A Whine, Because I Can

For all intensive purposes I should be changing the cat litter and possibly even attempting to empty the bathroom trashcan, the one that passed Overfill stage two days ago and has quickly moved into the Frightening Architechtural Masterpiece stage. I should also be cleaning the kitchen. And sweeping the living room free of it's four inch layer of cat hair, thank you FatKitty.

But instead I've spent the past twelve hours contemplating the philosophical nature of snot. And why, no matter what you eat, your mouth still tastes a bit like cotton balls soaked in fart when suffering from an onslaught of The Snot.

I recognize the important role The Snot plays in my daily existence, how it gathers up the bits of icky goo attached to my nostril cilia, making bigger chunks of icky goo the rest of the world likes to call boogers. And while the morning nose-blow is a necessity that is never overlooked as it effectively rids me of the icky goo accumulation, I feel that we have crossed into new territory with the Every Five Seconds Nose-Blow.

The Snot and I, we are so not best friends right now.

Cher Called And She Wants Her Nose Back

Lately I’ve felt like anything remotely of writing-interest has just gone plop, right there on the floor. Like I was pregnant and expecting a beautiful baby chubby faced thing and instead I birthed out a giant blob of goop, possibly leaving a goopy stain on the carpet, which should obviously remain goop-stain free. But today the word-vomit is like a night after a fifth of tequila and some undercooked chicken; when I sat down after lunch I couldn’t wait to spew forth the massively important revolution in fake toenails and the shocking results of my Perfume Effectiveness Study.

The thing is, I’ve always been kind of freaked out by fake nails. I don’t like them when they’re exceptionally long or decorated because even though they are most definitely not on my person, I obsess over the shiny lacquer and it’s tendency to chip, chip, crack, must continue chipping the paint, can’t stop with the paint chipping, help. It especially creeps me out when people get faux-toesies because, well, it’s just fucking weird. All that shiny sparkly paint is rubbing inside your shoes, getting dull and matted while the claw-like length of the nails are scraping against the sides, threatening to catch and snag and rip off. And there is nothing more frightening to me than having a nail rip off, save for being stabbed in the hand with a fork. Thank you, Requiem for a Dream.

Last Friday I was preparing for my day at the waterpark by stuffing my face with jambalaya and cornbread because that last little cellulite bump was just at the cusp of saying hello to the world and who am I to hold somebody back? Upon completion of the face-stuffing I meandered into the living room of my friend’s house where I noticed something suspicious happening on the carpet. Turns out my friend Kara was calmly and methodically applying a set of fake french-manicured nails to her personage and for a whole minute I stood transfixed while she picked each new plastic nail from the pile on the floor, smeared the glue on the underbelly and then pressed it smoothly atop the awaiting toenail. The really unsettling part of this whole process were the wee little flesh-colored tabs at the end of each nail, purportedly there to keep you from gluing your fingers to your foot but I just know some under-educated woman out there is not going to realize that those things are supposed to be filed off and I’m going to be peeing in a bathroom stall and see those toes peeking out at me and I’m going to end up splashing urine all over myself in my attempt to vault over the door.

When Kara had completed her task and finally convinced me to look at her feet, I grudgingly admitted that had I never seen her gluing those things on, I would never have known they weren’t real. And truly, I hated making that statement because it was like encouraging her, and hence others, to continue with the fake toenail gluing and that just wasn’t my goal. But holy crap, were they pretty. Like perfect shiny toenails, exactly as they should be, not clipped to the quick or oddly shaped because of a run-in with a wall.

But as soon as those words had left my mouth everyone was offering to pick me up a set on their trip to Wal-Mart, a trip I was forgoing in lieu of sleeping, which takes precedence over shopping. I didn’t really expect the girls to come back with a set but when I woke up in the morning there they were in a nice red box beside my bed. It took an entire hour for me to convince myself that women across the world utilize the fake nails and the earth will not stop spinning just because I succumb to an undeniably girlish practice.

So I pulled out the box and selected the appropriate sizes, lining them up on the floor beside me. I took each little nail and pressed its glue-slick back to my own freshly un-polished toes, where I quickly understood the necessity of the wee little tab bits because those movies? The ones where they joke about someone gluing body parts to themselves? IT HAPPENS. Had I left my finger there for one half second longer I’d have lost more than just the first layer of my thumb pad, I’d have lost the whole damn thing. But at the end it was worth it because for the first time in my life I had beautifully painted shiny toes. This is not to say that I don’t paint my toes, because I do. I loofah and exfoliate and rub the calluses off with special girly instruments. But those toes spent an entire decade in pointe shoes and while I was lucky in the fact that my toes aren’t seriously jacked up looking, I have this overwhelming compulsion to clip the nails as short as possible. And if you’d ever stood in a pointe shoe with a long toenail then you understand what I’m talking about and if you haven’t, well, you’re missing out on some extreme uncomfortable-ness.

The only unfortunate part of this whole episode, besides the fact that I’d just used super glue to semi-permanently adhere plastic nuggets to my toenails, was the fact that I could not. stop. staring. Seriously. In the car on the way to Magic Springs, I did nothing but stare transfixed at my new nails. In the wave pool I would float on my back just so I could see them glint in the sunlight. At the pool the next day I arranged my lounge chair so I could see them in all their perfectness. And the next day at work, I kept taking my shoes off under my desk and peeking into the dark depths, trying to catch a glimpse.

So two nights ago I decided it was time for me to move on. But the thing about super glue is that it doesn’t respond well to commands and as it turns out, I’m stuck with these things until they fall off or until I finally give up and shove my feet in a bucket of acid. Which is why I busted out my industrial strength filer and sawed the faux-ness down to near-stub level and then painted them hot pink, which has effectively rid me of my narcissistic obsession with their elegantly-white-tipped loveliness.

Of course I’m lying. I’m totally sitting here right now wondering if I could get the pink polish off without harming the French manicure part beneath it.

Holy catpoop, I am so demented.

Sins of the Speeder

This evening I came home from work and realized I didn't have the monetary resources available to fund my dinner, thanks to my pesky driving habits, and for a good twenty minutes I ensconced myself in my yellow chair and sulked. Because I really wanted sushi.

After my allotted sulking time was complete, I wandered into the kitchen intent upon finding something of edible quality lurking within my cupboards. I didn't even open the refrigerator because I already knew exactly what was behind that off-white door: Three half-empty bottles of juice, a tub of butter, mustard, a package of frighteningly old cream cheese and a four month old apple. My cupboards weren't much better, yielding only rice, green chiles, asparagus, corn and a nine month old box of strawberry cheesecake Slim-Fast bars I bought on one of my attempts to become less 'round' and more 'svelte.' But the thing about labeling something as cheesecake when it is, in fact, a diet aid is that that no matter which way you bite it, it all tastes like congealed ass secretion with a pretty white coating of faux-chocolate. So really, my only choices were rice and asparagus.

I pulled out the pans I haven't used since my mother last came to visit and placed then on the stove, pats of butter in each one. As I was heating up the skillet for the asparagus it dawned on me that if I had a suspected mouse-friend in THAT cabinet then it was entirely possible that I had a mouse friend in THIS HERE cabinet and that I may want to reconsider cooking my food in said pans prior to disinfecting them with industrial strength Lysol and a tub full of bleach.

After pouring the already sizzling butter down the drain and scouring all surfaces of the pans with steaming hot water and antibacterial soap, I deemed my pans to be mouse-poop-germ free and resumed my cooking exercises. I steamed the rice to perfect fluffiness and warmed up that canned asparagus, touches of dill and red pepper in each, and then placed them on my shiny white plate where I ate at my shiny black table with my shiny silver utensils.

Overall, I give my meal a 4. Two points deducted for lack of protein, another two for still being paranoid about the mouse poop and two more for having to wash the fucking dishes when I was done.

Benches and Gavels and Judges, Oh My!

Yesterday afternoon I went to court for my speeding ticket, the one I got after a 17-hour workday and the pleasant surprise of a bottle of bleach exploding in my trunk. The one where the cop stoically requested my license and registration after I asked, incredulously, “Do you not SMELL THAT?” The one where the cop took twenty whole minutes of background checking and ass scratching and shining his super bright spotlight through my back windshield before handing me my ticket. The Mandatory Court Appearance ticket.

Truly, I thought I would go my whole life without having to sit in a courtroom. I mean, I’m not planning on getting married so that negates divorce proceedings. I’m perfectly happy to Live In Sin and host dinner parties in my non-kid-safe home. I plan on having breakable objects just everywhere and sharp corners on coffee tables so that when my friends drop their kids off for visits, they know those kids are in for a good time and possibly a trip to the hospital. I also plan on being Auntie Robin who carries around her special glass of coke, special because my glass of coke is way lighter than your glass of coke due to the special ingredient we’ll just refer to as ‘juice.’

I also have no intention of succumbing to Suburban Bullshit where neighbors call animal control on your cat because it’s not on a fucking leash. Because while I’ll smile at the nice animal control officer and promise to keep my cat inside, don’t think for one second that I won’t set your front lawn on fire in a fit of rage. And if you leave your car unlocked I’ll put raw shrimp under your floor mats. So if by chance you can prove it was me, I’ll be more than happy to write you a check for new car flooring and sod. But go to court, I will not.

But I sure as hell sat in a real live court room yesterday, with real live wooden benches and real live crack whores. I’ve never seen such a conglomeration of scariness in one building, especially the docket of folks there for multiple DWI charges. Could you NOT have worn something clean to court? Seriously? It was so bad the judge actually congratulated a young man on wearing a tie and gave the kid probation. Personally, I felt overdressed in my black-slacks-purple-top-I-came-straight-from-work attire. But being overdressed did not stop my nervousness when I stepped up to the slightly sticky oak podium and had to utter the following, in my Very Contrite Voice:

“I plead guilty, your honor.”

The judge didn’t so much as look up, he just offered me probation in the kind of bored tone that lets you know he is unimpressed with your outfit, your Contrite Voice and that he is most definitely unimpressed with you driving 22 miles over the speed limit. But then the pursed lip bitch to his right had to go and pop up with a ‘But she had a speeding ticket in 2004.’

Yes, thank you, you giant Cuntbag, I appreciate you bringing that up.

But the judge was more bored with this than I thought and just looked at me, told me not to get any more tickets and banged his gavel.

It was then that the word diarrhea took over.

“Um, your honor? It’s just that I sort of already got another ticket, two weeks ago, so I’m not sure how well that probation is going to work out for me.”

I could hear all the crackwhores behind me twitter and giggle and if I’d been in another situation, I’d have turned around and hissed at them. About that same time I realized that the bored demeanor Mr. Judge was sporting was not really indicative of his actually boredness because his head did a very nice owl-snap and his eyeballs, they made full and direct contact with my own slightly surprised ones.

“You got another ticket?”
“Er, yes, your honor. But this one was Little Rock police, not state police. And I’m really sorry about that and it was only 15 over, not 22, like this one. But I’m really sorry and that one from 2004 was in Texas where they drop the speed limit at night and I didn’t realize it and so really I was only going 7 over what I thought was the speed limit and this new one is 15 over, which is bad, I know, and I’m really sorry but I swear I’m-
“Yes, you’re sorry. We covered that.”
Silence.
More direct eye contact.
“I have to say I’m very impressed with your candidness.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
“You didn’t have to be honest about that ticket.”
“No, your honor.”
“Not that I’m rewarding honesty in a courtroom.”
“No, your honor.”
“And you understand that I’m definitely not rewarding you for being honest?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“So if I offered you community service, would you take it?”
“Whatever you deem appropriate, your honor.”
“Very good answer. I’m giving you one day of defensive driving school and 24 hours of community service under the assumption that I will not see you back here within six months.”
“No, er, yes, um, no you won’t see me back here and yes, um, thank you, your honor.”

He gave me one brisk nod, signed my slip and turned his attention to the next guy in line. I was ushered through three sets of double doors where I wrote a $100 check for a ‘probation monitoring’ fee, picked my driving school location and chose the Pulaski County Animal Shelter as my chosen locale for community service.

Now I just have to figure out how to get my cop-sense back. Because there is no way in hell I’m going through that again. The other option would be to slow the fuck down but me, I live dangerously. What can I say.

Crispy

Last night I went to a writing group which completely filled my nerdish needs for bookish individuals who spend their free time pursuing activities like photography and music and yoga and the selection of festively named beer.  I wrote strange rhyming phrases about mold and skittering feet and penned passages concerning our chosen topics of sleep and fear.  I wrote down a succession of words that began with Lemon Drop and ended with Lichtenstein, though rest assured there were other words in my list that didn’t begin with ‘L,’ such as orangutan. I ate a chocolate chip cookie that was crumbly and delicious and confessed to my obsession with bleaching sheets and how I’d lusted after an ironing machine in Williams-Sonoma that professed to quickly and easily press the largest of sheets and cloths, no creases involved. 

At the end of the evening I realized I’d spent two and a half hours in a small room with three people I’d never met before and not once wanted to stab any of them in the eye.  Not once.  Not even a wee bit.

This is quite the accomplishment for me.   

 

Good Times, They Roll

Normally I try and cram as much as possible into my lunch hour. Grocery shopping, bank deposit, post office- check, check and check. Such was this afternoon’s laundry list of duties when I stepped into my notso shiny black car and sped out of the parking lot, barely missing the bitch in the silver Camry who was dead-set against waiting her turn for parking-lot leaving rights.
I was in a hurry because today’s lunch was already a guaranteed tight one, seeing as how I’d added in a stop at the tanning salon in addition to my bank and grocery stops. You can laugh all you want about the tanning bit. I tan on average of six times a year which, by my calculations, gives my skin cells ample time to replenish themselves. That or I’m just speeding up the already genetic inevitability of cancerous pustules on my dermis, and who doesn’t need a little cancerous pustule? Exactly.
But the tanning was a distinct necessity as I’m celebrating the birthday of a friend of mine this weekend and the birthday celebrations involve an all-day trip to a waterpark. I feel confident in saying that should the public have to look at your un-toned ass, you should at least give them the courtesy of not displaying an un-toned pasty ass. This same level of courtesy should be extended to people in the next stall over by not talking on your cell phone while you drop last night’s Mexican food into the porcelain bowl. But The Public At Large seems to disregard these common courtesies and while I could be a vindictive slut against The Public by smathering my pasty self with blue body glitter or by making grotesque noises so the person in the stall next to me feels compelled to shut off their phone and hence, their mouth, I will not stoop to such levels. I have standards. And what if they thought my make-believe noises were real?
So after I sped through the bank line and stopped into Kroger for some insta-oatmeal and granola bars I drove across the street to the tanning salon. My first visit there I am usually nervous and intimidated by all of the petite and skinny and well, quite obviously, tan young girls who barely have the energy to raise their heavy eyelids from their Cosmo GIRL! and check me into a room. But by the second visit I normally realize that while these girls are the epitome of what I am theoretically supposed to look like, let’s face it, most of them are between the ages 17 and 25 with little to no job prospects, unless someone out there knows of a place that’s looking for Bored and Ambivalent girls who definitely can’t spell Ambivalent but who look great in a bikini. Also, my daddy didn’t buy my Lexus sitting out front and my tits, they’re real.
So I checked into room 4, a room I’ve strangely never been in but as all the rooms look exactly the same it didn’t register much in the ol’ noggin. So I took off my clothes, poured on the tanning lotion that purports to be a Supreme Tanning Booster and Instant Brozeifier and laid down on the cold plastic surface, placing the wee goggles over my eyelids.
Six minutes later my time is up and I quickly lift up the coffin-like lid only to be greeted by a very bright and very large rush of sunlight. I actually paused for about two seconds, just enough time for me to stand completely stupefied and mutter the phrase “holy fucking shit on a stick.” I then lunged for the wide open door and slammed it shut.
It was in that moment that I realized I had definitely forgotten to lock the door.
And that I’d just treated a gaggle of giggling girls to a full frontal shot.
And that I’m definitely never going back there again.
Shit.

It's Almost Mother's Day And Won't She Be Proud

When I first gave my mother the address to this blog I was immediately overcome with the kind of panic one would expect to feel if they were running a Hot Asian Sluts porn ring from their living room couch and that cute young thing they'd just bought from a nice man in Beijing was just revealed as an underage boy on one of those Dateline investigations, the one with all the cameras and the boom mikes and, oh yeah, those pesky police officers. The real kind, not the rent-a kind.

And while I was able to spell the address out, letter by letter, in a voice that hopefully betrayed not one ounce of my fear, I still kept waiting for the sudden cacophony of fifteen semiautomatic weapons being drawn and pointed in my direction, thanks to the in-depth reporting of Stone Phillips. My thoughts centered on what an awkward moment it was going to be when she found the post about how I crisped my nips in a tanning bed last year and equated the feeling to the sting of a thousand bees. Not only that, but she was sure to read the one about my boyfriend in eighth grade, the one she totally didn't know about. Or did, in that weird psychic mom way, and just never mentioned it for fear of traumatizing her already socially retarded daughter.

I'm not sure from where this impulse originates but I have this unrelenting need to be as secretive as possible. So secretive, in fact, that I once hid $100 worth of collected birthday and Christmas money when I was six years old only to be unable to find it ever again. That same impulse is what drove me to keep Thomas Grover a secret, even if it meant living in fear of the phone ringing for an entire six week span. I would dive for the phone because I couldn't stand the thought of having to explain who Thomas was and why the fuck he kept calling every day. Boyfriends or crushes or passing fancies were never to be discussed within earshot of the parents. And there would certainly be no explaining of why I wanted to be dropped off at the movie theater two blocks from the entrance just so I could sit in a heavily air conditioned theater and hold hands with my not-so beloved.

But secretive I was and will probably remain, though it's certainly become less pronounced over the years. I no longer hide my money in uncertain places but I do keep a stack of trashy romance novels hidden behind my properly shelved and displayed classics of yore. I also hate to tell people where I'm going or where I've been; not for fear that I'll be reprimanded, just the fact that they'll know. Back in the day I refused to tell anyone when I first kissed a boy (a blind date when I was 17) or when I got my heart broken (18). It wasn't through any misguided stoicism or some need to suffer in silence, it was just me and my craving for all things hidden and obscured.

What's unfortunate is that I even had to keep how much I loved her a secret. My first memory of expressing the familial love was at summer dance camp, on the phone. I can remember how stilted and awkward the conversation felt; I'd never before had reason to talk to my parents on the phone. Why would I ever feel inclined to keep up a steady stream of conversation if you could just pause now and again and pick up when you were ready? But things don't work like that on the phone. That first conversation was riddled with pauses and lulls and forced words masquerading as sentences. At the end of the chat she told me she loved me and I knew I had to say it back. But it was the first time I'd actually had to SAY IT say it. I was strangely embarrassed that the other girls would know I loved my mom. The secretive thing again. But I said it that day and maybe a few days after. Then I said it some more when I left for college. And said it some more when I moved to New York. And now I say it every week, no awkwardness or stilted conversation involved. Because now I know how important it is that she know how damn cool she is and how much I need her. Need her like a fat kid needs a Little Debbie snack. But I do, I need her. So it's really not so bad that she reads this. Because at least some of the things I still find hard to say in person- like how much I love the way she smells and how she makes me calm and how I love that she no longer acts shocked when I say Fuck- can come out in some format other than verbal.

So now I can officially tell my mother that I am not a lesbian, even though Aunt Vicky is convinced I am. In fact, there is no chance of me being a lesbian. Don't get me wrong, I fully support whatever lifestyle anyone participates in as long as it doesn't involve small woodland creatures or anything that might encroach on my Hot Asian Slut business (I really only do it for the shoe money). But if you could just let her know that pussy totally skeeves me out, that would be great. Also, it's probably going to be a long time before I bring somebody home for dinner. I don't date much, ok, ever, and that whole introduction to the family thing will probably always be a little awkward. And I haven't really cut my brother out, I'm just patiently waiting on him to get his shit together.

Finally, you have a really nice ass and should show it off more.

Spankalicious

I totally have The Clash’s ‘Rock the Casbah’ stuck in my head on repeat.  Unfortunately it’s been on repeat since 7:45 this morning so while the first few hours were spent mentally jamming out now I’m just unbelievably annoyed.  And since I opened my mouth and told everyone about my affliction I now hear it in surround sound as one of my coworkers will inevitably start to hum it just as my mental CD has finally stopped spinning, dashing my brief moment of peace and effectively hitting the Play button on my one-track mind. 

Every time I hear this song I think of ‘Bring it On,’ a movie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever unless you really dig cheerleaders, skimpy outfits, spanky pants and the gangly-armed simian antics of one Kirsten Dunst.  And while I’m really quite apathetic about the aforementioned qualifications for ‘Bring it On’ love, I can still admit to you, without shame, that I once downloaded and burned the opening cheer song and can even recite it, many years later, word for word.  Because who doesn’t love a song that involves the following lyrics:

I’m major!

I roar!

I swear I’m not a whore!

We cheer! And we lead!

We act like we’re on speed!

And while I’m relatively certain that ‘Rock the Casbah’ is not played in any ‘Bring it On’ movie montage, the dark-haired rebellious boy who eventually wins the heart of Kirsten ‘Cheertator’ Dunst sports a black t-shirt lauding the coolness of The Clash in their introductory scene.  Obviously this is a boy with whom we shall not trifle!  He wears black logo-emblazoned t-shirts without shame!

This rebellious young thing is the same boy who stood alongside Angelina Jolie way before she thought about exchanging tongue molecules and spit samples with her genetic sibling or even before she participated in inking the name of Billy Bob Thornton on her personage.  The movie was ‘Hackers’ and I heart everything about which is why when Mr. Black Shirt Rebellious Boy showed up with his lopsided grin I immediately recognized him as the brace-face teen who stores his hacking knowledge on floppy disks (oh, the floppy!) and assists in the hacking of the mainframe run by The Evil Guy with Plans For World Domination. 

 

In other news my toe hurts and I would like to amputate it. 

 

 

Al Bundy Was A Douche

Today my good mood is like a delicious Little Debbie Starcrunch® in its ability to outshine any and all Moon Pies® that happen to come my way.  I know the world as a whole doesn’t generally shun the Moon Pies but I file them in the same category as Peeps, only Moon Pies are ranked just slightly above as Peeps are only pseudo-marshmallow substance and colored sugar with weird soul-less black eyes while Moon Pies at least take a stab at deliciousness with the cookie and chocolate part.  It’s just things went sour when they started adding in the pseudo-marshmallow. 

I’m also strangely obsessed with meatloaf now after seeing my boss pull out a blue Tupperware container filled with strangely appealing slices and homemade mashed potatoes.  I’ve never even ingested meatloaf, seeing as how it’s called meatloaf and my religion prohibits me from eating anything that sounds disgusting.  Like radish.  Radish sounds like rash which reminds me of The Herp which makes me think of oozing genital sores. Meatloaf normally makes me think of meat balls which leads to thinking of just balls, (specifically, cow balls) and have you ever seen them? Cow balls?  Like when they’re cooked? If you associated meatloaf with what a boiled cow ball looks like when sliced down the middle then you wouldn’t eat it either.  I also have issues with olive loaf and cole slaw

 

The Allure of Office Supplies

This morning I got an email that made me want to vomit, just a little, but not in that way you’re thinking of because I know you’re thinking that my violent reaction is due to some strange repulsion or perhaps the gaudy display of sandals worn with pantyhose or even a picture of small children being beaten with stilettos (because both are equally repulsive). It’s not even the vomit initiated by a bad piece of tilapia or an undercooked chicken sandwich. It’s the kind of vomit that I get on First Days or when I’ve blatantly told a lie that I know deep down in my soul is so going to come back and bite me in the ass. It’s the quivery stomach-on-strike feeling I get when I’m waiting for a boy to pick me up for a date or when I’ve got a job interview that literally forces my entire gastro-intestinal system to clench in fear.

The timing of this email couldn’t have been worse. I mean, I just sat in my car the other day and looked at one of my best friends and told her how content I was. How everything felt like a Lithium bubble- perfect and clear and guaranteed to give the world a glossy, shiny hue of rose petal dreams. That’s not to say that I stopped feeling things altogether because I’m not really on Lithium, I’m just sort of floating. It’s a nice float, don’t get me wrong. The water’s nice and the fish don’t bite too hard. I’m not sure when it happened but one day I woke up and realized everything really was okay. Not like a pretend okay but really okay. My new job is nice, my apartment is nice, my hair is normally agreeable 4 out of the 7 days in the week and I get to write here, as often as I want.

And so I’ve been pulling up this email for the past two and a half hours, periodically re-reading it, memorizing every word, trying to get my head around what it took for him to write it.

The thing is, I don’t hate you, Jack. I never did. I mean, there was that pesky incident where I stood up in front of your class and told you to go fuck yourself. And, okay, there might have been a wee bit of hate that day but Aunt Flow was probably visiting. By the way this doesn’t give you free reign to make jokes about menstruation. I’m just saying. What’s strange is that three weeks ago I looked you up on the internet and found that movie you made listed on imdb.com and I wanted to send you something congratulatory because after like a bazillion years it was finally done. Or at least the imdb gnomes think so.

Anyway, sorry ‘bout all that.

So I’ve sat at my desk and stared at my green speckled cubicle walls in between viewings of this email. I thought I’d gotten rid of that urge that makes me want to scream in the parking lot at the top of my lungs or throw the cats in the car and never come back. This urge used to be so strong it was an act of whatever deity you pray to just to get me out of the car in the mornings. Many an hour has been spent with my head resting on the steering wheel with silent inner monologue running rampant in my head.

Here’s where I actually explain why I got that that feeling listed above, the heinous nausea that makes me want to crawl under my desk and retch silently into my trashcan. It’s because I so desperately want it to be true. I want it I want it I want it. I want it like a fat kid wants cake. Like a drowning man needs air. Like a girl needs a shoe sale. Whatever analogy you want to use, just know that I Want It.

I just don’t know how to get it.

And that’s what makes me sick to my stomach. The fact that someone thinks I’m talented and that someone isn’t my blood-sister-BFF or genetic relative, not to mention someone I strangely respect (the whole fuck-you university incident not withstanding).
It’s almost more than I want to think about this Thursday morning.

Last night when I came home my toilet was stopped up, a leftover treat from seven that morning when I first noticed that both the bathtub and toilet had ceased holding up their end of the bargain. That bargain being the actual drainage of whatever spikely leg hair, foamy shampoo or, you know, Other that I flush down the drain. By the time I came home the tub had emptied, leaving a nice ring of grayish soap scum snailed down the side but the commode had just continued in its floating toilet paper dance all damn day, never draining, waiting for me to come home and lavish attention and praise all over it's gurgling ass.

Think you're going to get to piss? THINK AGAIN, MISSY.

Because I am in general deathly afraid of toilets I cleaned up the bathtub first, scraping the morning residuals from the plastic sides. When I could hold off no longer I turned my attention to the porcelain goddess, a goddess with whom I was about to have a very stern conversation. But conversation doesn't work much with porcelain gods, porcelain not being the responsive type, so I grabbed a plastic hangar from my closet and tapped the side of the bowl in the vain hope that I might dislodge whatever obstruction was, well, obstructing the drainage of the (thankfully) clear water. I should add here that while the water was clear, there were bits of toilet paper floating in it. I'm a bit of a water waster, bite me. I don't like leaving mounds of snot rags hanging out in my trashcan so I flush them.

Unfortunately that did not work out for me yesterday. It was the Conservation Gods taking my dare, upping me 2 chips and biting a chunk out of my ample left buttock.

So obviously the bowl-tapping did not work out. And because I refuse, REFUSE to lift up the toilet tank lid -- oh god just the thought of taking off the lid makes my skin crawl -- I called my friend Lilleeee instead.

Phone ringing.

Lilleeee: Hi princess

Me: Hi sugarplum

Lilleeee: Whatcha doin

Me: Oh, nothing. Um.

Lilleeee: What's wrong?

Me: Um, okay. Um. Please for the love of everything that's holy say you have a plunger because I'm having some toilet issues *silent retching* and I need some assistance.

Lilleeee: Well, I'm at J's house but just go let yourself in and see if my brother is there- he might know if we have one

Me: Oh, bless you child

Lilleeee: kisses

Me: smacks *click

So I go next door and yell up at Lilleee's brother, who informs me that no, there is no plunger *shudder* on hand but perhaps I should try the toilet brush.

Ok, I should further clarify that my petrifying fear of toilets includes all toilet accoutrements including but not limited to: brushes, plungers, disposable cleaner pads, tablets that turn the water blue and Anything Under The Tank Lid. So the thought of shoving the toilet brush into that gently swirling, oh-so-menacing water was right up there with thinking about peeling off my own skin with chicken wire.

But I am an adult, and adults do things like unclog toilets.

Back inside my apartment I had to shoo Fat Kitty away from the bowl because he was drinking from it *audible retching* and unfortunately I will never again be able to touch him because he has tainted himself with the water of the toilet. Blech. After Fat Kitty sulked away, audibly expressing his displeasure at being displaced from that Bowl-o-Death, I bravely and firmly grasped the brush handle and plunged it into the roiling depths.

Where I hit something hard.

Strange.

I pulled back the brush and pushed aside the clumps of toilet paper, hoping to see what might possibly be the hardness that I'd found at the bottom of the bowl hole. But the toilet paper had spent all day soaking and instead of moving aside in clumps it just sort of disintegrated with all my toilet brush poking, turning the water a cloudy white.

Still unable to see what was blocking the water from draining I decided I would remove what toilet paper chunks I could by utilizing my soup ladle and placing the paper bits in a plastic bag. Which I did. And then promptly threw the ladle away.

Looking back into the toilet depths I was actually able to see the bowl hole, where I could just barely make out that there was, in fact, something blocking the entrance. I put the brush back in and swirled it around the opening to get a better look.

Wait.

Was that?

Is that?

OHMIGOD IS THAT AN EYE? A SMALL, BEADY BLACK EYE??

I will not lie to you. I screamed like a little girl, dropped the brush in the bowl and ran into the living room where I jumped on the couch in an attempt to get away from that beady-eyed monster in my toilet. A monster that was obviously going to swim up, fly through the air and eat me alive. Duh.

After a couple of seconds I calmed down and realized that whatever it was, it was most certainly dead. And dead animals don't freak me out near as much toilets. Though dead animals inside toilets is never a good combination.

So back into the bathroom I went, this time armed with my lone metal hangar (the rest are all white plastic because, hello, no wire hangars!) which was bent into a hook shape. I shoved the hangar in the water and caught the edge of the furry creature under its belly and pulled it to the surface. It was then that I got a good look at it.

It was not an animal. It was a toy. A mother fucking furry cat toy shaped like a light brown mouse, covered in actual fur with beady little black eyes and a leather tail.

I went through all of that because my ignorant cats dropped a mother fucking cat toy in my mother fucking toilet.

Fabulous.

Bounce! Helps Repel Lint and Hair!

This evening when I came home from work there was a pretty pink flyer stuck in my door which is like the greatest marketing ploy, ever. It means that it catches you coming in from work, tired and grumpy and just a wee bit peckish. It sits silently on your foyer table while you meander around the house, peeking in the refridgerator multiple times, convinced on each try that something both tantalizing and moderately healthy lies inside. When you finally give in to the inevitable and resign yourself to another Fast Food Run you happen to glance over to the table- BEHOLD! The Hunan Balcony Chinese Restaurant has Fast Free Delivery and offers a Free Chicken on Stick with any Lunch Special! It may not be lunch and you may have no desire for a Free Chicken on Stick but the marketing ploy, it is genious.

So I flipped through the pamphlet, deciding on Schezuan chicken as I was a first-time patron of the Hunan Balcony and one can never be too safe with the Fast Free Delivery. Though I may love me some Egg Foo Young, this is a dish best chosen when one is completely and utterly secure in the knowledge that your Chinese food establishment of choice doesn't have wanky cheese wontons or weird dicey chicken in the Kung Pao. We have to come to an understanding, you and I. You don't just go ordering Egg Foo Young from any old restaurant. It must prove itself time and time again so that when you finally do order that tasty treat, it will not come in scrambled egg format and the sauce will not be strangely sweet or thin and runny.

Because I was passing the wee bit peckish stage and moving into the here kitty kitty come jump in this pan of boiling water stage, the thirty minute lag time between the placing of my order and the receiving of my order seemed interminable. But in all actuality that's faster than any pizza has shown up at my door which just goes to show you that Italians are fucking lazy. And Russians have no morals. *wink*

By the way I think I have a mouse-friend and I'm going to have to prevail upon somebody to come kill it. I discovered a nicely nibbled hole in the bag of the catfood this morning and The Fat One has been inexplicably staring at the cupboard where the food is kept, tail twitching. He's been an indoor cat his whole fat life so I hope whatever genetic lottery he was a part of is the one with the vicious mouse-killing instincts because much like I do not play the Swimming in Vomit game I do not play the Mouse Hunt and Kill game.