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 (still) chasing - A date with Dane. (the video)

I guess there is no more annonimity going on here.

Currently Chasing: MY STUDENTS!

I have a new job. It’s wonderful in all the ways you would expect. My own office, walls for decorating, computer with internet, phone with outside access and a fax machine. I don’t yet have a printer, but that’s another story. I have files and folders and binders…oh my. All the makings of a real big-girl office and a real big-girl job.

I even have a rolodex full of numbers and important names and business cards. AND…I even had business cards made up for myself. It’s kind of a big deal for me. A business card that will end up in someone’s rolodex under “don’t lose this card cause they cost me $50 bucks to make.”

But guess what I see when I look around? My old job. That is because I’ve brought most of it with me. The important parts anyway….The pictures of my students and the end of class gifts they adorned me with. And every single one of them has an amazing back story.

So here we go. Story time.

There once was a class: BPAS-W 020-05. They gave me this:

You see the part where it says cups of fluff? Well that is because I told them once during a lesson about writing news, that I don’t want a bunch of flowery words. This is news people. I want the facts. I want the who, what,when, where, why, how. I don’t care about…cups of fluff. And from then on, whenever I felt like they were feeding me a line a bullshit, I would say, hmmm, that’s a cup of fluff. And so they each became my cups of fluff. My lovely students. All full of life and wonder and potential. And bullshit.

Notice they have nicknames. Some of those I made up, some of those I didn’t. I made up P.K. because that particular student was a peace keeper. Always quick to say something nice. I made up Deaf Jeff, because my student couldn’t hear out of his left ear so he sat to the left of the class and listened up with his right ear. Speed bump was mine. That was the student who got drunk, passed out in the field and was run over by some other students who drove their car through the field so they could listen to music. Can you imagine? But he was fine. Discovery channel did a whole thing on him and his injuries. He recovered just in time to get kicked out of the Navy for something else not related to his injuries. The questioner…well, obvious right.  A lot of questions. I’ve had a few of these over the years..you know who you are. And the rock! I love this girl. I didn’t think she liked me at first. I would tell amazingly funny jokes and…she wouldn’t laugh! What the hell! So finally I gave her a rock. On one side it said funny, and on the other side it said, not funny. I told her to use that … it would allow her to continue to show no emotion, while still validating my skills as a comedian…er, I mean educator. She used the rock. I didn’t always like what the rock had to say. But this student is still a great friend to this day.

Recently I received a package. It was a rock from Afghanistan. It said funny and not funny, and then both were written in Pashtu…the language in Afghanistan. It’s on display in my living room. Love it.

I would also break the ice with an “Everybody Dance” reference. If you’ve never seen a rejected cartoon, I suggest looking up the one about the cloud that bleeds from the anus. It’s educational. But not really appropriate … EVER. *I've decided to add the video*

Then there is this plaque. I don’t know what class this was, but I know I was in charge of section one because the plaque tells me so. It’s burned. Cool right?

I love it because they burned a SUFI into the wood. I love Dane Cook. But more than that, I pretty much had a delusional love affair with him, and no class was subjected to it more than this class. Notice that again, everyone has nicknames. A few of those they gave to themselves. But A squared…that was all me. Mostly because that particular student had a little problem with drinking. So the first A was for alcoholic. Although, I don’t think he knew that. And then there was Baum G. That was mine also…although people still call him that. That dudes name was redic. And I wasn’t going to pretend to be able to pronounce it for 60 training days. Ricci was mine also. Mostly because that student reminded me of Wednesday from the Adams Family…and in the movie that part was played by…Christina Ricci. I remember Ricci being asked to the Marine Corps ball by A squared and she bought a dress and everything and then he gave her ticket to someone else. Maybe that is where the other A came from? Not sure. Asshole? Not sure. DJ Dub was mine also, although I can’t remember why. Milly and Gilly, all mine. The Oklahoma thing? Who the heck knows. Def not mine.

You see the line from the movie brokeback mountain? “I wish I knew how to quit you?”  Just classic.

Notice there is also a typo! On the burned Plaque! Also Classic. I wouldn't change a thing.

Then there is this from BPASC 030-10:

Yes, that is a gold record! The title of the record is She’s amazing. Every single day I would come to class the students would give me a standing ovation. Imagine how that feels. At first I was annoyed…but that didn’t last very long! Pretty soon I expected it, and when I would walk into class without them noticing and I wouldn’t get the applause…well, let’s just say grading was harder on them that day. I’m kidding. Kinda. But in the midst of the claps and hoopla, one student would yell out, SHE’S AMAZING. Another student would throw out a much appreciated, ‘I love her hair!’ It was all really much ado about …. SOMETHING! Fun times with that class. Not too many nicknames. Although Harvard comes to mind for one of them. And then there was the Asian raised by Caucasians. So we called him the Caucasian Asian.  And then there was the Russian. And we had a guy who picked his nose a lot, but he didn’t make it to graduation.

Then there is the class that got me this:

We use that word SAPP whenever someone says something they shouldn’t say. Bad words, off color jokes, brand names…SAPP, SAPP, SAPP. As you can imagine the students in this class were a bunch of SAPP Bombs! So when they first presented me with this, I thought wow, how did you find a Jersey from a team in California (where I’m from) with the word SAPP on it!

They informed me that it was an actual person and he just happened to play for the Raiders. Way less cool. Kidding. Kinda. I had lot of fun with this class. For our class photo I sat on a ‘thrown’ and they all stood around me looking up at me adoringly. Do you think I abuse my power?

So many other things over the years. Dane cook shirts, a paddle signed by my class. The paddle represented the story I told them about a principle at my daughter’s school who demonstrated to her and I the correct way to paddle a child before turning the paddle over to me and telling me to paddle her. It was a very awkward and emotionally brutal time, and my students of course decided to exploit it for all it was worth. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Flowers, cards, notes, and well wishes. I miss my students. A couple of them are back as instructors. I’m so proud. I follow them on facebook. LIKE A STALKER. Kidding….Kinda.

They are having babies, getting married, getting out of the military and even coming out of the closet. They are like hundreds of little reality shows that I can’t stop watching. And I’m thankful for every single one. Except that nose picker. Kidding. Kinda.

Currently Chasing: A cure for CRAZY

So I’ve been wondering something. How come no matter what man I ask in my life, be it my brother, my co-workers or my male friends I will always get the same answer to this question:

Why did the two of you break up?

And the answer will always be:

Because that bitch went crazy.

I’m scratching my head over this.

I’ve had a man ask me for my underwear at the end of a date. A FIRST DATE!

“Hey, you know what would be awesome?”

“No what?”

“If you gave me your panties.”

“Well, that could be awesome, but I use them to prevent chaffing. But thanks for asking.”

I’ve had a man ask me if he could masturbate in his car, while I was in the passenger side.

“Hey, do you mind if I wack it while you’re sitting right here?”

“Um, no, if you don’t mind if I report you to the perve services and they document you and turn you into a blue dot on some predator web site!”

Good Lord!

I’ve had a guy suck his own dick on a web cam while I pointed my camera at my bare feet.

I’ve had a guy tell me that I can’t go to his house because his ex-girlfriend is there feeding the dog that they bought together, and that sometimes she still stays the night, and that yeah, it’s usually in his bed, but he promises, they are so over!

I’ve had a guy send me a picture of his penis next to a 9mm pistol.

I’ve had a guy send me a picture of his penis with a tape measure wrapped around it.

I had a guy send me a picture of his penis next to another penis? I don’t know what was more disturbing, that there was a second penis in the picture or that I was wondering which one was his. (OR) that there was a second penis in the picture.

I’ve had a guy call my phone and sing ask me out on a first date. He literally SANG  a song into my voicemail. Something creepy about loving me and staring into my eyes. It was some creepy American-idol audition bullshit.

And after all of this, someone can dare say that the reason something didn’t work out between us is because I’M CRAZY.

Come on! I’ve had this conversation recently:

“So what happened to you and Barbara?”

“That bitch went crazy.”

“Really? It wasn’t that you cheated on her with her sister that the two of you used to visit while she was in prison?”

“No, she didn’t know about that.”

“It wasn’t that you used the bonus money she got from the military to produce your own porn movie.”

“No, she supported that.”

“So she ‘out of the blue’ went crazy on you after 19 years of marriage?”

“I told you, that bitch was crazy.”

I bet she was crazy. Because you fucking made her crazy. I mean, how do you think we get crazy? You think it’s really like that comedian says? That one day we are just sitting there all normal and then you ask us what movie we want to see and we answer by saying:

“Um, I think Green Lantern sounds like a good … holy fuck I’M CRAZY!”

We just totally snap? Um, no. We stand by while you fuck our sister that just got out of prison. We stand by while you produce your porn movie. We stand by while you ask for our underwear. We stand by while you masturbate in your truck. (but for the record, I did not stand by for that.) We stand by while you suck your own dick. We stand by while you forget to tell us you are married. We Stand By. And then finally WE TAKE A STAND. And then, you say bye.

Sing this in the tune of Crazy by Gnarls Barklay.

“Maybe I’m crazaaaaay, cause you made me crazaaaaay, I’ll make you as craaaaaazay, as you make meeeeeeeee eeeeeee!”

That’s how I feel. We are only returning the favor, not initiating the craziness. I mean really. Dudes are always just pushing the buttons. Never really accountable for their shit. I would start dating chicks, but you know, them bitches be crazy.

Currently Chasing: Visine

So I went to the Eye Gazing Party, an event where you essentially speed date, but instead of talking and getting to know each other verbally, you just look into each other's eyes for an extended period of time.

Now, some of you right off the bat were quick to judge. You said it was creepy. You said you'd die laughing. You said no one can do that and keep a straight face.

Boy were you wrong. Some of those dudes made it their job to stare. I mean really stare. And I can tell you how hard it is to stare at someone who looks just like this:

It's hard. Especially when he keeps turning his head and trying to do sign language with his out-of-control eye brows.

Every now and then they had to remind people that there was no touching allowed. If you are an "Arrested Development" fan then just imagine the jail scenes where they yell "No Touching!" Yeah, it was something like that. Although why was that even almost happening. I mean, would you want to reach out and grab this:

Not unless you want an STD on your finger.

For the most part though, it was a good time. Very interesting. 40 men and 40 women lined up and faced each other. Every other person was seated. They did this so that people weren't temped to glance over at someone else while they were supposed to be eye balling the person directly in front of them. Men kept complaining that the lights on the walls were keeping them from really being able look into the eyes of the women. Literally they were verbally telling the girls, "It's no use. I can't see your eyes." They were really taking this seriously. I guess I was too. At one point, even though you are supposed to stay totally silent, I heard a guy whisper to the man getting ready to sit across me "Watch out dude, she means business." 

I guess I did. Although most of the time I was having internal conversation:

"My feet hurt. I'm going to lean on one foot and let the other one rest, then lean on the other foot while the other one rests."

"My drink is empty."

"My straw just fell on the ground....can I pick it up without breaking the stare?"

"My fucking feet hurt."

"This guy is an axe murderer. I can totally see him in an episode of law and order."

"I want to check my phone. Would that be rude to just glance down at my phone while this dude is staring at me."

"Lazy eye."

"I'm going to cut my feet off and walk on my ankles."

Some people were easier to stare at and I had very little head conversation during those times. It was just pleasant. I mean, imagine staring at this:

Not hard to do.

Overall it wasn't an unpleasant experience. However, it's not something I'd do again. My friend did not make a love connection, but we did get our photo snapped about a dozen times by a random eye gazer who happened to bring his professional camera and SB 900 flash to the event.

That particular guy was already a bit off. Raving to island beats in between stare sessions.
Add a camera to his already crazy stare and needlesstosay, I'm sure my friend and I are on the internet photoshopped into his online family albums.

Currently Chasing: The Eye Gaze

So in my quest to be a good friend I have come up with the ultimate way to help my girl meet her Mr. Right. I decided to sign us up for an eye-gazing party. Since I'm already off the market, I'll only be participating as a way to offer support, and also as research for my book on what is wrong with men, perfectly titled, "What is wrong with men?" And also because I want to blog about the event, and tweet about it, and brag that I found parking in DC.

Eye Gazing is kind of like speed dating except instead of talking to someone for eight minutes about bullshit like what do you do and where are you from, which to be honest no one will remember by the end of the night anyway, and which most people lie about, you just stare into a strangers eyes for two minutes.

YOU STARE AT A STRANGER FOR TWO MINUTES. And sometimes you are even encouraged to hold hands. 

After the staring and hand holding, which lasts for a total of 45 minutes, you have drinks and mingle.

The idea behind this is that the eyes are the window to the soul and that by looking into someone’s eyes for two minutes you can tell if this is someone you can imagine yourself dating. 

Before the event begins there is a person who will explain to you a little bit about eye contact and body language so you can send the right signal and give off the right vibe.

My issue is not with the eye contact. As a journalist I make eye contact all the time. My eyes have a shit ton to say. And they often make a far better impression than whatever would come out of my mouth. But there are people that I don't even want to walk past, let alone hold handswith while gazing into their soul window. I mean, "I think you are amazing," could look a lot like "I want to rape you" depending on the face those eyes are attached to.

But I'm willing to give it a try for the sake of my friend. Although she has already asked if she can use the Kung Fu Panda Stare.

I told her if I'm going to endure this evening for her she better not scare off her potential husband with a panda stare or the stare of someone desperate to get married.

Your stare just asked me to marry it!

I will of course let you all know how it goes. I've been staring at myself in the mirror training my stare to say I’m not available. So far all it has been saying is I need to try botox.

Currently Chasing: The end of the accent

You ever notice that when you visit somewhere, depending on how long you stay, and how much you love where you’re visiting, you sometimes come back with an accent from that place?

Well that is happening to me. Slowly but surely, I am losing … California. I mean, not totally. I still have the classic over processed, bimboie look and the cheerleader smile, but something is missing. People from California do not have an accent. They just talk. There is nothing distinct or stand-outish about California speak.

There was a moment back in the 80’s when people from Cali would overuse the word “like,” but now the world had adopted that bad habit so we can stop claiming it as a staple of our state. And don’t even get me started on the OH MY GOD phenomenon. It’s become so popular that it’s now an acronym. And it’s widely used and easily translated no matter where you’re from. And we’ve definitely come a long way since gagging each other with spoons.

But in the past few weeks I’ve been asked a hand full of times, “Where are you from?”

This is not a question I am accustomed to fielding. Most people look at me, always happy, always smiling, always fake blonde, and naturally assume I am high. Or from California. But all of a sudden I’m speaking with an accent and it is throwing everyone off.

You see, a good friend of mine, and a handful of my cousins live in Buffalo. Since coming back from Afghanistan, I’ve gone to visit there three or four times. The ticket is cheap and the company is great. But something happens to my voice box when I’m there. And when I return, I sound like a Buffalonian. And sometimes even a God Damn Canadian.  I haven’t pronounced the word car right in months.

I’ve always wanted an accent. Maybe something British or Irish. I could even get down with a Massachusetts or New York city accent. Something hard core. Something unmistakable.  Something that instantly turns me into a bad ass. What I’m not down with is just occasionally pronouncing random words with an accent making people wonder where the fuck I’m from. Like, wow, what the fuck is that you’re speaking? I can’t tell where the hell you’re from? Freak.

I love my Buffalo family, and I love the way they talk, but mostly because they own it. I can’t own the accent because it’s not mine. I feel like an imposter. Like Madonna. Visiting London does not make you a Brit. Good gawd wacky legwarmer lady.

I know what you all are thinking. I’m being way too damn dramatic about this accent thing. But what do you expect. I’M FROM CALIFORNIA.

Currently Chasing: A Zoom Lens

I'm laying here with my shirt slightly lifted and I'm staring at my belly. Why can't it be this flat when I stand up? Just sink into my back the way it kind of does when I'm in the horizontal position. Missionary is really the only position I look good in. I would never make a porn - for several obvious reasons, but also because I wouldn't want anyone seeing what I even hide from myself. And it really isn't sexy when girls half way through porn sex ask ... do I look fat in this swing? yeah...and out of it too.
I recently had someone ask me to 'make a video.' A video of what? A bag floating in the breeze? A red balloon flying all over town? You've got to be kidding me if you think I'm making a video of me doing anything! I don't even want a video of me doing something productive and good for the earth, let alone me doing something destructive and girthy! I mean good lord, a photo is one thing. I can find a good position, take a hundred and fifty digital shots, and then pick the best one and act like it was the first and only one I needed to take- like I just snapped that and viola, it's fucking playboy home-photo ready. But a video. PUKEDY PUKE PUKE.
Uh, no.
Don't worry Dad, I'm not going to do it. My father reads this blog. Fucking great. I'm sure he loves when I cover topics like this. This and the one about what come tastes like right Dad? Yeah, not his all time favorites, I can assure you.
And here is another thing, and it's possible I've mentioned this before...but men who send photos. There needs to be rules. I've gotten my share of provocative photos...and I've noticed something. Men who send me pictures of their ass, no matter how nice it is, just seem ... curious. If you know what I mean. I don't really need to see your ass. Feeling it is one thing...but just looking at it. I'm not a fan. I once had a boyfriend who had lost a lot of weight...and his whole body recovered and formed quite nicely...but not his ass. And I didn't care. Until one day when he got up to go to the bathroom and he wasn't wearing boxers and then bam, there is was....like a ass that had given birth to a couple of babies and was never going to be the same. And that image will never leave my mind. So save the ass shots...they are hard to get anyway I imagine. Unless you have help taking them..and again, curious.
Next...do not pose with anything. Do not pose with your weapon, do not pose with your arm making a muscle, do not pose with a tape measure (yes, I've seen it, and yes, it's obnoxious). In fact, just don't pose. It didn't seem natural when Fabio was doing it, and it sure doesn't seem natural when your chewbacca chest is doing it.
If you have to take a picture of your member, please make sure it's hard. And just take a picture of it. Not of you holding it with the camera over your head looking down so I can see your face. What kind of look are you going to be giving? Women have a way of always looking pretty, and always making seductive looks seem easy to do...but men, they just always seem to look like they are shitting. And make sure when you snap that photo that you fill the frame. I don't want to see what's on TV in the background, and i especially don't want to be asking you whose bra that was on the floor!!
Another rule: Don't send the same pictures to everyone. I once had a boyfriend send me a picture he had 'just taken' of himself...only it was about 9 at night, and I could see out the window that it was daylight when that photo was taken. So who was it actually for? Not exactly romantic. Not that a texted picture of a cock is romantic anyway, but I'm just saying.
Last but not least...do not do a 'photo shoot.' I mean, one picture of you at your best is good. I don't need a series of three emails with nine attachments each where you are auditioning for a job at Gay Way Magazine. Leaning here, laying there, all fours, leg propped. shorts half way down, shorts all the way down. boner pushing shorts up. head slightly exposed. You get the point.
Please feel free to take pictures of your chest..I love a good chest. And Abs...well, that goes without saying. and I don't even mind mirror photos where you kind of just give me the entire package without using any kind of dumb ass prop. If you want, I'll do the women of the world a favor and screen your naked nasties before you sext them out. That way I can warn you before you either end up in the friend zone, or as a blue preditor dot on some website.

Currently Chasing: A Music Teacher

I love Airports. I’ve actually met quite a few people while waiting for a plane. A few of them are even Facebook friends. On my way to boot camp in 1994 I met a 14-year-old boy who had never met anyone in the military before. I made him a pen pal we wrote back and forth for months…until his mother sent me a letter saying that as nice as it was that I was giving her son something to do, she feared he was writing to me like a girlfriend…and well, yeah … She didn’t think it was appropriate. However, I was only 17 at the time…so even though I absolutely was not thinking of him in that way, I think we can definitely say I was a cougar before his mom thought it was cool.

I once met a girl on her way to meet a man she had only ever talked to online. We spent hours waiting for the plane and exchanging numbers so she could give me a play by play of how it went. It went horrible of course…so that online relationship ended … but our airport friendship didn’t.

I once exchanged glances with a guy while waiting for my group to board. We sat in the same row but on opposite sides of the aisle. We spent the flight passing letters back and forth. By the time the six hour flight landed we had plans for dinner and a movie. I guess strangers don’t scare me.

Now, airport chats aren’t for everyone … for example. I traveled with a co-worker recently and he told me a story about his last airport acquaintance. He was waiting for his flight and there was an elderly woman next to him. They chatted for about 15 minutes. She asked him to watch her bag while she went to the restroom. (Which why do they even call it a restroom? Are there people in there just resting?) Anyway, he agreed to watch her bag. He saw her walk to the restroom and then he saw her walk out. But she didn’t come back to get her bag. He got nervous. He went up the counter and told the lady that although he knows he wasn’t supposed to, he had agreed to watch this woman’s bag and that she hadn’t come back for it. The woman told him she would call security.

My friend immediately began to clear the area, letting people know that there was an unattended bag and that they were unsure of the contents. People began to back away and panic. My friend hid behind a pillar while security approached the bag and began going through it. All of a sudden from around the corner comes this little ol’ lady with two ice cream cones. She had just went to get herself and ‘the nice man watching her bag’ an ice cream cone. Imagine her shock as all of her things were spread about. I had visions on police tackling her and smashing her treats into her eyes. Geezus. I can pretty much bet that lady and my friend are not still keeping in touch!

So on my way back to Mississippi from San Diego I happened to be in the wrong seat. This guy approaches and says, I think this is my seat. I say something smart ass like, um, well this is my seat too, but I’ll move. Of course it wasn’t my seat, mine was the one next to it. But I never pass up an opportunity to be an asshole.

So we chat the entire flight! We talk about where he’s from, where I’m from, what he does, what I do. He’s a music teacher. And also the Choir Director! So we chatted about that and the show Glee and how he loves it and hates it because it gets more people interested in choir, but then during the first practice, when they see that people don’t just burst into song in full costume with a pre choreographed dance routine, they end up quitting.

So anyway, I gave him my blog card and said if he’s bored he could check out the site. He said he definitely would…and he said he may even leave a comment. Although maybe after reading even one or two of these massacres I call daily events he may change his mind, but I hope not.

After the flight I introduced the teacher to my paranoid friend who was traveling with me. My friend scorned me for talking to a stranger. It’s not like I watched his bag or anything. Although I should have asked him if he wanted to be pen pals. He’s a high school teacher, not student…so hopefully his mother won’t have a problem with me giving him something to do.

Currently Chasing: Honesty. (Yours, not mine.)

Mixed messages. They are all around us. In life we are told that opposites attract, but then are told that birds of a feather flock together. Which is it? We are told that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but are also taught that once out of sight, you’re out of mind. Real men don’t cry, but misery loves company. If three is a crowd, then why is more merrier? And if you only want to be friends, then how come you are asking me to sleep with you?

Will the clearest message please stand up, please stand up, please stand up? Hi my name is the REAL fuckin’ SHADY.

Now don’t get me wrong. I send mixed messages as well. It’s not because I mean to, but more because I’m too friendly not to. How do you say, get the fuck away from me, while still being friendly? You can’t. So it comes out kind of mixed like … of course I want to join your fantasy football league. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, I know dick about sports so why not! (Brett Favre is still playing for the Kansas City Spurs right?) And while we're at it, sure, I'd love to go to lunch. Mixed message indeed.

I’ve noticed mixed messages in other areas of my life as well. I tell myself that I’m looking for a relationship, but I sabotage every good thing that comes within 50 feet of me. If you are hardworking, average looking, smart, independent and super-duper fucking nice to me. Chances are you’ve hit on me, and I’ve told you to fuck off.

If you are not so hard working, super duper good looking, dumb, dependent, and super fucking mean to my ass … well, I’m still waiting for you to ask me to marry you. Do you see the mixed message here? What the fuck am I really looking for? I say I want a nice guy, but I seem to be an asshole-aholic! Addicted to dillholes! And nachos.

The point is, when does everyone just get real with everyone. When do we finally just say exactly what we mean? Does that point ever arrive? We are all too busy hoping no one analyzes our failure to make a decision. We are all hoping no one picks up on the true meaning of our mixed message. And we are all kind of hoping no one checks our fucking phones. In the end, we are all just hoping. And hopeless.

I, for one, am taking a stand (while I sit here) that I will say what I mean (when it suits me) and mean what I say (to myself and under my breath) and will give people a chance (when they are extremely good looking) and will always be clear about what I want (unless pretending I don’t want it gets it to me faster.)

Currently Chasing: Skinny Bitchdom

I bought a book today. Skinny Bitch. And wouldn’t you know, I have to stop doing everything. In fact, even this blog may be against the rules.

Let me put it to you this way. I watched Saw III yesterday. If you’ve never seen this movie, there is a part where a woman basically opens a mans head and removes part of his skull. Reading portions of this book were even more graphic. Believe it or not, there were a couple things I just had to skip totally for fear I may throw up. (Another weight loss method perhaps.)

However, it did its job. After reading this book I have no cravings. None. They disected every single thing I put in my mouth. Sugar. Sugar substitute. Milk. Cheese. Chicken. Red Meat. Flour. Juice. Everything.

They showed me how it’s made, what’s in it, who died for it, how they died, the process in which they lived before they died. And for what? So I can be a Fat Friend.

Chapters in this book range from topics like ’pooping’ to ’stop being a pussy.’ The ladies who wrote the book are indeed ’Skinny Bitches.’ And the advice they give in the book will no doubt, turn you into a skinny bitch as well. And I’m willing to give it a try.

No dairy. No meat. No sugar. No diet soda. Nothing but fruit for breakfast. And lots and lots of shitting. Think about it. How much food are you putting into your body...and how much is coming out? The rest is just sitting inside your body decomposing and marinating in acid and other chemicals.

If I feel hungry, all I have to do is read a page or two from the chapter labeled ’you are what you eat’ and trust me, I will not be hungry anymore. I think the part about transporting the animals through the snow via truck with no protection, which sometimes causes them to actually become frozen to the vehicle, and then upon taking them out of the truck, they sometimes end up ripping them from their legs, will be enough to keep me from the double quarter pounder with cheese.

At least for that moment.

They say to give the process 30 days.... 30 days of eating healthy. No meat, no dairy, no sugar, no substitutes, no diet soda....just organic. Wheat, fruit, nuts, veggies, beans, soy, tofu and stuff like that. Can I do it?

They also say to get off your ass and go to the gym. But not forever. Just 20 minutes, five days a week. I think I’m going to try it. What do I have to lose? I should consider myself blessed actually....

I don’t really like cheese, and I don’t smoke or drink a lot and I hate coffee. The book requires ending all of those addictions. No more coffee! No more cigs! No more beer! No more cheese! None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. So already I’m at least a toned down twat, on my way to skinny bitchdom. And of course the bitch authors live in LA! Fucking Skinny Bitches.

I bet they are sitting on their fat wallets sucking down a diseased steak, laughing while the rest of us give up all that is right with the world.

Currently chasing: A husband

So I recently sent my best guy friend sprinting across the parking lot at the local Panera with my number in tow. I had convinced him to run out and give it to a guy I had made eye contact with moments earlier. How did I convince him you ask? I looked him right in the eyes and said, “That man is my future husband! Do not let him get away.” With that, he grabbed the number, which was written on the back of my Panera receipt with the disclaimer, ‘please do not use the information on the front of this receipt to steal my identity,’ and bolted out the door. He came back in a huff and I was satisfied that I would be getting a phone call. I didn’t. The last time I gave my number out, I was at the gym. Some guy was staring harder than a mall cop in the jewelry aisle. He wanted me. So I figured I’d make the first move. So I gave him my number. The next time I saw him at the gym he pointed to his crotch. Or at least that’s what I thought he was pointing to. Turns out he was pointing to the drawstring on his pants...And at the end of the string was his wedding ring. Dude, no one wants to see that shit, keep it in your pants…pocket! Don’t stare at me and expect me to hump you near the squat machine, but then try to give me the hint later by flashing your ring. Wear the fucking thing! Men are kings of mixed messages. I’ve recently been talking to this guy. Well, texting this guy. He finally tells me he wants to make things official between us. He’s tired of playing the field and he would be lucky to have a girl like me to call his own. Fine. Awesome. I’m all for it. So I write him and say, ok…game on. The next text he sends says, “Hey, my ex keeps calling…I have to fly to California this weekend and get the rest of my stuff. Let me take care of that before we get serious. I just need a bit of time.” What the hell is going on? Literally all of this text conversation took place in five minutes. There is a co-worker who consistently flirts with me. But then tells me he’s going home early to hang with his lady friend. I have a lady friend too…and I call her Mom. Mixed messages! Who uses the term lady friend? So the chase continues for someone slightly above average looking, who is smart and funny and not married…someone who is romantic yet sporty, but not wishy/washy. Someone who is emotionally available, but only to me. I guess that’s the point. I won’t ever catch this guy until he’s chasing me.

The Three Year Itch

(Original Post: October 17, 2006 - Tuesday)

It's happening. That itch. The twitch. The gripe of a bitch unhappy with her sitch. Let me pitch it to you this way, cause that way is their way, and there's no way I can be happy in that niche.
The Navy has taught me, molded me, scolded me, bought me out. Told me that happy only lasts three years, then fears of confinement set in, and you know it's time my friend, to move on. We all know the feeling. Too well. It dwells. Sells your mind to the first bidder, who will fix and flip. Sip wine while they rip out your insides, and put in stainless steal appliances and stone floors. You'll sell for more that way. You can't stay in one place too long, the same ol' song and dance doesn't stand a chance. We've got to bob and weave, send and receive, and eventually leave. We achieve the goal we set for our soul and then call the detailer when we are in our window. A window you can't see through, and won't ever open. Hoping for air or simple solution. But it will never bring resolution. And you will complain around every bend, but you will sign those papers and volunteer again. Cause it's dependable and steady. The only thing in your life that is. This biz isn't always about peace, but honor pays the current lease. And I know I'll shed those world-weight tears, as I watch my daughter wave from all those piers, as I sail off to places I have no business being, and see things I'd be better off not seeing. Whatever the case, I'm on my way to a ship to take a dip in the Atlantic for a bit. Give me three years to fix, then I'll flip. I can see new wooden floors from here. The Navy loves me. This I know. It's a creed and a code that tell me so. Little ones to it belong. Alone we are weak ... and together, just weak in a group. Hello Virginia. Goodbye to my Land of Mary. I'm weary, oh so very, ready to change my course and keep it steady. For three years, at most. Then return to shore and retire there. With my daughter there, and a closet full of clothes I'm allowed to wear.

A few of my favorite things, and some things I hate

(Original Post: September 23, 2006 - Saturday)

I woke up this morning and thought I was late for work. I hate when that happens. However, I love the moment you realize it's a weekend.I hate when you come home and your roommate gets mad at you because you are using her meat scissors to open a package. To my defense, I didn't at the time know what meat scissors were exactly. I thought it was just a cutting device stationed in the kitchen for convenience. However, once I realized they really are for cutting meat, I said I was sorry. And now I only use them to cut paper...not boxes. And why are they called scissors. Is there two of them? Is each blade a scissor. If I broke half of the device, would I then say, hey, pass me the scissor? I love when it's hot out because I get to wear sandals, but I'm always complaining about the heat. Until it gets cold, then I'm pissed because sweaters make me look fat.I hate that last night the neon sign at Taco Bell said 'Drive Thru Open' but when I went through it was closed. I hate when loved ones get mad at me for testing their loyalty. If I don't test, how do I know? How come students don't get mad when you test them? What if they said, "Hey, why do you continue to quiz and test? Don't you trust that I know the information? I can't believe you don't believe in me. We're over."Paris Hilton tests her friends. She picks out two dresses. One that looks horrible on her and one that looks amazing. She asks the girl which one she should wear. If the girl picks the ugly one, Paris ends the friendship.I should start doing that. Like, Hey, should I order the plain chicken with a side salad or should I get the cheesy chili curly fries with onions and bacon covered in ranch? If they give me the hundred pound answer, I eat it, and then cut them out of my life forever. Even Adam and Eve were tested. Maybe Adam should have said, God, bro, check it out. I'm gonna mess it all up down here. So stop testing me. Because you'll continue to disappoint yourself. And I like you too much to let you do that. Don't you hate those moments in a relationship where your other half gets up to use the restroom and you have a decision to make...check the phone or not. I love when you can make the decision not to check. I hate when you decide to check and the first message you see says, 'In the Ass?'That's never a good sign.

Dane Fucking Cook!

(Original Post: April 14, 2006 - Friday)

The weekend has arrived! I am driving with two friends to Boston tomorrow to see DANE! He is filming his HBO comedy special and I'm going to be there. We bought these tickets three months ago and the day has finally arrived.
I am of course going to the mall today to buy a new shirt. Why? It's not like Dane is going to see me in this new shirt, and go ... wow! Did you see that girl in the 68th row? That must have been a new shirt because she just totally caught my eye and I could barely continue my act. He will of course manage to get through it, but not without subliminally sending me a message with his eyes that says, "nice shirt. Is there a coat that goes with it? Cause I'd like to shit on it."
I also got my nails done, and my toes. I got my hair done a week ago. My toes are blue, my nails are pink, and my hair is red. I'm thinking about wearing green and just looking like a poster child for the Irish. Needless to say I'm a plethora of colors. And speaking of things that are needless to say, why the hell do we say them? Life is a mystery.
I'm reading this book about how to be a stand up comedian. It says that you should begin your act with a total obvious observation. Like, if you have a big nose, you should come out and say. People call me gonzo. I can't figure out why. Or if you have crazy hair, just come out and say, Needless to say, I hate my hair. Or something to that effect. So one of the exercises is to write out very obvious things about yourself that you can point out on stage. Something the audience can see for themselves right away. I'm single. That may work.
*That reminds me of a joke real quick. A woman is in the checkout line buying a carton of eggs, milk, a loaf of bread and yogurt. The man behind her says, you must be single. The woman replies, yes, how did you know? He says, because you're fucking ugly. (it gets funnier every time.)
Now back to the obvious observations. I could say, I know you are wondering if they are real. No, they are fake. But I paid good money for them and I can polish them a different color every day if I want. (They would be thinking I was talking about my chest, which would be a little funny seeing as though that is probably the last thing someone would notice about me.) Ok, if I have to explain it in a blog it probably isn't that funny.
Regardless, I'm enjoying the book. It is putting me in touch with things that I hate. Like seafood and cheese. And putting me in touch with things I worry about, like dying in a dream. And things I've been taught to be afraid of, like all the articles of the UCMJ.
I guess what I'm trying to say is comedy is therapy. And this is the fourth time in the past year and a half that I've gone to see Dane. He is the only cure for my subscriptions.

Stay off the pole

(Original Post: March 12, 2006 - Sunday)

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

Is this how it goes?

(Original Post: March 10, 2006 - Friday)

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

I'm getting married

(Original Post: January 28, 2006 - Saturday)

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

Do blondes have more fun?

(Original Post: January 26, 2006 - Thursday)

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

You know it's that time

(Original Post: December 3, 2005 - Saturday)

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