baffle your boss

Your boss is coming around the corner, and can see you're just dicking around on the computer, not doing any real work. The boss barks, "Johnson (that's you)! What could be more important then that project I assigned you?!?!"

You stump the boss with this: "I'm sorry, Dickhead (your bosses name). It is imperative that I send my name to Pluto."

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."
-Anais Nin

jingle in my brain

Various bits running through my head today:

While cooking:

Yummy, Yummy, Yummy by The Ohio Express

I have to tell you, it was only this line, though-

"Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy," and that's it. Just that. Over and over and over and over...but I never did tire of it. It seemed optimistically cheerful to my PMS ravaged self.

While washing dishes:

Shoehorn With Teeth by They Might Be Giants

Specifically, these lines-

"He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
People should get beat up for stating their beliefs.
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
Because he knows there's no such thing."



And most of the day yesterday I was thinking about the wedding, the wedding, the wedding. It really is about 93% of what I think of (the parts of my brain that aren't on a constant sex-loop, anyway). I'm guessing that's why this next bit was stuck in my head-

"The bells are ringing, the song they're singing, the sound is bringing the people 'round...
They hear the instructions, they follow directions, they travel great distances to the sound..."

Which is also by They Might Be Giants.

Who, I might add, are the coolest.

Proof? Here:




I had my hair washed in the sink next to glasses John. I went to have my hair done in the fancy shmancy place in town. It was hours before the show. (The chick cutting my hair was uber hot and I entertained thoughts of trying to bed her.) John and I chatted. He was very nice. He gave me his autograph and I gave it to my then boyfriend, now ex. Dammit.

At least John was nice.

Shittiest Job, Ever

While reading Midwest's post today, "Take This Job And Shove It", I found one line that stood out:

Hate is a small word to describe my feeling for you.
(It was submitted in a letter to their boss, while quitting.)

It got me to thinking about the hideous job I held this past fall/winter. It was, without a doubt, the WORST place I have ever had the displeasure to work. And I realize most of you readers may have missed the blogs about it, and I simply cannot allow that to happen. Really.



Your life simply won't be complete without knowing about:

how I kept myself sane

how he ate out of the trashcan

how we amused ourselves

his inability to operate a CD player, yelling at customers, selling things not for sale, and talking smack

his refusal to heat the building

when the pipes burst because he refused to heat the building

how awesome it was to take phone calls from hookers

the nervous breakdown that pushed me to quit

his drug habits, revealed

There were so many moments I never even blogged about. I might have to, even in retrospect. They simply are way too good to miss.




(As soon as you're ready to join in, Padoodles, have a go. It's just too easy! Like shooting coke addicted ducks in filthy, filthy bucket.)

The whole world we travel with our thoughts,
Finding nowhere anyone as precious as one's own self.
Since each and every person is so precious to themselves
Let the self-respecting harm no other being.

-Samyutta Nikaya

jellyfish: not "cool like that"

After spending most of last Sunday in the ridiculous pursuit of how to operate a body board and not look like a tourist, I came ashore to tell Mr. Wonderful that my face felt burned.

"I think maybe it's sunburned. It feels all torn up, like I rubbed sand all over it," I explained. "It's a little red," he said, and that was all.

It felt burned that night, and the next day it was itchy. Really fucking itchy.

I woke up and looked in the mirror and parts of my face looked shiny and vaguely swollen. Being the trauma case that I am, I immedietely decided I had some horrible skin condition and flipped the fuck out. I laid on the couch, pondering my emotional demise at the thought of getting married while looking like the elephant man.

Then I remembered the jelly fish.



That fucking jelly fish.

I kept paddling around it, seeing it (or many of them) in the water. What's the chance one of those waves washed that damn thing onto my face?

Pretty fucking high.

Which explains the tiny blisters and the fact that my face is itchy and peeling. And the fact that I spent most of one night shivering on the couch with a fever.

On the positive side, it's really not noticeable to other people, unless they're watching my drag my fingernails over my face like some kind of irritated monkey with face Trichotillomannia. And I'll have lots of fresh skin soon.

My conclusion: you may be able to make friends with the badger, but I have my doubts about the jellyfish being cool like that.

one of many mistakes

(Also posted on the sex blog.)

I was married once. I don't talk about it much at all. It didn't last long (three months) before I ran five states away to be away from his insanity, and to abort his child.

It's not a happy story, as you may have guessed.

We met at work. He was friends with my friends. I was nineteen, he was twenty-nine. We started dating. I looked up to him because he was incredibly informed about a lot of things that interested me. I think he wanted me simply because I wanted to have kids. Really. I figured that part out in retrospect.

I had a strong maternal drive and wanted to have a large family. He knew that. He wanted kids really badly. About two months after we had started dating, he suggested we get married.

Whoa.

Alas, I was young and impressionable and oh yes, very passive. Very submissive. His reasoning was hard to argue with, despite the alarm bells going off in my head. I wanted to be grown up, responsible, respectable, and most of all, untouchable by my parents and their emotional abuse. I don't know how I figured being married would save me from them but hiding behind a husband seemed like a wonderful idea at the time.

We told my dad first. I thought for sure my dad would tell him there was no way in hell, but I underestimated my dads lack of interest in my well being and his total apathy in life. His exact words were, "Do whatever the hell you want. You're going to do it anyway." He was wrong, I was hoping he would say no and that would be my ace in the hole, the way to avoid this mess for a while. But, no.

My mom gave us a pile of questions and "Nicholas" seemed to have an answer for all of them. Well. Looks like we're getting hitched.

He found some horrible place to do it in, called "The Little Wedding Chapel" or some shit, right smack in the middle of a strip mall. We had to have witnesses, so they grabbed some employees from next door at the TCBY. There they stood, in their work aprons, just to make the moment seem truly special.

There was a little room to the side, where the bride-to-be can fix her hair or whatever. It was basically a broom closet with heavy velveteen drapes hiding the walls and a cheesy oval mirror with a little plush stool to sit on. They led me in there, so I sat down. I looked in the mirror.

I clearly heard myself telling me to run away. Now. Now is the time.

RUN.

I choose to not listen to me. I mean, denial had gotten through most of my life already, so why not keep up the bad work? I'll just blindly walk off this jagged cliff...

I walked down the isle in that hideous green dress I picked off the rack in some department store an hour before. It looked about as romantic as my grandma does in her housecoat, cooking eggs in the morning. I cringe at that dresses memory.

We said our vows. His eyes were shining. I remember feeling really high, as if this surreal thing could not possibly be happening. It must be a fucked up dream or something. And, if it's not, please God let it turn out ok, unlike every other decision I've made thus far in life.

I wasn't dreaming, and no prayer was answered.

It was done. We went home. He asked me to quit taking the pill so I could get pregnant. I explained to him the simple dynamics of my age, stating it for him slowly so he could understand.

"I'm....nineteen. Nine....teen. Nineteen...."

He didn't seem able to grasp the advanced quantum physics I was portraying. "I haven't even gone to college yet..."

I realized I was in over my head and that my stupid ass did NOT see this coming. Oh my. Look- I've fallen into Another Cavernous Hole Of Life. Fuck. How am I going to get out of this one?

He threw my birth control pills away, said I wouldn't need them anymore. My plea was small and weak under the barrage of his reasoning. He would take care of me, he said, I had nothing to worry about.

Basically, shut up and make me some babies.

I managed to keep him away for the first time I ovulated but that was it. Next month, I was knocked up.

>insert sound of bomb dropping here<

He was thrilled. I was horrified. He started acting stranger, saying things that didn't really make sense, arguing with me a lot, then being weirdly cheerful afterward. What in the fuck? I was losing weight from the stress of it all. By the second month I had lost nearly fifteen pounds. I was thin to begin with- then I just looked skeletal. My family started to worry about me and told me to start eating. I told them I was fine. I was definitely not.

One night Nicholas had one of his friends over. I knew him from work, but this was just odd. As soon as he came over, he and Nicholas went into the bedroom to watch a video of something "Top Secret" they told me. I was to remain out in the kitchen.

Ooooooh kayyyy....

They spoke in hushed conversations that I couldn't overhear (oh, I tried!). When they finally came out and the weird guy left, I wouldn't leave Nicholas alone until he finally told me what was going on.

Turned out his friend was part of the Michigan Militia. Nicholas told me he'd been waiting to tell me about this stuff, and now was the time, he had said. "What stuff?" said I, clueless.

He then told me about how the black helicopters had been watching him and about how the government was about to slap down martial law, but that I didn't need to worry because he had a plan for us to steal away and live in a camp hiding from the government as patriots and rebels.

He had a great stock of rice and beans already amassed, he said.

Oh, well, ok then. A life of rice and beans and endless discussions underground about the latest conspiracy theories sounds like a wonderful way to raise our child. Obviously my dreams of parenting were woefully inadequate. I hadn't taken the governments evil plans to make my child a cyborg drone for their army into consideration.

My bad.

I realized I was pregnant with the child of a lunatic. Hatching an escape plan became my goal. I had to be slick. Secretive.

His late night ramblings got worse. A few times he picked me up by the shoulders and shook me like a rag doll, informing me that "abortion machines are the work of the devil!" This coming from an atheist, I found that rather odd.

I found out from friends that his last 5 girlfriends had ALL gotten pregnant, and each and every one of them had left him and had an abortion against his wishes. Whoa. It explained his aversion to "abortion machines" anyway. It also explained that this was a trend for him. And I wasn't about to break it.

I continued on my merry way- losing weight and smiling at work, acting like everything was ok and figuring out how I was going to leave.

One day an ex boyfriend dropped in like an angel from heaven, calling to tell me he was moving to Asheville, NC. The light went off in my head. Yes. That was where I was going. I would move there, too. The ex took my statement oddly and told me, "It's not like we'll be together again or anything..." I reassured him that wasn't my plan, but that I needed somewhere totally unexpected to go, and far enough away. Asheville would be perfect.

New Years Eve I went to go hang out with friends that lived across the state. Nicholas was nearly hysterical, telling me I HAD to be there at midnight to kiss him, holy fucking crap, what would happen if I wasn't there? "Nothing," I told him, "I'll see you in two days. You're making me insane."

I called him while I was gone, reassured him that everything was ok. I was fine. I'll be back tomorrow, that sort of thing.

When I came back he was actually totally fucking odd, and for him, that was really saying something. He was drinking beer. He never drank. I asked him what the hell was wrong with him.

He informed me that he was just strung out. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Strung out," he said, "I went down to Detroit and met some poor girl in the projects and we drove around and got some heroin. We shot up." I stared at him. He babbled on about what happened, how he felt so sorry for this poor girl, how scary the crack houses were, blah blah blah. I just stared at him.

I finally had it. My ticket out.

I had a boyfriend in high school that developed a nasty heroin addiction, and when Nicholas and I met, he had told me that he used to do it a long time ago. I told him point blank, that if he EVER, EVER did it again, I was gone. No questions asked, no conversations to be had, good bye.

I started smiling at him. He was very confused by my smile, which started as cheerful and quickly turned sadistic. "Wow, that's fascinating!" I said, with a bit too much enthusiasm. "I'm moving! I'm going to start packing!"

He promptly started wailing and telling me how the heroin wasn't even good, how I couldn't leave him over some bad smack.

"Not my problem," I said.

He then angrily told me what a little tart I was for running off to hang out with my friends and leave him at home. I yelled back, "I am a fucking tart! And that makes you a stupid asshole for marrying me!"

I started to pack.

The next week were even more psychotic. Each day he would come home and ask me in a sickly sweet voice, "Honey! Your stuff is in boxes! When are you going to put that away?" I would reply, "I'm not. I'm moving." And he would tell me, "That's silly. Quit being silly. Just put your stuff away."

At work he would come up to me and act like we were the perfection of marriage, and coo and call me pet names that even Walt Disney would vomit at. I would quietly curse him and he would tell me I was just being silly. Silly pregnant girl. It must be the hormones.

The next night I packed up everything I could fit in my car and left him a note. I didn't mention to him that I had taken his bank card and nearly emptied his account.

I still feel bad for it, but I felt like that situation was as much his making as it was mine. He should KNOW he's fucking insane and do the responsible thing- pay for my escape.

I left. I stopped for a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up as the R.E.M.'s song, "The End Of The World As We Know It" came on the radio, and I started bawling and singing along through my smoke and sobs.


"It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...fine...

It's time I had some time alone."

Dear spammers, I think I speak for us all when I say:

Parenting...

Putting it in perspective.

do not anger the baby...

It gets angry. And you wouldn't like it when it gets angry...

an alien named Crapoo

I set off on a project today to teach my son some creative writing skills. School starts up in a few weeks and although we've had him doing a lot of math, he hasn't written much over the summer. The last thing he tried to write looked like it was written by a crack whore on a 3 week binge. Ok, he's only eight, but he could write fine a few months ago, so I know he is just out of practice.

I set him down to writing, but he was having a horrible time of it. I changed the assignment and told him he can make up total nonsense, I didn't care WHAT he wrote as long as he wrote something. He was still having a hard time.

Finally I laid down on the floor with him, pencil and paper in hand, and wrote this, while he watched:

There once was a man named Poopcan. He lived in a house made of Spam. He had forty cats all named Ham. They had a strange tendency to congregate near his butt, but that's another matter.
One day they all went out into the field and a UFO picked them up and they had a space dance party. THE END.

He laughed so hard, being eight and all, and the fact that I included toilet humor helped a lot. I knew this.

He starts writing and here's his story:

Once upon a time there was a turd. He had a friend named Bird. Mr. Poopten had 100 pet toilets and they were named pop-went-the-poop-y. One day the mother toilet flushed him. THE END.

I followed his story with this one:

(Don't bother being shocked by my foul language, he's used to it and thinks it's hilarious. He also knows he not allowed to use any of it until he's much older, except for the rare occasion I will allow him to say a choice word or two, which always leaves him blushing, in hysterical peals of laughter. I knew the addition of "bad words" would make this a lot more fun to him, and it worked.)

Once upon a time there was a bee named Zeewhee. He lived in a rusty old can of Speghetti-O's tied up in a tree. No one knew how the can got there, but Zeewhee didn't give a crap, it was home. He shared it with a cantankerous gnome named Gertrude. She was a real bitch. Also, she smelled like asscakes. Zeewhee didn't really care because he covered her stank ass in honey anyway. THE END.

He was, of course, howling with laughter by the end and I had to reread it, just so he could hear the rest of the story over his own laughter.

I told him to write another story. "Another one?" he asked, exasperated. "Yes," said I, Queen Mother Of Everything. "And this one will have a theme....let's see....crap." He stared at me, hopeful. "Uh..." he said. "Yes, crap. That is your theme for this story. You are allowed to write the word 'crap' over and over again, as many times as you need to, to write your story."

He was thrilled.

This is what he wrote:

There once was an alien named Crapoo. He lived in a shoe. Crap was his name and crapping was his game. All he could say was crap this and crap that. Oh, and one more thing...

CRAP!


And that is how I got my son to love creative writing today. THE END.

My kind of love

This is a text message exchange from a few days ago, between me and my beloved "Padoodles".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Me: I adore you. I'm so thankful that you are strong enough to see through my defensive walls and hold my hand when I need you to. I love you so much. *smooch*

Padoodles: Awwww hunny! Don't make me teary...random...What brought this up? I love you too...Oodles

Me: I was thinking about how I wanted to call you all day but I never picked up the phone till you reached out first. (She text messaged me earlier.) I'm grateful that you get me.

Padoodles: You are so fucking sweet...I do get you and sometimes you are way too hard on yourself...smooches

Me: You're like my fairy godmother of love and you poke your wand into my cave and I just marvel at how you make my life more beautiful...

Padoodles: Thats like the sweetest thing I've ever heard...I love you so much and am unbelievably lucky to know you.

Me: Ok, no more squishies tonight cause I just took my sleeping meds. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you...

Padoodles: Thanks, love, it's totally mutual. Goodnight, sleep tight.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Knowing that I can be my anxiety ridden neurotic self and that someone understands and doesn't take it personal when I hide in my shell is fucking awesome. 'Cause I can be one tweaked out superfreak sometimes. But 'Doodles gets me. And what else matters more than feeling understood?


Having super best friends is just the bestest. It's just the super mofo cracktacular bestest.

those strange things that endear us

(for those of you that read both blogs, this one is pulled from the sex blog, although it has nothing to do with sex, now that I think about it...)

After reading Midwest's post yesterday (on Kiss & Blog) about sex gone embarrassingly awry, I got to thinking about an ex boyfriend I had when I was twenty years old.

There is no alcoholic tale of woe attached to "Matthew", he was rather well behaved (other than his neurosis and wussiness, but that's another post). Matthew did have a particular problem- when he was born, the majority of his intestines were grey matter. Meaning, they were basically an unformed, non functional blob in his guts. Because of that, he almost died. They managed to save him with a surgery on his newborn self, and took the beginning part of his intestines that were formed and attached it to the end part of his intestines that were formed. The result? He had maybe an eighth of the intestines that people normally have.

What did that mean, you ask? Well, it meant he had serious problems with his pooper, basically. When he had to go, he had to GO. Food went through him with a disturbing speed. While this caused him the occasional problem, it was, for the most part, not an issue.

There were two occasions when it caused a problem.

The first was a morning when he woke me up with the sudden command in my ear, "Don't move!" I awoke and immedietely froze, thinking there was a possum on the bed or something (he lived waaaay out in the country), maybe a copperhead? No. He told me, "Ok. I need you to very carefully get out your side of the bed. Then go in the other room...um...and don't look, ok?"

It took me a matter of seconds to realize what his extreme distress and obvious embarrassment was caused by. Trying to spare him what dignity he had left, but needing to clarify, I asked, "Problem with your butt?" to which he said, "Yah." I felt so bad for him. So I told him, "Ok. I'm going to go make breakfast (not being soiled in any way myself) and you join me when you're done."

I went off to make breakfast and left him to clean everything up and try to save some face. Although my instinct was to help him, I knew this would make it a thousand times worse for him. So I left him alone. When he came in to breakfast, quite a while later, I asked him, "You ok?" He replied a simple, "Yah."

And that was it. No more needed to be said. Nothing needed to be asked. We both knew it was just a medical problem and nothing could be done. These things happen. We never spoke of it again.

The next big problem came the time he got dysentery.

(Deep breath, slowly exhaled...) It was his own fault. He bought some yogurt. He opened it at my house, then whiffed it and made a horrible face. "It smells bad!" he said, and then stuck a spoon in, took a big glop of it, put it in his mouth and swallowed it. I stared at him while he informed me, "It tastes bad, too!" (Well, YAH, you genius.) I promptly took it away from his lacking-common-sense-self and threw it away.

I spent that night at his house, and it's a damn good thing I did. I woke up at about 3 am to hear him crying in the bathroom. Crying. I got up and went in there, to find him huddled on the toilet, weeping and shaking.

I asked him what was wrong, and he whimpered, "I have to poop...but all that's coming out now is just....blood...." and groaned.

Being the incredible information slut that I've always been, I know quite a bit about medical stuff, and quickly deciphered what the problem was. I told him, "Honey, you have dysentery. You need to go to the hospital."

He got wild eyed and nearly hysterical. "No! I won't go! No! Ohmygod, no no no no no no!" His reaction didn't surprise me, really. I knew how much he hated hospitals. Hospital-phobic, as it were. Who could blame him, with the amount of time he spent in them as a child? But still, you'd think someone bleeding out of their ass would be a little more willing.

"Ok. I know. Listen, I'm going to do some research real quick." He nodded and whispered, "Hurry."

After a few minutes I told him what his choices were: the hospital or an enema mixed with aloe vera juice. Still, the latter option was only good if we could stop the bleeding.

Now, this might not work on the average person, but with his shortened intestines, if we could flush out the vile toxins he would be good to go. Things go through him so quickly it was likely only going to take once to do it.

He agreed to the enema, confessing that his mom had to do them to him when he was a kid. Again, I just felt so bad for him. Poor guy.

Right about this time, you might be asking yourself, does this chick actually have medical books, aloe vera juice AND an enema bag handy? What the hell. The answer is yes, yes, and yes. I did. I still do. I'm quirky like that.

So I get the stuff ready and help him with it.

I've got to tell you, there are few things that have managed to endear a person to me more permenently then this crying man, bleeding out of his poor butt, me helping him administer an enema with us way the hell out in the middle of nowhere. It was a good hour to the hospital. But he trusted me enough to let me help him. Honestly, I'm not sure if it was that he trusted me or he trusted me more than he feared the hospital, but that is neither here nor there.

We did it. It worked. He stopped bleeding. I had a hunch that if we could clean him out and stop his intestines from spasming, he would stop bleeding. The water forced his guts to stretch and stop convulsing, the aloe helped heal the damage done. Within the hour he was fine and fast asleep.

I won't bother getting into the story about intestinal parasites (laughs). I'm guessing you've all had enough medical information by now. A wee bit too much information? There is a point to this story, and that is that sometimes

strange things endear us.

I will never forget this boyfriend and the tender feeling his ravaged yet still intact pride managed to instill in me. No matter how badly the relationship ended (it was my fault), I have always felt a love and tenderness for him forever after.

Strange thing, that.

It's those tender unguarded moments that flash so briefly before us that affect us the deepest. That unexpected kindness of a stranger, the forgiving words of those we've hurt. Even the humble and grateful expressions of those we have forgiven.

I once had someone point out to me that I rarely ever looked anyone in the eye for very long. He told me a conversation with me was always somewhat odd, for my glances to him were fleeting, although he could tell I was fully absorbed it what he was saying.

I knew why I did it, as I suspect he did, too. Behind my wall, I was safe. Or at least, I hoped I was. Eye contact was painful to me. Really. I didn't care to engage in it for any longer then necessary.

Now I do, as I crawl out of this ragged old shell I've hid in for years. I am still rather agoraphobic, but the people I do let in have been incredibly sweet and worthy of my kindness. And I've noticed something: the more I let people in, the more they love me. The more I let myself out, the more people respond. It's a long process, this unfolding. But it's worth it.

It helps when I view myself as some sort of caped super hero of emotional bravery. I know, it's endearing, right? Just don't tell anybody, ok?

It'll be our little secret.

Mommy! There's a lion in the backyard again...

....is not anything I ever want to hear my child say to me. I mean, I'm all about keeping lions on the planet, but I'm not too sure about this.

Here's the thing: I'm a wuss. That's why I don't travel to the jungles and rainforests and deserts. I'm afraid of lions and giant snakes and scorpions. I like knowing that none of these exist where I live. I'm scared enough of sharks in the ocean. I don't need to give them legs to walk on land, nor do I need lions roaming around. I'm really enjoying this top of the food chain thing I have going on here. I like being the biggest predator.

If this reintroduction goes through, I might move to Mars. I'll take my chances with the alien species.

tagged from Hannover

List ten songs that you are currently digging … it doesn’t matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they’re no good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the ten songs in your blog. Then tag five other people to see what they’re listening to.

Dark and Deep ~David Lamotte
Follow Your Bliss ~ The B-52's
Colossus ~Afro Celt Sound System
Rodeo Clowns ~Jack Johnson
Dorset Perception ~Shpongle
Story of My Life ~Social Distortion
You Wouldn't Like Me~ Tegan and Sara
Where Does the Good Go? ~Tegan and Sara
Ebay ~Weird Al Yankovic
The Bells Are Ringing ~They Might Be Giants

I'm tagging:

Padoodles, Piranha, Neil, Midwest Hick, Teri, Magdelena

For those of you not wanting to do tags in your blog, feel free to post it in comments if you like...

Mlurk, aka writers block.

Mlurk.

This is the word that describes how I feel. Mlurk. So poignant, so absolute, so....correct.

Mlurk. Why do I stare at the screen and think vapid dust-thoughts during the day? Alas, at night so much is fascinating, shiny, brilliant! I am inspired, optimistic to wake up and write all these things which flood my mind as I drift off to sleep.

Mlurk. It could be the hypnotic sedatives. (chuckles)

I was certain today would be different. I went to work out, for the first time in a very long time. I went a hell of a lot longer than I thought I could, and was feeling empowered, strong. I came home and fell asleep. I slept for three hours. Mlurk.

Damn you, mlurk! Damn you and all your mlurkiness! I cast you into the pits of snarbley hell! Begone, you vile thought vampire! Take your mlurkspawn and shove it right up your mlurky ass!

I ain't kidding, mlurk. Don't make me get all psycho-frabjell on you. I tweak out, you know, and start making up kiplots and ghalzoids! My rabid mind lashes out, unable to unload these thoughts that I thinketh. Then I think I thought some thoughts but I think it was just think-thoughts that I thought I was thinking of. We all know that when I start thinking about the thoughts that I think I thought but I can't think about anything but the thoughts that I can't think enough to write about, I enter into mlurkdom madness.

The only way out is a winding road of gibberish. I'm up to the task, mlurk, don't get me wrong! I WILL defeat you, you fart snarfing turd! You'd best step back, for you've angered me. I am a wild animal, backed into a writers block corner, and that's never pretty. Or eloquent. Or sensical.

Behold! I hold my mlurk-splattering battering ram of Absolute Gibberish! I amuse me! And I vanquish you.

You die.

I kick you with my toe to make sure you have expired. And then I take the biggest doofbliv I've ever taken, right on your head. You smertweddeely flamblasket. You deserved it.

And so it is done.

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

~Anais Nin

Public Service Announcement

Vital information about super villians and their love of Linux.

birthday brat

Mlargh!

What could be more fun than a 9 year olds birthday party?

Pulling wisdom teeth?

Gluing my nostils shut with superglue?

Sticking a fork repeatedly in my eye?

Good questions, all. It really depends on the children and parents involved, and the one I went to today wasn't pleasant.

First, my son gets an e-vite from some kid at school. Never met him, never met his parents, but it sounds groovy so we go. I know no one.

Second, my sleeping med is making me loopy because I had to wait till AFTER Battlestar Galactica to take it last night- I wasn't about to watch it all and then not remember a bit. Holy crap was it good, but that's another blog. So, I took the meds really late, woke up in a weird-o-land stupor and stayed that way most of the day.

Third, the birthday boy was a total brat. Whining, fighting, being generally unbehaved and beligerent. I was thoroughly unimpressed with this kids behaviour, and thus, the parenting skills of his parents. Which is too bad, because I might have liked them, but who wants to make friends with people whose kid is a maniac? No, spank you.

At one point the kids were playing games (for prizes) and the birthday boy wasn't winning. His mom was standing next to me, filming the proceedings. She sees how poorly he's doing in the race and turns to me. Her expression is deep concern. She says, "Oh no. He's not going to win. He's going to hate it. He's not a good loser."

I blink at her and sedately offer her, "Yes. The character building stage can be quite hard." I even managed to say it with a straight face, which was a feat. I mean, if this were a party for a three or four year old, tantrums would be expected. But a nine year old? If you haven't managed to cure your sons whining by that age, you are in for a world of trouble. And, I suspect, not terribly bright.

On the plus side there was great food and at least the kid's male relatives (older) were hot, so the eye candy aspect made it more bearable. Good food, good scenery, terrible spoiled child.

All in all, one thumb down. It had a good beat, but I couldn't dance to it.

Next time I opt for the nostril gluing.

Friday blog fun

1. Reply with your name and I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me (maybe/maybe not).
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal.

My friend Hannover had this to say about me:

1. You're gonna be a "Mrs." soon
2. Sexual Healing
3. Grape - because it's purple. HaHA!
4. One word doll... "Turbo"
5. You commented on my blog, so I had to check out yours.
6. Cwazy wabbit
7. If you could be anywhere, where would it be?

yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!

Things to amuse you with....and let it be known: I totally support The Floral Ninja.


"You die!"

crotch sniffing police work

I'm glad that dogs are doing this and becoming more of womens best friend, too, but geez. I hope that dog gets a damn big juicy steak for dinner as payment for THAT job. Yuck.

If there are any assassins loitering about in Lake Maggiore, I have a little something to keep you occupied.

Just send me a postcard and let me know how it goes. Thanks.

fluff-n-stuff

Here is your warm fuzzy for the day.

KITTENS!

my head is a sleepy meatball

Does your head feel like it is filled with battery acid instead of blood?

If so, you either need to:

*stop doing all those drugs, dude
*drink a lot of water
*get off the alien experimentation table, pronto
*get some sleep

Or take some combination of the above mentioned actions.

For me, it was sleep. After finally trying this new med my doctor put me on, I have slept, mostly. Mostly is better than nothing, though, and I reckon it's going to take me a little time to get the hang of what normal people call "sleeping" once more.

On this glorious day, the sun is still too bright and things are a wee bit too shiny, but I don't feel like my head is a translucent squid-blob coming off a 14 day meth binge. No see thru head or twitchy tentacles for me, today, folks! Hurrah!

I won't deny I was anxious taking it last night, though. The list of side effects were a big daunting:
· daytime drowsiness, dizziness, or clumsiness;
· more outgoing or aggressive behavior than normal;
· confusion;
· strange behavior;
· memory loss problems;
· agitation;
· worsening of depression;
· hallucinations; or
· new feelings of depression.
Including some bit about Lunesta being a hypnotic sedative and how it should be taken immedietely before bed or else you may not remember things that occurred due to the fact that it can cause amnesia.

I was a little horrified to realize what a great date rape drug it would probably be. Thankfully, I had nothing to worry about in that department. I went to lay down at 9 pm and Mr. Wonderful was up for quite a while doing research (and/or looking at porn). He kept coming in to check on me. I was laying there (puts paper bag back over head) with the lights on, curled up in bed with my teddy bear. Oh, shut up. I don't care. I was pretty scared to start hallucinating and acting violently and oh gee, not remember any of it? (shudders) He was nervous about it, too.

Instead I watched my usual stressed out thought patterns disintegrate. Where I would usually have eight different avenues of paranoid obsession going at once, I could only flip between bits and parts and not manage a steady stream of thought about any of it at all. It's really hard to obsess about anything at all when your thought process is being disturbed every couple of seconds by some random bit of non-sensical fluff.

When he came to bed at 11, he asked me how I felt. I was trying desperately to explain how weird I felt. It was good, but really odd. The only thing I managed to convey to him was that one time when he spoke I pictured all the words he said printed on the side of a horse shoe, and I had to turn the horse shoe around in my head to read what he said. (laughs) Ok- I have to say this is not so terribly odd for me, having done all those hallucinigens in my teens, but still- this would not qualify as normal brain activity for me, by a long shot.

I slept. And when I awoke my usual four or twelve times, I just got up, peed, drank some water and fell right back asleep. How novel!

When I woke up this morning I was really sleepy. Mr. Wonderful left for work and I took another nap. When he called a little while ago, he asked me how I felt. I told him, "Well, I don't feel like my brain is filled with battery acid today. I'm sleepy, but not brain-filled-with-battery-acid-I-took-speed-for-a-week exhausted. I feel like my brain has returned to it's normal meaty self. I feel like a sleepy meatball head." He laughs and asks if that is good and I affirm, "Oh, yes! Much better!" and he laughs again.

For the last few weeks I felt like this:



And today I feel more like this:



And for the first time in a REALLY long time, I can't wait to go to bed tonight. I can't tell you how great that is.

Napping On The Job

Thinking back to the boyfriend that won spots #3, #4, and #5 in my Alcoholic Dipshit Moves, I totally forgot to mention his most awesome sex moves- falling asleep during the act.

Before telling you this, I have to defend my sexual honor by informing you non-sex-blog-readers that I am NOT a boring little kitten in the sack. He was just a drunk.

First incident of Napping On The Job-

It was late. We went out with friends, had drinks (I had 3, he had 2,000 or so). We went back to my house and start getting it on. Being the wonderful girl that I am, I offer him the pleasure of a masterful blow job by Moi. He enjoys, relaxes, then really really relaxes. After about 5 minutes I hear him snoring. I seem to recall him getting very, very few of those in the 5 years we dated after that. Don't diss a womans' blow job skills by passing out during the act, unless you want to curse yourself to dating a woman who has no interest in sticking your dick her mouth ever again. You know, I'm just saying.

Second incident of Napping On The Job-

Again, late. We went out to drinks. (We stopped doing this after this event, thank you very much.) He had been drinking martinis, and I was still in that we-just-started-dating-and-he-could-do-no-wrong stage. I was still thouroughly enamored and willing to overlook glaring flaws in his personality in the hopes that he was The One.

There we were in his apartment, doing the nasty. I got on top of him. He relaxed back into that pillow and sure enough, a minute later he was snoring. I stopped moving and just stared down at him in total amazement. I believe the thought going through my head was, "No. Fucking. Way."

He didn't sleep for long, because he (sighs deeply and goes on) ripped a huge fart. Yes. And it woke him up. And he was very startled and confused and kind of freaked out. He asked me, in a very frightened voice, "Did you hear that!?!" at which point I burst out laughing at his stupid drunk ass and told him what happened. He was pretty embarrassed, but not as much as I am to admit I stayed with him for another 5 years after that.


The things I do for you blog readers, sheesh. I'll be here, with this paper bag over my head.

I wish I could explain to you how severely insomnia is kicking my ass. I mean, really. I haven't felt this weird since I used to do an assload of hallucinogens.

Really.

blah

I wrote this whole blog about my insomnia and wretched exhaustion, anxiety and the doctor switching my medication but then Firefox took a big crapola and it went down the tubes alongside my enthusiasm to post about it.

I'm here. I'm just pooped.

truly

Introspectre's Top 5 Alcoholic Dipshit Moves

Let's talk about alcoholics, shall we?

I have a lot of experience with them. A lifetime, in fact. And over the last 31 years I have witnessed many a pathetic alcoholic scene. Anyone involved with an alcoholic knows that these scenes are wretched to experience, but a hell of a lot of fun to relate later. I mean, you may as well get SOMETHING for your troubles, right? Especially at the expense of the shithead that caused you so much trouble. So, without further ado, I present to you....

Introspectre's Top 5 Alcoholic Dipshit Moves

5) Birthday Barf

It was my 27th birthday and I'd had a long day of work. And I hate my birthdays, as a rule, because they usually suck serious major ass. (This last one didn't but that's another story entirely.) So it's my birthday, I had to work, and I wasn't happy about it. My alcoholic boyfriend needs me to pick him up and drive him home from work that day, which isn't a problem.

Alas, I ran into unexpected problems at work and he had to wait till I could get there. Of course, he waits at the bar down the street. By the time I pick him up he's had at least 4 beers and is feeling really damn relaxed. I grin and bear it (a common thing to do when living with alcoholics) and we go home, where he drinks a few more and then passes out for a while.

By the time he wakes back up I am steaming mad. He wanders out into the living room and asks me what's wrong. I tell him, "Hello? It's my birthday?" to which he asks me what it is that I would like to do. "Going out to dinner would be nice..." I reply rather pointedly. Ok, says he and out we go.

When we get to the restaurant he orders another beer (of course) and then eats like a ravenous pig. He drinks that beer and orders another. He's happy, smiling, joking around. He's not acting like a drunk, just a very cheerful version of himself. Whatever. I'm just trying to enjoy my food and make the best of a crappy situation and hope that my birthday ends as quickly as possible.

Dinner ends and it's time to go, but he's having trouble finishing that last beer he ordered. Since he'd barely eaten anything all day, gotten drunk midday, passed out, and then wolfed down a huge dinner, he's not feeling so thirsty after all. But the idiot can't just LEAVE the half finished beer, God no. So he chugs it and we walk outside.

We didn't get more than 20 feet from the door and he starts vomiting into the bushes. I watch him for a second and then just heave a sigh and walk to the truck. By the time he finishes I have firmly placed myself in that hidden inner space where nothing bothers me (read: land of denial). I ask him if he's ok and we go home. He smiles and laughs, embarrassed, and comments on how that was a waste of a steak dinner. I say, "Yep," and drive us home. Yay. What fun.

4) Pissed About Fashion

A friend of mine is a clothing designer and asked me to model some of her stuff in an upcoming fashion show. Having an excellent little dance on the catwalk, I agree (laughs). My boyfriend is most hesitant and uncertain about the whole event, especially since the clothes my friend designs could not be described as anything but "intimate apparel"- meaning, I would be next to nude in some of these outfits. Whatever, I just want to strut my fabulous stuff, and a lot of the outfits by the other designers were full length gowns and whatnot.

The big night arrives and my boyfriend manages to weasel up enough courage to go, even though "I'll be standing there watching other men drool over you all night". I point out to him that it isn't unusual to have men drooling, but this entails a spotlight so I guess that's different for him? Whatever. I go upstairs and do all the pre-show fluffing with the other models and he sits in the club (it's a gorgeous jazz club that's throwing this soiree) doing what? Of course, getting drunk.

The show starts, it's a lot of fun, I have a blast. It's all very classy and swank and the least amount of clothes I had on was a camisole and slip combo, baby blue, that was rather see though but looks great with heels, right? (laughs) My bosses are there in the very front, snapping pictures and whistling, and it's an all around good time. Even the crowd is happy and rocking out to some very tasty Portishead/techno mix, getting a nice taste of eye candy and cracking up to our announcers jokes.

At the end, we all go change back into our street duds and come back into the club to hang out. I sit down with my bosses and boyfriend at a table and enjoy the post show glow of people coming up and complimenting and chatting me up. Ahhh. But after about 15 minutes my boyfriend announces he's way too trashed and he's going to go wait outside for me in the truck. Meaning, he's going to go pass out in the passenger seat. I point out to him that it's 25 degrees outside and maybe that's a bad plan, but he's ready to be unconscious and he gets surly and argumentative at that point. He's being a total dickhead and I see no way around it but to leave and take his drunk ass home, despite the fact that I would rather hang out and enjoy my night now that I was done. But no. So, we leave.

He manages to stagger up the steps and passes out in the bed. I undo my fancy hair and wash off the makeup and fall asleep next to him, disappointed and hurt that he had to ruin my night.

A few hours later I wake up to this weird noise, which takes me a minute to decipher and once I figure out what it is I could just scream. He is, no kidding, peeing in the bed. Luckily for him he wasn't facing me because I think I would have just beat him senseless right then. As it was, I slept on the couch and waited for him to wake up. Once he did, I heard him yell, and he was pissed. (Get it? Pissed? HA!)

I came into the bedroom smirking and said, "What's wrong?" And he was looking around, mad as hell and confused and hung over. "Why am I laying in a cold, wet bed?" he demands to know, and I just raise one eyebrow at him and wait for him to figure it out. He does so pretty quickly, quits his yelling and basically sticks him tail between his legs and strips the bed. He throws it all in the washing machine and takes a shower. I go into the secret world of denial in my head and we don't speak of it again.

3) Superman Sink

Same boyfriend- we were together for a long time and the drinking got worse there in the end, making for a whole bunch of great stories to tell you.
This time he came home from the bar drunk as hell and passed out in his room (he smoked and had his own den to do that in). I noted his arrival and unconsciousness and just rolled my eyes and went back to the computer.

A few hours later I was using the bathroom and he walked up to the door and just stared at me, in this really bizarre and fucked up way. I said something to him but he just stared and turned away. He walked away from the door and I followed him, trying to figure out if he was sleepwalking or what his deal was. When I got out of the bathroom I nearly ran into him in the hallway, where he had his dick in his hand and was pissing on the door to the spare bedroom.

I don't think I can accurately describe what it is like to see a grown man standing under a light, pissing on door while he stares at you. I yell at him, "What are you doing? Get in the bathroom!" to which he replies his notorious drunk catch all phrase,

"I got it."

I snap, "No, you DON'T got it!" And he sneers at me, still pissing on the door, "I GOT it." As if this emphasized "got" was supposed to convey some deeper meaning that I was obviously too stupid to understand.

I stare at him, dumbfounded, and he just lays down on the floor, right next to his puddle of piss, with his pants around his ankles. He's kneeling, face on the floor, ass up in the air like a baby sleeps sometimes, but he's not a baby and I have a clear view of his nuts hanging between his leg. I ponder kicking them but instead I just stand there, amazed, hoping he'll roll over into his piss-puddle and suffocate.

After a few minutes I decide I have to do something, so I try to wake him up. I know he won't piss in the bed because he just finished peeing all over the door, right? But when I try to wake him up he doesn't change positions, just raises his head and starts angrily spewing this,

"Oh, fine, whatever! You think you're so cool, with your special sink! Well, I'm SORRY I don't have a cool Superman sink like you!" and makes various sounds of disgust and annoyance. He raises his head up one last time and yells, "I'll take the trash out tomorrow!" and smashes face first into the carpet again.

I give up and go to bed.

2) Falling For Magic Crayons

When I was fifteen I very briefly dated a bungling alcoholic moron who didn't take my breaking up with him very well. As a matter of fact, he showed up at my bedroom window one night, rapping on the glass and asking me to wake up and talk to him.

This wasn't as easy as it sounds, as my bedroom was on the second floor. He had to climb up a tree and shimmy across the roof to the point where the roof slants down right under my window. But there he was, 2 am, and when I opened the window I could smell the fumes from his breath from there. Whew.

He's talking nonsense, drivel, pissed off about us breaking up and then telling me how much he loves me, drunken blah blah blah. He asks me to sneak out of the house and come hang out with him but I tell him, no thanks, I'm sleeping. He then says, "But I just took some acid! I'll be up all night tripping!" I look at him and suddenly wonder how the hell he got to my house, since he has no car and lives 10 miles away. So I asked him, and he tells me he went into someone's garage and stole a bike. "You managed to ride here on a bike?" I asked, totally astounded that he could maneuver a two wheeled vehicle that far as trashed as he was. "Yah," he said, "So you have to come out and hang out with me...I can't ride home till I'm done tripping."

(For those of you unaware, by tripping I mean taking LSD. It takes about 6-10 hours to come down off of, and I did a HELL of a lot of it when I was a teenager. Man did I love LSD...)

I had NO desire to go hang out with him or even ever lay eyes on his drunken mug ever again, but I realized he's all whacked out and it's going to take some careful moves on my part to get him to leave after going on such a monumental journey to come to see me. I did the first thing I came up with. I said, "Hold on, I have something for you," and grabbed a crayon off my floor (I really enjoyed art when high or tripping). I opened the window back up, removed the screen and thrust the crayon at him. "What's this?" he said, looking at it like it was completely alien. "It's a magic crayon," I said, laughing to myself and thinking what a total idiot he is. "What?" he says, so I repeat myself, "It's a magic crayon."

While turning it over in his hand he fumbles it and drops the crayon, which promptly rolls down the roof into the dark. "I dropped it," he stupidly informs me and I tell him he simply MUST go get it. He looks baffled and finally says, "Ok..." and crawls away on the roof. I immediately shut the window, pull the curtains closed and fall right back asleep.

The next thing I know the sun is up and my mom is standing over my bed, shaking me awake and asking me if I know WHY (he) is huddled in our garage, shaking, with blood all over him. I gape at her and tell her exactly what happened the night before as we walk outside.

There's an ambulance in the driveway and they take him away. I hear nothing more about him and don't bother to even call to see if he's ok. Looking back I see that was pretty heartless but he was so well known for his drunkenness I didn't think anything of it at the time.

Years later I found out he told everyone that I PUSHED him off the roof. Stupid drunken fucknut. I almost wish I had.

1) My Hero

My dad. When I was about four my dad had gone into the hospital for a bleeding ulcer. They then realized that he was an alcoholic and put him on massive amounts of valium to deal with the alcoholism (man, were the 70's great, or what?). When he comes back from the hospital he just lays around the house, while my mom goes to work to support us.

Apparently she discovered he was still drinking, after finding tiny single shot bottles hidden all over the place, in his fishing gear and throughout the basement. So she took his valium away and hid it, since the doctors told her he can't do both.

Apparently he found where she hid it and decided he'd had enough and was just going to OD. So he did, and then called her up at work and informed her she better come home so me and my brother wouldn't be the ones to find his body. She did, he didn't die, and she divorced him shortly thereafter, which he still views as a travesty and abandonment in his time of need. What the fuck ever. I could say the same thing.

The only reason I heard this story is because I mentioned it to my mom about a year ago. I remember that day. (I blogged about it last year.) And because of the total emotional damage he did, though that and a plethora of other bullshit, he gets my number one award for Alcoholic Dipshit Moves.

Way to go, Dad.

I've been reading SO many blogs lately I just can't keep up with it all. Addiction? Maybe. It is, at the very least, gluttonous.
My my. You people have a lot of interesting things to say. How I love you...

from me to you

Something to start your weekend properly: a hearty laugh at
someone else's expense.

brilliance at work

I suppose there are things that are more wickedly awesome than making fire from water but my astounded self cannot currently figure out what they might be.

ancient wisdom

It is said that the Kung Foole priests can walk through walls. Looked for, they cannot be seen. Listened for, they cannot be heard. Touched, they cannot be felt. But take away their lock picks and tie them up with some snug leather restraints and they're not going anyplace.

- Ancient Kung Foole Proverb

This is my body.
God is food.
A mighty hot dog is our God.

- Ancient Kung Foole Proverb

The Shitasticly Craptacular Dunghole From Hell

When I was with my sons dad, we moved a lot. By a lot, I mean six times in the two years we were together. One of those years I was pregnant, and I'm here to tell you: pregnant bitches don't like moving. Neither do new mothers. But unfortunately, he was an alcoholic (which I knew) and a coke addict (I was clueless) among other things, and since he was "supporting" me, I was at the mercy of his various addictions. The result: he frequently couldn't pay the rent, power, whatever, and we got evicted. A lot.

Anyway, one of the shitastic hellholes we lived in was the end all be all of craptacular living. The house was in redneck central (Swana-nowhere, NC), near a factory, between the train tracks and the highway. The train had a crossing on either side of the house, so it would wail the horn no matter which way it was going, and it usually came fast enough and that I didn't hear it coming until the horn would blow out my eardrums.

Anyone who has read my blog for a month or more knows how much I HATE loud noises. PTSD- I freak out completely. It's bad.

Anywho, this place didn't have air conditioning, as the lazy bastard I bred with couldn't be bothered to spend his coke money on air conditioning, especially since he was usually at the air conditioned bar, what did he care? So the windows were wide open, allowing the trains noise full access to my bleeding eardrums. Also, there were no screens, so the house would be filled with bugs at night, since it was hot as hell (did I mention no air conditioning?) and I had to leave them open. I would like to note: pregnant bitches do not want to lie in a puddle of their own sweat while trying to relax after having their eardrums blown out by passing trains. This bothers them.

The woman who owned the house had decided it was her dream home and she wanted to move back in. What the fuck she was on I just don't know- this place was the ultimate shithole, as I will get to in just a moment. But nevertheless, she wanted to renovate the place -while we lived there- and since we had a month to month lease and she knew she could force us out by annoying us to death, she had guys come over and start ripping out closets, covering everything we owned in drywall dust, and then started in ripping out the windows. *blinks and twitches psychotically* I needn't tell you how pregnant bitches feel about THAT.

The house next door was owned by a couple that were no doubt the proud owners of The Title For World Class Redneck Living At It's Finest. Their house was separated from ours by a mere driveway, meaning we were close enough to hear their hollered conversations in the living room or the TV blaring Hee Haw or whatever the hell they watched at full blast while hollering at each other. They had a mangy old dog tied up outside the back door, and he had a lovely big old dirt patch to call his home. I noticed a time or two when they finished eating a turkey or chicken and would just throw the carcass out the back door for the dog to gnaw on.

I would have pointed out that it's a great way to kill an animal (the bones splinter and choke them to death) but I didn't for two reasons. #1) I figured the poor dog might be better off choking to death while happily feasting on some roast beast instead of spending another winter tied to his outdoor dirt patch resort and #2) I was terrified of these people getting too friendly and feeling comfortable in coming over to talk to me or invite me to be on the Jerry Springer show with them.

They had a son that looked like Pugsly (from the Adams Family). I called him this, but never to his face. I figured he was damaged enough without my help. Anyway, Pugsly had a trampoline in the front yard, surrounded by old chairs, an ancient rusted washing machine, various piles of discarded should-be trash and a few items that had obviously been out there so long their original properties and origins could no longer be discerned. Those of you in the South know exactly what the yard looked like, the rest of you should imagine a house situated squarely in the middle of a junkyard.

Darling Pugsly (who really was a very nice boy) also owned a motorbike, which he was allowed to drive around his house. Directly around his house. Which he did, repeatedly, any chance he got, for hours on end. Since our yards were only separated by the driveway, this meant that Pugsly was roaring up between our houses (with a lovely echo) every 30 seconds, or however long it took him to circle his house. This also meant that his house was encircled by a dirt track, since he rode in the same circle over and over and over... I have to say, the dirt track really added something to the place. Some kind of intangible charm, I don't know. At any rate, I can tell you pregnant bitches don't like 12 year olds roaring around their house 284 times an afternoon either. No sir. Especially with the dust and dirt cloud that was inescapable due to having to keep the windows open. Just lovely.

The best part of all? These people had come up with the truly ingenious idea of garbage disposal (what made it past their front yard, anyway): they had an old abandoned mobile home in the back yard (read: dirt patch) that they used solely for the purpose of throwing their garbage into.

Yes. There was a single wide behind their house, into which they would walk out with a bag of garbage, open the door, and heave it as far back into it that they could. They would then close the door, leaving all of their garbage rotting and festering in the enclosed "house", being broiled and in various states of decomposition in the blistering summer sun. In the winter, it was blessedly frozen. But summer? No.

That was where the rats came from. The rats that I could hear crawling through the walls, and the rats that eventually ate holes in the walls and cabinets to come trolling through our house at night, eating through loaves of bread and boxes of cereal. They shit on the plates, in the sink, in the bathtub. At night I could hear them going through the house, ripping things open and chewing up furniture. I had to sleep with the bedroom door closed so they wouldn't eat the baby. I wasn't sure if they would try, but I wasn't about to give them the chance.

One night while my friend was over I could hear this rustling noise outside. Seeing as how I had just put the trash out, I knew it was the rats ripping holes in the bags and making a huge mess. I ran to the back door and flipped on the porch light. Through the large glass window in the back door I realized I was staring into the eyes of a mother black bear, who was a mere 4 feet from my face as I froze. Her babies were tearing my trash to smithereens, and as I stared I couldn't help but noticed they favored the pizza boxes and Breyers yogurt containers. And I have to tell you, seeing a baby bear holding a tiny yogurt cup between his paws and lolling his big long tongue in an out of it is about as cute as it gets.

While my brain was filing away this cuteness for further reference, I was also assessing the incredible danger I was in- here is a mother bear with cubs, and I just scared her. I am looking at her through a pissy little weak door whose upper half is a wimpy single pane of glass. If this bear decides to attack, all she has to do is push her paws through the glass and crawl through. My car is parked next to her cubs, so escape isn't an option. So, I do what comes naturally- I stare at her and do my damnedest to psychically tell her that I recognize she has her cubs, and that I have my cub in the house with me. I don't mind if she feeds her cubs with my garbage, but if she tries to come in I will try to kill her. And I do not want to do this.

Well, it seems to work, and after I finish she looks away, unconcerned. I turn off the light and walk shaken back into the living room, informing my friend that those aren't rats after all but a bear. She screeches and I tell her also that I have just finished informing mama bear that all is well and good, no problems. My friend knows all about my psychic stuff (I rarely talk about it, even in blogland) and this seems to suit her well enough. We relax and enjoy peeking out the windows at the cute baby bears.

We moved a few weeks later- not because of the bears (which were maybe the best part of living there) but because the owner wanted to repaint the inside of the house and I couldn't let my baby breathe paint fumes (or get eaten by rats).

There were other horrible places that I've lived but that was by far The Shitasticly Craptacular Dunghole From Hell.

i copulate

Just what you need- some stranger walks up, jamming out to their iPod, sees that you also have an iPod, and asks you if you wanna hook up.

The worlds cheesiest pick up lines are about to get much cheesier.

so, you think you know me?

While crusing through MySpace profiles today I came across a chick flipping off the camera. Strange, I thought. What kind of odd first impression does that make? Of all the pictures she could pick from that best represent her true self, why that one?

I understand the desire for a picture like that. I've long used coldness and unapproachability to keep people away when I feel intimidated or uncomfortable. The strange thing is, I'm trying to find a better way.

What's strange about that? Just that I've finally recognized that I do it but more so that I feel braver now than ever before and just want to be nice. I just want to be a nice person. I realize that's not always going to happen, because the world is filled with stupid assholes that anger me, but still... I don't want to resort to distant coldness as a knee jerk reaction to my own fear and insecurity. You dig?

I want to learn how to be present and vulnerable without getting hurt. I want to learn how to show the softer side of me to strangers and not be so effected by their occasional disproval or dislike of who I am.

You see, it's so easy to hide behind our masks, never showing who we really are for fear of others judging us. But what is life without feeling like another truly understands and accepts us?

I've been doing a lot of thinking about this (and blogging about it on the sex blog). Mr. Wonderful has made such a Herculean effort to break through all my walls and get to know the real me that I am somewhat staggered to realize how few people REALLY know me. How few people have I even given a real chance at getting to know me? And how many people have been friends with me for years (or lovers) and never bothered to dig any deeper than the surface mask I presented them with?

When I think of the last boyfriend I had and how close I thought we were I could just laugh (and then choke on my vomit while laughing). I mean, really, it's pitiful just how little he knew about me in the 5 years we were together.

When I talked to him on the phone recently he asked what I was doing, and I told him I had quit work to write full time. "Write?" he said, baffled. "Yah," I replied, "I've always wanted to just write." That statement was greeted by a silence which clearly told me that he had no idea. I thought back to the hours I would spend blogging (when I could barely type it took a looooong time) and how he would bitch about me sitting in front of the computer so much, until I snapped at him that he'd been sitting in his room (he smoked so he had a seperate little "den" to do that in) for hours playing Playstation and drinking beer- I was surprised he noticed what I was doing at all! Or cared.

Looking back, I cringe. How could I have thought we were so close, so intimate, such good friends? He was selfish and passive, and I was gaurded and suspicious. I think we got close enough for me to be comfortable and that was all. He never pushed to know any more about me and I never offered any more clues to my own inner world.

What's lame is that at first I asked him a few times if he wanted to read my blog. He never did. I took that as a shitty little insult, his total lack of interest in my thoughts. Fucker. So I never offered them again. (deep breath) Oh well. It is done and over and thank goodness for that.

I find it bizarre that I could have spent 5 years with someone who barely knew me at all, and I thought that was an acceptable arrangement. It doesn't baffle me how it came about, I know how it came about (again, it's in the sex blog- "grateful for the lines you draw" post). Growing up with alcoholics and dysfunction, it's a perfectly normal coping mechanism. But I find it sad that I'm 31 years old and just now figuring this out.

Such is life.

You know, I always did think it was odd that the readers of my blog knew more about me than my boyfriend did. That certainly isn't true of Mr. Wonderful.

this dog clearly explains PMS to everyone

Clearly.

open source beer

I mean, sure, why not? I'm waiting for open source Xanax, myself.

You will be assimilated.

If it seems like a new blog is being created every second, that's because it's true.

Mwaa haa haa. Resistance is futile.

sand hurts my dumb ass

My son and I decided to go to the pool today, but, alas, the pool was closed. So we opted for the beach instead.

I realized at the time that it might not be the best idea since I had on the wispy little string bikini that the waves will most certainly want to devour, but I wanted to swim already and not go back home to change. So, off we go.

We get there and go down into the water, which is crazy turbulent. It only takes one wave to smash into us and try to haul us back for me to belatedly look up at the beach flags and see that they're red (meaning a dangerous surf). Ahh. Shit. But we're here and I'm keeping a hawk eye on my son so I feel confident. One, he is not allowed more than 3 feet away from me- far enough that I can lunge and snatch him from the undertow. Two, he isn't going out far. The deepest we got was waves to my waist, although they hit my face a few times when they broke close by.

All is well, we're having fun. After about 30 minutes one wave catches him and pulls him, hard. I grab him and it pushes me over, to hold on to him. Over I go, but our heads are above water, no big deal. Then I realize my bikini bottom is around my knees and, pride dictates that I do NOT stand up.

So I'm holding on to him and getting wrenched around by these really powerful waves and just waiting until the third one pushes us up far enough that I can let go of him wihtout worrying and yank up my bikini, which I do. Ok. Situation under control.

It was at that point I looked down and realized that my leg felt like I had just sandpapered it in three different places- my first case of sand burn. And I gotta tell you, it really fucking hurts. But my son is still having a blast so I tell him I'm hurt and we have to stay closer to shore.

Ok- so we do, and we are fine, other than the fact that every wave thereafter would pull all this sand and salt across these already abraded patches on my leg and ankle and damn it, it hurts! I finally give up and tell him it's time to go.

So here I am to tell you my tale of sandburn and have you all remind my dumb ass to look at the freaking flag BEFORE I get in. Thank you.

a spleef for your road rage?

After reading Mike's post about road rage (and nearly snarfing my tea, thank you very much) I simply must comment on road rage.

You see, I am very prone to it. Yes, indeed. People like me should not own guns, and I don't. Well, there's the shotgun but it doesn't travel well. Hard to aim when driving. Cumbersome. But I digress.

I have been inspired to run a bastard off the road many times. I have not done it. I have, actually, been run off the road myself by stupid bastards (and thus wished I had the previously mentioned shotgun).

I used to not be bothered by it much at all. Traffic, shmaffic. Whatever. I think this was largely due to the fact that I used to smoke assloads of pot, and therefore couldn't have given two hoots about traffic. I've got some good tunes blaring and I'm high as hell, who gives a crap what people do? I'm just toodling along, pondering who invented math and how and what is on the other side of a black hole and how I hope if I get sucked into one that I have a lot of snacks with me cause MAN have I got the munchies!

But then I quit smoking pot and a few years later I got pregnant. And then, the shit hit the fan.

All of a sudden I noticed this weird reaction to bad drivers- my hand would clench and rise, unknowingly and without my asking it to, and my middle finger would suddenly shoot up into the air, rigid and defiant. My face would also suddenly contort and turn red and I remember hearing someone screaming, "Fuck you, you fucking fucker fuck fuckface!" and the voice sounded strangely familiar, almost like my own...

Odd, isn't it?

Each time I would be shocked, like, who the crap is the violent freak inhabiting my body? Dude? Am I going to give birth to Satan? What the hell is wrong with me? But I realized what was happening: I wasn't just pissed off about someone endangering me; apparently that didn't bother me. But someone endangering my CHILD, oh, it's ON now, you bastards! You want some psychoticly angry pregnant bitch to rip you out your car window and stomp your ass into Play-doh right here in this intersection? Ok, then back the fuck off my bumper. And don't you dare fucking honk at me to cross between the blinking train gates to try to make it through before the train comes. I am not taking my life into YOUR hands because your dumb ass didn't leave for work early enough, fuck you very much.

Was it pregnancy making me crazy like this? Oh, no. Once he was born I felt even more strongly about it, and that hasn't changed. Even if he's not in the car with me, I still become enraged when somebody does something insane that could have killed me if I hadn't been watching out for their stupid shit. Because I think I would like to run them off the road and choke them while asking, "Do you really think that stupid maneuver was worth leaving my child motherless? Is you getting in front of that car so goddamn important that you kill my sons mommy? Because, I've got to say, I think it's not." (Insert loud pop of gun here, as I rid the world of one of it's idiots.)

Even Mr. Wonderful gave up his beloved motorcycle when we got together. The call of responsible fatherhood was so strong he said he simply couldn't justify having something that risky anymore. I was dumbfounded but I understood completely. That's the way it is. I'm glad he sees it that way.

It's hideous, really, to look back to my teenage driving years and all the stupid shit we would do. I think I only drove once after drinking and I never did that again. Too scary. But I didn't seem to feel that driving under the influence of LSD, pot, mescalin, mushrooms, valium, or opium (not all at once, come on!) was a problem. Ok, opium was. That kicked my ass. I didn't know, I'd never done it before. Me and my friend had to pull into a parking lot and just sit there in hysterical laughter for a long, long time. Stupid.

And although I never did any of the really crazy shit, I had plenty of friends that did- finding an icy parking lot and doing high speed donuts, mailbox baseball, mowing down people's trash bags and leaf bags (one caught on fire beneath his car, that was just fucking great), and my favorite, driving down sidewalks. Yes. Broad daylight on a sunny Sunday afternoon, my friend decides it would just be a HOOT to drive up onto someone's yard and then proceed to drive down the sidewalk through the neighborhood. People are out on their lawns watching, staring, totally dumbstruck. I'm in the backseat high as a kite and can't decide if I should try to dive out the window before we get killed or just laugh until I pissed myself. (I opted for the latter, but it was a terrified giggle, I assure you, and no adult diapers were needed.)

Ah, the good old days.

I jest.

What the hell is my point? Geez, I don't know. Let's sum it up, shall we?

Me and road rage are well aquainted pals.
I used to smoke waaaay too much weed.
So did my friends.
I wasn't as angry then.
Neither was I safe.
Now I am, but I'm pissed off about it.
I think.
Oh, fuck it.
Fuckity fucker fuck fuckington. And stay the hell off my bumper. I'm not high, you see?

searching for the small chested bootylicious store

I got my second dose of birthday inspired Japanese food on Saturday. My lovely Padoodles and I went to eat and then went shopping. And I learned a very interesting thing that day: girls with big boobs have the same trouble finding clothes as girls with small boobs do. I, myself, have been a lifetime member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Padoodles most certainly has NOT. So, shopping we go, and my shirts are too big, hers are too small. But I have to say, it made me feel a lot less frustrated than usual to know that big breasted girls have the same problem. I was thinking it was some kind of conspiracy by the plastic surgeons of the America to drive all us small breasted women under the scalpel so we could find clothes that fit, finally. But apparently it's just a matter of fact that most women are B and C cups and thats what the clothing industry caters to. Bastards. And having big hips and a small chest isn't conveniant when you're buying a dress. It either fits on my chest and it won't slide down over my hips or it fits my hips but looks like a sack on my chest. I need a small chested bootylicious store. Anyone know where I can find one?