Currently Chasing: A Reason To Say Cheese

So I have a picture on my fridge from March of last year. My friend and I had taken a cruise to Jamaica and had a photograph taken of us in the water wearing our bikinis. I’ve always loved that picture. Until yesterday.

A friend of mine came over to help me paint my daughter’s room. (I think the color I used was actually called “Obnoxious Pink.”) While he’s there, he takes a glance at the fridge and says, “Wow, that’s a great picture. Your body looked great there.”

Ok, now I can take this to mean one of three things.

A. Your body probably isn’t that great, it just looked great in that photo.
B. Your body always looks good and it’s nice that you photographed it for your fridge.
C. Your body looked great there, but doesn’t look great anymore.

So guess which one I went with?

Immediately I fire back.

“What are you trying to say? Do I look different from that now?”

“I don’t know,” he answers back. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do I?”

That could have gone on forever. He quickly changes the subject and moves on to the task at hand. However, I’m still suffering from the reality beat down I just encountered.

I thought to myself, “Do I look different? I was working out more then. I had hired that personal trainer. I was working out three times a week. It’s possible I’ve gained weight since then. I probably have. I’m sure I have. I’m a fat piece of double chocolate cake. I’m never eating again.”

Until I do of course.

My point is photos are the devil. They either cause me to remember that I used to be fat, or they help to remind me that I’m not as skinny as I once was. They aren’t healthy and they aren’t treasures. I’m always anxious to show people picture albums. Almost like saying…if you don’t like how I look right now, no problem. Just take a gander through these profile pics and tell me which look you prefer. See, I can look hot…oh, here, look at this one…sexy right? Or what about this with the glasses? I’m smart I swear.

It’s all pressure. Pressure to look better than you did, or pressure to look as good as you did. Fuck it, I’m not going on a diet. I’m simply burning my camera. They say pictures steal your soul…too bad they can’t steal your fat ass.

Currently Chasing: A Trip Back To Buffalo

Family is an odd thing. You don’t get to pick em, but for some reason you are required to deal with them, make excuses for them and comfort them in their time of need. You have to make yourself available for these people simply because two people who came out of the same womb, each had a couple of people, who had a couple of people and all of a sudden you’re on the hook for giving a shit about 20 some-odd people who you possibly never met, could care less about, and wouldn’t even recognize in photographs. But that’s how it is, and damn it, the more of these bitches you have around, the less likely you are to end up homeless…so play nice!

This weekend while in Buffalo, N.Y., I met a whole new mess of people that I can add to my list of family. And to tell you the truth, if I could have, I would have picked each and every one of them. Well almost. There’s always one.

My point is I thought the million or so family members I have in California completed the package for me. I thought I knew everything I could possibly know about myself. And then Bam! I meet a group of people who make me understand who I am all the more. They have my laugh, my walk…and wouldn’t you know it, they have my fucking fingers even! And now they have my heart.

I’m on the hook for them and I don’t mind a bit. I’m going to make all the excuses necessary and hide a body or two if it’s required. I spent 1.5 days with this group of misfits and to tell you the truth, it felt like no less than a lifetime. I soaked it in. I also soaked in a bottle of Baileys! And along the way I started to remember the real reason families get together during the holidays. Family is really all accidental, due to unprotected sex and bad decisions, (just the tip, just for a second, just to see how it feels...FUCK I'M PREGNANT...another damn cousin) but in the end, it's a group of people who will encourage you to drink too much and sleep with people you probably shouldn't even stand with. And that's what Christmas is all about.

So just call me a Buffalo Soldier! I've even stopped wearing a jacket no matter how cold it gets. That's how New Yorkers dos it. And yous guys know it.

Currently Chasing: A Way To Forget

I got an Instant Message the other day. All it said was, “do you remember me?”

Now, there was a time when I was on Instant Messenger quite a bit. My boyfriend at the time lived in a different state and it was nice to get online and chat with him. And then once you’re online, well, you chat with other people as well. And I developed quite a motley crew of ‘friends.’ But that was years ago.

When I purchased my Iphone, I downloaded the Instant Messenger APP. Not because I wanted to get online and chat with anyone in particular, but mostly because it was an option and I like options. So when this strange IM pops up with the “do you remember me?” message, my first thought is. Hell fuck no.

You could be the guy who tried to sell me his junky ass elliptical machine. You could be the guy from India who I stopped chatting with because he accused me of being a racist. You could be that same guy from India who began chatting with me under a different name to see if my opinion of him would change if he told me he was white. It didn’t. You could be the guy who offered to send me money through paypal if I would show him my tits. I didn’t.

To be honest, it wouldn’t matter if you were one of those people or none of those people. Odds are I’m not really going to remember you. Or so I thought.

My question back to him was did you used to have a different screen name, because the one he had didn’t look at all familiar. He says, “Yes, Italian 4435.” And in a flash, I REMEMBERED!

Instantly I wrote back. “Is this the guy who can suck his own dick?”

He wrote back. “Yes. I was hoping you’d remember more than that.”

For the record…if you want me to remember something other than you sucking your own dick, then don’t suck your own dick. How could I possibly remember anything other than watching you suck your own dick? Oh except for the fact that he wanted me to point my Webcam at my feet while he did it. Yes, as if sucking his own dick wasn’t freaky enough, he wanted to watch my feet rub together while he did it. And I obliged. Why? Because I wanted to see the freak show! And oh yeah, he’s in the Air Force. And that’s really all I remember.

“Remember the guy who has the power of flight and the longest name in history?”
“You mean the one who can suck his own dick?”
“Yep, that’s him.”

“Remember the guy who saved those children from the burning bus last month?”
“You mean the one who can suck his own dick?”
“Yep, that’s him.”

And that will always be him. And I will always remember.

Currently Chasing: Nothing…ish

Question: If you were a dog, what kind would you be?
Answer: Tiger Woods.

Did this whole thing really surprise anyone? I mean, doesn’t everyone know that golfers don’t waste all their best strokes on one hole? Are we really shocked by these sex scandals? We all thought that Tiger wanted for nothing…And he does want for nothing…ish.

Tiger is not a sex addict. He is just a man with money and opportunity. And that is all that separates him from most other men. In every aspect of his life he was a golden boy. Where was his reward? In the end, his ‘reward’ ended up canceling out all of his ‘good intention.’

It’s like going to the gym religiously and finally reaching your goal of having a perfectly fit body. Your reward is more trips to the gym to maintain it. EPIC WIN! You don’t just get to chow down on cookies and forget the gym exists. Not even if the "gym" has changed since you first started going.

So my married friend said, “Well at least now that I’m married, I’m not tempted by other women at every turn.” Oh wait…FUCK.

“Well at least women consider married men unattatracive and off limits.” Oh wait…FUCK.

“Well at least the good guys had a bunch of crazy monkey sex in their 20’s with an insane amount of partners before settling down and getting married.” Oh wait…FUCKING FUCK!

That’s right sweetie. You were in the friend zone then, and you’re in the BEST friend zone now. And you don’t get time off for good behavior. Not once…and definitly not nine times. All you can do now is pray that hot women don’t find you attractive. Pray you don’t get hit on. Pray you become invisible to the female population. Basically, the exact opposite of what you were praying most of your teen and adult life.

“I guess I’ll just sit over here and give my wife’s hot friend dating advice while she tells me what a catch I am. If I wasn’t married I’d be all over you right now girl. PS. You need to find yourself a good man…like me.”

It’s the Neverending Story and we are all hoping not to get swallowed up by “The Nothing.”

Let’s all hope the time comes when we want nothing more than to want nothing more.

Currently Chasing: Face to Face contact

I'm sick of single sites. Christian singles, harmony.com, match.com, yahoopersonal.com, craigslist. Fuck!

Every time I open my inbox some dating site has spammed the fuck out of me talking about how someone has a crush on me, someone winked, someone wants to date, someone sent an email, someone searched my name, someone wants to touch my tits...whatever!

I can't even drive down the road without all the SINGLE? signs. I mean, seriously? How did people meet back in the day?

They fucking left the house! They mingled. They had hobbies. They went to church to meet Christians, they didn't wait for them to log on. They went to town hall meetings. They married the person they dated in high school. They didn't set ridiculous standards and expectiations and then continually update them like a fucking facebook status.

They didn't focus totally on looks completely overlooking all of the other things that make up a person.

I have drifted into the scary online world of dating. I dated two people from that realm. One who promised the world and delivered a glove. And one who asked if he could have my underwear on the first date.

I meet enough freaks in real lief. I don't think I need the added stress of playing the 'how much of this profile is real' game.

Most of these profiles boast a man making two-to-three thousand bucks a year and looking like something out of a dirty fireman calender. Paleeze! If he's an amazon God with a paycheck to match then he probably has a penis the size of a straw that his girlfriend will use to suck down enough drinks every night to fuck him.

Am I bitter? No. And don't get me wrong. At this point in the economy, it would be nice to find someone to foot half of the bill for life in general. Because it sure ain't getting any cheaper. But I'd rather be broke and happy than rich and drunk.

Lay off the online profile pages. Even if it means taking yourself out for a date. I like me a lot. I'd do me and not call myself in the morning. I'd make bad decisions with myself. As long as none of them involved a computer and a screen name.

Currently Chasing: Answers

Sex in the City. A great television series. But much more.

That series taught me more about myself and sex than school, my mom, my 'cousins' or my own obscure curiosities ever did.

Each show began with a question and finished with an answer.

Wouldn't it be great if real life was like that? If at the beginning of each day we rose with a question, and by the time we hit the pillow that night, the answer was at clear as a TV voice over.

Most of my questions are answered by the end of the day. I wake up with questions like, what I am going to have for lunch? Or what am I going to wear today? And by noon, those questions are in the bag.

But then there are the questions like, when am I going to feel like I'm an adult. Or when am I going to get him out of my head? Or how come my pinky toe is fucking stuck to the toe next to it? or, How come I don't know the official name of that toe next to the pinky..the piggy that got none.

Whatever. There are questions that will never have answers, no matter how many new beds I buy, no matter how many times I pose the questions, no matter how much I eat and no matter how many times I delete his number from my phone. And then put it back in.

And fine. Let them stay a mystery. How much fun would it be if all life's questions were answered in thirty minute episodes? Although I would like to find out about that toe.

Currently Chasing: Blast From the Past - New Bed

*Blog originally written May 14.

I bought a new bed today. Not because I wanted to. Mostly because the group of guys that helped me move insisted on it.

"You ARE planning on getting a new bed right?"

I said, "Sure, but it is not my number one priority."

"Well it should be."

Hmmm. So there it was. Buy a new bed or we will all think you are a nasty girl. so fuck. I was stuck. At that point they were all eyeing the bed like it was infected with AIDS or something. I was like dude, "I got the couches from the same chick...what about the couches?"

"The couches are fine, it's just the bed."

One friend even added..."I need a shower just touching it."

Wow. So there it is again. What do you want us to do with this nasty AIDS infested mattress? Do you want us to bring it into your house? Or throw it away...(as they are already on the way to the dumpster.) So I whispered ever so faint...throw it out I guess.

So for a month I slept in my daughter's extra bed. I have an entire bedroom set and no bed. The entire purpose of the BEDroom is to house a bed. It's a whole fucking room for a bed..yet no bed.

And to be honest...the bed was fine. I've slept on worse...I'm in the Navy for fucks sake.

So a few days later one of those same gentlemen asks..."So, got a bed yet?"

I say no...because in all honesty, with everything else going on, I really didn't have the money for a new bed. Not a nice bed. Not the kind of bed you want to come home to. No the kind of bed they build rooms for.

So he says, "Look, figure out how much you can spend and I'll front the rest."

And so it was. We found one today. A super soft, super clean BED. A bed with no AIDS. It's the first time I've ever owned a bed that wasn't previously owned.

Is that gross? I don't know. My ex-boyfriend owned a bed that wasn't previously owned, but it isn't mine...never was apparently. Now I have one of my own.

And I don't even care if I never share it.

Currently Chasing: A Bail Out

Do you believe in love at first sight? I do; mostly because I’ve experienced it 132 times. At the gym, at the gas station, and even in traffic; I’ve spent most of my life falling in love. Not staying in it, just falling in it.

It’s a faux luv. Very different than real love. And most of us are victims of it.

Let me explain. Faux luv is very tricky. If you are in love but finding it easy to sleep with other people…you are in it. If you are in love, but still looking for the next best thing, you are in it. If you love someone, but only because you want them to keep loving you, you are in it.

It can have some of the same physical symptoms as real love. It can make your stomach hurt. It can keep you up all night. It most definitely keeps taking money out of your bank account. Why? Cause honey…in some way, shape or form, you are always paying for faux love. Real Love doesn’t cost of a thing. Or so the story goes.

Faux luv sneaks up on you. You may not even know you’re in it until someone else reveals an interest in you. There are plenty of people in this world I can’t stand and couldn’t imagine myself being with. But then I hear through the grape vine that they are into me and viola…all of a sudden it is my mission to show plenty of faux luv to keep the genuine stuff coming in.

Most of the love in my life has been faux luv. I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I’ve actually thought I was in real love. The ones who actually linger. No closure. The accounts that have stayed open collecting my interest. Where’s my bailout on these delinquencies? But for the most part it has been faux luv.

6th grade. Alex Sepulveda – Presidential award winner for attendance. Honor roll throughout elementary school. Really big head. Super Nerd. And the first boy I considered myself in love with. He ended up giving his number to my best friend and becoming a stoner in high school. I swore I was going to marry him. Faux luv.

Washington. Dwayne Reed – Tall. Not very smart. Ran up an 11,000 phone bill. Got into a car accident because some chick was giving him a blow job. Marine Corps infantry. Once punched a girl right in the eye and knocked her out cold. I married him. Faux luv.

Diego Garcia. David Renshaw – British police officer for the island. Tall and sexy with an awesome accent. Had muscles in places that I didn’t know existed. Never ate Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches…I ended up sleeping with his friend when he went home to visit his pregnant fiancé. We were engaged also. Faux luv. On both parts.

Maryland. Jeff Hatter – Fat. Bad Teeth. Super funny. Really nice. Beautiful car. Great job. Kept calling me by another woman’s name. Bought me a TV. Promised to pay off my credit card debt. Would never let me come over to his house because his “dog” was violent. I think he may have been married. Most likely ended up killing his wife and burying her in the basement. Faux luv.

My point is…people keep throwing this love label around. Assigning it to every on the spot Tom, Dick and Mary they run in to. It is desensitizing us to what love really is, and I for one have become totally confused by the concept completely. I’m starting to real hate faux luv.

Currently Chasing: Grouchy Pete

My buddy P-Dog has a blog...he mostly has been using it to rip on Holiday songs that he either loves, hates, or loves to hate. Please check out this sample below...if you love it, rush over to http://www.grouchypete.blogspot.com/ and become a hater.


"It's a tradition for my wife and I, pretty much starting Thanksgiving day, to tune all radios to the holiday music stations and leave them locked. I'm not sure why, but probably since we adore the holidays, our brains have adapted to tolerate the otherwise mind-numbing repetition of the 60 or so songs that play this time of year. (I'll have to add it to my list of superpowers)
Not that I'm not sick of some of the songs (especially the one that talks about telling "scary ghost stories' at Christmas), but most have their charm and I listen away.

Now, Baby it's cold outside is a different story.

The concept is cute enough - I won't say innocent enough - Guy wants girl to stay the night, she's willing, but needs nudging, convincing or at least a plausable way to deny to friends, family and coworkers she's not a skank. And if executed right, it could be a fantastic kind of Rat Pack throwback song. If executed right.

Which it never is!

But damned if everyone, since the movie Elf came out, isn't trying to bring it back and make it work. The problem is, everything in this song must come together perfectly or it comes off just plain creepy.

Problem 1: "Say, what's in this drink?" Yep, it's hard to update a standard when some of the lyrics clearly imply date rape! It's 2008, for Santa's sake. The lyric might as well be, "Hey, how'd I get here? Who the hell are you?" Baby there's roofies in there.

Problem 2: This girl has some nosy friends, neighbors and family. Not to mention that she apparently lives at home with her parents, brother and sister. What the Hell! How old is this girl?!

Problem 3:The guy. He needs to be unassuming, ("hey, it's cool if you go girl, but neither of us wants that") kinda cocky, and charming with an eyedropper dose of innocent. Instead, we get guys like Tom Jones bringing a whole new meaning to lecherous and creepy. Or we get emo guys who sound too whiny; like that sympathy date who doesn't want his one chance (which he blew hours ago) to end. You can hear him whine, "but baybeeee, it's cooooold outside... please ... I just want to hold you ..." some guys get it, but then try to simply act like they're a cool 50s guy. Brian Setzer, Harry Connic Jr. I'm talking to you!

Problem 4: the pairings. Why do people think it's cool to pair singers 30-90 years apart in age. Alan Cumming & Liza Minelli, Michael Buble and Anne Murray, Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone (Really? Leon Redbone?!). Gross, gross, gross! Even when they're similar in age there's a whole new kind of yuk. Rod Stewart and Dolly Parton. Oh God, I don't want to picture those two drunk and gropey by a roaring fire.

Then there's the particularly uncomfortable version by Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. It is painful. She sounds like she just learned the song through Hooked on Phonics, and listeining to him, you can almost imagine the desperation in his voice as he begged her not to divorce him, "How can you do this thing to me ..." Makes me shudder. poor Nick.

Turns out the best version i can find is in the aforementioned Elf. Not, of course the one on the soundtrack. That's the creepy one with Leon Freaking Redbone! The last singer alive who thinks that "ba bababa boo" is still a legitimate song lyric. But for 45 seconds of the movie there's Zooey Deschanel channeling Ann Margaret, singing in the shower with an impish Will Ferrell almost lazily singing the male lead. The song is interrupted, when she discovers him, but for a second it's the best version I've heard. Did they rerecord it for the soundtrack. No.

But until someone finds me a better version, that's all I've got.

This is why people are depressed during the holidays."

Currently Chasing: A Normal Childhood

I watch discovery channel. I've flipped through the pages of National Geographic. I'm cultured. I know in some countries it is necessary to breast feed a child for an insane amount of time. If you cannot afford food, and your body is producing some for free, and it is the only way your child is going to get fed, well then, extreme times calls for extreme measures.

But if you are just a self proclaimed naturalist who feels the need to breast feed your 4-year-old...well, I think there is a show on dateline you may want to watch.

At some point it is just not as natural as it starts out being. I mean, sure I breast fed my daughter. But I only did it for about six months…not six damn years.

I know it's a part of life. It's healthy for the baby, it's nature's way. But I went to a Yoga Class for mothers once and the teacher's son walked up to her and said, I'm hungry. She said ok. He sat down, lifted her shirt, and began drinking. He was fucking old enough to ask for a drink! Get the kid a Capri sun! I mean seriously!

A doctor at the hospital I worked at was still breast feeding her 5-year-old. She said, "People find it strange, but he is my son and I want to start him off with the best chance at a healthy life." Do you really? Then get your tit out of his face before he starts needing a shrink.

My daughter is 8. I don't think she feels like she was cheated out of something special because at 5 years old she drank her milk from a carton.

Currently Chasing: A Reason To Believe

So my good friend Al is a Monk. He wasn't always a Monk. He was a second class in the Navy. But life took twists and turns and he ended up in Florida as a Monk. His schedule includes a little work and all pray.

He prays for hours. Six of them. In a row. In a room. Alone. Then he works. Then eats a bit. Then prays some more. Praying for our world. Praying for peace. Praying for a million dollars. I don't know. Just praying.

He writes me pages of letters. six of them. In a row. All typed. All the time. I read and reread and ask questions and wait for my slice of heaven to appear in the mail box. He sends prayer ropes and Bible versus and short stories. He writes from his heart and when he says he's going to pray for me, I believe it. The question is, do I believe it will help?

Lately I haven't written to him much. I found myself reading his advice, but not applying it. And isn't that how it always is. You want to do well and believe in something higher than yourself, but in order to do so, you must actively try to stop 'sinning.' You don’t even have to actually stop. Just truly want to stop. And no one wants to do that. Everyone wants to continue to drink and have sex before marriage. Everyone wants to judge and not be held accountable. Everyone wants to steal scrunchies from Walmart. It’s just something about those florescent lights that make you want to steal. It’s really not your fault.

I would love to say something super right here, but I'll have to settle for superficial. The only reason people believe anything in this world is because of consequence.
And If you don’t believe, then what do people say to you when you sneeze? Hey sorry about your runny nose; and by the way, when you die, nothing happens. But if you choose to believe, then what? You get to reside in a magical Heaven?

In the end, if you believe in God and Heaven, then there is the fear of Hell out there, but I’ve got news for you. Hell is the place you reside in here on earth, when you choose to abuse that fabulously famous 'free will.' Prison is hell. Life with a person you don't love is hell. Life in debt is hell. Life in guilt is hell. Life in doubt is hell. Life in itself .... can be hell.

I’m going to do my best to stop all this sinning. I wonder if sex with the intent to marry counts? I’ll write Al and get back to you on that.

Currently Chasing: Marriage ... the way I thought it was

Let me warn you. This may not be a popular blog. It may not be what people want to hear. But then again, the truth never is.

I’m starting to really doubt the concept of marriage. When I was a young girl I dreamed about getting married on the beach in San Diego. My family would all be there looking on and my father would walk me down the aisle. There would be a beautiful sunrise, I’d wear a flowing white dress and cute white flip flops. I would take pictures of the flip flops and my friends and I would laugh about it later.

There were two parts of that dream that came true. I got married in San Diego, and I was wearing sandals. There was no flowing white dress because I was eight months pregnant and as big as a house. I wore a moo moo, which was basically all I could find to fit my big ass. I wore brown sandals. Not because I wanted to, but because my feet and ankles were so swollen I couldn’t fit much else. I didn’t get married on the beach, I got married near some rose bushes and my family wasn’t there. However, my brother was there to be a witness for us and capture the moment on a disposable camera. My father didn’t give me away. In fact, I don’t even think I told my dad until a couple of weeks later. It just didn’t cross my mind.

When you think about marriage you think about you and someone else, together forever. In love. Forever. And ever. Amen. But recently it seems that some married men are really only good for one thing; Being a completely awesome boyfriend.

Here’s where this blog becomes unpopular…

A few of my friends are involved in relationships that are bad for their health. Meaning, that man isn’t quite ‘available’ if you get my meaning. But here is the problem. Married men say exactly what women want to hear. They will tell you they wish they could be married to you. They will tell you they love you. They will tell you how perfect the two of you would be together, but that’s only because they are already married. If they were single, you’d be calling them on that shit, and they’d be backing up that commitment truck pronto. But since they are already married, there is nothing they can really offer you, and you know that, so that frees them up to say whatever will make the most clothes fall off your body.

They have no problem saying that you two are meant to be and they have no problem saying that you should grow old together. Because they are just words…and words don’t cost a thing. In the end…it’s….if, if and only IF … I wasn’t married. But I is. And don't you mistake it.

Let’s pretend for a moment they decide to get a divorce. Do you think for a moment that once they get done splitting up money, kids, houses and cars…deciding who gets the dog, fighting over every last credit card charge, months and months of phone calls and threats, ending up with 200 bucks a month until the divorce is final because they have to pay for two houses instead of just one, paying on two vehicles even though only one of them is his, while probably still owing a couple of thousand on the ring that no longer means shit, that he is going to go running to the store to purchase another one because, oh yeah..that’s right, you guys are meant to be? Hell no.

In fact, that same man that you found irresistible a year earlier, will now be totally and completely single, but still totally and completely unavilable. A brand new commitment phobe. An asshole. Those words that came falling out of his mouth before, will now be swallowed down. Most likely with some Rum and Coke. And that picket fence he promised you will now be replaced with Base Barbed Wire because chances are his ass is living in the barracks due to the millions of dollars in child support he's shellin out. Why on earth would he want to put himself back in the saddle?

There will be exceptions to this rule of course. I have met people who divorced their significant other and lived happily ever after (divorce) with “the ‘other’ person.” But even those couples are usually one random incoming text away from a full blown phone records investigation. Especially if that text reads “If only I wasn’t married.”

And one more thing. When I get married again, all bets are off. Life will be great, marriage will be sacred, and my husband will never be another woman's boyfriend. And this blog will be deleted.