Kazoo

2nd sick day in a row. It's like a vacation only with more vomit and trips to the bathroom.

2012-02-09T10:47:00.004-06:00

Actually, it's fairly similar to my last vacation in Mexico. Except of course for the fact that I haven't thrown up in 10 years, and my whole streak is ruined. Wasn't there a t.v. show with an episode where one of the characters was vomit three since '03 or something? It was like that, except I was vomit free since like, 2001 or 2002. But that doesn't rhyme.

Um. Anyway. Very productive two days. I've watched about 7,000 episodes of Law and Order (SVU and Criminal Intent) because it's the perfect sick day show. It's oddly soothing, for all that it is about killers and rapists and whatnot. If you doze off in the middle of one episode, and wake up in the middle of another, it doesn't really matter. Also it's fun to play "Spot the Famous People". Every one who was ever in The Wire or Oz appears to have shown up in Law and Order at some point. Plus other people.

Truthfully, I like to watch Law and Order on the treadmill too. The storylines distract me from the discomfort while being predictable enough to let me know how much longer I have to go without watching the clock.

I...really have no idea why I'm babbling about this except that I must be on the mend, because yesterday I was not at all bored and today I'm starting to be a little bored with the laying around. Also, the dogs are totally over me. Yesterday they were all about taking care of me, and today they keep shoving me off the couch and stealing my pillow and my blanket. I'm going to go shove them around a little, so I can take my lunch nap.

Bueller?

2012-01-23T16:52:00.004-06:00

You know how you sometimes catch yourself thinking, wow, my life is really awesome? And then the next day all the little things start to pile up to the point that you wish you never got out of bed?

So have you ever had one of those days where you get up super early to get to a meeting that is supposed to be before 8:00 in a town about an hour away only to get there and discover that due to poor reading comprehension skills you are actually there 4 hours early? And then your mom calls, sobbing, to tell you that her boyfriend is moving out and that the way he told her was by...moving half his shit out while she was at work the night before? And then been on your way home when you realized you had a flat tire? So you stopped and after about 15 minutes it occurred to you that you could change the tire? And then you dig around in the trunk because the jack appears to be missing? So you have to rely on the two semi homeless looking dudes to change your tire for you? (In fairness, they change that tire with the ease and speed of a freaking NASCAR pitcrew). And then you get home and call your husband in the hopes that he will tell you it is totes okay to drive around on the spare tire indefinitely? But he tells you this is a bad idea so you have to go to the tire place and spend the rest of the afternoon you were supposed to have off because you got to work at 6:30 a.m.?

Anybody else? Or is that just me?

P.S. Still not pregnant.

Edited: The I'm NOT PREGNANT Edition, which is what I should have called it in the first place, apparently.

2012-01-12T17:42:00.004-06:00

Life changing things are possibly in the works. And are also possibly not happening, and I've already jinxed it enough by talking about it with a few select people, so...yeah, that's a sucky thing to do. Cool things may or may not be happening but I'm not going to tell you what they are. Which also implies that I think you care. Which, truthfully, I kind of do. Because one thing I have learned about myself: on the surface I have some issues with body image and whatnot, but underneath? In my deepest, truest self? There is nothing wrong with my self confidence level. I generally assume that people think I'm interesting, intelligent, and attractive. And I generally think those things about myself. And that's fine...except 1. I learned early that to fit in you have to pretend that you don't believe those things, and at some point when you are pretending, you maybe start to get a little confused and 2. just because those things are possibly true doesn't mean that everyone is always fascinated by every minute aspect of my life at all times. Sometimes my self confidence crosses over into a self centeredness so vast, it could cover the entire state of Arkansas. It's generally followed by a session of self disgust at my own vanity that probably balances everything out pretty nicely, though, so I got that going for me.

Anyway, my point, before I wandered off to chase butterflies in the woods, was that because of the maybe thing I have not really known what to talk about. Like, once I say I can't talk about one little (possibly life changing) thing, I get tongue tied (finger tied?) and I can't seem to talk about ANYTHING. So expect a lot of drivel until probably around the beginning of April, when the thing will either have happened or will not be happening at all. I can talk about it then. And I will. Ad nauseum. Till you are like, can you please shut up about the thing that totally didn't even happen?

In the interest of blog consistency: Razorbacks totally won the Cotton Bowl. Which was a much more interesting game than LSU/Alabama. We finally have 3 SEC teams in the top spots of the BCS and then LSU phones it in like a bunch of testicles. I am totally stealing from Betty White. When I want to call something weak, I'm calling it a testicle. It's a new year's resolution I'm pretty sure I can keep. Because she has a point: vaginas are fucking tough. I'm not saying whether the pun was intended there or not.

Speaking of resolutions, I don't really do the New Year's Resolution thing. Not because I am against them (Ells- I really liked your post about resolutions actually. When did it become such a mockable thing to want to make yourself better?) But I tend to make resolutions all year. Like, back in June I resolved to quit smoking cold turkey and I have not had a cigarette or any nicotine product for over 6 months. I resolved in November a few years ago to dig myself out of my debt-hole. That one is taking awhile, but is slowly becoming reality. I dug myself a pretty deep hole. Mostly by refusing to look at the hole. Seriously, I recommend everyone regularly add up exactly how much they actually owe. If you had asked me to guess, at the time, I would have told you a number fully 2/3 lower than the actual total. Like, the number it is now, I would have told you that's what I owed then. I also resolved to do regular nice things for other people. Success rate on that is debatable.

For instance, I totally went through the whole house and pulled out about 7 boxes worth of nice things to donate to a local homeless shelter. I set it out on the curb for pickup, and went back in the house. A short while later I was leaving to go run an errand and noticed that the pile was considerably smaller. Someone stopped at the curb, went through the boxes that were clearly labeled Little Rock Compassion Center, sorted out what they did not like, and took about 5.5 boxes worth. So when the charity showed up, I had one small pile to donate, and it was some random stranger's reject pile. My intentions were good, Charity Dude, I swear.

I also intended to anonymously send my oldest friend some cute things for her two daughters. Just a nice surprise post Christmas thing. There were fairy wings, and a wand, and some books, and some paints, and some play dough. I was really impressed with myself. She'll never know who it is from! Except I...put the return address on the box because I was listening to the radio and they were talking about letters and packages delivered like 30 years late. And I thought of like, undeliveravle mail purgatory, and put my return address on the box. So, she'll still get nice things but the anonymous part...I'm going to have to practice that part. And I hate that I messed that up, because I don't want it to be weird. Like now she's expected to do something for me. That wasn't the point, but that's kind of what happens when you give people gifts. They think they should do something for you. When the idea is to get them to do something nice for someone else entirely. Like this all started because someone raked our leaves for us. And I'd like to be a better person.

I did accomplish a few things successfully, but blogging them seems to defeat the purpose, which is just to do something nice. I only blogged the failures because I think it's sort of entertaining. Plus I think it reinforces my point about my inability to keep my giant yap shut about things.

Except the thing I'm not going to tell you about until the beginning of April.

EDIT: Bleh - I can't comment on my own blog. But in response to comments. DUDES. If it is what you guys think it is, I'm seriously gonna have to break up with my birth control. I better not be pregnant. Damn. Now, I gotta go pee on a damn stick. But seriously, I'm 100% sure that's not what I'm talking about, and also, I'm 99.999% sure I'm not pregnant. Sorry for the confusion.

Woo Pig Sooie

2012-01-06T19:39:00.002-06:00

Watching the Cotton Bowl, rooting for the Razorbacks (ha! see what I did thar? root...hogs...because hogs root...for...things...nevermind).

Quick update during the commercial break: no New Year's resolutions. I generally just make changes as I notice they are necessary. It seems to work for me. I've spent the last month cleaning out the closets (then filling them back up at Christmas) and organizing sock drawers and shit. Not that it was really necessary. OCD girl likes things organized.

Games back on - have to go watch us kick Kansas' ass. Unless we aren't and then I have to stop watching because sometimes I think I'm a jinx. I haven't really watched the games this year and we were ranked 3 in the SEC, so...

Sorry, enough football talk.

Go Hogs!

1996. On the surface, it seems like I was boy crazy but I think my one true love at this time may have been myself.

2011-12-29T21:49:00.004-06:00

14 year old Megs (almost 15!)

M is MC this guy I really like (I liked a boy. Shocking!). We could have an interesting relationship (maybe people didn't want to date me because I talked about 'interesting' and 'mutually satisfying' relationships? 40 year old student loan officer indeed) because neither one of us wants anything really serious (bwahahahah), but he sees me like most boys see me - as a grinny girl scout, everybody's little Gilligan (have you heard my new band Everybody's Little Gilligan?) - ever faithful, sweet, and pretty much dull and predictable. I like myself, but I wish I was alluring, mysterious, and sexy (at 14). There's nothing really alluring, mysterious, or sexy about a practical, responsible, _________ girl (1. My husband would like to point out that all those traits 14 year old me hated so much actually make me an ideal wife. 2. I have no idea what that blank was about.)At least I am not really predictable though (or coherent, apparently, wasn't I just lamenting my dull predictableness a minute ago?). I mean, some people can predict me, but not people that I am not really close to (I...okay?)The thing is, I am fairly attractive, smart and interesting (also: modest and humble) so why are guys so not interested in me? (Because 14 yo guys want boobies).I am not stupid, ugly, personality free, or dull so what is the deal? (No boobs). Boys are dumb that's the only thing I can figure out (also I had no boobs. You'd think this was a fairly simple equation for someone so smart...). Anyway, my major crush is M. He did like me once, but I had a boyfriend (except boys never liked me so...coherence: not my strong suit) and he kind of fell for my step sister a little bit (he was so in love with me he immediately transferred that love to my stepsister)but that is over now, and he broke up with his girlfriend two weeks after Valentines Day, so I think he's unattached (in my defense: he didn't actually DATE my stepsister. He just thought she was hot, basically. Also, this never went anywhere).

Damn, I spent a lot of my teenage years obsessed with boys, apparently. Also, with myself. On the other hand, I mention in an entry later about how I hate it when I obsess for weeks but I can't help it. These entries were pre-OCD diagnosis, but I can totally see it now.

Let's go way, way back to 1994. Wooo-woooo. That's the noise that happens when you go way way back.

2011-12-20T18:17:00.002-06:00

Note: I feel I should say here that as far as I know Ben from the previous entry is now a productive member of society. He has a wife and 4 kids, and is presumably quite happy and law abiding. I have mixed feelings about this. Like, I always kind of assumed I "won". You know? Because despite my mockery, he was the first guy to break my heart and even though I am totally over it by now (married, in love, blah blah) I still needed the win a little bit. After all the stuff went down, he actually wrote me a letter and wanted to get back together. I was already with my husband by then, and had no desire to break up with him to take the risk on the other guy. But...I guess that also boosted the old ego and the fact that 10 years later he's not still pining over me taught me something about myself. And that is that apparently there is nothing wrong with my confidence level, because I still kind of expected him to be mourning my loss. Also, I am a spiteful bitch. I'm happy for Ben that he's managed to turn his life around. I just need all of my old boyfriends who ever hurt me to deeply regret that for the rest of their lives and pine away for me for all eternity. Also, I may have tried to facebook stalk him a little bit and he's not on facebook and his wife's page is blocked. If that wasn't embarrassing enough here are journal entries!

Dear Diary,

A few days ago N told me that J said some bad things about me. I found out today it's true. One day N asked J if he liked me. J said, "No. I hate that _____." Then he called me a bad word. (I can only assume he called me a bitch.) At first, I was so angry I was shaking, then I was hurt. I was hurt because someone I thought was my friend really truly hated me. (12 year old Megs - not a great judge of character apparently.) I guess it is a little humiliating too (I guess?!) It is going to be hard to be kind to him, but I know that is what I need to do. Because God says so and because if I were mean to him it would only make his opinion of me worse.

Dear Diary,

Today at lunch, N confronted J about that name he called me (I think my mother should have just named Pollyanna and been done with it). J said he didn't call me the name but said I was mean. To me, that is just as bad. I know I'm not always the sweetest person in the world (actually, at this point in life, I might have been one of the sweetest people in the world. At least I was shy enough and doormat-y enough that most people thought that) but I can't imagine what I've done that is that mean. I tried at one point to console myself with the fact that he likes G and she's mean (this was my current best friend. Maybe he was right...)but when I think that I am really being very cruel (okay, it probably wasn't that bad. I wasn't eating her dog or anything). I've prayed that the Lord will help me change what is mean in me so that other people won't think I'm mean (I...don't think this worked).

Just so you aren't in suspense, I later attended a Valentine's banquet with J. A Valentine's banquet is what you have when you go to Baptist school and you can't let the kids dance, but you kind of want to let them do something. Anyway, he and I were actually friends later and we still keep in touch. Even if he did call me the B-word. Gasp.

Merry Christmas: In which I make fun of 17 year old Megs

2011-12-18T14:37:00.003-06:00

I found old journals. So my Christmas present to you is that I will post some of the more interesting entries between now and Christmas. Because nothing says "Christ is born" like my own personal humiliation via the internet.

Let me tell you about Ben. He makes me believe in love at first sight. (Oh. Great. I'm already ready to die because now I know how this love story would have ended, and let me just say it would have involved a trailer park and starring on an episode of Cops. 17 year old me didn't date a lot.) He's adorable, but not gorgeous or anywhere close to perfect. I don't know him very well, but we have really good chemistry. (At least I didn't call it "a connection".) I know he has a really playful, goodnatured personality. (He was a pothead.) I know he just broke up with his long time girlfriend because she cheated on him several times. But they were not together last August, because he was talking to me and stopped because she lived in Dover. Where he lives. (Long time is relative at 17, I guess.) That's our main problem - 100 miles and a mountain. (He was a pothead. A meth dealing pothead. But you know, the distance and the mountain, that's the important stuff.)I really really like him so much. (Not the first pothead I really really liked so much) I know that he likes me too, but I'm afraid that Ben will let the distance stop us from having a relationship that could be very mutually satisfying.

There are so many things I could say about that last line, but I think it will be more mutually satisfying to let it speak for itself.

Bad mood totally flipped around. It's a Christmahannukwaanzica miracle.

2011-12-09T00:32:00.003-06:00

We went to my husband's work Christmas party tonight. I did not think I would have fun. First, I put on my pantyhose and realized that at some point, someone (and by someone I am pretty sure I mean the dumb demon dog) decided that what I really needed were CROTCHLESS pantyhose. So, awesome. Then I put on the skirt I wanted to wear. It zipped, but it would be an exaggeration to say that it fit. Unless the rules of fit are different now, and a camel toe is a good thing. A camel toe in a skirt. This is basically the same story for the rest of the skirts that I put on. And 2/3 of the pants. Apparently, my ass has been sneaking around behind my back and has taken on Kardashian proportions. Too bad my boobs never get in on the fat gaining action. I might not mind being fat if I at least had a slightly more impressive rack. It doesn't even have to be impressive. Just slightly more impressive than what I have. Which wouldn't require much, since I can comfortably shop in the training bra aisle. Seriously, bras in my size almost ALL come with serious padding, like it is trying to make me feel better about my non-existent breasts. "It's okay," they seem to say, "no one has to know you don't really have boobs. Unless they bump into you and the padding leaves a bruise or something."

I finally put together some outfit that I am sure screamed "I HAVE NO CLOTHES THAT FIT!!!" But I really had no choice since I haven't tried any of these clothes on since last year.

Then my husband calls me 8 times to see where I am, and decides that maybe he needs to meet me somewhere because I sound "confused" about where I am. Which pissed me off because I knew exactly where I was. He just didn't know where I was. If you follow. So I get there. Without his help. Like a big girl who even knows how to dress herself and everything. And it's a business-y finance-y thing, and I am used to these and I never have anyone to talk to because what I understand about stocks can be summed up as, "People trying to guess what pretend thing might happen to make pretend money happen or something" and what I know about bonds can be summed up as "..." and what I know about taxes can be summed up as "we have an accountant to know that for me".

HOWEVER. Three things made this night AWESOME.

1. My husband and two co-workers killing at karaoke. You've lost that loving feeling, indeed.

2. Other non-banky people who were girls! Who were close to my age.

3. I don't have to work tomorrow because he and I are taking a 3 day weekend for his birthday. We aren't doing anything, necessarily, but we have time off. Yay!

Damn. Apparently, I am no longer following any blogs. This is what happens when blogger decides you're dead, I guess.

2011-12-05T17:48:00.004-06:00

I have to interrupt my busy schedule of holiday spazzing, cleaning, and staring off into space and then leaping about like a maniac to share with you a new exercise I have discovered that will melt the pounds right off.

You will need:

1 overweight dog with an aversion to rain. Mine weighs approximately 30 pounds, but this is not strictly necessary.

3,000,000 gallons of rain

1 cup of a deep and abiding desire to not have all of the floors in your house ruined.

a pinch of appreciation for a house that does not smell of urine and/or dog shit.

Directions:

Forget that you ever had any dignity at all. Otherwise, you'll never get through this.

Take the dog outside.

Shut the door fast before the dog realizes there is water falling from the sky and attempts to run back in.

Tell the dog "go tinkle for Mama".

Spend a second or two pondering how a dog can possibly roll it's eyes at you. They aren't really known for their sense of sarcasm.

Pick the dog up and walk out into the yard.

Set the dog down.

Chase the dog as she runs back up on the porch.

Pick the dog up and walk out into the yard.

Set the dog down.

Chase the dog as she runs back up on the porch.

Pick the dog up...you do see where I'm going with this, right? Continue to do this until the dog actually pees or you have a screaming fit in the rain which you hope your neighbor's kid didn't hear because you really don't want to be responsible for teaching such a precious child the phrase "goatfucking fatheaded asshole".

A Short Conversation re: Life Insurance Exam

2011-10-13T20:52:00.003-05:00

"So, my blood pressure is 120 over 70, my pulse rate was 60 beats a minute, I'm an inch taller than I thought I was for like the last decade or so, and the results from the HIV test should be in before too long."

"Please keep me updated on that last thing. That is a fact that would interest me."

*SPOILER*

I don't have HIV.

(Anna- I can't comment on my own frakking blog, but I actually have no idea what happened. I just...didn't know how tall I was. I thought I knew, because I consider myself an intelligent person able to deal easily in simple facts. Except for that time when I didn't know how tall I was. I have no idea why the life insurance people even need to know my height.)

Kelly made me do it

2011-10-04T17:01:00.004-05:00

So Kelly gave me this which I'm wondering if maybe I gave it to myself since I'm pretty sure she's me but about 1000% less Southern and also with a cat. Except I would never give myself an award about being blissful because have you met me? I am currently worried about...everything. No, really, everything, from my mother's mental health to my fat dog's weight problem to whether or not I should walk or run today to the chances the space shuttle is going to land me to whether or not I am a sociopath. But - hurray! An AWARD! A VERY IMPORTANT AWARD!

Now I have to tell you 9 things about myself that you might not know...

1. I do not own an iPhone. I do own an iPod, but it was a gift and I mostly use my Zen nano because it has lasted about 4 years now and the average lifespan my husband gets out of iPods seems to be approximately 11-13 months. Which sucks.
1a. I kind of hate Apple. Probably because I feel pressured to like it, and it's really expensive and really not better, even though people will have a hissy in the comments about how it is too better, but that's only because they dropped a shitload of money on each separate component so they kind of have to do that.
1b. Seriously, I'm a PC and I have no problem with that (except for the part where I am ACTUALLY a PERSON and not a machine...)

2. I am having a mild bout with anxiety and obsessive thoughts which you can tell by the lack of punctuation and also I'm talking really fast and loud and a lot because the loop in my head is kind of loud...

3. I do not like for people to touch my feet. I have hated this since I was a baby. I don't know why. I also don't like things to go in my navel. Maybe that's not weird. But the reason for that is because when I was very small a friend told me that my belly button was actually OPEN at the back, and if you put stuff in there (even to clean it) you could KILL YOURSELF.

4. I used to be afraid of mirrors because a girl told me if you looked in one for too long you would get sucked in and you would suffocate. I was a very gullible child.

5. I'm still pretty gullible, but since I know this about myself I overcompensate by being overly suspicious in most cases.

6. I was adopted when I was 5 days old. My biological parents already had 6 other children. They were immigrants from Sicily. I was raised by Irish people. And SOMEHOW I am still not Catholic. And that's pretty much all I will tell you about my own personal religious/spiritual beliefs. I'm not Catholic.

7. I can sing all the words to Ice, Ice Baby and also We Didn't Start the Fire.

8. The willow tree in my backyard is enormous, and now I'm afraid it died in the heatwave because all the leaves fell off and it hasn't budded at all since then. This will make me sad because its really pretty and the picture window is arranged perfectly to be able to see through the willow curtain. Also, the woodpecker lives in this tree. I hate birds, but I kind of love this woodpecker.

9. I have been known to crush on fictional characters. Notably Trent from Daria, Gilbert from Anne of Green Gables, and Donnie Darko (not Jake Gyllenhaal...Donnie Darko).

Now I am going to cheat a little and say...tag you're it! Yes, you, back there in the shirt! And you over there with no pants! Tell me in the comments if you participate and I'll link you.

Exciting! Conclusion!!!

2011-09-29T22:06:00.002-05:00

*standard disclaimer, blah blah blah*

"I haff not forgot how you ruin my life! I am here to ruin yours!" (1. I don't know where dude is supposed to be from, but whatever. 2. I'm not sure how killing his bitch of a wife was ruining...anything, really, except maybe her hairdo?)

"What do you mean?" asked Victor. (Super smart, this one, no?)

Everyone could tell he was frightened. (How SHAMEFUL. A man with a gun just magically appeared in his house...er...castle, and he is FRIGHTENED. What a pussy.)

"I am going to kill your family one by one and I'm going to make you vatch them die! Then I vill kill you!" (I was just your average little girl with pigtails and a horrible blood lust. What?)

Chorkhoff raised the gun and aimed it at Kathryn.

"Ahhhhh!" Screamed Kathryn (as one does).

Joe stepped forward, knocked the gun out of Chorkhoff's hand and kicked it across the room. Royal bent, picked it up, and aimed it at Chorkoff's head. (As you do). With hatred in his voice he said, "You killed my mother and my sister. I should kill you, Pig!" (Dude. You hated your mother. Also, didn't I start this by saying all of these people hated it each other?). Victor then stepped forward and addressed Royal. "If you kill him, you go to jail (there is a cop in the room, after all, and a lot of other cops apparently milling around...speaking of...how did dude get in here again? The world may never know, because I don't think I thought it was important...) We don't want that."

Royal dropped the gun. As Joe Brady's second in command walked Chorkhoff Garvenski out, Garvenski turned and screamed, "You took everything from me! My home, my family, my friends! I should haff killed you vhen I had the chance!" (And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for those meddling kids! Oh, sorry, that's something else, isn't it?)

(Apparently I wrote two endings to this? Here is the one I scratched out:) Today, Chorkhoff is still in jail. Victor remarried and now has the happiness he deserved. Royal ended up a missionary and he even converted Chorkhoff (cough Baptistschool cough), a man he once hated. Andrew is studying to be a CPA. Kathryn got over Julietta's death (uh. huh.) and became a teacher at an elementary school. To this day, they are all happy. (I think that I rejected this ending because do you know what it is missing? BLOOD. BLOOD and DEATH. And a twist.)

(Ending I felt happy with, I guess): As Brady's men led Chorkhoff away, Joe spoke up. "Victor, I hate to be a bother (???), but I have to know, how did you ruin Cherkhoff's life?"

"Sit down, Joe (now he's Joe, not Sergeant, apparently). It's a long story." Then Victor began the story of how he and Chorkhoff had once been best friends. Then Venetia had come along. "We were both crazy about her. She chose me over Chorkhoff, though I'll never understand why. Chorkhoff became angry. He spit on me and declared that one day he would kill me (would have made more sense to do it a little earlier, I would think, but okay?)" At this point there was a gasp and Royal fell to the ground. He had been shot through the heart (and you're to blame, Darlin', you give love, a bad...name...what?like you weren't thinking it). Everyone went pale as they realized what was going on. A murdered was still loosein the castle. They were being hunted. Shot down one by one until at last there was no one else. "Oh!" wailed Kathryn (wait. I thought there was no one else?) "This is awful! We're like those wooden animals in a carnival shooting gallery!"

"It'll be alright. We'll get this guy," Joe said comfortingly. (Dude. 3 dead people. THREE. And you have BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME. I do not think you are going to get this guy.)

Another shot rang out. (SEE?!?! PS when Royal was shot, no noise. now shots are ringing out?)

"Uh," moaned Victor. He had been hit in the shoulder. "Andrew! My son!"

They all looked to see Andrew holding a pistol. (Dude. DUDE. Why did you wait for the cops to show up to start on the killin'? Or why not wait till they left? WTF?)

"That's right, FATHER," he said sarcastically.

"But, why?" Victor asked. It was getting harder to breathe, and black spots were appearing his eyes. (He keeps his lungs in his shoulder, y'all!)But he had to know. Had to know why his own flesh and blood would want to kill him.

"Because. You all considered me a weakling. But I'm not weak anymore. I'm more powerful than all of you. You thought I didn't have the desire to be strong. You were wrong! I'm stronger than all of you put together!" All during this speech his voice had risen so he was shouting. When he had finished he spat at his father (people like to spit on Victor).

"How?" Joe asked.

"What?!" Andrew roared.

"How did you do it," Joe repeated.

"Mother was the easiest. Everyone was upstairs and she was so caught up in her thoughts she wouldn't hav enoticed me if I was standing in front of her. I merely hit her with the gun. Royal was easy because all I had to do was reach behind him and stick the gun in his back at the place where his heart would be and pull the trigger. Julietta was not so easy. She was across the room from me. I had to shhot her without being seen. In a way, it was fun (I...I may not have been right in the head, y'all). Having all that power, taking those chances. Now it's time to kill the rest of you off."

Joe jumped Andrew from behind (he's like a ninja, that one), wrestling him to the ground and throwing the gun across the room. Kathryn snatched it up and threw it out the window. Joe snapped some handcuffs on Andrew and walked him out as Kathryn quickly called 911 for Victor (aren't they...already there?). Victor got out of the hospital the next day (...). Joe helped Kathryn through 3 years of therapy (someone should probably have helped young Megs through a few years of therapy. also? weirdly specific, considering you have no idea what these people look like, what their castle looks like, where anyone is in relation to anything, or even how freaking old these people are.) They are now married (how old were these "kids" supposed to have been???) and have blessed Victor with 7 healthy, rambunctsious grand children.

FIN.

Y'all. Y'ALL. I was not right in the head.

I like to have my most asinine moments recorded for posterity. Because I live to amuse. Or something.

2011-09-26T22:16:00.003-05:00

I just needed to say this somewhere, and I'm really not up to the Facebook responses from people I don't know. But anyway, my husband signed me up for some life insurance (note to self: sleep with one eye open) and I just did the interview which is supposed to take 10 minutes and for some reason took me an hour and ten minutes. Because I'm special, obviously. Or maybe because I had to be revived after having a conversation over the phone with a perfect stranger about what I weigh (not telling- but I will tell you that I lied my ass off while my husband rolled his eyes at me. Look if it was a guy on the other end of the phone I probably wouldn't give a shit, but the girl sounded young and cute and I just couldn't tell her the truth. Don't you judge me), if I've put on more than 10 pounds in the last year (I have, then I lost it, then I put 15 back on), and why. What the hell do you mean WHY?

So I said, "General laziness I guess?"

While my husband's eyes rolled back in his head and he was like, "You run like every day. It's not laziness."

"Well, what do you think it is then?"

"You eat more."

And she wrote all of this DOWN.

Unh.

Dun Dun Dun!!!! Part Deux

2011-09-23T20:15:00.003-05:00

My calculations reveal that I was either 10 or 12 when I wrote this. It seems a little complex for 10 year old me, but a little...not good for 12 year old me, so I'm going with 10. All spelling and punctuation is preserved. Current commentary in parantheses. Blah blah blah. P.S. Apparently this was like my opus, my epic, my master work. It is somewhat long. Is what I mean. There will be several parts.

Part the Second:

Ten minutes later there came the sound of a siren. "Hello, there, I'm Sergeant Joe Brady." said the officer at the door. (Why is he a sergeant? Because why not, that's why).

"Hello" came a chorus of nervous voices.

"I'd like to get to know all of you before we begin this investigation. Names, please. Start with you." (I watched a lot of Hunter and Dragnet at this time. You'd think I would have had a better idea of how fictional police investigations work, but I guess...not.)

"Royal."
"Kathryn."
"Julietta."
"Andrew."
"Victor."

(I'm sort of impressed this is the correct number of names. I had a short attention span, and I'm surprised I didn't forget there were 2 girls, 2 boys, and 1 father. Also a little impressed that I wasn't overdosing on the dialogue tags. Look, I have to find something good in this okay? That's what I found. Shut up.)

"Alright. Now I'm going to ask you some questions. Starting with, uh, Royal, isn't it?" (Joe Brady thinks Royal is a really lame name for a prince, too!)

"Yes."

"Alright. The coroner (!!!) has estimated the time of death as 9:00 p.m. Where were you?"

"Upstairs."

"Any witnesses?"

"Well, I think just about everyone heard me yell down, but no one actually SAW me."

"Alright. Uh," Checking the notepad on which he had been writing. "Kathryn?"

"Yes" came the smooth reply (firstly, drink every time the cop says alright. Secondly, smooth reply is the name of my pretend jazz band)

"Where were you?" (Because she didn't see this question coming)

"I was upstairs with Julietta. She hates storms, you know. (He does?) We were upstairs in her bedroom."

"Alright. (Drink!)Julietta, your sister says you are afraid of storms. Is this information correct?" (Because this is relevant. Very, very relevant).

"Yes, sir. I am afraid of storms. And yes sir, we were together, " answered a very nervous Julietta. (I think I am trying to throw in some red herrings, y'all. Very very red herrings.)

"And you, Andrew?"

"I was in the kitchen with Father."

"Victor, is this true?"

"Yes, Sergeant, it is," came the reply.

"Alright (drunk yet?) I'll need to inspect the castle." (They are royalty, remember, even if Joe Friday here is treating them like regular folk).

"Of course," said Victor. "We do want to get this solved as quickly as possible."

"You'll forgive me for saying so, but none of you seems to (sic) upset about this, "said Joe. (Sergeant was getting boring to write out).

"Well, Sergeant, my wife, uh, Venetia, was not a very shall we say, loving, woman. She didn't want children, and yet as she would say, she got stuck with them. Doesn't seem very fair does it?" said Victor drily. (???)

"Fair?" asked Sergeant Brady. "What do you mean fair?" (Exactly my question!)

"Well, some children spend their entire lives trying to have children, adopt children or what have you, and here a woman who didn't even want them got FOUR. She was so busy not wanting them that she failed to see how wonderful they really are." (said their deadbeat father...also, can you tell from this that I was adopted?)

By this time Kathryn and Julietta had tears streaming down their cheeks and Royal and Andrew had their heads bowed.

"I see," Brady said quietly. "Well, we'll try to wrap this up quickly."

"Thank you, sir, my family and I would appreciate it." King Victor stated with great dignity. this woman must have been awful to live with every day, Joe Brady thought. The old man seems sincere and all these kids! They don't look like they could be murderers. Of course, looks can be deceiving Joe thought. All of a sudden a gun shot sounded. Julietta Pauline Winthrop fell to the floor dead.

"No!" screamed Lady Kathryn. She fell to the floor, grabbed her sister, and held her.

"She's gone, Kathryn" Royal whispered. "Get up, please don't make it any harder on any one else." (What. The. Fuck. Was wrong with me?)

Kathryn got up but she was still crying. The coroner and a large burly police officer came in and carried the body out. Andrew was trying to calm her. Then a man with a gun stepped out of the shadows. "Hello, Victor." he said.

"Chorkhoff!" gasped Victor.

"Yes, it's me," Chorkhoff said calmly.

DUN DUN DUN! TO BE CONTINUED!

P.S I cannot comment on my own posts, apparently, but I just read through the last of this story...I was not right in the head, y'all. This shit gets weird. Er. Part 3 should be fun.

Untitled story about royal deadbeats and murder most foul, Part 1.

2011-09-15T21:25:00.005-05:00

I found another of my fiction masterpieces from my childhood. Since nothing interesting is currently going on, I want to share. Current commentary in parentheses.

It was a dark, stormy night. (Because of course it was).Dark clouds rumbled, and streaks of white lightning (sp) lit the sky. It was almost as bad inside the castle as it was outside. Let me stop a moment and explain. (I was really into this conceit of speaking to the reader directly for some reason). The year is 1992. The castle is a true castle where princesses and queens live and kings and princes. You see, royalty still lives there. (In case that wasn't clear when I listed all the types of royal people who live there).But this royal family is about as happy as Charles and Di were. (I...have no idea). Somebody is always jealous of somebody else. Tonight though, while the only light comes from faintly glowing candles, is the perfect time for revenge.

"Ohhh!" moaned Princess Kathryn. "Ohhh! I ache all over. Why did this stupid storm have to come just when I needed to go out?" (She aches all over, but she needs to go out at night? Where do you suppose she needs to go? I'm asking because I doubt I ever get around to explaining that. Bo.Ring.Also, the number of Hs in those Ohhhs is exact).

"Oh, Kathryn," snapped her mother. "You know the only time you ever go out is to see the doctor. And even then we have to force you to go. Unless of course it's impossible to go anywhere. THEN you want to go out. Now go back up to your room or go somewhere. Just leave me alone." (Mother of the year, right here).
"Yes, Mother," said the princess unhappily. Thunder rumbled loudly. (I clearly just discovered adverbs. You could start a drinking game with this sentence).

"Ahhh!" Came a scream. Then a form hurtled down the stairs caliding (sp) with Kathryn and knocking both to the floor. "Julietta Pauline! You get off me this instant!" snapped Kathryn.

"Sorry Kathryn but you know how I hate storms."

"Girls, you both get yourselves upstairs! I am trying to think!"

"Trying to think of what Mother?" asked Julietta anxiously.

"Never mind of what! Go upstairs!"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

"Whatever shall I do with those girls?" Venetia Winthrop asked herself. You see, she wasn't really cut out to be a mother. It wasn't even what she had wanted. (You don't say).

But here she was, married to a worthless deadbeat with 2 daughters and 2 sons. How had this happened? (I was probably seriously asking, but now all I can think is...sex. Sex is how this happened. Moron. Also...he is somehow a royal deadbeat, who is still married to her...I'm not sure how this works?)

All of a sudden she felt a thud and the world went black.

"Mother!" called a male voice from upstairs, "Could you get me a bagel?" (Royalty. Just like you and me).

Hearing no sharp reply, Prince Royal (Prince. Royal. Prince Royal. Good grief.)called again, "Mother?" Coming down the stairs he called, "Mother!" He passed her chair and walked into the foyer, (I'm still not sure what a foyer is), the kitchen, the great dining room. He turned and ran back to the living room. He checked her chair and there she was slumped over and very, very dead (Didn't he just walk by this chair? Do you suppose I intended these people to be functionally impaired? Also, please note the level of deadness. She is not just dead. She is very very dead. She is very most definitely dead). He screamed and everyone came running. "Father, she's de-de-dead!"

"Make some sense, Royal! Who's dead?" their father asked. (Their royal worthless deadbeat father. Who is still living there and helping care for his children).

"Mother!"

"Venetia?" he said incredulously. (No, their other mother. Maybe I was implying something about royalty and inbreeding? Yeah, I doubt it.)

"Father, look at the gash on the back of her head!" cried Julietta. "I'm going to call the police!"

TO BE CONTINUED...

My thoughts, I will tell you them

2011-09-10T20:12:00.002-05:00

1. The spirit of Martha Stewart has invaded my body. I am baking bread. Like right this minute. After a day of yardwork and housecleaning. I am a little frightened of myself right now.

2. Why are people who run consignment stores always so fucking snotty? Man, you peddle used clothing. You are not better than the people who shop here. I have a friend whose theory is that people don't think they are getting a good deal if you aren't totally shitty to them. My personal thoughts on this are that if I am going to give you some of my moneys you should probably be relatively nice to me. And the more moneys I am planning to give you, the nicer you should be. Because I'm pretty sure I can find someone to take my money who will totally kiss my ass, like the whole time. Not that ass kissing is required, just, you know, better than you treating me like I walked in off the street and shit on the carpet or something (I'm assuming here - I've never actually done that. But its how I imagine I would react to someone doing that...I have never done that. Just wanted to be clear.)

3. People at 4-way stops who wave you through when its their turn to go are not actually nice. They are assholes who are messing up the whole flow of the stop. Also, they always seem to be doing it impatiently, like they are doing you a big favor and you should hurry or like they think its your turn even though they have been at the stop since before you pulled up or are clearly to the right of you or whatever. I really wish people would stop doing this. It makes me irrationally angry for extended periods of time (note to self: look into therapy). Also irritating? People who get so far up my ass while driving that I feel like I should ask them to wear a condom. Especially when I look down and see that I'm going 10 miles over the speed limit. I mean really people chill. I highly doubt you are on your way to save kittens from cancer or something.

To sum up: please call an exorcist because this domestic crap is frightening me and also drivers of the world stop being assholes. That is all.

This is what pure happiness looks like

2011-09-07T17:18:00.005-05:00

My goal is to be as happy about anything as my dogs are to be awake, alive, and outside in the grass.

Also, if you could, ignore the weird outdoor carpeting. That's been ripped out since these were taken. I really don't think I can live in a world where strangers think that I think that that carpeting is okay. That is not okay.

Like Steven Spielberg's version of the 70s, which never actually happened.

2011-09-04T22:12:00.003-05:00

Today is 12 weeks without a cigarette or any nicotine of any kind. It gets easier all the time, but a weird thing I am noticing is how gold-tinged and happy my memories of smoking are. Like, me and a 6-foot tall cigarette holding hands and skipping barefoot through a field of daisies, heads thrown back in laughter, while cartoon birds flit about, and a Randy Newman song plays in the background. And maybe ponies or something. I know it wasn't actually like that, but that's how I remember it. I have no idea why that is.

Actually, I had a pony as a kid. That dude was a total bastard. Ponies kind of suck. Which I know is disillusioning for the non-pony people among us. So maybe there weren't ponies, is what I mean. There might have been unicorns though.

In other news, I actually have no news. I'm just trying to get back in the habit of writing more again, and I haven't actually left the house since Friday. Except maybe to go for a couple of runs. And nothing of note really happens on my runs. Well, there was the one time a truck with like 18 people crammed into the cab followed me for about half a mile and there was another time that there were black adolescents in my vicinity and a middle aged white woman felt compelled to pull over, inform me of their presence, and caution me to be careful, even though I had run by these kids like 5 minutes previously and they were perfectly polite. I think those two things only count as stories if I end up on CNN or find $100 or something.

I...went through our file cabinets today and threw out/shredded/filed a bunch of crap? Also, continued the never ending civil war against the spiders. I knock down webs, they build more webs. I never see an actual fucking spider. But I know that every day I go to open the microwave and put my hand through a fucking web. I don't know why this is happening to me, but it seems like a good reason to blog more frequently. If you don't hear from me you can assume the spiders won the war and I'm all wrapped up in one of those weird white balls they make.

I learned today that garter snakes can spray a musk at predators. I learned this because one of the dogs found a garter snake in the yard and the snake did not appreciate being found. The dog was completely unbothered by the spraying, but we already knew she was mentally challenged, so that's not really surprising.

So...now you know, or some other cliche that makes this post somewhat relevant to anything, anywhere.

Fat AND dumb, but not dead

2011-08-29T22:12:00.002-05:00

I don't know what happened. I kept meaning to get on here and tell you guys the story about how the cashier at Wendy's mugged me. Or about the guy dragging a cross down the middle of the road (it had wheels; I'm pretty sure that's cheating). But then two out of three scales agreed that I was fucking fat (yes, they actually said that...like the wheel flipped past all the numbers to a little text box that was all appalled at my fatness. Or something)and I started scarfing down chocolate and Garden Salsa Sun Chips until I slipped into a food coma and blacked out several weeks worth of eating my feelings. Or something. And then I was busy acting out mini-plays about my dogs' back stories (they have back stories) which sounds like a psychotic break to you guys, but just sounds like Tuesday to my husband. And what with all that going on, I haven't blogged in over a month.

So, uh, here is a trying to get back to blogging and getting over my block story: One day I went to Wendy's for lunch (no, I don't know why my weight suddenly sky rocketed. Why do you ask?) and I paid in cash with a $10 bill. The cashier gave me back the right change. I know because I double checked. But then she said, "Give me back one of those ones." And in my head I'm thinking, "That doesn't make sense; this is the correct change." (With a semicolon and everything. Because everyone thinks in punctuation, right?) But as I opened my mouth to say no, I realized that my hand had automatically reached out and given her back one of the one dollar bills. I have no explanation. She just...she had authority, y'all. I don't know. And I was so shocked at my damn self that I just drove away.

So I'm fat and dumb. At least I got that going for me.

Nicotine Withdrawal Will Turn You Into a Monster. A Sobbing, Screaming, Snotty, Raging Monster. Like the Krakken, But More Than That.

2011-07-10T19:46:00.005-05:00

Today marks 4 weeks since I decided to stop being nicotine's bitch, and since my family is completely unaware that I've smoked for the last decade I can't really brag about this accomplishment to them. Yes, I'm 29 years old and I still hide shit from my mother. Don't pretend you don't do it, too, and if you don't, well aren't you just a paragon of maturity and also shut up.

I quit cold turkey, which seems to be the way to go, but that third day was...special. Very, very special. The best way to describe to you how special is to say that at some point I realized I was sobbing my guts out over pancake batter, and I still don't know exactly how I got there. My husband came into the kitchen to be supportive and I immediately went from suicidal, sobbing, blackout depression to a red rage that made me want to stab everything that ever was, ever.

I decided it was a good time to get out of the kitchen. Because that's where I keep the knives.

You will be happy to hear that I am still married and I did not actually stab anything. I may have THROWN something and I may or may not have had several conniption fits that would put even the worst behaved toddler to shame, but no one's dead. I'm calling it a win.

Wanna hear about different methods of drying your lumber? Because I know some.

2011-07-06T17:33:00.003-05:00

Today I stood on top of a lumber mill (its really hot up there), inspected a rendering plant (reinforces vegetarianism), and inspected a wood chipping plant. This has become my regular routine. Get up at an un-godly hour (seriously, why has science not done something about mornings yet?), drive around in a big truck, put on hard hat and manly boots, stomp around somewhere kind of gross, drive big truck back to office, go home. I'm feeling a little...manly. Powerful? Strong? Interesting? Yes. Feminine? No. Maybe I'll start wearing expensive lingerie under my fire retardant coverall.

Anyhow. Last week my husband came home from work and told me that one of the women in his office was really excited to meet me. When I asked why, he said he didn't know,she just said she was really excited to meet his "little wife".

She's clearly expecting to meet Donna Reed. I'm a little more...who was a wife who had a more masculine job than her husband and didn't clean the house wearing high heels? I'm drawing a blank. Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, except married and without the dancing thing, maybe.

I Actual Do Feel Kind of Sorry for Mr. Camping

2011-05-23T20:48:00.003-05:00

I was going to live blog the rapture. Unfortunately, I had to lay around my house all day until like 5 when I realized we had to be at a graduation party at 6. So never mind. But here's how it probably would have gone:

5 pm. Waiting. I'm not sure what for. How will I know if it happens? We've already had a ton of flooding and earthquakes around here, that's probably not a reliable indicator. Who can I be on the phone with so if they disappear I'll know? I...don't think I know anyone like that.

5:15 pm. Nothing's happening here. Let's check the news for the east coast.

5:20 pm. Probably don't want to be on the road at 6...or on a plane. I bet it would be an awesome day to be a Christian magician, though. You would really disappear! Of course, you wouldn't be around to appreciate that so...maybe not.

5:22 pm. Some of these people are going to be in trouble if the end doesn't come. Some of these people gave away like all their money and stuff. Do you think they'll realize dude was wrong? Or will they think they got left behind? Maybe it will totally ruin their faith in God. This whole predicting the rapture thing seems pretty cruel, when you get right down to it.

5:23 pm. This is kind of boring me now.

5:24 pm. I wonder what happens to people's pets?

5:35 pm. Do you think I could just have someone's house or car after they're gone? I mean, is that stealing do you think? And does it really matter if I'm still here?

5:45 pm. Bored again. At least most of the tv shows I watch and musicians I listen to and authors I read will probably still be here.

6:10 pm. Life is pretty much still the same as it was before. I'm thinking there weren't as many actual Christians as people had always assumed.

29th Birthdays are Such a Cliche. Everyone Turns 29...OK, I Mean, Obviously, but...You Know What I Mean

2011-05-09T21:16:00.003-05:00

First thing on Thursday morning (which was my 29th birthday. The first one) I received an e-mail from a friend. The e-mail contained pictures from a joint birthday party four years ago. In one photo I look like that chubby mouse in Cinderella. In another I look like a mentally challenged zombie, and in yet another I look like a pox addled donkey with a lazy eye. I think her intentions were good. On the other hand, it could be passive-aggressive shorthand for "You never call, you never write. And after all I do for you."

Cinderelly! Cinderelly!

I like to embarrass myself on my birthday...it keeps me humble-ish.

My mom called to tell my happy birthday of course. We had the following conversation:

Mom: 29 years ago today I hadn't met you yet, but I got a phone call telling me you were born. I loved you before I even met you. I even loved you all those long months when you wouldn't sleep because of colic and all the years after that you refused to sleep at night or nap in the afternoon.

Me: Thanks, Mom, I love you too. And if you had let me stay up at least one night you probably never would have had trouble getting me to go to sleep again. I was thoroughly convinced you were waiting for me to go to sleep to have a lot of awesome fun.

Mom: I guess if your idea of awesome was watching Dallas and going to bed early, alone, then, yeah, it was awesome.

My mom has her issues, but sometimes you can see where I get my personality from.

My husband gave me the gift of wisdom in addition to the more important material gifts. One of which was wrapped in Christmas paper. The wisdom was this: Don't worry about it. You've been middle aged since you were 26 anyway.

It's okay. He was middle aged first. Although he likes to remind me that no matter wrinkled and craggy and gray he gets, people will describe him as rugged and/or distinguished. And no matter how awesome I look at 40, people will still describe me as old. There is a reason men have shorter life spans than women. The statement itself for one thing, but also the fact that he's probably right.

The dogs also got me a present. It is a dead bird. The pinhead caught it herself, and then they mangled it up really nicely before giving it to me. That's the fourth one this month. I think the birds are starting to give me the stink eye. If they start flinging themselves at the window and dive bombing me, I'm totally giving the dogs to them as an appeasatory sacrifice. Birds are fucking creepy y'all.

Indulge me and pretend you noticed I haven't been here, 'kay? 'Kay.

2011-04-25T22:34:00.003-05:00

So I'm very busy running all over the state in a hard hat and steel toe boots totally bringing sexy back while ensuring the continued breathability of air in the state. I have restricted internet access for the first time in my working life, so I keep meaning to blog and then...not blogging. I realize that approximately two people actually give a shit, but I am kind of a big deal in my own mind. Might as well be, since I'm under no illusions about my big dealness outside of my own mind.

Anyway, I have nothing truly interesting to report. I'm learning a new job and helping my elderly great aunt put on a yard sale and playing with the dogs and trying to survive stormpocalypse with the tornadoes and the straight line winds and the baseball sized hail what the hell. Also I turn 29 in a couple weeks and I'm fighting the urge to buy Ben Gay while watching Murder She Wrote and reminiscing about the days when gasoline cost like 5 cents a gallon.

I have learned something in the past month or so though about myself. I thought my only superpowers were the powers of Finding Things and Finding Help in Lowe's and Best Buy. Turns out I have another one. I am...the Anti-Drama. Wherever I work interpersonal drama decreases, uh, dramatically. And when I leave that place, the drama once again rises to its previous levels. I feel I should be able to make money off of this, but no one's buying it yet.

Oh! Yeah! P.S. going back to the hard hat and the boots...I have to wear jeans most of the time now. This pisses me off. I have what is affectionately known as an athletic body. So jeans are always like way enormous in the waist, about right in the ass, and tight in the thighular area. What the fuck? I am truly not curvy at all. I am curvy like stick figures are curvy. So who the hell out there has a waist approximately the same size as their ass and bigger than their hips and thighs? What kind of crack do the people who make jeans smoke?

Sayonara, Suckers

2011-03-30T08:25:00.003-05:00

My cubicle is pretty much empty, I have tied up all the possible loose ends, and I have absolutely nothing to do. Do not ask me why I didn't just take a vacation day (since they don't pay for unused vacation days when I leave and I have like, 50+ hours of vacation time accrued that is basically being flushed down the toilet). I think I might be a special kind of masochist.

There are some things I will miss. For example, the family atmosphere. Even if it is one of those families where they constantly take advantage of you because "its family" and no one really ever takes you seriously because no one will ever forget that time when you were five and you bobbed for apples in the toilet.

I will miss the free soda. On the other hand, it's probably not healthy to drink 5 Diet Dr. Peppers in a day, especially when you have an anxiety disorder and tend to react to caffeine like a crack addled squirrel on a meth binge.

I will miss Super Dave, the office superhero, who saves the day through amazing feats like answering the phone. And signing for FedEx packages. I really should have gotten him a cape as a parting gift.

I will miss Mountain Man who always talks about how much pot he smoked over the weekend and the Widespread Panic shows he has seen. He was always good for a decent bitch session considering he's the only other person in the office who did not vote for George W. Bush even once (let alone twice) and who doesn't think voting for O'Bama made me an America hating commie who eats babies.

I won't miss having to answer the phone. I definitely won't miss conversations like this one:

Good Ol' Boy: Hey, honey, listen. I need you to change the language in this assessment so we don't look like we polluted the site, even though we did.

Me: No, I cannot just say that everything was fine and I didn't see any problems. There's a 2 mile oil stain on your property.

Good Ol' Boy: Well, darlin', can't you just mention that but not make a big deal out of it?

Me:...

I won't miss the attitude that I must automatically be better at making copies because I have female reproductive organs.

I won't miss having my concentration broken in the middle of a big project because some of the bosses don't understand how to print their own e-mails. Or how to put a piece of paper in a file that is sitting right in front of them. Or how to add extra lines to their spreadsheets.

I'm ready to start my new job as an Air Inspector. There is something refreshingly bizarre about that title. I will be the best inspector they ever had. I will be like Inspector Gadget without the wheelie feet. I do have freakishly long arms that might serve as the go-go-gadget-arms. Do-do-do-doo-do Inspector Gadget duh duh duh duh du-duh du-duh. Whatever. I'm not...music-y.

Exciting! Adventures!! Now with TOOTHPASTE!!!

2011-03-22T12:51:00.005-05:00

No habla English.

First thing this morning (and I mean, literally, ALMOST THE VERY FIRST THING I DID) I found myself chasing the little fat Lucifer seedlet we call our second dog down the street in my pajamas. And bare feet. With my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.

I learned two things this morning:

1. Evil apparently gives you the power to dislocate and relocate all your bones. Or liquefy them. Or something. It is the only explanation for how a 30 pound dog with a body like a wood barrel managed to squeeze herself through an opening smaller than the width of my hand.

2. The little shithead can run. I have NEVER seen this dog run in the almost 4 years we have had her. Everyone in my house has tried to make this dog run: me, my husband, the GOOD DOG. And we all get the same reaction. She sits down (or sometimes LAYS down), cocks her head to the side, and stares with this completely baffled expression, like she can't understand what we are doing or why anyone would even WANT to. There are several reasons her nickname is 'Lurch' and that is one of them (another reason is that when she wants to wake me up she will STARE intently at me. If that doesn't work she commences CPR, but you'd be surprised how often the intense stare of intensity haw woken me at 3 a.m., only to discover the dog hovering over me and staring). This morning, as she burst through the front door, flew off the porch, and bounded almost gracefully away you could almost hear the opening chords to Born Free underneath the chorus of my cursing and my husband shouting "No! Come back!" You can tell which one of us is more useful in a crisis. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure she answers to "Shit! Fuck! Damn it!" about as well as she does to her name.

Watching my husband chase our portly, clumsy hell dog through every yard in the neighborhood in his suit and tie and fancy shoes and not being able to catch her was almost funny enough to be worth it. But probably not worth all of the neighbors seeing my in my pajamas, foaming at the mouth from toothpaste.

Yay! And also, I'm beginning to think I need real help.

2011-03-16T16:44:00.002-05:00

Soooooooo. Someone, and I'm not naming any names because we're semi-anonymous here (me) (semi anon because I use my real first name and general location, but seriously, Megan is one of the top names for women around my age) got a new job which pays a little more than their (my) old job and also is with an unnamed organization (government) and makes me feel like singing "The Wall". Or at least the parts that someone knows (all in all your just another brick in the wall...if you don't eat your meat you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?) Which mostly makes me sound a little twisted.

Who am I kidding? I am a little twisted. But I tricked someone into paying me more money! HA! Jokes on them.

Of course, the government thing makes me think I better just not talk about work at all (which I rarely do anyway) or partaking of illicit substances (*whistling*) (it was college okay? You are expected to try stupid things in college) (Shut up. Don't judge me)or basically anything that they might find out about and change their minds and then I'll have to come crawling back here except they would offer me even LESS than I get now because I'll be desperate and they know it and holy shit, is there a brown paper bag around here anywhere?

Yes, I even worry about good things that happen to me. Change makes me anxious.

For instance, yesterday I had a total panic attack because I don't know anybody and I'll never find people like the ones I know/love here and what if everyone hates me (note: this has never happened before. People generally like me. No, I have no idea why.) I also had a breakdown over the fact that I'm not trained yet (uh...yes. I'm aware). And I had a complete mini-attack involving scenarios in which they realize I'm horribly unqualified and decide I'm semi-retarded because I'm not learning fast enough and decide to fire me before the probation period is up and then I would get horribly depressed and have to work at Starbucks and I'd never sleep again and I'd also get depressingly fat because I eat my emotions (because I don't like to feel. I think its been established that I have a minor amount of envy for sociopaths and psychopaths) and then my husband would leave me for someone not fat and depressed and then I'd be broke and I'd have to choose between turning tricks on the street and living with my mother again and I'm not entirely sure which one of those things would be worse. Do fat hookers make any money? I don't know.

Misanthropic

2011-02-28T13:52:00.003-06:00

When did every one around me get so fucking entitled, y'all?

I swear to God, if it's not the guy cutting in front of me in line at the convenience store (because clearly his need for 5 cigarilloes, a cigar, and rolling papers is immensely more important than my need for gasoline to get to work...also, dude, we all know what you're doing. Which, rock on and all, but your need to wake and bake is not more important than my need to be at work on time in order to get paid in order to continue to live in the lifestyle to which I have chosen to become accustomed. You know, with the groceries and the electricity and the gasoline and the whatnot. Or maybe it is; I don't know. My point is, I was there first asshat)then it's the guy going 75 in his Datsun on the shoulder to cut around EVERY ONE else waiting to get off the interstate because clearly he has important heart surgery to perform or his girlfriend is in labor or something. Every fucking day. Like the rest of us can't possibly have anywhere we would rather be than sitting on the fucking off ramp for no good reason.

Then there's the people I talk to on the phone. I have this conversation routinely,

"I'm sorry, [my supervisor] is out of the office."

"Well, I need to talk to him."

"Would you like his voice mail? Or I can take a message (even though I'm not actually a secretary you entitled douchebag)."

"No, I really need to talk to him right now."

I mean, I'm sorry - or maybe I'm not - but the fact that you want to do a thing RIGHT NOW doesn't actually make it possible for that thing to happen RIGHT NOW. I mean, right? Did I miss the memo where they changed all the rules and wishing now makes things so? Because my check for a million dollars hasn't come in the mail yet, and maybe I need to alert the post office or the president or something. Whoever handles that kind of thing.

Actually, that would be pretty awesome for awhile, but then every one would start having conflicting wishes and then the universe would implode or something.

But seriously, people, we are not really special snowflakes, no matter what our mommies taught us. You are not more important than me, and I'm not more important than that guy over there picking his nose. I would like to believe that I'm more important than him, but I'm not. So can everyone just chill the fuck out, accept the fact that we are all in this together, and that sometimes you have to wait your fucking turn? I mean, shit, they taught us that in kindergarten didn't they?

Please make my life better by following these me-approved rules. Please do not look directly into the wormhole I have created in my own logic. You do not want to fall in there.

Does anyone else remember Small Wonder? Man, I really wanted to be Vicki. Vicki never had to feel emotions and shit.

2011-02-23T10:26:00.003-06:00

It's not that life hasn't been interesting; it's that I have no idea how to talk about it.

A couple of months ago I realized my OCD was beginning to seriously impact my life. My mother was seriously ill and I had to abandon routines and schedules in order to go home for a couple of days to take care of her. It occurred to me in the car on the way that I was seriously angry and incredibly anxious. Not because my mom was really sick, but because her sickness was impacting my routines. I tried to convince her that she wasn't actually throwing up every 20 minutes because...that just wasn't going to work for me. I wasn't going to be able to do the things I NEED to do in order to keep my shit together. This was a problem. I've never really had an issue with keeping my issues from seriously impacting my life, but I was definitely heading in that direction. I knew I needed to start practicing the therapy again. Where you basically just don't allow yourself to succumb to your compulsions and wait out the anxiety that brings on. That was a really fun month. The thing about OCD is that you don't cure it, you only control it. Unfortunately, sometimes the things you use to control the OCD become things that need to be controlled. In my case, exercise, eating right, and going to bed at the same time every night help me control the worst of the anxiety. Things that are helping you slowly become things that you are compelled to do, that you can't NOT do. So I had to take some time off.

Later on, fabulous tales of watching movies I pre-hated (Eat, Pray, Love) and an hour long conversation with two women in front of a RedBox Movie Rental machine. One of whom has apparently studied the Bible very, very seriously.

I am Dead Serious. Kroger is Awesome on Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T23:12:00.003-06:00

Image courtesy of 7deadlysinners.typepad.com.

Valentine's Day seems to be a require blog topic, so I'll tell you about mine.

Basically, my husband and I shared the most ridiculous, pun filled cards we could find (because that's the best part!) then we split a carton of chocolate covered fortune cookies while rolling our eyes at the fortunes (Never frown because you don't know who might be falling in love with your smile! Someone will love you for your constant support!)Because he's a man and I have the soul of a 13 year old boy.

(Seriously: someone will love you for your constant support. I'm immediately put in mind of serial killers and the women who love them. Also, jock straps, support hose, and really good bras. He's thinking of deadbeat dads with 13 kids by 18 women.)

Then we made VD jokes, and then I went to the grocery store. Where two cashiers almost threw down in front of the 5 customers in the store. I have no idea why. All I know is, one of them must have been pretty condescending to the other. Because she kept screaming, "Do not talk to me like I'm a child! I am NOT a child!"

No, ma'am, you most certainly are not.

I am totally calling this day a success.

I have had way too much time on my hands.

2011-02-11T15:22:00.003-06:00

I've been snowed in and haven't been inspired to write anything here. But I just really need to say something, and this seems like the best forum.

Playtex Sport Tampons suck.

1. Does not do what it says on the tin. I ran, I biked, I did yoga. These were not any better than my preferred brand. In fact, these were worse. Do not be sucked in by the hype.

2. They are trying to boss me around. There are weird "inspirational" messages written on the wrappers. Things like "Walk like you mean it". I do not know what that even means. How do you walk like you don't mean it?

3. I am perplexed by how many ways there seem to be to engineer a piece of cotton to make it pretty much exactly the same. Advances HAVE been made in applicator technology, but the newest trend seems to be aimed at improving the tampon itself. Aside from obvious changes like making it smaller or bigger or thinner or fatter I haven't noticed any real success. Also what are these laboratories like?

I have spent 3 days contemplating this.

Please send help.

Mysteries

2011-01-24T11:05:00.002-06:00

I'm in the mood to make lists, which reminds me I'm working on a post about OCD because it has occurred to me that sometimes it makes me a slightly shitty person, but until that post takes better shape I'm giving you another list (someone needs to get their perscription refilled). Some of the great* mysteries in my life:

*For certain values of great.

1. Why is Anthropology (anthropologie?) e-mailing me? I've never shopped at Anthropologie in my life. I have perused one of their e-mails enough to know that they charge a lot of money for their clothes. I don't have a lot of money. But how did they find me? Are they watching me right now?

2. What is with people honking at broken down cars? Is there some magical repair that is effected by the horn honking that will make the car go again? Because I'm under the impression that doesn't actually help.

3. My vacuum cleaner will pick up a bowling ball but will not pick up the dog hair or little pieces of dead leaves in my house. Please explain this to me.

Okay I've never actually picked up a bowling ball with the vacuum cleaner. I don't own a bowling ball and I'm perfectly willing to accept whatever the television tells me as the truth (but not the internet; I don't accept everything the internet tells me as the truth. Mostly because for everything it tells me there are 18 contradictory things it tells me at the same time. Plus, that one time it told me I have prostate cancer. Which would be really mysterious indeed considering I don't HAVE a prostate. As far as I know). But, even if the tv lied to me and the vacuum won't actually pick up a bowling ball, I still don't understand why it won't pick up the other things.

I'm beginning to believe the dog's hair is made of a magic indestructable substance and maybe we should consider insulating the house with it. Should only take about 2 days to get enough hair for the whole project. This is how much she sheds.

4. The truffle part in cheap chocolate truffles fascinates me. I'm under no delusion that this is actually TRUFFLES like that pigs root out of the ground and cost something in the vicinity of your first born child and your soul. But what is it and how can they call it truffle if it's not truffle? Like you can't call Cheez Whiz cheese its a cheese product? Does that not apply to other things?

5. Why do some animals hate water so much? I have seen one of my dogs literally walk on water to avoid getting wet, but I don't really understand what the big deal is? Like, other dogs love it. Most people don't really mind it for the most part (unless they're all dressed up to go somewhere or something, and frankly, my dog never has anything that important to do). Also she's not rabid. I assume. We pay a lot of money for those shots.

I Submit that Pima Cotton is Actually MUCH Softer than Cashmere.

2011-01-17T13:02:00.004-06:00

I hate many, many things that other women feel certain I should enjoy. Here is a list of those things:

1. 100% Cashmere. Y'all, it is itchy. I have been assured that finding cashmere itchy is basically a fate worse than death. In fact, judging by the reaction I got from one of my husband's female co-workers, this may be a tragedy on par with Darfur.

2. Pedicures. I do not like people to even think about touching my feet. I have been this way since I was a baby. You know how at horse shows and rodeos (I assume everyone has attended one of these; I may be mistaken) where they grease up a piglet and people chase it around and try to catch it? My mom says that trying to do anything to my feet (including putting shoes and socks on them) was like that game except after you catch the pig you have to put socks on it. I also vaguely recall being completely traumatized by an episode of Magnum P.I. (...) where someone shoved bamboo under Higgins' nails. This still makes me shudder, but at the time I was practically hysterical at the thought. It made my next nail trimming session EVEN MORE SUPER PLUS FUN than normal. My mother was thrilled, to say the least. Well, first she was really fucking confused and then she was thrilled. And then I was allowed to trim my own toenails. Yes, I have had pedicures. I would rather be waterboarded. I am not exaggerating. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. Still. Pedicures = torture.

3. Weddings. I am sorry, but I don't really find weddings that romantic. Or weep inducing. Under this heading, I'm going to go ahead and lump anything that can be termed "a shower". No, not the bath. The wedding/baby/dress up and bring me a gift while only surrounded by women and wearing a toilet paper dress over the pretty dress I asked you to wear kind of shower. At 28 I don't think it is really unreasonable that I don't want to participate in pointless games that were boring even when I was 5. Also? I just don't have that much squeal in my heart, previous comparisons to piglets aside.

4. Jeans. Okay, hate might be a little strong, but I'm not in love with them the way other people seem to be. I'm not even a little in lust with them. They have a function, they make my ass look good on occassion, but they are not comfortable. They aren't even all that warm. I stay just as warm in a skirt and a couple pairs of tights. Which are also more comfortable.

5. What Not to Wear. I don't always HATE it, per se, but I generally dislike it a lot. I mean, there are some episodes I've seen where someone lost a trillion pounds or was a poor working mother and I thought, "That's a really nice thing they did for that person." But a lot of the episodes seem to be taking these really original people with their own sense of style and then dressing them like everybody else. Not to mention, I watched an episode not to long ago where they trash talked someone's sweater, talking about it being old lady wear. But when the woman later voiced an opinion that a sweater they wanted her to wear looked like something an old lady would wear, they said No! You're young, so it won't make you look old! Maybe I'm just missing the nuances here. I think the one that clinched it was the one with the witch? In Salem? And they want to change her style because a "friend" didn't invite her to her baby shower because of her clothing? And MY response would be, "Fuck that shallow bitch. One less gift for her, and it would have been an AWESOME gift." Their response? Change yourself to be more palatable to your friends! Maybe that's my real issue with the show. Because I did this in high school and I was miserable. Hmm. That's a bit more psychology than I was expecting from this little exercise.

6.Ice cream. Yeah, I said it.

7.Musicals. ALL musicals (except the Gene Wilder version of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory...that's not really a musical though, in my opinion; it's more of an acid trip with belching), but especially the Sound of Music. If you were to call me up, all excited, and say, "Yay! The Sound of Music is on!" I would wonder why the television network hated me. It has been proposed that this indicates I am a soulless bitch even less pleasant than a combination of Cruella DeVille and the Wicked Witch of the West (yes, I even hate the Wizard of Oz).

That last one will probably cause me to lose most of my followers. You aren't allowed to hate the Wizard of Oz, after all. I mean, I'm sure there's someone else out there who finds the chirpy chipperness of Julie Andrews to be scalp-crawlingly annoying, but the Wizard of Oz is apparently holy and above reproach. Screw it, I'm feeling reckless anyway.

What do you dislike that everyone else seems to love?

I don't like change. And then they went and changed my sign.

2011-01-14T08:47:00.003-06:00

So...did all the zodiac signs change or did they not change? Sometimes the internet says they changed. But then some people say no, the zodiac we use isn't based on the constellations, it's based on the position of the sun on the equinoxes(or something, I don't know).

This is bothering me rather a lot. I mean, yesterday I would have told you I don't even BELIEVE in astrology. I don't check my horoscope ever. But I have been a Taurus for 28 years now, and all of a sudden some people are trying to call me an Aries, and I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE.

P.S. You guys who recommended Persuasion so strongly? Y'all were SO RIGHT.

I Either AM a Secretary, Or I Ain't. If I AM, You Assholes Better Not Make Me Stay Behind for the Admin Assistants Day Lunch This Year.

2011-01-06T13:26:00.006-06:00

I am very, very grouchy this week (no, it's not hormones. yes, I'm sure, and thanks for asking because that always helps so much!). People outside of my house have discovered my special ability to find things and I am now the fucking Nancy Drew of the file room.

Here is an example of an almost verbatim request for me to find something:

"So, like 10 or 15 years ago I think we did some kind of job somewhere for somebody that I don't remember." Please note the use of the word VERBATIM above. I'm not kidding, this is all the information I get.

There are several problems with this.

1. You cannot search the database with any of those clues.
2. Even if you could search the database with those clues, it is probably not IN the database because my company did not believe in computers until sometime after the year 2003. And even then they were a little...hit or miss...in what was documented on the computer system.
3. I'm not a fucking secretary. Or at least, that's what they keep telling me right before asking me to locate files, re-file files, copy things, scan things, print things, and schedule things.
4. If it's not in the database, then it's in the warehouse. Otherwise known as The Place Where All Your Joy Dies (Now With Rabid Spiders!) Actually, the spiders are not nearly as bad as the fact that the boxes out there weight 8 tons a piece, are stacked at least 3 deep (often on shelves over my head) and are in absolutely no discernible order. Also there's no heat or air in the warehouse. One day I am going to hang a sign over the door that reads, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" or maybe just "That Way Be Monsters".
5. These requests are never made by people to whom it would be appropriate to respond, "HA!Hahaahahahaahahaahaahaaa! Good luck and godspeed on your quest, there, Sparky!"

And yet, I manage to find whatever obscure document from the past every single time, which only makes it worse, because they think I'm made of magic now and they'll never stop asking. I generally try to be positive about this (Job security! At least you're employed! A lot of people would very much like to be employed doing anthing right now!). Sometimes I really do pretend I'm in a lost Nancy Drew story (Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Site Access Agreement!) and if I have to go out to the warehouse I pretend I'm an archeologist on an important dig (I have just uncovered evidence of primitive life! Carbon paper! Pages of paper typed on a typewriter! Dot Matrix paper!).

But today I'm grouchy and unhappy about it. I have a lot of respect for secretaries, but I didn't spend 3 years in grad school so I could be a secretary. Not to mention that more than 75% of my pissed offedness about this is directly related to answering the motherfucking phones on admin assistants day while every secretary in the office gets taken somewhere nice for a free lunch. And then being asked to file and copy things when they all get back.

Whine. Whine whine whine. Whine whine whinewhinewhinewhinewhine.

In conclusion: whine!

ETA: I just noticed in my stats that someone found my site by googling "I'm wearing boxer shorts and I know how to use them" which is awesome on so many levels I will be entertained by it FOR DAYS. Bad mood gone! Thank you, person who wanted to brag about your ability to utilize boxer shorts. I sort of love you a little bit.

2011 Starts with Me Realizing I'm Not 13 Anymore, But I am Still a Complete Nerd.

2011-01-01T21:11:00.003-06:00

I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time. Y'all, what was wrong with me for so long? How had I heard about this book my whole life and written it off as uninteresting?

Actually, it's because when I was 13 and going through one of my first (but not last, or even most obnoxious) "intellectual" periods I bought a copy of Northanger Abby. And read about 20 pages before nearly perishing of boredom. Then rented and tried to watch that Alicia Silverstone version of Emma or whatever it was that was out about the same time. I was bored to tears and decided Jane Austen was boring.

But Austen books are free on the Kindle, and people I respect have always said how much they love her, so I gave it another shot. Y'all she's FUNNY. Like genuinely funny.

Sadly, I'm still not into the early "feminist" literature I am so supposed to love. You know the type I mean. Kate Chopin's "The Awakening" and the suchlike. Still don't find that interesting.

What can I say? I like funny. I like Wodehouse and Gaiman (and Austen, apparently. Seriously, who knew this? Who?). Sometimes I like a little mystery (totally addicted to Sherlock Holmes stories and Allan Carr and I'm dying to read "An Instance of the Fingerpost"). Uh, generally historical mysteries because there's so much more thought involved in figuring out whodunwhat. But occassionally the modern mystery will slip in there too. I don't particularly care for a lot of melodrama. I do admit to a fondness for John Irving (although 1. what is up with the bears, John? and 2. Why did Hotel New Hampshire need to exist? V.C. Andrews pretty much exhausted the incestuous sibling love mine, I thought) and Wally Lamb. I also adore Flannery O'Connor, so apparently I also like the grotesque. I definitely like gothic. I like Wilkie Collins and Jane Eyre and Turn of the Screw and wailing ghosts and dark stormy castles and crazies hidden in the attic. Sometimes I like non-fiction. I liked "In Defense of Food" and "Fast Food Nation". I'm curious about Karen Abbot's "Sin in the Second City". (Aside to my husband: No, I still do not want to read Money Ball. But thank you for asking. Again).

But I never can seem to like things that are about anything or anyone "coming of age" or whatever. I'm halfway through Portrait of a Lady and not likely to get any further. I'm not terribly interested in biographies.

I do have some Charles Dickens to give a second shot (although, as I recall, Dickens was paid by the word and it shows, so that might take awhile or be saved for situations where there is absolutely nowhere else to go). I'm going to try Edith Wharton again. And I definitely have two more of Austen's novels to get to.
But right now I'm going in for some H.P. Lovecraft. I already know I like that.

Thank you for reading this totally pointless post about What I Like to Read. Oooh! Maybe my next post can be about "What I Did For the Summer" or "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up"!

Also, y'all feel free to get your recommendation on in the comments. I always like that. Open my mind people!

Back to Your Regularly Scheduled Program of...Whatever it is I Normally Do Here

2010-12-30T12:44:00.003-06:00

Y'all I got a Kindle for Christmas. I have not been that excited on Christmas morning since the year I got Teddy Ruxpin and all you can hear on the Christmas video for that year is what sounds like a hog being slaughtered. For two hours. (I clearly recall being way more adorable than that; unfortunately, my family video taped everything and it's very clear that I was not at all adorable. Also see that one year at Easter where I pitched a fit and fake cried loudly (and with a real tear even!) and everyone ignored me because I fake cried all the time to get my way. Even though it didn't work because everyone ignored me. Because I was not only not adorable I was also apparently mildly retarded).

The day after Christmas might go down as one of the nerdiest ever. I spent all day reading on my Kindle while my husband was determined to conquer Uncharted 2 on the PS3 (which he did, by the way). It could possibly have been nerdier had one of us written a blog post in elvish while the other spoke Klingon all day, dressed as our favorite Star Wars/Star Trek/Lord of the Rings and/or Harry Potter* characters (yes, we have one of each. Favorite characters, I mean, not costumes. I swear on whatever is holy to you that I do not own character costumes from any of those things) but just barely.

Other gifts of great excitement included hand milled vegetarian soap that has my bathroom smelling quite lovely, a pair of shoes I have been wanting for some time, a cover for the Kindle (now the precious can stay warm and protected), and money to buy things to put on the Kindle. Which I spent in about 10 minutes. But I have a bajillion things to read now plus a couple of cookbooks, one of which resulted in the best homemade macaroni in cheese ever created. And THAT is the gift that keeps on giving. Also, a lovely necklace I requested from the World of Hunger site, which funds a donation of about 25 cups of food, a few bracelets, and a sweater I will never wear except when I visit my great aunt.

I also bought myself a Christmas present. I did not actually want to do this, but I had to. I killed my cell phone with a bottle of Febreeze (they were battling to the death in my purse) and had to replace it on Christmas Eve.

So I'm at Verizon, explaining to the guy that my Febreeze and my cell phone were locked in epic battle the night before and the Febreeze was the definite victor ("No, really, smell the battery! It smells like Tropical Gain Febreeze!") And I should mention that the Kindle is something of an anomaly for me, because I am, relatively speaking, incredibly low tech. My cell phone made phone calls. That's all it did. Technically, I could text with it, but it was the kind where you hit the number button a jillion times to make letters. It could also take pictures, if one wanted an incredibly low resolution picture of something that you would be unable to identify later. I had forgotten how long lived that cell phone was until the sales guy reminded me.

The man spent a good minute looking from me to the phone in my hand back to me, with an expression of horror on his face before he finally gasped, "What...what IS that? I have not ever even SEEN a phone like that before. How...how long have you had that?"

Which hurt my feelings. That phone had longevity. And character. If I wasn't a complete moron it would have lived for who knows how long? Other people's phones break every 6 months and my phone was alive for at least 3 years. That phone totally earned some respect, and it was barely even cold in its grave before he started trash talking it).

"Uh...a few years, I guess? It's an LG flip phone."

This caused him several moments of heart palpitations. Which, okay, I get it. It's not a new phone. But it's not like it was the 20 pound Zach Morris Special, complete with 18 inch antenna or something (also, if you don't understand that reference we clearly cannot be friends anymore).

Finally he tells me I'm eligible for an upgrade and starts showing me phones, asking what I need.

"I need...to make and receive phone calls? Maybe a few texts here and there?"

"You...you don't do anything else with your phone? But you can get e-mail on your phone now and take pictures and get on the internet and..."

"Calls. Texts. The end."

So he very reluctantly sold me a phone that will be free once I get the rebate back. And the sales guy thinks I live under a rock and do not make full use of my opposable thumbs. He tried to talk me into a smartphone for a while, but I was like, "Dude. I've seen an iPhone. My husband has one growing out of his head. I use his for any emergency look-uppie things." I do have a keyboard now, which is kind of awesome and makes texting seem a lot more logical.

And that's how I bought myself a cell phone on Christmas Eve while reggae music played overhead.

*Yoda, Spock, Gandolf, and Hagrid, if you're interested.**
**Mine, I mean. His mileage may vary.

Exactly Like the Waltons, but with More Punching and Animal Carcasses

2010-12-29T09:25:00.004-06:00

I got a Christmas card from my dad's family and he wants me to call him. I have not spoken to him in over 5 years, and I haven't found it particularly challenging not to do so. Moreover, I can't figure out why he suddenly sends a card saying he's been trying to get in touch with me at my office to no avail. Without ever once leaving a message, apparently. I don't for a minute believe he is feeling any real sorrow over our lost "relationship" either.

I guess it's just that I don't feel like he's my father. He didn't want to take the time to call me, or pick me up for his visitation rights. He didn't teach me to ride a bike, or catch a fish, or throw a ball, or shoot a rifle, or swim. He didn't teach me to drive a car or change a tire. I know how to do all those things, but not because of him. As a small child, he was the big scary man who hit my mother and locked us in various closets and put his fist through the car window. While we were in it. Because we were going to get a happy meal and he didn't get a chance to say goodbye. He was the guy who dragged me to deer camp and illustrated the finer points of field dressing a deer for the child who cried when anyone smashed a freaking spider. (He thinks I'm a vegetarian just to piss him off. I'm a vegetarian because of that fucking skinned deer you made me look at, Old Man).

As a teenager, he was that strange guy who always told me, "I hope you ain't dating any colored boys," when he remembered to call, but who mostly seemed to forget my existence. He's the person who made me cry on my birthday because he called to tell me he had forgotten my birthday and it was my fault. The last visitation I had with him as a child, he threatened to beat me if I didn't go to sleep and when I woke up he was screwing some strange woman. Because his booty call was more important than whether or not his daughter would ever be able to think about sex at all.

The only thing he said to me when I told him I was getting married was, "Well it will have to be a small wedding. We don't have a lot of money, so don't go ordering anything too expensive." I paid for my own wedding. Which he did not attend.

On the other hand, he's an old man now. I think he's in his 70s. He's been married to my step mother for at least 20 years. He quit drinking and he quit smoking and he has had some heart problems. Maybe I should give him another chance (not that he thinks he needs another chance...he still won't admit he ever did anything wrong).

Sorry about all that. Happy Holidays?

New Restaurant in Town

2010-12-21T22:39:00.001-06:00

I just...I just NEEDED to share this.
God bless this fuxing state.

What Christmas Looks Like to Me

2010-12-19T16:56:00.004-06:00

Kelly, stop it. Seriously it's making my head hurt. I wasn't intended to do this much thinking.

2010-12-15T14:10:00.002-06:00

Ya'll make Kelly stop being all thought provoking and shit. I mean it.

I've always been something of a loner. I need quiet and time alone fairly frequently. But Kelly got me to thinking a little deeper about my issues, and the truth is, I'm afraid of disappointing you. I don't really worry that other people are going to disappoint me. I tend to assume the best of other people. I don't worry that they will hurt me or that they will leave me. But I worry about hurting them.

Christmas is an excellent example. I was thinking last night of the Family Guy episode where Lois hulks out because everyone takes all the Christmas preparations for granted. I was thinking about that episode because so far, I have decorated the house, planned a menu, purchased and wrapped ALL of the gifts including the gifts from other people to other people (meaning, all my husband's gifts to his family, also my mother's gifts to my husband and his family), I've purchased all the stocking stuffers, I've mailed all the Christmas cards, and I'm getting ready to make salt dough ornaments. I was also thinking about it while I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees with a sponge because the mop is a huge failure at actually cleaning the floor. It isn't that I have that much Christmas spirit (or really any at all) as that I want everyone to be happy and have a wonderful Christmas and if I have to KILL MYSELF to accomplish this, I will do it SO HELP ME GOD. And that's how I am. If I care about you too much, I want to do everything in the world for you, and there's only so much time in the day. And I fear that if I CAN'T or DON'T do these things people will be disappointed and unhappy and it will be all my fault because I didn't make the twice baked potatoes from scratch.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE! (Of course there's more).

The thing is, I start to resent doing all of this and I get pretty angry on the inside. And just when I'm getting ready to totally Hulk Out, someone says how wonderful, you are just the nicest person ever, I could never do all that. So people think I'm sweet and awesome, and then I hate to disillusion them by letting the angry resentment out and re-double my efforts in an attempt to be what they think I am, but I can't be the person they think I am because she's not real and it's really going to disappoint them/hurt their feelings if they find out. P.S. this also makes me a doormat. Which starts the resentfulness all over again.

So it's easier to be alone.

I understand all of this, where it comes from and why I do what I do, but the part where a therapist might come in handy is in telling me how the hell to stop it. And I can't afford a therapist, so right after Christmas I'm totally turning back into a misanthropic hermit with a hygiene problem (just to make sure no comes to see me).

Weird or obnoxious, those are your only choices.

2010-12-08T14:06:00.004-06:00

A while back Kelly posted a question about whether or not love was an emotion or a decision and Lilly posted something about how we all eventually settle, and those two things seeped slowly into my brain and have been bothering me ever since, and then my brain cells accidentally bumped into one another and this was born. I'm not sure what it is yet. I have either produced the blog equivalent of the funny smelling kid who eats paste and boogers and can't spell his own name, or I have produced that obnoxious little girl with the perfect hair and the clean dress who can't do anything fun because she might get dirty. Neither of these is really what you want to have, but those seem to be my choices.

So. Diving in.

Firstly, the idea that love is a decision we make rather than an emotion we have no control over reminds me of church. I think it's true in a general way. Love is something of an action. If I sit around waiting to spontaneously "love my neighbor" I will probably never actually get around to it. However, if I get off my ass and help my neighbor rake her yard...get it? It's a concrete love. A love that can apply to the little kindnesses we do for strangers and family alike. But romantic love? I think this can apply to romantic love, in the sense that we need to practice this kind of love in order to keep marriages or relationships strong. But I have never been able to "decide" to feel romantic love. If we could do that, none of us would be alone if we didn't want to be. If that makes sense. Because you could just decide to be in love with the next person that decided they were in love with you, and there would be a lot less heartbreak. But you can't force that to happen. Maybe because physical attraction is such an important component of being in love. If you could just decide to be attracted to someone...well, how many people have fought homosexual urges for years because they believed it was wrong? (ps - I don't happen to believe it's wrong; I think it's a decent example because I know at least 2 people in my own family who would be attracted to the opposite sex if they had a choice just because their lives would be easier because we still live in the south and people still like Jerry Falwell). I think that we can be more open minded than we are about love (dating out of type, giving someone a chance that you would normally reject) and sometimes you end up having sex with someone you never considered before, and sometimes it turns out that you still aren't attracted to that person.

If we were able to make those kinds of decisions I probably never would have ended up with my husband. He wasn't my "type" and he claims I wasn't his (although, I would love to show you a picture of his last serious girlfriend before me - we could be TWINS and not the Danny DeVito Arnold Schwartzeneggar type twins; also see every girl he ever dated, they all look a lot like me). Granted, my type was generally all over the map physically and mentally. But this was different. This was...a REPUBLICAN, for God's sake (he's actually more of a vote for who he thinks is best kind of guy, not a straight ticket voter, but he quoted Reagan and was so Alex P. Keaton I actually DECIDED he was a republican before we ever actually discussed politics). But I was open minded and went out with him anyway. The trick there is that I was attracted to things I never thought about before. The way he actually talked to me about real things, how smart he was, how he was completely not threatened if I knew more than him about a topic or if I could do something better than he could (by the way, this only happens when the planets align exactly and Halley's comet is passing the earth and a solar eclipse happens at exactly the same moment...which is to say, not very often at all).

Which leads me to the idea of settling. The idea is not so much that you just finally give up, as that you realize no one is perfect and start to look for as perfect as possible. I mean, he's a cocky asshole who is annoying by virtue of being good at EVERY FUCKING THING EVER. He's not predictably thoughtful (never remembers to help me bring in the groceries, never cleans his facial hair out of the sink) but he does things that are so weirdly thoughtful I can't stand it. He doesn't send flowers often because he knows I don't really like them, even though the women in his office give him a hard time. He could pick out clothes or jewelry for me without my input because he pays attention to what I wear and what I like. He tells me I'm beautiful at random moments on a regular basis. He cleans the shower drain because it gives me the wig (even though its mostly my hair).

If I was able to decide who to fall in love with, and perfect people existed, I'd probably be married to an independently wealthy doctor who did lots of charitable works and never farted in the living room or described the weird crap he'd taken that day. I'd have total control of the remote control. He'd help clean and cook and love small children and babies and give me whatever I wanted, and I would be so fucking bored I'd probably lose my mind and do something completely insane (rather than the moderately insane things I do now).

This is all kind of stream of consciousness. I don't know if it makes sense or not. But I'm kind of glad I didn't decide who to fall in love with, and I'm glad I settled.

Hey Mister: Love you and Happy 30th. (Jesus. You're all old now and shit. I'm gonna have to start shopping for a new one. As God is my witness, my next husband is going to be an automechanic).

DAMMIT

2010-11-29T12:52:00.002-06:00

So I'm going to be a little whiny because I just spent several days with family of both the mine and the in-law varieties, and I love them very much but they make me regress several years. If you don't like it...whatever, I do what I want. So there.

Ya'll make no mistake. I love my mother. I have no doubt she loves me. Mother-daughter relationships always seem to be complicated. Please consider that my disclaimer.

My mother is one of THOSE. You know, one of the critical ones. She doesn't view herself as critical; she sees herself as CONCERNED. Sometimes I can accept her version of things, like when there is something that might actually be an issue to be concerned about.

My mother's pet "concern" since I was 12 has been my complexion. I don't have acne, but I have a tendency to stress breakouts (ahem, MOTHER) and this apparently worries her. Look, I don't love having zits (especially at 28; I was promised I would outgrow this. Lying liars seated upon thrones of lies!)but...of all the things I myself have a tendency to get anxious about, my face is not really one of them. I need time to worry that a meteor will crush me or my husband will die if the house isn't spotless or my car will spontaneously crash if it isn't completely clean inside and out or that other drivers will swerve into me at high speeds for no reason or that there is a serial killer in the closet in the guest bedroom. This doesn't leave me time for "concern" about my face. I'm clean, I'm eating right, I'm not touching my face, I'm doing my best. The rest is in God's hands as far as I'm concerned, and He's probably a little busy with more important things.

So of course I'm broken out over Thanksgiving, and of course this is the END of the WORLD as we know it.

"Are you drinking plenty of water? You aren't touching your face are you? You don't put the phone against your face do you? Are you cleaning your phone? You should clean your phone. (Through this portion, I am sitting there stoically, nodding and shaking my head where appropriate, hoping that if I ignore this it will go away) Are you washing your face?"

Clearly, the bad thing did not go away. Also that last one makes me feel about 7 years old and I can't bite my tongue anymore.

"No, Mom, do you think that could be the problem?"

And then she STARES at me. With this...face. It is wholly indescribable. Imagine that you have just told your mom you have cancer. The look of horror and shock and worry and near tears you would see in her face is the closest I can get to describing this expression. Also, if this is the face I get over PIMPLES I hope to high heaven I never have to tell her I have cancer.

"Mom, why are you WORRIED about this? It's unattractive, it's not fatal. I already snagged me a man, you know. He's not going to leave me over it. I'm not going to get demoted at work. My friends will still be my friends."

"Alright, Ms. Smart Alec, what if you get (whisper) scarred?"

"Then...I will be scarred? Are you afraid the villagers will come after me with their pitchforks and their torches?"

Now she is wringing her hands in worry and also shooting me the death glare because of my smart mouth. But she takes my point. FOR THE TIME BEING.

An hour later I am presented with a cucumber and instructed to slice it up and rub it on my face. I do it because it's not worth fighting over and I figure if she sees me doing something maybe it will make her leave me alone for the rest of my visit.

And I will be damned if it didn't work. My mother was right, I was forced to admit it, and now I will never hear the end of anything again, world without end, amen.

Random Things For Which to be Thankful (HA! I managed NOT to end a sentence in a preposition for once in my everloving life! Am Awesome).

2010-11-22T16:25:00.003-06:00

Well, I had my car transformed from a 2000 Fiery Death Trap back into a 2000 Volvo: the car that Twilight ruined. So that's good. And it cost about half what the dealership quoted me, and they gave me a loaner car which made me love my OWN car so very much more. It was a giant red 96 Volvo. And when I say red, I mean it was the reddest red to ever red. I generally have no car vanity. I'm not defined by my car, therefore I've never been embarrassed of one before. Other people have been embarrassed of my cars, but I never have been. Until I had to put gas in that red monstrosity. I tried very hard to hide while fueling up that abomination to machinery everywhere. Seriously, I think it should probably be destroyed with fire before it has a chance to propagate more of its kind.

So now that my car is fixed and its Daylight Saving Time, I've started doing my run at the river trail on my lunch break. More specifically, at the Big Dam Bridge (longest pedestrian bridge across a river ever or something that I don't really care about). I like running there at this time of year because I generally have the area to myself. In the spring and summer you have about a million other people, 999,999 of them on bicycles. You may have never noticed this, but cyclists are assholes. There is no need to ride 5 across the path, and yet they continually force me into the weeds and mud because they are assholes in stupid pants. But at this time of year it is just me. And the deer. There were two in the middle of the path today, and I got so close to them I could have pet them if I had not learned my lesson about deer several years ago when I let one into our house (okay, it was a doublewide trailer. Whatever, I let a deer in is the point). Also the Big Dam Bridge gave me the opportunity to have the following conversation:

"So, where do you run?"

"When the day lasts longer, I like to run in my neighborhood. But at this time of year, I usually run at the Big Dam Bridge."

"Why do they call it that? I think that name is just horrible!"

"Because it is big? And it runs across the dam? And it is a bridge?"

"OH! I thought they were calling it the Big DAMN Bridge just to be hicks or something."

"Okay, then!"

Interesting thing about running in my neighborhood is that while I don't really know anyone, I am constantly recognized at the corner store or even while running. Because I am the only person who does it on a regular basis, and I guess I'm memorable. I like the opportunity to have conversations with people I might not normally talk to. I also like to feel like a celebrity. The best way to feel like a celebrity is to be recognized by complete strangers. Speaking of, my corner store is awesome. The people who work there are all competent and they remember customers and generally what we purchase (Before the great fixening of my car: Wow, girl, you sure buy a lot of oil! Yeah, I've gotta get my car fixed. That sucks!)But also if you go after a certain time of night you can meet the crackheads, who all tend to be very interesting and kind people, for some reason. Just, you know, in a crazy cracked out way.

Speaking of crackheads, I am on a definite energy upswing right now which is always awesome. One of the reasons I go on and off medication so often is because I tend to miss the manic energy that comes with being overly anxious. But, I'm having energy upswing without being unmedicated, and that rocks. Yesterday I managed to clean the kitchen, vacuum the floors, sweep, mop, clean the carpet, steam clean the bedspread, repair the rips in the bedspread, wash all the laundry, put the laundry away, make chocolate chip pancakes for dinner, clean even the darkest corners, clean the French door, sweep the back porch, do the dishes, clean the leaves out of the carport, wash the car, and vacuum the car. And then do a hot oil treatment on my hair before watching Boardwalk Empire and Walking Dead. For which I am also grateful, Amen.

Loose change

2010-11-06T16:55:00.006-05:00

Back a few months ago, I was bitching about having to pay $900 in car repairs. I had no idea how good I had it. Those were the good old days. $900? Psh. No problem.

Because now I need about $1,900 worth of repairs on my car.

On my $4,000 car.

I am no mathalete, or anything, but my calculations are indicating that purple flying pigs will ice skate on a lake of frozen gold in hell before I pay that much for this car.

Seriously, the guy at Volvo called me on the phone and as soon as the words "nineteen hundred dollars" left his mouth I said, "Holy shit." And that's all I said for several minutes. Then I laughed at the very nice, clearly delusional gentleman when he asked me if I wanted them to get started on that. He was super nice about it, actually, but he did warn me that I'm likely to die a horrible fiery death at an indeterminate time and place. Which...eh. That's kind of always been a possibility hasn't it? It's not like it's more likely now that I know about it.

****

Halloween consisted of Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, a lot of Ghost Hunters, A Haunting in Connecticut, and Paranormal Activity. I LAUGHED all the way through Paranormal Activity. Until I went to bed. Where I suddenly became terrified of the demon and sweated all night with 13,000 blankets pulled up over my face. Because if I can't see it, it's not there, and also everyone knows that blankets are the ultimate in protection against demon possessions, axe murders, and serial killer clowns.

****

I have always been jealous of people in big cities with reliable public transportation who have hilarious and shocking stories about their fellow commuters (just for context: my office is 14 miles from my house. In order to take the bus to my office, I have to walk 1/2 mile, change buses 5 times, and walk another 1/2 mile. Cars are kind of a necessity here). Anyway, I always wanted to be able to tell stories about fellow commuters and the receptionist at the office generously supplied me with one.

As she was driving in to work the other day, she was cruising along in the middle lane to avoid one particularly horrible set up where two exits are about 1/4 mile from each other and the first one backs up the interstate for about 2 miles in the morning. She and I both need the second exit. This is usually no big thing. You stay in the middle lane, get over immediately after the first exit, and take the second exit. Except THAT morning, when she was trying to get over, the car next to her was staying right beside her. She slowed down. The other car slowed down. She sped up. The other car sped up. This continued as she turned to give the guy "What the fuck?" face. At which point she realized he was staring directly at her while driving and jacking off.

And really? Dude? In the car? While driving? Part of me respects his ability to multi-task and part of me wonders things like was he planning to masturbate in the car that morning or was it spur of the moment? What exactly was his long range plan? I mean, did he bring something (like a sock? a...condom? a jizz rag?) along to contain the ejaculate? Was he planning to improvise? Is his steering wheel covered in crusty old spunk? (What? Inquiring minds).

****

And to get the bad taste out of your mouth, I bring you: Unparalleled cuteness I should probably feel bad about including in a post about Happy Highway Masturbator.

In completely unrelated news

2010-11-02T13:52:00.002-05:00

Slightly related to my last post, I realize that I was a little angry and might have sounded a smidgen...bitchier...than intended. I would like to say here and now that the point of the post wasn't actually about her weight, but more about her complaining about something that she does absolutely nothing to change. Just to be clear:

I don't think you're fat. I don't think anything about your weight. You can weigh whatever the hell you want and still be completely sexy (minor anecdote: my cousin, who is like my sister, has struggled her whole life with her weight. She once managed to drop down to a size 8 - the smallest she's ever been- and...she...really didn't look that great. She needs her curves. She's incredibly beautiful and I love her). I don't hate fat people. I don't even think you ARE fat, remember? I apologize if I was not as clear as I should have been.

In completely unrelated news:

It's election day, and I am voting even though I am not convinced it really matters. But I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about the awesomest campaign commercial of the season.

Basically, it goes like this:

[Imagine you are listening to James Earl Jones, Kevin Spacey, some Shakespearean actor, and that guy who does the movie previews combined. Only...MORE]: Chad Causey is from WASHINGTON D.C. He is NOT FROM HERE. Chad Causey has FRIENDS in WASHINGTON, D.C. (please imagine Washington, D.C. being stated in the same way you might say THE LANDFILL or HELL). Chad Causey's ad people are only separated from Nancy Pelosi by 3 degrees. NANCY PELOSI (I think there might be subliminal text here that I'm missing about Nancy Pelosi being a minion of hell, out to do the work of the evil one - in this instance I believe Barack Obama is playing the part of the evil one). Chad Causey...BARACK O'BAMA (see? Told you). Don't vote for Chad Causey.

And then I die of giggle. I don't know why the ad people don't want me to vote for Causey (liberal cooties, maybe? He has brushed up against Pelosi and O'Bama, and after all, we all know liberalism is contagious. Like communism) but they say his name so many times that it will be the one I recognize on the ballot, even if I don't know anything else about him.

In other unrelated news: someone just brought me a free muffin. It was delicious. It ALMOST was worth getting out of bed this morning for that muffin. Almost.

Stop Eating Pork Rinds by the POUND and maybe you too could lose a little weight.

2010-10-27T12:58:00.004-05:00

So, I'm sitting in the break room eating my salad and my low fat yogurt, and trying to pretend that this is an actual meal, and not one of the things I do in the name of my vanity and the size of my ass.

This is going pretty well, actually, because I am very good at lying to myself. I do it all the time. Coconut cream pie low fat yogurt is totally the same as coconut cream pie! Lettuce is yummy! I hate Ranch dressing! No one will notice that pimple in the middle of my face!So, I am lying to myself and feeling almost happy about my lunch.

And then.

Someone else came into the break room. This is okay. This is fine. Okay, she talks a lot. Like, people routinely walk away from her while she's in the middle of a sentence and she keeps talking a lot. Like she has phone conversations in her cubicle, and hangs up the phone, and repeats the entire conversation out loud to herself a lot. And she's kind of passive aggressive and sometimes extremely condescending. It is okay. I have flaws, too. I can be nice. I can choose to be happy in any situation! (Told you, I'm really good at lying to myself). And okay, fine, she has a double bacon cheeseburger and some french fries from Wendy's and the fries smell like I imagine heaven probably smells, but I have WILLPOWER (*cough*) and they aren't my fries anyway.

So now I'm eating a salad and yogurt while pretending to like it while smelling french fries, which are in my top 10 favorite foods. And I'm talking to someone who can irritate me without even breaking sweat (which, by the way, is actually really unusual for me. I'm almost never annoyed by people, because they think I'm sweet, but what I really am is exceptionally skilled at ignoring people to their faces; so, she's talented, is what I'm saying).

I am trying very hard to ignore her sweetly to her face, but then a sentence out of the vortex of words proceeding from her mouth catches my attention.

"It is just so unfair that you are so thin and you don't even have to try."

Bitch are you kidding me? One of us at the table is clearly trying, and it ain't you. I froze with my last forkful of fucking LETTUCE halfway to my mouth and stare at her as she shoves another bite of DOUBLE BACON CHEESEBURGER into her mouth.

"Well," I tell her, "I DO run every day. And do yoga. And frankly, I fucking hate salad."

"Oh, I can't run. I can't exercise because I had surgery on my knee and I just can't do any exercises at all ."

I mention that the 80-year old woman my mom works for recently had a similar surgery and is now exercising regularly. Which she ignores.

Also she tells me this while eating food that has enough calories to be all the calories anyone would need for an entire day. But she will go back to her cube and eat mother-fucking PORK RINDS out of a gallon size container for the rest of the afternoon.

And then she says it again! "Its so unfair you don't even have to try!"

Which makes me wonder if this actually happened at all. Maybe I had some sort of starvation induced hallucination and I did not really tell her about the various ways in which I do, in fact, try very hard to stay the weight I am.

I'm sorry, non-football people, but even you have to admit this is a little amusing.

2010-10-25T11:17:00.004-05:00

One of these is Vanilla Ice. One of these is Ryan Mallet, quarterback for the Arkansas Razorbacks.

Secretly, I'm pretty sure they are BOTH Vanilla Ice.

Try not to get any sex on you

2010-10-18T13:07:00.003-05:00

I am supposed to tell you the story about the worst guy I ever dated, and I will. As soon as I figure out how to write it so that you can see his awfulness truly, in all its splendor.

Until then, I leave you with some of my husband's words of wisdom from Saturday night. My husband shared this little tidbit with the entire bar:

"Dude. You should never carry cash. You should never touch a one dollar bill. Something like 80% of them have cocaine on them and I'm pretty sure like 100% of them have been in contact with a hooker's asshole. Seriously, when you touch one dollar bills you get drugs and sex on you."

Pants on Fire

2010-10-05T12:26:00.003-05:00

Because so many of you (whatever, 1 of you totally qualifies as "many") seemed excited about the prospect of more stories of me dating the mentally ill...I give you the story of my very first real boyfriend who I was allowed to go on "car dates" with and who was, indeed, mentally ill. In fact, he was a pathological liar. Not in that "all boys are liars" way (which I totally hate, by the way, most people lie) but in that "telling lies for no discernible purpose pretty much every time he opened his mouth" way.

On our first date, he wanted to take me somewhere fancy (Red Lobster). On the way to the restaurant he kept telling me how pretty I looked and how it made him think of this song that he really wanted me to hear. He kept scanning the classic rock stations trying to find it, but no one was playing the particular song he wanted. He turned off the radio and sang it to me himself.

I will just give you a moment here to absorb that, and compose yourselves.

I sat there as he sang "Wonderful Tonight", trying to look impressed, but mostly wondering when he would be done so we could get to the part of the evening where I could pretend that never happened. We finally arrived at the restaurant where he opened my car door, opened the restaurant door, and practically knocked the waitress over trying to seat me. And he talked. And talked. And talked. And by "talked" I mean "lied." He talked about the time he and his friend saw these 2 naked women driving a Jeep, and the women really wanted to jump their bones but he and his friend turned them down. He talked about how he had a ton of cars. He talked about his skills in the martial arts.

On the way home I mostly pretended to be asleep so the talking would stop, but as we pulled up to my house he looked over at me, and he smiled, and he said, "I really love you. I love you so much." Oh. Kay.

Sadly, I continued to date him for a few more months. Even more sadly, the guy who came after him was worse.

Sadly, he was not the only boy I dated that got arrested. Because I was kind of stupid in high school, apparently.

2010-09-29T13:05:00.004-05:00

A little while back I made a joke about all the "bunny boilers" my husband dated before he met me. In the interest of fairness, I should probably talk about some of the borderline psychopaths I chose to date. Even though I'm afraid of what it says about me that I chose these people.

First up: Kody (P.S. is this a generational thing? With the name spelling? Because I later dated a guy named Korey, and I'm wondering...what up with the K names?)

Kody was...so completely a baby psycho. I was 16. He was...17? 18? I don't know, but he was still in my grade. To be fair to Kody, I knew from the instant I started talking to him that he didn't want a girlfriend. He wanted to get laid. And was perhaps interested in me because I had a reputation for not sleeping with guys (true: I did not once ever have sex in high school, and many, many boys wanted to get in my pants for the sole reason that they wanted bragging rights about being the one that got in my pants first). But anyway. I was in that very, very short lived period of my life where I thought the "bad boy" thing was sexy and that the "love of a good girl" would save him and it would all be very romantic, and a lovely story to tell our children one day. (It is okay to laugh. I am laughing at myself).

So Kody and I hung out a few times (in fact, he was the star of the story about the first time a boy touched my girly parts and how that contributed to my continuing virginness for...quite a long time, actually). Kody was horrible to me in public. He either ignored me or went out of his way to mock and humiliate me. But then he would call me on the phone every day as soon as I got home and be really, really sweet to me.

Did you catch the important part there? He called me EVERY DAY AS SOON AS I GOT HOME. He had it timed. If I was a few minutes late he would badger me about where I had been and what I had been doing and who I had been with. These "conversations" lasted for HOURS. Even though after the first 20 minutes it generally ended up being me, struggling in vain to get off the phone while he played video games or smoked weed or ate mushrooms. And listen, all of those activities are fun, don't get me wrong. But they are only fun if you are actually participating. It is not fun to listen to someone else play a game or get high (okay, the day he tripped on the mushrooms was a little amusing..."Damn. Nothing's happening, I'm not feeling anything...holy shit, there's a cartoon rabbit in here!")

So, after two weeks of putting up with his split personality disorder, his stalker-y behavior, and what is still the worst sexual experience of my life...he got arrested for shoplifting and started screwing some other chick. Because she came to bail him out of jail. Except...I think she just picked him up, because I'm pretty sure teenagers can't bail other teenagers out of jail? Whatever, it was all very Melrose Place.

And yet, I continued to date losers who wound up arrested for one thing or another. I don't know what was wrong with me, but I'm pretty sure I'm responsible for all of my mother's gray hair and God will punish me by gifting me with a daughter EXACTLY LIKE ME.

God help us all.

Just so you know what we're dealing with here...

2010-09-27T13:58:00.003-05:00

I did not work on Friday. This was the biggest mistake of my career so far.

Ya'll. YA'll.

While I was gone they hung a deer head over my work space. It is huge. And dead. And yet STILL STARING AT ME.

I am frightened.

I mean okay, there have always been dead ducks hiding in corners all over the place here, but...the deer, man. The deer gives me the willies. I don't think it's happy to be dead. I'm pretty sure it's going to get together with the ducks and they are going to rise up as one body and smite us or something.

I would just like to go on the record as saying I think the ritual of killing and stuffing and preserving something so that it looks like it might still be alive is primitive and barbaric and senseless and please don't eat my soul because I had nothing to do with this.

Rorschach Burn

2010-09-23T14:12:00.004-05:00

I spent all of yesterday afternoon in a kayak in the middle of a rock quarry, trying to pull water samples from various depths. And apparently lost my fool mind sometime before we got there, because once we got started I pretty promptly spilled nitric acid preservative on my bare skin. Did you know that when you burn yourself with nitric acid the burn is actually yellow? Because I didn't. For a few moments of intense burning pain, I thought I was watching my skin and fat literally melt and that the yellow was the layer of fat under the skin seeping through (you're welcome).

Rest assured, it was not. Have I mentioned my tendency to be a drama queen? Well, a really stoic drama queen. Because you can't let the guys who are out sampling with you know that that hurt like a bitch and what you really want to do is cry and then go home and put on your pink jammies and your bunny slippers and watch something on the Lifetime channel that practically drips estrogen while eating ice cream. Uh, you are eating ice cream, not the Lifetime channel. Which is, in fact, exactly what I wanted to do (after the ice cream and the Lifetime maybe I'll clean the house in high heels and pearls! What? I do enjoy being a girl, you know). I knew that I was going to be in the field with these guys for a few more hours and they needed to not be babying me the entire time (seriously, other girls have to deal with sexual harrassment in the field with the guys. What do I have to deal with? The fact that they all, to a one, want to TAKE CARE of me and treat me like I'm a pretty, pretty princess. It's insulting in its own way, okay?).

When I finally limped into my house (I did have to leave my pants rolled up because I couldn't stand anything on the burn) my husband took one look at me and was all, "Holy shit what did you do and do I need to take you to the ER?" Because he knows me. (The answer was no, by the way, he did not).

It really does look like a rorschach inkblot test on my lower leg. I'm only burned where it touched me so you can actually see where it splashed and then rolled down my leg.

See, people like me don't even need drugs. We are our own trip.

2010-09-22T12:57:00.003-05:00

I cannot resist telling you that this morning began with me and my husband deciding on divorce, me getting re-married to a friend of his about 12 minutes later, and the new husband buying a disabled child on a leash for a thousand dollars. I took really good care of him, even though he basically walked like that thing in The Ring, meaning crawled around in a weird manner. He was surprisingly well spoken. But then his mother found out the husband had sold the kid and was really pissed and wanted him back. So we gave him back. But it was okay because my new friend/husband's wife had left him about 6 minutes before our wedding and she left her newborn baby behind on the boat we were living on which we needed to wear HazMat suits on because husband/friend is a really, really messy slobby guy (true fact). And my original flavor husband and I decided to continue dating. Which was fine because husband friend and I were really uncomfortable with the thought of sharing a bed (which was a mattress on the floor).

(Side note: There is a reason I am not a morning person you guys, and that I get tired so easily. I have to do this kind of crap all night every night, and I just need some frigging rest.)

So I woke up and had to tell Original Flavor about this dream. And I guess he's really used to me by now because all he said was, "You weren't even sad that I wanted a divorce?"

Because the dream was so realistic in every other way.

Uh. Maybe if I say enough words some of them will accidentally be funny. Or...not.

2010-09-20T22:16:00.003-05:00

So you fall off the earth for a couple weeks because things just. got. real. Or whatever. And you realize the longer you stay away the less you have to say. And then you come back and post something just to try to get the juices flowing again, and you start to type about how you fell out of bed because you were locked in combat with a giant cobra, but you realize people think other people's dreams are boring (I, actually, love to hear about people's dreams, but from what I can tell...I'm really alone in this). So then you start to tell the story about when you had your wisdom teeth out and you were desperately trying to convince your mother you could TOTALLY go out on a date with that cute guy who will LOSE INTEREST if you cancel, and you realize there was a really, really similar post (only...better) at Hyperbole and a Half, and you don't want to be a copy cat. Then you start thinking about how awesome it would be to go back to high school as you are now, and how you would totally date the cute German boy and the band geek instead of the losers you DID date, and how you wouldn't care about the stuff that seemed like such a big deal, but then you realize you are ripping off a Matthew Perry movie, and damn, that's embarrassing.

So then you go back to reading the archives at Occupation Girl and you get even more discouraged because you are never going to be as funny as Cleo. And then you get over yourself and come type some stream of consciousness gibberish just to try to get past the block because you aren't a person who can talk about going to work and falling in to bed and make that funny, and that's all you've been doing.

You could talk about the Beauty Queen they just hired at your office (she put it on her resume! Yes, I am judging her, I'm sorry) and then you hear her talking to some of the people in the office and realize you aren't going to click with this girl because a.) anyone who says, "I need your muscles - giggle" when asking for help with boxes is...way, way different than you and also b) you overhear her turning down homemade bananas foster french toast because she had a bran muffin and she "doesn't eat that." I cannot trust anyone who can turn down bananas foster french toast (if you are such a person...maybe we can still be friends, but we aren't going to be braiding each other's hair anytime soon). But all of that sounds really judgy and you don't know this girl at all and you seem kind of catty (except the french toast thing. I very sincerely mean that).

And then you wind up with this.

A Billion Words Explaining Why I Have Nothing to Say

2010-09-02T14:40:00.004-05:00

So an entire month without a day off of any kind has broken me. I have nothing of interest or even mild interest to say. To anyone.

I thought that I was tough, but I really, really hate this. I always forget that being tired makes me sort of fall apart. I cannot deal with sleep deprivation. I feel like other people sleep less on a regular basis and still function normally, but I cannot (and never have been able) to do this.

I start to be anxious about nothing (prepackaged with your anxiety about nothing also comes the feeling that your skin is trying crawl off your body, surges of adrenaline that prepare you for fighting badgers with your bare hands but there are no badgers, sleeplessness, headache, raggedy nails, and a special bonus inability to bear the thought of anything even thinking about touching you! Especially awesome for married people who would like to stay married and NOT contract chlamydia from some skank your husband turns to in desperation!) So I basically sit around like Jello, quivering with excess nervous energy but too exhausted to actually harness and use that nervous energy for any interesting or useful purpose.

I start dreaming about things that I'm not dealing with, but rather am shoving down into a little ball somewhere in the pit of my brain, where I can pretend the issue doesn't exist and doesn't bother me at all. As all well adjusted, mentally well, normal people do, of course. This time around it is dreams about my dad. I should probably write a real post about him someday, and why he is A Thing I Probably Should Deal With, But I'd Really Rather Not Because Look! A 4-Hour Special About the Reproductive Habits of Earthworms is On! Let's Do That Instead. Frankly, I haven't been able to come up with a way to discuss my daddy issues without sounding either whiny (okay, I know this post is also whiny, but...its different. Or something), blame-y, or some other variant of dwarf that didn't make the final cut of Snow White.

I haven't been reading anything more challenging than the occasional trashy romance novel or trashy mystery novel or basically anything that requires me to actual think about the words and what they might mean.

I went to visit one friend and her premature baby in the hospital, but haven't been able to drag my ass to visit my other friend and HER premature baby in the hospital. Yes, 2 of my friends had premature babies approximately 6 days apart. And that makes me feel like a bad friend. I also feel like a bad wife, a bad employee, a bad daughter, and a bad person in general because all of this? Is so incredibly selfish I can barely stand myself. I mean, I'm not being marched to the gas chamber. No one is in any imminent danger. I'm just tired and I have nothing to say.

Is this post irony? It might be irony. It's not "10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife" or anything...but it might be ironic?

If I Have to Be Thinking About It, You Have To Be Thinking About It

2010-08-24T14:39:00.003-05:00

I could have happily lived out my day in bliss without anyone saying, "I don't trust anything that bleeds for 7 days and doesn't die." I really, really wish I HAD gone all day without hearing it.

My respect for one of my co-workers just hit rock bottom and started digging for China.

***
In other things I wish I could un-know, someone (you know who you are...I'll be kind and not name names this time...KELLY) passed on a tidbit of information that makes self-immolation seem like a reasonable way to pass the time.

Did you know there is a Twilight themed vibrator? That you are supposed to put in the freezer? So the experience is very much like actually doing a dead guy?

On the one hand, I really want to know WHO and WHY. On the other hand, please let me never have to know who OR why.

***

Someone out there has the job of determining how much your body parts are worth. They determine how much money you get if you lose a finger (depends on how much of the finger you lose), a hand, an arm, a leg, or any combination thereof.

This Week in Things That Are Annoying Me...

2010-08-20T12:34:00.003-05:00

Its that time when things are starting to piss me off for no good reason. Just to vent a little (so I don't explode at the wrong time), here is a list of things that are annoying me this week.

1. Can we all agree that its really time to stop promoting Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights, and just about anything by Nicholas Sparks as "romance"?

Romeo and Juliet: Why its Not a Romance

Romeo and Juliet are 13. 5 minutes before seeing Juliet for the first time Romeo is desperately, madly, hopelessly, unendingly in love with Rosaline. After Romeo sees Juliet this girl's name is never mentioned again. Which should give you a clue how Shakespeare intended us to view ol' Romeo. He is clearly, CLEARLY, incredibly fickle. Romeo and Juliet spend approximately 10 minutes in each other's company before deciding they would rather die than live without each other. Then they kill themselves. What about any of that strikes people as romantic? I am pretty sure that if I dug up a ouija board and attempted to contact the spirit of Shakespeare and asked him, "Is Romeo and Juliet a romance?" His response would be, "What are you, fucking nuts?"

It's a tragedy people. Please stop sighing over how romantic it is.

Wuthering Heights

Evil, controlling psychopath meets the most selfish twat ever to be committed to paper and then published. If the two of them had actually ended up together (which, they could have, if Catherine didn't love money and status more than she loved Heathcliff) it wouldn't have ended in happily ever after. It would have ended with one of them taking a butcher knife to the other. I do not see what is so awesomely romantic about this book. I hate this book.

The Entire "Ouevre" of Nicholas Sparks

Okay, I'll admit, I haven't read all of them. But the gist seems to be: 2 bland characters I never feel any connection to or understanding of meet each other, eventually fall in love, have about 5 minutes of happiness, and then one of them dies horrifically at a relatively young age (I realize the Notebook is exempt from this. But Nights in Rodanthe, I am glaring at you). Most of the Nicholas Sparks that I have read, I read as a teenager. And the moral I took away from these stories was: dear Lord, whatever you do, DO NOT fall in love. One of you will DIE way before your time.

2. Personalized license plates. We can all agree they are annoying. Generally, I'm pretty live and let live. But I think we need more rules for the personalized plates.

Rule #1: It must be decipherable so the OCD among us don't lose our freaking minds. RETAHP1 I am looking specifically at you. What the hell does that mean?

Rule #2: It should not be completely retarded. NoMoSno, now I'm looking at you. I was seriously tempted, in fact, to flag down NoMoSno and explain to them - YOU LIVE IN CENTRAL ARKANSAS. WE DON'T GET MORE THAN 4 INCHES OF SNOW TOTAL PER WINTER, IF THAT. If you want there to be even less snow than that, perhaps you need to be living in the tropics. MORON.

Rule #3: Someone should explain to them beforehand that things like "GINASBBY" and "BOYTOY" make them look narcissistic and also douche-y. Like, Marie Antoinette douche-y. The masses are going to rise up against you at some point. And frankly, a mob doesn't care if you're misunderstood or not.

3. This one is a little specific, and I need to try to be a little vague because I'm not trying to hurt feelings or open cans of worms that can't be closed or burn bridges or anything. So it needs a little prefacing: I am, easily, 25 pounds (at least) lighter than any other woman in my office. I eat pretty healthy, I run at least 5 times a week, and I basically WORK AT IT. So it pisses me off when people feel they have the right to say things to me like, "Enjoy it while you can!" like its some kind of genetic miracle and not hard work. There is actually more to this story, but it involves a specific person and I kind of don't know if I can tell it without being outright mean. So I guess I'll keep it to myself, but even that is pissing me off.

EDIT:

4. An Open Letter to the Receptionist at the State Environmental Agency:

Listen, heifer. I so did not need your attitude today. I'm sorry that I sprinted in the door 4 minutes before close and made you stamp my cover letters. Bitch, please. You work from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and you get an hour for lunch plus 15 minute breaks. I worked from 7:30 this morning without a break, and I tried to get to your office by 4:15. It's a 10 minute drive unless you unexpectedly have to battle the traffic from hell because your office is located on the same road as an elementary school where apparently every precious little darling in attendance must be picked up by two separate cars. And I still managed to be pleasant to you because my bad day and the horrible traffic were not your fault. I even apologized for coming in at the last minute. As if you actually having to keep your ass in that seat until 4:30 and do your fucking job is some kind of trial.

P.S. You wouldn't HAVE to stamp my cover letters if you didn't lose half the reports my company submits to you, and then claim we never brought them in.

The odds that anything I almost killed myself to turn in today mysteriously disappears are probably about like the odds of the sun rising in the east tomorrow.

Brace Yourself Bridget, Its a Long One

2010-08-16T12:51:00.003-05:00

When I was 16 the local library offered me a job. I was in there so often that all of the check out people knew me by name and when they needed a stack slave, er, paige, they came to find me in the fiction section. I took the job, and it was, frankly, kind of awesome. It was the one job I've had dealing with the public that did not seem designed to turn me into a shriveled misanthrope without a morsel of love or kindness in my pruney little heart for others of my species. Which I think is weird because the library? That's where the crazy people hang. Also the homeless people and the generally unwashed masses. But I learned a lot of things in the 2 years I worked there that made me more accepting of people in general.

As I was helping my mom start packing her metric ton of crap this weekend, I decided to take a little break and cruise by the library. I still like to go in sometimes because they have what may be the closest thing to heaven on earth I've ever encountered. They have the Book Sale Room. You can find all kinds of wonderfulness in paperback form for less than $2.00. Being there reminded me that I wanted to blog about the three people/groups I have the most vivid memory of.

The Homeschool Kids

Being 16, I had a very negative attitude about kids who were homeschooled. They were strange and weird and definitely uncool. There was one particular homeschool family that actually changed my mind a little bit.

The first time I saw them I seriously thought that somewhere my life had gone seriously awry and I had wandered into some type of Children of the Damned situation. Imagine that a blonde man with fair skin and relatively archaic, Biblical ideas of gender roles met a similarly blonde fair skinned woman with the same views. Imagine that they are ultrareligious and they set forth to procreate and populate the world with tiny little pale blonde versions of themselves. The children are supersmart and well-behaved in that way that always makes me start surreptitiously checking for signs of demon possession or my imminent death. Their mother makes all of their clothes and all of them match. Including the mother. Tell me that doesn't terrify you to the marrow of your bones.

And yet...they were seriously impressive. They were, indeed, supersmart. I had always thought homeschool kids were poorly socialized. They weren't. It was just that the majority of their socialization was with ADULTS. And not just adults, but their PARENTS. This made me sympathize with them. I shudder to think about 99% of my time being spent with my mother even now. Also, they were so eager to be around someone other than each other and their parents that they were the least judgmental people I've ever met in my life. They were genuinely interested in other people and other people's experiences. I hope I learned to be like that.

Creepy Guy

This guy was not initially creepy like the Children of the Corn. I mean, the Homeschool Kids. This guy looked almost exactly like Johnny Galicki, except maybe a little gothier. He didn't read, he always came in to use the internet. He was in his twenties and he lived with his mother. He always wanted to use the computer in the very back corner. When his hour was up he would come back and furtively sign up again, preferrably on the same computer. Do you see where this is going yet?

Look, I figured the guy was looking at porn. He was relatively young, he lived with his mother, they didn't appear to have much money and he certainly appeared to have very little privacy. I'm not sure why the library computer seemed a better option privacy wise, but I was a teenager, and a relatively sheltered one. I didn't spend a whole lot of time thinking about it. Until I actually saw what he was looking at.

This guy was into some seriously, seriously disturbing shit. I don't even like to think about what I saw on that computer screen that day. It wasn't long before the head honchos caught on (I believe he was caught, literally, with his hand in his pants and some truly atrocious crime against sex on the screen) and there was a new rule: The girls were not, under any circumstances, to deal with this dude. Part of me felt like this was ridiculous. The guy never seemed angry or tried to hurt anyone. He could barely make eye contact with the girls. Plus, there were no serial killers where we were. Nothing bad was ever going to happen to any of us anyway. On the other hand, I abided by that rule like my life depended on it. Because it didn't take a psychology degree to realize that this guy, no matter how mild mannered, MUST have some pretty deep seated psychotic rage against women. I later learned that he did have some pretty serious anger issues. That he lived with his mother because he couldn't live alone, and that she insured he took some pretty serious medication. And that if he DID go off that medication he had a tendency toward violence. I think this taught me that its never a bad idea to be cautious. Maybe nothing bad ever would have happened if I'd had more contact with this guy. But...it didn't seem worth the risk to prove people wrong (for once).

Schizophrenic Guy

This guy mostly taught me that mental illness is not contagious, not necessarily dangerous, and the state funded mental hospital in my town had a pretty faulty system. The guy was homeless, when he wasn't at the hospital. And being homeless, he couldn't afford or didn't care to continue the medication he was provided at the hospital. He would enter the program dirty and muttering constantly to himself. Over the course of a few weeks he would be cleaner and more coherent. Then he would be discharged and he would begin slowly showing signs of life on the street and he would mumble to himself more and more. Generally, he was a nice man with a mental illness. After a long enough time out of the hospital he would do something...disruptive. Not necessarily violent or dangerous, but something that would cause someone to notice and call the hospital. He was kind of a nice balance to creepy guy, really. Except that time he smeared poop on the chair and I had to clean it up. I was not wild about that (on the other hand, I also worked in a movie theater at the same time, and completely sane people would WRITE on the STALL with their own FESCES. So...there's that.)

So I Found This...

2010-08-09T17:46:00.006-05:00

In honor of my new love affair with 30 is the new 13, I dug up what appears to be the beginning of a story that I wrote. I have no idea what age I was at the time, but judging by the handwriting and the fact that it is in cursive, I'm going with 4th or 5th grade.

She was as lovely a woman as there ever was. Scotti, yes, Scotti was her name (If you can't tell, I'm at the pretentious, pseudo-literary stage of my writing. This is what I believed real "literature" sounded like, having not actually read any actual "literature" at the time). Her mother, Cassandra, was known as Cassandra the Tyrant.

Scotti loved her mother but her heart yearned for freedom (as one's heart does, yes). Now as she was ready to take herself and her mother to the charity ball (She's as lovely a woman as there ever was, but she can't get a friggin' date?) she wanted freedom even more (I can't imagine why. At least she isn't yearning for it at this point, I guess).

Her beautiful soft brown locks pulled into a loose knot on top of her head with only one delicate ringlet left by her ear, and her soft creamy throat slipping from the emerald green silk (this seems like something she should have the doctor check for her. One's neck probably shouldn't ever slip), she was especially beautiful (Did I mention she was beautiful? Because Scotti? Beautiful. In case I didn't make that clear).

That is all there is to the story. I have no idea where I was going to go with it, but I'm putting my money on the idea that I wanted to audition to ghostwrite for Danielle Steele. I feel confident when I say there was a good chance Fabio was going to appear at some point, and something was probably going to throb.

*I would like to point out, as the one compliment I can lend my writing here, that I had some mad spelling skills. I was not the Garland County Spelling Bee Champion for naught, ya'll. Let us not examine too closely the atrocious grammar and weird punctuation.

This is Why I Never Take Naps

2010-08-07T23:24:00.002-05:00

I have absolutely nothing of interest to say (Creative Writing 101: hook 'em with the first line. Done and done). But I took a nap this afternoon, which means I will probably NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. I've cleaned the entire house, been for a run, played with the dogs, and read for hours. And now, blogging. Maybe if I type for long enough I'll come up with something, anything, to say.

*cue Jeopardy theme song*

*crickets*

Yeah. Nothing.

I have a non-injury to my foot. I have no idea what happened. It just started hurting at work yesterday for no discernible reason. But its not swollen or discolored and I have run several miles since then. So, it just sort of randomly hurts.

My next four weekends are going to be spent helping my mother move, so maybe I'm just wishing for an injury that would get me out of that without having to actually, you know, tell my mother I'd rather be hung naked by my toes in the middle of town than actually help her move. Which is mostly a reflection on how much I hate moving and only a little bit of a reflection on my mother. I love her. I do. But she makes me crazier faster than any other person on earth. I can tell you exactly how this is going to go:

1. She's going to ask my opinion on how to do things and then not listen to me. Repeatedly.
2. She's going to, at some point, ask me when I'm going to give her grandbabies.
3. She's going to criticize because she loves me.

Lather, rinse, repeat for an entire weekend.

My mother just sent me a picture of herself with a drunk, shirtless man at a concert. I...don't know what to make of that.

I'm going to go try to knock myself out with Benadryl and pretend I didn't just see that.

I apologize for this post.

I feel compelled to point out that I'm aware I'm nuts, but its not all bad nuts.

2010-07-26T10:59:00.003-05:00

It occurs to me that after some of my posts outlining exactly how crazy I am, that people may find themselves wondering how in the hell I manage to stay married. Or how my husband hasn't already chosen self-immolation over continued life with the fruitcake he married. There are two answers to this question.

Reason the first: Compared to the bunny boilers and suicidal lunatics he was with before me, I actually appear cutely quirky in a totally adorable way. My crazy does not extend into the realm of stalking, demanding he give up any of his friends (regardless of whether or not I like them), demanding 1,000% of his attention at all times, or needing to be told that I'm pretty and he loves me and no, he was not looking at that other girl - okay, he looked at her, but she's the waitress, how was he supposed to not look at her a thousand times a day. Also, I've never thrown a screaming fit in public or thrown anything heavy at his head. In fact, straight from the horse's mouth, "You're crazy, but you're the least crazy woman I've ever met so I figured what the hell. Let's get married."

Reason the second: As often as I'm sure my mental illness causes him to pause with his face in his hands to contemplate his life choices, it works for him.

1. Part of my particular crazy requires that things be fair and balanced. And not like Fox News fair and balanced, but like really. (I apologize; I could not resist one last flog of a dead horse). Anyway, this translates into a thousand little things that are good. He makes twice as much money as me, so to be fair and balanced I attempt to compensate by doing all of the cooking and almost all of the cleaning. If he takes the garbage out, I bring the can back in. If he brought the can in last time, I take the garbage out this time. I leave the toilet seat down, so I never bitch when he leaves the seat up (this is also related to a little life rule I have had since childhood which is this: At no time should one place one's ass upon a surface that has not been thoroughly examined. Which sprang from an obsession with sitting on sharp things, but whatever. Its a good rule). Also, if I don't want to have to ask permission to do minor social things with my friends, and I don't, I don't make him ask me for permission. And on and on like that.

2. You may have noticed that I said I do all of the cooking. Make good food happen and you will be forgiven a multitude of sins.

3. I can find anything. Which is really convenient because he loses everything. The gratitude a man feels when presented with the iPhone he was convinced was lost or stolen forever will cause him to totally forget that you kept him awake for 2 hours last week while you endlessly circled the house in search of serial killers (you always have to go back because what if they slid into a hiding place after you already looked there? This cycle can go on for awhile because that's always the case). Anyway, I can find anything is often related to my OCD because things have places and they must live in those places. If a thing is in its place I can find it. And if a thing is not in its place I often know where it is because its driving me crazy that its not in its place. However, I also have the ability to think of where he might have set a thing down and can generally go right to it.

4. As a corollary to I find everything, I find things that aren't lost, but that he wants and just can't find. My husband is incapable of finding things ever at all. A good example of this would be the following:

Him: I would like some feta cheese.
Me: There is feta in the fridge.

5 minutes later I walk by the fridge. He is standing in front of it with his eyes apparently open. I realize he is having difficulty, but don't want to be hover-y and enabler-y, so I let him keep looking without comment.

10 minutes later he is back on the couch with no feta.

Me: I thought you wanted feta?
Him: I think we're out. I couldn't find.

30 seconds later I present him with the brand new container of feta cheese. The look on his face is always so...awesome. Its like I am a unicorn that shits gold nuggets or some other sort of magical creature that is made up of magic and has the ability to make food appear, where before there was no food. And he's damn glad he had the foresight to marry such a magical creature because life is awesome when there is feta and you thought there was no feta.

5. Still related to the finding/losing theme is the fact that I help him to not lose things and to find things on his own. Before when we were living in sin, but not yet married so I didn't feel compelled to do his laundry we would have some variation of this conversation every single day:

Him: Have you seen my blue shirt?
Me: No.

And then I would have to find it, because I find things.

Now I have taken over the majority of the laundry duties (not ironing, because I hate ironing. If he wants to be wrinkle free, he does it himself. Also, if I want to be wrinkle free either I talk him into doing it or I wear something else. Mostly I've taught myself not to care about wrinkles. Because caring means ironing, and that is never going to happen). Um...yes, I do most of the laundry. And that means that I have now been able to organize the closet so that all of his long sleeve blue shirts hang together, all of his white shirts hang together, etc. etc. And he now knows that if he wants his blue shirt, he should first look with the 15 other blue shirts in the closet. If its not there he should check the laundry. And only after he has checked these two places should he ask me where the shirt is. Since this system has been implemented I have only had to answer that question twice.

6. He doesn't have to plan anything or keep up with anything. I make plans, inform him of plans, and get him where he needs to go when he needs to go there and he can save that valuable mental energy for whatever he is saving that energy for. He's pretty freaking smart. It could be anything.

7. 90% of the time I talk to his mother so he doesn't have to. Whatever finding iPhones, and making food happen, and not being bitchy doesn't make up for, this totally covers it.

Things That Keep Me Awake at Night

2010-07-21T22:25:00.003-05:00

1. When did people start paying more for USED ITEMS on e-Bay when those items are available brand new for less money? Are these people unsure of how numbers work? Maybe they don't know that numbers mean things? What? I cannot fathom why anyone would pay $40 for a used shirt that's available new for $20. Why are people doing this?

2. Did I shut the drawer straight? Yes. Did I shut the drawer straight? Yes. Did I shut the drawer straight? I have to get up to check every time. Which makes for a great work out, but not great sleepy times.

3. Why do the neighbors come in at 2 a.m. every morning and talk loudly in their driveway? They have like eleventy billion children. Is this payback because my dogs are obnoxious bastards? It seems counterproductive.

4. I like to lay on my back, but every time I fall asleep in that position, I have nightmares. But I stubbornly want to stay on my back as long as possible, so I make myself stay awake. Then I either roll over at a ridiculous hour and let myself go to sleep, or I dream that I'm playing a board game that sucks me down into hell. Or giant snakes are trying to eat me. Or I'm covered in roaches. Or something that doesn't sound scary when I try to describe it (like the time the South Park characters were eating me) but is terrifying as it happens.

5. I can't lay down because I will go to sleep. I have to stay awake. I have no idea why, I just have to stay awake. So I...stay awake. I have had this problem since childhood when I was convinced my mom was waiting until I was asleep to do all of the interesting things. Turns out, she was watching Dallas or Dynasty and going to bed herself. But I'm still convinced I'm missing out on something when I'm asleep.

6. What will I do if my mom dies? Or my husband? What if we have a baby and he dies and I'm all by myself with a baby? Oh God. My mom will move in with me and I won't be able to stop her and she'll take over my baby and I love my mom but I never want to LIVE with her again. I'm a horrible person for not wanting to let my mom live with me. Maybe I don't love my mom. Maybe I don't love anyone and I'm totally a sociopath and I don't even know it.

7. I've been way too happy lately. Something horrible is going to happen any minute now because its not fair for one person to be happy all the time.

8. My teeth are going to fall out. My grandmother had to have all of her teeth pulled when she was my age. What if that happens to me? I can't live with dentures. I'm too vain and too lazy. So my husband would see me without my teeth and he'd never want to have sex again and if we can't have sex he'll probably leave me. And then I'll be toothless and broke. I'll be an Arkansas cliche. I have to brush and floss again.

9. Why is berry a flavor? Or a color? Not all berries taste the same and they're not all the same color.

PSA

2010-07-19T14:04:00.005-05:00

Just a little tip: After a large strawberry daiquiri and a Sam Adams, Jaws 3-D will seem like an awesome idea. But it is not. Jaws 3-D is never a good idea.

You might think that a shark popping out of the screen in 3-D will look really cool. No. The only thing that is actually 3-D is a yellow submarine. Then you will start singing "We all live in a yellow submarine" and you won't be able to stop and your friends will decide they hate you. And you can't really blame them because at that moment, you kind of hate yourself.

You might think, "Well at least this was when Dennis Quaid was hot." Unfortunately, Dennis Quaid was never hot enough to make this movie worth watching.

Also, you won't realize until later, but you basically just spent all night looking like Groucho Marx, and your husband will have totally posted the picture on Facebook. Which, why did you think he was taking that picture with his iPhone, moron?

In conclusion, say no to Jaws 3-D. Its not worth the emotional trauma of alienating your friends, never being able to think of Dennis Quaid in a sexy way again, and public embarrassment via Facebook. Also you will never get the line "Overman was killed inside the park. The baby was found inside the park. The mother is inside the park." out of your head.

That Girl is Poi-i-sonnn

2010-07-16T08:13:00.004-05:00

I was trudging determinedly up the last hill of my run last night. I only had about half a mile to go before I was done. The heat index was 107 and the humidity was approximately 1,000%. I looked like I'd stood in the shower in my clothes, and I was contemplating how awesome it would be if I could have gills like Kevin Costner's. Courtney Love was grating in my ear about a skinny little bitch and I was doing my best impression of the little engine that could. And then...

Poison truck.

I got doused by the mosquito fogger.

On the plus side, no mosquitoes will breed on me for at least the next month, so I've got that going for me.

****

My husband told me I looked Pentecostal again this morning. Which was not as well received as the last time. He has been married just long enough that he doesn't always realize he is ABOUT to put his foot in it, but he always knows immediately afterwards exactly what he shouldn't have said. So he backpedaled and said I looked like a SEXY Pentecostal chick. Oddly, that didn't make me feel any better about it.

****

And now my work computer just tried to commit ritual suicide by flinging itself to the floor and smashing into my ankle. Awesome. I have no proof that these two incidents are related, except of course for the fact that they TOTALLY ARE.

I think maybe I won't be driving anywhere for lunch today. Just as a precaution.

This is Why I'm Hot

2010-07-12T22:17:00.006-05:00

Friday nights used to look a lot different. There is no photographic evidence of that, because, well, I'm not stupid. But there was definitely more people, more booze, and a lot less pajamas.

Behold: Friday nights now that I'm old and married:

Pajamas (post 7:00 shower, so you know this is prime time people. I should not be wearing pajamas yet), mac n cheese, and the world's weirdest dog. She sits like that all the time, unless she's doing the drunken redneck lean. Also, she would like me to insert food into her mouth now.

If I do the damn trick, then will she put the food in my mouth?

She's in the middle of a trick seizure. That happens when she does an ever more frantic cycle through all the tricks she knows without being asked to do them. It gets faster and bigger and more desperate.

Grizzly Bear. Yes, I taught my dog to imitate a bear on command. She's fucking fierce, dude. No bears will mess with us now.

This is how we entertain ourselves now. Happy Embracing the Geekness Day, or whatever it is.

I'm Not Sure How Someone Hypnotizes Another Person and That Makes Their Boobies Grow.

2010-07-12T15:30:00.005-05:00

So...this woman at work was hypnotized the other day to help her stop smoking. I think that's great as she's tried a bunch of other stuff and she has to walk around with oxygen all day because of a lung disease from smoking.

The woman brought in the card for the hypnotist today, and all of her services are listed on the back. And included in the list was...breast enhancement. Its not that I want to actually let her hypnotize me into bigger breasts. Its that I'm fascinated at the possibility. I mean, if it means what it SOUNDS like it means its like 1/10 of the price of actual surgery with no scars or loss of sensation or ability to breast feed.

So...I e-mailed her. Mostly as a joke, I guess, which makes me a little shithead, but also because I REALLY need to know how this works.

EDIT:

*ahem*

Apparently, the subconcious controls EVERYTHING in our bodies, even bust size. They can increase your bust size by at least one cup size. The fee is a bargain price of $1200.00 (I guess because she claims it takes 4-6 sessions).

$1200 so I can go from training bras to an A cup? Bitch please.

Wow. You like me, you really like me!

2010-07-09T15:46:00.005-05:00

Or at least, Erin at I'm Staying Young Forever does. Which works out well, because I like her too! On a completely unrelated note, she gave me the shiny new award you can see over in the sidebar over there. Thank you, Erin!

Now there are rules. And since I'm OCD WE MUST FOLLOW THE RULES or we're all gonna die. I'm not going to have mass genocide on my conscience, thankyouverymuch. The rules are these:

1. Say thank you. This rule is awesome. Also, check. Please see above.

2. Share 7 things about yourself (awesome).

3. Nominate 15 bloggers (uh, whoa).

4. Tell the people you nominated that you nominated them (this...is going to take awhile. Don't worry. We are FOLLOWING THE RULES. No one will die. Not on my watch).

Seven Things I Know that You are Dying (DYING!) to Know About Me:

1. I have Fred Flintstone feet. They are flat, they are square, and I suspect they are ideal for propelling the motorless/engineless car. They aren't ugly or pretty. They are cartoon character feet. Bonus fact: You people who take such pride in your "pretty feet" frighten me a little. Feet are never pretty. Please don't show me yours. I won't think they are pretty. No, really, I won't.

2. I run and do a little light yoga every day.

3. I buy bras in the training bra section of Target. Its frightening to me that there are training bras that are too big for me. It means there are 8 year olds with larger rib cages and bigger boobies. And I'm a regular sized adult. With a regular adult sized ribcage, if not regular adult sized breasts.

4. I once had a haircut that made me look eerily like John Lennon circa early Beatles. Currently, I am seeing more of a resemblance to Groucho Marx.

5. I think nerds are sexy. Although maybe I should specify. I think smart nerds or nerds who can make me laugh or sensitive nerds are sexy. Notable examples include Paul from the Wonder Years, Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future, and Michael Cera in pretty much everything. I do not think nerds who live in their mother's basements and talk constantly about Dungeons and Dragons even though they are almost 30 are sexy. Your mileage may vary.

6. If I like a book or movie or television show I will read/watch it over and over and over. And over. And over. I have read some of John Irving's books at least 10 times. I have read Flannery O'Connor's short stories even more than that. I will watch Silence of the Lambs 3 times in one day. Like that.

7. One of my compulsions is the compulsion to make words out of the letters on license plates. I do this constantly and unconsciously at this point.

(Rule 2: Check and check!)

Nominate 15 bloggers (actually, I think it says nominate 15 bloggers you have recently discovered...but I don't discover that many that frequently. Let's say just nominate 15 bloggers okay?)

1. Amber at Nostomanic - read it! Read the archives! Its all completely awesome and hilarious and nostalgic for those of us who are children of the 90s.

2. Ashley the Accidental Olympian - who is awesome.

3. Ells at Run Bitches Run who both runs AND bitches, and also has an awesome dog, which makes her like my twin or something. I don't know. She's cool and I like her and you should too.

4. Tina K at Vomit Popsicle because how can you not read something like a name like that and because she IS really versatile. Sometimes there's poems and sometimes there's stories and sometimes there's other stuff.

5. Erin at Blogging is for Dorks who I really did just kind of discover recently. Well, rediscover. Anyway, she's hilarious and her children make me not entirely opposed to the idea of procreation. Which is a way better compliment than it sounds like.

EDITED TO ADD THE REST OF THE LINKS:

6. Kandace at One Red Wall
7. Maria at No One Reads the Copy
8. Tristachio at Tristachio: Not a Peanut
9. Sadako at Dibbly Fresh
10. Manda at the Secret Life of Manda Kay
11. Man Shopping in Paris
12. Not That Kind of Girl
13. Annabelle at I'll Tell You Anyway
14. Kelly at [insert clever title here]
15. Cleolinda Jones at Occupation: Girl
I need a freaking drink.

Uh. This is Pretty Gross. And Humiliating. I Kind of Can't Believe I Hit Publish, Actually. Shit.

2010-07-07T13:27:00.003-05:00

So I googled "what do you do when your dog has a cold?" the other day. And I just happened to notice the Google suggestions. I got through what do you do...and Google supplied what I guess are common searches starting with the same phrase? I don't know.

Top 2:

What do you do when a guy fingers you?
What do you do when a guy goes down on you?

What do you do? Well, you knit a sweater and sing a song and then maybe you make a grocery list. What exactly do you mean, what do you do? If you have to wonder, then my guess would be you tell him he's doing it wrong.

Which reminds me of a horribly embarrassing, way too much information story from high school. The first guy who ever, uh, made sweet love to me with his finger, set the scene with Marilyn Manson's Beautiful People in the basement of his parents' house. Nothing gets me hotter than R. Lee Ermy screaming, "You are nothing but bombastic pieces of amphibious shit!" 2 feet from head. Mrowr. But hell, what did I know? I'd never done more than tongue kiss a guy at this point.

So, Beautiful People is screaming and moaning throughout the room. And my chosen stud very matter of factly unbuttons my pants and commences with the evenings activities. No, I did not leave out any details. I mean he started the song, unbuttoned my pants, and got to work. He did this for 15 minutes, with me trying to delicately squirm away from him while saying "Ow. Ouch. Fucking ow" because that shit HURT. It was like Freddie Kreuger was stabbing me in the vagina. It was so bad I was honest-to-God RELIEVED when his father walked in and caught us. Because then I had an excuse to run screaming into the night and never speak to the guy again. Okay, I didn't run screaming into the night. But I did re-fasten my pants in a manner intended to indicate the evening was over. And the guy looked at me, in my dewy, frightened virgin's eyes, and said, "Sorry we had to get interrupted, Babe. I could tell how much you were enjoying that."

I went home, checked to make sure I wasn't bleeding (because, really, ouch - I have no idea what he was doing but he clearly shouldn't have been doing it. I'm not even convinced to this day he was in the right spot. I think he might have just been randomly stabbing around down there) and never, ever spoke to the guy again.

A Modern Fable. Just Call Me Aesop.

2010-06-29T09:25:00.000-05:00

Did I ever tell you the story about my scale? Probably not. Probably because its not really worth telling. But I'm going to tell it to you today to distract myself from the fact that the anxiety is creeping up on me again. Pill failure is imminent. I can tell because when I put on my clothes the other day, they felt horrible. They felt wrong and the material was irritating and nothing felt right touching my skin. And its not the clothes. Also I got a tiny, tiny little raise yesterday and instead of being, you know, happy, I spent the rest of the day kind of wanting to hide under my desk for no reason I could put my finger on. So...onto the fascinating story of my scale!

When I was in my teens I had a minor fling with anorexia. I'm not one of those people who struggles with it constantly, but it seems to be related to the OCD and pops up every once in a great while. Frankly, if I don't have a scale I have no problem with the anorexia (its the numbers. If I weigh 145** pounds then I feel compelled to make the scale say 140**. If it says 140, it needs to say 135.** And the number always has to end in a 5 or a 0, even though that kind of number only exists in Hollywood and romance novels). Anyway, not owning a scale seemed to take care of the problem so I hadn't owned a scale in over 10 years. But I had reached a point where medication was working for the worst of the anxiety and the OCD, and my husband was trying to gain weight (because he's evil and he has the metabolism of ...something with a ridiculously fast metabolism. His metabolism is on crack). And honestly, I was fine. It didn't bother me, I didn't even really feel compelled to get on the stupid thing. As long as my clothes fit, I'm good. That's pretty much my weight gauge. I don't want to have to buy an entire new wardrobe.

Until.

I had whooping cough a while back. The doctor put me on a mega-dose of steroids. I stood in the bathroom and watched my face become perfectly round. My stomach swelled, my thighs swelled, my ass grew so fast it was like going through puberty again. I kept knocking into things because it was so much bigger, and because it happened pretty much overnight. I kept my giant ass off the scale for a while, because I knew the actual number would probably kill me dead.

And then we had people over to watch the Superbowl. And one of those people was a really sweet, really blond, tiny little person who worked with my husband. For whatever reason (a reason he will regret until his DYING BREATH) he said, "Megan's just really big right now because of the medication they put her on. She's not really this fat." He is so, so lucky this story doesn't end with the words: and then I killed him. But at least I know now that I don't actually have death ray eyes, because seriously, he would be SO DEAD if I did. Very, very dead.

After they left, and after I was able to think coherent things that weren't "fucking skinny asshole....why...kill...stab...death argh" I stepped on the scale. And I cried like a giant, bawling baby at the number on that damn scale. And we kept the scale because then I was determined to use my OCD powers for good and be able to wear something that didn't have an elastic waist. But the number did not improve. I waged full scale war with that fucking scale. I swore at it, screamed at it, cried at it, exercised and ate grass clippings and rabbit food for a month, and the damn scale wouldn't budge. This was a problem because 1.) I wasn't losing weight and 2.) the number did not end in 5 or 0. So it was messing with me on multiple levels.

One day I had had enough and I threw the thing in the trash.

"Ha! I. Fucking. Win." I thought.

And then I went to the doctor and found out I had in fact lost 20 pounds, but the scale we had was crap and didn't give correct weights.

Moral of this story: Two fold, actually.

1. Scales are evil minions of Satan. Lying liars who sit upon thrones of lies, if you will.
2. Never. I mean NEVER tell another woman you think your wife is fat, and especially not in front of your wife. If she doesn't actually kill you you will wish she had.

Supersecret moral of the story: I clearly have no ability to judge my own appearance. You'd think I could tell I lost 20 pounds based on my appearance and my clothes. But the damn scale took over my brain and all I could see was that horrible, horrible way too high number.

**numbers not necessarily indicative of actual weights that I have weighed. I might weigh 200 pounds. Or 90 pounds. You don't know.

I Don't Even Think There's Any Niche Porn About This

2010-06-21T10:44:00.000-05:00

So my latest neurosis is so cliched its disgusting, and I hate myself a little bit, but I can't help it. I'm having something of a mid-life crisis, except I'm only 28, so I hope its not LITERALLY a mid-life crisis. Maybe I'm just getting it out of the way early so when I'm 40 I don't have to worry about it. I've always been something of an overachiever.

So, I've pretty much come to the point where I believe that I will never be sexy and hot again. Maybe its all the 19 year old summer help we hired around here calling me fucking MA'AM or maybe its my husband.

Scene: Getting ready for work last week

Him: You look like a Pentecostal.

Me:...I...what?

Him: You look like one of those Pentecostal chicks.

Me:...I don't know what to say to that, really, but I'm going to change clothes.

A few minutes later:

Him: Now you look French.

Me: What does that mean?

Him: I don't know, you just look French.

Me: Didn't you used to say things like, "You look pretty today"?

Him: Yeah.

PENTECOSTAL. He told me I looked PENTECOSTAL. I guess I can just go ahead and go through menopause and die now.

A Series of Open Letters to Things That are Irritating Me

2010-06-14T10:17:00.000-05:00

Dear Jerks on Yahoo!:

Hi! Arkansans can READ! And you are a bunch of jackasses for making fun of 16 dead people! I would be truly angry, but based on your comments, I'm pretty sure you're 13 years old and you play Magic in the back of bookstores and you will never get laid.

Dear CNN:

Governor Mike Beebe. Beebe. With a B. Not Heebe. Please fact check better.

Dear Uterus:

Seriously, we are not about to enter some weird, Waterworld style apocolypse in which it will be necessary to drink our own urine. We do not need 18 extra pounds of water weight. You realize you aren't really necessary, right? Shape up or you're out of here.

P.S. 2 weeks of PMS is overkill, don't you think?

Dear Friends with Children:

Trust me, I'm not pregnant. I've been doing this whole "monthly womanly cycle" thing for about 17 years now. That's approximately 204 cycles, not counting the times I have one every two weeks. If I can't tell I'm having my monthly womanly time after experiencing it 200+ times, well, probably these are not superstellar genes that MUST be passed on to the next generation. I mean, really, is there ANYTHING you do over 200 times that you still don't have the hang of? If so, you probably should consider the future a little bit and not inflict your progeny on the world either.

Dear Coca Cola:

Why are you so gross? That's probably why you are the only thing left in the vending machine. Which would be awesome if the whole office was singing in perfect harmony, but we're not.

Dear Self Magazine:

Why don't I just go ahead and stop eating and work out for 6 hours a day? That's basically what you're getting at right? I guess no one would pay $4 for a magazine with 2 sentences advising anorexia and 30,000 ads. Apparently I will pay $4 for a magazine with approximately 8 articles subtly recommending anorexia, a jillion pictures of "healthy, thin!" girls whose thighs are smaller than my upper arms, and 30,000 ads. I want my $4 and my relatively healthy self image back.

You're Welcome

2010-06-10T13:22:00.000-05:00

Note to self: People who tell you that you don't really need shampoo are full of bologna. Stinky, rotten bologna.

I attempted a little experiment. People have been saying for years that we don't really need to wash our hair as frequently as we do, and that if we would just stop using shampoo eventually our hair would be gorgeous and lovely and wonderful. This does make some sense to me, as women have not always HAD shampoo.

Perhaps I am extremely impatient, but I tried this for one night and its awful. I mean, I've tried before to go longer between washings and never made it past a couple days before my face was breaking out because the oil in my hair was getting on my pillow and rubbing on my face and eew, okay, its just not happening for me. But someone suggested to me that you still need WATER just not shampoo. Also, people have recommended to me that shampooing is bad for curly hair and all you really need to do is condition. It seems like an odd recommendation, because if you are not shampooing you have oil and if you have oil why on God's green earth would you add more oil (artificial flavor!) But what the hell. I'm a scientist.

So last night (since I didn't run yesterday, thus wasn't sweaty, thus wasn't as grossed out by the whole idea) I rinsed my hair very thoroughly with warm water and put only a tiny, tiny dollop of conditioner on the ends and then rinsed again.

I air dried my hair because I always air dry my hair because blow dryers are of the devil as far as my hair is concerned. Seriously, other women use blow dryers and their hair is lovely to behold. I use one ONCE and my hair is a mass of frizz and split ends no matter what kind of product I use. Anyway. My hair looked great. It felt a little...odd...but I figured I'd just keep my hands away from my hair (only makes it oilier, after all, right?) and look like a million dollars. I may also have screeched when my husband tried to touch my hair and he might have been a little grossed out by the texture and also a little frightened because my screech is super horrifying. But it looked great, and that's what is important here, ladies am I right or am I right?

Until this morning. If I wasn't so vain I would have taken a picture to prove to you how bad this was. But I do, in fact, have enough vanity that I do not want you to see it. Or my morning face. My hair still looked okay cleanliness wise. Unfortunately, it also looked as if muskrats had taken up residence in my hair overnight, made muskrat love, and produced other tiny little bundles of muskrat joy. It was the most tangled my hair has ever been, in my life, and I am totally counting that one time I got a round brush stuck in my hair about 1 mm from my scalp. (How did I manage that feat, you might be wondering. And the answer is skillz, baby, SKILLZ). If I were a smart person, I would have just washed it before work. But this is SCIENCE, ya'll, and I am a GIVER. So I sacrificed some more for you, only to be able to tell you that I tried to comb it, pick it, and/or brush it out, but had to give up because all my hairs threatened to fall out or break off in protest of how badly this hurt. It is not good when your hair makes a ripping sound, is what I mean. So I'm wearing it up. It still looks fine, but it feels gross, my scalp is itchy, and frankly I want to whimper a little when I think of trying to wash it tonight.

This is the last time I sacrifice personal hygiene for you people, and I sincerely hope you are grateful.

Pictures

2010-06-09T09:46:00.000-05:00

Dont' worry, dude, I have enough chin for the both of us.

9:00 in the morning.

We hiked down there. We forgot we had to hike back up.

Chinatown. At like 6 a.m., because it was 8 as far as my body was concerned.

View from the hotel. Because we are fancy and we stay in the upper levels.

Most. Touristy. Photo. Ever. So touristy none of the other tourists even tried it.

That is the Golden Gate Bridge. I swear there's a bridge there.

No, really, I SWEAR it's the Golden Gate Bridge.

I Was Thinking About Maybe Procreating, But Maybe Not

2010-06-08T10:51:00.000-05:00

We are generally relatively lucky travelers on our way TO a destination. This is balanced by the fact that we are cursed on our way home.

For instance, we flew to New Orleans for our wedding. We had no problems at all. On the way home we were in the airport for 11 hours because our flight kept getting postponed. Allow me to point out that my house is located approximately 8 hours from New Orleans by car.

When we were on our way home from New York we boarded the connecting flight, and then it didn't take off for 2 hours. We sat in line waiting for our turn for 2 hours before we actually left the ground.

On the way home from San Antonio it was the pee Nazi flight attendant. It took me 45 minutes of intense bladder burning to finally decide, "Screw it. I have to pee and I have to do it now, shy bladder and bathroom issues and all." And then, out of my worst nightmare, she humiliates me in front of the entire plane full of people. "Miss," she screeched, "We can't pull into the terminal until you are SEATED." I explained to her that we had been waiting to get off the plane for over an hour, that we hadn't moved in that time, and that I pretty desperately needed the facilities. She allowed me to pee (um, hi, I'm an adult. Don't really need your permission) and the plane pulls into the terminal WHILE I'M PEEING and the world did not end, except I was mortified.

Anyway, I have a point here. And the point is that this trip was NO DIFFERENT.

They got on the plane in Denver. The flight was slightly delayed, but not by a terribly long amount of time. I didn't really notice them at first, because the boarding was weird. They rushed us all to board, but then we stood in line for another 45 minutes waiting to actually board. At some point, they came to my attention because they were wrestling. Full out, rolling on the floor, screeching, wrestling. I think I saw one of them throw the People's Elbow at the other one. And their mother, "Yes, they are 17 months a part, so this happens a lot." She's cooing like its totally adorable that her hellspawn are trying to gouge each other's eyes out. Hell, I'm not a mother, maybe it IS adorable. I try not to judge. Then the running and the screaming. And we haven't even boarded yet.

They are, of course, seated directly behind us. Where the oldest of the little antichrists proceeds to kick the seatback for 3 straight hours. 45 minutes before we land, this conversation happens:

"Do you think I should brush your hair?"
"No"
"We need to brush it before we see [whoever they were visiting]. Will you let me brush your hair now?"
"No"

Repeat until you feel the urge to beat one of them with the brush. Probably the mother. Because after the 15th time they had the above exchange, I wanted to turn around and say, "Good grief, Lady, she's 3. Just brush her gd hair already." By the time the child has given in to the bribe to wear a tiara in exchange for brushing her hair I am totally over new age, super sensitive parenting. Seriously, I cannot recall a time in my life when my mother ASKED me to brush my hair. She just...did. And I'm not totally psychologically scarred. Also, it seemed a little weird, because it's one thing to give the child a choice and then go with that. It's another to give a child a choice, but only pay attention if they make the pre-determined choice that you have made for them. I mean, if you already have decided that one choice is unacceptable, why even make it a choice?

Do you know what else my mother never let me do that did not, in fact, ruin my entire life? She never let me run around and around and around the baggage carousel shrieking. And she never let me actually climb INTO the part of the carousel where heavy luggage comes crashing out.

By the time we got out of there I was no longer irritated with the children. But I did want to smack the parent's heads together. And I know, since I have no kids, people will be like, you don't have any idea what its like. But there were 2 parents traveling together, here, and we aren't talking like, the child was tired and had a 15 minute tantrum that is completely not the parents' fault. We are talking about a situation in which neither of the parents even ATTEMPTED to exert ANY control at all.

Best. Birth control. Ever.

Rice a Roni

2010-06-06T21:56:00.000-05:00

1. 50-60 degrees in San Francisco is not the same as 50-60 degrees in Arkansas. I should have taken more sweaters.

2. Homeless people are way different in SF than anywhere else. Here, New York, Honolulu, Mexico...all pretty much the same. They ask, you answer, end of transaction. I have never had so many street people storm angrily away from me as in SF. Which pisses me off. Look, I have bought food, I have bought water, I have given clothing, I've organized food drives, volunteered in soup kitchens and shelters, and donated to certain charities.

But you are not entitled to my cash, my cigarettes, or my anything, really, just because you ask me for it.

3. The more touristy the area the worse the food and the higher the price. I ate the worst meal of my life in Fisherman's Wharf, and paid five times more for it than better food in other places. Seriously. It was supposedly a specialty. It was a grilled cheese. And it tasted like onions. Only onions. That is not right.

4. People are awesome about buying you drinks in SF. Three separate occassions we were given free drinks. I don't know if its because we are naturally friendly people, because people are impressed that Arkansans have all their teeth, wear shoes in public and can speak English correctly, or what, but people loved buying us drinks.

5. Sutro Heights Park and the Coastal Trail are awesome. That is all.

6. The light in California is gorgeous. And perfect.

7. San Francisco does not like music made after 1999. The most recent song I heard in any bar, restaurant, car, shop, whatever, was Radiohead from the 90s.
Pictures to come.

Edited to add: I no longer really believe that California knows how to party. Or maybe they are partying really hard in secret, but we never saw anyone out after 8 p.m.

Going Going Back Back to Cali Cali

2010-05-28T10:45:00.000-05:00

California, here we come! Dream of californication! California, rest in peace! What do you say we leave for California! I wish they all could be California girls! California knows how to party! Hey, hey you know what to do - drive away to Malibu! Well the girls are frisky in old Frisco, a pretty little chick wherever you go! San Francisco days, San Francisco nights!

I don't know any more California songs!

I should maybe lay off the Diet Dr. Pepper. I seem to be a little...overexcited. Whatever. We leave for California in 2 days and I am mostly excited because right now it is 30 degrees cooler in San Francisco than it is here.

Now I just have to finish packing from my master list, double check to make sure everything is actually in the suitcase, pack a carryon with essentials in case the luggage gets lost, double check all gates and departure times, make sure we aren't seated in an emergency exit (I can't take the responsibility) stay awake the night before we leave from excitement, and stay awake on the flight to keep the plane from crashing.

(Oooh! Ooh! I am still living with your ghost! Lonely and dreaming of the west coast!)

Delicious murder?

2010-05-27T11:21:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I ran by a house. Its a house I run by everyday, and I've never really looked at it before. But yesterday I ran by a house and I looked at it.

The house is locally famous now. A person who was staying there was questioned, early Tuesday morning, regarding the disappearance of a local woman. And he ran away from the cops, toward an elementary school, with a gun in his hand. The NLR police department shot and killed him. And you can't tell that anything ever happened.

I've been out of sorts since this happened. My thoughts are all scattered, and I don't guess they are coming together anytime soon. On the one hand, there's the seriousness of the issue. A man is dead, whether he was a suspected criminal or not, and that should matter. A person is a person, and a life is a life. On the other hand, there's the black humor:

*Guess I know my neighborhood really is safe. We shoot suspected murderers, after all.
* Don't antagonize NLRPD. They will put a cap in yo' ass.
* NLRPD: We're armed, and we love to shoot!
*What does it say about the local police that it took 5 of them simply to question someone?

The weirdest part is, I think this whole incident really just convinced me to go back to vegetarianism. I guess its because I've been thinking about the value of life, and does some life have more merit than other life? And if the answer is no, I need to stop eating meat and if the answer is yes, then I'm pretty sure an innocent cow comes before a murderer and I still need to stop eating meat.

So, hello, vegetarian food! I actually kind of missed you.

DISCLAIMER: THIS POST REPRESENTS THE OPINION OF THE MANAGEMENT. IT IS ONLY AN OPINION, NOT A JUDGMENT. I. AM. NOT. JUDGING. YOU. THE MANAGEMENT IS AWARE THAT MEAT IS AWFULLY TASTY, AND OTHER PEOPLE HAVE DIFFERING OPINIONS. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO EXPRESS THOSE OPINIONS. BUT REMEMBER: TOTALLY NOT JUDGING YOU.

We Should Have Named Her Lenny

2010-05-20T11:19:00.000-05:00

That dog. The one right up there. The one that is shaped like a barrel with 4 toothpicks sticking out the bottom. The one that is built in the least aerodynamic way possible? That dog leaped into the air and snagged a live bird the other day.

And then she played it to death. It was like watching Godzilla take on Flower from Bambi in a cage match. But she doesn't actually mean it, which really just makes it that much more horrifying to watch.

She just wants to pet the rabbits, is what I'm saying.

You Don't Have to Send Me Flowers, Is What I'm Saying

2010-05-19T08:22:00.000-05:00

My husband works with a very lovely woman who is nothing like me at all.

Backstory: Prior to my birthday, I told my husband not to worry about gifts or anything like that. Knowing my husband as well as I do, I did not make this statement lightly, or with the intention of him buying me something anyway (why do people do this? Why would you say you don't want something, and then get upset when someone listens to you and doesn't do/get whatever it is you want? This puzzles me). However, she and I are not the same, and she hounded him daily at work about how he HAD to get me something, I was lying if I said I didn't expect him to get me anything, blah blah blah. I guess she convinced him to send me flowers, even though he knows my feelings on flowers. I have explained to him in detail the 5 stages of receiving flowers, and why seriously, look me in the eye and read my lips, its not worth it. Really.

So, for you, the 5 Stages I Have to Go Through Every Time Someone Sends Me Flowers

Happiness
For the first several minutes after receiving flowers, there is a glowy, warm feeling. You feel special and loved, and also better than everyone around you. This is the adult version of neener-neener-neener.

Guilt/Sadness
After about 5 minutes, the special lovely feeling begins to fade, and then the realization begins to set in that your flowers are going to die. They have been speeded along the irrevocable death march, and its all so you can feel special. This stage is a little like visiting a family member in the hospice ward. You love them, but you know they are not going to make it, and you begin to prepare yourself.

Anxiety
Now you are watching your lovely bouquet for signs of wilt, droop, and death. You know that it is coming, and you just want to get it over with. You keep thinking about how expensive it is to send flowers, and how you are going to have to clean up after your new gift, and the slimy gunk that is always on the ends of the stems when you finally have to throw them away. This phase lasts a little while, and may or may not occassionally wake you up at night.

Resentment
You have to try to keep your flowers alive for as long as possible. You change the water and use the tips and tricks given to you by co-workers (7-up in the water, sugar in the water, pretty much anything in the water that's going to contribute to that smelly slime when you throw them away). You clean up dead leaves, dropped petals, and the weird random dirt that falls out of bouquets. You begin to feel that you have been asked to do more work, even though it was supposed to be a gift to you. You begin to wonder why people think you want gifts that entail more responsibility? Do they secretly hate you?

There is a subset of this where I wonder about the origination of the whole tradition? Why do people send flowers? In romantic situations I would guess it is because you can no longer drop a wolverine at a woman's feet and have her swoon with unbridled lust at your manliness (modern people are really kind of squeamish aren't we?) But flowers don't really convey the same principle do they? I mean, I guess if a guy has $100 to drop on roses, then yes the message is I can provide for you. But I think the message of the dead wolverine is more than that; its yes, I can provide for you, but I can also protect you. I mean, seriously, do you see that thing? I killed it! This sends another, hidden message that says here is DNA you want to pass on to your children. Flowers might convey a monetary ability to provide, but its not really that hard to kill a flower is it?

Disgust
Its time to throw your flowers away. The digust is manifested on two levels: the physical and the emotional. You are disgusted by the dead flowers, the slime (have I mentioned the slime), and the fact that no matter what you do the damn things don't seem to want to go in the trash can. On an emotional level, you are disgusted that you could not magically keep the flowers alive forever and also feel as though maybe it would have been easier had your loved one handed you a wad of cash to be immediately thrown in the garbage, or lit on fire.

You see why I'd rather not get flowers, right?

Stop Raining on My Parade, Already. I Earned It!

2010-05-17T15:15:00.000-05:00

Dude:

I'm sorry that the recent congratulations directed my way in re: my masters degree is turning you into a complete and utter asshole.

Let's get something straight: its not about you. Its not about being smarter than you. Its not about anything to do with you. Its about me achieving something that I wanted for the purpose of improving my life and being able to do a job I've wanted to do since I was 10 fucking years old. Its about me setting a goal for myself, and fucking well accomplishing it.

So, in answer to your repeated and pointed questions and statements:

1. No, I do not think this makes me smarter than you. I actually do think I'm smarter than you, but it has nothing to do with who has the higher degree. It actually has to do with the fact that I think you are the walking embodiment of Chicken Little. Or maybe its because you can't use the copy machine by yourself and you constantly ask me how to do the simplest tasks in Word or Excel.

2. Good for you that there are guys in the field with masters degrees and you had to train them. But FYI, a masters degree does not actually confer upon a person an instantaneous and omniscent knowledge. Having to train people to do a job they've never done before that you have been doing for 10 years doesn't make you smarter than them.

3. What the fuck is your problem? Is it that the office gave me a very nice gift? Because, while an iPod nano is totally awesome, it doesn't really make up for the fact that I've been here 3 years and never once gotten a raise. Is it the degree itself? I hate to break this to you, but there's no reason you can't have one, too. Seriously. There's no special trick to it, you don't have to be blessed with a rich daddy or a lot of time on your hands. All you have to do is...do it. There's no need to ask my friends if this "suddenly made me smart" and there's no need to take digs at me every time I run into you.

Seriously, what are you like 50 now? Grow the fuck up and try not to be such an asswipe in the future.

Megs (Master of the Fucking Universe, muahaha)

P.S. You might want to consider psychological help. Seriously, it can't be good for you to be this filled with insecurity and resentment when other people accomplish things.

I Have Two Words for You, and They Are These: Boo. Yah.

2010-05-13T16:51:00.000-05:00

My husband sprained his ankle standing at his desk.

Yes, I have walked into that exact same door frame every day since we lived in this house, but at least I didn't sprain my ankle standing at my desk.

Yes, I did just whack my head on the bathroom counter for the 5,000th time. At least I didn't sprain my ankle standing at my desk.

Yes, Mr. Smarty Pants, I did just trip over my own foot. But I've never sprained my ankle by standing up. Don't we know someone who did that once? Oh, yeah, it was you! In your face.

Yeah I did just spazz out and unintentionally dump a plate of my spaghetti all down my front. But I've never sprained my ankle at my freaking desk. Who looks stupid, now, huh? Okay, since I haven't changed shirts yet, maybe that one is a draw.

Perhaps you think I am running this into the ground. And I totally, totally am. Its got to be half way to China by now, and still digging. The thing is, I've known this man for 10 years. In that time, I have hit my head on uncountable cabinet doors, car door frames, and random shelves. I have knocked over entire displays in department stores. I have poked myself in the eye with everything from straws to my own glasses to my husband's cake smeared finger (yes, at my wedding). I have tripped over my own feet on a regular basis, and on one memorable occasion, I kicked myself in my own shin. Not to mention the number of food and beverage items I have upended on my own person just because sometimes my hands think they belong to someone else. In 10 years do you know what uncoordinated things he has done? He has sprained his ankle standing up at his desk at work. And that's it. So I am going to milk this baby until its dry (that's what she said) and I am also going to wait patiently for my "Best Wife Ever" award to come in the mail.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate

2010-05-10T16:00:00.000-05:00

Saturday I spent 18 years at Lowe's (and by the way, thanks to Amber at nostomanic for the excellent instructions on how to build a flux capacitor...totally saved my life).

In my house, we are each expected to use our superpowers for the good of the entire household. My superpower is the amazing and astounding ability to always, but always, find a helpful and knowledgeable sales associate within 5 minutes of entering any retail establishment. This...is actually a pretty awesome superpower. This also means that I am generally the one elected to do shopping. With great power comes great responsibility, I guess, and also I need something sucky to balance out the power, so that I do not become power mad and take over the world one helpful sales person at a time. (Interestingly, my husband's superpower is the ability to get rid of door to door sales people, which I can never do. They always ask to speak to my husband, which pisses me off, but does it make them leave when I get mad? It does not. Except that one guy who actually asked to speak to my parents. He was really embarrassed).

Aside: My husband needed some line for the weedeater. I know nothing of the weedeater. So I find the associate, of course, and get him on the phone with my husband. They had to bond, so this took like 11 of the 18 years I was there. By the way, his name was Jeff and there was lots of "Dude" and "Man" and technical mumbo jumbo about various different kinds of weedeaters that are not our weedeater. Also, I was on a quest for either a lilac or an old fashioned rose for my mother in law, and in case you couldn't tell from the weedeater debacle I am not exactly knowledgeable about stuff for the garden so it took another 7 years and I still got the wrong thing. Anyway, lots of time to think, is what I'm saying.

So I'm thinking about how I can always find a sales person, even when I don't want one. And how this is especially easy for me in Lowe's. I cannot walk down the aisles without tripping over at least 3 of them, whether I need them or not. I am beginning to suspect that its not really a superpower so much as it is people feeling that I need to be rescued. Clearly, my ovaries mean I have no idea what I'm doing at any given time and can't possibly be expected to know what I need and find it. Its especially true in Lowe's. I am a girl, therefore I know nothing about hardware stuff. My husband can NEVER find anyone to help him, but most especially at hardware stores and the like. Because testosterone comes pre-packaged with knowledge of power tools and how to fix things.

Its very disappointing and life altering to realize what you thought was a superpower was really just sexism.

The Month of May is Pretty Much All About Celebrating How Freaking AWESOME I Am

2010-05-10T11:24:00.000-05:00

Today is my adoption anniversary. My family has never exactly celebrated the day, per se. I think my mom felt a little weird about celebrating a day in which you say, "Well, someone else didn't want you! But WE did! Congratulations! Here's a present!" Also, my grandmother thought it would be confusing for me to celebrate both (I feel a bit...underestimated by this assessment, and also cheated. I have been cheated out of another opportunity to receive presents).

Anyway, what generally happens on this day is my mom tells me how happy she was to have a baby, and that she loves me. Since I was little she's also told me the story of my adoption, what she knows of my biological family, how they loved me and that's why they gave me up etc. As I've gotten older she's told me more details about failed adoptions prior to me and how no one would let her buy any baby stuff because they'd already been disappointed a couple of times. Plus, it is a day to reminisce about how cute I used to be (remember when you called that guy fat in the grocery store and I had to run away humiliated leaving a full cart of groceries behind? Yes, Mom, I remember because I did not know a human butt could get that red after a spanking!)

So, okay. Let's get in the spirit and celebrate the day. And the best way I know to get in the spirit of anything, apparently, is to make a list. So here is a list of random things about being adopted.

1. My biological parents are Sicilian immigrants who had 6 children prior to me, came to America, got separated, decided to get back together, got pregnant again, and then filed for divorce. I have never had any anger at my birth mother for this decision - single mom with 6 kids? Bad. Single mom with 7 kids? Even badder, I would think. So you know, thanks for not aborting me instead, I guess. I am more upset that I got the Sicilian nose and tendency toward excessive body hair without any of the benefits. I do not look like Appollonia and I do not have any mafia connections.

2. I feel like I dodged a bullet on the whole family thing. Instead of being the baby of a large family with a mother who would never be able to be home if we all wanted to eat, I got to be the only child of an older mother who gave me pretty much whatever I wanted. Not to mention the sole focus of the doting grandparents and even my half brothers treated me like a princess. Which is probably why I still have princess-y tendencies. But I can tell you about those later.

3. My mom has told me about my adoption for as long as I can remember. I didn't know that some people didn't tell their kids they were adopted. Weirdly enough, my first boyfriend was also adopted. His parents didn't tell him until he was older. He had a lot of trouble with it. I never did. I'm not telling you how to raise your kids, I'm just saying. Kid who was not told: extra emotional and psychological issues. Kid who was told: I won't say I don't have any issues, but they aren't EXTRA issues.

4. People feel uncomfortable when you tell them you're adopted. I'm not sure why this is. Most common question I was asked in grade school: Does it feel different since you didn't come out of your mommy's tummy? And the answer is, if you remember your own birth, you are a far better person than I. No, it does not feel different. (Sometimes little kids are jackholes, and they would follow this up with, doesn't it bother you that your real mom didn't want you? But I could be a jackhole, too. No, it doesn't bother me because my mom WANTED me and PICKED me. Your mom just got stuck with you).

5. I was a little confused about the process of adoption for a while, and imagined my mom going to a store (Babies R Us?) and literally choosing me from a wide selection of infants. I figured I must have been the cutest and that's why she picked me. Yes, I felt that my adoption was much like when my grandparents would take me shopping for a Barbie.

I Live to Help

2010-05-05T11:08:00.000-05:00

Today I am 28. To celebrate this momentous occassion, I bring you:

28 Life Lessons I have Learned the Hard Way so You Don't Have To (even though, if you are anything like me, you totally will anyway). You're Welcome.

1. If you are a 15 year old girl and a 19/20 year old guy is hitting on you (and continues to try to hit on you, even though you told him you were 15) you should run as far and fast as you can. There is something wrong with this guy. Really, really wrong. I know you may be tempted to think that you are just that special, but probably you are not. This guy is the walking, talking definition of loser.

2. If a guy tells you he loves you on the very first date (a blind date, at that) you should fake an attack of the stomach flu and never, ever pick up the phone when he calls. He has emotional problems, and you will not like where this leads. At all. Like, you should probably keep an eye on your bunny.

3. Anyone who dates you to make a political statement is a jackass.

4. Everyone should take one major vacation by themselves. That was the best/scariest time I ever had in my life. A word of caution though: do not go anywhere with the guy who wants to "take pictures of you." I may have missed my shot at being an international supermodel, but on the other hand I also wasn't raped or spread eagle on the internet for all the world to see.

5. There is nothing wrong with your nose/face/breasts/hips/thighs/belly/body hair/hair color/toe nails. You are fine. Someone will love you anyway, I promise. I say this as a person who shops for bras in the children's section and has a Sicilian heritage. If it would really, truly make you happy to change something - go for it. But the people I know who have changed things have always just found something else not to like. Also, Michael Jackson.

6. No one is judging you nearly as much as you think they are judging you. In fact, they are all too worried that you are judging them to really, properly judge you.

7. Going out to eat on Valentine's Day is a special torture in hell. It is reserved for people who rape cats. Why would you voluntarily put yourself through that for the most pointless holiday in the history of pointless holidays?

8. It may seem like a good idea to eat an entire can of smoked almonds. It is not.

9. It is entirely too easy to flush a cell phone down a toilet. It is embarrassing to stand in the ladies' room with two redneck maintenance men while they attempt to fish your phone out of the toilet. Especially because they will loudly question, and re-question, how the hell you managed to flush your phone, anyway. You will not get the phone back (and honestly, do you REALLY, REALLY want it back NOW?) and it will be a waste of your time and the maintenance guys' time.

10. Bad boys are only fun in movies and literature. When you date a real life bad boy you should probably not be too surprised when you find yourself standing on the side of the road while the cops perform a search on your car because, oh, yeah, did he forget to mention he was awaiting trial on charges of felony possession of meth? Which means they can search your car. In fact, they can search you if they want to. And you realize the relationship isn't going to work because you are not reassured when he says, "But don't worry. I wouldn't bring that stuff in your car or anything."

(At this point, you should be imagining yourself hanging out of a trailer with rat's nest hair. You are wearing a tank top and underpants. The spotlight from the police helicopter is illuminating the scene from above, and you are screaming while he is bent over the hood of the police cruiser, forever marring the paint with his greasy hair. )

Then you should take that boy back to whatever friend's house he's crashing at that week, and burn rubber as you take off and never, ever look back.

11. It is entirely possible to split a fifth of whiskey with one other person, take 15 shots, and not die. I don't know if its possible to do that without FEELING like you're going to die, but it is possible to not ACTUALLY die (well, I didn't die; someone else maybe could. I'm just saying its possible not to, not that anyone should actually attempt this).

12. There is no fun that is worth the way you will feel the morning after you drink that much. Seriously, ponies and rainbows and a huge pink Barbie party just for you are not enough fun to be worth the hell you will feel.

13. If you are the designated driver you will end up at a Taco Bell drive-through window with 6 drunk boys who won't stay in the car. You might almost get arrested.

14. One of the drunk boys will puke in your car. He will offer to clean it up the next day, but there is no way in hell he'll do it early enough to suit you. Might as well hold your breath and clean it up yourself.

15. Hurricanes actually DO have alcohol in them. If you drink three before you realize this, you might be a little fuzzy on how you got back to your hotel room and why the hell your shoes are so clean (and it could be because you were accosted by a bum on the walk back who cleaned your shoes with windex and then demanded $10. That's probably also where that $10 went).

16. When you get married, you will never be able to shower uninterrupted ever again. Even though there is a second bathroom, he will want to use the one you are in. If I ever figure out how to stop this, I'll let you know.

17. Your mother is not going to change. She's probably always going to treat you like you are seven. Nothing can be done about this.

18. If a man tells you he did some laundry while you were gone, be sure to check that the laundry actually made it into the dryer. It will mildew, and that smell ain't ever coming out completely.

19. You cannot do everything you put your mind to. I'm sorry. If you are a 90s child like me I'm sure you were raised to believe in your very special specialness, and that you can do anything you want. But you can't. And that's okay. Some of the greatest lessons in my life came through failure (wow. That was schmaltzy). As an example, there was a time when what this meant to me personally was that I could be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, a fairy princess, and a veterinarian. And then I could also be Jane Goodall. All in the same lifetime. I cannot actually do any of those things. OK, I maybe could have been a veterinarian. But still. The dream was to have it ALL.

20. Work in food service and retail. It will make you a nicer person. Okay, except that one time I went off on a customer but dude seriously...two waitresses, 100 tables...do some math and realize you ain't getting your food in 5 minutes. You want food in 5 minutes go to McDonald's. (And yes, they did complain about me to the owner, who LAUGHED at them, because she knew I would NEVER do that without damn good reason. And then she gave me a raise. God I miss her).

21. If you, like me, are in a male-dominated industry that requires field work...the best way to get most men to do what you want is to act a little like their mother. Don't flirt, and don't be a hard-core bitch if you can help it. Also, when you are going to be working with construction workers maybe leave the tank tops and the cute little wedge sandals at home (I have never worn inappropriate clothes on a job site, but you would be surprised how many girls think tromping through the woods or at a railyard is the perfect place for three inch heels and a mini-skirt. It is not. Never).

22. Like what you like. Its such a huge waste of time to pretend to be into something you hate just because its more acceptable to the people around you. I pretended to like Mystical for a month once, to impress a boy who liked rap. I also pretended to like Death Cab for Cutie at one point in order to be more "indie." I still don't like either one. And I'll admit it, I do actually occasionally rock out to Britney Spears. I refuse to be ashamed. Okay, I'm a little ashamed.

23. I fully expected to be presented with a brand new automobile wrapped in a pretty red bow on my 16th birthday. This only happens on Saved by the Bell. Chances are good no one is ever going to present anyone with a brand new car wrapped in a big red bow. Do not hold your breath, is what I'm saying.

24. Being alone can be good for the soul. I recommend being alone on a regular basis.

25. Red Bull does not taste good in anything. Please do not ruin a perfectly good vodka by adding Red Bull to it.

26. Girl push ups do not prepare you for anything other than girl push ups. If you want to be able to do real push ups, you just have to start doing real pushups. And I was going to make this another schmaltzy metaphor (involving sports this time!) but I have no more Hallmark moments left in me, after that first one. So, DIY advice.

27. Hamburger Helper is never, under any circumstances, a good idea.

28. Everything will be okay. Or it won't. And there's usually jack shit you can do about it anyway (although I keep trying. Probably, I haven't completely learned this one yet. This one is a little easier after two glasses of wine, or some form of medication).

Someone is Probably About to Ask Me, "Is it that time of the month?" And Then My Head is Going to Explode.

2010-05-04T15:28:00.001-05:00

I am crabby. Here is a list of the things that have made me unreasonably angry in the past 10 hours:

1. My husband shaved, and he didn't clean out the sink. He never cleans out the sink after he shaves. Normally, I just wipe out the sink and go on with my day. Today, I ranted for 20 minutes (at the dogs, he sneaked out before I could rant at him) about how angry that made me.

2. People cutting me off. To be fair, this happens all the time, too. But today I deployed the time honored gesture of disapproval, which I normally don't do because I like to live and people frighten me. And really, I'm just a delicate little flower who doesn't like confrontation. Today, I felt the finger was better than my other reflex, which was to ram the next person who cut me off.

3. My pants. Why is it so freaking hard to make a pair of women's pants? Why must all my pants be too tight in the ass and thighs and yet have room in the waist band for both my fists, a small dog, and another person?

4. My mother's anxiety about my trip at the end of the month. She is always anxious. And yet, her expressed anxiety that we will be hijacked by terrorists when we fly to San Francisco pissed me off.

5. The telephone. I curse Alexander Graham Bell and anyone else who had anything to do with the creation of this accursed invention. Stop. Ringing.

6. My "promotion" to "professional status" which comes with no perks. I am not a secretary, but I get treated like a secretary. "I see that you are working feverishly on those 18 reports piled on your desk, but please stop for a moment to print this or copy that or retrieve that file for me." There are two other women here (who get secretarial perks like overtime, which I do not get) who could do that. But please. Have me do it.

7. E-mailing me things so that I can print them for you. Are you kidding? Is it really easier to write an e-mail, attach a document, and send it to me (then harrass me no end until you get your print job) than it is to just click the little print icon?

8. My hair. I cannot even describe to you how much a pain in the ass it is to have my hair. It is straight there, but it is wavy there, and yes those are a few random corkscrew curls thrown in for the hell of it. The only consistent thing about it is the frizz. Normally, I put it up and never think on it again. Today, I can feel it up there. I can feel each individual strand being a complete asshole. Today I am considering the relative merits of a buzz cut.

9. The phone conversation on the other side of the cubicle divider. The clicking of high heels. Does she have to type that hard? Is it necessary to breathe that loudly? Does the sun have to shine so much?

10. My yogurt. It is not expired. So why is it separated and clumpy? I looked forward to that yogurt all day, and I didn't even get to enjoy it. (Also, my banana was annoying this morning, too. Peeling the damn thing made my skin crawl).

I do not know what the hell is wrong with me today. I hope this isn't the start of the failure of the pills I've been taking for anxiety. That, too, will seriously piss me off. Maybe its just birthday blues, and the fact that this one will probably suck a little bit. It was my idea that my husband not get me a present. And I stand by that. We spent a lot of money in April on cars, and home stuff, and a vacation at the end of the month that's a combination graduation/birthday present. But for whatever reason I've been all mopey about it the past couple of days, because I didn't realize how much I want the EXACT DAY to feel special. And its ridiculous, because its not like we won't celebrate at some point or I'm not getting something awesome. And its not like there's even anything particularly awesome that I want. The trip is what I want. I would pretty much always rather travel than get a material item. I'm not lying when I say I don't want anything else. But now its expanded to this complete fantasy in my head where I'm Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles and everyone forgets its my birthday altogether. You know, if Molly Ringwald was turning 28.

At least I won't have to wear pink tafetta.

Challenge

2010-04-27T12:54:00.001-05:00

So, I have decided that I am now locked in mortal combat with Vic over who has the more redneck family. I'll see your 'shooting quail out of a moving car', Vic, and raise you...

1. Daddy grew up in a one room dirt floor cabin with an outhouse and 6 brothers and sisters. So maybe its not entirely his fault.

2. Sometime prior to my birth, my father was "employed" as a rodeo clown. When his knees could no longer stand up to the rigors of this "job" he began working as a truck driver. He liked to smoke cheap Muriel cigars while driving, and when the cigar was down to a nub he would chew on it for hours.

3. When I was about 11 we started having phone conversations wherein he would ask me about boyfriends. Every single one of these conversations ended with him telling me, "Just as long as you ain't datin' any [colored] boys." Sometimes he actually said colored. Most often he said something else entirely, which I refuse to repeat.

4. My dad basically has an arsenal set up in his home, out in the middle of nowhere. They have a garden and a generator and a coal burning stove. So they're ready for the apocolypse, or the South rising again (2nd War of Northern Aggression, known to most people as the Civil War), whichever comes first, is what I'm saying.

5. Dude, he totally believes the south will rise again and successfully secede from the Union.

6. He once shot a deer out of his bedroom window. He's extremely proud of the fact that he could have field dressed it right on the porch. Actually, I never asked. He might HAVE field dressed it on the front porch.

7. He wears belt buckles bigger than my head. I think he won a couple bull-riding, but the best one is the one he bought himself in Vegas. Its very...Vegas. Its for special occasions. On a regular day, he wears 25 year old Wranglers, a plaid button down shirt, and a silver buckle as big as my head, with shitkicker boots. For a special occasion (graduation from high school, college graduation, his own wedding...whatever might require him to be "fancy") he wears the same old Wranglers, the same button down shirts, his belt with his name on the back and the Vegas buckle, and snake skin cowboy boots. Anything with the words "black tie" in the invite will add a bolo tie to the special ensemble.

I have to stop now.
This is starting to bring about deer camp flashbacks.

Car-ma

2010-04-23T10:29:00.000-05:00

Car-ma is like karma, only with cars, and less explicable. Mine is bad.

I have owned 4 cars in my 27 years on the planet. The first one was a 1987 Buick LeSabre, steel gray. It was called the Grocery-getter. My grandma gave it to me. I loved that car. And then I totaled it (I hydroplaned into a concrete divider, veered off in the opposite direction, went off the road, and flipped the car. I flipped a 1987 Buick, which is about like saying I flipped a freaking tank. I am talented, is what I mean). I had that car for maybe 8 months. ( I should also mention that when I flipped the car it was full of crap for some reason. My graduation 'regalia' was in there, along with a kitchen-aid mixer, various items from my high school locker, and miscellaneous other crap. This will be important later).

I had to save for awhile to buy my next car, a shit brown Chevy Lumina that had been owned by a person...considerably heavier than me. The entire driver seat tilted about 45 degrees to the left, so I always sat at an angle. I hated this car more than I hated the guy who had just dumped me over the phone because I was "too good for him." (Which, by the way, is a sucky thing to say to a person you are dumping. Its supposed to be a compliment, but its not really, and then you feel bad about hating someone who said something nice to you except they said it because how do you argue with it or change it really, and its really a huge load of horse manure). This car's name was Piece of Shit Car and was always sung like the Adam Sandler song. And the damn car WOULD NOT DIE. I tried leaving it unlocked, always. I would park outside convenience stores and LEAVE THE KEYS IN IT, and no one else wanted it any more than I did. No one was desperate enough to steal this car. It would start to act weird mechanically, but the mechanic could never find anything wrong with it. Aside from the fact that it was leaking oil from everywhere and would be more expensive to fix than the car was worth. Finally, it started dying every time I put on the brakes so I had an excuse to get a different car.

Which I also hated. A 2002 Saturn, and the air conditioner worked for the 1st month I had it, then broke, then was fixed (expensively) then broke again, etc. Arkansas in August is like unto the lower rungs of hell. It is hot and it is humid. I looked like I'd run 12 miles every morning when I got to work. It was miserable. And then one day it was full of crap (stuff to donate, stuff to take to my mom for a yard sale, stuff stuff stuff) and I got rear-ended by a truck and shoved up the ass of a city bus. And it was totaled. And I was secretly extremely happy about this, but also beginning to suspect that anytime I have a bunch of junk in my car I will have a wreck that will total my car.

Now I have replaced it with a car that I am in love with and I've been driving it a little over a year. It is the Old Crusty Gangster car. I never fill it with junk. I keep it extremely clean on the inside. And its in the shop for mysterious engine revving reasons. I put the car in park yesterday and it revved higher than it does even on the interstate. And I just know, that because I love this car, it will be diagnosed with some incurable car cancer and I will be very sad. Also, carless, because my insurance doesn't cover loss of car due to bizarre mechanical problems.

Other examples of bad car-ma: I'm the only 20-something I know who can't get out of a ticket for anything. Was I going 5 miles over the speed limit? Ticket. Did my tags expire yesterday? Ticket. Did I forget to put the new insurance card in the glove box yesterday when it was renewed? Ticket. Did my headlight go out 5 minutes ago? Ticket. What the hell with that? Other people can blow past me at 100 mph, firing illegal firearms out the windows, and snorting blow off a dead hooker and not get pulled over. But I forget to signal a lane change and 30 seconds later a cop appears from nowhere with a ticket already written.

Another superstitious side note: Every time my husband and I plan a nice vacation we get hit with large, unexpected expenses. We just spent $800 fixing his car, $4,000 on re-financing our house, and now I'm sure my car needs a new transmission plus whatever the most expensive parts are in the car.

The moral I'm taking from this is that the universe does not want me to drive a car that I like or am unashamed of and if my husband and I want to have a fun vacation we should expect the roof to cave in and the foundation to crack about a month before we leave. Clearly, I am meant to take some sort of vow of poverty.

EDIT: $838.00 BEFORE TAX. THE CAPS LOCK KEY IS ON BECAUSE HOLY SHIT. PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW. ALSO, IF YOU THINK ITS OBNOXIOUS THIS IS ALL IN CAPS BE GLAD YOU DON'T KNOW ME IN PERSON OR YOU WOULD BE HEARING THE OUT LOUD VERSION OF THIS.

Well, This is Awkward

2010-04-21T13:32:00.000-05:00

So, I walked up behind one of the guys at work today at his computer. Taking him his finished report, all innocent like. Seriously. And...I caught him looking at porn. In the middle of a Wednesday. In his cubicle.

I have no problem with porn, as un-feminist as that might make me. Whatever. I try not to be too judge-y about whatever consenting adults choose to do/watch/whatever. I don't really get into it myself, but that's my issue. I don't think sex looks particularly sexy. Even when the people involved are, in fact, incredibly beautiful, I think it looks...comical. And sometimes painful. Furthermore, I'm modest and what-not, but I'm not exactly Pollyanna of Sunnybrook Farm over here. I have seen lady parts before, and I'm not easily embarrassed. I mean, it just sort of took me by surprise. Lalala, minding my own business, doing my job, and BAM! Vagina. (I don't know why, but I sort of feel this should be said with jazz hands).

So, my intention was to just pretend I didn't see anything and go on about my life gleefully pretending that this NEVER HAPPENED.

Except (isn't there always an except? Maybe in this case a "but(t)" would be the more appropriate line...ba dum bump). He wants to talk about it. He keeps apologizing profusely. Which, on the one hand, I understand. I mean, its pretty inappropriate to be viewing this at work, and if I were a different kind of person he could be in a lot of trouble. But it was really just a case of poor judgment on his part and bad timing on mine, and I'm willing to let it go at that. He just does not seem to be able to let it go. Besides the apologies, he keeps insisting he's "not that kind of guy." The kind that looks at porn, I guess he means. And my apologies to the men if this is an unfair stereotype, but I generally assume that you are ALL the guy who looks at porn and I don't really care. Besides which, this type of defense really just makes me have to keep picturing you watching porn and God, why won't the head movies stop? And now I can never look at you again.

So now I AM beginning to get a little bit embarrassed. I mean, I don't want to open myself up to some kind of situation wherein I lose respect, by acting like its totally cool to check out porn at work, and sharing all my porn watching experience in some kind of unstoppable we-can-never-come-back-from-this moment. But on the other hand, I just wasn't really bothered until he kept bringing it up (ahem).

So how, exactly, do you tell a man of your professional acquaintance that he can chill, the sight of the naked lady pants parts did not in fact scorch your retinas or irreparably damage your sensitive psyche in some way, and seriously, can you please shut up about it now?

I'm Not a Morning Person, Is What I'm Saying

2010-04-20T15:59:00.000-05:00

That is pretty much the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. Put your nose really, really close to the monitor with your eyes closed. Wait a moment and open your eyes. There, now you know what its like to be me at 6:00 in the morning.

The only thing lacking is that a picture could never convey the sheer! fucking! happiness!!!! this dog feels every morning upon waking. She is so exuberant that while she has her face in my face, the rest of her body is doing the Snoopy dance. On my body. You can hear the birds chirping and the little woodland creatures singing and she might as well be saying, "Wakeupwakeupwakeup!!ohfrabjousday!playwithmelovemetalktomefeedme!!!"

And this is all very precious and cute, unless you are me. I, to quote my husband, "don't wake up well," and its true, for all that its coming from a man who once accidentally throat-punched me when I woke him unexpectedly from a nap. Ahem.

Anyway, the "me" part of my brain does not wake up until at least an hour after the medulla oblongata. Or whatever it is that makes you angry. I don't know, I learned all my brain science from the Water Boy. So generally, the first thing the dog gets to do in the morning is fly. Across the room. While I say something along the lines of, "Fucking son of a bitch obnoxious asshole!" (At this point, the other dog cracks open an eye, and gives us both a look of complete disdain before going back to sleep like any other rational being would do).

So imagine, now that you know all of this, how awesome it is to be awakened this way for the 1,025th day in a row, and then step immediately into a warm puddle of pee, right by the bed.

And that's how my whole day has gone. How about you?

I'm Wearing Boxer Shorts Under This Dress, That's How Bad It Is

2010-04-19T11:14:00.000-05:00

I am really, really embarrassed to admit this, but I need to put out an all points bulletin on my underpants. I would swear to you that last week I had about 14 pairs of underpants, and today I have 3 pairs.

I'm not saying this has never happened before, but it is one thing to drunkenly leave them in some guy's dorm room in college when you are leaving in the dark because holy shit, don't let him wake up, and it is another thing entirely to be a staid old married lady who can't keep up with her drawers.

I am beginning to believe in the existence of underpants gnomes. Seriously, where the hell are they going and how are they getting there? I swear to you here and now, before all these blog witnesses and God, buddha, and the spaghetti monster, I am not taking them off anywhere but in my home. I have looked in the bed, under the bed, in the couch, in the dog crates, in the lair under the bed where the dogs drag all things interesting and treasure-ish (bones, dead birds, rocks, toilet paper, etc. And yes, they did used to steal my underwear to be dragged out as soon as some sort of dignified company came over. This has not happened in a year, at least, thank God. Although it was a little funny when they dragged out the red thong in front of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Not as funny in front of my mother in law). They are not behind the dryer, they are not in the washer, they are not in the laundry basket.

I have come up with a few scenarios:

1. The dogs are actually EATING them, in order to hide the fact that they stole them. This is most likely not the case, because I believe there would have been, er, evidence of that, by now.

2. My husband is hiding them. This is also unlikely. My husband cannot hide things. He cannot hide presents, and I know exactly where he keeps his porn (I don't tell him, though - I think porn must be more fun if you think you're getting away with something).

3. There is a juvenile delinquent who broke into the house and stole my underpants. Not the computer or the tv or the iPod or any jewelry or the cash laying around the house. Just my underpants. This is unlikely, because while we all know a pair of girl's panties and $20 is enough to keep us safe, they didn't steal the money.

4. There really are underpants gnomes making a profit off my underwear.

5. I have some sort of medical condition that makes me black out and wake up and never know anything happened, but in the mean time I have become a stripper/started attending Tom Jones concerts/devised some sort of underpants powered slingshot which quickly wears out the elastic. Like those people who drive their cars in their sleep after taking Ambien.

If you happen to have seen them, please send them home. This is ridiculous.

I put the awards at the end so you'll read the whole thing. Also, dog pictures. Now with linky goodness. Hope you're all happy now, I mean, damn.

2010-04-13T20:42:00.000-05:00

Because Lilly at A Pre-Life Crisis is awesome, she gave me a Sunshine Award (its a very important award...let us have a moment of silence for its awesomeness). I am bad at this award thing, but the rules are pretty simple:

Post the award on your blog. Share it with 5 other people. Let them know by commenting on their blogs. Share 5 things about yourself. And since this 2nd time someone did something nice and gave me one of these things...I'm going to pass it along so karma doesn't kick my ass for being a selfish lazy bitch. Or something.

5 Things You're All Dying to Know About Me:

1. I have two dogs, Sunny and Stormy. It sounds like what I really have are two strippers, but no, they are dogs. One of them is the sweetest dog in the world (which is why I'm convinced she's pure evil) and the other one seems to be composed mostly of assholes and the stuff they won't put in hotdogs. But she's charming occassionally, and we love her.

Don't be fooled. She's totally an asshole.

Pure, unadulterated evil.

2. The couch in the above pictures is a black leather couch my husband bought when he was a bachelor. I may or may not have purposely done things to that couch so we could get a new one that didn't look like something Patrick Bateman might have sat on while listening to Huey Lewis and the News.

3. I am anti-knick knack. I need things to be clean and nobody ever tells you but you ALSO HAVE TO CLEAN THE KNICK KNACKS.

4. I once downed a glass of moonshine on a dare. I did not even make a face, according to my husband. I suspect this is why he married me. I do not remember anything that happened that night, after the moonshine. That stuff is STRONG.

5. When I worked in the children's library in high school, I was propositioned for a 3-way by a couple with 2 beer guts, 8 teeth, and 700 pounds between them.

And the WINNERS ARE:

1. Maria, at No One Reads the Copy, because she is funny, introspective, and refreshingly honest about everything.

2. Vic, at What Were You Thinking, because she's hilarious and I kind of want to be her when I grow up.

3. Steelxmagnolia at When Life Hands You Lemons, Add Vodka because that is awesome advice and she is an amazing writer.

4. Kelly, at Insert Clever Title Here, because she tells awesome stories about ex-boyfriends that make me feel better about my own exes, and because she manages to make it funny, even though it might have been painful at the time.

5. Stephanie, at Yada Yada Yada, because she still giggles when she sees the number 69 (and if you don't I might not want to know you) and because she has excellent taste in men.

Please proceed to steal your very important awards from the sidebar, and make sure there is plenty of glue in the house.

He knows I would KILL him if he called me Baby Doll

2010-04-13T16:40:00.000-05:00

Attention, Men:

The following is a list of the names you have applied to me in a professional setting in the past month:

Sweetheart
Baby Doll
Little Lady
Sugar
Cutie
Honey
Darlin'

Unless you are married to me, you should probably stop calling me these names. I'm not 12. And this isn't the '50s.

I Love the South. Where Else Would This Person Actually Make it On To the 10:00 News?

2010-04-08T14:53:00.000-05:00

Ya'll do not have to worry about the health care reform situation any longer. Arkansans are on it.

And I quote, "We are going to put a STOP to this monstrous monstrosity."

So ya'll just carry on. We got it covered. The person quoted didn't actually outline a specific plan for the stopping of the monstrosity, but I suspect it involves a crude drawing of stick figures with torches and pitchforks storming the capitol and poking at the health care bill.

Bad Relationship

2010-04-06T21:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Lean Cuisine:

Why? Why can't I quit you?

I feel that we are in a horrible, dead-end relationship. I leave you and vow never to return. And then I come back.

You are so seductive with your perfectly sized box, with the white background and the clean font. The pictures on the front of your box look like frozen gourmet masterpieces, certain to make me thinner and more beautiful while keeping me happy because I can have lasagna with no guilt over calories and fat and evil.

I clutch you tightly to my chest, so happy to see you, willing to believe all of your promises.

But you LIE, Lean Cuisine, you LIE TO ME EVERY TIME.

The food inside your box looks nothing like the food on the outside of your box. In fact, it looks nothing like food at all. I BELIEVE with my WHOLE HEART that when I cook your contents they will look and taste exactly like sweet and sour chicken. I excitedly heat you up, and pull you eagerly from the loving embrace of the microwave. And then the horror begins.

This, this stuff that I have heated and longed for...it is colored squares. I know this spongy square is a red pepper because it is red. That is the only clue. And, oh, is it red. It is like Rudolph's nose has been placed in my lunch. Nowhere else is this particular shade of red seen in nature. That squishy bit is chicken because...I am pretty sure it is chicken. Chicken can look sort of white and jiggly can't it?

I persevere. Maybe I should not judge you by your appearance alone. After all, you are frozen food. One probably shouldn't expect it to look like real food...but the taste is so awful. So retched. Like maybe you were eaten once before you were reconstituted and frozen. And I have to throw half of you away. Leaving myself disgusted, unsatisfied, and STILL COMPLETELY FUCKING HUNGRY. And to add insult to injury, the entire office now smells like fish and ketchup. Which makes no sense. There should not be fish. There should definitely not be ketchup. What is wrong with you? Why do you refuse to deliver on your promises?

Well, in the words of our illustrious ex-president: Fool me once shame on you...fool me twice...fool me once (or twelve times) can't get fooled again. We are through, and this time I mean it.

Yours Nevermore,

Megs

Ooh, is that fettucine? It looks delicious!

I Can't Decide. Do I Go With "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby" or the Ever Classic "I Wanna Sex You Up"?

2010-04-05T11:09:00.000-05:00

Inspired by No One Reads the Copy's post about kids and teenage sex, I got to thinking about this truly bizarre and revolting ritual that is really, really common in the south, and maybe other places. I don't know.

Anyway, there are these "balls" that are dedicated to teenage abstinence. And I actually think abstinence in teenagers is a GOOD thing (not in that way that says we shouldn't hand out condoms to kids, or teach them about sex, just in a, you know, perfect world kind of way). Hell, I was abstinent until college (okay, some of that was because I didn't have a lot of boyfriends, and part of it was because of the day in Health class that they showed us the pictures of genital warts. I would be making out with my boyfriend, and BAM - thinking about genital warts. If you have never seen an image, you should Google it when you don't feel like having sex ever again). So anyway, I have no real problem with celibacy in teenagers. BUT. These "balls" are for the purpose of a GIRL to pledge her virginity to her FATHER, and she gets a ring that indicates she won't have sex until she's married, blah blah (by the way, I just thought of the episode of Family Guy where Meg takes that pledge and has ear sex, and...its not that far from the truth from what I could tell of my other "virgin" friends in highschool).

Anyway again. I find these "balls" disturbing for several reasons. They are as follows:

1. All of the responsibility is put on the girl. There is no corresponding pledge for boys to make to their mothers. Probably because no self-respecting boy is EVER going to make that kind of pact with his MOTHER. This actually leads me to point 2.

2. My father might possibly win a prize in some category of Bad Parents, and is an excellent example of what not to do. And yet. When it came to my virginity and/or lack thereof, we had a pretty simple unspoken understanding. I would assume that his stance on his daughter having sex would be: Don't have sex. He would choose to assume I was a virgin, and I would never, ever do anything that might threaten this assumption. I think this is a pretty good model. I think that had my dad expressed as much interest in my sexual activities as these fathers do, I would have called CPS to see if that wasn't maybe just a little weird.

3. I feel like this is somewhat dishonest on both parts. Teenagers are riddled with hormones (you can tell by the acne and the wild mood swings). Sometimes, things are going to happen, and no vow to your father is going to stop it from happening. What stops it from happening is a realistic understanding of sex. I feel like by doing this vow, the parents are sidestepping the mind-numbingly awful responsibility of discussing sex with their children (not entirely sarcastic, by the way. There is nothing more embarrassing to a 13 year old girl than a frank discussion of sex with her mother, and vice versa). I understand the impulse to want to avoid this conversation. On the other hand, there were a few boys I said "no" to, not because of the genital warts, but because I remembered that frank, humiliating discussion. It went something like this: Sex feels good. You should have sex at some point. But sex can result in consequences, both physical and emotional. You need to feel that you can deal with those consequences. Are you going to be able to deal with it? If not, then wait. It won't be the last time anyone ever wants to have sex with you. Truly.

4. I mentioned the Family Guy episode before. I knew a lot of "pledged virgins" who would do ANYTHING else, just not vaginal intercourse. And while there's something to be said for oral intercourse having fewer consequences in your teens, I'm pretty sure if you are letting a guy in the out door (if you know what I mean) in lieu of vaginal sex, in order to preserve your purity...I think you can see where I'm going with that.

5. Did I mention I find the whole idea creepy? And weirdly anti-feminist. Like a girl can't be in charge of her own body. She is going to give the responsibility to her father, and then to her husband. And also did I mention creepy?

6. Mostly, I think I just find the whole idea creepy and repulsive.

In conclusion: teach your kids about birth control and also teach them to make serious, serious fun of those weird kids with the abstinence ring. Seriously, let us all mock them mercilessly.

Called (Possibly by the Lord)

2010-04-03T20:43:00.000-05:00

I have found my calling. I am going to start teaching a free class, open to all women in the community as a public service. The class will be entitled "What Are Pants?" and will be a five part series including the following classes:

Introduction to Pants: What are Pants?
Why the Salesgirl is Not Your Friend
Why Tights are Not Pants
When are Leggings Pants?
Identifying Pants - in which participants will be asked to identify actual pants.

Afterwards, I will conduct a shorter seminar for men with classes including Identifying Men's Pants (Are You Wearing Womens Jeans?) and Why Your Pants Should Not Hang Below Your Ass.

Greetings from Bedlam

2010-04-01T08:46:00.000-05:00

Including friendship, dating, engagement, and marriage my husband and I have been together for ten years. In those ten years, it has always been one of his secret missions to see exactly how crazy he can make me. At first, he thought it would be easy because I'm already half crazy. But I'm also crazy adaptable. I'm like an adapting ninja. Plus, I was raised in a Southern Christian household and I know how to push the bad feelings way deep down inside where they are ignored for years, creating ulcers and random outbursts of anger.

He started in college with the hard core Drive Megan Insane campaign. First, he would invite me over and every drawer would be closed crooked and the closet would be open and there would be random piles of detritus scattered around the piles of his clothing. He knew that all of these things were triggers for my crazy. But he was a little too obvious. I could see what he was doing, and damned if I'd let him win. Plus, dude, its your room. I'm crazy, and if this were in MY dorm I'd kill you, but whatever, do what you want in your own room. Megan 1, Future Husband 0.

I mistakenly let him discover my issue with feet. Namely: mine, do not touch them. No, really. I see you looking at my feet. Do not touch. He thought it was clever to grab me by the foot and pretend to try to lick my toes until he got kicked in the face. Megan 2, Future Husband 0.

When we moved in together and it became apparent that the man could not cook for shit (sorry, honey, overcooked pasta with uncooked spaghetti sauce dumped on it is not cooking) I began cooking. He saw the potential for a new assault on my sanity: he didn't want to eat whatever I cooked, even if he had requested it at the beginning of the evening. "I had Mexican for lunch" and "That sounds horrible" and "I want something light" or "I want something hearty". Cooking strike! Guess you are eating frozen burritos and hamburger helper from here on out. He caved in less than a week. Megan 3, Future Husband 0.

There've been various other, unsuccessful attempts. But this week he might have found the perfect plan. The plan I cannot combat. He has suddenly decided that he needs to watch t.v. with the volume on, listen to music on his iPhone without headphones, and have a conversation with me all at the same time. Its like being trapped in a schizophrenic's brain. You know its not normal or right, but you can't make it stop and you can't ignore it. When I leave the room I can STILL HEAR IT.

If we have to do this again tonight, there's a good chance I will rip my own eardrums out in order to get a little peace.

This post may be offensive to dumb people, minorities, anyone with a working knowledge of English grammar, the MPAA, and people who speak Spanish

2010-03-30T10:27:00.001-05:00

I feel like I am being stalked by...an idea? The idea that what you say can bite you in your ass so hard you'll cry for your mama.

See, the other day, I was listening to the radio (yes! The plain old radio! They still make that!) and it was discussing some wording on the census form. I filled out my census papers pretty quickly, and I was a little disappointed to see that all that hype and YOU MUST FILL THIS OUT OR WE WILL SEND ANGRY BEAVERS TO DESTROY YOU was just because they wanted to know that 2 white people live in my house, and we own the house. Let down, much? Anyway, I didn't pay attention to the other blanks. But apparently one of the blanks for ethnicity lists black/negro/african-american. And ya'll? Apparently the people who would check that box are PISSED. To tell the truth, I get why they are in one way (negro? really?) on the other hand, isn't that the Spanish word for black? And don't Spanish speaking people also fill out these forms? Couldn't you be black and only speak Spanish and live in America? But the only way that works is if there is a Spanish translation for all the boxes, and while I didn't pay a whole lot of attention, I did not notice any "blanca" option for the white people. I get that not all black people are offended by it, but I can see where it might be a little thoughtless to put it on the forms.

Then, I was listening to the radio AGAIN ( I do that) and some guy calls in to ask the hosts how in the world they put up with all the ignorant dumb dummies who call in. Because the hosts of the show are originally from somewhere like Ohio or something, and apparently there are no dumb people in other states, they all live here. And we're in the South, so we're used to being called dumb. If you look at test scores and whatnot, its even true. BUT. The guy says he is from New Jersey. We are a little oversensitive on the issue of being considered dumb. Its a little bit like bitching about your mama, and then beating the crap out of anyone who isn't your family who dares to agree with you. And wasn't there just a REALLY, REALLY popular show illustrating the various types of dumbasses that can be caught in the wild in New Jersey? So, long story not even a little bit shorter, the guy goes on to plug his band. The band promptly fires him, because holy shit are people pissed about this guy calling us dumb.

And then I get home and my husband is watching This Film is Not Yet Rated. Which you should also watch. Its interesting. On the one hand, I think we need a more European attitude about certain things in movies. For instance, nipples? Not a big deal in Europe because they don't make them a big deal. I think that we should be able to use our common sense to determine if a movie might have content we might find offensive (also, I know some fundamentalist Christians who are offended by Disney movies, so I'm not sure the ratings really matter that much anyway). I think it was a good idea when it was intended to let people know that there might be language they would prefer not to hear, or something they'd prefer not to see, without actually making any judgments on that content. But what happens is, they can keep the general public from seeing a movie with the ratings and they can make the director change scenes in order to get a rating they can show to general audiences. Which is at least flirting with censorship, if not out and out tongue kissing it. Plus, I'm pretty sure that I can use deductive reasoning for the most part. If Quentin Tarentino's name is on a film, its going to be violent. John Waters makes films with sexual content I might not want to explain to my 6 year old. Guy Richie films use cuss words (oh noes!). Anyway, the whole thing is trying so hard not to offend people that its offending people and maybe even violating their Constitutional rights.

So I'm pretty sure the universe is telling me to try not to put my foot in my mouth, and also that getting angry about every little thing someone says is a HUGE waste of energy, and also that getting offended too easily leads to the MPAA. Or something like that.

Grass Is Always Greener

2010-03-23T13:10:00.001-05:00

I haven't had an anxiety attack in almost 2 months. This is WONDERFUL in many, many ways, but I don't want to talk about those ways, because that is not what we do here. I want to talk about the things that suck about having anxiety somewhat under control. Because that's the way I am, apparently. (LOOK! I'm LEARNING things about myself! Who would have thought I only find the bad things interesting?)

Firstly, my house is slowly being taken over by...The Stuff. The Stuff is the collective entity of individual items that begin accumulating on the bar between the kitchen and den, then sneakily annex the dining room table, and then the desk, and then the coffee table and then whatever flat surface that is not the floor. When I am at peak OCD this does not happen because the world will end. I am a ninja, ambushing and removing The Stuff before it can even begin to think about that attack on the buffet where we keep the fruit. When I am not an anxiety riddled mass of quivering frayed nerve endings, The Stuff takes over. Its not that we have that much stuff. Its just that my husband doesn't like to put things away. Wherever he is standing is where things belong, which is how we end up with three pairs of pants hanging over the back of the desk chair, 18 pairs of socks under the coffee table, and shirts on the couch. And when I'm, you know, NORMAL, this isn't a priority. If I don't update within the next week please come check to see if The Stuff has assimilated us.

Also, its much harder for me to organize my thoughts. With anxiety and OCD in full bloom, my brain operates on the level of a flow chart. It is very organized and structured. Okay, 80% of my thoughts are freak outs over nothing, but whatever, my thoughts are totally coherent and organized. When I feel like a normal person, I cannot organize my thoughts AT ALL. I just wrote three separate posts and deleted them because a post starting out about that guy yelling "Show us your tits," when I was running the other day ended with something about dog farts, and I didn't really get to the point of the story. If there was even a point in the first place (I think the point might have been A. What tits? B. Who does that? and C. Something about my friend who got some awesome boobs for herself and why I always thought I wanted to do the same but don't really because they cut off your nipples, and DUDE. Pass on that. I get that they put them back on and all, but still. Some things were just not meant to be removed from your body. Nipples are IMPORTANT. You do not mess with your nipples. Its not like they are your appendix or one of your kidneys or something. You NEED them. At least, I need them). And the dog farts? Well, they stink. And the dog is always incredibly surprised by her own farts. Which never fails to crack me up, but I think that story's been told. The farts and the rednecks in the truck probably have several things in common, but none of which were used to connect the story. Because my brain has changed from rigid computer like machine to grassy meadow with butterflies and clouds and ooooh, look, something sparkly (it might be a sparklepire! Which I find hilarious. Speaking of which, I think those books are a crime against vampire literature everywhere and if I were a vampire I would totally sue for defamation of character). I think you can see my point.

Thirdly, my will to work has been completely removed because without anxiety over getting fired, and then not having a paycheck and having to go through unemployment and worse, telling people I'm unemployed, much of my desire to do a good job goes right out the window. I would be perfectly content to be a housewife, really, and right now I'd be a really crappy housewife because of my first complaint, re: The Stuff.

Also, when I'm OCD things like running everyday and eating a very regulated diet and going to bed at the exact same time every night and the like, are easy. Because of the structure and all that. But then, those very things are things that help me control OCD and be less anxious. The less anxious and OCD I am, the more likely I am to get lazy about the food and sleeping and working out. Which puts me right back where I started.

Aren't vicious cycles FUN?