Wow, it's really the end of the month. This makes me want to throw up in my hand a little, because I'm really not ready to roll on into December. There are all those big changes coming. And now I have to do something about them.
Also in occurrence is the end of NaNaNaNaNaNa!! I, unfortunately, will not be winning any prizes for posting every single day due to the glitch on Thanksgiving, but it totally wasn't my fault! I swear. Not that I need a prize. I was really excited to post everyday, and I think it's safe to say that blogging has refreshed my discipline for simply writing. My journals are becoming more full, my brain is constantly in storytelling mode, and I find myself waking in the middle of the night to jot something good down. It's this kind of fervor I've been reaching towards for a very long time.
I won't attribute it ALL to NaNaThingyThing. But having the constant readership, just for a month, has made me feel legitimate and driven. Which is all I want from my art.
Last night I created little birds instead of working on the piece I've been commissioned to do. I used the excuse that I needed to try out my new gel medium before committing it to the large piece, but really I just wanted to put colors together an get sticky. It was fun to make little twitters of paper - one delicate and one round - bright blues and green and golds, glossy and light to touch.
B brought me homemade chicken soup that she had stewed all day. With a real chicken. The broth was light and fresh on my tongue and the the noodles were soft and sweet. It was the best chicken soup I've ever eaten, and felt so warmed and bright that she had chosen to share it with me.
After B left I walked through the 'hood to wind myself down from the day. I gnawed on a piece of chocolate and let the little twinge of longing for some good old fashioned hand holding be washed away by singing Christmas carols to myself. It was cool, but not cold. I sucked in the air and then let it back out again, slowly, letting it mingle with the smells of salty food and wood burning that lingered over the houses on the hill.
Whatever sadness I had was gone for a moment, lost in the November sky, filled up with chicken soup and floating on the wings of paper doves.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Wow, it's really the end of the month. This makes me want to throw up in my hand a little, because I'm really not ready to roll on into December. There are all those big changes coming. And now I have to do something about them.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Lovemess No. 12
Because I never read this book,
I never quite got the hint when the Most Beautiful Man Ever gave me the brush off. What can I say, I'm dense. Unfortunately, I'm not only dense but I'm a danger to myself. Because now I'm going to be spending some serious time reading
"Oh Lord," you say, "What did you do this time?? "
Well it went a little something like this:
Drinking wine, drinking wine, text text text text text – hee hee, this is fun! – text, ask on a date, rejection, text, self deprecation, text – Oh God I can't stop! – text text text text!!!
I put myself to bed at eight thirty, but the damage was already done. The Most Beautiful Man Ever will not be speaking to me ever again. This is why men shouldn't give me their numbers. Seriously. I cannot be trusted with them. Or a bottle of wine.
When I woke dead sober at three a.m., I realized what I had done. I thought about puking – not from the wine but from the fact that I had just royally screwed it up with the only man I've felt ohmygodwow over since before C – but decided that deleting his number from my phone book might be a better course of action. And then I dumped out the rest of my wine, lest I begin to feel too sure of myself again any time soon.
I think I'll buy another cat today. Its looking like I'm going to be alone forever.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
- In therapy she can cry and hold a pillow and she is encouraged to do so.
- Evolving Loves her Therapists toys.
- Her therapist tells her obvious things like "Don't be so damn afraid all the time!" and she actually listens.
- Her therapist lets her owe her money. She can give her hot checks and she doesn't even make a face.
- She gets to be laugh really hard at her own stupid blunders with some one who thinks it's a lovely part of her personality.
- It always smells like sage there.
- It's like confession. Except, without the whole wrath of God and penance part.
And so yesterday, after my confessional with The Best Therapist EVER I finally convinced myself that it is okay to be shitfuckterrified about the fact that I am quitting my job to go back to school and pursue my dream of being paid to write. Then, with some help from my therapist, I convinced myself that I can really do it.
I got out the sharpie marker as soon as I got home and wrote "Fearless" on my upper arm, and "Trust Yourself" on my wrist, as a reminder to get my ass in gear and make this thing really happen. I'll probably have them there all month, to ward off that massive breakdown that is threatening me with bared and bloody teeth. And I say "Fuck off, breakdown! Not this Christmas! I'm FEARLESS!"
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
"I want to give my true love something special," said this guy. "I've already done the diamond thing. And I just want to completely over do it in a gross display of my wealth. What can I get her that she will never ever be able to get rid of??"
Well, Mr. Diamond Guy, you are in luck, because I have just the gift for you! Give her a gift that she will never ever be able to get rid of, and certainly not afford to upkeep without continuing to sleep with you! Give her all the gifts from the Twelve Days of Christmas!!!
Now, lets recount what you'll need here: We've got Twelve drummers drumming, Eleven pipers piping, Ten lords a-leaping, Nine ladies dancing, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five golden rings, Four calling birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, And a partridge in a pear tree!
Since the current cost of these gifts is up this year, you're going to need around $19,000, according to this uber informative article at CNN Money. Should you decide to do the repeat of each of the gifts, in sequence, every day it will cost you a little more - closer to $73,000. I suggest the repetition of gifts, though, to ad a little more punch.
There are some things you should think about adding beneath the tree, to go with this gift though. Because what lady wants a friggin musical barnyard running around her chi-chi ecru colored Crate and Barrel condo?
Okay, so you got the twelve partridges and their pear trees, right? You'll need to add on a greenhouse to sustain the pear trees, and actually? Isn't twelve trees enough for a small orchard? You might as well bite the bullet and buy the farm. Literally. You'll need it for the other gifts.
Make sure the farm has a nice sized barn where you can keep your 36 french hens and your 72 geese a laying. Did you know there isn't really such a breed as a "French Hen"? Keeping this in mind, perhaps you could hire the Maids a Milking from France, and have her speak to them in exclusively in French to keep you from being a liar. Oh yeah - What are these 96 maids going around milking, anyway??? I'm thinking you're gonna have to go ahead and buy the cow, to go with the farm. One for each maid, right? And the cost of a milking cow these days is about 500 bucks, times 96...that'll cost you about $48,ooo.
Now, you can prolly go on the cheap for the gold rings and all those little birds. Add an atrium off the barn to keep them in though. 72 birds make a lot of bird shit. As far as the swans a swimming, you should make sure the back 100 acres of your farm are all lake. Swans are mean, territorial bastards.
I think the biggest problem you could run into with this gift, though, are the drummers drumming. You might want to give this especially careful thought if your lady leans to the emotional, artsy side, because these women tend to have a weakness for drummers. Its sexy, you know? Standing around, beating a drum? Oh, those forearms! The pipers piping are probably gay, and the lords a leaping are going to do it with the ladies dancing for sure, because those fancy ballerina types are elitist. But the drummers...God, out of 144 you are bound to find at least four that will make your woman weak in the knees.
Actually, do you have a pre-nup? Because after all this if she does the hibitty dibbity with the little drummer boy and decides his drumstick is better than yours I'm gonna bet she goes for the big bucks and steals that farm and everything on it away from you. And I've lost count, that's all worth like at least a million by now?
On second thought, dude, I think you should just get your wife a new tennis bracelet and call it a day. And think about that pre-nup. There's a guy with a Lexus and a Bow hanging around the next block.
No not that time of month. Not that I wouldn't speak freely about it. And you know I'm not kidding.
No, it's an even more special time of the month for me. It's that time where the money has dried out and I'm dangerously behind, thus forcing me to come up with a quick fix for my finances, making Sister L have an aneurysm trying to figure out how I got into this mess again and giving myself multiple anxiety attacks over the course of several days. Yes, it's that time of the month.
Without going into the gory details, let me just say I need a miracle to the tune of 1000+ dollars. Now, I'm one lucky bitch (with some fugging amazing friends) and so actually no stranger to miracles. But I've yet to need a miracle quite so big. So, I'm exploring my options as to how to manifest said miracle without compromising my holiday, my carolling event, the extra time I need to make Christmas gifts, or my basic morals and values.
1. It's a fire sale! Lovely art work for your home, office or bathroom stall, just in time for Christmas. Don't forget, you can commission a piece from me! Think happy little trees...
2. I'm a personal shopper! I have impeccable taste and enough of that extra time you don't have. Does you're mom need a new robe and slipper set? Your father needs a new humidor? I love humidors! I know what a humidor is! And I'll pick your pops out a real nice one, with gift wrap and all.
3. I can clean your house. I wear hot pink rubber gloves, and I will scrub your floors on my hands and knees. ...I won't be wearing lingerie though. You need a different service for that.
4. Let me decorate your house for Christmas! I specialize in the "I just threw up in my hand a little" variety. Guaranteed Holiday Cheer!
5. I'll be you're date for the Christmas party. Don't go stag, that's lame. Pay me to go with you! Impress you're boss by your ability to pick up hot chicks, while living out your secret "Pretty Woman" fantasy. Touching is so not included.
6. Party Planner Extraordinaire. I like parties. You like parties. You don't have time to organize this party. Actually, you'd rather just start drinking. Well - I can spike your nog, fill your glass, sing and dance and still have you ready in time for company. And I'll only nip a little off your rum.
7. Cow Milker. We can discuss the occasional massages when I see how hairy and gross your back is. No happy endings. Period.
8. Invite over Krampus! Let me come over and scare the shit out of your kids so they'll be good this year. I'll make sure Santa gets the naughty and nice list.
9. Gift wrapper. Suck at wrapping gifts? No kid is going to believe Santa left them that poorly wrapped Hannah Montana Doll. Keep the dream alive and let me do it for you!
10. Or, you know. You could just "donate" to my paypal account. I like money. You have too much. Don't be a fugging scrooge. Keep a pretty girl out of the titty bars this year!
Seriously, people. I'm for hire.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Me and my ma took the turkey and all of it's fixins' over to KT's to stuff it and ready it for the oven. Mom double checked to make sure I didn't leave in the gizzards and then before we stuffed him I Christened him Fred.
Fred came out of the oven golden brown and ready to be devoured, despite the fact that I had stabbed a hole in the foil pan with the turkey baster, nearly catching the stove on fire. Whatever.
He tasted AMAZING. And I'm not telling you my secret recipe. So just forget it.
I had a drink, fast.
Ber came over with rum for the nog and so as I decorated the pictures got more and more blurry. I definitely need a camera with anti-shake.
I walked some of that off before bed, but still managed to have a nightmare about being caught by strangers in nothing but my towel.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Things always look better. Mom and I watched Casablanca, I cried when Rick made Ilsa get on the plane and then I went to bed at 9:00. I had a dream about getting a job at Anthroplogie and picking out a new pair of hot pink pumps. And now, not surprisingly, I feel better. Shoes have that effect on me.
This means, of course, that I can dive head first into Christmas and art and joy. Falalalalalala. And Stuff.
Oh, and this.
Thankfully, I get to drive home on the busiest travel day of the year. In the rain. Awesome.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
I was completely right when I speculated that your sweet, wet kisses could make any day better. Something about your plaintiff eyes that was hopeful and tender and interested all at once made me feel like things might just be okay. I wonder how many people you have unknowingly healed with those eyes, making their day brighter and softer around the edges. I wonder if you can even fathom how many people look forward to seeing you stroll around town. You go so merrily on your way, the pied piper of smiles and laughter and all good things, and in your wake there is happiness.
I'm finally in a place where I have unlimited Internet access and can take a guilt free, hour long nap. I can watch as much T.V. as I want, take a long bath and my laundry is done for me, complimentary.
I'm at my mom's house.
As the end of this month is swiftly approaching - and NaBlaMama! is coming to an close - I feel slightly guilty for beginning a host of stories that I some of you will not see the end of. I feel like I should finish the tales of woe that are my waning love life; fill you in on the rest of the soap opera. What happened to Bryan? How about the story of the Sociopath? Did I even touch base on the Best Sex Ever and our mess of a relationship? Oh! And what about "Dude!" who couldn't stop exclaiming how "Totally Amazing" I was? Or the narcissist who did it with his tinted shades on.
Seriously, there is a treasure trove of ridiculous bungles in my life. And I didn't even begin to share them.
Maybe it's a discipline thing. Or maybe some of them really are too painful to dredge up. How does one write humorously about a Sociopath who tried to kill her cat and made her feel ugly for eight months solid? I guess somethings you don't. And I guess, if I am honest, this book isn't going to be a wholly funny book, no matter how much I try to spin it.
Safe in the womb of my mom's apartment, I feel like I can let my guard down a little. Regress. Take a hot bath and cry about the financial woes painting a black streak down my red and green Christmas spirit. Think about the holidays for the past two years and wonder with an audible ache why he never wanted me to spend them with him. Why I wasn't good enough to have Turkey dinner with his family. Why he wouldn't come to mine. And then, after all that wondering, wash it away with the absolute knowledge that he didn't know how to love me but that some day some man will. And that some day I will have the "perfect" Thanksgiving Celebration, followed by a "perfect" Christmas, with traditions fallen into place just so and laughter spilling over the brim.
All this I hope to wrap up in a few hours and toss into the waste bin. Pre-holiday struggle (read: breakdown) began with an expensive new starter for Betty Ford, but will not end with her repossession. I will find some kind of mad, cash yielding second job and I will Thank God for all my many blessings once again - cause he hasn't let me down once. I will have a smoke, a good cry, a cup of tea and then move on. Because that's how I roll.
Tomorrow I am hoping that the rain will end long enough for me to get back home at a reasonable hour, then resume for the rest of the night so that I can hole up and really decorate my apartment. I put my three foot fiber optic tree up last night but didn't make it to the garland, or to stringing the lights. I will drink the rest of the nog, regardless of my lactose intolerance, and listen to Ella Fitzgerald sing "What Are You Doing New Years Eve" over and over and over, while trying not to project it onto anyone in particular (but probably failing). And then I when I wake up in the morning, everything will be shiny and new, just like Christmas morning.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
And just to show you I care, I found this classic little gem for your viewing enjoyment. Crank it way up and sing along!! (Check out this is you feel like dancin'...)
A meme, for Schmutzie.
Five Things of Which I am Suspicious:
1. Male and Female ends of electrical devices. Why must we always bring in the gender specification. And furthermore why does everything have to be so overtly sexual? The male end goes into the female end? Oh come on! The originator of this term clearly had a serious lack of imagination, and probably a number of undeniably Fruedian tendencies. Why can't they be called the Cat and Mouse ends? What about the Gull and the Fish? What are other things that connect? The Train and the Track? Creativity. That's all I ask.
2. Too much plastic packaging. I see it most frequently in electronic products, but also in childrens toys recently. It comes in the form of the heat sealed, bubble enclosed hard plastic, or sometimes it's those damn little zip ties that no human being with any kind of normal strength could ever possibly open. Inevitably you have to get out your sharpest scissors or a really big kitchen knife. Usually there is a high possibility of grossly wounding yourself. What are they protecting here? Is that CD walkmen going to jump out of the packaging and run away with the Female end of that adapter cord? Is that dolly that pees going to crush her way through the plastic window, crap her tiny toilet bowl and diaper and high tail it to Atlantic City? Why do they have to delay our gratification, so? I just want to try out my damn MP3 player, and have you ever heard a three year be patient enough for you to snip zip ties with your teeth for a half an hour? Oh. And it's bad for the environment, too. The sea turtles are, like, pissed.
3. ActivOn. Apply directly to the forehead. Activon. Apply directly to the forehead. Activon. Apply directly to the forehead. Does that commercial ever actually say what the product does? What if it causes brain damage?
4. Earwigs in my bathroom. There is only about one a month. That is enough, though, to make me wonder where they came from. WHERE? Are they crawling out of the pipes? Are they living behind the walls? Are my cats safe?? ARE THEY CRAWLING INTO MY EARS WHILE I AM SLEEPING???
5. People who don't celebrate Christmas. I've met these people. I've dated these people. I've been to their houses on Christmas morning. Have you ever met a more diluded person in all of your life?? Denying the whole holiday! Like, kids in Africa get gifts for Christmas! ...I think. They should! But no. YOU Mr. Scrooge think its a waste of money or that it's too commercialized or it's a government consipiracy to turn us all into communists. Drink some nog, damnit, and sing a f-ing Christmas carol, and kiss a cute girl under the misletoe. You're soul is turning black.
6. THIS. I don't care who he is. Why in God's name would you ever possibly need a 120 dollar tape dispenser. Maybe they make one of those for the bathroom wall that you can attach your money to. Because its seems like that would be a way more inventive way to piss on your hard earned cash.
Now, the rules, as defined by Schmutzie.
Write a list of things of which you are suspicious. Any number of them will do. Even the number 0 works. This is the first meme that can be done without even doing it. In fact, you're doing it right now.
Include the list of rules, if you feel like it.
Link back to the person who tagged you. Or not.
Tag however many people you want to tag. You can skip this step.
If you acted on rule four, leave comments on their websites to let them know that they have been tagged. This step is also completely optional.
Even though my mother tried very hard to enforce the "No Dating Until You Are Sixteen" rule, I never once adhered to it. My first ever boyfriend was the blonde boy down the street who was sixteen. I was barely fourteen. He was my first real kiss but as he was older, he was all rarin' to get more and I would have none of it. So he dumped me for another girl in the neighborhood who would.
I had my feet wet, though, and so the whole slew of attractive fresh faces in high school had my head spinning. Who would be my first high school boyfriend???
Damon had one eyebrow and he walked like a chicken. His shoulders were too broad for his body, which made his chicken walk that much more ridiculous. He wasn't altogether unattractive, if you could see past his unibrow. He was part of the tech crew in the theatre club. He didn't act in any of the plays because he was a terrible actor, but he was friend with the very attractive and charismatic supporting lead and thus hung out in the "drama hall". From the first play we worked on together he had a sweet tooth for me.
Naturally we started dating. Because I was still unsure of myself and didn't know I could do better, and because he was charming and brought me roses every week. We went to Homecoming together that year and he even had his eyebrow waxed for it. I thought he was mostly sweet and fun but like every good character in every good tragedy, he had a fatal flaw.
As the months progressed and we got more involved, I slowly discovered that he was what would now be referred to as "Emo". Maybe he really was depressed, or maybe he actually had a screwed up life, but instead of talking about it with a therapist like a normal person, he would call me crying and threaten to kill himself.
I was fourteen. I didn't know how to deal with this sort of thing. It scared the shit out of me and on top of that I had never known any one who was suicidal - real or otherwise - and so I couldn't delineate where the waterworks turned on and the manipulation began.
I say manipulation because that's what it was. Damon was never suicidal until I wouldn't give him what he wanted. That usually meant that I wouldn't let him finger me during one of the movie nights he would throw. There were people around. I didn't want him touching me with people around. I wasn't even sure I wanted to be touched at fourteen.
And so the next day, when I would try to hang out with my friends instead of him, he would call me crying. He couldn't take it anymore, life wasn't worth living he was just going to kill himself. This went on for several months, until Christmas when I went to visit my sister who had just gotten engaged to her high school sweetheart, and realized that it shouldn't be like this.
He had reduced me to tears too many times to count. I remember the core of emptiness I felt for the very first time, balled up on my blue carpet crying into the phone and begging him to not do this again. I knew there was something wrong about the way he treated me, but I didn't know what to do about it.
When I got back from my visit with my sister, I came to him and told him how I was feeling.
"I don't feel like you treat me very well," I said. "I don't like being manipulated."
(I was an articulate little teen.)
"Well, I know the real reason," He retorted, automatically defensive. "My sister who lives in Pennsylvania was at the same party as you were and she saw you with another guy."
This bit of information was troublesome in many ways. First, I had been to a party, on New Years. While I was there I met a "much too old for me" boy for whom I swooned. But he knew I was jail bait (not to mention his friend's little sister) and so naturally nothing happened. In fact, I don't think we even had a conversation. But I still felt guilty. How did he know?
Then there was the little piece of information about Damon's sister. His long lost sister who had run away from his family and stolen all his CD's and whom he never spoke to. Apparently she not only knew what I looked like, but that I had been making out with some boy over the holiday. And had called him up to tell him about it.
They say that when someone accuses you of something, often is it something they are guilty of themselves. With Damon this was true.
I found out a few days later, from my best friend who couldn't bear the guilt any longer, that she and Damon had spent time together while I was away. And they made out. I knew Damon well enough to know how far he'd pushed it, and I knew my friend was insecure enough to let him.
Obviously I was crushed. Into little tiny infinitesimal pieces of teenage anguish. My first "real" boyfriend and my best friend ever?? How could they? It all erupted one day while they were still trying to date (which only lasted about a week, as my friend couldn't stand the guilt [or Damon's unibrow]) and my fourteen-year old brain just couldn't take it anymore. I smacked him hard across the face in front everyone walking by us during passing period. There was an audible gasp and half of the school stopped to stare. I'd left a mark.
He did too, though, sadly enough. It was the first time I realized just how delicate a heart could be, and the beginning of what would be a confusing line of screwed up, mismatched relationships. I couldn't understand how one person could effect me so darkly, deep down in my core.
The next year Damon dated one of the other girls in the drama hall. She was a friend of mine, but not so close that I could warn her of his crazy. Nine months later he fathered a child by her.
And I thanked GOD that it wasn't me.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
It's BONUS BLOG TUESDAY!
Yes, that's right folks. All you could ever want and more. For today's bonus blog I was going to bullet list some boring things in my life like how I finally got the blinker fixed on Betty Ford and how distracted I am today by the upcoming holiday and...what? I forget. So I decided to post some Christmas musix instead because even though I think Christmas should stay after Thanksgiving (in our stores at least), I just can't help it I want to start organizing a group to go caroling and start buttering the rum. I'm hoping this kind of disease is communicable.
Lovemess No. 10 - It Feels Like the First Time...But Way Colder
Bryan and I waited a full two weeks to confess our love for each other. It was New Year Eve, 1998. His friends were in the other room playing guitar and drinking, and I was perched on the sink edge with my legs wrapped around him. We kissed each other as if our lips might soon fall off should we not keep them pressed together.
He pulled me close and whispered into my neck.
"I...I think I'm falling in love with you."
My heart raced as I held his head in my hands and whispered back, "I think I'm falling in love with you too."
We kissed more feverishly.
We wanted to consummate our love that night but decided to wait. For two whole weeks.
This was torture for us, though. Even though he was in college he still lived with his parents and I don't have one of those mom's who keeps the attitude of "Well, you can do it as long as you're under my roof." And so our frequent, heated make out sessions were often held in his car, or my car, or if we were quiet enough, the hot tub just outside his parents bedroom late late at night. It was so frustrating, because we just wanted to do it. So we hatched a plan, and set a date.
Mid January, Bryan maneuvered his Jeep up to the highest point in the Redlands. From the top of the mesa we could see the whole spans of town spread out below us, twinkling quietly in the cold. We laid out two sleeping bags, zipped together, on the ground beside the truck. The temperature hung around 35 degrees, but felt dramatically colder once our clothes were off.
We tried to build up the body heat by making out, but with every movement the mouth of the sleeping bag would open up a little, letting in a steel cold draft. Our toes started to go numb and our teeth chattered before we finally gave up on the "romance" of making love under the stars above the city lights and crawled into the back of his jeep.
That's right, I lost it in the back of a car. It was just as fumbling and not great as I had heard that first times would be, with the addition of bruises and rug burns from the carpet and wheel wells. However we had done it and we were so in love that we even claimed it was amazing. But, you know, that it would only get better. In fact, we made a promise to each other that we would be the best lovers each other had ever had.
The city winked up at us, knowing just how little we really knew.
When some mean kids at school told me that you didn't exist, I knew I could count on my sister to tell me the truth. She told me that my dad had seen you once, creeping around the back of our house in Pennsylvania cause we didn't have a chimney there. Or maybe she said he just saw sleigh tracks on the roof. Either way, I knew you were real, because there is no one else in the whole wide world who can fly around it in one night in the dead of winter - in nothing but that skimpy red jumpsuit - and have flying reindeer and elves as friends. But you didn't ever fool me on the toy thing; I knew no one that nice would leave out the poor kids.
Monday, November 19, 2007
I didn't think that I could ever love a band who uses just five words for one song. Perhaps it is your constant repetition of the word bitch, or maybe the way your adorable Brazilian version of English makes blatant violence seem cute and somehow funny. I just want to hug all six of you and then jump around like a dancing monkey. Even though my iPod broke and I have a firm disdain for the eliteness of Mac, I have to thank that iPod commercial for bringing you into my life. What did I ever do before Music is my Hot Hot Sex???
I've been tagged by the lovely Miss Jill, AND a wonderful reader Leandra and thank GAWD because I am clearly out of steam on the Lovemess. This has always been the problem I had when writing about my love life. There are some things that I just don't want to think about anymore, and are hard to spin into the funny.
Thankfully I can put it off for one more day! I hope this isn't too hard.
Here are the rules for the meme:
1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven random [?] people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.
1. When I answer the phones at work I usually pause for a full two seconds or more and inhale. This is because I can't remember if I'm supposed to say "Good Morning" or "Good Afternoon". It could be because I'm usually reading a blog or typing one or doing some very important online window shopping. It seems to bother people though. I suppose I could solve the problem by just dropping that part of the salutation, but I'm not really that concerned about it.
2. I don't like to open my mail. Often times I will leave it in the mailbox for a whole week, just because I know I'm not going to open it and I don't want it cluttering my already cluttered apartment. I will clean out the junk mail and anything worth reading (letters, packages) and just close the bills back in their little cubby until it gets too full.
3. I LOVE writing letters. I never had a pen pal as a kid, but I always wanted one. I only have one person who corresponds with me regularly, but it makes my day every single time I receive a postcard with her handwriting on it.
4. I am afraid of Dinosaurs. I know that this is the most ridiculous thing that any person could ever be afraid of as Dinosaurs are extinct, but never the less I am afraid. When I was very small my uncle played a informational type kids movie about dinosaurs where, at the end, the T-Rex showed up at the house of the host and blinked one yellow, reptile eye in the window. After that I was convinced that I the hills surrounding their home were really sleeping Brontosaurus, or worse. (He must have played it for my cousin C, too because she always thought the same thing about those hills!) To this day I still have very real, terrifying nightmares where I am being chased by T-rex or Velociraptors (thanks to Jurassic Park).
5. I believe in "affirmations". I truly believe that if you put your mind and energy in any one direction you will manifest it in some form eventually. (I believe this is true for negative things as well, like, if you tell yourself you are ugly over and over eventually you will be perceived as ugly, etc.) My walls are covered with photographs of places I love to travel to and people in my life who have achieved what I hope to some day (like a big, wonderful family!). When I am going through something hard or need extra courage for something I will write an applicable word (Healed, Strong) on myself every morning in sharpie marker. I feel like this act is a conscious enough effort to move my energy in the direction I need it.
6. I've been engaged twice. Once to my high school sweetheart, and once to the sociopath I moved to A-Town for. As much as I loved the first boy (and had convinced myself that I loved the second boy) it's crazy for me to think that I would have been married by now (and probably had kids!). I'm still not sure I am all that close to being ready for marriage. ...This might have something to do with the lack of eligible bachelors...
7. I am a horrible secretary. I hate filing - so much that I will let it pile up for an entire month - I hate being pleasant to people before I've had lunch and some days answering the phones makes me want to stab something repeatedly. Like maybe the handset. I have a hereditary problem with authority figures (seriously, it's all my dad's fault) and so I often I reply with something snippy and annoyed. My face is virtually transparent when it comes to my emotions and so there is no possible way for me to hide my disdain when I am feeling especially "work sucks" which is most of the days of the week. All of that aside, most of my working years have been spent in an office. It's because it makes the most money of the easy jobs and I really love having weekends off. I am going to miss that when I go back to school.
Okay, now I have to tag some people right?
I'm totally going to cheat (and copy Fabricated Goddess) and just say whomever wants to do this meme you go for it!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
That is because the holidays are upon us! Gag, right? I tried to be bitter about things (and I'm sorry but I will forever hate the implausibility of the diamond commercials!) but this morning KT and I went shopping for the Thanksgiving feast we are putting on and there wasn't a bone in my body that wasn't completely devoted to the holiday spirit. ...Except for the bone that broke down and purchased the CSS CD and "danced" in my car for ten minutes. (Music really is my hot hot sex. I swear.)
Even though I had stayed up until almost two watching T.V. last night, I woke up at seven a.m.. I was unreasonably excited about shopping for Thanksgiving. Maybe it's because I haven't thrown a party since the art opening? But no, walking around the Food Whole it was confirmed that I do, indeed, have the Christmas spirit. I Ooohed and Ahhhhed over the shiny wrapping paper and the displays of "organic" and handmade gifts. I drooled lovingly over the Hanukkah candles and the little blue stuffed bears holding dradles. I cheered to see fruitcake and eggnog.
Later, after two grocery stores, we had completely stocked my fridge.
It hasn't been that full in probably close to a year. It made me feel so rich to know that I was going to be stuffing that 20lb turkey with luv in just a few days, and sharing it with a group of wonderful and amazing people.
For a final pre-holiday splurge, KT and I stopped at the record store and dug through three boxes of classic Christmas records. I spent a grand total of eleven dollars on eight records and plan to spend the rest of the evening working on art, crafts and listening to the selected favorites from White Christmas over and over and over. (My poor cats.)
Don't come by if you don't want to hear me singing!
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
On processing it further...or maybe obsessing about it a little - because that's what I do...I realized that most of yesterday's bitterness was residing in the fact that I had been, well, over thinking it.
I was reminded of the very first episode of Sex and the City. You know? The first season where Carrie still had regular dialogue directly to the camera and the shots had a grainy late nineties quality to them. In this episode Carrie refers to herself as a "sexual anthropologist" when she meets Mr. Big, and tells him about her latest experiment of having sex like a man. The premise being that men so easily have sex with women and never seem to worry the next day about whether she is going to call or if she wants a real relationship or does she understand that this is just about the sex? Their only concern is that they get their rocks off.
And so why can't a woman do that, too? Just love em' and leave em'. Not obsess about whether he is going to call or does he want a relationship or why doesn't he want a relationship??? Obvious answer is that we over think. So many of us don't have that kill switch for our brains when it starts to race like a lab rat on coke. I don't.
Then I thought about another lesson worthy of heeding, fed to me by network television via Taye Diggs on Private Practice.
Wait - can I just talk about how hot Taye Diggs is, for a second? This show totally fulfills my need to see his delicious pectoral muscles and absolutely gorgeous shoulders. Can I have a few more shots of his ass, though? God, this man is a gift to women, chiseled and serious and wouldn't you just love to be wrapped up in that hunky body forever and ever? I would definitely have his babies.
Okay - Private Practice. In the show Taye (cause we're on a first name basis, don't you know?) plays a doctor who specializes in healing the body through the power of the mind. The mind is more powerful than the body, he says, and when you are in control of it you can heal yourself.
So, what does this have to do with having sex like a man? I'm reading this back and asking the very same question. Maybe I just wanted to talk about Taye Diggs. Whatever.
The point is (thank GOD she has a point) that I realized I need to force my personal kill switch and stop obsessing so much about how things are going to turn out, when they are going to turn out or if they are going to turn out kind of like a spam-loaf. No one else is obsessing, thus, I should not either.
Suddenly all the bitterness just dissolves away like the Emergen-C I need quite badly. Did I have more than four glasses of wine last night with the girls? Oh yes. I did. Somebody needs to invent the "drunk dial lock" like yesterday.
I wish I could be with you right now. I know you're not perfect and if someone bought me a brand new pillow top Sealy I would put you on the curb in a heart beat - oh, just saying that seems so cruel because we've been through so much together; you are mine. It's true that I hate sharing you, and have been known on occasion to kick people out because of that. Only you know that my favorite nap time spot is wedged between my down comforter and the feather pillow top, lying on my back with my feet crossed over each other, cat resting on my chest. Bed, I'm coming home to you tonight.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
I've been searching my files for that particularly vile man that would be appropriate for today's Lovemess, bitter and man-hating as I'm wishing it could be. Honestly, I'm sure that I've dated that guy at least three times, but I'm really not feeling like I want to devote time to hashing it out right now. I don't actually need fuel for this fire.
Last night, after my third Boddington, a fistful of cigarettes, Private Practice, some bad poetry and enough damn diamond commercials to make me want to puke, I went to bed. I dreamt about a pretty blonde girl walking a dog that didn't have use of its back legs (so, in effect, she was dragging him) and I rolled up in my car and offered them a ride. Except for some reason I was trying to drive my automatic car like a standard. Up a hill. It wasn't working.
Shit, the driving dream. I found out that not everybody has this dream, but I do, frequently, and find it quite meaningful. I was so excited when I finally had the driving dream where I was in the drivers seat. Someone told me that I could pick whatever car I wanted and I chose the one I own. I took that to mean that I was totally satisfied with the way that my life was going. It was such a great feeling.
Now I can't even drive the damn thing? I want to smack my subconscious around a little. "I'm doing FINE, you bitch!" Maybe I should be a little nicer to my subconscious. But clearly I'm floundering somewhere, and that means I have to figure out where so I can feel better, subconsciously.
And so I'm totally bitter about men. What? What segue? It's not there.
Here's a bullet list of everything that has me pissed off right now. Okay, that list is way too long. Here's the top five:
- You don't know what you want. Wait, you know what you want, you want me, but only when you want me, not when I want you. I want you? No, never mind you don't want me anymore.
- Empty promises, empty promise, empty promises. "Let's get together!" "I'd like to see you again." "I'll come for a visit." "I want to be there for you forever." Followed by your voicemail message because you don't feel like answering my calls right now. Or tomorrow. Can't you just send me a one line email, telling me you're busy?
- "Every kiss begins with Kay!" "He went to Jared!" That stupid Vanessa Cartlon song as the guy opens and reopens the sock drawer to look at the diamonds he got for his wife.
- Stop making excuses. Just be honest. I don't want to hear about how you're not over your last relationship blah blah blah. Whatever. Tell me the bottom line so I don't have to waste any time trying to decipher your "I'm trying to be gentle" speak.
- You know what? Women totally have a self image that is reflected by a mans approval. She knows all about. I totally agree, and I think it SUCKS.
That pretty much sums up the total of my disdain right now. And I would also like to add:
What the fuck EVER. You don't really exist, and I'll tell you why - no man is ever that excited about forking over a thousand dollars for diamonds that his lady may not even wear on a regular basis. That's a thousand dollars, just boxed up in her sock drawer "waiting" for a special occasion. Moreover, what would you get out of that? So stop being so damn fake and go hop over into the commercial where they show the guy getting his wife a big screen t.v. for Christmas because you know that's what would really happen.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Other news first:
In the effort to continually evolve, I have leaped from the proverbial plane and am hoping that my parachute does not fail. That is to say: I quit my job. Wow, when I say that out loud it sounds so definite. What happened was not that I stormed out or anything so drastic (though yesterday I was thinking about getting up, walking down the stairs and never returning). I approached my boss calmly and told him I would be going back to school in January. He took it quite well.
That, of course, means that I will soon be even more broke. Somehow, though, being a college student makes it legitimate to be broke. "Oh, she's always broke, she's in school." Yes, that's exactly my problem.
So, this happened and it is an incredible weight of my shoulders, despite the fact that I am in free fall until I find a job to replace this one. I feel certain this will all work itself out. The timing is perfect. I feel strong and capable these days. I feel like I am on the right path.
Good Stuff is happening.
No. 8 - Totally Shameless Insertion of Foot In Mouth
Shamelessly perusing Myspace for a date one day, I came across a guy I thought to be basically attractive. Why Myspace, I don't know. I guess I consider it the least evil of all the "dating" type services. It's creepy and awful but a fair amount of people are there just to be there, as opposed to crouching in the grass of Match.com waiting for a naked women to email them.
I email the guy - who was named something absurd like Cristophan - and coyly tested the water.
He emailed back: Do I know you? I can't see your photos, they are Friends only.
We "Befriend" each other.
Me: No you don't know me, I found you through such and such and you seem interesting.
Him: Oh, I see. Well tell me about yourself.
-- Yes it really does work this way, for those of you in doubt of this exchange. Myspace is basically just a glorified, free pick up site.
Me: I'm an artist / writer who has a crappy day job as a receptionist and basically everything you need to know is over here at my blog.
A couple of days go by and I hear nothing from him. What had I posted??? Nothing offensive or off putting. I hadn't been talking about my sixth toe or anything. As I was about to put another flirt out there I went and mulled over his page, trying to decide if he was worth chasing after. My eyes glossed over his height: 5'7".
I emailed him, trying to be coy: Oh, it's really too bad your short because you're awfully cute.
Of course anyone in their right mind could look at that sentence and think: This is not coy or attractive. It's kinda...rude.
But I did not think this. Not once.
He replied, with a quickness: Wow. For someone with such a way with words you would think you would be less callous! I have never been so insulted in all my life. I thank you to never contact me again and, what's more, you should know that you are completely inane.
Oh dear, I think I struck the wrong chord with him.
Later in my therapist's office, I recounted the story. She nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
"You told him he was short?"
"Yes...I didn't know he was going to have a complex about it!"
"Honey, any man under 5'10" has a complex about his height."
"Oh yes, really."
"But it is short! I mean, I'm 5'10" and I regularly wear three inch heels!"
"Yes, but no man wants to have that pointed out to him. Trust me."
"Well. I guess I won't be going out with him. Not that I wanted to. He was short."
You really scared me, you know that? You're a life size little girl (but somehow "holding" a box that is too big for you?) but, actually your head is much to big for your body. I couldn't stop staring at you, though, with your indistinct ethnicity and your over excited smile. No one is that happy to be carrying a package into the Post Office. I will surely have nightmares now.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
C'mon. Ya'll can't get enough of me, I know. But really. I have something very serious to talk about. It's Christmas shopping. Every time I scale down my list, someone else keeps jumping onto it. I'm thinking: I need to get a second job. So I click over to craigslist (everybody loves craigslist, right?) and start perusing the part time jobs. Here's what I found:
Milk Cow - Great $$
Yes, I have a cow. Looking for a good general assistant who can come to my home every so often to clean, cook, do light office work, run errands, give occasional massages, and even milk the cow.
And after I found that I pretty much figured I could stop looking. I don't think there is a more golden opportunity than that.
Speaking of what you're going to get me for Christmas... I've been diligently shopping on Amazon.com as though everyone I know is a millionaire. Whatever. That's why they call it a WISH list, right?
Because, really. I need an espresso machine:
and what better way to settle down with a sweet little americano than relaxing on the couch with my laptop to spew out a blog:
and god knows that my blogs would be so much better if I just had a digital camera. THIS digital camera...
Then I could take a million photos of this:
My Gawd that would look lovely on my pudgy little fingers. Oh Tiffany, how I love thee.
I can be realistic though. I would be ecstatic to receive a subscription to McSweeney's or some full length winter gloves. Cashmere? Emerald Green? Le Sigh.
What's on ya'lls wish list?
The Weird Girl with a Crush
I was the new girl at Trinity Family Catholic School. It was the fourth grade, I was tragically unhip and the new girl. I was certain that my life was over.
I couldn't compare to those other kids. Even though I was convinced that all of them were rich only most of them were. I think I started burgeoning a Marxist Complex right about here, constantly trying to convince myself that it didn't matter that I didn't have a pool and a brand new wardrobe, but viciously coveting everything they had that I didn't.
Though I tried to embrace my own distinct sense of fashion that often included tapestry vests, peacock feather earrings and spraying my thin little bangs into an upright wing, I never quite fit in. Now such fashions are found regularly on our runway models, but this was not the case in 19 blah blah blah. And all the popular kids made sure I knew it.
The one thing I wanted most from all the popular girls was one of their boyfriends. It was a strictly superficial school and so the popular kids were the pretty kids and the more interesting, homely kids were not to be mingled with. Read: I was never going to get the boy of my dreams, ever.
Who was he? Thomas Manin. The cutest boy in the whole school. I set the bar high, what can I say.
As fate would have it Tom was in my "home room" class. And he sat directly in front of me. This meant that I could hang on his every word and breath in his sweet soapy smell every single day. He never had any idea that I was drooling over him because his back was turned.
I maybe never would have gotten caught with this crush if I knew how to keep my big mouth shut. Which I don't. Which is why everyone knew that I had a HUGE crush on Tom. Seriously, kids in the second grade were talking about it. It was pathetic.
And I pitied myself loudly on a regular basis.
"Why doesn't he want me?" I'd lament. "Am I not good enough?"
Those two phrases would be repeated over and over as I got older. And then I would see a therapist about it. But at ten I really just wanted to hold hands with this kid. I thought about it all the time. This manifested into mortification one day during history class.
I raised my hand to answer the question I felt sure I knew the answer to. I was eager, waving my hand to get noticed. In the back of my mind, as usual, I was thinking about Tom and how I much I wished he would pass me a note that confessed his undying secret love to me.
The teacher called on me for an answer.
Opening my mouth, I fully intended to say something intelligent and accurate. But something tripped up - a wire got crossed - because what I actually said was not at all what I thought I would say.
I shouted it, excitedly, as if that actually were the answer to the question.
Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god. I turned the color of a steamed lobster and tried to figure out what I could possibly say to cover up what I had just done. Tom turned slowly in his chair, mirroring a similar shade of red.
The whole class was laughing. Even the teacher. I put my head down and tried not to cry from embarrassment. Now my life was over.
The rest of that year I only managed to draw his attention once after the name calling incident. Frustrated by the way he now completely ignored and avoided me I, in a desperate move to get his attention, poked him in the back with a pencil. A little too hard. He asked to have his seat moved after that.
Do you know I never had one boy interested in me at Trinity Family Catholic School? Even when I bloomed into a tall pretty tweenager, all the boys steered clear of me. Who wanted a weird girl to have a crush on them? I blame it all on Tom. But it's okay, I got over it. He's gay now.
You do realize that you aren't actually disposing of those leaves, right? And that, because you aren't bagging them up and taking them away, they will get blown back across the yard / parking lot / side walk as soon as it's remotely windy. This is just about job security isn't it? Because - seriously? You can't honestly believe this qualifies as landscaping and I could sure as hell do without the noxious fumes and churning motor that inevitably shows up before I've had my first cup of coffee.
Monday, November 12, 2007
I didn't really discover your sullen, soulful songs until I bought Tapestry on record when I was twenty-four. I guess you could say that I was a late bloomer, but the truth is I think you were always there with me from the beginning. I'm not of the generation I was born in, and neither were you, really. You told me to get up and show the world the love in my heart - you told me this when my world was mottled and grey and I couldn't see past the loneliness I washed myself in daily. Your song is quoted on my wall, just above my bed, so it can seep in through osmosis while I sleep.
What is the safest place for a list of all the people you've been with, ever? In a book of course. No, no actually it's not. Especially if you think you are going to loan out said book and so remove said list. SIGH. This means that I have to re-write the list. Not so exciting.
Lately I've found that, when I have my second cup of coffee or my morning smoke on the weekends my heart's started racing. Like I'm anxious about something, except nothing of note is going on. The best I can figure is that I've been overstimulating my system. Or I have a heart murmur. I may have to go coffee free for awhile. Yeah, back up off my cigarettes, they're staying.
Lovemess No. 6. - Violated *OR* Oh No He Di'int!
H-town: Eventually my life in young life in the city began to slow down. I learned valuable lessons about the importance of firing friends and binge drinking. Slower on the uptake was I when it came to being scrupulous about my bedfellows. And so when I met Matthew in the Laundromat down the street from my house, no alarms went off.
He was very cute, young and well read. We were both camped out in the little Vietnamese joint with old multi-colored washers and dryers, pretending not to notice one another. On transferring clothes from wash to dry Matt made a clever comment about how not to lose socks and it was enough to start us talking.
Cut to a week or so later: his apartment. He shared a duplex with a couple of other guys and by the time I got there they had moved on from drinking beer to tequila. I didn't partake, just put my purse down on the coffee table and wandered into Matt's room where he and another roommate were playing darts. Matt kicked him out and closed the door.
It was late and I was tired but we made out to creepy strains of "The Virgin Suicides" soundtrack. I fell asleep with a cold wind tapping at the glass pane by the bed, thoughtless.
In the morning I woke and dressed to leave, stepping over passed-out boys to get to my purse on the table in the living room. Per habit, I picked up my phone and checked for missed calls or messages. There were a few. I looked through the call list.
Wait, I thought, I didn't call these people.
I thumbed through my purse and found things inside tossed. My drivers license had been taken out of my wallet, among other things. I checked the phone messages.
"Hi, I got at really weird message from some guy last night. What were you up to?? Call me back."
"Hey, it's me. I got a call from here at like three a.m. Are you okay?"
"What's going on, are you okay? Who's Josh?"
It didn't take me long to figure out that my personal items had been violated, and that the tequila drinking boys I had left in the same room as my purse had taken it upon themselves to use my phone. Upon further investigation I found that it was much, much worse.
Not only had they called half of the numbers in my phone book - including that of my boss - but they were incredibly distasteful in their prank. They lead the callers, answered or not, to believe that they had me tied to a chair and were taking turns doing random dirty deeds to me. They made threats and lude passes at the person on the other line. All this while I had passively sleeping behind a closed door.
Luckily (I guess) no one called the police. On Monday, however, when I got into work I was upset to find that my boss had not only been a recipient of one of the calls, but they had been especially dirty to her during the call.
I tried to apologize and explain - leaving out the part where I was getting it on while all this happened - but it looked badly for me any way you turned it. She scowled at me, disapprovingly. I knew she couldn't fire me for this, but I wasn't stupid enough to believe I wouldn't have to relive this moment for a long time.
"You should really be more careful who you sleep with." She hissed.
"I'm sorry?" I sat back shocked, shaking. "This has nothing to do with who I do and do not sleep with."
Now I was venomous. No matter how dirty or low I felt about my own actions I would never, ever let another woman make me think I should feel that way. My sex was my business.
I didn't say anything further, just got up and walked back to my desk. Furious and seething I called Matt's voicemail and told him that he'd better not be expecting to hear from me again considering the way his friends treated me. This was not punishment enough, as far as I was concerned. But there was nothing further I could do.
Bitterly, I decided it best to put sex on the side burner for awhile, while I re-claimed my pride.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
As it is my full intent to not leave my house at all today (except for a yard sale. And maybe a bike ride. That counts as leaving, doesn't it?) I am going to post a short little blurb here to satisfy my NaBoMaMaWahWah requirements. I will not miss ONE DAY.
I am currently searching high and low for my List of Shame which is a list of all of the guys I've been with. I forced myself to do it before the AIDS test I took as a responsible sexually active woman. It was slightly nerve racking to list out all of the people whom you've woken up next to only to think "Oh wow. I had my beer goggles on last night." But I did it. And I am pretty sure there are some guys on the list (who will gracefully have their names changed, of course) who are wonderful fodder for the Lovemess.
I find it entertaining. Of course I didn't then when I was full of self loathing and making mistakes that I can honestly say I regret. But it is part of what has made me who I am, and so I choose to laugh at them. Because, as I always say, if you can't laugh at yourself...
The other night I was likened to "Samantha" from Sex and the City. At first I was kind of shocked. I like to think of myself as more of a Carrie type character. But then I realized that it's probably true. At least in certain periods in my life. Besides, is it so bad to be likened to a powerful and liberated woman?
The funniest part about it is, I love being in a relationship. I love cuddling and holding hands. I love the little sweet nothings and blah blah blahs that come with being someone you adore who adores you. Life doesn't always want me to be in a relationship, though. Which is why I really need one of THESE.
Am I making you blush yet Sister L? Now you know more about me than you ever wished you would want to know. Keep reading. I'll have you ten shades of red before the month is over.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
I've been TAGGED by the beautiful and talented Fabricated Goddess. Hells ya! I feel like a real part of the blogging community now. It brings a little tear to my eye. And since I'm trying to decided who - OP! I mean, what to right about next in my Lovemess, I'm going to do this in lieu of that.
Okay. Crazy 8 Meme:
8 things I’m passionate about...
1. Writing. Its the only thing in the whole world I want to do, and I am pushing myself to make some money at it because I won't be happy till I do. Working for other people basically sucks.
2. Art. Next to writing. If I could get paid to do either of these things I would be a happy happy girl.
3. My friends. Without whom I would be dead. Or the crazy cat lady. Seriously.
4. Mi Familia. It's taken me a lot of years to appreciate how important it is to have their love and support, no matter how "dysfunctional" it seems from the outside. They've saved my ass and wiped my tears and no matter how much I F*** up, they're here for me. I love them so much.
5. Travel. Spending money I don't have because I only live once and I want to see the whole damn world.
6. Crafting. I like yarn. And thread. And fabric. I'm secretly eighty.
7. My home. It's tiny and warm but it's mine, all mine. I've worked hard to establish this place as an inviting place to have all my loved ones in.
8. Shoes. Someday I am going to have a closet full with like, boxes and Polaroids and stuff.
Things I want to do before I die...
1. See the world. Write about it.
2. Publish something.
3. Sell some more of my art.
4. Have a family and some toe-headed kids. (They'll be blonde, I'm just sure of it.)
5. Own a farm. With chickens and goats and a cow.
6. Have enough money to support my shoe habit.
7. Skydive. This is a recent decision, cause I'm totally afraid of heights. But I think it would help me conquer a lot of my fears.
8. Learn to speak another language fluently.
Things I say often....
3.Oh My God. Expresses SO many emotions.
4. I'm sure you told me but tell me again... (I have early onset Alzheimer's. Especially when it comes to remembering important things like birthdays and names.)
5. F***, I cuss like a sailor. Sue me.
6. What the hell are you DOING? Usually to the person driving like an asshole in front of me.
7. Douchebag. I hate this word. Really. I wish I could erase it from my vocabulary because I find it gross but it's an excellent descriptor for some people I know.
8. LOL. But only via instant message. I SWEAR. I'm REALLY laughing.
Books I’ve read recently...
1. Reptiles in Love
2. Ill Equipped for A Life of Sex
3. Getting the Love You Want
4. Co-dependent No More
6. embarrassing but
7. I watch way more T.V. than
8. I do read lately.
Songs I could listen to over and over...
1. I feel it all - Fiest
2. You've Got to Get Up by Carol King. That's totally not the name of it.
3. Use Me - Bill Withers
4. Aint No Sunshine - Bill Withers I get chills EVERY time I hear it.
5. Blackbird - the Beatles
6. Mr. Blue - ELO
7. 50 ways to leave your lover - Paul Simon
8. Money Maker - Rilo Kiley
8 Things that attract me to my best friends....
1. Their spontaneity.
2. The ability to not judge me for being the kind of girl who totally puts her foot in her mouth and talks too loud
3. We can share wine OR tea. Doesn't really matter.
4. We sit and do things like knitting. They're secretly eighty too.
5. They are intelligent and beautiful and strong. Each and every one.
6. They are positive.
7. They let me regurgitate my therapist talk and think it's pretty okay advice.
8. We're totally going to all live on the same block and raise our babies. I hope.
8 People who should do this Crazy Eights meme:
3. Salty Miss Jill
I just can't quit you. I don't know why because your programming basically makes women look weak and depressing. But somehow I always manage to get sucked into some "Based on a True Story" movie about a woman who finds out her son - presumed dead for fourteen years - is actually alive and how is she going to make contact with him again and make him a part of her life?? HOW?? I wish that real life was so damn gripping.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Totally Just Like In The Movies And Stuff
Long before I ever even thought about cheating on Bryan, I was desperately, madly and wildly in love with him. I was sixteen, bloomed into a crazy romantic girl with hopes set high on meeting my future husband. It was a small town. There wasn't much else to hope for.
Things began with Bryan something like this:
Two sixteen year old girls stalk nineteen year old waiters, hoping to date them but knowing that they're like way too young.
One nineteen year old boy - Bryan - spies a particular sixteen year old girl (who is totally preoccupied with spying him) and finds out that she is way too young. But she's sitting in his section, so he flirts with her anyway.
One sixteen year old girl says to the other:
"He's totally into you."
"What? No, he's not, he's just nice. He's like that with everyone."
"No he's not. He's asked what we're doing tonight four times."
"So, he's trying to see what you're doing tonight."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he wants to know if you can do something with him tonight."
"No no no. I'm sure that's not it."
The girl who is normally not so shy suddenly becomes mute at the prospect of spending actual time with the adorable waiter, Bryan, whom she had been coveting for several months. Just as she is blushing over this he returns to their table to check on them and the second girl, who has suddenly grown balls enough for all three of them, turns to Bryan.
"So," she says, "We're going to watch some movies at my house tonight, do you want to come?"
"Yeah!" He grins from ear to ear.
That is how, squirming like a six year old with a bladder problem, I ended up side by side with Bryan on my friends couch in her private attic bedroom. We were watching "The Big Hit" with Marky Mark (formerly of the Funky Bunch) but that is all I remember of the film. I couldn't tell you any part of the plot line because my fingers were pressed to the couch sending sonic vibrations to my brain about where Bryan's fingers were in relation to them. His were on his lap, pressed firmly against his leg, as if they might escape. We giggled and blushed and intentionally squished in closer to each other.
I snuck glances at him from my peripheral, making note of his features close up. A little gap between his teeth. Toffee colored eyes. A broad forehead marked by light eyebrows that jumped when he spoke. His arms were not pale like mine, despite the winter, dusted with soft blonde hairs. When he noticed me looking, I looked away.
"I think I'm going to go down stairs to the kitchen and make some quesadillas," my friend announced, loudly. "You guys want anything?"
And she was gone for forty-five minutes. During this time Bryan and I kissed like bandits. He was a good kisser (though I had little comparison). Not just a good kisser - an amazing kisser - I would tell my friends later. I had never felt my stomach flutter so much, or felt my heart beat so hard or my hands sweat and shake so wildly.
After the movie was over, Bryan walked me to my car. He kissed me again and smiled. It was beginning to snow.
"Do you want to get together again?"
The air had that crisp, moist smell that comes just before a good winter storm. He wrapped his arms around me and my stomach jumped into my throat.
I showed absolutely no signs of being too eager.
We set our date for the following week. It almost didn't happen on account of the freak storm that dumped an actual foot and a half of snow on our little desert town. My mother firmly vetoed me driving in the snow and I couldn't argue because it was her car, but somehow I found a way around it. Oh yeah, his Jeep had four wheel drive. It doesn't get much hotter, right?
After what seemed like the longest evening of my "adult" life, I met Bryan at the restaurant after his shift. Whatever plans we had were stalled by the snow, but we were so intent to see each other again that we didn't care. After a quick change of shoes at his Jeep we walked across the street to the park and sat underneath a tall pine tree. We kissed and laughed nervously.
Some way or another we ended up on the ground in the snow. Laughing and trying not to get snow down our respective coat necks we each rolled over onto our backs, as close to each other as we could. At the inside our hands were clasped together tightly and at the outside out free hands waved up and down, brushing a pattern in the snow. Little flakes shuddered off the trees and onto our faces.
When we got up (carefully), the imprint of our conjoined bodies was left, completed with angels wings.
The date with no plans went late into the night, ended at an all night diner where we drank hot chocolate and recovered from the cold. We held hands across the table and marvelled at how easy it was to be with one another. As if we had known each other forever. Immediately, without a doubt in my mind, I knew that we were meant to be together. Like, forever.
I was in love with your music and so, by proxy, you. I was more than a little shocked to find out that you were 4'11", mousey and rude. After hitting my head squarely on the monitor above the table I chose to stand on, seeing stars and spilling my beer, you denied that you had any advil in your tour bus. You looked at me like I was crazy. I tried to save face by driving your band around town looking for your missing drummer, but it turned out that he was at the hotel the whole time and we ended up nearly late for your performance which was strange in that the whole crowd continuously made the "shhhhh"ing noise while you played but, because I was drunk, I gave you a real good hoot anyhow.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
2003, TX: The period between when I finally realized I needed help for my depression and the years I wrote off as "growing pains" could be aptly labeled "Reckless Abandon". I was twenty-one, growing into my, er, womanhood, and exploring life as a single alcoholic.
One summer night my partner in crime, Stacy, and I had already done the requisite pre-drinking and had moved on to catch the local music at our favorite grungy watering hole. We liked it because it was dark and dirty, and the boys were young and cute.
We walked in to find Colin at the bar. Scruffy and skinny, wedged between two strikingly handsome musicians, he was chatting away charismatically. Through my beer goggles we I found him reasonably attractive, and he seemed to be A: cock blocking his musician friends or B: interested in me.
At this point in my life I was basically unscrupulous. The guidelines to get with me were loose and ever changing. So by the end of our night I found myself riding to Colin's apartment in his dirty car. Not once during the evening did I notice he hadn't had a drink.
I noticed though, when once inside his tiny place, he lifted up a heavy blue book printed with the words "Alcoholics Anonymous".
"I've had problems in the past," he explained.
"Awww," I slurred. And begged him come kiss me.
Without his clothes on he was even skinnier. On his bony chest was a tattooed quote by Tupac.
Only God Can Judge Me.
The candlelight flickered, incense burned. There may have been some music playing. Perfectly romantic in a drunken, I-don't-know-this-guy kind of way. And then, for some reason, I saw his butt.
There, on his little white hiney, was a tattoo of a band-aid. A tattoo. Of a band-aid. It was strange and odd shaped, and on (careful) closer examination, I saw a little smiley face and a quote bubble that said cheerfully "OUCH!"
Dear God in heaven above, I was sleeping with a guy who had a tattoo of a band-aid that said OUCH on his butt.
This can't bode well, I thought. Followed by, Meh, whatever.
He was a surprisingly tender lover for a recovering alcoholic / general all 'round addict. The next week, when I was sick, he even came over to my house and cuddled with me on my couch. There may have been some ulterior motive there, but I thought it was sweet. Remember here, I was in a place where basically anything was acceptable. Three legs? You are A-okay with me!
It was not so A-okay, though, when he later told me that he had a minor thing in the down there area.
"What? A what?"
"A thing. The doctor said it's the most harmless one you can get. And it goes away."
"Oh, it goes away," I replied. "Oh, okay then."
Stupid old me sipped my coffee and did not throw it at him. I didn't kick him in the nads or scream. I just sipped my coffee and smiled.
"Wow," He said. "Thanks for making this so easy."
"Sure," I replied. Sip.
Two years later I was finally cleared by a doctor for that thing that he so kindly shared as "You don't have any problems down there at all!" It probably took just as long (er...or longer?) for me to learn my lessons about sleeping with questionable guys. But it's definitely a permanent mental note now: Heinous tattoos in the nether regions = REALLY REALLY BAD.
...Thank you Captain Obvious.
Me: Thank you Captain Obvious.
Her: There really should be a character in your romance book named Captain Obvious.
Me: Yeah, like half of the men I know.
Her: Oh, they would love to hear that.
Me: Oh they know, I tell them....Poor guys.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
This Wednesday has begun in a trying manner. It had something to do with my bank account. Someone let a caffeinated kid in there with a friggin red sharpie. But these two things cheered me up right nice:
Plastic Toys Gone Wrong by this fine blog I really need to add to my blogroll if I haven't already.
Hilarious, Sarcastic Letters to Hollywood by this famous writer I don't know.
How to Ruin The First Good Thing You've Ever Had:
Christmas 2000: I was working part time at a coffee shop near the airport. Chuck worked two doors down as an accountant. I noticed him after the first few months, bustling in around nine a.m. each day in his navy blue pea coat. He never smiled, never spoke. His shiny dark hair fell over his eyes when he poured sugar into his coffee, hiding a barely freckled nose and pale eyelashes. Even though he was meek and had a weak jaw, his presence penetrated me.
Then comes the inevitable conflict. I had a boyfriend. An impossibly cute boyfriend who loved me immensely and I had just moved in with. A love affair with Chuck could never ever be.
And yet, I pursued it. The town was small and, through my powers of observation I found out that (oh sweet Jesus) he lived in the condos right next to us. Day by day I would pass his car on the street and see his sullen face in the shop and just wish I could touch him.
Knowing I shouldn't but somehow completely unable to stop myself, I left my phone number on his windshield. I suspected his curiosity would get the better of him and he would eventually call it.
I was right.
The first time we talked I revealed my identity, how I had discovered where he parked his truck at night and that I happened to live right behind him. At eighteen I was not altogether aware of just how creepy this was. And yet he spoke to me. He told me about himself, his recent divorce, his ten year old child. Chuck was tragically lonely.
After only a few conversations, I found myself in his apartment with my best friend as a buffer, eating filet mignon and listening to U2. I was nervous and giggly. I didn't know why he'd agreed to have me there and I knew I shouldn't be, but all logic sensors had been turned off in my brain. I was this close to reaching out and touching him.
And then my friend went home. The buffer was suddenly gone and the second or third glass of red wine began to sink in behind my eyelids. Seeing Chuck up close I realized he was more delicate than his heavy coat led me to believe. He was a slight of a man with a bit of a lisp and some serious emotional baggage. But I had committed myself to the infatuation.
"You want to kiss me, don't you?" He asked as we laid on his floor, listening to music.
"Yes," I whispered.
"But you have a boyfriend."
"I know," I said. And then I lied, "But things are over between us, anyhow."
I looked at him, looking at me. I was annoyed by his weakness, his insecurity. I wanted to be wanted by him. I moved in for a kiss.
His kisses were soft. He was tender in ways that my 21 year old boyfriend had not yet learned to be - that some men never learn to be. My vision blurred with heat of my excitement. Then there was the bedroom, his window looking out onto the back of the condos where I lived. We were naked.
I found myself shocked by his size (not made up for by girth) and altogether unsatisfied. It was a let down that I mollified by letting him put his arms around me and sleep. My heart was racing, though, and only the wine drunk led me to dreaming.
At six a.m., in the cold, I walked around the block to my apartment where I knew my boyfriend would be waiting alone in bed. The sun rose but did not fight off the chill from the winter air. I clutched my coat around me tightly, hardened with what I knew was a grave mistake. Over and over one thought surfaced.
Things will never be the same again.
I heart you. Times a gajillion. You are the brains behind everything that Miss Pretentious Pants stamps her name on. You are the people who bring me near impossible recipes for Pear Custard Pie and 14 inch round Mocha Dacquoise Cakes side by side with hand embroidered silk scarf pillows and chi-chi lamps made entirely of gourds. Without you, Martha would never be able to afford her house in the Hampton's, and I would never be able to covet over priced linens, cookware and paper goods.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
My month long sob fest of inspirationlessness has dried. I think. For now anyway. Yesterday a friend from H-town oh-so-benevolently commissioned a piece of art work from me to the tune of "Oh wouldn't you like to know!". This means a few things:
1. I can eat something besides eggs next week.
2. I can pay my rent and my car payment (which are both late).
3. I get to start working on my art again!
For a couple weeks now it's been grit under my nails knowing that I don't have the material to work on any new pieces. I need archival adhesive and new paper; another container of sealant and a some kind of crazy drop cloth to keep the cat hair from becoming part of my new works. And so I had been putting off the trip to the art store because I knew I would walk out with more than my sad little bank account can handle. Instead I would just go home and drink a bottle of wine. Very Productive.
Thankfully, I can resume my healthy, non-alcohol abusive life. This (I think) is a good thing.
In news of the NablaMoMo nature, only one person voted for what they want me to post on for the rest of the month. So, guess what people! That's what I'm going to write about. If you have a problem listening to the Soap Opera I call my love life...well. You won't. I think it's pretty entertaining, as it goes. I have enough fodder here for many many NaPoPo's to come...
First "Official Boyfriend":
I was tragically unpopular in the second grade. I liked to feather my floppy bangs with a curling iron and spray them till they were crunchy. I thought it looked adorable. I had approximately three friends at Chetfield Elementary, but most often I preferred making up games with myself in the soccer field, just out of range of the recess bell.
This was the year that I would only begin to be scarred by little boys who would someday become men. Because not only did they tease me incessantly, taunting me and whispering cruelly about me in class, one recess they spit on me. The kind of spit with boogers in it.
Come Valentine's day I already knew to be jaded about the holiday. I received little printed cards from all of the people in class because we were required to hand out one to everyone. Each one was printed with child scribble or the occasional mom-script stating merrily "Happy Valentine's Day Friend!" and things equally mundane.
I bent over in my chair to put my stack of candy hearts and and paper cards in my school bag, trying hard not to be bitter at the little eight-year old girls who were receiving candy and cheap carnations from their new or current boyfriends. I might have been thinking about crying because, at eight, I was prone to have at least one good cry a day.
Popping my head back up to look around the class I spied something unbelievable. On my desk, shining like a beacon of light, was a bright red cardboard box with a plastic Mylar window. Inside was a chocolate rose and on the back, in little boy writing, was a note to me.
"Will you be my girlfriend? Love, Dan"
Even though Dan was the best friend of the boy I had a crush on, and even though his ears stuck out from his head in a tragically "Dumbo" way, I said yes immediately. My girly heart burst open like a Care-bear stare. At recess we were holding hands with the best of the couples.
At home that night I placed the chocolate rose in the fridge like it was no big deal. I wasn't going to announce it because I was pretty sure my mom would have something to say. Something along the lines of "You don't need a boyfriend! You're too young!" and then cluck her tongue and cuss in Spanish.
As the refrigerator was obviously community space, though, my mother found my chocolate, shoved behind a Tupperware container of leftovers.
"What's this??" she asked.
"Oh, it's just from a boy in class," I said, blushing hard and trying to think of a way to weasel out of it.
"He wants you to be his girlfriend?" she turned the box over and gasped, speaking more to the chocolate that me. "What's wrong with his mother! Ay dios mio."
For a full two weeks Dan and I were a perfect second grade couple. We ate lunch together, we held hands at recess, and we stared at each other during class. My first real boyfriend. Things couldn't have been better.
Until one day my friend Jenny began to feel rejected by us.
"I want a boyfriend too!" She said.
And I thought I had the perfect solution.
"I know!" I said "Dan can be your boyfriend too!"
Excited, I approached Dan with the idea, absolutely certain that he would completely enroll in being boyfriends with two girls. It seems I was onto men at an early age. But Dan, he threw me for a loop. He shook his head vehemently "No!"
"I just want to be your boyfriend!"
I did not think this was endearing. I wanted to share my boyfriend with my friend.
"Well fine, Dan. If you don't want to date her too, then we're not going to date at all!"
Some how I thought this ultimatum would make him change his mind, but alas, it did not. And so, shortly after my blissful moment as some one's girlfriend, I became an ex. That day at recess I lay on the grass all alone and cried, right in front of everyone.