Who would have thought?

(Original Post: April 3, 2006 - Monday)

I once heard that the perfect place to meet single men was in a laundromat. The theory behind it goes like this: If they are in the laundromat then the odds of them being in relationships are slim. I guess this is assumed because if they were in a relationship then they would have their bitch doing laundry for them.
Well guess what? I do not want to date a man who cannot afford a washing machine. Or a guy who calls me a bitch. Or stands by and says nothing while some girl in a blog calls me one. Moving on.
I then heard that the grocery store was the ideal place to find the man of your dreams. They will be in the frozen food section shopping for hungry man dinners. The theory behind this was that if a man is eating frozen meals, it is most likely because he has no one cooking for him. But then I remembered that I don't cook. It's possible there are other women out there like me. And I remembered my loathing for grocery shopping. So I guess it is possible that then men in these sections are single, but if they aren't then they are most likely pissed at my gender.
And while we are on possibilities, it is possible my failure to cook or grocery shop have contributed to my status, but let's not focus on how this could my fault. Moving on.
Three worst places to meet someone: At work, in your general living area (neighbor), or in your home (roommate). This has been a problem of mine for quite some time. Well not the roommate part. I mean My friend is great for sure. Trust me, it's not her, it's me. And the people who live next door. Well, let's just say no. Although I did hear the woman next door once. And when I say heard, I mean, Holy F'N Jeebus she was loud. Sounded like a good time. But still no. Again, It's not her, it's me. She's probably a great lady.
But the work thing. Yep, weakness. I mean seriously. When is there time to meet people outside of work? the people at work become your friends, then when you go out on the weekends you invite those new work friends. So then you get drunk with these friends and they become better friends. Then the best. Then you want each other dead. What makes this relationship different from any other? Oh yeah, you have to see this devil every day. You hear about other relationships they are in. You hear how happy they are and how easily they moved on. And what's worse? They hear about how you are still single. And then you can't really hang with them anymore which pisses off your other friends, because you crossed a line and made everything awkward. Way to go loser.
My point is this: I have found the perfect place to meet men. I found it by accident. I was only trying to clean out the clutter in my life. Such a random act of responsibility on my part to be honest.
The self car wash. I know, it has been right there in front of us this whole time. This perfectly amazing untapped resource.
If you are a girl washing your car at the self car wash, then the chances of you being single are high. I mean, if you are a woman in general these days, the chances of you being single, or on your way there, are high. Let's be honest. But nothing says single quite as loud as a female trying to figure out what arm and hammer is for. It's kind of like the man doing the laundry thing, if you get my stereotype.
And what's better is, you know he can afford a car, and you can tell what type of guy you are dealing with, by how much time he is taking on his vehicle.
There is the married guy doing a rush job on the minivan. And the not-so-single guy either is having his car detailed or driving through the automatic car wash. And then there are the single men. they are the ones taking hours on their jeep or SUV. Most likely it is a bit muddy from a weekend trip, or perhaps they are putting some finishing touches on it before a blind date with a girl they met on MySpace. Whatever the case, they have all the time in the world to spend on their car. They are waxing. They are buffing. However, they are not buying a fragrance. Oh no. A fragrance says, I'm taken. A non fragrance says, I haven't met her yet. Not to say married men don't buff and wax, but they do it at home. Because they have a home. And their wives don't let them leave it.
I was asked twice if I needed help. One guy tried to explain to me all the different notches. "This is for the tires, Ma'am." The other guy approached while I was washing the roof of the car. "Do you need help with that?"
They were both summarily dismissed. BTW. Summarily is my word of the day. Look it up and then steal it if you'd like. I did.
So there you go girls. Go wash your cars. The worst thing that will happen is you'll get your car clean. The best thing that could happen is you become someone's fragrance.

Saturday, Bloody Saturday

(Original Post: April 1, 2006 - Saturday)

It's Saturday. I should be out, getting drunk and snapping random phone photos right? Hell no. I'm sick. And I'm coughing up a lung, watching Kelly Clarkson videos. Looks like it's going to be a law and order kinda night.
I want to eat, but every time I swallow it's like tiny knives are carving the alphabet down my throat. I need to swallow something that burns, like tequila. Or something that soothes. No comments please.
I went out with a friend earlier. We had lunch and then got pedicures and manicures. I probably should not have braved the outing, but damn. You can only sit inside your misery for so many hours before it tries to eat you alive. She took me to bed, bath and beyond. I bought a scale.
I was going to just buy the twenty dollar scale, but some dude was like, hey, this one calculates body fat and water weight. And I said, why would I want to pay more money for something that will only cause me pain. But he shot me a look like, come on girl; you've got nothing to worry about. My friend told me he was clearly flirting. (I've forgotten what that looks/sounds like, but I'll take her word for it.) So he hands me one of the more expensive scales and we head to the check out.
So thank you mystery man. That compliment cost me fifty bucks.
I did get broken up with earlier this week. The fifty bucks for the compliment seemed like a small price to pay in comparison.

L on E

(Original Post: March 28, 2006 - Tuesday)

My throat feels like ass. I'm in workout gear right now. I was supposed to take my fat ass around the block a couple times but came home and ate frozen whipped cream instead.
This weekend was awesome. I went to Sonar Friday. I've only been to that club three times, and every time I go I remember why I wait so long before going again. Parking on the street. Upon arrival a guy approached the bench to let us know he was watching cars for tips. Um. That can't be good. Nevertheless we enter and begin drinking right away. I'm two shades of shady by my second drink.
We go to another room in the club and they are selling shit. There will be a band there later and someone is selling some 'gear.' It all says L on E. I ask the woman, what does L on E mean? She says, Lesbians on Ecstasy. Well of course duh? I can't believe I even had to ask. What did I think it meant? Liberals on Entertainment tonight? Any who, we listen for a second and it's off to the third room in the club.
By then we can't really see or hear and life is good. I can still mange to pull out my phone and send drunk text messages, so it's all good.
When we left our car was still in the parking lot, so that was a plus. I barely remember getting home, and I'm sure there was a bean burrito inhaled somewhere in this story.
The next day was totally unproductive, but by Sunday I was ready to become a member of society again. I bought a camera phone. People no longer get phone calls from me, it's just photos. Even if you call me and ask me a question on the voice mail, I will write the answer on a piece of paper and send you a picture of it. Don't try me. I'm a retard with this phone.

Stay off the pole

(Original Post: March 12, 2006 - Sunday)

Chris Rock said it best. He has one job in life now, and that job is keeping his daughter off the pole. So why is the newest workout craze causing tons of women to 'reassess the pole.' What I mean is this. I go to the movies the other day to watch a children's flick, and I see an add for Xpose fitness. They teach floor, chair and pole routines. A free beginner class for those interested. And even though I'm more curious than actually interested, I attend. Fifty women, all different shapes and sizes and nationalities. Mothers and Grandmothers.
Our instructor throws on some 8 inch hooker heels, clear by the way, and we are ready to begin. 45 minutes later I feel like the same ol' me, only now I know what the term 'pop it out' means, and I also am too familiar with the woman in front of me. We go into the next room for a pole demo. And wow. How many weeks is it going to take me to learn that little maneuver? That's more than 10-weeks lady. They announce a special. A yoga mat, the clear hooker heels, and 6 classes for $99 bucks. We are all thinking the same thing...where do I sign? Because to be honest...although we all made fun of it, and half the fucking girls in the class moved like robots, and the snake is move I will NEVER get down, and 'when in doubt, pop it out' is not a phrase that will help me in everyday life, one thing is true: I left there feeling sexy. And standing a little bit straighter even. I should warn you though. There are injuries. Jenna Jameson wrote a book awhile back. There is a whole section on Stripper injuries. Holy crap, that shit is no joke. I cannot imagine falling from the height of those heels. And knees...a lot of time spent on the knees. It's not all giggles and dollar bills ladies. That's for sure. It is a good workout though. I don't know if you are sweating more from the squats or from the fact that 49 women are watching you trace your body with your fingertips, but whatever the case, it beats a five-mile run on the treadmill. Which by the way is only actually three miles of actual outside running. So point proven even more.

Is this how it goes?

(Original Post: March 10, 2006 - Friday)

Love = obsessive compulsive.
Text messaging a hundred times a day. Where is he? What is he doing?
Eminem said it best: What? My name is, What? My name is, Who? My name is Slim Shady.
Shit, that is not the part that is going to make my point...hold on...
Here it goes: We'll be friends, I'll call you again, and I’ll chase you around every bar you attend. Never know what kind of car I'll be in, see how much you'll be partying then.
Is there ever a point when you just know? When there is no question? And if there is no question, will you get bored with the relationship and leave anyway? Is anyone ever satisfied? Sated? Filled up?
Is it like Dane says: When you don't have love, it seems like everyone else is in love. Karen the douche is in love. Even the tards down the street are getting married on their front lawn. It's like a big party that everyone was invited to, except you. And you pass by the party, alone, in the rain.
But if you are a guest at that party well. You're not happy either. You're like, where the fuck is my coat. I want my coat. I've been at this party for three years. I want to see other parties. Oh fuck, someone shit on the coats. "What? I hope it wasn't my coat."
The coat thing is a totally different story. But you see my point.
I'm happy right now. Ecstatic actually. Complete with the butterflies and the chemical high that keeps me from eating and causes me to dream while awake. And I guess what I'm asking is, "How long before someone shit's on my coat?"

Thank you for not fucking me big time! NOT

(Original Post: March 6, 2006 - Monday)

Ok. I almost saw a guy commit suicide Sunday. Or at least that is what I thought he was trying to do. He got out of his car and began crossing the freeway. In California there are signs warning you that there may be people trying to cross the freeway. Those people are not trying to commit suicide. They are trying to get into the country. I don't think that is a problem here in Maryland, and there are not signs posted, so what else could this guy be doing?
Well guess what I found out. There are signs posted, and they are fucking speed limit signs, and they say 55, and I was going 74. $80 later I'm back on the road and a little defeated. It's the first ticket I've ever gotten off base. Not to mention I'm usually the slowest driver ever. No one wants to follow me anywhere and they don't want me following them. I'm that annoying person you cut off in traffic. Whatever. So today I stop at the bank to deposit my winnings from Atlantic City. I went this weekend and won about $300. Well, $220 if you count my run-in with the Po Po. So there I am. I deposit the money in the bank and walk back to my car. And yep, you guessed it, I locked my keys in the car. The car is a fucking 2006 and I don't have keyless entry and I've gotten so used to just locking the doors as soon as I get out, and well, yeah. My phone and everything is just in there laughing at me. I do have a spare set of keys. They are in the car as well. God I'm a genius. So I call a locksmith. He comes out. Unlocks my door in about 4 seconds and hands me a bill for $95. Oh My Fucking Gorham. Are you kidding me? Yes, I was just about to suggest I pay you $95 for your 4 seconds of laughing in my face. Thank you Sir, for not fucking me big time. Last night I called my phone company. My bill seemed a little extreme so I wanted to call and see what was up. Turns out a while back I accidentally cancelled my text messaging option and I've been paying for them since May. So basically 20 bucks a month extra since may. Not to mention that I have the family plan and the second phone I bought is somewhere in California not being used, but I am paying for text messages on that phone and oh yeah, by the way, insurance. Do you think I have insurance on my piece of shit phone? NO. How in the hell did that happen? Fuck. The lady was like, I'm sorry ma'am, are you not happy with our service because you are a fucking idiot who can't figure out how to read her fucking bill and who got online and accidentally cancelled her text messages, and now you are fucking pissed and want to threaten to cancel your service hoping we will give you a bunch of free shit to keep you as a customer? UM, YES BITCH! That's exactly who I am. Curves gym charged me $300 bucks last month in back membership fees because they said my contract was never officially cancelled. I mean, yes, the year I signed up for had ended, but I had never sent an official letter asking them to cancel it, so they just kept continuing to charge me. I tried to say I was in Iraq...but then I'm sure they wondered why the call was a 410 are code. I'm stealth for sure. I need to stop. I am feeling the urge to cross a freeway.

Not to be: That is the answer

(Original Post: March 5, 2006 - Sunday)

Self-absorbed = Excessively self-involved.
This describes a big part of the world, and I'm sad to say, in a lot of ways, it defines me as well.
I am not situationally aware a lot of times. I do not recognize need in others. I used to look at this as a way to self preserve, but now I do indeed agree it is a weakness.
When I was younger my stepmother would ground me every 10 minutes. She would come home, look around the house, see that nothing had been done, and send me to my room. One day I said, can you please just make me a list of all the things you want me to do? I arrived home from school the next day to find a list of chores attached to the fridge. I did every chore on the list, and felt very accomplished. When she got home I greeted her at the door. I said, "I did everything on the list." She said, "I still don't see why you need a fucking list."
The next week I moved in with my mother, who by the way expecting nothing of me ever. No situational awareness needed. But also no recognition of my needs. So tons of self-absorption.
I have recently hurt a very dear friend because of this character flaw. I did not recognize need. I did not assess the situation. I did not have a list. The world does not work like that. The military always provides a list. I think that is why I have lasted as long as I have. People do not provide lists, and that is probably why a lot of my relationships have failed. Friendships included.
I am on, what I now refer to as, the friendship diet. It's just like the never-ending weight loss battle. Once you hit your goal weight, you feel like you can go back to eating whatever you want. And when you balloon back up, you start all over trying to get back to that goal weight.
Same concept for my relationships. I invest a lot of time into getting them to their peak. Then I feel like I can act however I want and the relationship will sustain itself. And when it starts to fall apart I again, put all my eggs in the basket and make the trek back up to peak position. This method hasn't worked in either of the cases. And it requires a lot more work to rebuild, then to just sustain.
I'm going to vow to be different. Not To Be so self-absorbed. Not To Be so situationally unaware.
My stepmother wasn't such an idiot I guess.

The reason for my 'NO PET' policy

(Original Post: February 26, 2006 - Sunday)

When My friend and I made the decision to live together, there was one stip. No pets. She had a dog. Granted, he was a cute dog, but no matter how cute he was, he had to go. So he did. She gave him to a co-worker and little Gizmo lived happily ever after. Somewhere else.
My friend has two cats. Every time I come to visit they find it necessary to tug at my hair, breathe in my face, paw at my feet, purr in my ear. I push them away without a second thought. ALWAYS.
Last night there was a stray dog outside of My friend's casa. It was a good looking Boxer. Sure, the dog was friendly. Sure, he looked like a house dog. Sure, he had sad little puppy eyes and was crying outside the door, but when she asked me what we should do, I sure did say, shut the door and he will eventually just go away. This is not because I'm a cold bitch. Although sometimes that can be argued. It is because of a traumatic childhood. Let me explain.
The first pet I ever had was a hamster. My brother got a rat. I thought it would be a good idea for them to be friends so I put them to sleep in the same cage. I woke up to a bloody rat and a carcass.
The next pet I had was a tiny little kitten. Totally adorable. She loved to cuddle up with me at night. One night she cuddled up to far and when i woke up she was stiff as a board. Rigor mortis had already set in.
My mother felt terrible. She bought me another kitten. My mom accidentally backed a car over him. No worries, he seemed to be okay, although he did continue to paw at his eye for a few days. Well, one day I awoke to find him dead in the bathroom with his eyeball hanging out. He must have pawed it out of his head.
The family decided to get a Chinese Shar-Pei. She was with us for awhile. She gave birth to seven puppies. We kept them all in the garage with some old furniture. Her babies got under the couch cushions to stay warm. She sat on top of the cushions oblivious I guess. She smothered all seven pups. We buried them in the back yard, but she continued to dig them up. Every few days we have to rebury them. Traumatic.
I've had only one other pet in my life. A little dog named Vern. Every time he shit it would end up all over his fur. So I cut all the hair around his ass. But he would still sit in it. And bath time every single night was getting to be too much. One day my best friend accidentally hit him with a car while backing out of the drive. To this day Christy says he committed suicide because he was tired of having shit all over his ass.
You can see my apprehension when it came time to give birth.

ENFP Personality = FAT

(Original Post: February 22, 2006 - Wednesday)

So I'm screwed. It has been determined that your personality type directly relates to your body type. What in the hell. And guess what they found out? In general people with a good personality are, yep, you guessed it, overweight. I thought there were no real scientific studies to prove the "Oh she has a good personality so she must be fat," theory. But I was, like I have been often these days, wrong.
Let me break it down ... There is E or I. Which means, Extrovert or Introvert. There is N or S. Which means, Intuitive or Sensor. There is F or T. Which means, Feeler or Thinker. There is P or J. Which means, Preciever or Judger. You will be one of each of these, and that combination will determine your personality type. Now, if you act like you are always on uppers and the proverbial glass is always half full and life seems overall colorful and cheery and you are usually the person inviting people to a party and you love to make friends with everyone and you put the person in front of the problem instead of the problem in front of the person, and you really just have a sunny outlook on life, well chances are you eat too much. They will have you believe that ENFP stands for Extroverted Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiver. I stand to reason that it means Extremely Nice Fat Person. I didn't just come up with this on my own. A coworker who studies these personality types was the one who originally pointed it out to me. He said there is an entire book on the subject. He said that people with his personality type (none) seem to be thin and muscular, where as people with my personality type (lovely) seem to be short and fat. I looked at him kind of shocked. So he quickly backed it up with, You're not short. Then after some more hesitation and a continued look of shock from me, he followed that up with a very delayed, you're not fat. WHATEVER. You can not hesitate and then say that. It's like, "Do I look fat in this dress?" LONG PAUSE. "NO." It fails every time. I guess the reasoning is that extroverted people are very oral by nature. Meaning they talk a lot. And also, ENFPs are very social people who seem to eat in every type of setting. Mad, Sad, Happy, Very Happy. Whatever the mood, just add a chicken wing and we are good. So see, it is not something I have control over. I can either be overweight with a great personality or thin and stale. And if given the choice, well naturally. I'd pick thin and stale.

Silly woman, Platonic is for kids.

(Origonal Post: February 20, 2006 - Monday)

Platonic: Transcending physical desire. Located right before Platoon in the dictionary. But directly across from Playboy ironically.
Let me break it down. Men and women cannot be friends. Not 'just' friends. There is always a want on either side of that equation. Now I'm not saying a group of co-workers cannot go out for a drink after work. That happens a lot where I work. But if you ask Karen out for some drinks after work, and noone else is invited, then guess what. There is nothing friendly about that. Either she wants you or you want her.
It is possible that she doesn't want you at all. She is Platonic in her head. But you are looking at her like "in case of emergency break glass" material. Or vice/versa. But there is nothing Platonic about a relationship like that.
Lately I've been meeting people on the Platonic Foundation. But earthquakes are indeed the natural disaster I continue to encounter on the soil of that bogus Platonic Foundation. If Mike comes up and says Happy Birthday, then he probably means Happy Birthday. But if he comes up and says, Hey, let me take you to the Melting Pot to celebrate, chances are he thinks he'll end up in bed with me in the near future.
There has really only been ONE man in my lifetime who really just wanted to be friends. And I didn't believe him. He didn't want to have sex with me, or take advantage of me. He just quite literally wanted to 'hang out.' But I've already told you, Platonic does not exist for adults. The more 'friends' he wanted to be, the more I pushed him for more. And eventually we wanted each other dead. We are 'friends' now, mostly because we will never see each other again.
When we were kids, Platonic was a way of life. Cooties were an epidemic back then, so no one wanted to get too close to the opposite sex anyway. When did it become a rule that men and women could not be friends. And if you are thinking in your mind right now that you have a friend and the two of you are 'just friends' and there never has been anything and there never will be anything, then let me ask you this ...
1. Will there never be anything because you don't want anything?
2. Will there never be anything because he doesn't want anything?
3. If you answer that neither of you want anything, then one of you is lying. Or one of you is Brokeback. Period. The end.
There is no male in my life right now who would just call me up to hang out and nothing else. NOT A SINGLE ONE. In the back of his mind, or my mind, more would be going on. We would be reading into every sentence, every word.
And as it stands right now there is only ONE guy that I'm thinking about a lot. And it seems to me that he is more on the Platonic wave length than anyone. And isn't that how it always is. He is probably thinking, why can't we just be friends. And I'm thinking, what would our babies look like. It's never ending.

The Flushie, AKA No Cheese!

(Original Post: February 18, 2006 - Saturday)

Alright. Tonight I went out in the Faux hawk. And I'm drunk as I type so if I make a mistake, well, you know I don't mean it. Anyway, this guy we were sitting with says, hey, seriously, What's up with the flushie? Well, I don't know what he's talking about to be honest, so I say, the what? And he says, "The Flushie." You know, when someone holds you by your legs and flushes your head down the toilet. I laughed my ass off. I've been told many things while sporting this fab do. I've been told that I'm a bad ass mother fucker, and on the other end of that I've been told that I look like Ace Ventura. I've been told that I remind people of PINK, and I've been told that I look like a dyke. But never, ever, in the history of the spike has it ever been called a Flushie. Classic. Of course that was followed by; don't get me wrong, you're still beautiful. WTF? You cannot say What's up with the flushie and follow it up with any sentence including the word beautiful. Either open your mouth wide or don't open it at all.
Tonight was a good night. And you know how we end all good nights ... McDonalds. So we go to the drive through and order a quarter pounder, no cheese. Because if you know anything about me, you know that I say, "Fuck Cheese." And P.S. Tomatoes are a condiment. That's a whole nother discussion for a whole nother time.
Anyway, you know they have the cute little screen that shows everything you order as you are ordering it. So we say no cheese and it comes up with an extra .30 cent charge for cheese. WTF? My friend says, um, I'm sorry, we said no cheese. The guy says, yeah I got it, no cheese. She says, well you are charging us for cheese on this dumb ass sign. He says, ok. So she drives around like a maniac to basically tell this guy he's a retard. Well, as soon as she gets there he radios for back up. All of a sudden this white guy appears in the window saying, "is there a problem." Yes, she says, there is a problem. We ordered a quarter pounder with no cheese, and the machine thing says we are being charged for cheese. He types a couple of minutes and says, ok. She says, am I crazy, or was it charging us for cheese. We do not want cheese. He says, you are not crazy. Which I think is probably the only phrase he knows besides, ok. Anyway, we get home and guess what. Double Cheese. Is someone fucking with me?
The wedding is still on. Swear to goodness before the year is up I will be married. Stay tuned. I talked to someone today who told me the three rules to a successful marriage. 1. Let your husband drink whenever he wants to. As long as he is not beating you, what is the problem? 2. Suck his dick good and often. 3. Swallow.
I also discovered the fountain of youth. Self Tanner. Don't tan in the sun or in a booth. That leaves you old and leathery. On the other hand, people look healthier, thinner, and younger with a tan. So self tanner is the answer. Let me know if you need some. I've purchased stock in the shit.

It's just Tuesday Damn it.

(Original Post: February 13, 2006 - Monday)

It's 10 p.m. Two hours until Valentines Day. V-day. Very stupid holiday day. This day is only in place to rip people off. Everything is a tad bit more expensive around V day. I had to buy 35 valentine cards for my daughter's class.
What the hell is that about? You are not supposed to have that many valentines. Just one. But you don't want anyone in the class to feel left out, so they make you buy a valentine for every booger brat in the class. Why isn't real life like that anymore? If you are going to send flowers to your wife at work, you better make sure there is a rose in there for me. I may feel left out, so if you are buying candy kisses and teddy bears I better get one. Life would be so much easier if we all went back to a day care way of life. We will have a big party where we all bring something, and we will all exchange valentines. And yeah, they won't mean as much because they will just be mass produced and have a lame to and from block filled out in a rush, but who gives a shit. I don't even care if it's filled out to me. Just give me my damn message hearts and we will call it a holiday. Speaking of message hearts ... Don't you think by now they would have found a way to make those things legible? Half of them are printed on the side or so light you can't even read them. And the ones you can read say stupid shit like, give me a high five. What the crappy bullshit is that? Or, hello. I most likely said hello to you when I gave you the box of message hearts. Let's not be so redundant next time. Why not a heart that says, I'm a fucking retard. Or is that pretty much a given. How about one that says, I'm just not that into you. Or sorry I never called. Let's get fucking honest with these bullshit message hearts. I personally am trying my best not to give a shit about the day. A friend of mine always wonders why people get so wrapped up around holidays. Why can't it just be Tuesday? Tuesday is pretty special all by itself. It doesn't need any help. I do have a Valentine in mind though. Not like it matters. I never get my wishes. They fall on deaf fountains and forgetful wells. But one day it's going to happen for me. A friend told me today that I light up rooms when I enter them. Give me that on a message heart. That is definitely a start.

My one safe bet

(Original Post: February 5, 2006 - Sunday)

We drove into Jersey this weekend. Base Karaoke club on Friday. Atlantic City on Saturday. You can imagine AC was packed. It could have been because it is Super Bowl Weekend. Or possibly it had something to do with Bon Jovi in concert at the Tropicana. But don't let me put any money on that, because based on my track record with gambling. I'd lose.
And if someone ever tells me to 'double down' again, especially when I'm already betting $50 bucks, I'm going to shit their face off. Obviously I lost. Me and My friend hit the nickel slots. How come even when you win big on the nickels it is still only 12 bucks, but when you lose on the nickels, it is always like 112 bucks.
Andrew is nice. Andrew bought me a drink at a club in Atlantic City. That drink was 15 bucks. I'm sure Andrew almost had a heart attack. Needless to say, I did not drink that much in Atlantic City. We met up with My friend's friend Rich. That was awesome. He brought his wife and sons out as well. He got us a room at the Tropicana (which is amazing since the place was basically sold out and rooms are usually 450 a night) and he took us to the high rollers lounge where we ate and drank free. His sons are nice. Two of them. Frankie and Lou. True Italian mafia style. They are all rich. Frankie is a big guy. Tall and buff. Wins weight lifting competitions and eats only chicken and rice and loves his body. He also cannot complete a sentence. Lou is short and thin, but smart and funny. He has to compensate. Frankie won't be competing much this year. He hurt his tricep yesterday when he fell out of a tree. I told him to be careful. Falling out of trees is a big problem these days. I guess he climbed it and the branch broke. I said, I too have that problem. Although it's usually chairs, but they are made out of trees ironically. Me and Frankie are basically the same person with so much in common. Don't you think?
I turned in early. After the whole double down fiasco I was quite literally spent. I did rack up some singles at the karaoke bar on Friday though. Don't ask. All in all, great weekend. I did have a lot on my mind this weekend though. Tons of moments when I just wasn't myself. I'm thinking of someone. A lot lately. Shame on me for letting myself be affected.
I'm still on board with getting married. I was checking out dresses and I've been online looking at locations. If nothing else, this is going to be my one safe bet.
Note: This blog has been edited to protect the identities of the guilty. What happens in AC stays in AC. Or just call me and I'll tell you everything.

My Greeal? Are you for real?

(Original Post: February 2, 2006 - Thursday)

I'm listening to a new song by Nelly. It says, smile for me daddy, I want to see your greeal. Not Grill. It's not pronounced like that. In true Nelly fashion he has taken a word we would normally pronounce correctly and fucked it all up. And if that wasn't bad enough he has made a whole song about looking at someone's teeth. And in the video, by the way, he has a whole mouth full of 'bling' if you will.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of great teeth. Like Dane said, nothing is more of a turn off than bad teeth. If I snag my Christmas sweater on your corn tooth, we indeed have a problem. But trust me, the less gold, white gold, platinum, sterling silver or black hills gold you have in your hole, the better. I do not want your mouth to be worth more than my house.
And now I'm listening to Ashley talking about L-O, L-O, L-O, L-O-V-E. That's what she's talkin' bout. Jeezus. She's at a house party. Everyone is drunk and jumping on the bed. She's dancing with a cane. She is also spinning her head around like a price is right wheel. These are classic signs of true love. And just so you know, you will for sure find love at a house party full of people you already fucking know and have probably already slept with. So yeah, good luck with that.
Trust me. I have been to Baja's on quarter beer night. Love does not live there. Then again, love doesn't live where I work either. And it doesn't live next door to me. It isn't at any eating establishment I've ever been to and it does not live in this computer. So where do you meet those people you love?
It seems like the only person I truly love without condition in this life is My daughter. And that's pretty much a given anyway because you've really gotta be in love with someone to let their entire body pass through your vagina. Especially the shoulder. That shoulder part is a bitch.
Thanks Nelly, for inspiring a birth blog. Nice.

I'm getting married

(Original Post: January 28, 2006 - Saturday)

I have made a decision. I'm getting married! I'm not sure when, or to whom, but I am going to have a big wedding. I'm already saving up for it. All my besties will be my bridesmaids. I already have the perfect special gift in mind for each of them.
Me and my fiancé are going to get married outside. I don't know where exactly, but it's going to include an awesome view and a hill top. Possibly a white horse. My good friend Mary is going to plan it for me. She is the best event planner I know. She made a chuck-e-cheese birthday party into the event of the year. Everyone who was anyone was there. Brad and Angelina showed up. No joke. It was in all the papers.
I am going to wear an off-white wedding dress. I'm probably going to go out within the next month and try on some dresses. Just to get an idea of how much weight I should lose to really look fab. You know off-white adds like 20 pounds to any body.
My daughter is going to be the cutest flower girl ever. Maybe I'll have her sing dontcha by the pussy cat dolls, at the reception. Mary, write that down. My wedding invitations are going to be spectacular. You are judged by your invites. Maybe you didn't know that, but you are. I want my invites to scream, fuck you, I'm getting married and I'm fabulous, and um, fuck you.
A good friend of mine from California had doves released into a lake when she said I do. She was also carried to the aisle by a horse-drawn carriage. And her first dance was professionally choreographed. So I don't want any of that bullshit, because then I'd be a copycat. Instead I'll release fluffy bunny rabbits and everyone can catch one and take them home for gifts.
Oh goodness, I can't wait. We are going to honeymoon in Antarctica or Alaska. Somewhere super cold. Some place where we don't feel guilty just staying in the whole week and playing hide -n- seek. Like, hey, come find me, I'm under the comforter! Besides, I've noticed that people who reside in really cold climates stay married longer. Because it's too fucking cold to go out and meet other people.
And he's going to say I'm beautiful, not just hot. And he's going to hold my hand in front of his friends. And when I walk into a room he's going to turn to his buddy and say, that's her. Till death do us part.

Do blondes have more fun?

(Original Post: January 26, 2006 - Thursday)

I dyed my hair last night. It's now a reddish color. It's supposed to be light brown, but whatever. Either way, it is not blond. I guess I could have been considered a part of the blond family yesterday morning, but by yesterday evening I was a stepchild.
Here's my observation. Today I noticed that people looked at me differently. Or shall I say, didn't look at me. When you are blond, people look. Sometimes they stare. Sometimes that is uncomfortable, but that is not my point. My point is, today, even photos taken of me didn't look as good. Am I crazy or am I on to something here?
When you have darker hair people take you seriously. If you came up to ask a question and there was a blonde and brunette standing there, and be honest here, who would you ask? The brunette. However, if your question was, hey are you busy later ... well, probably you would ask the blonde. Because most likely the brunette IS indeed busy. Sure enough dying her hair.
There, now I've changed my car and my hair. I'm complete. They were both a nice golden color before and now they are both dark and subtle. Go me. Way to tone it down. Way to draw attention away from yourself. On a positive note, I'm still fat. That seems to be a real fan favorite.

The Break-Up Diet

(Original Post: January 18, 2006 - Wednesday)

Wow, where do I begin. There is a new epidemic on the rise. Women are losing weight all over the United States. It has nothing to do with exercise. It does not require 8 glasses of water a day, and there is no grapefruit or salad necessary. All it requires is love gone badly.
For some reason women do not eat when they are suffering from a broken heart. My roommate lost twenty pounds. She only ate one package of slim fast noodles a day. That's it! One package of noodles a day. My friend Nel is down to a size 2. Don't get me wrong, I'm only a size 8. IN MY SHOE!
And she informed me the other day that size 2 is a little big on her now. She weighs 109 and is hoping to get down to 105. Just a couple of unreturned phone calls to go.
She said the other day she was eating a corndog and could barely finish the whole thing because she had gotten used to not eating. I said, hmmm, really. Because I just finished off a sausage sampler at Dennys. And even after eating the eggs, hash browns, sausage patties and links, with a side of pancakes and one piece of toast I was still looking at My daughter's grilled cheese like, "you aren't going to eat all of that, are you sweetie?"
I got to thinking. Have I ever been so heartbroken I couldn't eat? Because it seems to me when I'm happy and comfortable and secure, I eat. And when I'm lonely, miserable and depressed, I eat. And when it's a day where a few people call me and I know I'm reasonably cared about, I eat. But let me think ... Has it ever happened. My roommate reminded me, that indeed, it had.
Last year sometime I was dating a guy. We went out for awhile, practically lived together for a minute, and overall had a blast. I went to California for a visit, and well, those that know me, know that after I visit California I usually return to tell an often times great guy that I no longer want to see him anymore. Twas the case here.
Anyway, a few months later I got back in touch with him and realized his potential far exceeded what I had initially thought. I invited him out and again, we had a blast. Only this time it was different. This time he brought friends along. Female friends. They seemed too familiar with him. This time he drank a little too much. And this time I saw something in him I had not seen before. Asshole potential. But that didn't stop me. When the evening came to a close I asked him if he was ready to leave. He assured me that he wanted to; However, he promised his friend that they would smoke pot together, so he'd have to pass. "But maybe tomorrow?" He said as he ran out the door to get high.
That night we went to McDonalds, like we normally do on drunken stupid nights in Baltimore. Only this time I passed on the pounder, I passed on the big and tasty, and I passed on the, yep, you guessed it, Chicken Nuggets. I couldn't eat. I had that punched in the stomach feeling. I had officially begun the break-up diet. It lasted till the next day when I chomped down every piece of candy I could find and went to Denny's for, yep; you guessed it, a sausage sampler.
Someone said, is losing weight worth it? Is it worth pain and suffering to lose a couple pounds? To them I say this ... have you spent an hour in fucking body step class? Have you ever tried to squeeze a size 14 ass into an old pair of size 12 jeans. That's pain and suffering. Bring on the heart break.

Incorrigible

(Original Post: January 15, 2006 - Sunday)

Incorrigible. I looked it up. It means unable to be corrected. Now, in order to be corrected, something or someone would have to be incorrect. Incorrect to such a degree that someone would look upon the state of incorrectness and say, holy fuck, this situation is beyond correction. It seems to be a pretty strong word. Who is in the position to determine that level of incorrectness? Obviously my friend Alex. Because today during an everyday Instant Message conversation he referred to me as Incorrigible.
Now at first I was confused, because he spelled it Unincouragable. Which, if spelled correctly, would actually be, Unencouragable, and would mean, someone who could not be encouraged. Now, that in itself is a pretty tough pill to swallow. I mean, at what point during our conversation did I seem to be above encouragement? However, he did not mean that. He meant Incorrigible, which we've determined means unable to be corrected.
I am an advocate for defending words that are sometimes taken in the wrong context. When my student used ignorant to describe the military some instructors were ready to fry him at the stake. I quickly jumped in and said, "Although it can not be argued that ignorant means lacking education or knowledge, I have to say that it can also mean, unaware or uninformed. And I'm sure that is what was meant when he used it." And when another student of mine used the word Rangy to describe one of his drill sergeants, some may have found it offensive. It means gangly or awkwardly built. But it also can mean something as simple as tall and thin, which is the way I'm sure he meant it. However, Rangy in all its definitions would probably have been right on in that case. But there is only one meaning for Incorrigible.
Alex did not mean to offend me. He said it playfully. To be fair, it is probably in some way true. Specially in reference to my love life. And that was what it was in reference to, BTW.
Unable to be corrected huh? No correction ability you say? In that case, let's start a club. Cause if this word describes my love life, then I know it describes most. Post if your love life is Incorrigible, unmanagable or for some of us, just plain ol' unattainable.
If you are corrigible, manageable and attainable, fuck off.

New Car Smell

(Original Post: January 13, 2006 - Friday)

There are two things girls love to change. Hair styles and cars. My hair has been short for 11 years, but today my car changed for the third time in five years.
My current car was nice. Champagne color. To the untrained eye it looked Gold, but trust me on this one. It is Champagne. It's a PT Cruiser. I kept it relatively dirty. I had no choice. Things just piled up in that car. I had no control. I lived out of that car. There were four yard hoses in the back. Thanks Joe for taking those beauties. I don't even know where I got them from or why they lived rent free for so long.
Here is the problem with the old car. Every time I take it in for an oil change there are a hundred bucks worth of mystery work that needs to be done. I always agree to get half of it done and save the other half for next time. The only problem is I never remember the other half of the shit. Therefore it never gets done and new stuff keeps getting added on.
Right now I need an oil change, new tires, and new brakes. There is a bolt loose and running wild somewhere in the driver side door. I noticed the sound after I crossed lanes over a median. That must not have been a good idea. It also needed gas. The windshield was cracked and the passenger side door was dinged. I backed into a car in the shopette parking lot. And the list goes on.
The new car is a PT cruiser as well. We test drove a convertible and that is the car I really wanted, but it was roughly a million dollars more a month than I was willing to spend so, yeah.
This new car smells like something is burning when you get out of it. The guy says it is just chalk on the manifold burning off. Does he think I know what that bullcrazy shit means? Just tell me it's going to smell like that for awhile and we're good.
I'm going to go out and put stickers on my new car. They will be obnoxious and will cover crucial window space and probably get me into an accident some day. But they will help me identify my cruiser in a crowd. And if you've ever been to Arundel Mills Mall on a Friday night then you know what I mean by crowd. And let me just say this also. When did it become okay to just park anywhere there is a curb? And I'm only really pissed because I don't have the balls to do it.
My friend defended my honor at the dealers, tried to get me the best deal, and I'm happy. The car is magnesium. To the untrained eye it may look green. But it's magnesium. It's just not easy being green.

Stop me if you've heard it

(Original Post: January 11, 2006 - Wednesday)

Let me tell you why I love being single. Today I came home early, cleaned out my car, got home in time to catch the cleaners finishing up the house, went upstairs to take a nap, woke up around 5:30 pm, had dinner with My friend, and then we decided to go see a movie. We went in sweats and tennis shoes. Which by the way, why are they called Tennis shoes? Were there just hundreds of tennis players shoeless at some point, and someone said, you know what would make money ... Shoes for people who play tennis.
Anyway, no makeup, no fancy clothes, no worries. Just My friend and I, large popcorn, a large DIET soda, licorice and chocolate crunchies. We were going to get Gummy Stars, but we didn't want to be OTT. (Over the Top)
We saw Brokeback Mountain. For those who know nothing about this movie, let me say this ... I don't want to ruin it but, two guys have sex, cheat on their wives, fall in love, and someone in the movie dies. All the makings of a traditional tear jerker. Not to mention some guy gets dragged through town by his wanker. Don't worry, they stop dragging him once the thing actually falls off. (You don't actually see this, but the visual isn't hard.) It's The only Thing that isn't hard in this movie.
All joking aside. I cried several times. This movie really fucked me up. It's amazing and awesome. Love I guess, is the amazing and awesome thing. And the fact that even if it's just in a movie, you can catch a glimpse of it and somehow believe it actually exists. Although it seems I've only ever truly seen it on the big screen. Heath Ledger and Jake Gillenhaul (sp?) are just great actors. Funny how Heath also has a movie out right now called Casanova. As if he told his agent. Yeah, I'll do the gay mountain thing, but seriously, I also need you to release a movie where I fuck a lot of girls.
It was just so sad and honest and emotional and real and they don't know whether to fight or kiss or cry or laugh. And I have a feeling that complete and total feeling of confusion and lust and jealousy and chaos, is exactly what love is really like.
Now let me tell you why I hate being single, and stop me if you've heard it: I WANT TO BE IN LOVE. I want to be in love like two men on Brokeback mountain. I want to beat the shit out of someone, just to keep the bloody shirt in my closet as a total reminder of this crazy ass love. I'm going to buy this movie when it comes out of the closet.
Also, side note. It's 11:30 pm, I'm watching law and order and blogging. Awe yes, being single just rocks. Maybe some random guy named allthatshewants69 will send me a message about how he's tired of all the games and thinks we have a lot in common. Like we both have an S in our screen name or some bullshit. Wish me luck!

God lives in Apple Valley

(Original Post: January 8, 2006 - Sunday)

So there we were at Olive Garden. Me, Chris (My best bud since high school) Jack (A guy totally in love with my best bud since high school) and Brandon (Jacks best bud since high school and the guy my best bud since high school totally likes.) Do you got that? Good.
Anyway, Jack said, "I used to hang out with Brandon's brother, but he found God, so we don't hang out anymore." I said, "Where was he?" Jack very matter-of-factly said, "In Apple Valley. To which Brandon replied, "Well, my brother followed him to Texas." I said, "Oh, so he's on tour." We laugh a bit, and then Jack says, "Oh, were you talking about God?" Then he begins to laugh so hard he cries and ice tea squirts out of his nose. This is just one reason Christy would rather date his best bud since high school.
I went to the DMV to get my license renewed. The line was out the door and of course everyone is asking the same question. What is this line for? I'm just here to get a new license, do I really have to wait in this line? Yes Mother F'r. You wait in this freakin line just to get a number for the other freakin line. My number was G-66. And now serving G-29. Someone please just punch me in the face. Meanwhile there is a continuous screen scroll to let us know there is no waiting in every single other DMV in the entire state of California. So you know what I'm thinking ... why don't these assholes go to another DMV? And you know what they are thinking ... why don't these assholes go to another DMV. Whatever. I got my license, and a new photo ... I'll find out in two weeks if the new photos was worth the wait.
California was great. Great weather. Chris has a new mustang convertable, so you know we looked like stuck up bitches, which is always good. Specially in California where people do not even need a reason to shoot your face off. Traffic sucked ass, but my father let me borrow his SUV with his business advertisements all over every window so that was a big plus. It made it impossible for me to get any type of positive attention whatsoever, so ... bonus.
For the most part I managed to spend time with just about everyone. If you are ever in Cali, get a massage from my friend Shell. She's amazing. And get a refinance loan from my friend Hank. He'll fuck you big time. I'm kidding. Seriously, I'm serious. Ha, I'm kidding, but seriously.
I wrote a new song. I'm in love with it. My songs are mine. They are little pieces of me to leave as a legacy when I'm gone. One verse goes like this ... You keep me sated when I come to visit, you keep me baited when I'm far away, you've got me slated for two weeks in winter time, and another two weeks around may. You say that I'm holding strong at second place, and in the first place spot there's an empty space, because nothing can get that close you see, so I'm as close to first as second can be.
I just get so proud when I finish a song. It's like sex with a man except that after I finish a song I really do cum. I don't even have to fake it. Saturday Night Live is on, so I really should be going. Chances are it won't be funny, so possibly there is a Law and Order on somewhere. If there is, I will find it. Because I love Law and I love Order, and when the two come together, well, most of you know the rest.
P.S. If God comes to your town, make sure you get your tickets early. That show will sell out with a quickness, for sure.

Have a Happy Non-Con New year

(Original Post: December 31, 2005 - Saturday)

If home is where the heart is, then mine is in Riverside, Calif., getting regifted.
Lately those who read my blog say that I sound a bit bitter. That I sound like I'm always in a bad mood. Like this is a myspace personality or something. Here is what I think...
In real life, I am very non controversial. Non-Con. I like to make people happy and ease situations. I don't like to complain at eating establishments, I give money to the people with the buckets, I answer the door and buy candy, I give to the fire department bullshit, I don't complain if I get the wrong change, I don't sit at the drive through window and look through my bag to make sure they gave me all the correct shit, I get a paper that I never read, but am too Non-Con to call and cancel, if it wasn't for my friend, she and I would have never gotten a refund on my plane ticket, I am just not that person who gets ruffled. I let life roll and try not to get smashed.
If I don't wear a smile every second of the day, someone will ask what the hell is wrong. I am not allowed to have a bad day. So YES. I guess myspace is a place where I can just complain and say the things that annoy me, and make my friends laugh, and still feel okay enough to continue being a good person.
Since I've been home I've realized two things. NOTHING EVER CHANGES, and LIFE IS SHORT. Lisa, my roommate will say, "life isn't short, what is longer than life?" And she's right. But there is one thing longer than life, and that is toilet paper. Except for yesterday when my friend Shell ran out and we had to use paper towels. Anyway, my point is this:
Stop fucking over everyone you know. And also, for some of you reading this, stop fucking everyone you know. How about some compassion every now and again, and maybe some forgiveness. I'm going to start now. Nichelle, I forgive you for the paper towel thing. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know. We are cool.
And let me just add this: me and my friend went to a Christmas party. There was a woman wearing a Christmas sweater. Can we stop this madness? Let it end with us. Peace Angels.

Hump Day Hope Note

(Original Post: December 21, 2005 - Wednesday)

Wednesday. Get it? Hump Day? It's also the day they refer to as 'back in the day.' A fun fact for you, in case you weren't aware. Back in the day was indeed a Wednesday. No need to thank me.
Christmas is around the corner. I have finished shopping. Now when I say I have finished shopping, please know that I do not by any means mean I have completed purchasing items for those in my life who mean the most. On the contrary, there are still people that I love and adore who have yet to get that little slice of gift wrapped heaven from me. However, I can no longer participate in the season of treason. I cannot go back into a mall. I cannot suffer through another 50 percent off sale. I can not make out another Christmas card. I just can't.
Marcia, if you are reading this, sweetie, I love you, and I will get you a gift. But let me buy it in California after the stench of Christmas wears the fuck off. I love you. If I wasn't me, I'd be you. And you know this.
I went to the exchange to pick up some Cologne for a friend's hubby and it was sold out. Only this one particular scent. A sane person would have just grabbed some Aspen and called it a day. But no. I braved Arundel Mills Hell one last time. I got the Cologne. One last minute gift for My daughter. Two last minute pairs of Sketchers for me, and high tailed it out of there. Not to return until next year. The post office is Satan's Asshole. I spent a good week or two in there trying to mail off a fucking package of DVD's that some guy I used to date reminded me that I had. WTF? A guy I dated still has my fucking CD and you don't see me pounding down his door for it. But whatever, it was quite a few movies and they were good freakin movies. The CD I left at my ex's is a CD given to me by the DVD guy anyway, so I should be glad I don't have it sitting around as a reminder of all my fucking failed relationships. And done.
So yeah. Happy fucking hope note day. I am going to California for two weeks. That is going to be a welcome break. Although sometimes leave is more work than work. I'm going to try and visit friends and family and actually spend quality time with that whole part of my life. But then there are those people I don't want to see. The people my mother already made aware of my pending arrival. They have contacted me and done the "We should do lunch" bullshit email thing. I'm like, yes, of course. That sounds awesome, amazing, uh huh. Yeah, Lunch. Great. Catch up. Kids. Navy. Uh huh. Married? No. Don't be sorry. Uh huh. Oh my mom told you. Uh huh. Bitch. uh huh. No, what is it? 619 area code? Ok, got it. bye now.
Knowing damn well they won't see me. I won't call. But you know what Dane says. Take every opportunity to lie. Thanks Dane.

Tis the season bitches

(Original Post: December 18, 2005 - Sunday)

Note to world: Please stay home on Monday so I can fucking get some shopping done. My goodness, the Mall is a fucking mad house and I had to pay money for a parking spot. AKA Valet. At all Mall! Any little way they can get a dime.
I saw King Kong. Every scene was five minutes too long. King Kong saves the girl from not one, not two, not three, but four dinosoars. The crazy thing is those beasts tried to get that dumb white girl for like 30 minutes of this movie. They would not let it go. Let me tell you something, if I want a mcnugget, and some guy is kicking the fuck out of my face, not to mention that I just watched him rip my buddies jaws apart, I'm probably going to just skip the meal. I mean damn, she was a mcnugget. If your hungry, eat your dead buddy. Yes, I'm serious when I say thirty minutes. I knew you were wondering.
And guess what else. If I love you, and you are chilling on top of the Empire State Building, I'm gonna hang tight on the ground and wait for you to come down. I mean, WTF? She climbs all the way to the top to wave the planes away. Like they are going to say, oh goodness, how silly we are. We thought no one loved this huge BigFoot that is causing death and destruction all over New York. But this little mcnugget loves him, so let's just leave them be, shall we. People still aren't comfortable with man on man love and we want them to accept BigFoot and mcnugget love? Not going to happen. Specially in a time where apples cost a nickel. I know you feel me. I don't even have to ask.
I went to the club on Saturday. TPCC. Trailer Park Cancun Cantina. TPCC was rocking though. I had a blastie. Drinks were too strong. Way too strong. I had two drinks and I couldn't remember my name or my original hair color. I saw a girl in a one piece jean pant suit. It fit her like a body condom.
Today I went to the mall to pick up some last minute gifts. If you get a gift from me this year and it looks like I put zero to no thought in it at all, it's not because the good intentions weren't there. It's because the season makes it impossible to give a shit about anything. You can't walk through the mall without getting raped by a lotion lady or a head massage vendor. My credit card just got passed around a bit and then when I left the mall I had some bags full of shit. The end. I can not even pretend to know what happen in between those two events. And if you did not get a gift at all, let me know. I have a hundred random items that I bought for the 'in case I forgot your ass' pile. It will probably be lotion or a head massager, and I'll toss one your way. Or if you want to wait till after Christmas, I'm sure there will be plenty 'somebody forgot my ass' gifts thrown my way. You can choose one of those.
Tis the Season bitches.

Concerts and Santa

(Original Post: December 16, 2005 - Friday)

Last night My friend took me to a concert for Christmas. Alanis!! Happy Birthday Jesus. We got there an hour early to get good seats. And good seats we got. One problem, good seats are only good if the people in front of you are members of the lollypop guild. Instead we had what appeared to be the sister of the guy that found himself all strapped down to the ground one morning and a bunch of little people all around him ... the name escapes me. First person to comment with his name gets credit for teaching me something.
Anyway. Where was I. Oh yeah. So I lean over and say, excuse me ma'am. Are you going to stand right there? And she answers calmly, "Yes." And I say, are you kidding me? And she said calmly, "No." And I say, we got here early, and she said, "So did we." And I say what time, and she said, "What time did you get here?" And I said 7 and she said, "Yep, we got here at that time." And I said, no you didn't because there was no one here at 7 and you could have gotten a way better spot than the one right in front of my eyeballs. "And she said, "Maybe you've never been here before, but this is how it is, it's a packed house. You can't move a crowd." Then she made this little noise that sounded like she was letting air out of her big dumb head, and then she said something to her friend like, bla bla bla, 7 and bla bla bla packed house, and bla bla bla move a crowd. Good lord sister of the giant peach, you don't have to be rude. Skank whore. I hope you slip on a drink. Is that OTT? Over the top. Come on, get with the Acro's.
So Alanis comes on and sings that hidden track on her first album. The one about the salt in your bed. The one with no musical background. The one that just showcases her amazing voice and her awesome abilities. My goodness. Worth getting the third degree from sasquatch? Yes.
She sang them all. All the hits. Lots of lesbians around. They probably thought My friend and I were together. Although she only touched me once all night and that was to tell me to move my head so she could see. Why a bunch of lesbians you ask? Well, check out her newest video. She re-did the Seal classic Crazy. Watch it, and stop asking stupid questions.
She's engaged to Ryan Reynolds. That little fun fact won me a T-shirt.
Off the subject, I picked up my daughter today and her teacher told me they saw Santa. Then she said My daughter did not want to see Santa. So I asked My daughter why she didn't want to see Santa. She said, Mom, Santa was brown. That is not the real Santa. I'm not sure how to take that, or explain that to her, but I do know this. You would not hire Eminem to play Tupac in a movie. I know there was a debate with the true color/race of Jesus, but I didn't know the bedlam had spread to the North Pole.

Designated Driver

(Original Post: December 11, 2005 - Sunday)

It was finally my turn. Designated Driver. DD. Driver Designated to remain soberer than everyone else. Which isn't hard considering my friends. No biggie. $2 drinks. So get drunk within an hour and spend the rest of the night getting soberer. No problem.
Well, one problem. I'm mean when I'm sober. I'm rational. I'm strict. I'm punctual. And when I've been drunk and sober in the same night, I'm lame. I go through the whole drunk/not drunk thing in one night. This sucks because then I realize (right away) all the stupid things I've already done. And I didn't even have a night to enjoy it. The number I've already drunk dialed. The text message I keep resending because I don't think it's sending. The freak out if I don't get a response in five seconds or less. The "Are you ignoring me" message I send right away. The "Fine, fuck you!" feeling I feel immediately following that message. Geezuz. Then I'm sober, and thinking, damn it. I'm a big steaming pile of bullcrazy.
But once I'm sober, it's MDDNDAD. Mommy Dearest Designated Not Drunk Anymore Driver. I'm all about, Lisa are you listening, do you understand that we need to get the Coat Check ticket to Diane? Hello?
I'm all about, Hello Diane, did you forget we were standing outside with Ice Boogers waiting for our coats, while you are in here forgetting how to leave?
I'm all about, Lisa, please don't sing "Like a Prayer" really loudly in my face, cause I'm sober, and I don't like it. How about, you sing over there, and I sing over here? Lisa, please stop. Are you listening?
I'm all about, No Diane, I do not want another shot. I'm the MDDNDAD, did you forget? I don't want a fucking shot. Shove that shot in your ass. No, I'm not mad. Get me a water quick, I'm in hell.
I'm all about, yes girls I'm going to eat all my fries. Yes Lisa, this is the best burger in the Whole Wide World (aka WWW.) Yes, they sell a thousand best burgers in the WWW every second.
I'm all about, my name is Terri. Oh you are a cop. Where is your wife? yeah, that's what they all say. Oh you think I'm pretty? Well no shit. Oh you broke up with your girlfriend of six years, five months ago because she didn't want to have children and you are a family man? How sweet is that. Oh you want me to walk you to the bus stop? I don't think so. My friends are worried. I should get back. Oh you want to give me your number. Um, alright. Frank you say your name is? Ok, got it. Bye. (And then 10 minutes later ...) There is good ol' boy Frank making out with some chick outside the bar. He must have been serious about making that family.
And then there's, Yes girls, I see the 50-year-old couple on the dance floor. Yes, I see them. Don't point, I see them. Don't go over there to show me. I SEE THEM!
Yes Diane, I'm ready to leave. Where is Lisa? Hey Lisa, we are leaving. Why are you dancing? "I just want to dance." Damn it, Diane has the coats. "I just want to dance." We are leaving. "This is a great song." We are walking. "I'm dancing." Dance and walk drunk bitch, Dance and walk ... and don't sing in my face. "I"m dancing with this guy." Lisa, he is with the girl on the stage. "No, we are dancing." You are dancing with his back then, cause he's watching that girl on the stage. "I'm drunk and having a great time woooo." Fuck, shoot me in my face.
Every five minutes I hear them say, "Is T mad?" No Sweeties. T isn't mad. It's just that strange place you reside between not drunk and not sober, and you know you cannot drink anymore, so you are heading toward totally sober, and that place sucks when you are in a bar and everyone else is residing in that place called, I don't know my name.
Home at last. Two snack roles, an oatmeal cookie, two peppermint patties and sleep. That's how we do's it.

Arrested Development

(Original Post: December 8, 2005 - Thursday)

What in the hell were they thinking with that Tennessee song? I've been here for a week and I've found nothing to sing about.
Went to a bar called Donnie Joes. Never trust a bar with two first names. I ordered the healthiest thing on the menu and it was 2,308 fucking calories. I should have had the burger. But NOT the quarter pounder. According to the waitress they do not serve a quarter pounder. However, they do serve a 1/4 lb Cheeseburger. If I wanted to have that, cool, but please ma'am, do not order items not on the menu. I guess in Tennesse 1/4 pound is not a quarter pound. Please excuse my education.
Last night I drove 45 minutes to eat at Ruby Tuesdays. Somebody kill me.
I'm taking a fitness course. I've learned 65 different warm up routines. I've also learned there are quite a few people in the world that can run faster than me, but at least one that cannot. YES!
I have to pee right now, but I refuse to get up. It's the first time I've found a computer in a week, so I'm not getting up till I'm done. There are people waiting. They want to get on the computer. Fuck, I have to pee. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I can't even complete a thought. I should go to subway for, FUCK I HAVE TO PEE. See, no complete thought syndrome. (My friend sweetie, you are the only one who gets that and I love you for it.)
Oh yeah, did I mention I'm in Tennessee. Am I spelling that right? Are there two E's? And then ask me if I care. I don't. Ok, fuck, I do care. Are there two E's?
Plane ride was normal. No husband trying to pass me a note. I read a book. The infidelity diet. Three overweight men, three desperate wives, one bad plan.
Wives promising husbands a prostitute if they lose weight. My friend told me her hubby is going to pay her 10 bucks a pound and buy her boobs at the completion of her goal. My goodness, where can I find a man like that? 10 bucks a pound? I'd be the skinniest bitch ever. I have to pee. That's 10 bucks right there.

You know it's that time

(Original Post: December 3, 2005 - Saturday)

So last night was the Holiday Party. Here is the thing. We come to these events to spend more time with the people we work with. However, no one even recognizes anyone. Everyone is boobs and ass. It's like we've all been in these uniform shells and we cannot wait to say, "Hey look at me, I'm a girl, you can tell because I'm spilling out of my dress. Yes, please take random pictures of me throughout the night so I can be a total disgrace to my service later."
Drinks were $4. Doubles were $4. Triples were $4. A straight glass of tequila on the rocks was ... $4. And it was about $4, $4, $4, floor for me.
I remember trying to look really sexy doing some dance move. At some point the drink I had on the table turned into a lever, and during this graceful dance move I pulled the lever. My first thought ... play it off, no one saw, I'm safe, just wipe it under the table ... no biggie. But all of a sudden 800 people were there offering me a napkin. Damn it people, nothing happened. The floor was already sticky. IT'S NO BIG DEAL. I didn't just try to drop it like it's hot and spill a drink all over myself. I don't know who told you that, but it's not true!
I smelled like Madori for the rest of the night. I was worried about slipping on the liquid, but no chance, as soon as that shit dried I was glued to the floor.
My friend went up to request a song. Do Something by Britney Spears. Another Nazi DJ. "I don't have Britney Spears." Of course using a tone that would suggest that she was crazy for asking. And then he played 'The Percolator.' Can I just ask what the fuck?
After the party, it was off to a bar. Good idea? Notice the question mark. Drinkies, dancies, passies outies. Let me count down for you the colors of Christmas that were in full effect last night:
1. Red lipstick, and lots of it. 2. Green complexions after several shots. 3. Red noses as a result of alcohol abuse. 4. Green envy.
I'm full of the fucking spirit.

The party you weren't invited to

(Original Post: November 30, 2005 - Wednesday)

Here's the deal. If one more person gets married to someone they have known for three minutes I'm going to stop wearing Pink. I know, it's a tall order, but fuck it, it's on the table. It's not till death do us part, it's till I don't anymore. period.
I mean, I guess I could get some dumb asshole to marry me, but like I heard today, that is the proverbial proof for the fucked up pudding.
I want a smart, funny, witty, athletic, romantic, sympathetic, strong, sensitive, artistic, compassionate, passionate, tall, asshole to marry me. And no, I don't think that is too much to ask for.
If you don't bring anything to the table, then stop inviting yourself over for dinner.
Just because you are on his top eight on myspace, does not mean you have to fucking marry the guy.
Marriage is such a big step. It's not all "oh my god, I love you so much, you make the world go round, you complete me, you had me at hello" and whatever other Jerry McGuire shit you didn't come up with on your own. That crap is replaced with, "I don't like you that much, you don't mean as much as my hair, I'm going to make fun of you in front of your friends to make myself feel better, my career is more important, and by the way I don't want to have sex with you because I'm saving myself for divorce."
See, look at me, the eternal optimist. And I wonder why I'm single.

She smelled like Chips!

(Original Post: November 27, 2005 - Sunday)

Okay, I forgot to mention ... I went to Utah for Thanksgiving. I know what you're thinking. Lucky!

But seriously, it was a blastie, but I have to tell you about the plane ride. I was the last person to board. And when I say last, I don't mean second to last, or one of the last, I mean, THE LAST. So the guy in front of me says, well, which seat do you want, because the flight is full so there is only TWO seats left, and they are both middle seats in the same row. So I motion to the right and he goes to the left, and I slide in between a little woman and a big woman. The big woman is reading a book. American Taxation. Great Read. Pick it up on your next trip to B. Dalton. Needless to say she wanted to talk. So me being me, talked. Turns out she is a lawyer getting ready to move to California to practice. Cool. She had to take the BAR EXAM TWICE. Wow, smartie mcsmart smart.

But here is the thing. She smelled like chips. Everytime she opened her mouth or moved or motioned at something she smelled like chips. Her whole body smelled like a frito. (sp?) My goodness, normally I'm a big fan of the fritto (2 t's?) but on this trip ... NO. I don't think I could eat another one ever. Or maybe tomorrow, but not right now. Anyway, the guy who let me choose my seat decides that I owe him something. He keeps making little eyes at me. Keeps throwing his shoulders up as if to say, why couldn't you make all these people move so we could sit together. He sends over a note. A NOTE. He passes a note. But I'm on a plane and I'm bored, so what the hell right. It is pretty casual. Like, damn this is a boring plane ride, you look like you're having fun over there, what is your name, bla bla bla. So I write back and say, this girl smells like chips, and anything else random I could think to say. Then he writes something about the fact that he's married, but wouldn't mind getting to 'know me better' when he returns to Baltimore for work. What in the world? I end the note passing. I don't look in his direction. Which means I'm stuck looking at and smelling the chip lady. Luckily she pulls out a laptop and watches Star Wars. She has headphones on, but chooses an option that allows me to read the words at the bottom of the screen. And when the flight was over I was in Utah. I know what you're thinking. Lucky!

Just a typical Saturday

(Original Post: November 27, 2005 - Sunday)

Karaoke on Saturday seems to be a tradition in the Crazy Town household. So, My friend quit her new job at the tattoo parlor (a job she had for a total of three days, but who's counting, and who wants to spend the whole f'n weekend answering phones...not My friend) and we headed out. The band of characters we saw throughout the night caused me to take notes, literally.
Barney: A girl who wore the tiniest skirt and a purple shirt that barely came below her tits, and knee high boots. This is the perfect outfit for someone with a killer body who is getting ready to go onstage and sing any song by Cher. But no. She had rolls for miles and enough craters in her ass to be declared a moon. Geezus, I couldn't stop staring.
Double Helix: The pool shark with the crazy skirt. Her skirt looked like a bunch of DNA exploded onto it. And she wore the highest heels I've ever seen. Pretty girl though, so she had that going for her. My eyes shifted between her and Barney.
FOL girl: AKA Fruit of the Loom girl. A heavy girl who couldn't manage to hide her underwear from the world. (I'm probably going to hell for this one. I'm definitly not going to become a wizard any time soon, because in order to do that you have to lose all judgement...not happening.) She was berthed in between Helix and Barney, so there was no relief for my eyes.
Hoopie: A girl with the biggest damn hoops in her ears. My goodness. They were bigger than her head. Most likely a great place for ankles, but I'm only guessing.
And one more thing, if you are coming out and you want to match your clothes, that is fine. Really, we all like to match on occasion. But when you wear jeans with a tan suede sylvester the cat up the leg (which I originally thought was a Komodo dragon) and a matching shirt with the same cat, and tan suede shoes, and a matching hat, and jacket. Well come on, you are just asking to be part of a typical Saturday blog. Some guy sang a song called Man. Just look up the lyrics to this song and you'll know dude. You'll know.I should say, it was during this song that My friend turned to me and said, "Seriously, I'm waiting for the hidden cameras to reveal themselves and for someone to jump out and say, just kidding girls. It didn't happen.