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: Body Armor

Yesterday I went on a convoy. I put on 80 pounds of gear, loaded my weapon and rode in the back of a huge tactical vehicle known as an MRAP. It was uncomfortable, cramped, bumpy and totally awesome. You see, I hate the process of going outside the wire, but once I’m outside that vehicle, walking around and taking pictures (while trying not to accidentally step on an IED) it’s incredible.

On the way I managed to catch glimpses out of the small dusty windows. Most of what you see is horrible. Everyone seems like they want to hurt you, even though most are just there to live like anyone else. Animal meat is hung and placed for sale. It looks dirty and diseased. People are outside at all times of the day and night, even in 20 degree weather, with just flip flops and thin clothes. I would probably stay outside as well, especially if I didn’t really have anything to go home to. We pay attention to every single bit of their nothing, waiting for something, while they barely even notice our huge military vehicles kicking up dust down their poorly constructed road. It’s crazy, they cross the street in the middle of our convoy, like we would cross the street on a deserted back road. Except that on the top of our trucks are these huge weapon systems that could take out most of the neighborhood, but they don’t bat an eye as they cross.

What is more incredible is the way the children just stand two feet away from you smiling while you hold a fully loaded M-4 at the ready. Not threatened by your weapon in the least. They say whatever English word they know, which is usually them asking for something. Everything is a question. Water? Candy? Pen? Yep, they want your pens. I saw an entire fight break out over a tube of toothpaste. They just … want. And they will settle for simply getting your attention. I take their photos and they smile and wave and stare right through you. It’s eerie and haunting and incredibly rewarding. I’m the one ‘getting’ something out of these exchanges - a renewed sense of purpose for why we are out here. And I’m getting tiny glimpses of their soul, and it’s not all bad.

I got back in the vehicle, looked through the pictures and knew that the day meant something. The 80 pounds of gear felt a little lighter, the MRAP felt a little less cramped and the bumps…well they were still a sonofabitch … especially when a girls got to pee. The one thing I will never be able to ‘get over’ is the lack of restroom facilities and the shrugitoff nature everyone seems to have about going to the bathroom in a bag and then burning it. Nope, war = holding that shit for 12 hours. But the children, well, they are a beautiful thing.

Although there was that one who pointed his cliff bar at me as if it was a weapon. My brothers used to play with fake guns that looked quite real. They would sometimes point them at me…they were never as scary as that little boy with the cliff bar.

Currently Chasing: A Boob Job

I used to be obsessed with a Tummy Tuck. I would talk about it, research it, look at before and after pictures and talk to people who had the procedure done. I wanted to know everything. I even went to a doctor and had him look me up and down and tell me what he could do for me.

But then one day while I was talking about it with a friend of mine, my daughter overheard. She said, mom, what is wrong with your stomach? How come you don’t like it? I told her there were lines on it called stretch marks and I didn’t like them. She asked me how they got there…I told her I got them from having her inside me. She thought about it for a minute and then said, so you don’t like the lines that I gave you?

The shear fact that she turned these hideous stretch marks into evidence of one of my greatest accomplishments floored me. But the look on her face was priceless. She was concerned that I wanted to ‘erase’ what she worked for nine months to give me. So I stopped thinking so much about the Tummy Tuck and eventually it was out of my mind.

The other day someone took a picture of me … and for once I wasn’t complaining that I looked fat. I wasn’t getting pissed at myself for not sucking in well enough. I wasn’t hitting delete a hundred times and cropping like a crazy person to just keep the focus on the cute face…I was actually ‘dare I say’ happy with the photo. Except for one thing.  My BOOBS!

It seems like with a little weight loss comes the reality that not all of it is weight you WANT to lose. Some of it is weight you’d like to keep … But you don’t get to pick and choose where you lose, and unfortunately my chest has suffered a loss.  

This was just a year ago! There it was, in all its GLORY -  My cleavage!

I can also blame some of it on the sports bras. It’s really all I wear out here so my poor girls are smashed often and always. There was a time when I was younger when I had healthy, huge boobs. I never locked em up. In fact, I jumped on a trampoline once for a few hours without the proper support and broke all the blood vessels in my chest. I had to wrap those puppies in ace bandages and soak them in ice. I had some crazy 20 hook bra that I had to wear just to keep those things in place.  Now I think I could jump hours without fear that the two would ever meet.

Meanwhile my roommate is running around with a full rack. Every time I turn around she is reminding me that she needs to put on two sports bras due to her voluptuous womanhood.  She’ll look at a picture of herself and say things like “Oh my God…my boobs look huge.” I’ve got news, they don’t just look huge…they’ve got a damn zip code.

So lately I’ve been thinking..what if I just ‘enhanced’ a bit? Would it be so bad? A friend of mine said … well, think about it. Once they are fake, they are just that…fake. But so are my highlights…and my lips aren’t really paradise pink…and I wasn’t born with sparkle eye shadow on my eyes. And last time I checked…nails weren’t actually made out of acrylic. And oh yeah..i’m not really this tall…It’s the shoes. So much of what we do already is … fake.

I’m not saying I want double Ds. I would be happy with single Cs. I’m only asking for what I’ve already had. And it may ‘naturally’ offset my ass a bit and cause a little more proportion…

So I’m pretty sure I want a boob job. That is unless my daughter decides to make me feel bad about changing her infant sippy cups. Come on kid, something’s gotta give.

Currently Chasing: An End to The Ex

I got a phone call the other day. I wasn’t sure of the number, so I let it go to voicemail. Turns out it was an ex boyfriend calling to find out how I was doing. I added him to my phone and quickly sent a text.

“I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer. New phone. Lost some numbers.”

He wrote back.

“No problem. Saw on facebook that you are single. True?”

And then I realized what was happening. We were getting back in touch.

There are really only two reasons you find yourself keeping in touch with an ex. Either you want to have sex with them again, or they want to have sex with you again. The simple fact is, if neither of you wants anything to do with the other, and there are no children involved…well adios. But if there are no children involved and you are still exchanging text messages, face book messages or instant messages ...there is only one explanation. Someone wants to make, yet another, bad decision.

Now, I have plenty of ex’s who I have no problem deleting from my phone and my life. (I wrote about one recently.) I say my goodbyes and I FINALLY move on. If they contact me, it’s because they hope we can have sex again. If I don’t delete them from my phone, it’s because I hope we can have sex again. It has nothing to do with just wanting to remain friends with someone who knows me well. I have cousins for that.

And once you contact me again, I may go ahead and add you back into my phone. Not because I ever plan on sleeping with you again, but mostly because now I like that I can call on you for a compliment when I’m feeling fat, lonely or (insert other self loathing word here.)

Now you are who I will call when I’ve just been dumped by so and so. And I’m not calling you because I want to sleep with you again, but because you will tell me exactly what I want and need to hear to rebuild my self esteem. And why will you tell me these glorious, incredible things? Because you want to sleep with me. Trust me, it’s most likely not going to happen.

So I'm saying there’s a chance!

Truth is I probably really don’t want much to do with you. But when you write and tell me you’re still in love, I’ll love how that makes me feel. And it will give me the strength to go out there and love someone else.

So the next time you consider contacting that ex, even if it’s just to ask how they are, ask yourself, are they going to recognize the number when it pops up on their phone. And don’t buy the new phone excuse. Truth is, if you’re important, they won’t lose you in the transition.

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: Anti-Social Media

Facebook, myspace, twitter, delicious, tweetmyface, digg and who knows how many more. Social media sites. You can contact everyone in your past and rehash every single failed relationship you've ever been in. I wish I could find my first boyfriend. I would ask him how come he lied about his mom coming right before we kissed outside of the library. That was third grade. I never got closure. I better search the internet and find that boy! Lord knows my life can't go on unless we go back out, and this time, end things violently. I can hardly wait.

There is even face-recognition software that will literally scan the internet and find every single photo of you posted anywhere on the Web...And trust me, that concept is scary for some of us. Divorce rates have doubled since the birth of these social media sites. Too easy to refish for that 'one that got away.' With this new technology ... no fish gets very far, and people are playing catch and release all damn day.

But there are still people out there without a facebook page and without a care in the world if they are never contacted by a random stranger asking for a friend. I know one of those people. And he is going to start an anti-social media brigade. He will add people to his anti-social media page, just for the sole purpose of unfriending them. He will send tweets every couple of hours to these people to let them know that he doesn't want to speak to them. He will post wall messages to remind them of things they've done in their past that make them useless sinners.

When they virtually poke him, he will literally drive to thier homes and punch them in the face. When they start a mafia battle, he will rage a mafia war. When they send him a drink, he will throw it in their face. When they build a farm, he will rape their sheep. Maybe? Only the ugly ones. They are better in bed.

I respect the stand he's taking. But I gotta say ... besides the bullshit tagging, I actually love these sites. It's entertaining to see pictures of that guy you went to the dance with, who spent the whole night dancing with someone else. That asshole who took you to sizzler and just watched you eat, but didn't order anything because then he'd be obligated to pay. That same jerk who made you pay for the photos of the two of you; the photos of you faking a smile to hide your total humiliation. Why is it entertaining? Because now you are fucking hot as hell and he's a fucking dump truck! But you know what...? It would be fucking fun to unfriend him. Send him messages reminding him to drink a slim fast. Maybe even a small dick joke or two.

But I refuse to fuck a sheep. No matter how Anti-social I become.

Women get so excited over nothing-

(Original Post: May 12, 2006 - Friday)

-and then they marry him. I remember a few blogs back I couldn't wait to get married. And now that I've grown some (it's been three months) I realize I don't want to get married. Not right away. I take a look around and I realize how wonderful life can be when you get to do whatever you want.
I took a look at my room today. I mean I really looked. It is a room for a couple. Seriously. Two sinks. Two closets. Two towel holders. Well fuck that. I use all that shit myself. Those closets are full. I use the sink on the right to do my business and the sink on the left to store all my stuff. I use one towel holder for decoration and one for actual use. I need all my space. I don't have room for a man. Last night My friend and I decided to go out to eat. So we went. No permission. No excuses. This weekend I'm going out of town to meet up with friends and there is no one to question my intentions. I make phone calls and send text messages and no one is trying to go through my phone to see who I'm calling. When my bills come, I pay them. I can lay on the couch all day without hearing a single word about it. People say money can't buy you love...but it can buy battery operated love. And that's all I really want to afford right now. I'm not exactly singing the praises of being single, because of course, if mr. right comes along, well I'm down. But I'm not all wrapped up in trying to find a husband like I was when I was younger ... (three months ago.) So I'm getting my coat and leaving this party. I'm going to stand out in the rain like everyone else. I'll buy an umbrella. With all the money I'm saving on love, lord knows I can afford it.

Let me tell you a secret

(Original Post: April 30, 2006 - Sunday)

When I was a kid me and my best friend broke into a house. Well, we didn't exactly break in, the key was under the mat. Anyway, it was a Sunday. We took some money and a few stamps and a bag of chips. A year or so later I joined the Mormon church. (That is another blog in itself.)
One of the things you must do according to the LDS is repent all of your sins to the Bishop. He will forgive you, and you are on your way. I planned on laying my break-in debacle on the line. It would be nice to finally share this information. However, when I entered the office, the Bishop was none other than the owner of that house! That Sunday we chose to break in he was most likely speaking to his congregation on the importance of being honest and trusting your neighbors.
My point is this ... I did not tell him the truth that day. Instead I made up a couple sins to repent for. Told him I lie to my parents, whatever. Just some random shit. And I learned that day that honesty isn't always the best policy.
I say all that to say this. Watch the movie Closer. I don't know what got me thinking about this honesty stuff. Possibly it is because I have been lied to so hard core the past few months, and then have been bitch-slapped with the truth. Is bitch slapped one word or two? With a hyphen?
Anyway, I've come to this conclusion. There is no need to be extremely honest. Save extreme for sports and bum fights. If you like someone, just let them know you like them, do not confess undying love. And if you want someone to stick around for awhile. Don't call them at all. Don't answer when they call. And possibly even kill something they love.
The cool thing is they will love you forever. The bad thing is you'll never know because the two of you will never speak again. Dr. Me out!

Who would have thought?

(Original Post: April 3, 2006 - Monday)

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

The reason for my 'NO PET' policy

(Original Post: February 26, 2006 - Sunday)

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