Currently Chasing: Shoes

There is something to be said for knowing what to expect.

The last four months have been a complete circus. I became someone I didn’t recognize, got myself into more debt than I would have liked, and there have been broken hearts all around.

The other day my daughter broke a glass. I didn’t clean it up right away, I just looked at it. All the tiny pieces. I told her to be careful. To go put shoes on. It was no longer safe to just walk around freely. I picked up the big pieces, and did my best to sweep up the small ones.

Later that night, without shoes, I walked through the kitchen, and wouldn’t you know it. I cut myself on the tiniest piece. And isn’t that how it always is.

Just when you think you’ve solved the problem of the broken heart…the minute you decide to trust that you don’t have to protect yourself, some little part of it that was left hidden somewhere comes out of nowhere and slices you.

The past cannot leave me alone. Or I can’t leave it alone. Like the glass, I’ve tried to pick up the big pieces and chuck them away..but the slivers, they are never fully gone.

One of these slivers has been a nice distraction. One of them turned in to a full on relationship. One is exactly what it was, is and always will be (lodged in my foot for all eternity most likely), and one other was just a complete mind fuck.

But the thing with the past is you always know what to expect. And maybe that is why I keep walking through that kitchen without socks or shoes.

The future is full of the unexpected. New people I’ve never met. New men who will learn how to break my heart in all new ways. Huge pieces of glass that someone else has already found a way to throw out. New addictions, new baggage, new new new. And unexpected.

Maybe that is why I keep letting my past pretend to be my future. Because I already know what to expect. The heart breaks will be the same. But hurt less and less each time. Emails and texts will be more of a game than a courting. Days without speaking will be a break and not a sign that the world is ending. It’s like a family … all these slivers. It’s like cousins and nephews that you don’t subscribe to on facebook, but then one day in the news feed you learn that one of them had a baby and BAM, you are buying a gift certificate to Toy’s R us and planning a trip out to see the new bundle of joy. Only, you forget to actually send the gift certificate out and use it to buy a Zumba Wii game instead and you can never quite find the time to make that trip happen. So eventually the emails stop. Until a few years later when they comment on a picture of you and then you start a conversation in your picture comments, and everyone else who commented is pissed they did because now they are ‘notified’ on every comment. And you make plans again to see each other. Only, it’s summer, and flying out in the summer is expensive. So you have to wait. And you get my point.

Same thing with these slivers. They are there…waiting to slice my foot open. And as much as it hurts to step on them, I still don’t wear shoes when I’m walking through that damn kitchen.

If you are a new guy who wants to date me … Please just save yourself the trouble and break up with yourself from me already.

If you are a sliver who wants back in my life…well, lovely, I’ve been expecting you.

Currently Chasing: A cure for Hoarding

I watch the television show Hoarders. I watch it a lot. I am amazed that people can keep that much shit in their homes. In most cases there are dead animals or loaded weapons all over the house. One guy had shit piled up all over his kitchen but would leave his gas stove on for heat. Crazy. Death at every turn! Kids living in these places with clothes and shoes to last them for days, but couldn’t find a place to play to save their lives. Children literally beg their parents to make a change. Child services threaten to take away children, the state threatens to take away homes, or condemn them. Husbands threaten to leave. The house at times is coming apart at the seams due to the amount of bugs/animals/mold/waterdamage/structural damage whatever that is living/breading/infesting the inside. It’s shocking, it’s disgusting, it’s heart breaking, it makes me throw up in my mouth.

Each time there is a professional trying to help these people out. They will bring everything out of the house and then they will begin a conversation that usually goes like this.

Helper: Ok Maggie. We’ve got 17 lamps here. What can we get rid of?

Hoarder: Nothing.

Helper: Well come on now. Some of these lamps are broken and won’t ever work again.

Hoarder: I can fix them.

Helper: What are the odds that you will actually fix them?

Hoarder: I’m not throwing any of them away!

Helper: How about just one. Pick just one that we can throw away.

Hoarder: Damn it. I already told you. All of the lamps stay!

Then the Hoarder stomps out, pissed off and goes into their house to love on their junk and shit somewhere on the floor because there is no running water and meanwhile the helper talks to the camera.

Helper: This is frustrating. She refuses to even part with one lamp. This is going to be a very long day.

I have never considered myself a hoarder. It has always been very easy for me to just throw stuff out. Mostly because in the Navy you move so often that you don’t feel like taking a lot of stuff with you. I have a few things…like my daughters first outfit, her first Halloween costume, some artwork and some photobooks. But for the most part, I don’t hold on to things for very long. I get rid of things to make room for new things. It’s the way I’ve always done it.

But recently I realized I am indeed a Hoarder. But I don’t hoard stuff. Oh no. I hoard PEOPLE!

I’m mortified by this discovery but I acknowledge it. And that is the first step right? Admitting that you have a problem. I made this discovery the other day when me and my friend had this conversation.

Me: Did you see the picture I posted on facebook?

My friend: Yeah, I commented on it, but maybe you didn’t notice because you have a thousand facebook friends.

Me: Whatever, I do not have a thousand facebook friends.

My friend: Ok, nine hundred and something. Basically a thousand.

So I log on to facebook and take a look. And there it is. 948.

So I go to the news section and start reading most recent and she says, you know you can change that so it will only show you the top news. And I said, what does that mean? And she said, it will just give you stuff it thinks you will be interested in reading instead of showing you every single thing people type. And I said, I’m fine with seeing every single thing people type.

She just stared at me.

My friend: Why do you care?

Me: These are my friends.

My friend: All 948 of them?

Me: Well yeah, I wouldn’t have added them otherwise right?

My friend: You can’t tell me you know all 948 of those people.

Me: No, I guess not.

My friend: Let’s go through and delete the people you don’t know.

(This was the moment. She had put all my shit out on the lawn and had asked me to pick a lamp to throw away.)

Me: I don’t want to delete anyone.

My friend: What about this person? You have not spoken to this person in three years.

Me: That is my cousin.

My friend: Um, ok, what about this person? From your first duty station in 1994. There is no way you are still in contact.

Me: She came to visit me last month.

My friend: Well, what about this person? She is just a friend of a friend that you’ve never met.

Me: She and her daughter sent me an awesome care package while I was in Afghanistan.

My friend: What about this girl. Some random Soldier.

Me: I wrote her a letter of recommendation three weeks ago.

My friend: What about this girl? She doesn’t even live in this country?

Me: That is Carly! Are you kidding me? She is one of my blogger crushes. Along with about 10 other bloggers. I’m not deleting any of my blogger crushes!

And the list went on. She would suggest someone, and I would immediately get defensive. I may not have a tie that binds me to every single last person on that list of 948, but I added them for a reason. Even if that reason was just so I could stalk their lives or find out what their wives looked like.

And the list use to be longer. But over the years (and even as recent as last month) people have deleted me. They have just hovered over my name and then BAM. Hit the delete button. And it was a simple thing. And they probably aren’t harboring any deep regret or wondering if my feelings are hurt over it.

But I can assure you that even though they are no longer part of my online collection, by deleting me they have graduated immediately to my in-mind obsession. And trust me. Nothing gets thrown out of there either.

Currently Chasing: A Movie Ticket

Alcohol is a pain in the ass. In Afghanistan we weren’t allowed to have ANY. So you can imagine now that I’m a light weight when it comes to drinking. Not that I could ever drink anyone under the table, but I used to be able to hold my own.

Except that time I went to Atlantic City and ended up incoherent and being shuttled around the hotel in a wheel chair. I ended up in the security section of the hotel until they were sure I could at least pronounce my name and could determine that I wasn’t going to die from choking on my own vomit.

But other than that dreadful night, and the time I vomited for 23 minutes straight outside of the taco bell parking lot, I’ve done alright.

And then there was last night. I went out with a close friend and his buddy. We are sitting around and I decide to order a drink. I take it down like I would take down a five year old in an arm wrestling competition. Quickly and without hesitation. I order another and I’m feeling good. Too good. One of two things happens when I get to my drinking happy place.

1.       I make out with someone. (Most likely someone I know, but that’s not always a guarantee.)

2.       I talk too much and say stupid shit that will haunt me later.

Last night, it was the latter. I start talking about something mildly inappropriate, and then it escalates into something I probably shouldn’t talk about, and then rounds out in the ‘definitely do not fucking say this’ area.

By the time I realized what had happened, the damage was done. I was no longer the cute, funny girl that had sat down thirty minutes earlier. I was now the drunk girl who stumbled up to the cliff and then swan dove right the fuck off. Great. That’s me right? I’m the asshole? Yep. I was the asshole.

So my friend is pissed and I’m trying to smooth things over, but at that point I’m still not totally convinced I’ve done anything wrong. I’m just doing that thing where you apologize blindly and hope that whatever you did to get yourself in trouble solves itself at some point during your ramblings. But not this time. He asked me if I was finished eating. I said yes. Then he got up with his friend and they left.

There was one problem with leaving at that point. I was still, um, not quite under the legal alcohol limit to drive. So I wandered around the mall in JLo Heels that I had no business being in … and made my way toward the moving theater.

I bought a ticket for ‘Take me home,’ which seemed very appropriate, and proceeded to watch a movie by myself to sober up and ‘think about what I did.’

On the downside, I’ll probably be watching even more movies alone in the future due to the fact that I become a plague after one drink.

The upside is, I can finally catch that Justin Beiber flick that no one will go with me to watch! Nothing says winner like a drunk 30 something sitting alone in a Justin Beiber 3D movie. Another upside is, with a little alcohol in me, I may finally understand his hair.

Currently Chasing: An Oven big enough to hold my honesty pies

I've noticed a problem with writing this blog. It's public. People used to ask all the time, don't you feel crazy about putting some of your personal business out to whoever feels like clicking on this page? The answer was always a clear and easy, no. There were people in my life who would ask not to blogged about, there were people who didn't mind as long as they were given a code name, and there were people who were just as open about their lives and the goings on of it all as me.

But something has happened recently that is causing a bit of a rethink on my part, and I'm nervous. All of a sudden people who I didn't think were reading my blog, are, in fact, reading my blog. Even if they aren't personally logging on and looking at the words for themselves, they are being briefed on its contents. So conversations that normally go like this:

Random Person: hey, how was Afghanistan? Did you meet any amazing people or do anything noteworthy?

Me: Um, sure, I met some of the local population, took some great photos and remained absolutely professional the entire time.

Random Person: well, that is incredible, I'm sure you are better off the experience, welcome home awesome servant to our country.

Now go something like this:

Random Person: Hey, how was Afghanistan? Did you meet any amazing people or do anything noteworthy?

Me: Um, sure, I met some of the local population, took some great photos and remained absolutely professional the entire time.

Random Person: Hmmm, I didn't realize Canadians were members of the local population. And also, I read your blog on the type of 'photos' you've been taking and receiving. And what's going on with that guy who is in love with you? Are you going to see him again? Nevermind! Don't spoil the ending..I'll read about it later.

And so wow. There it was. I do try to explain to people that I take certain liberties with this blog, and often embelish things for the sake of entertainment, and that things aren't always exactly what they appear to be. But for the most part...the blog has become a place where I can accurately convey my feelings on most things. And it's not on a time delay. It's how I feel about whatever, right now.

And now it has become something else as well. A lie detector. One of two things are going to have to happen in my life. Either I start getting less honest in my blog, or I begin getting more honest in my real life.

It used to be a joke with me and the friend of mine who helped me create my blog. I would say, "I can't write about that!" And he would say, "Yes you can! That's what makes the blog great!" and I would rationalize it all in my head with one simple realization. "The person I about to blog about doesn't read my blog anyway, so it doesn't matter." And on with the detrimental-to-someone's-self-esteem blog I'd go. That bit me in the ass once with some guy I met at the gym who was some kind of computer genius who hacked into my facebook profile, got my blog address, and began reading. One of the first entries he read was about a guy from the gym who wouldn't stop being a creepy stalker. And the crazy part is, he commented on the blog to let me know he read it, and it didn't phase him one bit. He was still a creepy stalker, only now on a whole new level. Especially since his apperance in my blog made him feel more relevant in my life.

Now I'll say, I can't blog about that, he/she reads my blog. And my good friend will say, hmmm, fine, just wait a month or two and then blog about the story as a flashback. But whether I blog it now or in a month from now, people are going to know when it's them you are talking about. And others (who know you in real life) are going to be able to put two and two together and figure out who you are talking about...and that kind of defeats the purpose of a blog I can use to vent about things I wouldn't actually say to those people.

So I've made my decision. I like my blog. I'm going to keep writing it. And I'm going to remain true in what I write here...which means I better get busy baking those honesty pies ... and people who know me, know I dno't know how to bake, so these things may not taste as great as they look. But don't worry, you can always wash it down with a Chaser.

Currently Chasing: The Rest of the Dream

I almost had a sex dream last night. I say almost because half way through the man's shirt coming off, my mother came strolling into the dream. AND SHE WAS NAKED. I don't know what this means, and I don't want anyone analyzing it. Anyway, I wasn't even mad that she came into the room, I was just mad that she wouldn't leave. She was dancing, naked, in my room - and meanwhile I'm like, MOM, GET THE FUCK OUT. Finally she leaves the room, and I try to get back to my original dream plan, and all of a sudden she calls my name. I'm like, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT. Geezus! This is my dream for Cripe Sakes.

So I tell him to hold that thought while I run out to see what my naked mother wants. She asks me some question, who knows what, and I'm basically yelling at her because I want to get back in there to my dude. But when I return he isn't there anymore, and instead my bedroom is a tiny diner and people are sitting around having coffee...and I'm thinking...WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SEX?

Man, I've heard the stories about deployment making people crazy and horny and whatever...but I guess I just really only thought that happened to guys. I mean, I"m a chick, I can live without sex right? Married women do it all the time. But here I am, single and celebate, and I'm pissed! And now I can't even look forward to my dreams. Of course I miss my mother, and to be honest, she would have been quite happy with how well she held up in my dream. But damn it, It's my dream. the one time I get to be alone with my own thoughts...and now even my own thoughts aren't letting me enjoy myself. That's pretty sad. I will admit that there was a time my mom was visiting and I was bringing a boy home and I texted her and asked her to make sure she was in another room when I get home. When I finally got home, there she was on the couch in her nightgown and slippers. I was like, MOM, I TEXTED YOU...I'VE GOT A GUY WITH ME. She hurried into the other room. I looked at him thinking...I've just ruined this for sure. But he said, she didn't run into your room did she? I said no. He said, ok then, are we good? Ha. Yeah, we're good. Thank God you're barely 21 and this kind of things happens to you all the time.

Anyway, I'm getting ready to watch a movie, and then I'm going to shut my eyes and pray to go back to the dream about the beautiful Diver. How do I know he was a diver? Because I know the guy...yep. Sure do. I've never had sex with him, never dated him, never ever flirted with him...but for some reason four years after my last real conversation with him, here he is in my dream...and there is my naked mother in the room. Whose dream was this suppose to be again?

Currently Chasing: The reply button

“So what kind of guy are you?” I asked him.

“I’ve never given it much thought,” he said. “Simple reasoning is that most people won’t listen to start with.”

I was intrigued by this conversation. It was ironic to hear a guy say the same things I myself have said so many times over. That it doesn’t matter what kind of person you are, or even what kind of person you say you are. People have already made up their minds about you.

So I asked him, “Does it surprise you that I’m interested?”

He said, “No, not at all. I noticed that you couldn’t stop smiling when we spoke.”

I said, “Haven’t you noticed that I don’t stop smiling … ever.”

He said, “People who smile all the time are usually the ones constantly looking for a reason to smile.”

What a concept. I smile 24 hours a day, and spend just as long searching for something to actually smile about. That may explain why I’m not content. I’m always hoping something will come around that will actually make me happy, instead of just making me smile.

I decided not to write back right away. Turns out I didn’t need to. The empty inbox was enough to make him write again.

“Don’t run from my understanding of you,” he writes. “You are too old for that.”

I again decided not to write back.

But I couldn’t help but think about his statement. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a local Afghan boy just days prior. (And yes, I actually sat down with a very smart 11-year-old local and had a conversation with him. About, of all things, marriage!)

He said, Ma’am, are you married? I said no. He said, how old are you? I said 34. He said, wow, 34 and no marriage? You need marriage. I said, In America you don’t need marriage. He said, yes, you always need marriage. I said, are you going to marry me? He said, ma’am, you are big and I am small. No marriage for us. So then I asked him for his name and began to enter the letters in my iphone. He saw a picture of my daughter as my screensaver and said, who is that girl? I said, that’s my daughter. He said, you have daughter and no marriage? I said, I used to have marriage. He said, so your husband died? I thought about that statement for a minute. And although I didn’t want to lie to him, I was also embarrassed by the truth. In his culture Marriage is sacred. And in ours it’s disposable. So I said, yes. He seemed happy with that and left it alone.

My birthday is in a few days. Just a reminder that I’m older. Too old to run from people’s understanding of me, and too old to be running alone. I think maybe I should write him back.

Currently Chasing: A few more pounds

So I’ve been getting hit on out here…mostly by twenty somethings who weight one hundred and twenty something pounds. What is the deal? What is it about skinny guys that make them want to take on some heavy junk like me? I’ll crush you dude!

Don’t get me wrong. They are cute, with their tiny little abs and their tiny little asses. But good lord, I’m not looking for something I can wrap my arms around, but I am looking for something I can wrap my head around…and this whole little guy, big girl thing is throwing me for a loop.

When we are walking down a dark alley, or you know what…let’s get even scarier, when we are walking down a dark alley in motha fuckin Afghanistan…and someone walks up on us, I don’t want to throw you behind me as I lock and load on some insurgent. And I also don’t want to be standing behind you if you decide to sacrifice yourself for me…CAUSE THEY WILL STILL BE ABLE TO SEE ME BEHIND YOU.

Maybe I’m being too hard on the little guys. After all, they are the ones stepping up to the free throw line right? Although recently a rather freakishly tall man has made his way back into my life, which is a good thing, but the majority of men who have been trying to court me these days would have no business being on a court of any kind.

My type has pretty much been the same for quite some time. Tall and heavier than me. At 5’6 and 160, that doesn’t seem like an outrageous request. Ok, maybe a bit more than 160, but hopefully by the time I leave here I’ll be around 145-150 and then that will open up the door for a few more of these 12-year-olds, but goodness. I think that anyone looking at me would be like, damn, that’s quite a bit of woman right there…let me gain a few pounds and ask her out.

There are a couple of positive points I should bring up about these lean stallions. When they send pictures, it is hard to find a flaw. The abs are usually very defined and there is nothing hanging somewhere it shouldn’t be. But that is also the case with victims of malnutrition. And a lot of these guys have tattoos that end up unintentionally wrapping around their bodies because they ran out of room. Trust me, every tattoo I have has PLENTY of breathing room. There is a guy here who has already lost 30 pounds since being here. He’s been skipping meals and working out twice daily. That is a hard regiment to maintain, so he recently gained a few pounds back and he’s been depressed about it. Two months ago he was heavier and happier, and in my opinion a more well-rounded person, no pun intended. Now he’s just skinny and miserable. And now, at two pounds less than me, completely un-dateable. Not that I was considering it, just saying.

If I have to lose 20 pounds to feel comfortable around you, I’m going to go out on a limb and say; it’s just not going to work. The Skinny Brit I’ve made friends with may read this. Don’t worry love; I’m talking about all skinny guys, except you. (Wink wink.)

Currently Chasing: Something A Little Less Strange

I got an email from my dead ex-boyfriend. He just wanted to write to me from the grave and say Hi just in case I was starting to forget about him and move on with my life. But I’ll probably write him back because I’m a masochist.

It’s funny he would write out of the blue because my mother (whom I recently saw on my visit to California) has been keeping up with my Facebook and the first thing out of her mouth was …

“What happened to that nice boy you were in love with?”

First of all, what nice boy are you talking about? Secondly, he died … virtually.

So my mom said. “Well that didn’t last very long.”

So I say … about two weeks.

And my dad says, “so this was one of the more serious relationships you’ve had?”

Yes father, that’s right, this was one of those long term things. Also here’s your knife. I can’t breathe with it stuck in my throat!

This is an example of parental facial rape. I didn’t even see it coming and yet I’m left vulnerable and I can’t find my shoe.

So the reason I’m even in California is because I’m attending a sexual assault response and prevention course. Hence the reason I could identify immediately the above face rape. Anyway, there is a guy in there that has been married three time, has a couple of kids from women other than those three wives, makes jokes in class that are centered around his ignorance and he dips. So why wouldn’t he ask me out?

But I said no. I didn’t think it had the two-week potential I require before falling in love. So why bother.

So anyway, a day later I get a frantic Facebook message from a male friend of mine whom I haven’t seen in years. He is wondering if I’ve already left on my journey overseas and is pretty pissed that I didn’t say goodbye. So I write him and let him know that I haven’t left quite yet, but soon.

So he confesses … I’m madly in love with you and I think we should get married.

I gotta hear this logic. Although I must say, the idea is intriguing. Especially since everyone in my life has been getting married, separated or divorced. Agreeing to marriage feels about as permanent as a spray on tan. But less orangy.

He said, “Look, we’ve been keeping in touch for years and we’ve never even slept together. It’s obvious that we care about each other mentally and emotionally. So just come visit me and if we click physically then … let’s get married.”

Wow, I’ve heard of the “just tell her you love her” line to get a woman into bed, but “just tell her you’ll marry her?” That’s a bit out there.

Here are the facts, he roughly my age (which is rare!), he’s got a good job, he saves money, he plans on being fully ready to retire at 45, he’s tall, he’s funny, he’s smart and he doesn’t believe in cheating (although threesomes aren’t cheating, according to him.) And oh yeah, he’s an alcoholic. Or ‘passionate’ as he likes to call it.

So we dive into this threesome thing a bit and I tell him my theory on threesomes. He tells me that my theory is way off and that men sometimes just need another woman and that I can pick someone uglier than me if I’d like. So I say, ok, what if instead of an ugly woman, I just pick a man?

He assures me it’s not the same thing. Well no shit.

So he explains: “Men sleep with other women for PURELY physical reasons. It has nothing to do with love. However, women ONLY sleep with other men when they are not being emotionally fulfilled. So if you are sleeping with another man then there is something I’m not doing right, and I’ll fix it.”

Then he said something pretty profound.

When sex in a relationship is bad then sex becomes 90 percent of the relationship. But when sex is a relationship is great then sex becomes only 10 percent of the relationship. In other words, the better your sex life is, the less likely your man is to run around on you.

But I don’t buy it. It seems like the whole world is posting a Craig’s list add, “Desperately Seeking Strange.”

I mean, I must have that ad posted on the back of my shirt, cause lord knows strange finds me.

So It’s possible I’m engaged right now to a man I’ve never slept with and will most likely never see again. And that's not strange at all. Just desperate.

Currently Chasing: Control

So…it has been said by several different people in several different places that when women get together they all begin to “link up” with each other. Their bodies begin talking and they are like, hey you wanna bleed today? I don’t know, what about tomorrow? Yeah, tomorrow’s cool. Heather, is tomorrow good for you? Let me just check with Susan … Yep, all good. Let’s Bleed. It’s going to be a blastie blast.

But it’s not a blastie blast. It’s a nighty fucking nightmare.

I’m currently away from home and will be away from home for quite a few months. My plan is to remain single, remain celibate (those two work quite nicely together) and then my third thing … remain sane. Single, celibate, sane. Simple.

Well let me tell you what’s going to drive me insane before I even take the plane ride to the land of camel spiders … three periods in a month, that’s what.

I decided before I left home that I was going to get a year’s worth of birth control pills. It just made sense. Even though you really can’t call what I do being ‘on’ birth control. I would take a pill Monday, forget to take one Tuesday through Thursday, Take two Friday and Two Saturday and then drop Sunday’s pill down the drain on accident.

However, after getting here my feelings changed. I didn’t want to bother with the pill and there was no reason I needed to. It was just one more thing I had to remember to do every day, and trust me, I already had too much shit to remember. I already had to remember that on PT days I needed to wear Blue shorts with a brown command T-shirt, a white reflective belt (not the yellow one I spent 12 dollars on, but the white one that was issued to me for free after I spent the money on the other one) my camel back at least half full of water, my arm band ID holder and my ID, all while remembering that I have to be to PT at 6, which actually means 5:45, so I have to catch the bus at 5:25, which actually means 5:20 … and don’t forget my camera because there may be a surprise award ceremony immediately following PT even though no one knows and the person receiving the award is at medical. So yeah, Pill who?

So when my period came out of the blue one fine Wednesday morning, I thought to myself…ok, not the most convenient thing in the world, but doable. It’s fine. This seems to be around the time I should be getting it, so I’ll just go with it. It should only be hanging around for two days, three days tops. I bled for seven days. Eventually it stopped. And I thought, ok, well that was pleasant, but at least it’s over.

Until two weeks later when a girl in my office informed me that it was ‘about that time’ for her. That night my body informed me that it was ‘about that time’ for me as well. YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

So there we went again. Not to mention that the whole time I’m taking this ‘time’ for myself, I’m also shoving every sugary snack I can find down my throat and straight into my bloated belly. So that’s awesome.

After a few days it ended, but not without me deciding to take some corrective action. I decided to put myself back on the pill. With all the lack of scheduling and control in my life at this moment in time, It would be nice to have control over something, even if that something is as simple as my bodies decision to drop unfertilized eggs. So that next unbloody Sunday I decided to start taking my pills again.

There are pills that do a lot of things. Pills that help fight HIV. Pills that cure Polio. Even pills that help with the fight against cancer. But those aren’t THE PILL. The reason it’s THE PILL is because men feel like if you take it they can fuck you without a condom.

HELL YEAH, NOW THAT’S A PILL!

So it’s been two weeks and needless to say, I need to take three pills tomorrow and two Saturday. It’s good to be back in control.

Currently Chasing: A Break

I've complained a lot about hating the District of Columbia. When my friends ask me to meet them anywhere near there, I cringe. When I know I'm going to have to park, I take anxiety medication. If I know I'm going anywhere near Dupont Circle, well, I just shoot myself in the face.

Even my GPS tells it like it is. I type in an address in DC and right away it says, preparing to get . LOST!

But for two months before I left Maryland, something wonderful happened. I started learning my way around DC.

So when my friend asked me to meet her near the Pentagon (and then jump on the metro to China Town) I said cool. I can do that. I can find the Pentagon. I own the fucking Pentagon. There was essentially no traffic on my way into DC and I was feeling good about the trip. I arrived to the Pentagon in record time and we proceeded to make our way to the metro.

I don't take the metro a lot, so I had to get a pass. I put my twenty in the machine, typed in how much I wanted to add to my card, and stood by. ERROR. The machine didn't have enough change for my twenty. Ok fine, I have a ten in my purse, just give me back the twenty and I'll use the ten. But the refund button wasn't working, and all of a sudden the machine said, out of bills, and that was that. My money never came back out. I HATE DC.

I tried to calm down. My friend knew I was heated. She offered to give me the twenty bucks. I said forget it, used a different machine, got my card, and we're off.

Dinner was great. She didn't eat much because she had just been dumped via Facebook (more to come on that later) so she was feeling all broken up with, which translates to, I'm not eating shit because my stomach is already full . OF PAIN.

After dinner, we went back to our vehicles. I drove home. Easy Peezy.

About a month later, I head back out to DC to have dinner with another friend. In fact, it was memorial weekend and she wanted to meet at the Hudson. I'd never been there, but I took a chance. I drove out there, found a great place to park, walked a couple of blocks to the restaurant, and proceeded to have an awesome meal.

My friend even paid the $71 tab (which was unexpected) and I was feeling so good about the evening that I tipped the parking attendant $15. I drove out of the lot and could feel I was getting lost. But low and behold I just followed my instincts (which for once didn't steer me in the wrong direction . literally) and viola, I was out of DC and back on the 50 headed home.

I felt like I had conquered the world. DC, you are my bitch. I might even be able to find my way into George Town to visit my girl Dee. I mean, I'm king of the fucking world.

So my friend J is renting out my condo while I'm gone, and she calls me up last weekend to deliver some news. I had been caught speeding on New York Avenue by a traffic camera in May and it was going to cost me $50. The camera photographed my vehicle and that picture was sent along with the ticket. I couldn't really see my face in the photo due to the fact that I was looking down, most likely because I was texting.

Well that's bullshit DC, but you know what, I'll pay your $50 because I'm a patriot and I know the money will most likely go to a good cause, like more traffic cameras. So I tell J to just go ahead and pay the ticket and take it out of the rent. She says ok. The next day she calls me and tells me that another ticket came. This time it was for April.

Are you kidding me! So basically the only two times I felt comfortable going to DC and I got speeding tickets both times! And she tells me that they already sent one notice (no they fucking didn't) and so this ticket was doubled. $100!

"What do you want me to do?" she said. "Just pay it and take the money off the rent?"

"Fuck no! Send me the fucking information and I'm going to tell those assholes I'm not fucking paying that shit! They never sent me anything and fuck them."

"Are you sure you want to deal with it?" she asked. "I could just pay it for you and you'd be done with it."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I asked. "That place is a fucking miscarriage! I am going to call them and tell them I'm a fucking patriot! I HATE DC. I'm going to give them a piece of my mind. What were the dates again? I wasn't even in fucking DC during those times! I never speed. Someone else was driving my car. And the metro took my money! And the steak was a little tough. FUCK DC."

"So I should go ahead and pay it then?" she said calmly.

"Yeah, but write fuck you in the comments."

Currently Chasing: The Future

Have you ever been waiting in line to have your blood drawn and you see someone in line ahead of you and think to yourself … do I know him? Did we possibly have sex in 1997? And then think … Nope, wow. Definitely not. It was 1998, the year my drink of choice was Tequila on the rocks. Every night.

Yeah, that never happened to me either. Except that it did. Today.

It’s always a little strange when you see an old lover. It’s especially strange when you see two in one day and they are friends. That never happens to me either. Except that it did. Today.

Holy fuck! They say it’s a small world, but really? This small? We all just happened to be having our blood drawn in the very same place in fucking hot ass Mississippi? Damn you tiny little world. You really are like an annoying ride at Disney.

My question is it possible to be just friends with old lovers? A friend of mine blogged about this exact subject, and I’ll say the same thing now that I said then. Yes. But no. I mean, the words, “Let’s catch up were coming out of both of their mouths,” but all I was hearing was “Wow, remember that time…”

I mean, at this point they are both married and you all know from my last post that I’m in love with a man that I’m going to see again in about 400 days.

But still, here they were. Bites from my past reminding me that I eat too much. Reminding me that there were so many times in my life that I’ve thrown caution to the wind. Reminding me that there are things in my past that I’ve even lied to my diary about.

So I get a text later from one of my old lovers and he writes …

“What’s up for later? I’d like to catch up.”

To which I respond, “Not much, dinner probably.”

To which he replies, “What’s on the menu …”

And I quickly text back “Not me, just so you know.”

“Well Duh,” he says.

“Well … I know you,” I say.

What are old lovers anyway but friends who just weren’t boyfriend or girlfriend material? To be honest, I’ve shared more intimate moments with my television programs. And at some point all your favorite shows come to an end. Usually with a pretty mediocre finale. And once you’ve seen the season play out, there usually isn’t much time left in life for reruns.

So I decided not to throw this into the coincidence bank and instead think about the possible reasons for it. So early on my long journey and I’m already taking steps backward down memory lane? Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I needed a glimpse into my past to remind me to stay focused on my future.

When I turn around there are plenty of old ‘seasons’ I could rewatch. Truth is I’d just like to keep adding episodes of my current program.

Currently Chasing: The Taste of Thin

I have been working out a lot lately. But it’s not by choice. I paid for some personal training sessions, and now I’ve been so lazy in previous months that out of my 28 sessions, I’ve only used eight. That leaves 20 half-hour sessions, and with only 19 days left to use them, I’ve had to shift myself into overdrive. I’ve even started doing some hour-long sessions. I can feel it all literally killing me.

The problem is, for every bit of working out I’m doing, there is a Twinkie standing by waiting for me to use it as a throat swab. All of the working out I’m doing seems to be for nothing, and it’s pretty damn depressing.

My friend let me borrow the Zone Diet book. It sat in the back of my car for five days. When it did finally make its way into my house I used it as a paperweight. She asked for it back a week or so later. I told her I wrote down all the recipes I wanted. Truth is I actually had to search a bit for the book. It was under a box of Twinkies.

This type of sabotage is normal for me so I don’t know why I even bother still talking about it. When I was pregnant with my daughter I would eat dinner on the way to dinner. When I delivered my daughter I weighed 265 pounds. Yep. That’s right. And no amount of hair dye was covering that up I assure you.

I was approached by a guy who was not afraid to call a baby ugly. And also was not afraid to call a big-boned girl “FAT.”

He got me into shape…(I can’t say back into shape, because there was never really a shape to begin with.) So I’ve been down to that 150 range. I’ve had a glimpse of a petite me. But there’s another petite I prefer; a Bon Appétit.

They say nothing tastes as good as thin feels. But have you ever tasted a taco from Jack in the Box…or cold stone ice cream on a hot day? It’s irresistible. And yeah, I’ll go home, strip down naked, look in the mirror and cry later; turn around, stare at my butt and go into a full on emotional breakdown, but for some reason it still doesn’t stop me from asking for extra bread and a dessert menu.

Because there is shit that tastes as good as thin feels. And today it was 27 skittles.

Currently Chasing: Cows

I shared this story with my students the other day.

There once was a beautiful girl. Only everyone told her she was ugly. And in this place where she lived women weren’t showered with diamonds to prove they were loved, instead, their families were showered with…cows. That’s right. The more cows you pay for your wife, the more popular and beautiful she becomes to other women in the village.

Just like how in this day and age women walk around flashing their wedding ring (the more bling, the more love), women in this village would go around bragging about how many cows were paid for them.

“I’m a five cow wife,” said one woman.

“I’m a seven cow wife!” bragged another.

So this woman walked around getting made fun of every single day.

“You aren’t even worth half a cow,” said one woman.

“You’ll have to give yourself away,” said another.

One day a man came to town and got all the women talking. He was very handsome. He could have his choice of any women in the village. In fact, some of those bitches may have even paid a cow or two for him! He kept seeing a shy woman around the village who wouldn’t make eye contact and who would run away every time he was around. He went to her father and asked for her hand in marriage.

Her father said “you can have her for one cow.”

The man refused. He said he wanted to pay 10 cows for her. Her father was astonished. Why would anyone want to pay 10 cows for his ugly-ass daughter? Only, she wasn’t ugly. She just needed to believe she was pretty. And how could she not be if such a handsome man was willing to pay 10 cows for her!

When word spread all the women were jealous. And she was able to walk around the village with her head held high, for she was a 10-cow wife.

A couple weeks after I told this story to them I was having an off day. They all got together and each drew a cow on a piece of paper. 12 students; 12 cows. They presented it to me. They told me not to be sad because in their opinion I was a 12-cow teacher!

Only guess what. I would of rather have had diamonds. No girl these days wants to be associated with a damn cow, especially not 12 of those fat things. Geezus H! Those students will never learn.

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 Place to Throw UP!

I worked out today. Now, I don’t say this to sound simple. It was anything but. Most of the time when I say I worked out, I mean that I went to the gym, watched TV while pedaling a bike, and threw a couple of weights around. Other times when I say I worked out, I mean that I stepped on my Wii fit and hula hooped for 30 seconds. And still other times when I say I worked out, I mean that I worked myself out of a size 10 and into a size 12.

But today when I say I worked out. I mean it. I got up at butt crack:30 and was at the physical training site by 7 past fuck this. I wasn’t going to go. I was going to flake out and stay in bed. But I had put on my facebook status last night that I was going to PT today. So I was accountable to myself, and the 300 other people on that site who barely know me, have never met me, and who hated me in high school. Who would have thought facebook would make me a more responsible person.

So there I am, surrounded by 50 or so other people all ready to do the same thing. Run laps around a parade field while simultaneously carrying 30 pound bags of sand. You may be asking yourself, “Why would anyone want to do this?” And the answer is, “Nobody wants to fucking do this!” And by the way, we are in groups of six and the goal is to basically race. Really? Race? Cause I’ll tell you right now, A turtle with three legs could probably whip my fucking ass in a race at this point. My eyes are still glued together with sleep sand for fuck’s sake.

So we start. We don’t all have to carry the bags the entire time. We carry it for as long as we can before handing it off to someone else in the group. So we make the first lap (each lap is a half a mile) and I don’t even touch the bag. I don’t even almost pretend to want to touch it. Although I’m tempted to just stab it with something sharp…I’m sure you can guess why.

On the next lap it gets handed to me. Good Lord it’s heavy. I begin to talk to myself while I’m running. And by running I mean, shuffling along like there is a rubber band holding my legs together. The dialogue goes something like this:
Me: Fuck this thing is heavy!
Me: I want to throw it on the ground.
Me: Don’t fucking throw it on the ground, you’ll look weak.
Me: Fuck it. I don’t give a fuck.
Me: Come on, it’s only a half a lap.
Me: That’s a fucking quarter of a mile!
Me: I’m a fat piece of shit!
Me: I’m going to vomit and then pass out in my vomit.
Me: …………………………

So needless to say, it was a nightmare. In the end there were still those masochistic men who carried the sandbag the entire time and kept a sprinter’s pace. But you know what? When is that ability going to help me in life? I’ve been carrying around 30 extra pounds of fat and waste most of my life and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere!

Granted, I’m not sprinting with it. I’m mostly just taking it out to dinner and asking it about its day.

Currently Chasing: A Budget

Why is it that when I look at my account at 5 p.m. Wednesday … I always seem to have money in the bank, but when I log back in the very next a.m. there is a negative balance and a lean on my house? I’m quite tired of the paycheck to paycheck game. And you would think I’d be doing something about it. But instead I continue to buy healthy food I’ll never eat, fancy drinks I’ll never drink, precious shoes that are too uncomfortable to wear, dresses there are never occasion to wear, clothes I’m not thin enough (yet) to wear, and useless Tupperware! (I never cook anything to need to keep anything!)

I own half of the pampered chef catalogue, which is pretty good for someone who never cooks – um, or pretty fucking lame and retarded. In fact, every purchase I’ve made in the last couple of years, besides my house, has been lame and spontaneous.

For example: I was leasing a 2006 PT Cruiser. Finally I decided to get smart. Why the hell am I leasing a car? It causes me to constantly worry about miles and dings and dents that I may have to pay for at the end of the contract. I need to get out of this lease and get a different car. A cheaper car. A bigger, more family friendly car. So I went to the dealership. I paid $3,000 to get out of the lease, and drove off the lot with a 2005 PT Cruiser Convertible. What the fuck is my problem! In my head it made sense. I just gave my leased car up…now I have nothing to drive. Hmmm. Let’s just look and see what totally inconvenient even smaller and older car they have on the lot. Yes, I hate this car just enough. I’ll take it.

Do you want another example…of course you do! Walking through the mall, I see a vendor. Everyone knows to stay clear. But not me. It’s an iron that straightens hair. You’ve all seen it. And you have all made the smart decision not to buy it. AND YOU HAVE ALL GONE ON TO LEAD HAPPY LIVES!

But of course, I couldn’t live without it. Wow, it really does get hair straight. The $10 iron I have at home gets my hair straight. But not this fucking straight. I need this iron! This iron will change my life. This iron will get me the husband of my dreams. This iron will solve all my problems. So I own this $275 iron and I use it to straighten my bangs every morning. Because, oh yeah, I forgot … I DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING HAIR!

One more example. I need a laptop. I just registered for a couple of college courses, and my current laptop was a hand-me-down from a friend who used to own his own dotcom business. I appreciated the gesture, and that thing has lasted, porn downloads and all, for a good couple of years. However, it does not even have a DVD ROM and let’s face it … I can only blow so many people to keep the thing running. KIDDING (geez).

So I’ve been complaining about the laptop situation for some time. Finally a friend of mine says, look, I’ll give you the money to get a new laptop and you can just pay me back sometime between now and before you die. I’ll take that deal. Although you never know when you’re going to die right … I’m just saying. So he transfers the money, and I get online (luckily my laptop will still do that, albeit, at a snail’s pace) and begin looking for laptops.

Here’s the rub. I really wanted an iphone. But I was already with T-Mobile, not only that, but I had two lines because I was on a family plan I haven’t needed since 2006. So what do I do with the money? I call up T-mobile and cancel my service, that’s what I do (which was a convenient $200 fucking dollars) and then I sign up for AT&T and get my new IPhone, which was $200 fucking dollars. And by the time you add in tax and a pink case, and rhinestones for the décor of the case, and $25 bucks in new apps…well, you get the point. And that point being; I still need a new laptop.

My father is going to read this and shit a brick. I’m sorry Dad. You can wipe with some of my money. That’s what I seem to do with it.

Currently Chasing: Reliable Directions

So I drove to North Carolina to pick up my daughter this weekend. I wasn’t alone though. A huge bug committed suicide on my windshield about a half hour into the trip. My wipers were not strong enough to remove the body, so he rode with me the duration of the trip. He wasn’t alone out there for long. By trip end hundreds of bloody carcasses lined the glass.

And why wouldn’t they want to throw themselves into oncoming traffic? Think about it. Even your briefest appearance in any well lit area becomes a life threatening encounter. Humans name the most annoying of their kind after you. All the girl bugs just want to be friends or are fucking your friends, because face it, you all look alike. There really aren’t a lot of options when you’re a bug.

Anyway, bugs weren’t my only problem with this trip. The other problem was my damn wack-ass GPS! I swear - if cars are females then GPS’s are dudes! How do I know this? Because most cars are reliable, and most GPS’s are damn liars! They may have the voice of a female, but that is just another part of the lie! They act like angels and saviors, but they are really the Devil!



Now granted, I didn’t decide to leave for the trip until 9 p.m., which I know is a little late to embark on a 5-6 hour trip, but I had to squeeze every last second out of my two weeks of freedom. So that included making last minute plans to attend a Charm City Roller Girls event.

These girls are hell on wheels. They have cools names like Judy Boom and Esy Ex. They wear tight clothes and skate round and round knocking chicks right the hell out. Why not me!? I want a cool name like Scary Terri or Brittany Smears. I want to skate around in multi-colored, Punky Brewster inspired garb. I want to knock out a roller skank or two! However, I could probably live without the revenge punch to the gut. And this really isn’t a good year for tight clothes. And I prefer flip flops to skates. So basically I don’t want to be a roller girl, I just want to be referred to by a bad-ass name.

So anyway, I leave the event at 9, plug the ending address into my GPS and am shocked at the results. It tells me I will arrive at a convenient 6:30 a.m! What the fucking fuck?! I’m freaking out, but figure it will recalculate the time once I actually get on the highway. So my trip begins, as does my conversation with my GPS, which goes something like this:

GPS: Make a right turn at Lincoln Street.
Me: Yes sir, I am now making a right turn.
GPS: Updating Route.
Me: What the fuck do you mean? You told me to make a right and I made a right.
GPS: Make a U-Turn in .2 miles.
Me: I can’t. There is a no U-Turn sign there.
GPS: Updating Route.
Me: Well hurry the fuck up because there is a fork in the road.
GPS: Turn slight left .4 miles ago.
Me: FUCK YOU.

So there you go. It took me 45 minutes to get out of Baltimore and find the 295. Then it told me to take the 395 for 10 miles and merge onto the 495. I was waiting for it to tell me to take exit 666 then start spinning and spewing green junk and then ultimately explode like an Austin Powers HoBot!

So I call my daughter’s aunt and she tells me to just take the 95 to the 85 to the 40 and I’m there. I went ahead and left the GPS on of course, because really it was the only conversation I had going for me. Of course he only wanted to talk about himself and his immediate plans for the future, and the directions his life is taking. He paid no mind to my attempts to break out of his seemingly complicated, but actually simple, useless and annoyingly bright box!

I wanted to throw the damn GPS out the window, but despite my self-proclaimed idependence, I am even less confident in my abilities to find my way without a man. I mean GPS.

Needless to say, be the time I arrived to N.C., me and my GPS had broken up. But we got back together 30 minutes later when I needed help finding a Dennys.

Currently Chasing: A Superhero Costume

My super power? Having men in my past marry the very next girl they date after me! It is a power I could do without. It has happened numerous times in the past 10 years, and I’m about done with it.

Last night I got yet another invite to a wedding between an ex-boyfriend and the newest love of his life. It’s awesome, it’s romantic, it’s endearing, and it’s making me want to throw up my egg burrito.

The first time it happened, I was dating the guy for about a year. He was great. Very funny and loving. We got along very well and he was crazy about my daughter. But he got kicked out of the Marine Corps for some reason, and it all seemed shady so my friends assured me I should dump his behind. So I did. He ended up very successful, working in DC, still funny and loving, and oh yeah….married to the next girl he dated.

The next guy didn’t even have any shady circumstance surrounding him. We got along great and again, things seemed to be progressing nicely. We went on vacation but I really wasn’t feeling it. We broke up. Six months later he stopped by my office to show me the ring. The ring he had bought for someone else. The $10,000 ring that he made sure to add “could have been mine.”

The man I spent years and years chasing in San Diego has basically ended up in a committed, semi-monogamous relationship with the next girl he dated after me, and eventually they may graduate into marriage. However, for him, committed and semi-monogamous is maybe as close to marriage as he’ll get. So there you go.

The man I dated during initial training in the Navy?…married to the next girl he dated.
The man I spent months wooing years and years ago?…married to the next girl who wooed him.
The man I loved in Italy, married to the girl he met at home during his two weeks of leave.
The man I loved in Diego Garcia. Already married. But that’s beside the point.

If you want to get married, and you have a particular man in mind…send him my way. I’ll date him for a few months and send him right back, on bended knee with ring in hand. Complete with manners and amazing foot rubbing skills. Just call me Super Rejected.

Up, Up and away!

Life as easy as a 'click'

I'm going to workout at some point or at least that is what I tell myself. I graduated my very last class yesterday. I wanted to cry. I tried to cry. I felt like Cameron Diaz in that new film, 'The Holiday." It seems like lately a story or a movie can make me cry rivers, but I cannot find those same emotions for actual situations in my life. I guess right now, I'm no longer an instructor at the Defense Information School. I will return in January as a student. I will attend the public affairs officers qualification course, graduate in March and report to my ship in Norfolk shortly after that.Bitter/sweet. I'm eager to move on. But it is going to suck not having an audience of people required to listen to my stupid stories every single day! I went to see a therapist and it was all fine while she was focused on me, but at some point she started focusing on my daughter and I got upset. And she said, are you upset at what I'm saying to you, or you upset that I have taken the focus off of you?Wow, at that point I could stop paying her . She figured out my entire life with one sentence. My profile picture is me in a sombrero flashing a SUFI, I guess you could say I like attention. lol. But then again, don't most people? If over half of the photos in your profile are taken by you, then doesn't that mean you are pretty much the center of your own world?Someone told me self portraits are for the arrogant. They said, "Only the arrogant and egotistical could enjoy looking at themselves over and over again."I guess in a way, I see their point. I mean, why would you need to put pictures of yourself up. So in order to disguise these 'self portraits' we place other people in the photo strategically. (and by the way, I know my spelling is all over the place.) By placing in these other people, we convince ourselves it is a friendship photo or a family photo. But let's be honest. You only use the photos that look best of YOU. You could give a shit what they look like in the photo. Because at the end of the day, when someone sees that picture, it is YOU, you want them to see. And then the family.I think that is why we love digital cameras and we take 20 or 30 photos of the same thing. Because there is bound to be a photo that all of you love. We recently encountered this at the holiday party. We went to the back to take a photo.It was several friends and me. The photographer shot the photo, we went to look at it. We all said, nope. He took another one. A few of us were like, yes, this is a great photo. While a few others of us were like, no "I don't like the way I look." So we took another. This time most were happy, but I was like, "Yeah, I guess we can go with this one even though I look like a dime store ho-bag." So we decided to take another one. The next one I loved. So of course I'm like, yep, this is the one. My friend and quest weren't crazy about it, but we ended up getting it. At the end of the day it's not about how good your boyfriend looks in real life. It's about how well he photographs. We are all looking for the family photo guy. This day in age we are less likely to bring our boyfriends home to meet our parents and friends. We are more likely to send a photo. So the first impression they get of you as a couple is going to come through a photograph. So we end up placing a lot of stress on the camera man. We want that perfect photo. I've noticed recently that people have stopped sending me photos of them. instead I get photos of their children. And I've started doing that. It is a lot easier for someone to forgive a child for not smiling perfectly or for being a few pounds heavy. We know no one is going to give us an inch. We will be judged by our friends and family every time they see that photo. Geez, we are all a real bunch of assholes!I found a guy who looks cute in photos. I'll snap a couple of pictures of us together. Family photo guy? We'll find out. If he doesn't photograph well, I'll change my profile back to single and keep checking self shot profile pictures. lol If only everything in life were as easy as a 'click.'Putting the new back in New Year

Happy Birthday Jeezus

Last night was the work Christmas party.
Or as not to offend anyone, the holiday party. Upon arrival I had a drink. And another. There is one thing about alcohol that I love. It makes my jokes super funny.
And the cool thing is, everyone can hear every single joke I make because for some reason I seem to talk super loud. My friend Mike looked Amazing. I said, damn Mike, you look good. He said, it's thanks to his wife. So I said, wow, these "wives" as people call them, seem to be pretty damn cool. Where can I get myself one of those. He said Columbia.
My other friend Mike was there with his girlfriend. Although everyone thinks she is his wife. Not because he has ever said he is married, and not because either one of them wear a ring (because they don't) but just because this day in age everyone is trying to get away from everyone else, so the idea of two people living together just because they want to, even though they have a choice not to, just doesn't make any sense. So all night people kept introducing them as Mike and his wife. So finally, I point out the fact that they are not married.
I tell them about a guy friend of mine who always wore a wedding ring so everyone would assume he was married. Even though he wasn't. He would even refer to his girlfriend as his wife. He was the first man I had ever met who pretended he WAS married. Most of the time when you are out with a couple, (and especially if the woman is wearing a diamond or any type of fancy ring on her finger) you assume they are married. So when someone asks, oh, you are married? Mr. Boyfriend is sure to jump in with, "um, nope, she bought that ring herself. She wears it on that finger to make me crazy. She's a cockblocker. I was going to break up with her tonight actually. Are you free? Seriously, I'm basically super single." (The cool part is, his girlfriend with the ring is usually like a hundred weeks pregnant. So she feels super hero stupid.)
But nope, usually no one is breaking down doors to announce they are married, specially when they're not.I told Mike he may as well just marry his girl. I said, "don't break up. Don't fucking do it. there's nothing else out there. No greener grass. Seriously, I’m currently just looking for someone who doesn't molest kids. It's gotten that bad." Mike assured me he does not molest kids. Hence, he'd make an awesome husband.
It was at that point that my friends suggested I stop speaking to people. I came out of the bathroom and saw a couple drinks at the bar. I said, mmm, those look tasty, what's in that? The deputy commandant said, "Pepsi." I said, oh! I guess I'll take a Pepsi ... Plus! He asked me if I had one of the pocket breathalyzer tests they were handing out at the party. (Where were my friends for that exchange?)I went back inside and it was time to eat. When I got to the line there were so many plates. They were stacked to the Heavens. I said to the guy next to me. Look at all the plates. There is one for everyone. Again ... can I get some friends? I got salad and accidentally allowed it to touch the guy in front of me. He had a nice dip of ceaser dressing on his sleeve. I tried to wipe it off without him noticing. He noticed. I guess I was trying to wipe if off with another part of his jacket.
I got some stuffing, although I had to cut it with a knife. Don't even ask, 'cause I can't answer. It was good though. I stuck the table decorations in my hair at the exact moment the Commandant came up to introduce me to his wife. (What friends?)I did the chicken noodle soup dance. With a soda on the side. I threw up in my mouth. I had to eat a piece of cake to get rid of the taste. I washed the cake down with Madori. I took out my pocket breathalyzer. If it turns blue, it means you are over the legal limit.At some point we all played musical chairs. It's fun. You send up a rep from your table. They announce an item each rep needs to get and the rep runs out to get it. One chair is taken away while they're gone. The point is to get back to a chair. Our rep made it into the top 3. They announced to the reps they needed to find something blue. I threw my breathalizer.It was as Blue as could be.