the following:
"Why do people feel the need to make you look at disgusting things? Do we really need visual proof of the turd that split your taint?"
- brother shit
- dog fur
One second thought, I think I'll keep that one.
So that's what's what. I can't think of much else that's going on. We've watched a bevy of bad movies in the last few weeks (Dreamgirls? Seriously? How did that even get in our queue?), but nothing worth writing about. I'm reading a Stephen King novel that is bugging the shit out of me (not all experimentation is good, Stephen, we've talked about this) but I'm determined to finish it and one of the ladies that works within a few feet of me, but whom I cannot see so I don't know exactly who it is, has taken to loudly clearing her throat several times a day which ends up sounding like a harbor seal being choked with a thorn-studded strap-on covered in hair gel. Like I'm not on the edge of puking all the damn day already.
And this brings the worst entry of the year (the author has the right to rescind that proclimation at any time) and blatant abuse of parentheses to a close. Thank you and good night.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
I'm ready for my strip search, sir
No, the title is not a reference to she who will not be named that got out of her stint in jail this week and instead of disappearing like I've been praying for nightly, over the span of many years, she's even MORE in the news. For fuckingsake, I nearly had to turn off my TV. The reason for my titillating title is because I got arrested myself this week and boy did it suck.
OK, that was a total lie. I didn't get put in no slamma. I'm going on vacation! Well, that's also a lie. I'm not leaving on a jet plane to a tropical isle where cabana boys draped in loin cloths bring me fruity drinks with paper umbrellas and I get shtuped on a boat deck by my beloved, I'm going to visit my family. Alone. No whitey. Just me. Yea. Family.
My parents live in (near) fucking Yellowstone, dammit, who wants to ride a bike when you can go molest grizzly bears? Not me, that's who. Plus I don't ride bikes anymore. My ass swallows the seat whole and I dunno, that's not the look I want to portray to the world while trying to enjoy a Sunday stroll. Like a woman with a Schwinn growing out of her poonani. Call me crazy.
I'm pretty excited about getting away because work has been a bitch and my house is not selling and when I'm not thinking about how grateful I am for being alive or kissing on my lovely boyfriend I feel pretty damn shitty. Could be hormones. Could be the time of year since summer isn't all that when your a hot, sweaty mess all the time.
Remember when summer came and you struggled through the last few days of school and everything had that special feel about it? All the formal clothes were retired and replaced by shorts and swimsuits and it was all about having fun.
Eventually we'd come into the house smelling like chlorine and the sun and beg my mother for some type of frozen treat to cool us off and instead of store bought otter pops that were the rage and envy of any house that had them, despite the sharp edges ripping your mouth apart, we got knock-off grape sugar water in the ice cube tray with toothpicks.
Ahh, good times.
I plan on taking a bazillion fo toes and I hope it'll be a fun time and while I'm away you kids be good! Don't blow yourselves up with illegal fireworks and you Canucks turn on some AC. I'll miss you like stupid, baby. See you in a week!
OK, that was a total lie. I didn't get put in no slamma. I'm going on vacation! Well, that's also a lie. I'm not leaving on a jet plane to a tropical isle where cabana boys draped in loin cloths bring me fruity drinks with paper umbrellas and I get shtuped on a boat deck by my beloved, I'm going to visit my family. Alone. No whitey. Just me. Yea. Family.
In a few short hours I'll be here. It's breezy, but nice.
My parents live in (near) fucking Yellowstone, dammit, who wants to ride a bike when you can go molest grizzly bears? Not me, that's who. Plus I don't ride bikes anymore. My ass swallows the seat whole and I dunno, that's not the look I want to portray to the world while trying to enjoy a Sunday stroll. Like a woman with a Schwinn growing out of her poonani. Call me crazy.
I'm pretty excited about getting away because work has been a bitch and my house is not selling and when I'm not thinking about how grateful I am for being alive or kissing on my lovely boyfriend I feel pretty damn shitty. Could be hormones. Could be the time of year since summer isn't all that when your a hot, sweaty mess all the time.
Remember when summer came and you struggled through the last few days of school and everything had that special feel about it? All the formal clothes were retired and replaced by shorts and swimsuits and it was all about having fun.
Eventually we'd come into the house smelling like chlorine and the sun and beg my mother for some type of frozen treat to cool us off and instead of store bought otter pops that were the rage and envy of any house that had them, despite the sharp edges ripping your mouth apart, we got knock-off grape sugar water in the ice cube tray with toothpicks.
Ahh, good times.
I plan on taking a bazillion fo toes and I hope it'll be a fun time and while I'm away you kids be good! Don't blow yourselves up with illegal fireworks and you Canucks turn on some AC. I'll miss you like stupid, baby. See you in a week!
Monday, June 25, 2007
Take note
Things I will do while drunk in Los Angeles:
1. Shove my ample cleavage in the cabbies window as an extra thank you.
2. Alternate between Corona 40's and Sutter Home zinfandel and be proud of it.
3. Tell a perfect stranger that I'd fuck Prince because I'd have no choice anyway. If Prince wants to fuck you it's gonna happen.
4. While trying to do the pee-pee hover get a little on the floor (and shoes) and not care a bit.
5. Scream "IT'S STIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG" at the top of my lungs like a teenage girl. Many times.
6. Pay $70.00 FOR 2 GOD DAMN CONCERT T-SHIRTS!
7. Yell "YEAAAAAAAA" while waving double rock fingers in the air. \m/ \m/
8. Walk 2 miles through the ghetto trying to catch a cab and shouting "asshole" at those who wouldn't pick us up.
9. [censored]
1. Shove my ample cleavage in the cabbies window as an extra thank you.
2. Alternate between Corona 40's and Sutter Home zinfandel and be proud of it.
3. Tell a perfect stranger that I'd fuck Prince because I'd have no choice anyway. If Prince wants to fuck you it's gonna happen.
4. While trying to do the pee-pee hover get a little on the floor (and shoes) and not care a bit.
5. Scream "IT'S STIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG" at the top of my lungs like a teenage girl. Many times.
6. Pay $70.00 FOR 2 GOD DAMN CONCERT T-SHIRTS!
7. Yell "YEAAAAAAAA" while waving double rock fingers in the air. \m/ \m/
8. Walk 2 miles through the ghetto trying to catch a cab and shouting "asshole" at those who wouldn't pick us up.
9. [censored]
Friday, June 22, 2007
Doo doo doo me
I have just one word for you people.
THE POLICE!!
OK, technically that's 2 words, but YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT!! RIGHT??
Wait, maybe you don't. Maybe you LIVE UNDER A ROCK!! Or, hrm, were born in 1980-fuckingsomething or ~gulp~ even later and weren't blessed to have experienced one of the best bands and most famous hot tantric-sexers on the planet. And for that, it SUCKS TO BE YOU! HA HA!!
And if you didn't score tickets to one of the reunion concerts, like I did, than it REALLY SUCKS TO BE YOU!! WOOT!! Although, hmm, maybe you don't care or don't like their music and therefore are obviously an alien life form with zero taste so in that case you JUST SUCK!! WEEEEE!!
If you hadn't noticed, I'M A LITTLE BIT EXCITED TODAY!! However, I'm not amped up about driving to Los Angeles or paying $35 a day (you heard me) to park at the fancy hotel we're staying in but I am looking forward to getting out of town for a night and doing something more than folding laundry and watching reruns of Trading Spaces: Shitty Designer Edition all weekend. And fucking hell, it's THE POLICE!! With Sting. Sting! Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
Why do I suddenly feel like putting on a day-glo orange mesh shirt and globbing my mouth with iridescent pink lipstick? Huh. Anyway, it's finally here and I'm stoked!
We're bedding down in a very nice hotel that is a total splurge but I don't care. I wanted a room with a telephone by the toilet and there had better be one, dammit. Anyone want a phone call this weekend? We'll be sleeping on a heavenly bed (whatever that means) and handing over 5 dollar bills to surly teens who will be opening our doors and retrievig the car. And I can't wait!
We'll drive up in the afternoon, hopefully timing it perfectly for our 3:00 check-in, and pray we don't get caught in hours of fuck-ass traffic. My grand plan is to relax for a couple of hours, have a cocktail, get ready, have a cocktail, cab it to the stadium, have a cocktail, ROCK OUT, have a cocktail, I LOVE YOU STING, cab it back to the hotel, [censored], go to sleep.
Then after a nice long lounge in bed the next morning (read: sleeping it off) we'll check out by noon and head over to the Long Beach Aquarium for fishies and piccies then hopefully get home at a decent hour so we can relax some more with a few Netflix movies waiting for us.
Doesn't that all sound like fun? It had better work out that way. Dammit. FUN!
I've decided that I'm going to put aside all the heavy crap that happened this week, like finding out my uncle has what is probably a brutal and swiftly fatal case of prostate cancer, an old and much-admired acquaintance was freshly diagnosed with breast cancer and a new doc of mine has ordered a jamdownmygullet endoscopy test to grab a chunk of my guts for a biopsy. Which is one of the words that causes me to shit my pants and have 47,000 anxiety attacks.
ALL of that will be put on the back burner until after I ogle Sting's buttocks, buy every souvenir my credit card (and our arms) will allow, slam my boyfriend like a $2 hoor on the 18th floor of the Westin, make a phone-call from the pooper, take a zillion photos, and carve out a moment to just sit and breathe.
Which all sounds damn good to me.
THE POLICE!!
OK, technically that's 2 words, but YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT!! RIGHT??
Wait, maybe you don't. Maybe you LIVE UNDER A ROCK!! Or, hrm, were born in 1980-fuckingsomething or ~gulp~ even later and weren't blessed to have experienced one of the best bands and most famous hot tantric-sexers on the planet. And for that, it SUCKS TO BE YOU! HA HA!!
And if you didn't score tickets to one of the reunion concerts, like I did, than it REALLY SUCKS TO BE YOU!! WOOT!! Although, hmm, maybe you don't care or don't like their music and therefore are obviously an alien life form with zero taste so in that case you JUST SUCK!! WEEEEE!!
If you hadn't noticed, I'M A LITTLE BIT EXCITED TODAY!! However, I'm not amped up about driving to Los Angeles or paying $35 a day (you heard me) to park at the fancy hotel we're staying in but I am looking forward to getting out of town for a night and doing something more than folding laundry and watching reruns of Trading Spaces: Shitty Designer Edition all weekend. And fucking hell, it's THE POLICE!! With Sting. Sting! Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
Why do I suddenly feel like putting on a day-glo orange mesh shirt and globbing my mouth with iridescent pink lipstick? Huh. Anyway, it's finally here and I'm stoked!
We're bedding down in a very nice hotel that is a total splurge but I don't care. I wanted a room with a telephone by the toilet and there had better be one, dammit. Anyone want a phone call this weekend? We'll be sleeping on a heavenly bed (whatever that means) and handing over 5 dollar bills to surly teens who will be opening our doors and retrievig the car. And I can't wait!
We'll drive up in the afternoon, hopefully timing it perfectly for our 3:00 check-in, and pray we don't get caught in hours of fuck-ass traffic. My grand plan is to relax for a couple of hours, have a cocktail, get ready, have a cocktail, cab it to the stadium, have a cocktail, ROCK OUT, have a cocktail, I LOVE YOU STING, cab it back to the hotel, [censored], go to sleep.
Then after a nice long lounge in bed the next morning (read: sleeping it off) we'll check out by noon and head over to the Long Beach Aquarium for fishies and piccies then hopefully get home at a decent hour so we can relax some more with a few Netflix movies waiting for us.
Doesn't that all sound like fun? It had better work out that way. Dammit. FUN!
I've decided that I'm going to put aside all the heavy crap that happened this week, like finding out my uncle has what is probably a brutal and swiftly fatal case of prostate cancer, an old and much-admired acquaintance was freshly diagnosed with breast cancer and a new doc of mine has ordered a jamdownmygullet endoscopy test to grab a chunk of my guts for a biopsy. Which is one of the words that causes me to shit my pants and have 47,000 anxiety attacks.
ALL of that will be put on the back burner until after I ogle Sting's buttocks, buy every souvenir my credit card (and our arms) will allow, slam my boyfriend like a $2 hoor on the 18th floor of the Westin, make a phone-call from the pooper, take a zillion photos, and carve out a moment to just sit and breathe.
Which all sounds damn good to me.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Happy Born Day
I will save the rant I have brewing for another today since it's your birthday and thus all crankiness must wait until tomorrow!!
Happy 32cnd, baby!! I love you more than words can say and I hope this next year brings you, fucking finally, some of the things you so desire. (We'll get there, babe, we'll get there.)
Thank you for being the most super awesome person on the planet who I adore so much it hurts and thanks to your mama for pushing your ass out of hers. You are the frosting on my cake, the ketchup on my fries and the brave against my crazy. And as always, I love you more than my luggage.
MUAH!
Happy 32cnd, baby!! I love you more than words can say and I hope this next year brings you, fucking finally, some of the things you so desire. (We'll get there, babe, we'll get there.)
Thank you for being the most super awesome person on the planet who I adore so much it hurts and thanks to your mama for pushing your ass out of hers. You are the frosting on my cake, the ketchup on my fries and the brave against my crazy. And as always, I love you more than my luggage.
MUAH!
Monday, June 18, 2007
I felt a little dizzy
Oh lerd. The Fair. Who would think that going to the fair to look at my photo and eat fried whatevertheyputinthevat would make me have so many feelings. Feelings that are barely contained and spill all over the floor in a big feeling mess. Don't step in the pile of feelings!! Someone get the paper towels!! And a mop!
It's a well-known fact my brain is broken. I have the Edsel of skulls. The new Coke of minds.
I entered that photo contest saying that I'd be thrilled if just one of my 6 photos made it onto the wall, the hell with getting a ribbon. One of my photos made it onto the wall and didn't get a ribbon and I was thrilled. For about a day. Then I was bummed. Then excited. Then irritated, followed by happy, then back around to bummed. Then anxious. See? Broken.
I was so excited and proud of myself until I started thinking, which is what always gets me into trouble. The photo that was chosen was, in my opinion, the worst of the lot I turned in. Not taken with my most expensive camera, reflections spots all over the top, so how in hell was it picked? Were the others so horribly bad? What was the criteria? Should I throw in this towel before it's got a drop of sweat on it?
It's so dumb, but gets dumber, just wait.
After fighting the crowds just to get into the damn place, walking around a bit and eating crap we finally made it up to the photography exhibit. Upon seeing the first display I slowly developed a teeny tiny anxiety attack. The photos, one after another, BLEW ME AWAY. They were unbelievably beautiful. Impossibly amazing. Staggeringly awesome. All over the place! Everywhere I looked I said to myself, holy shit, what the fuck am I doing here?
And occasionally I was like, dammit, I should have submitted that other picture, or, hey, I turned in one almost exactly like that, why didn't mine make it? But mostly I just crapped my pants and felt unworthy and impressed beyond belief at the same time. I mean, these people had talent. Assloads of talent. Talent I thought I might have sometimes when the moon is in the 7th house of Jupiter on the 4th Thursday in the second quarter of the year.
(I'm not always chock-full of confidence ready to kick ass and take names. Sometimes I'm a big old crybaby with very little self-assurance and a abundance of self-doubt. This was one of those times. I'm human. Occasionally.)
As we were walking around I wasn't finding my photo and thought I could be all cool about it but finally I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't going to be able to concentrate let alone process oxygen until I found it. We booked it to the other side of the room and there, right in the middle of the wall was my shark. I squealed "there it is!" And smiled and jumped a little off the ground, then noticed IT LOOKED LIKE CRAP.
I thought I'd mounted it OK since I was ignorant to such things and didn't know anything about the process and it was too late to get it professionally dry mounted so I was stuck using artists tape and apparently did a shitty job paired with gravity which equaled a very wrinkly slightly embarrassing display and I wanted to cry through my pride. It felt like I sent my kid to the first day of school with miss-matched shoes and a lunch of peanut-butter & mayo on rye carried in a full-sized grocery bag.
These pictures are like my little children. I feel attached to them and responsible and it was a vulnerable thing to go through, especially when want to lick your finger and smooth out that wayward hair sticking straight up. But then I was also proud and wanted to tell the strangers milling about that hey! That one's mine! Although I didn't because fucking hell, my poor little pocket-camera shark was flanked by stunning portraits from the sea and not 1 but 2 merit ribbons!
Oh, the drama. I was splashed with emotions, a little indigestion from the fried Pepsi, and I've spent the last 2 days vacillating between thinking I'm a dork who doesn't compare to knowing that I'm just starting out, know virtually nothing about photography or my camera and gawd forbid I can fucking remember what aperture means so pull my head out, what do I expect?
Such is the pattern of so many minds, I think. Bouncing between the I sucks why bother and man, this makes me want to learn and strive and go as far as I can go. Frankly, if you concentrate on the former and not the latter then you're kind of a jerk and I'm no jerk. Cranky, yes, jerk - no.
I will also take my own advice I gave out recently that change is supposed to hurt. Some learning experiences are uncomfortable so we can recognize the hard work put into it. (Which, btw, SUCKS.) But, I will deal with my pulses of displeasure and moments of pain and get a grip on my feelings of lame and push myself to be better. As Big Black would say, "Do WORK, Betty, Do WORK." Which I will.
And next time I'm getting that shit properly mounted. Oi.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wheeeee
I don't know when it happened. Was there a magic age? Turning 30? Was it from a blow to the head, I've had plenty. Or did my natural equilibrium drain out of me that last time I "accidentally" drank too many glasses of wine topped with the strongest Vodka cranberry cocktails known to man and I ended up barfing every last drop of moisture from my body until my eyeballs popped out of my head and rolled across the floor like 2 dried prunes.
I can't ride roller coasters any more.
Now, you might be thinking, oh yes, that is the biggest tragedy of the year, but hell, I like roller coasters and I'd like to be able to go to an amusement park and not have to bring a fucking book to read (yes, I've actually done this) while my crew stands in line and enjoys losing consciousness without me. And it's almost summer and that's prime coaster riding time, yo but I can't participate. In fact, I can hardly ride anything anymore. And it sucks.
I loves me some Disneyland and luckily I can still ride the ones they have there, so I think, but I can put money on it that I'd never survive the rides they have next door at California Adventure. And just about everyone I know tells me Space Mountain and the Matterhorn aren't real roller coasters and I'm still a pussy. But I'm not a pussy, I say! It's not my fault!
It's not my fault that my heart stops when I lean over too far and it feels like my head is going to explode. It's not my fault that I get dizzy when I go over a speed bump. And I'm not to blame that I nearly have a myocardial infarction when things get a little out of control in the boudoir, if you know what I mean. It's my brain or something. Or my pancreas. That damn moody pancreas. It's all his fault.
The last time I rode a real coaster I almost died. Seriously. At least I felt like I was dying. We were at Six Flags and my x-boyfriend thought it would be oh so much fun to go on the old-fashioned wooden coaster. I was trying to be brave and all good girlfriendy and agreed with a smile. After the initial click click clicks of the ascent I held on tight and off we went into what I can only describe as a chiropractors dream and one of my worst nightmares.
We were thrown and jarred and my bones crunched and popped and every descent stopped my heart cold. I don't like the feeling of my stomach dropping because I'm absolutely positive it means my blood has turned to mud and my organs are being squeezed into my nasal passages anyway, but this shit was beyond brutal. Loop-d-loos are one thing, 100 story drops are another. Mix those with a pile of rickety old wooden slats and a car covered in lead paint and you have a disaster waiting to happen.
I barely made it and regretted every second. And to this very day I have a reoccuring nightmare that I'm on a roller coaster and it flies off the track a la Final Destination 17 or whatever. So not worth it but what the hell happened to me?
I used to love going on all other varieties of death-defying state fair-type rides put together by toothless carnies nursing wicked cough syrup hangovers and carrying bad attitudes against stupid rich kids who can afford to spend $20 trying to win a purple tiger stuffed with sawdust and the broken souls of homeless drifters by shooting rancid water into the mouth of a maniacal plastic clown.
I would get all excited whenever there was a local fair or a Halloween festival or a school function with a rented pony, I was riding something that would spin me in a circle fast enough to cause a snot line sideways across my face. I remember one time, at some rodeo ho-down carnival thing in our pseudo-shit kicker town, that I talked my bff at the time (April Gonzales) into going on The Zipper. I was stoked and jumped in ready to rock and roll. (Ha ha, roll. Get it? The wit, it kills me.)
If you've never had the pleasure there's a lever on the inside of the cage that allows you to somewhat control the flippage of your own car, since the whole damn thing goes up and around then your individual cage also flips around. After our door was firmly locked with a used toothpick from the corner of the carnies mouth we were off.
I wrapped my stubby fingers around the controller and pulled all the way back causing us to spin backwards at warp speed approximately 250 times a minute which could or could not be an exaggeration. Little did I know April was a giant chickenshit who didn't even like the ride and proceeded to scream in my ear for the entirety we were on it.
She tried to get me to stop the bonus flipping I was in control of but being the devil child that I am was I ignored her desperate shrieks and hysterical wails and spun away. Flip. Flip. Flip. Scream. Cry. Flip. Until she managed to peel her head from the backrest, lean over towards me and sink her crooked teeth a good inch into the soft flesh of my upper arm. That damn April.
After it was my turn to let out a scream I eased up on the damn flipping and the ride was over. We poured our dizzy, Ditto'd asses onto the ground where she promptly barfed red snow cone all over a hay bail. Guess I didn't consider the possibility that she could have vomited inside the rolling cage where it would have slapped me in the face repeatedly until the ride came to a stop. Suppose I'll take a bite over that.
Not all of my experiences have been good ones like that, heh. There was another time in junior high when the whole 7th grade went to a semi-local theme park and I was lucky enough to get a seat in the very first car of a coaster that basically just shoots you forwards and backwards with a loop in the middle. After one successful round we pressed our luck and ran around for another go but this time was different.
We shot forward and instead of losing speed after the first loop and gently coasting towards the stopper at the top we slammed into it then went rocketing backwards crashing into the emergency stopper in the back then whizzed through the launching area and halfway back up the loop where we were stopped on a dime causing everyone's pencil necks to snap. Something similar to what happened to these poor saps who got stuck upside down the other day.
Or else I've remembered it in an incorrect and dramatic fashion for all of these years and it was a simple matter of the ride malfunctioning for a second but it scared the piss out of me and I never went on it again.
I was also enjoying Splash Mountain sometime in my 20's when all of a sudden our log, along with 3 others, came to a bobbing halt as we all knocked into each other stacking up like a quad of giant turds in a stream. Something had broken in such a way that it was necessary to shut the whole shabang down and prevent the rest of the passengers from plunging to their death or whatever we were ultimately headed for.
We were in log number 3 and I could see up ahead that log number 1 was resting against a set of bracing doors. After a few minutes of wondering WTF and listening to Zipadeedodah blasting in our faces the lights came up, the music went off and a voice from somewhere instructed us to get out of our logs and walk behind us to a door.
Everyone chuckled nervously since we still didn't know what the hell was going on but we did as we were told and hoisted ourselves up and out and carefully walked around and over the whirring and whiz-popping animatronic animals that were still moving around to silent music.
A door opened and a Disney person in costume motioned us over to her and we were led down a scaffold-type set of metal stairs and onto the back lot. We all followed her to another door that she opened and the small group of us were deposited back into Frontierland amid the throngs of Disneygoers.
When I turned around the door we just came through was gone, disappeared into the fake logs of a fake fort wall. It was like going from a psychedelic color movie to a black and white back to a color. Surreal to say the least and we never did find out what the hub bub was all about in the first place but we got to cut in line when the ride was fixed about an hour later and I (obviously) survived the big plunge so hey, I have that going for me. Which is nice.
But alas, I fear these days I couldn't withstand a Ferris wheel let alone a mild coaster. Just the thought makes me swoon. Our county fair is going on right now and we're going on Sunday (to see one of my photos that was chosen for display in the photo contest, my very first one ever thankyouverymuch) and we won't be venturing over to the Fun Zone. I'll just have to be happy watching the pig races with some deep fried Coke and giant pickle on stick.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
I'm here to be entertained, you know
The skies were a pale shade of grey and the morning as crisp as a cracker. We'd decided a few days previous that a weekend trip to the San Diego Zoo was in short order since we hadn't been in a couple of years and my fancy shmancy digital camera hadn't been used on the critters inhabiting our "world famous."
We don't often venture out of the house on a Sunday since we spend so much of our time in the presence of botards and fuckwits, stuck in traffic and lines and all other matters of urban sprawl but we won't be here in Southern California for much longer (gawd damn willing) so we need to soak it up while we can.
We woke up relatively early, ahem, let me clarify, I woke up at my normal retarded hour of 6:49 a.m. and he didn't sleep past 10:00 so our day began almost at the same time (please note my use of the sarcastic font.)
We drug ourselves out of the house and hopped in my car. After a stop for coffee (him), water (me), and egg mcnasties (us) we were on our way. I was hoping the skies would stay dark since that's a much more comfortable time outdoors for me on account of I'm the heat miser with better hair but any temp upwards of 65 and over has me sweating and whining and melting into the floor in a crabby mess. And, lower temps won't heat up the animals sending them into dens, under brush or otherwise comatosed.
All was going smoothly down the road and I hadn't had a panic attack yet. Oh, haven't I mentioned? Ever since last January when I was taking whitey to the airport, and I was positively dying from bronchitis, I've had heart-stopping, head-swirling, fucking hell I'm going to pass out while driving 75 mph panic attacks. It's so much fun (saracasm again.) So anyway, going smoothly, driving, yada yada when I noticed a long string of orange cones on the freeway as far as my sleepy eyes could see.
Hmm, I said to myself, they've shut down the fast lane, strange. After moving a lane to the right I was forced over another then another and WTF! The whole fucking freeway was CLOSED and before I knew what was happening I had no choice but to detour to a whole 'nother freeway and consequently travel on one that does not go past the effing zoo. Well shit damn crap.
Fucking hell, I said out loud realizing I'd screwed up my days and the reason for the closure was the stupid Rock-n-Roll marathon. I mean, who the hell needs to run 26pointasshole miles and on a friggen freeway no less, anyway? Argh! After switching to our 5th freeway, yes, 5th, we were finally on the right road and made our way into the Zoo parking lot which didn't look all that crowded yet so maybe it wouldn't suck too bad.
However, by the time we arrived 20 plus miles to the South the sun had poked through the clouds and I was squinting. Great. I hoped we were still early enough and it was cool enough that the animals would be a little active. Ha ha. I'm funny. Whitey and I half-heartedly joke that we have no luck and when we're together we have bad luck times two. Today was no exception.
Our first stop was the flamingos who, if you didn't already know, smell like a shit house full of shit covered in shit. But they are pretty. It must be brooding season or whatever you call bird porn because these feathered fellows had turned most of their enclosure into a birthing ground. I had no idea they made giant nests out of mud. I didn't get any closer than this because of the shit.
P. U.
After we got a goodsmell look at the birdies we pointed ourselves towards the children's zoo, which, unfortunately, you can only get to by passing the snake house. I have a pretend-you-don't-exist/hate relationship with snakes and lizards and tend to be very prejudice picking and choosing what I think is OK and what should be gathered up, stuffed into a rocket and blasted into another universe.
Of course the boy wanted to look at all things gross and fatal so we started at the first corner of the 4-sided structure where I was promptly face-to-face with this beauty.
She was a big-boned Caucasian gal.
That is the kind of snake that doesn't make me want to throw myself onto the ground and stab my minds eye out with a rusty spork to avoid the memory recall I'll undoubtedly have at wonderful moments like when I feel a tickle on my leg and don't automatically think it's a stray hair hanging from my yoga pants or something else reasonable but probably something like this:
Blech.
I know!
I'm proud to say I only freaked out (loudly and publicly, mind you, there was plenty of silent screaming) about 5 times and I made it all the way around with only a little stress rash starting on my right arm, go me. I tried to take some decent pictures which was not easy through old warped glass not to mention they were of reptiles anyway. Such as these:
Blech. Blech.
And this:
Anyone need any insurance?
Next we went to the komodo dragon house (hello! We're supposed to be going to the children's fucking furry babies and no icky snakes zoo!) and was surprised to see the big guy out and about. He was crusing around and I was all "yay, he's not laying around! We're getting lucky!" And I took some pics! And he was actually cool! And I didn't vomit!
How yoooooo doin'?
And then exactly one minute later he booked over to a rock and laid down and didn't move again.
I'm so over it.
Sigh. On our way to the children's zoo and the nursery that I was so excited about because baby animals squeee! we stopped to gawk at the parrots. Who did nothing but stare at us.
You got a problem? I'll give you a problem.
or refused to look me in the eye. Hmf.
I'm not looking at you, you know.
And that's where I knew our double-whammy bad luck had followed us again and I was not to be proven wrong.
The dik dik wasn't havin' it.
Who you callin' a dik? Dik.
The ducks were aloof.
Gah, I'm so fucking full.
I'm blue.
And the goat wouldn't get out of the bucket.
This bucket is all I need.
The bat-eared fox was unresponsive.
The meerkat was tuckered.
And I think a little depressed.
~sigh~ What does it all mean...
Of course there were no babies in the nursery to squeal over, unless you count the 50 pound porcupine, so we went over toride the sky tram thingy and check out the polar bears, smelling the flowers along the way, well, at least the bee did.
Does this flower make my butt look big?
No moonboots on the tram!
We arrived at the other end of the zoo and watched a small animal chase around and kick the crap out of another small animal and since I couldn't do anything about it I took pictures of a hummingbird.
I should NOT have had that last cup of coffee.
We walked down a hill to steep you practically had to scoot down on your butt and went to see the polar bears. At least one of the two out in the enclosure wasn't snoring under a log. We finally had a few minutes of entertainment watching this giant set of teeth try and chew an even gianter ball.
Mmmm...balls...
And then it was over.
Mmm...dreaming of balls...
I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I was determined to see something good! We pointed ourselves towards another part of the park and knew we were getting close to some critters when the log-jam of gawkers came to a sudden and impacted halt. All to see the following.
Bored hippo.
Melancholy okapi.
OCD tiger.
Hungover monkey.
CRAP.
We were now hot and sweaty and squinty and had enjoyed the melodious (sarcasm) sounds of a million screaming children and had played dodge the stroller for a few hours and were ready to head home, by way of the best thing we saw the whole fucking day. A wall of art one could only be explained as precious. Horrible, bad and precious.
Mentally Challenged Bear and his cousin Beer Belly.
Crack Pipe Bear. Rahhh, we're my pipe?!?
Fancy Gay Men's Chorus Bear. ~jazz hands~
We'd almost made it home when after taking our normal exit discovered my little town was having a celebration and the whole street was closed. After another effing detour and a brief stop to get provisions we got home safe and sound armed with beer (him), ice cream (me) and enjoyed the rest of our day. In peace. With no snakes.
The End.
We don't often venture out of the house on a Sunday since we spend so much of our time in the presence of botards and fuckwits, stuck in traffic and lines and all other matters of urban sprawl but we won't be here in Southern California for much longer (gawd damn willing) so we need to soak it up while we can.
We woke up relatively early, ahem, let me clarify, I woke up at my normal retarded hour of 6:49 a.m. and he didn't sleep past 10:00 so our day began almost at the same time (please note my use of the sarcastic font.)
We drug ourselves out of the house and hopped in my car. After a stop for coffee (him), water (me), and egg mcnasties (us) we were on our way. I was hoping the skies would stay dark since that's a much more comfortable time outdoors for me on account of I'm the heat miser with better hair but any temp upwards of 65 and over has me sweating and whining and melting into the floor in a crabby mess. And, lower temps won't heat up the animals sending them into dens, under brush or otherwise comatosed.
All was going smoothly down the road and I hadn't had a panic attack yet. Oh, haven't I mentioned? Ever since last January when I was taking whitey to the airport, and I was positively dying from bronchitis, I've had heart-stopping, head-swirling, fucking hell I'm going to pass out while driving 75 mph panic attacks. It's so much fun (saracasm again.) So anyway, going smoothly, driving, yada yada when I noticed a long string of orange cones on the freeway as far as my sleepy eyes could see.
Hmm, I said to myself, they've shut down the fast lane, strange. After moving a lane to the right I was forced over another then another and WTF! The whole fucking freeway was CLOSED and before I knew what was happening I had no choice but to detour to a whole 'nother freeway and consequently travel on one that does not go past the effing zoo. Well shit damn crap.
Fucking hell, I said out loud realizing I'd screwed up my days and the reason for the closure was the stupid Rock-n-Roll marathon. I mean, who the hell needs to run 26pointasshole miles and on a friggen freeway no less, anyway? Argh! After switching to our 5th freeway, yes, 5th, we were finally on the right road and made our way into the Zoo parking lot which didn't look all that crowded yet so maybe it wouldn't suck too bad.
However, by the time we arrived 20 plus miles to the South the sun had poked through the clouds and I was squinting. Great. I hoped we were still early enough and it was cool enough that the animals would be a little active. Ha ha. I'm funny. Whitey and I half-heartedly joke that we have no luck and when we're together we have bad luck times two. Today was no exception.
Our first stop was the flamingos who, if you didn't already know, smell like a shit house full of shit covered in shit. But they are pretty. It must be brooding season or whatever you call bird porn because these feathered fellows had turned most of their enclosure into a birthing ground. I had no idea they made giant nests out of mud. I didn't get any closer than this because of the shit.
P. U.
After we got a good
Of course the boy wanted to look at all things gross and fatal so we started at the first corner of the 4-sided structure where I was promptly face-to-face with this beauty.
She was a big-boned Caucasian gal.
That is the kind of snake that doesn't make me want to throw myself onto the ground and stab my minds eye out with a rusty spork to avoid the memory recall I'll undoubtedly have at wonderful moments like when I feel a tickle on my leg and don't automatically think it's a stray hair hanging from my yoga pants or something else reasonable but probably something like this:
Blech.
I know!
I'm proud to say I only freaked out (loudly and publicly, mind you, there was plenty of silent screaming) about 5 times and I made it all the way around with only a little stress rash starting on my right arm, go me. I tried to take some decent pictures which was not easy through old warped glass not to mention they were of reptiles anyway. Such as these:
Blech. Blech.
And this:
Anyone need any insurance?
Next we went to the komodo dragon house (hello! We're supposed to be going to the children's fucking furry babies and no icky snakes zoo!) and was surprised to see the big guy out and about. He was crusing around and I was all "yay, he's not laying around! We're getting lucky!" And I took some pics! And he was actually cool! And I didn't vomit!
How yoooooo doin'?
And then exactly one minute later he booked over to a rock and laid down and didn't move again.
I'm so over it.
Sigh. On our way to the children's zoo and the nursery that I was so excited about because baby animals squeee! we stopped to gawk at the parrots. Who did nothing but stare at us.
You got a problem? I'll give you a problem.
or refused to look me in the eye. Hmf.
I'm not looking at you, you know.
And that's where I knew our double-whammy bad luck had followed us again and I was not to be proven wrong.
The dik dik wasn't havin' it.
Who you callin' a dik? Dik.
The ducks were aloof.
Gah, I'm so fucking full.
I'm blue.
And the goat wouldn't get out of the bucket.
This bucket is all I need.
The bat-eared fox was unresponsive.
The meerkat was tuckered.
And I think a little depressed.
~sigh~ What does it all mean...
Of course there were no babies in the nursery to squeal over, unless you count the 50 pound porcupine, so we went over toride the sky tram thingy and check out the polar bears, smelling the flowers along the way, well, at least the bee did.
Does this flower make my butt look big?
No moonboots on the tram!
We arrived at the other end of the zoo and watched a small animal chase around and kick the crap out of another small animal and since I couldn't do anything about it I took pictures of a hummingbird.
I should NOT have had that last cup of coffee.
We walked down a hill to steep you practically had to scoot down on your butt and went to see the polar bears. At least one of the two out in the enclosure wasn't snoring under a log. We finally had a few minutes of entertainment watching this giant set of teeth try and chew an even gianter ball.
Mmmm...balls...
And then it was over.
Mmm...dreaming of balls...
I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I was determined to see something good! We pointed ourselves towards another part of the park and knew we were getting close to some critters when the log-jam of gawkers came to a sudden and impacted halt. All to see the following.
Bored hippo.
Melancholy okapi.
OCD tiger.
Hungover monkey.
CRAP.
We were now hot and sweaty and squinty and had enjoyed the melodious (sarcasm) sounds of a million screaming children and had played dodge the stroller for a few hours and were ready to head home, by way of the best thing we saw the whole fucking day. A wall of art one could only be explained as precious. Horrible, bad and precious.
Mentally Challenged Bear and his cousin Beer Belly.
Crack Pipe Bear. Rahhh, we're my pipe?!?
Fancy Gay Men's Chorus Bear. ~jazz hands~
We'd almost made it home when after taking our normal exit discovered my little town was having a celebration and the whole street was closed. After another effing detour and a brief stop to get provisions we got home safe and sound armed with beer (him), ice cream (me) and enjoyed the rest of our day. In peace. With no snakes.
The End.
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