Currently Chasing: A First Place Win

I’ve tried to teach my daughter a valuable lesson when it comes to being a good sport. When we play tic-tac-toe and she wins, she jumps all over the table, does a victory dance, tells me it’s ok that I lost and continues to gloat. When I beat her she begins to pout, complain, shove the paper away and call me a cheater. She’s a bad sport. But she learned it by watching me alright! She learned it by watching me.

You see, I’m a bad sport. I don’t mean to be, I just am. And I know this about myself so I take measures to prevent it from happening. One of these measures being that I only compete in things I know I can win. I’ll enter a talent show, a karaoke contest, a rollerblading race and a poetry contest without blinking an eye. These are areas in which I excel. These are things I know I’m good at. Even if I don’t win, I’m not super disappointed. I know I’ll get second or third place, or I’ll at least go down knowing that despite someone being better than me, I was still pretty damn good. However, if I'm playing a friend in iphone Scrabble and she starts to beat me by more than 100 points, I'll simply forfeit the game.

I’m not going to enter a ‘who can be on time to work competition, a ‘who can stop texting while they drive’ competition, a math competition of any sort, a ‘who knows states and capitals’ showdown or a ‘where is this country/state located on the map’ party.

I just don’t like losing. But for some reason, being a girl means being in constant competition. Whether you like it or not. My friend and I are victims of this. If she has a lip gloss, I want it. It may look like shit on me, but she has it and I want it. If I go to the store and I can’t find the exact color she had, I’ll buy a slightly different color. She will see that slightly different color, determine without even applying it that it will look better than the one she currently has, and lose sleep until she can make the purchase. It’s crazy, it’s a neurosis, it’s a psychosis and it’s my life.

But when she decided to run the Marine Corps Marathon this weekend, well, I just had to give it to her. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I did work out this weekend as well. I did a very intense 15 minutes on the elliptical machine. But I’m just going to have to admit, in the case of who can run further, faster, and without puking and passing out in their own vomit, the answer is clear.

However, I was too busy to eat much yesterday, so I’m down two pounds since last week. Every woman reading this is already on the scale and ready to send me a text telling me they lost three. It’s a woman thing, and trust me, you don’t want to understand.

Currently Chasing: A Mr. Fix It

Ok, so enough about boyfriends and love lives and ‘you deserve better’ scenarios. I was reminded recently of what I really need. And by reminded, I mean the oil light in my car went off. What I really need is someone around to fix my shit. You don’t have to stay. Just come by in the night like a fucking shoe elf, fix my shit, and go. I’ll never tell anyone where you touched me.

I need an oil change. I have a problem with my carpet shedding and clogging up my vacuum cleaner. I also had a problem with my garbage disposal recently and was forced to (GOD Forbid) hit the reset button under the sink all on my own! I’m tired of it. I blew a fuse the other day and had to figure out which circuit to click. (Hint…it’s the only that’s red) I found that out after clicking a bunch of random shitty buttons and still my blow dryer would not turn on. The horror.

I was texting and driving and blew a tire out a few months ago. I had to have someone help me put the donut on my car. And by help me, I mean change the thing while I repeated the words thank you in an obnoxiously high voice behind him. Then he told me the donut was in pretty bad shape, and that the equipment I had to fix the flat was bent and wouldn't work, so I'd need to replace those things. Good lord. Can I get a man to do that shit please?
The mere thought of dropping my car off for this oil change sends me into a tailspin. I hate it. I don’t want to think about it. I want the light to just turn off. 

I have a rip in my leather seats. I’ll throw money at the problem, that is fine, but I want someone else to make the appointment and take the car in to have the seat fixed. I want someone else to be responsible for this bullshit. My mother never warned me about this stuff. Thanks mom! In her defense, my mom once jumped out of a minivan (the engine was on fire) and instead of running away from it like the rest of us did, she opened the hood and blew out the fire! Are you kidding me. The other day I had to stop at the gate for a safety inspection and I could barely figure out how to open the damn hood! Let alone blow out a fucking engine fire! For shit’s sake!

Aaaugghhh! What will it take to get someone with a can of WD-40 to show up at my house and make shit right with my world? Does anyone have a tube of Caulk and some free time? Anyone want to shave my door down a little on the bottom so it doesn’t drag across my carpet when I try and close it? Anyone available to reconnect my computer to the damn network? I have a showerhead that needs to be remounted. Don’t ask. Anyone?

500 facebook friends my ass! I had a friend tell me recently that he's available if I have a void I need filling. I'm sure this wasn't what he had in mind. But if it was, come by with your caulk. (that's CAULK!)  Because I have some voids in my counters that need filling. Let's do this!

Currently Chasing: Something better

The person who proclaimed “words can never hurt you” must have been deaf. Because although sticks and stones may break my bones, there are casts and crutches that will get me back to good. However, words will kick you in the face, repeatedly. Words are like tiny tic-tac bombs in the back of your skull, just waiting to explode when you least expect it.

Phrases are even worse. Phrases may as well slit your fucking throat. A few of the slaughter sayings are, “It’s not you, it’s me” “I am afraid of getting hurt” and my all time favorite, “You deserve so much better than me.” Are you fucking kidding me? Rip my heart out with this bullshit why don’t ya!?

Let me tell you something. These are just words, but they are words that pack a fucking punch. “You deserve better.” Then why can’t you mother fucking be better dumb ass? Why am I being punished because you’re not better? If I’m such a damn princess, shouldn’t you be inspired to step up to the white picket fence and ask me to lower my braid of hair for you to climb? Return the glass slipper already! But no, they will simply say you deserve better, and then they will move on. And wait for better to fucking fall in your lap. But if something better ever does come around, he'll be sure to cockblock it! "You deserve better than THAT guy."

It all reminds me of an old Twix commercial. A man is walking with a Twix candy bar in his pocket. It falls out. A little boy sees this and runs up and says, “Excuse me mister, but you dropped your candy.” The man looks at him and says, wow, thanks. He opens it up and pulls out one of the crispy, wafery, chocolaty goodies and says, “You know kid, you deserve a reward.” Then he takes a big bite and says, “Yep, you sure do.” Then he walks away. Some asshole is eating my half of a Twix bar right now, all the while repeating the phrase, “you deserve better!”

It’s ok. I can live without that Twix bar. And let’s be honest; it deserves better than me.

Currently Chasing: A Bridge to Somewhere

How many words does a picture really speak? A thousand? Cause that's a lot of words. I guess they are considering all the different ways people might interpret that photo, and then adding all those words together. But I've seen pictures that don't speak many words at all.
Even scarier are the ones that speak too much, to the wrong people, at the wrong time in your career.

The real question here is when is it ok to let the photos stop speaking to you, and for you?

I have oodles of photo albums. They are diaries in a way. They say things like, I was heavy as a baby. I took third place in the spelling bee. I looked retarded with long hair. Sweat pants and a T-shirt do not an outfit make. Your prom dress only looks cool on prom night, not in a random photo a year later while wearing socks. Multi-Braids only look good on Bo Derrick. I was heavy as a teenager. I used to have boobs. I look good in black. I look awful in black. I was cute one day back in '97. I was heavy as an adult.

My pictures also point out years and years of failed relationships. I sometimes flip through the books and think, yeah, look at him, he was hot, and he was with me. Almost like the pictures are kept just as proof. Do I really still need that useless validation? Do I still need these stupid photos as a reminder that I've been there and done that? It's time for me to start getting rid of things. My horoscope said to find something everyday and get rid of it. Give it away. Throw it away. Hell, burn it if you have to.

The first thing I should burn is a bunch of these bridges that lie around and lead to nowhere.

Anyone got a match.