Currently Chasing: The perfect Gift

So father’s day is fast approaching and I suck at buying gifts. There are two reasons for this.

1.       As soon as I buy a gift I give it to the person I bought it for. If they are far away I will call them and tell them I bought them a gift. I will ask a hundred times if they want to know what it is. When the consistently say no, I get pissed and send them a phone photo of it. I have no patience and I want people to enjoy whatever it is right away.

2.       There are so many people in my life that I only see once or twice a year and seriously, I just don’t know what they would need/like. So I end up buying them something I need/want. Then I end up buying one for myself as well. And you can see how all of that turns out very expensive, and usually only one person is needing/wanting that gift.

So I’ve gotten into the habit of giving gift cards or cash. That may seem impersonal, but you know what? Life is becoming a little impersonal and I’m just evolving with it. Also, mother’s day and my mother’s birthday, and father’s day and my father’s birthday are very close together. So the thought of coming up with two gifts they are going to want/need = four gifts that I want/need and two parents that wonder where they went wrong.

So I sent my parents cash and let them do whatever. My mother went and saw a show and gambled a bit. My father bought an Ipod touch (and now we can face-to-face chat, which I think is awesome.)

They spent that money on things they probably would not have spent money on otherwise, so I was happy.

But I decided I would also do one more thing. My father reads my blog and I thought…you know what? I’m going to write my father a blog post. I hope this doesn’t embarrass him. Oh who am I kidding?

So without further ado… CURRENTLY CHASING: Daddy

Thank you Father! It is because of you that I can sing and write poetry/songs/blogs. Thank you for not being a sports guy. For not forcing me onto a soccer team or dragging me to ‘the game.’  Thank you for sitting down and watching To Kill a Mockingbird with me, and then (at my request) calling me Scout and allowing me to call you Atticus.

Thank you for picking me up and taking me to Disneyland when I was having a bad day. Thank you for believing me when I told you I knew the entire it’s a Small World Song in Spanish. Thank you for then allowing me to continually sing this fake Spanish song to you.

Thank you for helping me get my first job at Castle Park.

Thank you for moving out of the nudist camp so that I could come to live with you.

Thank you for educating me on the fact that Tiffany was not the one who wrote “When I saw ‘him’ standing there.”

Thank you also for bringing me back to reality when I read you the very first poem a boy had ever written for me and you informed me that it wasn’t a poem, but instead lyrics from Stairway to Heaven, and you can assure me it wasn’t written by that boy and it wasn’t written for me.

Thank you for not freaking totally out when I told you I had sex for the first time.

Thank you for marrying your step sister my mother.

Thank you for losing your patience after about an hour of trying to teach me how to play the guitar.

Thank you for using the money I sent you to buy an IPod touch so that we can now talk face to face.

Thank you for my sense of humor.

Thank you for being an awesome Grandfather.

Thank you for being an awesome father.

Thank you for reading my blog even though there are days you probably shouldn’t.

Happy Father’s day Daddy.

And if this isn’t enough I’ve been eying up a cute pink Coach purse that I’m sure you want/need!

Currently Chasing: The distance from here to there

I’m not really big into sports. When I was growing up I was picked last for most teams, and sometimes just not picked at all. Literally there was a time when a dude chose to play with a handicap of six against seven rather than pick me to even out the teams. I guess no one being there to retrieve the ball would have been about the same as me being there to not retrieve the ball. However, I was always a big fan of the men and women who played sports so naturally, I became a cheerleader. But the fact remains to this day that if all teams in all sports just kind of went away, my life would not be affected at all.

And that brings us to golf.  My bf loves golf. If he could marry his driver I’m sure he would have. In fact, golf already takes half of his income, so in a way, he is married to golf, and cheating on golf with his driver. And also cheating on his driver with his putter. And let’s not even talk about the wedge!  He loves golf so much that when he deployed to Iraq he refused to leave his golf clubs at my house for fear that if something happened to our relationship while he was gone, I may take it out on his damn clubs!

I don’t love golf, or even understand the obsession with spending $900 on a stick. But last night when he suggested going to the OG (Olive Garden) I knew he was buttering me up for a trip to GG (Golf Galaxy) and that translates to a long night where I stand around pretending to care while watching him feel the texture of every single shirt in the store to find one that breaths and has perfectly placed sleeve seams.  

He also likes to examine, pick up, and swing tons of different clubs. After he swings them he says, “that feels good.” Then he puts it back. Then picks up another one and swings it and says, “that feels good…and very light.” What drives me bat shit though is that he never buys anything. He has the money, and he has the desire…but he is also a bit frugal, and the thought of spending that much money on anything is a decision he doesn’t make lightly. It took him five years to finally buy a new car. He identified the car he wanted in 2007. Spent all of 2008 doing online research. Test drove it 150 times in 2009. He finally bought the car in 2010 at a 0% interest rate. And he still isn’t 100% satisfied that he made the right choice.

I decided I wanted a new car on a Monday. Shopped on a Tuesday. Purchased my new car on a Friday.

So here we are at Golf Galaxy. He has me look at a club and then another all the while explaining the differences between the two.

“See. This one has a thinner club face than that one. This one is also very straight. Currently mine are closed. I used to draw to the right, so I used a corrective club. But now I’ve learned to hit straighter and need a new club. But not today. Maybe another day when I’m ready to up my level. I need to hit these clubs on the range to make sure they are what I want. I’ll come back tomorrow and not buy this club again.”

He wants to me care. He wants me to be passionate about this ‘sport.’ Clearly, he wants too much.

However, I do try. So we are standing there and he is looking at some clubs (that he won’t buy) and I look past him at a sign, and I begin to read it out loud.

“Are you still using Aluminum?” I read to him in the form of a question.

He says, “no.”

So continuing to read the sign I say, “Are you now using forged component? “

He looks at me with a light I have never seen before, right before realizing that there is no way in hell I know what forged component is. Then says, “Where the heck are you getting that from?”

There was a moment there though…where I was speaking his language on his level. And then it was gone. So after we walk the entire perimeter of the store, after he looks at all of the spikes on each pair of shoes. After he hits 20 or so balls with different clubs, after he checks out the hats and the socks, we finally head toward the door.

Then we stop in front of the glass counter. Inside are golf GPS devices. There are courses from all over the world entered into this GPS so that golfers can determine the distances to the flags so they know which club to use to cover the yardage. He has been talking about getting one of these for ages. He downloaded an APP on his iphone … but his phone often dies before the end of his game…and if I happened to text during the game, reading my text kicks him off the APP. So needlesstosay it’s not very convenient. And also, he’s afraid, not as accurate as he would like.

There is another device he’s been raving about that doesn’t require constant updates as more courses become available. It’s not a GPS. Instead you aim at the flag, or whatever mark you’d like to find out the distance to, and you click a button and the screen tells you the distance to that object. It even takes into account hills and high and low points. But it’s kind of expensive and something he will have to think about for the next seven years before committing to the purchase.

So I tell the guy to wrap it up and I buy it for him.

Within seconds, it doesn’t matter that I have no interest in learning to golf. It doesn’t matter that I don’t actually know what forged component is, and it doesn’t even matter that the one time I went golfing with him I chose to sit in the cart and text the entire day. Nope, none of that mattered. This one purchase really brought us together. I was able to embrace his obsession with golf, and for once he wasn’t mad at my inability to resist an impulse buy.

We spent the rest of the evening doing two things…

1.       Doing internet research to make sure we got the best possible deal on this device.

2.       Figuring out the distance from the couch to everything else in the house.

However, without that machine I knew the distance between me and his heart was 0.

How motivated are we by money?

Have you ever paid for sex? And I’m not talking about in relationships where you feel like you’re paying dearly. And I’m also not referring to the thousands of dollars women drop on IEDs. Impossible to Emulate Devices.

What I’m really talking about is paying cold hard cash for the mash.

And would you be willing to pay your spouse for sex if it somehow improved your love life? I mean, do we really ever do anything that won’t somehow make us money? I think we can all agree we are a society motivated by money.

So why did I find it odd the other day when I heard about a woman who charges her husband for sex. She made up a sexual menu. He could have whatever he wanted on the menu, even Rump Roast. The only thing she asked in return was that he paid for his selections. Every sexual act came at a cost.

I also read a magazine article that suggested men pull out $200, lay it on the nightstand, and tell their ladies they can ‘earn it.’ The article said that most of the time women feel obligated to have sex. But by showing them the money, that gives them a WIFM (What’s in it for Me) they can’t refuse.

Some guys feel like they are paying for sex one way or another, so why not just pay for the kind that doesn’t have three kids from a previous marriage and $400,000 in student loans attached to it. I can’t say I completely disagree with this theory. I’ve never paid money for sex. But my heart has had to pay a hefty price more than once when it came to falling for men who only really wanted a sexual relationship. I wish they would have just ‘put the money on the nightstand.’ At least then I would have known exactly what I was in store for.

Then there are the guys who pay … and don’t feel like they got their monies worth. A friend of mine bought the bed I currently own. I’m sure he didn’t plan originally on just doing that out of the kindness of his heart. I mean, when is the last time someone bought you a bed that they weren’t planning to share with you? I’m sure he’d of rather taken that money to Baltimore. At least there he could pay to play.

Plenty of my guy friends have admitted to having paid for sex, but it’s all the same awkward “I only did it once” story.

“We were in a foreign country and I couldn’t understand what she was saying and by the time I realized, I had already fucked her, so I had to pay.”

Or …

“She would have done it for free, but I felt bad because she is saving for medical school.”

Or my personal favorite …

“I thought I was just giving her a ride home, and then all of a sudden she asked if I had the money and I didn’t, but by then I felt like I was under contract, so I went to an ATM and got the money … but it’s not like I wanted to do it, especially when half way through our business some guy came into the room and asked if she’d be able to drive him to the liquor store later. Awkward.”

Yes, awkward. But which part? The part where you didn’t want to do it, but physically left the house to get money? Or the part where she was 350 pounds of paid for love?

But really, who am I to judge? And my conversation with a good friend pretty much summed it all up for me today.

“There are people paying for sex? Who are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know, just people,” I told him.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Where are they going to get it?”

The bank my dear. The bank.

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.

Is he a bargain?

(Original Post: October 18, 2006 - Wednesday)

As you all know My friend and I went to Cancun, Mexico. Awesome right? Of course! And more recently My friend and I went on a cruise, which took us to Cozumel, Mexico. And as you all know, shopping is an interactive experience there.

They say I want 600 bucks for that stuff, you say I'll give you 100, they say, 360, you say 100, they say 270, you say 100, and then they say, get lost. And you do.

One of two things happen at this point. Either A, you choose to fucking live without that shit, or B, you wait until that person calls you back in to make a deal. This happened both times. The first time to My friend. She wanted some stuff, they couldn't settle on a price, we told her to just forget about it and go, but she didn't want to. We finally convinced her to leave the store, but fuck! She was pissed. She wanted that shit! She had been to all the other stores and she hadn't found that exact shit.

She knew she had only one option. Go back into the store and make a deal.

My friend and I ran into that again recently. In a store, finding unique bullshit that we couldn't live without. We go up to bargain and he won't settle. Not on the price we want. So we walk. But I'm pissed. Cause I want that shit. And walking away from it was hard. But it wasn't priced right. And at the end of the day I had to convince myself that it really didn't look that good on me anyway. (But deep down, I knew it did.)

Relationships are the same way. You walk around a foreign country for what feels like years. Everyone seems to be speaking a different language. But then it happens. Just when you weren't looking you walk smack into the perfect store. It has everything you think you want. You are thrilled. You try it on. It fits perfect. The color is just right.

Then you start to negotiate.

You say marriage and babies. He says, friends with benefits. You say engaged and the pill. He says, sex and candy. You say Girlfriend/boyfriend. He says, friend that's a girl.

What happens when you can't agree on a price? Your friends will tell you to leave the shit in the store. But you know it's not that easy. You've fucking walked the entire country. You've poked into more stores than you care to remember. Some didn't have air conditioning. Some didn't even have windows.

But they will say, hey, walk out. Maybe he'll come back out and try to deal. But do you risk it? Do you just push the stuff back on the shelf, say later days and hope for the best. Or do you pay the 600 bucks and just be glad it wasn't any more than that? After all, you haven't seen anything else like it anywhere else.

I've got the money, but I'm still holding out for the deal.

Saturday, Bloody Saturday

(Original Post: April 1, 2006 - Saturday)

It's Saturday. I should be out, getting drunk and snapping random phone photos right? Hell no. I'm sick. And I'm coughing up a lung, watching Kelly Clarkson videos. Looks like it's going to be a law and order kinda night.
I want to eat, but every time I swallow it's like tiny knives are carving the alphabet down my throat. I need to swallow something that burns, like tequila. Or something that soothes. No comments please.
I went out with a friend earlier. We had lunch and then got pedicures and manicures. I probably should not have braved the outing, but damn. You can only sit inside your misery for so many hours before it tries to eat you alive. She took me to bed, bath and beyond. I bought a scale.
I was going to just buy the twenty dollar scale, but some dude was like, hey, this one calculates body fat and water weight. And I said, why would I want to pay more money for something that will only cause me pain. But he shot me a look like, come on girl; you've got nothing to worry about. My friend told me he was clearly flirting. (I've forgotten what that looks/sounds like, but I'll take her word for it.) So he hands me one of the more expensive scales and we head to the check out.
So thank you mystery man. That compliment cost me fifty bucks.
I did get broken up with earlier this week. The fifty bucks for the compliment seemed like a small price to pay in comparison.

New Car Smell

(Original Post: January 13, 2006 - Friday)

There are two things girls love to change. Hair styles and cars. My hair has been short for 11 years, but today my car changed for the third time in five years.
My current car was nice. Champagne color. To the untrained eye it looked Gold, but trust me on this one. It is Champagne. It's a PT Cruiser. I kept it relatively dirty. I had no choice. Things just piled up in that car. I had no control. I lived out of that car. There were four yard hoses in the back. Thanks Joe for taking those beauties. I don't even know where I got them from or why they lived rent free for so long.
Here is the problem with the old car. Every time I take it in for an oil change there are a hundred bucks worth of mystery work that needs to be done. I always agree to get half of it done and save the other half for next time. The only problem is I never remember the other half of the shit. Therefore it never gets done and new stuff keeps getting added on.
Right now I need an oil change, new tires, and new brakes. There is a bolt loose and running wild somewhere in the driver side door. I noticed the sound after I crossed lanes over a median. That must not have been a good idea. It also needed gas. The windshield was cracked and the passenger side door was dinged. I backed into a car in the shopette parking lot. And the list goes on.
The new car is a PT cruiser as well. We test drove a convertible and that is the car I really wanted, but it was roughly a million dollars more a month than I was willing to spend so, yeah.
This new car smells like something is burning when you get out of it. The guy says it is just chalk on the manifold burning off. Does he think I know what that bullcrazy shit means? Just tell me it's going to smell like that for awhile and we're good.
I'm going to go out and put stickers on my new car. They will be obnoxious and will cover crucial window space and probably get me into an accident some day. But they will help me identify my cruiser in a crowd. And if you've ever been to Arundel Mills Mall on a Friday night then you know what I mean by crowd. And let me just say this also. When did it become okay to just park anywhere there is a curb? And I'm only really pissed because I don't have the balls to do it.
My friend defended my honor at the dealers, tried to get me the best deal, and I'm happy. The car is magnesium. To the untrained eye it may look green. But it's magnesium. It's just not easy being green.

Hump Day Hope Note

(Original Post: December 21, 2005 - Wednesday)

Wednesday. Get it? Hump Day? It's also the day they refer to as 'back in the day.' A fun fact for you, in case you weren't aware. Back in the day was indeed a Wednesday. No need to thank me.
Christmas is around the corner. I have finished shopping. Now when I say I have finished shopping, please know that I do not by any means mean I have completed purchasing items for those in my life who mean the most. On the contrary, there are still people that I love and adore who have yet to get that little slice of gift wrapped heaven from me. However, I can no longer participate in the season of treason. I cannot go back into a mall. I cannot suffer through another 50 percent off sale. I can not make out another Christmas card. I just can't.
Marcia, if you are reading this, sweetie, I love you, and I will get you a gift. But let me buy it in California after the stench of Christmas wears the fuck off. I love you. If I wasn't me, I'd be you. And you know this.
I went to the exchange to pick up some Cologne for a friend's hubby and it was sold out. Only this one particular scent. A sane person would have just grabbed some Aspen and called it a day. But no. I braved Arundel Mills Hell one last time. I got the Cologne. One last minute gift for My daughter. Two last minute pairs of Sketchers for me, and high tailed it out of there. Not to return until next year. The post office is Satan's Asshole. I spent a good week or two in there trying to mail off a fucking package of DVD's that some guy I used to date reminded me that I had. WTF? A guy I dated still has my fucking CD and you don't see me pounding down his door for it. But whatever, it was quite a few movies and they were good freakin movies. The CD I left at my ex's is a CD given to me by the DVD guy anyway, so I should be glad I don't have it sitting around as a reminder of all my fucking failed relationships. And done.
So yeah. Happy fucking hope note day. I am going to California for two weeks. That is going to be a welcome break. Although sometimes leave is more work than work. I'm going to try and visit friends and family and actually spend quality time with that whole part of my life. But then there are those people I don't want to see. The people my mother already made aware of my pending arrival. They have contacted me and done the "We should do lunch" bullshit email thing. I'm like, yes, of course. That sounds awesome, amazing, uh huh. Yeah, Lunch. Great. Catch up. Kids. Navy. Uh huh. Married? No. Don't be sorry. Uh huh. Oh my mom told you. Uh huh. Bitch. uh huh. No, what is it? 619 area code? Ok, got it. bye now.
Knowing damn well they won't see me. I won't call. But you know what Dane says. Take every opportunity to lie. Thanks Dane.

Tis the season bitches

(Original Post: December 18, 2005 - Sunday)

Note to world: Please stay home on Monday so I can fucking get some shopping done. My goodness, the Mall is a fucking mad house and I had to pay money for a parking spot. AKA Valet. At all Mall! Any little way they can get a dime.
I saw King Kong. Every scene was five minutes too long. King Kong saves the girl from not one, not two, not three, but four dinosoars. The crazy thing is those beasts tried to get that dumb white girl for like 30 minutes of this movie. They would not let it go. Let me tell you something, if I want a mcnugget, and some guy is kicking the fuck out of my face, not to mention that I just watched him rip my buddies jaws apart, I'm probably going to just skip the meal. I mean damn, she was a mcnugget. If your hungry, eat your dead buddy. Yes, I'm serious when I say thirty minutes. I knew you were wondering.
And guess what else. If I love you, and you are chilling on top of the Empire State Building, I'm gonna hang tight on the ground and wait for you to come down. I mean, WTF? She climbs all the way to the top to wave the planes away. Like they are going to say, oh goodness, how silly we are. We thought no one loved this huge BigFoot that is causing death and destruction all over New York. But this little mcnugget loves him, so let's just leave them be, shall we. People still aren't comfortable with man on man love and we want them to accept BigFoot and mcnugget love? Not going to happen. Specially in a time where apples cost a nickel. I know you feel me. I don't even have to ask.
I went to the club on Saturday. TPCC. Trailer Park Cancun Cantina. TPCC was rocking though. I had a blastie. Drinks were too strong. Way too strong. I had two drinks and I couldn't remember my name or my original hair color. I saw a girl in a one piece jean pant suit. It fit her like a body condom.
Today I went to the mall to pick up some last minute gifts. If you get a gift from me this year and it looks like I put zero to no thought in it at all, it's not because the good intentions weren't there. It's because the season makes it impossible to give a shit about anything. You can't walk through the mall without getting raped by a lotion lady or a head massage vendor. My credit card just got passed around a bit and then when I left the mall I had some bags full of shit. The end. I can not even pretend to know what happen in between those two events. And if you did not get a gift at all, let me know. I have a hundred random items that I bought for the 'in case I forgot your ass' pile. It will probably be lotion or a head massager, and I'll toss one your way. Or if you want to wait till after Christmas, I'm sure there will be plenty 'somebody forgot my ass' gifts thrown my way. You can choose one of those.
Tis the Season bitches.