Thursday, March 31, 2005



I love birthdays. And now it's MINE all MINE.


Happy Birthday To Me! Happy Birthday To Me! Happy Birthday To Meeeeeee, Happy Birthday To Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And many more.. and kiss the floor.......don't shut the door..... you're mom's a whore....



Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Again, For Becca

I thought this would sum up the events of the last 36 hours.

*Again, to Becca: I'm so sorry honey and I can't help but believe he'll come home. I know you sometimes think our definitions of God are as different as night and day, but I can promise you He hears our prayers nonetheless.
Hey Everyone,
I have a prayer request that I hope you will honor and pass on. Yesterday we received word from the army that my sweet baby brother, Chris, had been wounded in action. His armored vehicle was hit with an IED (bomb) and the impact was right where he was sitting. He and another soldier were rushed to the hospital in Kandahar, and Chris went into five hours of emergency surgery. Unfortunately they were not able to save his right leg, and had to amputate it from the knee down. He was in serious condition, and moved to a hospital in Germany last night. We received word today that he has been downgraded to very serious condition. The doctors examined him this morning, but we don't know anything else yet. The army may pay for my parents to go to Germany, but we are waiting for word on this as well. Please pray that his condition improves, for wisdom for the doctors, and that my parents will be able to visit him. Pray against infection and shock for his body, and for his emotional and spiritual well-being once he wakes up. Also, please pray for all of us who love him, as we feel helpless so far away from him. Thank you so much in advance for your prayers.
Love in Christ,

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


If you do now or have ever held a deity close to your heart, please pray for the life of a beautiful young man. This child is in critical condition as I write this. They could not save his leg and are working to save his arm. Please, even if it’s only one moment you spend today, forget about paying your mortgage, your phone bill, the fight you had with your son or the traffic that makes you crazy. Think about how hard some of these men and women are working, some barely out of high school, and all with the kind responsibility and sorrow that most of us will never face in a lifetime. Pray for a quick recovery, for the sanity of his family and for the strength to remember that no matter what he looks like, his family and friends will always know what’s inside his heart.

None of this changes the fact that I'm so angry I don't know what to do. It took me 30 minutes to form six sentences and even if I wasn't sitting in a cubicle, there still would be ABSOLUTELY NOTHING I COULD DO to help him and I HATE that ignorant, genital of a man that lacks the mental prowess to even wipe his own ass let alone run a country. Do I know how irrational I sound? Yes. I do. I don't care. I want him gone. I'd even go so far as to say DEAD. I know I place my hopes in the greener side of the lawn, not knowing what another would have done in his place. Again, I. Don't. Care. I know I'm transferring all of my anger and helplessness on him. I. Don't. Care. I can hate him if I want to.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Pet peeves:

1) Taking car to get very obnoxious rattle fixed. Said car has less than 1,000 miles on it. Call customer at work to tell them that the factory forgot to install some screws in the instrument cluster, which caused aforementioned rattle. Instill as much confidence as possible with customer that no other visible screws appeared to be missing from vital moving parts.
2) Not washing very dirty car after test-driving for 35 miles. Hand customer keys at check-out counter and turn back around to your 13-inch TV propped up on the counter because you are the very busy and important cashier and Oprah is on. Let customer mutter obscenities while walking around parking lot attempting to locate vehicle. Shoot customer dirty look when they hit the PANIC button and let the alarm go off, purely for their own amusement, while they slowly meander their way across the asphalt to the, again, VERY DIRTY CAR.
3) The hold that VERY DIRTY CAR has on your sanity and hence forces you into the do-it-yourself carwash near office.
4) Car washes that do not make change out of ten dollar bills, forcing you into the neighboring gas station for change.
5) Gas station attendants with no teeth. It impedes the process of telling you that your can of Diet Dr. Pepper is “ahty-theben thent.” (That would be ‘eighty-seven cents’ for those of you out there with proper motor skills.)
6) The upper parking lot nazi’s that have orange-coned off your usual parking space, forcing you to alter your parking routine, ridiculous though it may be, and take a chance parking next to people who can never truly appreciate your need for a ding-free vehicle, un-marred by scratches, dirt and lint.

I quite obviously need something to occupy my time.


Family Ties

Sorry for the hiatus. Much on my mind these days.

Will explain later. When Big Brother is not peering over my shoulder.

Be that it may, let’s start with this weekend’s festivities, shall we?

Though only my grandmother is a church-goer, we celebrate the Christian holidays of the year the same as everyone else. Only with possibly less ham because no one in the family likes the taste of cured piggies for supper. Bacon’s cool, though. Anyway. Much smaller family gathering than the comparitive Thanksgiving meal that was full of unnerving displays of animal skins, hunting techniques and the comparing of projectile objects known the redneck-world over as “boolets.”

This gathering was small, only my mother, father, one grandmother my brother (barely) and myself.

My dad is rarely a factor in these gatherings unless there is another male there to compare “boolets” with or gaze at out into the woods surrounding my parents home, making comments in reference to the “good huntin” and “perfect cover” the woods allow the seasoned hunter, such as themselves.

So my father sat, in a quiet and sullen manner, throughout the majority of the pre-Easter lunch, the Easter lunch and the post-Easter lunch.

My brother rolled in less than 30 seconds before we were getting ready to sit down to the traditional meal of Easter dinner where no one says a word except for my grandmother, willing us to volunteer information about our lives in such a manner that she can gather and store away tidbits to hurl, like nuts, at her other busy-body church-lady friends that compare children, grandchildren and the like. Much in the same way that men compare penis size throughout their whole lives. But much more intense. People underestimate the ferocity of grandmothers. They’ll cut you. They will.

Back to my brother. Needless to say, he was not in the most sober of minds. Hell, that’s an understatement. Per usual, he could barely keep his head out of the potato salad. Personally, I was silently rooting for a little entertainment and cannot deny I was not adverse to a little head-in-food action. Granted, the ensuing hell that would have been the rest of the meal would have been enough to break a grown man into tears, so tense would the silence be. But I’ve been surviving these dinners since the dawn of time. I’m immune. (I do feel immensely sorry for anybody my brother or I may bring home in the future, however)

So my brother wobbled and burped and red-faced his way through about half of the meal before escaping into the bathroom to vomit, loudly, from the back bathroom. Very pleasant. Just want I want to hear as I’m eating the now vomit-textured dressing with my turkey. Rock on.

Fastforward 20 minutes. My brother is still retching everything he ever thought about eating into the serenity of the cold blue goddess. Dad has silently risen from his chair at the head of the table and has walked into the living to flip between Chop Shop and basketball.

That leaves my grandmother, my mother and me. Me me me me. All eyes turn to me.

“So I hear you’ve got an interview in Memphis this week,” my grandmother says.


“What are you going to wear? I don’t think you own anything appropriate for that kind of interview, do you?”

Mentally imaging placing pillow over her face.

“Go get your new suit, Birdie and show your grandmother.”

This is my mother’s attempt at warm and fuzzy family togetherness. This, after failing to have a pleasant and perky daughter and a sober son who, admirably enough, only let the f-word slip out 3 times over dinner.


Sulk off to room and take every minute possible to put on new suit and heels. Reapply mascara. Pee. File nails. Straighten bed.

20 minutes later and I walk out into the room. I actually look good in this suit. It fits perfectly (which is rare because the giant boobs and ass make for difficult shopping). It’s a beautiful color on me. It’s perfect. Skims, doesn’t cling. Fabric is lovely and textured.

My grandmother looks at my mother and says “Mother, you’re going to need to get her a girdle to go around her middle. You don’t want that pulling across her waist.”

My blood pressure rises. She’s MY mother you ASS, don’t call her by the title that only her children are entitled to. And IT DOESN’T PULL ACROSS MY MIDDLE.

“Have you put on any weight, Birdie? You know you gain weight in your middle.”


I shoot her the most deadly of looks. And still she continues.

“You really need to watch what she buys, Mother,” turning again to talk to my mother as if I have magically disappeared from the room. “You know these young girls think they can wear those belly shirts and whorish clothes when they have too much weight in their middles to look even moderately respectable.”

Oh. My. God.

And my grandmother wonders why I never come to visit.

*All this from a woman of five feet and 275 pounds and a belly the size of the sahara resting beneath her clothes. Please, tell me I'm a fat cow again. I dare you.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Ode to Shel Silverstein

I swung my legs out of the car at 11:02am. I am supposed to be at work by 11am. Because I work the evening shift, I have to park Where The Sidewalk Ends. Well, to be honest, I park there because I'm midly anal retentive and my car is less likely to be dinged in the area of the parking lot where no one really wants to park. i.e. far far away from the front door. But I digress. I swung my legs out of my car and firmly planted both feet on the asphalt. The ensuing plume of white powder was literally enough to make me cough and stare about in confusion.

"What the living fuck?"

I look around and see the white powder adhering to my black pants, my black heels and the black ashpalt.

Again I say,

"What the living fuck?"

I twist around and look inside my car, thinking some scary chemical reaction with the scotch guard has turned my spotless beige interior into a breeding ground for white powdery fungus.

And then this scenario plays out in my head:

10:43am: Racing around house, grabbing keys, book to read on lunch, purse, wallet, company ID with possibly the most heinous picture I've ever taken adorning the front, etc. Realize I'm about to walk out the door barefoot. Mild panic. Mentally rifle through shoe collection. Decide do not have time to be festive and find blue shoes, will have to wear black ones as I know they are currently residing in the cabinet beneath the bookshelf. Open cabinet doors, grab black heels and shove feet in. Have mental image of me walking quite briskly in my 3-inch black heels down the hill from the parking lot, down the stairs built into the hill, down another hill, across the parking lot, through the front doors and into the elevator, all while feet slide painfully around inside the innards of the black heels because the material with which the manufacturer mistakenly lined the inside of the shoes is strangely slick; leaving my size 9 1/12 (okay okay sometimes a 10) feet to slide forward and bump my toes. Nanosecond thought process decides still do not have time to find blue shoes, will have to make do with black. Light bulb! Remember sending brother to the grocery store last night to get milk and bread and him coming back with milk, bread and foot powder. Remember laughing hysterically when he told me that his girlfriend was seriously grossed out by his stinky feet/shoes and had bought shoe powder to eliminate problem. Think that powder may eliminate some slippage. Grab shoe powder bottle. Rip off top and point opening into the opening in my shoes and give 4 or 5 good hard squirts. Put top back on powder, throw on coffee table. Shove feet in shoes. Again. Spring out door, clutching all manner of objects deemed necessary for the day. Lock door. Spring up stairs to where vehicle is parked. Marvel briefly at the soft cradle that is now my black heels. Think perhaps should thought of this plan sooner, as shoes are now mucho comfortable and non-slippy. Have hit jackpot!

Fastforward to 11:03:
Have just finished mental flashback. Realize that perhaps was overzealous with powder. Take feet out of shoes and stomp around on black asphalt. Become slightly entranced with pattern feet are making on black asphalt. Realize white powder is breeding on the carpet of my car. Panic. OCD kicks in full speed. Reach over seat and open glove box to pull out interior carpet brush (yes, this is part of my car cleaning supplies that is always on hand).
Vigorously brush carpet to remove white powder. Not completely satisfied with cleaning, but rationality prevails and decide it's best to not be fired for being obnoxiously late than to get leftover white spot out by removing the carpet mats and scrubbing the whole carpet. Still the problem of the white powder on clothing. Brush at clothing with hand only to realize this was the same hand that tried to brush off bottom of feet. Marvel at white handprint now adorning my black pants. Stamp about to dislodge white powder from black shoes. Makes situation worse by turning black shoes gray. Pants are still horrendous.
It takes 4 minutes to walk down the hill, down the stairs, down the hill again, into the building and up to my floor and desk. Have now made self horribly late. Stare at pants in resignation. Begin the walk down the hill. Can see white powder billowing out in tiny poofs with each step. Pray do not see anyone. See woman walking up stairs built into hill. Decide cannot hide scary white powder covered attire so will uncommonly make direct eye contact to keep her eyes away from my white feet, grey shoes and spotted pants. Plan works, though figure woman now thinks I'd like a few hours of heavy petting.

Manage to make it in the front door, in the elevator and onto my floor without seeing a single soul. Think this is probably due to my lateness. Waltz into cubicle land, head high. 20 feet to go and I can hide my pants, feet and shoes under my desk.

"OOOOH, girl. Somebody had a rough night."

Mildly insulted. This from the guy who tries to pass of his Express clothing as Kenneth Cole. I think not, short man.

Other co worker joins in on the fun. Super.

"Where'd you go drinking last night?" Laughter.

What is WRONG with these people?

Sit at desk and clock in. Breathe silent sigh of relief. Bossman one cubicle over is not at his desk. Cross fingers that he hasn't been at desk for the past ten minutes. Maybe does not know I'm late? Sweet.

Catch glimpse of self in the black abyss that is my screen while it attempts to start up my work program.


I fucking forgot to put on my eye makeup. As in, I don't even have on mascara. I don't leave the house to check the mail without mascara. How have I forgotten this? Oh yeah. Was distracted by shoe powder and did not put on mascara while walking down hill. Did not put on eye shadow in elevator, as was so grateful I had almost made it to my desk without being stared at. Realize my giant eyelids make me look sleepy if they're not colored in by dark eyeshadow. My eyelashes haven't been curled to stand at attention or frame my eyes in mascara-ed loveliness. They are currently attacking my eyeballs in droopy lashed-ness.


Wait 30 minutes (in an effort to convey nonchalance at looking like heinous drug addict) and mosey away from desk to visit the loo and a) pee b) remove remaining white powder and c) put on eye makeup. Grab mascara and eyeshadow out of purse. Walk into hallway.

Glance up as about to push open bathroom door because a white somethingorother has caught my eye.

Sign on bathroom reads:


What the fuck do you mean, toilets do not flush?

Another employee joins me in the hallway.

"I was afraid of this," he mutters.

"Afraid of what?"

"Didn't you get the email?"

"No. What email."

"The email that said they shut the water off."

"Um. No. Did not get the email that said they SHUT the WATER off." Silence as we stare at each other.
"They shut the WATER OFF?"



"I dunno. Didn't say."

OH MY LORD. They've shut the water off when I need to empty my teeney bladder and wipe off my pants and wash my hands of scary foot powder and MORE IMPORANTLY I need the mirror to put on my makeup in relative privacy.


Damn the man.

Monday, March 14, 2005

These People Underestimate My Instability.

Okay. So i've decided to treat myself to a hamburger. I've had a VERY BAD DAY. And I EAT MY FEELINGS. (will explain BAD DAY in later post.)

I pull up to Burger King.

"Welcome to burger king, would you like to try a combo meal today?"

"Yes, please. I want a bacon cheddar ranch burger combo with a diet coke."

silence. silence.

more silence



"Please pull to the the first window."

So I pull around and wait and wait and wait for the two cars in front of me to pay for their food and go. Finally, I pull up to the window. Door opens and I hand her my twenty. She takes the twenty, puts it in her cash drawer. Takes out dollar bills and change.

"Eleven dollars and 14 cents is your change."

Door shuts.

WTF?? 9 dollars for a hamburger. I think not.

"Excuse me. Mam. Excuse me. Hello. Hi. Mam. Hellooooo"


"Um. Why is my hamburger nine dollars?"

"Cuz you ordered a Whopper w/ cheese, a Jr. Whopper and a large fry."

"No. I ordered a bacon cheddar ranch burger combo w/ a diet coke."

"No you deeundt. We've got you down for a Whopper w/ cheese, a Jr. Whopper..."

"Hold up. I don't care about the Whoppers you think I ordered. I did not order that. I'm not paying for that. Fix it."

Glass door slams shut.

I can hear her talking to her manager, or person of equal importance. This goes on for about 10 minutes. I can hear them discussing how the order got screwed up. Who ordered the whoppers? How do they get my order back into the queue? Lafawundah up front said this girl just pulled through without making an order. Well, we have to put her order in. So do I just get 2 more dollars from her. Yeah, that should make it even.

Door opens. I'm ready.

"Uh, what did you want again?" says the manager man.

"A bacon cheddar ranch burger combo with a diet coke."

Silence. He's engrossed in the computer thingee.

"Do you want the combo?"

"Yes, I want the combo."

Silence. More computer work. Punching on keys. Silence.

"Did you want the chicken or the burger."

"I. Want. The. Bacon. Cheddar. Ranch. Burger. Combo. With. A. Diet. Coke."

"A medium diet coke?"

"I don't care. Whatever size diet coke comes with the COMBO."

Glass door slams shut. I still haven't gotten my money back. I hang out for a while. I'm not leaving because they owe me money. And there's a car at the second window blocking my escape route anyway.

4 minutes pass.

Glass door opens.

"That'll be six twenty two."

"I've already given you money. You OWE me money for overcharging me on the order that I didn't ORDER."


Glass door shuts. Manager and drive-through-girl confer over the intricacies of the fast food world.

2 minutes pass.

Glass door opens.

"Okay, give us back the money we gave you."


Glass door shuts.

1 minute

Glass door opens.

"So now how much do we owe you?"

"I gave you a twenty. Figure it out or hand me a twenty and I'll be on my merry way. Either way, I truly don't care."

"Uh. Okay."

Rattles around in change drawer. Manager and drive through girl discuss how much change they should give me. The whoppers are brought up again. Then the drive-through-girl remembers that we're not charging me for the whoppers. Only the bacon cheddar ranch. Oh yeah, says the manager.

"Here's your change."

I check it to make sure it's around 14 dollars. Awesome. I pull up to the second window.

"Yeeeah, they got yo order aaaall screwed up."

"Yes, i know."

I'm eyeing the Burger King bag sitting on the interior window sill.

"Here ya go."

She hands me a blue slushee thing.

"Um. no."

"Oh, did you need a straw with that?"

"No. I don't need a straw with that. I have a diet coke. A plain, non-frozen, in liquid-form DIET COKE."

"Oh, my bad."

glass door shuts.
4 minutes pass.

She comes back to the window and hands me the diet coke. Glass door shuts.

I'm still eyeing the bag on the window sill. Curious whether or not it's mine.

3 minutes pass.

I honk my horn.

girl comes to window.

"Oh, did you need something else?"

"Yes, i need something else. My SANDWICH. The one I PAID FOR."

"What did you order?"


"I didn't give you the sandwich?"


(this was a great risk, because if the bag on the counter was not mine I was going to have to throw away my sandwich for fear it had been spit -or worse- on.)

"Oh, this is yourn right here. Sorry bout that."

She reaches over to hand me the bag, sitting on the windowsill, that I've been staring at for the past ten minutes.

"Thank you. Could I have some extra salt, please?"

Hand reaches up to bins of condiments and puts something in the bag.

I take bag, confirm that it is the sandwich I ordered. Fries are there. Diet coke is in cup holder. I'm good to go.

I pull up into the parking lot at work and pull out my sandwich and fries and get ready to devour them. I sweep my hand through the bottom of the burger king bag.


Saturday, March 12, 2005

Five beers later and I have plopped my ass in front of my macketymacmac to typetytypetype. Yo. G.

Probably not a good plan.

Fingers not moving as should.

I would like to discuss the Jesus pamphlet. My brother threw the Jesus pamphlet away (fucker) so I'll just have to go from memory.

The pamphlet arrived in the mail a little over a week ago. Hell, it could have gotten here 8 months ago for all I know. I just happened to sweep my hand in the bottom of the mail box and came up with a colorful and shiny little pamphlet. Before I'd really paid attention, I thought the pamphlet was for some creepy sci-fi convention. And who could blame me? On the front cover was a decidedly orange, bulked up man with flowing, shoulder-length white hair. A red snake/dragon thing curled around his legs and a off in the distance was a young, dairk-haired girl looking over her shoulder while non-chalantly standing on a planet-type thing.

DAMN I wish I still had the pamphlet. The wording was truly a work of art.

Gist of it is, there's this guy. He travels around and whatnot, broadcasting his message of the "true" meaning of Revelations. He explains what Jesus really wants from us. He shows us the way. He tells us The Truth About Jesus and demonstrates what we can do to follow Jesus's hunky orange example of power and light, all while RAKING IN THE DOUGH. Oh, don't get me wrong. He's a smart one. His four week program is entirely free. But, uh, feel free to donate to the cause of the orange Jesus.

By the way, beer 6 is down.

ALL PRAISE THE ORANGE JESUS! Let him show you the way to eternal buffness!

And could someone explain the girl, standing on the planet, looking all calm and shit? Please? This isn't Mary, is it? Because I don't think Mary (the "whore" not the "mom") was ever into orange guys. Cause this guy is O-Range. And he's sporting what appears to be a giant wanker. If we stay on this pattern, I think we can expect a new porno out soon.


Sorry. Is that offensive?

Suck it.

Personally, I'd loooooove to hear this guy's feelings on the world at-large. I'm sure he's full of all manner of awe-inspiring comments that will turn my life into a giant cesspool of Orangejesuslove.


Beer 7.

Hold up need to pee.

Holy Catpoop, Batman. I need to scoop the cat litter. Phew. It smells like a giant sack full of catpooass upstairs. Llama (the cat) has had some intestinal troubles since I switched his cat food. He eats his feelings. And he was getting on the chunkee side. So I put him on the fat-cat food. Even though Llama has no self-control, I'm hoping that the fat-ass-cat-food helps bring him down from obese to maybe just big boned. It's all my fault. I thought he was hungry when he meowed. So I always kept his food bowl filled. And now he's a fatmotherfucker.

Beer 8.

Shit. I was all ready to talk about the orange Jesus. Orange Jesus. Orange Jesus. Lovely flowing white hair. I'm sure they didn't mean to make a religious icon into a hulking sexpot. I'd also love to hear the explanation behind the red snake/dragon thing. What's the purpose with that? Okay okay, the devil. Yes, I know. But it's ridiculously sexual for the Orange Jesus.

Yes, followers of the Orange Jesus! The Devil will slither up your leg but you're to grab him by the head and BITE, yes BITE his head off with your shiny white teeth!

I'm sleepy.


Thursday, March 10, 2005

Does Anyone Have a Knife?

Trying out new system where I leave a Word doc open all day and type on it when I feel like it. Because I have this ridiculous habit of writing down things that I want to write about and then LOSING THEM because this is what I do. I lose things. More specifically, I forget where I put them and then find then ages later when I can’t remember the thought process behind writing “Jesus pamphlet” on a scrap of paper.

I will have to write about the Jesus pamphlet, but later, because it is a very involved subject and I’m slightly distracted today by the sunshine and cannot focus on anything more mind-boggling than what I would like to eat for lunch in, oh, two and a half hours.

I think I would like Cheetos.

OH MY DEAR LORD I know I have beaten this into the ground, but I really can’t handle the foot pain any more. It’s hideous. I had to get up and take something over to data entry a minute ago (naturally, this is ALL THE WAY OVER to the other side of building) and it took every amount of self respect I had to not pull off my shoe, drop to the floor and WEEP. How can this little thing be so painful? Why is my foot mad at me? I buy such pretty shoes for them! In fact, today I am wearing the pink ones. Surely that makes feet happy, right? Must I wear granny shoes for the rest of my life? I cannot BEAR it!

I came back from lunch to find Ms. Linda’s desk (cubicle in front of me) decorated in balloons, shiny confetti and crepe ribbon. Honestly, it’s a little scary. Ohmigod my birthday is coming up. Yay! I love birthdays. I’m hoping for a better one this year. The last few have blown. Last year I sat in Grumpy’s until midnight with then-friend-who-is-a-boy-with-benefits and drank in my 24th and overanalyzed everything that had gone wrong and ended up in a drunken, depressed stupor. Pathetic. Previous year I was in New York and not a single soul knew it was my birthday and I was so very depressed until my friend Brittany sent me an e-card, but then became melancholy again because my parents didn’t call me until the day after and nobody else remembered. I guess without me there panting in anticipation of another birthday it slipped everyone’s minds. But I was very sad.

But my lunch break was good, even if it did involve me walking across the parking lot into the faraway land known as the “upper parking level.” Kasi and I ate at the Coffee Beanery, which is always tastee and delicious but is filled with the most vile and unhelpful staff. Skanks.

I would like a Popsicle. A green one. Because my throat is itchy and if I’m going to eat a Popsicle I want it to match today’s sweater.

But I have no access to Popsicles so therein resides a problem.

I am boycotting doing any more work. But I have so much more to dooooo, she whines obnoxiously….

My computer makes noises all the time and vibrates the whole desk. I think this is a sign of ghettoness.
G H E T-T O, this is what we call the GHET-TO!
WOOOOO! Goooooooooo GHETTO!! (spirit fingers, everyone!)

Could not lay hands on Popsicle of any flavor so chose green sucker. To match my sweater. Yes, I am that vain. Not really. I just like green flavor better. I don’t like cherry flavored anything. I always pick out and throw away/give away the cherry starburst from the package because I think they taste like Ludens cough drops. Blech. And Cherry Koolaid? Nasty. Like sucking down liquid asshole. My father finds it vastly amusing when I say things taste ‘like ass.’ I think it is an apt description, even if I have never (and never will) participated in the tasting of an asshole. I’m curious as to how the whole tossing the salad thing came about. I mean, before someone even thought that that might be a pleasure center for some folks, who said, of all the things I could DO to your asshole…. I think I’ll LICK IT. No thank you. I would prefer that my asshole stay lick-free. And everything else-free, for that matter.

I need a knife to saw off my pinkee toe. I swear to God I will wear non-pointy gramma like shoes tomorrow. Please stop throbbing. Please. I beg you, feet. Take it out your anger on my calf or my thigh or my elbow… just leave the pinkee toe out of this. It’s delicate and innocent and should not be punished for my own actions.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

The Roof is on Fire

This morning I woke up (after hitting the snooze button a half of a gazillion times) and stumbled into the bathroom to, you know, handle the morning business. I normally don’t even look at myself until I’ve showered, lotioned, dressed, applied hair calming product and picked up the blow dryer. This morning as I was walking past the bathroom mirror, I caught a startling look at something that was definitely not normal.

I have blonde hair.

Not all over. But there’s some definite blonde-ness happening at the top of my head.

I stopped to stare at my head, pulling pieces of it up and away from my head while gazing at it under the glare of the obnoxiously bright bathroom lights.

Yep. It’s blonde.

And I’m pretty sure I asked for it. Yeah, I did. Ask for it. And I even pointed to a picture indicating that yes, I wanted this color hair.

And you know what?


Not really. But I’m personally sporting hair of which I am a mighty big fan. It’s currently not excessively frizzy. It’s not sprouting up nests on the side of my head. I can brush it (you think I jest. It took an hour worth of thinning it out by my hairdresser to get it to look like this.) It’s BEE YOO TEE FULL.

As beeyooteefull as my hair can be, anyway.

*Just showed Kasi and got friend approval. I am, in fact, a rockstar.


Boys are scrumpdiddlyumptious. I mean, just yummy and tasty and would like to nibble. How is it possible for boys to be so very, very edible?

Smacks hand on forehead.

NO. Focus.

Eating a delicious tootsie roll pop. Grape. My favorite. Only like grape flavor on tootsie roll pops. Do not know why.

Footsie update: HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD IT STILL HURTS. When does this END? I look like a GIANT FREAK OF NATURE. Thank GOD it’s not sandal season.

Work today is not going so bad. I got a manageable amount of deals to work on today. Stress level has gone dooooowwwwnn.

I smell like honeysuckles. I love my perfume. It makes me happy. I do not care if you people like it or not. I think I smell lovely and delicious. So there.

And I don’t care if you people like my hair (specifically, my brother). I like my hair. In fact, if I had the money, I would get it done even MORE contrast-y and rockstar-y. So THERE.

My hairdresser has a collection of vibrators. ???? This was discussed after re-coloring my hair last night and over a plate of eggs and pancakes at IHOP. The waiter about shat himself.

Goober. <---I hate this word. It sounds like booger. I hate boogers. Except for the shiny booger on the side of my nose. I like that. But it’s not a mucus booger. Mucus is nasty. Have you seen that commercial for Mucinex with the nasty booger thing that talks? Ugh. Makes me want to vomit and clean out my nostrils with peroxide.

Okay. So I’ve typed on this ALL DAY and now it’s time to go home. Yay!! Freedom!!

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Rocky-Mentality Horror Picture Show

I would NEVER have watched that movie if I had known that aliens were in it. I don't watch things with aliens. Aliens creep me out. Skin crawls. Chickenflesh pops up all over my arms and neck. I mean, COME ON. I can't even listen to the music from "Unsolved Mysteries" without wanting to turn on every single light in the house followed by a gymnastic-esque leap onto my bed to prevent the extendable alien fingers from reaching out under the bed and caressing my unsuspecting achilles tendon before WHAM! pullling me into the disecting room on the mothership.

No. I'm not medicated.

But I should be.


Hmmmm. I feel like I should perhaps explain my complete and utter fear of all things alien. It all started back in 1987... "Unsolved Mysteries" was a favorite of my mother but abhorred by my father. So, being an admitted mama's-girl, I chose to sit in the living room with my mother and watch TV with her as I had received a much-longed-for extension of my bedtime. So the music comes on (at that point I was not Pavlovically trained to fear the pulsating theme song) and I settle down with Mommie Dearest to watch our pre-facelift host greet us with this week's mind-boggling mysteries. The episode that particular night involved a handful of people all claiming to have been "taken." I'm eight. I don't have a fucking clue what these people really mean. I only assume these people are moderatley retarded because McGruff the Dog had warned us, like, duh, DOZENS of times to never talk to strangers or get in a strange man's car. So being "taken" is just stewpid 'cause EVERYBODY, like, knows better than that.

Cut me some slack. I was seven.

So the show progresses and I start to realize that these people didn't get in a strange man's car or get taken from the grocery store. THESE PEOPLE ARE FLOATING OUT OF THEIR WINDOWS AND GETTING LIFTED OUT OF THEIR CARS BY LONG LEGGED BUG-EYED FREAKS.


At this point I decide it's time to get my ass outta there. So I casually extract myself, without alerting my mom to my great and utter fear, and walk down the hall to my parent's room where dear ol' dad is watching a movie. I crawl into their bed and tell Daddy that I don't like what Mommma's watching so I'm just gonna lay in here with him. Nope, he says. I'm watching an R rated movie. You can't watch those yet.


Nope. Got back in there with your mother if you want to stay up that bad.


I'm too scared to actually go in my room, unprotected from the threat of alien abduction, ALL BY MY SEVEN YEAR OLD SELF. So I suck it up and go back in the living room with Mom. Where I wait out, in paralyzing fear, the end of the program-- knowing Mom will tuck me in after the show is over. And knowing that aliens wouldn't DARE mess with me with my Momma in the room 'cause she'll get a hair brush after your ass if you back talk her.

Fastforward-- I've been tucked in and it's roughly two hours later. I have decided that aliens can only see through four layers -- so if I put FIVE layers between me and the aliens THEN THEY WON'T BE ABLE TO SEE ME. (yes, this is what I actually thought.) So between the two layers of curtains and the three layers of bedcovers (bedspread, blanket and sheet) I'm pretty much set. No bug-eyed aliens are going to lift my ass outta my bed and put me in their dissecting room. No way jose.

Naturally, this is where the Fates decide to fuck with a small child.

Tap. tap tap tap. WHACK! tap. tap tap tap tap tap. WHACK! WHACK WHACK WHACK scratchy scratchy tap. scratchy scratchy WHACK.


They come rushing in the room, thinking I've been attacked by rabid bees or had an arm lopped off by migrating gerbils-- I sobbingly tell them that the aliens are trying to get in my bedroom and that they keep tapping on the window. (From a parent's perspective, the only important part of this statement was the tapping problem. Parent's are adults and know aliens aren't tapping on window. But tapping is suspicious. Parent's job/duty to check out.)

So Daddy loads up his revolver (keep in mind, this was Texas) and heads outside with his giant poacher flashlight. I can hear him going out the front door and stepping on all the pine needles that carpet the front lawn.

Then he starts laughing. Laughing! Evil man!

He comes back in and explains that the "tapping" noise was actually a garden stick that had become a little dislodged and was tapping against my window due to the heavy winds. The scratching noise was two raccoons. Mating.


Being seven, I didn't really buy this explanation. I thought it was highly more likely that the aliens had TOLD Daddy to say it was two raccoons going at it when really it was THE ALIENS trying to see if there was an abductable child lying helpless in her bed. Lord Help Me but I was a schized out kid.

[sighs in resignation ]

And now I'm scarred for life. I'm a grown ass girl and I still can't watch Unsolved Mysteries, scary movies or walk down the Halloween aisle where I know there's bound to be bug-eyed alien masks.

The Horror.
Ok. So I had to stop watching my movie just a minute ago because it was FREAKING ME THE FUCK OUT.
I'm not quite sure why I rented it because I'm never interested in seeing scary/creepy/psychologically whacked out movies. I'm interested in knowing WHAT HAPPENED but i'm not interested in actually WATCHING them.
For instance: The Village. I proposed my hypothesis of what was actually happeneing in that movie to a friend of mine that had seen it the night before. There was a nice discussion about the movie-- where I ascertained that I was correct and my hypothesis became a theory. I was spared the creepy music, monster sounds and the inevitable moment when I scream into the movie theater darkness "NO!! you IDIOT! DON'T GO UP THOSE STAIRS! RUN AWAY! STUPID BITCH!"

So anyway. I was watching "Forgotten" just a moment ago... and everything was going pretty smoothly. I'm in the house by myself so that shows you it hasn't been that creepy so far. Otherwise I would have stopped it. So Julianne Moore is running from scary scary NSA people after ripping the wallpaper off this guy's wall and trying to prove to him that he has a daughter. So she's running and running and we can hear her breathing hard and I'm starting to get a little disinterested because there's a lot of running going on and I'm not quite sure where we're taking this... when she careens around a corner and stops, panting, against a wall. Music gets a little creepier. No big deal. I think it's about time for the NSA to come out with guns blazing or some such nonsense. But no. She just calmly looks up at the sky, staring into the pretty, billowing clouds. Oh, look. Maybe she's staring at a plane? Nope. No plane there. A bird? Nope. Sky looks pretty empty. Looking to the heavans for guidance? Um. Doesn't look like it. But wait. What's that in the coulds? The clouds are moving! And my, how quickly! Oh look-- they're forming a shape. Hmmm. That looks a bit like a round little UFO.. WHAT? a UFO?? Where the fuck did the cloud-UFO come from? This lady has got SERIOUS ISSUES. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Then she walks off. Like looking at the clouds forming into a UFO shape is a normal, everday occurence. Ummhmmm. Right. Keep moving along folks! Just your average, every-day cloud-UFO. Keep it movin.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Something Wicked this Way Comes

This morning THE BLESSED SUN had absolutely nothing to do with my awakening.

It was all thanks to THE EVIL LAWNMOWER.

WHY people (specifically the owners of my duplex) INSIST upon leaf blowing, hedge trimmming and grass mowing at all hours of the very-early-morning I HAVE NO IDEA. I mean, it's not like it's summertime. It's 60 degrees outside. NEWSFLASH: You're not going to die of heatstroke in 60 degree weather.

Come June or July, I'll be much more inclined to keep my wrath down to a moderate volume. Afterall, who am I to begrudge someone the only mildly bearable hours of the day when I get a perfectly trimmed lawn out of the deal? Not to mention the fact that when they DO mow I do not have to tread so carefully while taking out the trash. When it's been serveral weeks since the last trim there seems to be great instance of me stepping on my neighbor's "presents" because the Brazilian jungle that masquerades as my front lawn has conveniently swallowed them whole. Only to push the curly mounds of poo up to the surface when it's midnight and I'm overcome with the need to take the trash out RIGHT THEN.

So anyway. I'm up and, for all intensive purposes, should be thinking about showering before long. I do have to go to work afterall. Can't be 'that girl' who rolls into work with wet hair and who hogs the shiny part on the inside of the elevator to put on her mascara. Dear Lord. How sad. I hope my sarcasm isn't lost in print because Lord Knows it's lost in everday speech.

But moving along to happier things-- this weekend is going to be WICKED GOOD. I do not know when 'wicked' became inserted into my vocab but it's been happening more and more frequently these past few weeks. Try it sometime. There's nothing funnier than standing in the checkout line and pulling out an US WEEKLY and flipping through the half-naked pictures of Britney and exclaiming "WICKED!" at various intervals. This weekend. Sorry. It's going to be wicked. See, I had gotten quite used to the fact that my brother/roommate usually left for various and asundry parts of the state come Friday afternoon. So by the time I got off work at 8pm the apartment was MINE. ALL MINE. But here the past few weeks, brother-o-mine seemed inclined to stay home and invariably threw my weekend schedule into a oblivion. But this weekend -- because it is his birthday and my parents laid a giant trek of a guiltrip on him-- there will be NO weird instances of frying up a 10lb package of bacon at 11pm only to leave the grease filled smelly pan sitting on the stove until the grease actually hardens into a strange, petrified substance later in the week. (I'm fastidiously neat and am trying new program where I do not touch, clean, or move one ounce of his dirty things in hope of making him realize the error of his nasty ways. So far, no progress.) There will be no impromptu parties beginning at 2am on a Friday night where I have to play the bitch sister and physically remove drunken fuckups from my apartment or kick 200lb football players out of my bed because they thought I'd welcome a 'lil lurrve" <--- said with drunken slur.

So. I can laze around on Saturday until about 10ish, get dressed, meet up with Brittany, shop a little (not actual shopping as have no money, but psuedo shopping) and get hair cut into new and festive style as have let it grow down my back until it's become a sort of rescue mission for migrating birds. Then will analyze hair cut for 30 minutes in front of mirror while pulling pieces of hair out and going "I'm not sure about this" and Brittany going "It'll be better once you wash it. They just used a little too much hairspray." And then I'll watch a movie or two and fall asleep with un-washed beautified hair and wake up the next morning to find that hair has attacked pillow and excessive amounts of hairspray have bonded to strands to form what resembles a satelite receiver dish from the mid-80's. So I'll wash it and play with it and decide I can live with the new 'do and then I'll clean the house from tippy top to bottom drop and order some food from US Pizza and maybe even walk to pick it up if I'm feeling festive. I'll eat and then decide I'm bored and probably decide to write a little. I'll watch a little Celebrity Fit Club and gag at the previews where they show Robbie swimming half-naked through a pool and his fat actually billowing and waving around his skeleton. Then my brother will come home and I'll wish him happy birthday. And then I'll go to sleep and start my week ALL OVER AGAIN. Counting down my days until Saturday when I can be awakened by THE EVIL LAWNMOWER or THE BLESSED SUN or even THE MONGREL CATS and be pleasant and sunshiney because it's Saturday and I can take a nap later if I want to.

As A Sidenote: DEAR LORD. I have no idea what happened but there are ACTUAL PEOPLE WHO READ THIS???? WHAT?? Thank you, everyone, for the fabulous and lovely comments. Not to mention the man who referred to me as a GEM-- a GEM!!! I read his blog at work at unabashadly turned my head up to bask in the sacharine glow of the flourescent lights that bathe my cubicle in cease-less and constant light. I did get a tap on the shoulder from my supervisor asking if I was okay and telling me that even though we were all skipping lunch to work on our, well, work, it didn't mean I couldn't step outside into the fresh air if I needed a minute... ha ha ha ha ha ha. I suppose it was quite odd to see my face stretched into a burstingly happy smile with my chin pointed towards the ceiling. And now it is 10 minutes before I have to leave for work and I'm still furiously typing away. DAMMIT. But I have to get dressed or at least attempt to put on something other than my pajama's.


Wednesday, March 02, 2005


First, I must explain that, contrary to my previous post, I am normally closer to the sane side of the scale than the INsane. Or so I hope. But truly, I was just so unbelievably happy and relieved I had no other option than to declare to the world, in all caps, that my friend was COMING HOME.

ha HA! coming HOME! yipPEE!

Small problem: When I went back to his email when I got home, I realized I had only slightly misread it. I distinctly remember him telling me that he was IN Kuwait and was waiting on transport to the States. I went back to read it after I got off work because I had to confirm that those oh-so-wonderful words had actually been writen by the hand of my friend and I felt this overwhelming need to drink in his every word and nuance in the few short lines he got to send me in the 5 minutes he had been allotted for computer time. And then it dawned on me what he said.

He was waiting on transport to KUWAIT to meet the rest of his brigade who were, in turn, waiting for transport for the STATES. He and a few others had "volunteered" for one last "MISSION" and everything "went well" and now they were coming home.

First of all. I will be the very first person to beat the living daylights out of this child for "volunteering" for anything more intensive than getting his commander coffee. But alas, this is Matt. He wrote me an email once where he indicated how "bored" he'd become with driving the tanks around, so had volunteered for the gunner position. You know. The one where the soldier's head and torso are ever-so-visible to the local insurgents and (ahem) quite accessible to stray, or intended, bullets, explosives and the like. Not normally one for dislays of emotion (I have been known to stay dry-eyed during "My Girl") I near about lost my damn mind because of actuall SOBBING. Dry heaving SOBBING. My brain matter nigh came out of my nose. And when I emailed him back indicating he was not to scare a poor emotional female in such a manner, his response was that I didn't want him to die of heat stroke, did I? It was just so HOT inside the tank and he never got enough WATER and boo FUCKING HOO. I told him to keep his notorious ass INSIDE the hulking metal vehicle which was DESIGNED to keep his ass from being blown into miniscule or, God Forbid, recognizable PIECES. My instructions were obviously not observed.

But it is of no concern of mine any longer. As of right now, he should be in Kuwait. And within two days, God willing, he will be HOME. HOME HOME HOME. Granted, it's quite devastating that for the first time in 9 years we do not live in the same town, much less the same vicinity and I will not be able to attend his homecoming. But I know my limits. His wife deserves this time more than I. As much as I may begrudge her this status (seeing him first, not being his wife. ew), I know it's true. It may be several months before either of us can make a 9-hour trip to visit. But I'll be able to hear his voice and confirm that it's HIM and he's HOME and he's no longer in a place where your statistical chances of living through the night are far, far worse than even the roughest neighborhood in New York could boast. And I should know as I have mistakenly ended up in the aforementioned areas more than once after dark in my previous life in The City.

Okay. I am done. I am happy. HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY. I would never be so trite as to say that my faith is restored because that would imply that my faith has been LACKING or in LIMBO since his departure. Quite the contrary. Though I can say, without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, that my faith has currently swelled into the most beautiful, floating, close-to-bursting balloon that is full of utter gratefulness that Someone found a need for him, his soul and body, to remain on this Earth.

God Bless.

thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you