"Dug In"

Let me tell you how I know I'm losing my fucking mind after about one month of the Safer At Home order here in Long Beach, CA. 

I did a bad thing. I didn't really *intend* to do a bad thing. The bad thing *kind of maybe* resulted in a good thing for someone. The bad thing started out as a kind gesture from someone else.

Yet, I definitely did a bad thing. 

Someone emailed me a gift card for a food delivery service, and our financial situation has been fucked for a couple of weeks, so I decided to use the gift card and order some delivery food on Friday evening.

My hubby had been feeling headache-y for a few days and was napping, so I asked for the food to come later in the evening, around 7:00. My instructions for the Delivery Specialist were basically what the CDC would recommend: Leave the food on the steps and nobody gets sick. Don't knock, don't call. Just leave it and walk away.

I placed the order around 5:45 and was expecting it to arrive around 7:00, not right away, but later, at the specific time that I selected from the drop down option menu that they offered me. Are you with me here?

After submitting the order, I got a text saying the restaurant received the order and it was going to be delivered around 7:00. I could see the order status flashing that it had been received by the restaurant and was going to be ready for delivery around 7:00. 

I went into the courtyard to do some needless pruning of leaves because what the fuck else is there to do when you have worked on a computer from home all week and live in a studio apartment with a giant human man and three animals - all four are living beings whom I love dearly, but also do very little these days except sleep and loudly demand to be fed, yet cooking wouldn't be required that evening, and all four were currently sleeping.

Suddenly, while pruning for no reason, and in the midst of listening to a VERY INTENSE podcast episode about the maniacally brutal, wholly pointless torture and murder of two young Tennesseans, my Bluetooth headphones started ringing. I jumped three feet in the air and answered the call. It was 6:09.

It was the driver calling to say my food had been delivered, and I was like, "You weren't supposed to deliver the food until 7:00 but okay, just leave it on the steps, thank you," and I hung up.

My order was fifty-one minutes early, my hands were covered in yard waste, my husband was napping, my face mask was indoors, the status bar on the delivery app still said the order wasn't even started at the restaurant level, the sudden ringing phone startled the hell out of me, and therefore...I was pissed. 

Angry enough that I spent the several minutes it took to prep for venturing into the Front of the Apartment to retrieve the food thinking of all of the Reasons Why I Should Be Pissed, thereby making myself even more pissed.

Why do people schedule delivery times? Generally for a motherfucking reason. I don't willy-nilly ask someone to bring me a bacon cheeseburger with fries two hours AFTER I'm dying to shove it in my mouth.

Why did they offer the option of choosing a delivery time if they were going to BLINDLY IGNORE THAT REQUEST?

They asked for delivery instructions, in which I told them not to call or knock! Maybe they knocked on the door and woke up my husband. I didn't know, I was in the courtyard, but it was possible, and I DID know they called me when I asked them not to!

My gift card wouldn't load properly onto the food delivery app earlier in the day! 

The list of grievances was long. 

Granted, everyone in the country who could afford to do so was probably also using the food delivery service that Friday night, so they absolutely must have been slammed, but that was NOT MY PROBLEM because my food was supposed to come around 7:00 delivered by a pandemic-level hero to my goddamn door step because I worked hard all week. Me. 

As someone who has worked in many many jobs which would be considered Customer Service, I understand. I Get It. I should not have been upset that they delivered my food 51 minutes early. But I was. 

I'm only vaguely clear on why I was upset, but I am completely clear that it had something to do with control. That also sounds strange to say, seeing as how I haven't been this regimented, productive, or - frankly - calm (out of necessity), in a very long time. I think it's that last bit about "out of necessity" that's flaring up control issues, probably not just for me.

Eventually, I ventured out front to collect the food. It was delivered in a brown paper bag with a white 8.5" x 11" paper receipt stapled to the front. It was piping hot. I can't smell anything, but I'm positive it must have been fragrant. I set the unopened bag on the counter (I was far too invested in my fury to eat at that moment, and everyone else was still sleeping), and returned to fuming about the situation.

Here is where I began to slide into doing the bad thing.

I decided to contact the food delivery service's online help team, which you can only do via the online chat, and once connected with a representative, I explained the situation, made it very clear that I was displeased, and informed her that they should figure out why their "vendors" agree to allow customers to schedule deliveries if they don't actually intend to do that. 

Then I straight up I lied to her. I said the reason I asked for a 7:00 delivery time was because I wasn't home. I needed to know, is my food safe? Is it there sitting on my porch all by itself, or is it at the restaurant? After all, according to the app it hadn't even started being prepared, which makes sense because it was only 6:09 (That part was true.)

I literally let the customer service representative call the restaurant to ask them where my food was while she was chatting with me on the app, while I was looking at the bag of food I'd just placed on my kitchen counter. 

Then the restaurant lied to her and said my order wasn't ready, but would be on the way in another 35 to 40 minutes - did I still want the delivery, or did I want to cancel it? 

No joke, I got reverse-gas lit there. Which was actually fair, in hindsight.

Then the internet connection cut out and I lost my chat session with the customer service representative just as the restaurant called me directly. I would be lying if I didn't tell you I started to panic, but in for a penny...

...so I lied to them. Same lie, I wasn't even home yet. That's why I wanted the later delivery. In my hood? Who even knows if it'll still be on the steps when I get there? I mean, why the fuck do you think I ordered it with a two hour delay?

I had just doubled down on my bullshit - I absolutely was going to make a point, I just wasn't sure what point I was trying to make.

Now, the restaurant did NOT lie to me - they said sure, your food was delivered at 6:09, so I said I was going to ask the food delivery service for a refund because I wanted my delivery at 7:00 or after. 

You know, after I got "home."

That's when the restaurant person handed the phone to a different person who very clearly was the Restaurant Person In Charge, and that person informed me that they were happy to re-deliver my order around 7:00 but they absolutely would be retrieving my original delivery order and donating it to someone else. She didn't apologize for the error, but she strongly insinuated that I am an asshole.

"Of course!" I insisted to her, like I was some kind of philanthropic food delivery patron, and we hung up the phone. I re-donned my mask and returned the unopened bag of still hot food, careful to try and place it in exactly the same spot on my steps, receipt facing the same direction, so as to complete the ruse that I was not at home for any of the needless bullshit I'd created, and I went back to yard work and murder podcasts and waited for the replacement order.

I'm not sure where, or to whom, the food donation was made - but that response from the restaurant was the last thing I expected and probably the only way to make me feel a tiny bit less culpable for being an asshole. I literally called the restaurant back later and apologized, but either I spoke to someone who didn't know what happened, or they pretended like they didn't know what happened. I also gave a five star review online.

The fact remains that I've done a bad thing - my husband is currently furloughed from a different local restaurant, I literally know they cannot afford this type of nonsense, but I did it anyway (although I kind of thought the food delivery service would be the ones to take the hit, but I didn't even pay for the meal in the first place), and that's how I know I'm losing my fucking mind.

I swear to god the only thing I'm on at the moment is coffee. Cold coffee.

Thursday night, when my car was snatched (very politely and by a guy who looked a little like Santa, and with minimal tears on my part), I found myself in a bit of a tailspin.

Friday was a tough day for my ego, and then I realized that I needed help. Help was offered. And I, the endlessly prideful dumb ass that I am, turned down the help. For real.

I've always liked the idea of not needing monetary help from anyone, and went most of my adult life without asking for much of it, but I did get a loan from a loved one to help buy my house. This house is the best place I've found so far, and I don't mean house-wise exactly, because it needs a lot of work, but this is where I belong for some reason. I don't ever want to leave this property, and I'm going to do my damnedest to make that reality.

Unless I change my mind, but you know...I'm impulsive like that.

After my tough day on Friday, Daylow and I made our semi-regular trek to out little dive bar in town, and we talked quite a bit, as we are wont to do, and I noticed a very interesting pattern unravelling.

The situations when I've desperately needed help from other people, thus far, were difficult to swallow, but when I finally prostrated my ego enough to accept offered help, those debts resulted in some of the best things that have ever happened to me.

The loan for my house started a huge snowball of life-changing events that brought me here.

Where's here?

Home. Finally home.
In the place where I broke my skull and knocked every spec of responsibility out of my fibers.
This is the place I love most in the state despite all of the painful things that have happened here.
Finally accepting help from someone gave me a home.

The snowball blew through 2011 and knocked everyone aside, including Gray, and along the way, that snowball brought people into my life that made other changes explode like really grizzly fireworks. Half was a good show, half was like a slap in the face with a stray limb.

I've never been more alone than I am right now. I've never been more financially desperate than I am right now. I have never been more scared than I am. Right now.

But that fucking snowball, despite all the carnage it scattered through my world, also brought me Daylow. He's the best, most unexpected present I've ever received*.

Along with Daylow came months of unemployment, and not the "I deserve a tiny violin" kind of unemployment, but the "holy fuck, that chick is retarded" kind of unemployment.

Unemployment brought be the most fun, least profitable job I've ever had, and it also made an odd network connection (courtesy of meeting one of those limb-in-the-face people from the snowball) that resulted in me finding my new job. The job that I love. With a company I can dig. And a paycheck that will allow me to pay for my home. And my vodka.

All of the mistakes that I've made recently, all of the ways that I've fallen into a very deep hole, the fact that I'm pretty much scraping rock bottom in every way right now...these things brought me the happiest Minnesota winter I've ever survived.

Well, those mistakes and the fact that it's been warm and snowless all year.

Now I'm seeing the pattern repeat, because I desperately need help to crawl out of my self-fashioned hole, and also because someone has again offered to help.

I realized that I had to change my RSVP from "thank you for the offer, but I'm too proud to accept your help" to "FUCK YEAH, thank you very much."

It might just bring another good thing my way.


*Thanks Dale. And Pat. And the futon.

FOR SALE: Toro snowblower, pretty much brand new, expensive, fancy, and sprays magic (instead of snow) out of its blade thingys

$8.15

No joke, this snow blower propels itself, shoots really high in the air, and the snow it disburses is like a sparkly rainbow of unicorn farts and angel kisses falling from heaven.

I'm asking the price of a quarter tank of gas for this beauty, basically because I'm that desperate at the moment, and in exchange, this Fancy Toro *Expensive Model* can be yours.

I haven't checked the forecast yet, but I'm assuming it might snow again this year, maybe once or twice, definitely in March and DEFINITELY after we've washed our cars, so it's probably a matter of life or death, whether or not you own my magical unicorn snow cone maker.

Call me. Buy this. I NEED GAS MONEY.

Except that...wait, NO I DON'T.

Why don't I need gasoline after all, you ask?

That's right, I almost forgot.

I thought I was acting out my perfectly normal routine of riding to work in Daylow's car and, once there, being stranded even though I didn't need to go anywhere,  going to Arby's for lunch with a co-worker because I think he felt bad that he couldn't drive me around like a princess so, instead, he drove me to Arby's (which I didn't used to like, but now that I can't taste...I guess I actually do, and then working almost two hours later than I've recently been accustomed to working, but it seeming longer because it was dark when I left, the building was empty, and I'd gotten there at my regular time this morning, so it was a longer day in general, and then riding home (again, a passenger) by another  very  compassionate co-worker, and unlocking my front door to go inside, and having to explain to my very confused dog why I was entering from the wrong end of the house, did that mean she needed to get up and greet me, or was I planning to go around back and come in the correct way?

Except, as you can imagine, THAT IS NOT A NORMAL DAY FOR ME.

My car. It has been...returned to it's maker, shall we say, and is going to auction if I don't come up with a lotta cash soon.

So PLEASE call me. And buy my magical unicorn fan, and I'll only charge you the cost of a repo.

IF YOU DON'T PUT THE WORD "crustacean" in the subject line, I'll now your spam.

Selfish-less-ness: The Sequel

I've had the best morning ever, and I'm not even drunk.

Remember waaaaay back when I wrote about selfish-less-ness? Of course you don't, you drunken whores. For those few who do, I think about my grandparent's story every once in a while and I was startled today when I searched for it and realized I wrote that post nearly three years ago. It was one of my first posts, actually, because this shit-for-brains blog has only been around for three years (this Sunday).

I try to be kind to strangers as much as possible, when I'm not flipping them off and blowing smoke in their children's faces, but it's been a while since I've done the whole Pay It Forward routine. I've bought drinks or dinner here and there, and that has been done for me as well, but nothing involving complete strangers and without the guarantee of a sincere thank you in return. I simply haven't been out buying designer coffee lately because, well, I CAN'T TASTE IT, so seriously you could shit in a blender and add some milk and pour it into a cup and I wouldn't know the difference. Starbucks seems a bit of a waste in the face of that.

One thing I have done recently is commend several parents on the exceptional behavior and politeness of their children because it's rare that you find a young girl who is eager to hold open the restroom door for you for no reason whatsoever other than because she knows it's a kind thing to do.

I've done a few generous things for others lately, but since this is more of a family-friendly post, I'll neglect to mention those things now.

This morning, I was in a drive thu grabbing an ill-advised breakfast and chiding myself for eating such crap, when I overheard a woman in the Jeep ahead of me say, "And there's a white car behind me. I'll get hers." I recognized the gesture immediately and realized it's the first time a stranger has paid for my order.

A smile stormed my face, and I decided I should pay it forward to the car behind me as well. I double-checked my wallet and decided that even if the woman behind me was ordering quite a bit, I could swing it. Good deeds! They are happening! Woo hoo!

So as I sat in line waiting to pay, grinning like a mad man, I investigated a lump in the tiny zipper on the outside of my wallet and found...wait for it...ONE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS I FORGOT I HAD. There is no telling how long the cash had been there - seriously, I've been paying for gas with quarters all week long - and I honestly have no memory of putting the money in there.

I don't believe in karma, like, AT ALL, but jesus christ. That was a happy fucking surprise. And the stranger behind me...her order was only $1.07.

The moral of the story is that you, too, should prevent forest fires. Or maybe just buy a coffee for the guy behind you, even when you're low on cash.

You never know...the secret wallet compartment fairy may find you, too.

Poor guy will probably end up burning himself at the stake

It's Valentine's Day, a holiday with suspicious beginnings (who's your baby daddy, V-day? NOBODY KNOWS) and guilt trips induced in the name of sentimentality and blow jobs.

I love Valentine's Day, but mostly because it gives me an excuse to dress all in pink and red without having to give a shit either A) about heart health or B) breast cancer, the two leading causes of stress and alcoholism in women named Lolita Razzle Dazzle.

Typically, Gray and I celebrate this lovers' holiday by eating Chinese food from the floor (he and I on the floor, not the food, although Gray's chopstick skills DO need some improvement), watching movies all night long, and having illicit living room relations.

Tonight, though...tonight is a Monday night, which means we both work tomorrow, and our furnace is no longer functioning, which means that sleeping in our 96-year-old-house feels a lot like Bella and Edward in the tent before Jacob showed up, and simultaneously our checking account is overdrawn so that calling the HVAC guy is completely out of the question until next payday, which means Gray and I will likely spend this Valentine's Day eating crumbs from the floor (literally)((I think I saw a jelly bean under the couch))(((I CALL DIBS))) and going to bed at a reasonable 9:30 p.m. after flossing our teeth and packing our lunches for tomorrow.

I know, I know - we're really not taking advantage of the holiday. It is our first MARRIED Valentine's Day, so it's really my premier opportunity to implement Operation: Wife Guilt, but the truth is I'll kill him with my bare hands if he charges another penny to our account, plus I totally don't feel like shaving today.

No, not even there.

So tonight will be one of those regular nights, except we'll probably make a few more inappropriate boob jokes than usual and, if my period doesn't start before bed time, maybe Gray will get lucky. MAYBE.

On the other hand, I'm beginning pre-conception preparations for Operation: Knock Me Up (coming to theaters in May), so it's possible I'll decide I'm too tired for marital relations and I'll tell Gray he has to save his sperm until this spring.

Or maybe we'll just masturbate together.

Kind of depends on how warm the house is.

One More Purchase.

We need window treatments.

Let's just say that watching porn at a 45 degree angle to your bedroom window while hiding under the covers and muttering, "Hurry up, vibrator, the neighbors could look over at any minute" is not exactly the pinnacle of eroticism.

And then dropping to the floor, army-crawling across the room (so as not to be glimpsed by the old guy across the street), and throwing a shoe at the power button on the TV kind of ruins the glow, you know what I'm sayin'?

American Picker

I have to stop buying things, which is particularly hard when I keep finding awesome deals on things we actually need but can't afford anyway, and by "need" I mean "prefer to have rather than not".

Craig's List is my gay lover in that I wish I knew how to Quit it.

I've furnished an entire house (and then some) by obsessively scanning the For Sale listings, weeding through the absolute fucking TRASH that some people seem to feel is worth a hell of a lot more money than they'll ever see for it, watching for the occasional gem of an item that I cannot live without. For example, I found our queen platform bed and mattress, never used except to stage homes, for $200. Only catch was that I had to go pick it up, which is hardly a "catch" when you're as used to picking things up as a business man cruisin' the hood.

Gray tried to cut me off and I threatened to hide his PS3 remote. Let's just say we reached an Understanding.

Our new place has hardwood floors, which rocks for us because OOOH PRETTY! but our poor dog can't stand on wood floors, he's much more likely to slide into a laying position, which is okay with us except that when he tries to stand up he looks exactly like baby Bambie on the frozen pond, which is to say he is a blur of limbs. We need rugs.

HALP ME.

Last night, I scored two matching 8' x 11' floor rugs for $150, which anyone who knows anything about ANYTHING will tell you is a damn good deal for area rugs of that size. They're in awesome shape, match our decor, and will prevent our poor dog from amusing us with another graceful face-plant. Plus, I got to spend an hour our on my deck with my new steam vac and my new floor coverings, singing the soundtrack to Annie at the top of my lungs and effectively ruining our relationship with the new neighbors. It was like Christmas, but with better presents.

I've also bought a guest bed, a brass headboard and foot board for the guest bed, a pineapple lamp, two chandeliers and two hardwired wall sconces, a couch, chair and ottoman for the sun porch, another couch for the man cave, an ottoman for the living room, and a bunch of other crap I can't remember.

Then there are the garage sales, which supplied us with a dozen dining chairs, and a pair of media cabinets. Not to mention all of the free stuff I grabbed from people's garbage: night tables, deck chairs, two antique trunks, step stools, wooden chairs and lamp shades.

I also bought a giant, wooden table that I found sitting in someones driveway. This will be our dining room table; that is, AFTER I've "Indoor-ized" it by pounding in rusty nails, sanding it waaaaay down so it doesn't stab our dinner guests, and sealed the surface in preparation for the inevitable wine-spillage.

Which reminds me that I bought a counter-height wooden table that I intend to use as a kitchen island, but not until I remove the existing kitchen island.

Which reminds me, I want to re-tile the floor while I'm at it, and I just happened to see a listing for slate floor tile on Craig's List...

Eleventh Hour Cluster Frick

Oh, ya'll.

This whole Buying A House thing is a fuckload of work and stress and ulcers and migraines and diarrhea. As of 2:38 pm yesterday, everything was lined up for a smooth closing on September 30th and I was happily stealing furniture from alleys all over my neighborhood in preparation of furnishing an entire house with exactly fourteen dollars and thirty-one cents.

Then at 2:39 (O, CURSED HOUR!) I got a phone call that threw the entire works into a tizzy and a big fat jam which resulted in Afternoon Consumption of Red Wine and Lots of Ice Cream From the Carton, and the entire problem revolves around the lack of ONE SIGNATURE on ONE PIECE OF PAPER out of the billions and jillions of pieces of paper involved in the purchasing of a house and the borrowing of the money to do so.

This is when I'm really regretting my decision not to enter a life of crime. Forged documentation would really come in handy right now.

Fortunately, Gray became Prestige-d (apparently it's a verb in Loser Language) on his Modern Warfare game this weekend, so there's that bit of good news. If you know what it means to become Prestige-d, then you're a giant loser.

But also, I'm kind of serious when I said it's good news because Pristige-d Gray was playing that very game last night when another loser playing with him spoke into Gray's loser-y headset and gave him a brilliant idea with which to extricate ourselves from the EMERGENCY LACK OF SIGNATURE we are suffering, and the fact that Gray was playing his 24th consecutive hour of video games may ironically end up being the reason we are able to purchase this house after all.

Which means I owe Gray about a thousand blow jobs RE: the bet we made RE: the usefulness of his playing video games. ALL. THE. TIME. EVERY. DAY.

I fucking hate/love it when he's right.

Perfect Time To Have Kids, No?

I'm considering a return to talk therapy, and holy christ, I was unprepared for how awkward that sentence would sound out loud: the verbal equivalent of that couple who walks around with their hands in each other's rear pants pockets, regardless of how impractical that may be when they're also, oh I don't know, trying to cross the street while making out and talking on a cell phone.

I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.

I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.

Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.

After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over several glasses cases of wine.) Regardless of this ridiculous time schedule, I find myself scanning the domestic "gigs" listed on Craigslist, searching for part-time cleaning jobs to make a little extra money because I have fifteen spare minutes every other Tuesday evening and I'll be damned if I spend that time enjoying myself. Plus, two people have told me I'm "crazy" since yesterday. Maybe I should look into that.

I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.

House. Also, Poor.

So. We bought a house.

That's what we've been up to. Gray and I have been searching for the perfect property since March, and this is the third time we found "it," the difference being that this time, the buyer agreed with us.

I was thinking our life would slow down after the wedding, but I was wronger than wrong, because now we'll be packing and moving (did I mention this marks the fifth time I've moved in three years?), and Kylie is moving in with us at Longfellow Deeds for a couple of weeks before she leaves to spend her autumn months with her hot boyfriend in Europe (I know, FUCK YOU KYLIE, is right) and I'm starting over with The Month of Ramen coming up this Wednesday. I thought we were broke before, and now we're exactly $House Amount of Dollars more poor than before. Lucky for us, Top Ramen doesn't discriminate. And also, we own all our porn.

Mmm Mmm Dead

I promise to let you eat my cheeseburger very soon, but I must first comment on this important social issue:

PIER ONE IS TRYING TO MURDER ME.

I'm working on some research for my Month of Ramen (it WILL HAPPEN, so help me fucking god) and I figured since I'll be showcasing lots and lots of noodle-based recipes, I'd better get a pretty little ramen bowl to photograph them in. It's for the good of the world, and therefore a justifiable expense.

When considering where to purchase such a bowl, my first though was Pier One because...well...it's the only store where the teak love-children of kitschy eastern decor and frilly western sensibilities live. And can be found on sale. THERE IS NOWHERE BETTER.

So I went to Pier One. And look at the beautiful specimen I decided on!

I am a yellow noodle bowl. Aren't I lovely? Eat out of me!

In fact, these little ceramic dishes were such a good deal that I decided to purchase enough to serve all of my frequent dinner guests. Which means two.

Curious about the origins of the fine craftsmanship of the bowl, I flipped it over. Imagine my horror when I discovered:

Oh, hai. I can haz mention I might be deadly?

In Pier One's defense, these bowls *were* on clearance...

Do you think it might be because I'm trying to sell my store credit on Craigslist?

Who Doesn't Love Cheeseburgers?

Gray and I went to a Chinese restaurant for our one month anniversary last Saturday (although technically our anniversary is TODAY, we waited four Saturdays and then decided we wanted to eat our frozen wedding cake, and the only way to really justify that was to say that Saturday was our anniversary, and therefore today is just the calendar anniversary. The logic of impatient sweet teeth.) Anyway, because we're so broke, we used gift cards to pay for our dinner, which was kind of the point of the gift cards, but still made me feel cheap.

Apparently Jesus agreed, because we got two fortune cookies but only one fortune: Gray's cookie was empty of everything except calories, like someone was saying, "You broke motherfuckers only get ONE and you have to SHARE." Or maybe now that we're married, that's how it goes with everything from herpes to credit card debt to fortune cookies.

In any case, the one fortune we got said, "If you continually give you will continually have." Which is kind of like kicking us when we're down, if you ask me, because clearly we don't have anything to give at the moment (THE RAMEN IS ALL MINE), but that's when I remembered that I have a coupon for a free burger meal at Johnny Rockets, and even though I could go to the Mall of Hysteria and use this coupon for myself, I'd probably better appease the fortune cookie gods and just fucking give it away. So I can have.

Also, the Chinese word on the back of the fortune was "mouth" so it's kind of appropriate. Plus, since BlogHer I've been working on Empowing my Vagina (yes, I said "empow"), and therefore should share my cheeseburger with all of you, right?

Right.

So if you'd like to win this fabulous coupon for Johnny Rockets (single hamburger or any sandwich, American fries and a soda pop), be sure to comment below and LEAVE A CONTACT EMAIL so I can let you know if you win. I'm not sure how long I'll wait to draw names, and I'm not going to give you any rules whatsoever.

Just leave a fucking comment, is that so hard?

Services Rendered

So I've started my new career as a newspaper columnist / slash / professional dog walker, and I have to say that it's awesome so far. Of course, I've only written one column for the University's paper and I've only walked one dog. One time. But still, I couldn't help but day dream last night as Libby and I strolled through the darkening SE Minneapolis streets...I could walk dogs all day long and maybe write a little in between "clients". That would be the life.

I believe I mentioned we're broke. I believe you'll remember that we started doing the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! thing with Dave Ramsey and that it worked pretty fucking well (I paid off a small fortune in about nine months), but then we got engaged and every last cent *plus some cents we didn't have* went into paying for the wedding and associated festivities.  Then there was BlogHer. Did I mention shit is expensive in Manhattan? Plus there was luggage to check ($20/bag) and airport bars to support ($9.99/bloody fucking mary) and now we're just flat out broke as a couple of Summer's foot bones.

Here we are, post-expensive occasions and stuff, and I'm frantically trying to pull money out of my ass so we can get back on track with our budgeting and debt-paying and, oh you know, EATING.

Enter The Metropolitan. It just so happens that the editor of the paper is a member of my writing group and the production manager was the flutist in our wedding, and they were interested in adding a student lifestyle column, and what was that? I can make $30 an issue, you say? I'M IN.

Then I realized they were also in need of a business manager to do some paperwork for a total of two hours per week and I basically knocked over anyone standing in my way and demanded that I be given that position as well because A) I FUCKING LOVE PAPERWORK and B) bigger stipend, so here I find myself as the new business manager and contributing staff writer for The Metropolitan, student newspaper for Metropolitan State University. My first paid writing gig.

It just so happened that on the same day I heard about the newspaper gig (I totally just typed "jewspaper"...must be thinking of Jessica Bern today...), I also placed an ad on Craigslist for my dog-walking services, thinking if I could find one or two clients who needed me to walk their pups a few times per week, it would be a great way to make a little extra money AND get some exercise, especially while the weather is still warm and sunny.

Yesterday, I met my first client: Libby, the Australian shepherd mix. Her person works overnights and has a long commute, so Libby needs to be let out and walked between 7:00 and 10:00pm several times per week. She is super adorable and teeny tiny, but has some socialization issues and isn't very friendly with new people so her person tells strangers to stay away because she bites (which she doesn't), so I actually am getting paid to scare children and play with dogs.
 
Since I think I would love walking dogs full-time, I wondered what it would take to quit my job and walk dogs full-time like Jennifer Lopez in Monster In-Law, except my apartment will always be organized and mothers-in-law love me, except when I divorce their sons. Don't worry Sharon, your son is too awesome. So far.

I calculated would need to walk fifteen dogs every day to make the equivalent of my current hourly wages, not to mention I'd have to pay for private health and dental insurance. But then again, I wouldn't have to pay taxes, which is awesome in and of itself, and even if I get audited it would be like Will Ferrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger than Fiction and my auditor would end up falling in love with my bra-less boobies and my incredible home baked goods. I would have to pick up a whole lot of dog shit, but I'd also be able to drink all day long because I could just ride my bike around from house to house.

Plus, I could steal enough dog treats for Bampa that we'd never have to buy them again.

It's like I'm scamming The Universe.

Because 830mgs of Sodium Per Serving HAS To Be Good For Your Budget

Buy Slim Fast Stock. Trust Me.

Well, here I am. I am here. What a relief, right? I KNOW. You'll all sleep soundly for the first time in

*checking last post date*

twelve days.

*checking my math*

Yes, twelve days.

We're officially within a month of the Big Event (and no, I am not referring to my first Brazilian wax because that would be UNPROFESSIONAL), and my brain is officially doing kickboxing drills. Just for fun. When it needs to relax.

This whole planning a wedding thing is a contradiction of emotions because HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO EXCITING and OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO BE MRS. GRAY, but also FUCK THIS IS A LOT OF WORK and FUUUUCK THIS IS EXPENSIVE and DO I REALLY HAVE TO MAKE ALL OF THESE DECISIONS because TEALIGHTS OR VOTIVES, PEOPLE?!?!?!

I am having so much fun. Hell, WE are having so much fun, Gray and I and my friends and family and probably the criminals who have stolen our life savings in exchange for satin bows that we HAVE TO RETURN, but damn. This is fun. And also exhausting.

Not physically exhausting because despite my desire to slim down for the wedding, I'm absolutely opposed to actually moving from my spot on the couch which is conveniently located by my personal stash of Chex Mix and Pinot Grigio. My brilliant scheme for last-minute slimming down is to pile so many dozens of mental minutia onto my plate that my body forgets that it's hungry for actual food and doesn't eat for a week. It's actually killing two birds with one stone, if you ask me, in that I'll be losing those last couple of pounds at the same time that I'm losing my last couple of brain cells, and then I'll be a happy-go-lucky zombie bride, which everyone knows is Gray's Ultimate Fantasy.

My brain hurts like somebody removed it via my ear, kneaded 4,000 tiny glass slivers into its mass, and then shot it back into place with a potato gun. There are so many details I hadn't anticipated (where is everyone staying? when do they arrive? have I remembered to send everyone invites to the rehearsal dinner? do I rent mirror squares or tiny mirror tiles for the tables? how long will it take to get my hair and makeup done? when should everyone arrive? HOW DO I KNOW IF I'M GOING INSANE?) and I've decided that the entire wedding day is going to last indefinitely, that I am going to stretch it out for at least the next dozen years, and everyone will keep dancing and eating cake and complimenting my breathtaking beauty and giving us vodka shots and handing us cash...this will last forever because the only way I'm going to get my money's worth is if our wedding day NEVER ENDS.

Our wedding will be like the Hotel California, except with more polka and fewer courtyards.

It's going to be everything that Gray and I ever hoped or dreamed it could be, and thankfully we figured out a way to do it all without having to sell our kidneys or our hot, hot sex, but wow. I must say I'll be a little relieved when the whole thing is over and I am Mrs. Gray and Gray is Big Papa and we pack up our camping gear and gently lift our old dog on the backseat along with his very own doggy Radio Flyer wagon and head out on the open road to All Points West for a week of R&R, not knowing where we're going or what we're doing, only that we're a family and we're under no obligations and we're on vacation and we're happy.

It's a lot of pressure, throwing a party for everyone you've ever known. Which explains, if you haven't yet heard, why Trader Joe's opened a new liquor store in my area funded solely by my patronage.

You're welcome, Charles Shaw.

Or How To Tie Ties.

On Tuesday, I began a post like this:

Holy moly, I'm exhausted. And a little bored, believe it or not. All I have left to do for now is hire a photographer I can't afford and find a whole bunch of addresses for people we haven't seen in multiple years, and who (hopefully) will not be attending our wedding. Oh, and find a dress that (hopefully) costs negative three thousand dollars. I need to find somebody to pay me to wear their gown like I'm hoping is true for Lady Gaga every single time she puts on pants. Or, more accurately, latex g-strings, suspenders, and a bolo tie.

Well, here we are at Thursday I am still down a photographer, but now my DJ has backed out due to a "prior event" (WHAT THE FUCK, DJ? Who cares about those other people!), I'm beginning to panic a tiny bit that the invitations won't get printed in time to mail them in time to get asses in the seats at the church on time all because the invitations weren't printed on time, and I still don't have a yea or nay from the "cook" at the KC "event hall" about whether or not they'll make my totally off-menu menu and how much that off-menu menu might cost, and now I've sent out so many email inquiries to so many vendors that when I get replies to my email inquiries, my initial response is the drop something and run away.

So basically it's going well.

I know I should probably refocus my attention and get around to actually doing homework and shit, and people are expecting me to clean the bathrooms at home, and by "people," I mean my delicate lady bits, who are afraid of the boy pee on the toilet seat, and my co-workers are plotting to strangle me with one of those stupid, $4 chair sashes because I can't shut up about the stupid wedding plans and OH MY GOD MAKE HER STOP.

The good news is that I also need to choose and order (expensive) custom favors/slash/promotional items for my ill-timed trip to NCY for the 5th Annual BlogHer conference. In New York City. Where I'm flying. By myself. To New York. Alone. Maybe 350 custom condoms would send the wrong message to the NYC mugger crowd, although it sure would be awesome to see their faces when I hand over my purse (which was duck taped to my torso and disguised by the pillows I shoved into my shirt to appear less desirable to the NYC rapist crowd) and all that's inside are rubbers that say "Get Boned." and my blog URL.

The muggers would either be so confused that they hand back the purse full of condoms and walk away and find somewhere to wash their hands pronto, or they'd pass the purse and myself along to the rapists standing nearby, sort of like a peace offering for encroaching on their turf.

I've heard that NYC rapists are comparatively educated about STDs, which is great and all, but what I really hope they know is how to make boutonnieres.

Atypical Antipsychotics: Keeping People Like Me Out On The Streets

I don't give a flying fuck about football except so far as it effects me, which generally is never, unless the Vikings are in the playoffs which generally is never, but today I can say that I am smack-my-ass thrilled with the Minnesota victory over Dallas yesterday.

Because this means my life, for the next week anyway, will be just *that* much better. Co-workers will be cheery and helpful. Strangers will be more polite and friendly. Most importantly, Gray will not spend the week moping, which means I'm off-duty so far as the Must Distract Distraught Boyfriend With Pity Sex sex goes.

The downside to having the Vikings in the playoffs is that Gray takes every Sunday off of work to sit in his newly-dubbed Man Cave and watch the game. And every other football game. Ever. All of them. All the time. He's keeps to himself down there in the basement, it's just that I'm used to having Sundays all to myself for homework and masturbating and stuff. He's distracting.

I caught bits and pieces of the action yesterday and all those beer commercials gave me an idea that is both practical and entrepreneurial. (I cannot even explain the extent to which I just had to spellcheck "entrepreneurial.")

I am going to get companies to sponsor me for just living my life.

Can't you just see it?

"This blow job brought to you in party by Bounty. Bounty, the quilted quicker picker upper."

"Making dinner: sponsored by Charles Shaw Cabernet."

"This episode of getting out of bed in the morning was made possible by Celexa."

I could make a fucking killing just by walking around doing my thing. And if "my thing" changes from one day to the next, all the better! More sponsors! More money! And I'd raking in the royalties because I'd have to get a slice of the pie every time anyone else did any of those things.

I could get paid for other people taking shits.

Paint my car like a vagina and I'll be a mobile advertisement for K-Y. Have some custom Red Dog beer unitards whipped up and I'll be a walking advertisement for teenage pregnancy. My shoes could sell Karate lessons. My boobs could be a "before" shot for a plastic surgeon. Every time I fart, I could do a 30 second spot for Beano. Or Taco Bell.

I might as well be MADE of money.

And if Wal-Mart tattoos it's logo up my thigh? Well, then of course I'd have to cut off my leg. But think of the revenue possibilities doing Rascal ads!

Keeping Watch

I've noticed my mood dipping down into the "depressed" category for a couple of weeks now, and I'm trying to figure out what to do about it. I broke up with Dr. Crazy Socks, so maybe I need to find a new therapist. My physician mentioned I might need a higher dose of my medication during the months when I suffer from seasonal depression, so perhaps that's something I should look into.

January and February, typically, are my darkest months of the year. And by "dark" I mean "I can't believe I continue to get out of bed every morning, I guess I can thank my endless need for others' approval for SOMETHING."

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person in the world who understands what this feels like. I suppose that in itself if a symptom of the illness, and it causes me to fold in upon myself, stay home, decline invitations, ignore phone calls, "hole up". It makes me cranky and generally unsettled and displeased with everything, although if you asked me to specify my displeasure, I'd be unable to do so because it's vaporous and slithery and not at all concrete.

But even now, as these dark fingers flicker on the edge of my vision, it's not as bad this year and for that I can thank my awareness of the problem as much as the medication I'm taking to avoid it.

Gray and I came up with a strategy to combat the dark thing, a strategy which includes "having something to look forward to" so we decided to take a trip and we bought our plane tickets (with cash)((yay TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER!)) all the way back in the fall, and now we are going on vacation to California in 17 days and THANK GOD because...well...just LOOK AT THIS PLACE. I have got to get out of here.

My dad and his wife live in southern Cali, and my whole paternal side of the family is within 20 minutes drive of each other. I haven't been to see any of them in almost two years, and that is just way too motherfucking long. Spending time with my family will be more therapeutic than even the sunlight and warm weather, and I'm hoping it gives me a boost and helps propel me along through the worst month, February.

I thought I'd take a look back at where I was one year ago and compare my mental states to see if there's been a noticeable improvement, so I pulled up this post from January 12th, 2009, when I was jogging almost every day and stinking the high heaven. And I remember doing laps at the community center on the track which was suspended over a basketball court, running around and around while I watched the volleyball practice below and listened to (mostly) Coldplay on my Ipod, and wondered if I'd ever be happy again. (Coldplay during a workout is the first sign of my impending mental collapse because, seriously? COLDPLAY?)

So in comparison I'm feeling FAR better this year, but I need to Stay On Top of That Shit and I should probably start working out again in some fashion, maybe, we'll see, and I should definitely try to focus my energies on the new classes I start this week and the week-long vacation at the end of the month and the plans we've made with the supreme California hotties, Kel and Jessica.

I'm also planning to do the Month of No Spending again this year, not only because it provides some much-needed blog fodder, but also because it should keep me distracted during the hours that I'm not working or writing papers for class. It takes physical restraint to not spend a dime for 28 days. It actually hurts a little sometimes, like you're being quartered by four horses named Your Checking Account, TJ Maxx, Chipotle and Amazon.com.

And I should definitely masturbate more often because there's no tax on orgasms.

I Know I Had Another Midget Joke, But It Escapes Me Now...

Ok, so a few random updates I never got around to actually updating because of all the porn. And the midgets. Which, by the way, what the fuck, TLC? The Little Chocolatiers? ANOTHER MIDGET SHOW? I'm sure they're probably cheaper to film because they're so tiny, but you're not fooling anybody...the Gosselin children are IRREPLACEABLE. It's almost like the camera crews are no longer capable of filming humans over the height of 3 feet. Permanent neck crick, or something.

Anyway, so the fridge no longer stinks. It took 4 people and a hell of a lot of different screwdrivers to solve that one.

I think I broke up with Dr. Crazy Socks when I stood him up last week. It's ok, though. I think I need a shrink who appreciates the value of solid-color footwear.

Chantix is awesome. I haven't smoked since...honestly, I don't remember anymore. It's been at least one month, and according to the waistband of my pants, it's closing in on 10lbs. The best part is that I haven't wanted to smoke in the same amount of time.

I've only had one craving in all of that time, and since the craving coincided with my hot date with a younger woman, I'm not entirely sure what I was craving was a cigarette. If you know what I'm saying.

I'm saying that I'm hetero-flexible. Just kidding, Jesus.

Gray just started taking Chantix this week. Fingers crossed for him, huh?

I'm going to be offline until at least the 30th due to our impending trip Back Home. I hope to be safely south of the Mason Dixon before the Midwest gets nailed by this winter storm I keep hearing about from the Weather Terrorists. Assuming, of course, there is such a thing as "safely south of the Mason Dixon." (I've used that line about 5 times today and I'm not sick of it yet.)

I know you're all heartbroken over that, but I assure you that as long as you're well stocked with Hustlers, Skittles and cannabis...it will be like I'm not even gone. Or, if you're already stoned, then I'm already not really gone. I may even be INSIDE of you. Think about THAT for an hour and a half and then remark on the size of your finger swirls. It'll be awesome.

As for the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! let me just say that I've paid off over $5,000 in old ass, sucky ass debt since May. Instead of making the minimum payment of $70 on my current project, I'm making a payment of $593. That's, like, a lot more money and the balance will be knocked out by February. It's fucking remarkable, ya'll. Not only that, but I can honestly say that this is the very first Christmas EVER where I didn't charge a dime.

THAT'S RIGHT, VISA. I paid cash. For. EVERYTHING.

::please hold while I run to Costco and ruin everything I just said by charging $100 to my Costco credit card because CHRIST, Mom, thanks for waiting until the last minute to inform me that what I should get for my sister for Xmas is a winter coat, because those things grown on trees PLUS I'm shooting down filling out of my ass these days, so SCORE::

Ahem.

To finish the update...I am neither pregnant nor engaged despite some rather zealous assurances from Gray to "trust him" and "stay tuned" and "if you let me do this thing I read about in Maxim WHILE I'm playing Call of Duty online, then we'll talk."

Although, I did read a short bio about a 16-year-old who is awaiting adoption in the Twin Cities. She is beautiful, smart, well-spoken, enjoys reading and writing, music, and family traditions. Ironic, huh? The part about the family traditions? So I immediately texted Gray and asked, "Do you want to adopt a black teenage girl?" to which he replied a very non-Christmasy, "No."

Apparently he hates black people. But it's probably for the best because I wouldn't have a clue what to do with her hair.

I aced both of my classes. Miraculously and with much drinking.

And my wack-job story Humility will be printed in Haute Dish, the online version. So technically it won't be printed anywhere. Just like it is now. Except now it will feel the disdain of the population of my academic community.

Good thing most of them only speak Somali.

Gay & Gay, In Different Ways

During a thunderstorm last weekend, Gray sought out the shelter of our garage in order to have a smoke, and he happened to glance up and see a gigantic raccoon come waddling across the deck and down the stairs towards him, presumably looking for shelter. It disappeared under my parked car. His first reaction was, "Shit! What do I do? WHAT DO I DO!?" (manly, huh?). Then he decided not to jump out and roar or make other noise or startle the animal away, but instead - get this - to just ignore the raccoon. Pretend it wasn't there at all. Hope it would go away without any man-raccoon interaction whatsoever. Moments later, he saw the big guy come waddling out from underneath the car, heading in the direction of the open garage door, so he pretended not to see it, like it was some kind of accidental run-in with an ex-girlfriend at a bar: I see you, I think you look about as mean and contagious as I remember, so I'm going to make believe that you're just part of the scenery and hope you happen to notice me and just waddle away. Apparently, that's exactly what happened. The raccoon saw he was not alone in the garage, made a slow and deliberate about-face, and disappeared back under my car. I wonder if this will work on my mother?

So we finally watched Twilight on Friday, Gray and I, and when it was over, he looked at me and said, "I'm embarrassed by how much I liked that movie." And then the very next day, he googled the New Moon trailer and played it for (himself) me. Then he rewound the trailer because he didn't catch the release date. Then he asked if Jacob would have a larger role in New Moon because that's what the trailer suggested, and he said he liked Jacob just as much as he likes Edward, and he hopes Jacob is in the next movie a lot. Like, a LOT lot. That's when I began to worry about the fact that he didn't mention any of the chicks in the movie, and so I told him that, for the sake of his manhood, I was going to pretend like he did not just ask me that question, but then he kind of whined until I gave in. Then he speculated on whether it would be called "New Moon" or "Twilight: New Moon", because apparently that is an important distinction (In case you're wondering, he thinks it'll be subtitled like the Lord of the Rings series). And later still, he asked if it would be "weird" for us to watch Twilight two nights in a row. Strangely, I feel vindicated for all those times Gray conned me into wasting my life, 15 minutes at a time, watching episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

My car is back in the shop. Again. Possibly with a leaking water pump, possibly with a legion of stick-wielding demons, and despite the fact that I've already paid a mechanic to fix those problems and despite the fact that the mechanic did not fix those problems (apparently, they fixed other, non-check-engine-light-causing problems), I am not freaking out. It is surreal. And yesterday, someone said, "You sure must be having a great day today," and when I asked why she thought so, she told me I seemed extra, ultra, vomit-inducing happy - that I was just about squirting happiness everywhere, and then I wondered where exactly happy juice comes from, but I figured it must be my mouth because that's the only place I can squirt from and not be arrested. For reals, ya'll.

I think I've been replaced by a pod person.