...getting out of bed in the morning is that it means I am likely to accidentally do things.
And have any of you ever noticed how I tend to...how do I say this...OBFUCKINGSESS about those things that I do?
Yeah, I'm doing it again.
Now that I've started writing, it's like I can't turn it off, and I've found myself with 7 new drafts in my blogger dashboard and countless tiny, indecipherable, middle-of-the-night notebook scribbles, all of which is good I guess, but it's also frustrating because none of them are "publishable" in even the loosest "hit publish button on blog that nobody even reads" sense, and all of them are completely fucking different topics and ideas, but I have this suspicion that they're all related in some way, and so I'm starting to see a pattern and a way that they can go together to make an entire readable thing, but the problem now is that I have to actually make that happen, and holy shit, ya'll.
Writing is hard.
All of this is compounded by a few things, like that I called in a refill for my crazy meds last week but didn't realize it needed a refill authorization from my doctor, so I ended up having to miss a couple days of medication, then the pharmacy forgot to call and tell me the Rx was ready, and then I forgot that I needed to call the pharmacy to see if the Rx was ready, but finally I remembered to check on the website and saw that it WAS ready, so then I forgot to go pick it up. For two days.
Needless to say after my recent behavior, I can report that I am absolutely confident that I should be medicated. AT ALL TIMES. And by any means necessary. Which reminds me, I need to order this medication in the anal tablet form so that in the event I accidentally staple my mouth to someones couch, I can still get my absolutely vital daily dose. Ya'll, I lost track of the number of times I sobbed over things like the color of Lily's sad eyes and that the dishwasher was full of dishes, but those were clean and I had nothing to replace them with, so the poor dishwasher was going to be lonely.
And has anyone noticed that "breaking up" with a friend is really fucking awful? I've had to do that a couple of times in the recent past, and it's honestly more painful (for crazy lil ole me) to lose a friend than it was when I got divorced from my first husband.
Both times this has happened, it was due to both a parting of interests which make continued friendship more harmful than awesome, and also to my BIG. FUCKING. MOUTH. that I cannot seem to ever stop from running around naked while metaphorically flipping people the bird in between swallows of Svedka.
Between my lack of medication, the overwhelming inadequacy and pressure I feel when I'm trying to produce actual words with actual meaning, and the social turmoil of the week behind me, I can honestly say that I plan to get so motherfucking drunk tonight that I will not wake up until Monday, and when I do, I probably won't be able to locate either my pants or my face.
PS - I will need a ride home on Monday. Any takers?
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label The Trouble With.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Trouble With.... Show all posts
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Trouble With Coach...
...is sitting next to other coach passengers.
On my flight to New York, I was seated next to a loud middle-aged guy on a cell phone. The first thing out of his mouth when he hung up was, "Oh thank god you're not *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*" Just so happened my simultaneous thought was, "Fuck, he's *hand gesture that indicates chatty*" And then Dick - because of course that was his name - told me all about his kids and his life and his rules for dating women (nobody in diapers, nobody into Jesus, nobody *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*). Then he told me about the lady he formerly dated who did not allow him to use the word "awesome" to describe anything other than jesus christ himself, so he now uses "awesome' IN PLACE of jesus' name, and frankly the whole thing was almost too much for me to take without a cocktail, so the first thing I did when I got to the Milwaukee airport was get a cocktail. And hide from Dick.
Then on my flight home from New York, I sat next to this cute kid (christ, did I just refer to a early-twenty-something as a "kid"? Hand me my Metamucil!!) who seemed very interested in striking up a conversation with me, which was confusing because A) hadn't showered that morning and B) hadn't even pretended to shower that morning, so I was wondering what the hell he was all whipped up about, but then again I had grown accustomed to men buying me drinks in NYC and somehow convinced myself it was my dazzling good looks winning all the free booze (was I hotter in NY?!), so I answered all his questions about where I had been (in NYC bars) and what I was doing there (drinking and helping my girls get laid) and what my blog was about (poop and getting laid and making fun of jesus), and because I was still in Pitch My Blog mode from the conference and was talking a million miles an hour, I didn't even notice what must have been a visceral reaction from the kid.
When I finally shut the fuck up and asked him what HE does, he said something like, "I run a Christian outreach program for youth in the Ames, Iowa community" and then something about how he came to be "saved" in high school and grew more passionate about his faith when he reached college, and something about how he wants god to use him to change other people's lives, and that's when I realized what he was thinking...
This kid was thinking that Jesus sat his ass next to mine with the sole purpose of saving my heathen soul. Because that's why everything happens when you're an evangelical Christian, including (somehow) your youth pastor's impure thoughts about Ryan Seacrest. To save souls.
While I thought our seating situation was funny and ironic, this kid definitely interpreted it as divine intervention, and he spent the next forty minutes asking me questions about my relationship with jesus and listening to my answers about that Jew people seem to like so much, and when I found myself more exhausted than amused by the debate, I said, "Well, I'm going to take a nap now..." And then I took a nap.
Oddly, that's how church used to end, too.
On my flight to New York, I was seated next to a loud middle-aged guy on a cell phone. The first thing out of his mouth when he hung up was, "Oh thank god you're not *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*" Just so happened my simultaneous thought was, "Fuck, he's *hand gesture that indicates chatty*" And then Dick - because of course that was his name - told me all about his kids and his life and his rules for dating women (nobody in diapers, nobody into Jesus, nobody *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*). Then he told me about the lady he formerly dated who did not allow him to use the word "awesome" to describe anything other than jesus christ himself, so he now uses "awesome' IN PLACE of jesus' name, and frankly the whole thing was almost too much for me to take without a cocktail, so the first thing I did when I got to the Milwaukee airport was get a cocktail. And hide from Dick.
Then on my flight home from New York, I sat next to this cute kid (christ, did I just refer to a early-twenty-something as a "kid"? Hand me my Metamucil!!) who seemed very interested in striking up a conversation with me, which was confusing because A) hadn't showered that morning and B) hadn't even pretended to shower that morning, so I was wondering what the hell he was all whipped up about, but then again I had grown accustomed to men buying me drinks in NYC and somehow convinced myself it was my dazzling good looks winning all the free booze (was I hotter in NY?!), so I answered all his questions about where I had been (in NYC bars) and what I was doing there (drinking and helping my girls get laid) and what my blog was about (poop and getting laid and making fun of jesus), and because I was still in Pitch My Blog mode from the conference and was talking a million miles an hour, I didn't even notice what must have been a visceral reaction from the kid.
When I finally shut the fuck up and asked him what HE does, he said something like, "I run a Christian outreach program for youth in the Ames, Iowa community" and then something about how he came to be "saved" in high school and grew more passionate about his faith when he reached college, and something about how he wants god to use him to change other people's lives, and that's when I realized what he was thinking...
This kid was thinking that Jesus sat his ass next to mine with the sole purpose of saving my heathen soul. Because that's why everything happens when you're an evangelical Christian, including (somehow) your youth pastor's impure thoughts about Ryan Seacrest. To save souls.
While I thought our seating situation was funny and ironic, this kid definitely interpreted it as divine intervention, and he spent the next forty minutes asking me questions about my relationship with jesus and listening to my answers about that Jew people seem to like so much, and when I found myself more exhausted than amused by the debate, I said, "Well, I'm going to take a nap now..." And then I took a nap.
Oddly, that's how church used to end, too.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Trouble With Studying Creative Writing...
...are the writers themselves. They say you're supposed to write every day and they tell you to write about anything at all, just so long as you're putting words on the screen, and Anne Lamott gets even more specific, saying you should write 300 words every day, even if all you can write about is how much you hate writing. Just write. Every day. It's like weight training for your imagination or, at the very least, your typing skills.
Lamott also says you should accept the fact that you may be in a "dry spell" creatively, and instead of beating your head against the keyboard in frustration, you should write your 300 words and get out, because "Your Unconscious can't work when you're sitting there breathing down it's neck." True, but also not true, because in the case of my unconscious mind, I have to stand over its desk and monitor its progress if there is any hope of getting anything done. As far as creative dry spells, also known (horribly) as writer's block - a term that always reminds me of a public decapitation in medieval times - I seem to have more of these than the Mojave desert.
It would seem that in order to have a proper dry spell, I must first have a wet spell, a period of time when I'm leaking creativity from every orifice, just squirting it at everything I see, but I don't seem to have these wet spells, and I'm starting to think that may be because I only ever write things down when I have all the basics of a piece worked out in my head, at least to the extent that I feel like my ideas are going somewhere, as if the destination is what's important when I know really it's the interstate and the truck stops and the road construction and the flat tires and the fart wars and the battle for the CD player that matter. The problem with waiting to write until I have well-formed ideas is that I can't ever fucking remember anything unless I write it down, and now you should be picturing a snake eating its own tail because HELLO DYSFUNCTION and WELCOME SELF-DEFEATING HABITS. Catch-22 on a stick - the newest Minnesota State Fair food.
But I'm buuuuuuusy, I whine. Or, I'm sleeeeepy. Or huuuuungry. But the wedding! And what about the laundry? THERE MUST BE CLEAN UNDERWEAR, I declare, ignoring the obvious, that there are 30 to 50 minutes between times when I am actually needed to do anything to the laundry, it's not like I'm out there by the river beating my thong against a rock or anything, so how do I justify the not writing then, huh? The truth is that I don't justify it at all, I simply tell myself that I write for fun and fun alone, that I shouldn't force myself to do anything that isn't fun, don't push myself because maybe it will stop being fun, and that wouldn't be any fun at all.
There is also the small matter of me being drunk all the time, and there is something about being tipsy that somehow reinforces the FUN ONLY policy, and then I wake up and it's morning and I forgot the idea I had meant to write down, can only remember that it had something to do with octopus taxidermy, and now not only have I not written anything, but with the flight of my brilliant idea goes my inspiration followed closely by my discipline, and lastly my brain, and I'm left with the stale vodka sloshing around in my otherwise empty skull. And I need to pee.
And then something comes along which reaffirms why I write in the first place - something like a great comment on my blog or an attagirl from a classmate or an award from the university - and suddenly I'm propelled (almost against my will), limbs flailing helplessly, back into the make-believe world in my head, and when I arrive in my personal Wonderland, I'm greeted by the shadowy people who live there and the pre-possibilities which sometimes become real in that place, and I remember the ideas that I'd lost to late nights and reality television. I remember why I came here in the first place, to this strange and incredible home.
Goddamn 300 words.
Lamott also says you should accept the fact that you may be in a "dry spell" creatively, and instead of beating your head against the keyboard in frustration, you should write your 300 words and get out, because "Your Unconscious can't work when you're sitting there breathing down it's neck." True, but also not true, because in the case of my unconscious mind, I have to stand over its desk and monitor its progress if there is any hope of getting anything done. As far as creative dry spells, also known (horribly) as writer's block - a term that always reminds me of a public decapitation in medieval times - I seem to have more of these than the Mojave desert.
It would seem that in order to have a proper dry spell, I must first have a wet spell, a period of time when I'm leaking creativity from every orifice, just squirting it at everything I see, but I don't seem to have these wet spells, and I'm starting to think that may be because I only ever write things down when I have all the basics of a piece worked out in my head, at least to the extent that I feel like my ideas are going somewhere, as if the destination is what's important when I know really it's the interstate and the truck stops and the road construction and the flat tires and the fart wars and the battle for the CD player that matter. The problem with waiting to write until I have well-formed ideas is that I can't ever fucking remember anything unless I write it down, and now you should be picturing a snake eating its own tail because HELLO DYSFUNCTION and WELCOME SELF-DEFEATING HABITS. Catch-22 on a stick - the newest Minnesota State Fair food.
But I'm buuuuuuusy, I whine. Or, I'm sleeeeepy. Or huuuuungry. But the wedding! And what about the laundry? THERE MUST BE CLEAN UNDERWEAR, I declare, ignoring the obvious, that there are 30 to 50 minutes between times when I am actually needed to do anything to the laundry, it's not like I'm out there by the river beating my thong against a rock or anything, so how do I justify the not writing then, huh? The truth is that I don't justify it at all, I simply tell myself that I write for fun and fun alone, that I shouldn't force myself to do anything that isn't fun, don't push myself because maybe it will stop being fun, and that wouldn't be any fun at all.
There is also the small matter of me being drunk all the time, and there is something about being tipsy that somehow reinforces the FUN ONLY policy, and then I wake up and it's morning and I forgot the idea I had meant to write down, can only remember that it had something to do with octopus taxidermy, and now not only have I not written anything, but with the flight of my brilliant idea goes my inspiration followed closely by my discipline, and lastly my brain, and I'm left with the stale vodka sloshing around in my otherwise empty skull. And I need to pee.
And then something comes along which reaffirms why I write in the first place - something like a great comment on my blog or an attagirl from a classmate or an award from the university - and suddenly I'm propelled (almost against my will), limbs flailing helplessly, back into the make-believe world in my head, and when I arrive in my personal Wonderland, I'm greeted by the shadowy people who live there and the pre-possibilities which sometimes become real in that place, and I remember the ideas that I'd lost to late nights and reality television. I remember why I came here in the first place, to this strange and incredible home.
Goddamn 300 words.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
The Trouble with Letting Them Think They Get to Have an Opinion...
I know, I know. I fucking SUCK. How long has it been since I posted? At least 6 or 7 days, and then maybe a week before that. I'd go check, but I simply DO NOT HAVE THE TIME.
You know that feeling you get when you have a bunch of marbles in your head because that's what your brain has been reduced to by the violent force that is wedding reception menu options and rehearsal dinner deposits and the chore of compiling a gigantic guest list, and your skull is made put of tin foil and Elmer's glue and then someone spins you around so fast that your marbles are weightlessly spinning inside of your head and your testicles are sucked up inside and ticking your gall bladder, and then that same someone hits you in the face with a crowbar made out of titanium magnets, and not only do your marble brains shatter upon impact, but also your tin foil skull gets sucked out out of your gushing facial wound and ends up shrink wrapped to the magnetic crowbar, except you're so high on ecstasy and hydrocodone and jet lag that you think it's all really fucking awesome and special and romantic and fun and exciting and the BEST EVAH?
That's what's been going on in my head for the last seven days. Wow. A whole week since my lobsta got down on his knee and asked me to be Mrs. Gray forever and ever until either one of us dies or until Tom Hanks shows up and rips off his shirt and flutters his eyelashes at me. Or, now that I think about it, until Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie and Kelly Kelly all jump naked into a vat of liquefied peanut butter cups and even slightly IMPLY that perhaps they would be open to the possibility of Gray getting within 30 yards of the them.
In other words, forever and ever until Gray dies and goes to be with the God he knows is out there somewhere and gets to see his dad in heaven, and all of his deceased ancestors are there, and he gets to make jokes about Picasso with Leonardo DaVinci, and he stumbles across the final shreds of his dignity which died when I started having to wipe his ass for him at the age of 95.
And then I'll die 25 years later during rough sex with my teenage Colombian man-slave on in the cabana by my vodka-filled lap pool on my private island in South Carolina, and I'll end up in the great black nothing that is what I believe happens when you die, and my body will rot and my teenage Colombian man-slave will go into therapy and become a lesbian, and eventually my molecular energy will be absorbed into a leaf of grass which will be ingested by a zebra, and I'll live my dream of roaming the plains of the Serengeti and I will bask in the pleasure that is the simple life of a tricked out pony. At least until I take a giant shit and my molecularly-charged blade of grass ends up back where it came from.
When I am nothing but a pile of shit, the circle will be complete.
So to sum it all up:
And then Gray says this to me and makes it all worth while:
Gray: "Hey hon?"
Me: "Yes?"
Gray: "Can I walk down the aisle to The Undertaker's entrance music?"
Me: "You don't get to walk down the aisle. Thank god."
Because really? He REALLY thought this had a shot at this?
He has no idea what he's getting himself into. Instead of registering for gifts, we're asking that you all chip in to buy a straight jacked and some Xanax for the groom.
You know that feeling you get when you have a bunch of marbles in your head because that's what your brain has been reduced to by the violent force that is wedding reception menu options and rehearsal dinner deposits and the chore of compiling a gigantic guest list, and your skull is made put of tin foil and Elmer's glue and then someone spins you around so fast that your marbles are weightlessly spinning inside of your head and your testicles are sucked up inside and ticking your gall bladder, and then that same someone hits you in the face with a crowbar made out of titanium magnets, and not only do your marble brains shatter upon impact, but also your tin foil skull gets sucked out out of your gushing facial wound and ends up shrink wrapped to the magnetic crowbar, except you're so high on ecstasy and hydrocodone and jet lag that you think it's all really fucking awesome and special and romantic and fun and exciting and the BEST EVAH?
That's what's been going on in my head for the last seven days. Wow. A whole week since my lobsta got down on his knee and asked me to be Mrs. Gray forever and ever until either one of us dies or until Tom Hanks shows up and rips off his shirt and flutters his eyelashes at me. Or, now that I think about it, until Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie and Kelly Kelly all jump naked into a vat of liquefied peanut butter cups and even slightly IMPLY that perhaps they would be open to the possibility of Gray getting within 30 yards of the them.
In other words, forever and ever until Gray dies and goes to be with the God he knows is out there somewhere and gets to see his dad in heaven, and all of his deceased ancestors are there, and he gets to make jokes about Picasso with Leonardo DaVinci, and he stumbles across the final shreds of his dignity which died when I started having to wipe his ass for him at the age of 95.
And then I'll die 25 years later during rough sex with my teenage Colombian man-slave on in the cabana by my vodka-filled lap pool on my private island in South Carolina, and I'll end up in the great black nothing that is what I believe happens when you die, and my body will rot and my teenage Colombian man-slave will go into therapy and become a lesbian, and eventually my molecular energy will be absorbed into a leaf of grass which will be ingested by a zebra, and I'll live my dream of roaming the plains of the Serengeti and I will bask in the pleasure that is the simple life of a tricked out pony. At least until I take a giant shit and my molecularly-charged blade of grass ends up back where it came from.
When I am nothing but a pile of shit, the circle will be complete.
So to sum it all up:
me + wedding plans + back to work after 6 business days on vacation + pricing custom favors and business cards to hand out when I go to BlogHer which is happening a mere 19 days after my wedding + studying for my first humanities exam + hosting a class discussion group on Friday night + DID I MENTION I'M PLANNING A WEDDING IN 158 DAYS?! + what the hell is that thing growing in the toilet? It looks a lot like the thing growing in the fridge... = Really fucking busy and excited and brain-swirly and jet-lagged and in denial that I need to stop eating like a human and start eating like a zebra.
And then Gray says this to me and makes it all worth while:
Gray: "Hey hon?"
Me: "Yes?"
Gray: "Can I walk down the aisle to The Undertaker's entrance music?"
Me: "You don't get to walk down the aisle. Thank god."
Because really? He REALLY thought this had a shot at this?
He has no idea what he's getting himself into. Instead of registering for gifts, we're asking that you all chip in to buy a straight jacked and some Xanax for the groom.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Trouble With Familiarity...
So let me paint you a picture of what life with Gray is like nowadays.
The Scene: I need to pee. Gray follows me upstairs and lays down on the bed while he's waiting. I consider not washing my hands, wash them anyway, and then go over to cuddle with the birthday boy.
Gray: You don't lay on top of me enough anymore. We used to do this all the time, remember?
Me: That's true, we did do this a lot, didn't we? I think we just got used to each other.
Gray: We have to start doing this again.
Me: Yes, definitely.
::poignant, romantic pause::
::warm fuzzy feelings::
Me: What are you thinking about?
Gray: Wrestling.
::Gray's stomach muscles clench::
Me: NO! Don't!
::loud fart::
Me: NOOOOOOOO!
::he pins me down so the stench can permeate my clothing::
Gray, laughing: What? What's the matter?
Me: LET ME GO! OH MY GOD THE SMELL! I'M SUFFOCATING!
Gray, still laughing like he's some kind of goddamn FUNNY MAN: Come here, I don't smell anything! What's the matter?
Me, finally disentangled and fleeing the room: You are disgusting.
Gray: What?
::innocent face::
Me: You didn't even TRY to hold it in. I felt you PUSH IT OUT.
::maniacal laughter/horrified convulsions::
End scene.
When did this happen!? When did we evolve from trying to hide our gas from each other to using flatulence as a weapon? When did our bodily functions graduate from embarrassing to funny? Where did we step over the line from "I'm going to shower for you" to "please pop my back zit"???
How did we get here?!
And will you please go buy me some tampons?
The Scene: I need to pee. Gray follows me upstairs and lays down on the bed while he's waiting. I consider not washing my hands, wash them anyway, and then go over to cuddle with the birthday boy.
Gray: You don't lay on top of me enough anymore. We used to do this all the time, remember?
Me: That's true, we did do this a lot, didn't we? I think we just got used to each other.
Gray: We have to start doing this again.
Me: Yes, definitely.
::poignant, romantic pause::
::warm fuzzy feelings::
Me: What are you thinking about?
Gray: Wrestling.
::Gray's stomach muscles clench::
Me: NO! Don't!
::loud fart::
Me: NOOOOOOOO!
::he pins me down so the stench can permeate my clothing::
Gray, laughing: What? What's the matter?
Me: LET ME GO! OH MY GOD THE SMELL! I'M SUFFOCATING!
Gray, still laughing like he's some kind of goddamn FUNNY MAN: Come here, I don't smell anything! What's the matter?
Me, finally disentangled and fleeing the room: You are disgusting.
Gray: What?
::innocent face::
Me: You didn't even TRY to hold it in. I felt you PUSH IT OUT.
::maniacal laughter/horrified convulsions::
End scene.
When did this happen!? When did we evolve from trying to hide our gas from each other to using flatulence as a weapon? When did our bodily functions graduate from embarrassing to funny? Where did we step over the line from "I'm going to shower for you" to "please pop my back zit"???
How did we get here?!
And will you please go buy me some tampons?
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The Trouble With Quitting...
Did I mention that I quit smoking again?
Any by "again", I mean, "AGAIN???" and now the sight of the word "again" has lost all meaning to my brain. Wait, maybe I should specify exactly what I quit smoking here.
I quit smoking cigarettes again-again. Again. Nope, still means nothing.
Anyhow, I finally did it: I got hungover enough that the thought of smoking a cigarette made me gag for two days. (If you need to quit, too, here's the trick: smoke 4 times more than normal in 1/4 of the time and overindulge in adult beverages and lay on the couch moaning for two days )((works like a motherfucking charm, let me tell you)).
When you quit smoking, the first 2 or 3 days of abstinence are the hardest and it feels like someone has ripped a gaping hole in the back of your mind and all you can think about is stuffing that hole full of carcinogens and tobacco and sweet, smokey tendrils of vapor love. But if you're already so hungover that the though of thinking about thoughts means possibly dying and YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO DIE,...well, then smoking isn't so high up on the list of priorities, you know?
Nevertheless, your lungs feel lonely and too-pink and there are all these random moments during the day when you're not sure what exactly you should be doing with yourself. Like, "Well, just finished up dinner and now I'll just...um...what DO non-smokers do after a meal? The circle is incomplete!"
Not smoking during those designated Cigarette Times feels remarkably similar to when you purposefully walk into the kitchen but then can't remember why you walked into the kitchen, so you just wander around aimlessly from drawer to drawer hoping it will come back to you, and eventually it does, but not until you're in the middle of taking a dump.
Everyone around you is smoking, and they all look pretty damn pleased with themselves. That guy with the cigarette in the car next to you at the stoplight? HE IS TORTURING YOU AND HE KNOWS IT. That movie you've seen 4,000 times but never really noticed before how much the actress smokes until now? THAT BITCH IS TRYING TO DESTROY YOUR LIFE. All those people at all those holiday parties who brave the icy winds and stand outside in a huddle? THEY ARE HAVING MORE FUN THAN YOU.
Tuesday night at 7:40 p.m. when we took a ten minute break from my British Lit class, the flashing neon light behind my eyes kicked on and all I could see was "CIGARETTE TIME! CIGARETTE TIME! Hurry up, it's CIGARETTE TIME!" and all my class friends filed out the door and I stood staring after them, a thin stream of drool connecting my chin to my shoes, until someone asked if I was coming and I muttered, "No, I'm trying to quit."
That, of course, elicited a chorus of "good for yous" from the smokers, but I know from experience that when they say "good for you", they really mean "better you than me, sucker."
And I spent the rest of the break walking in a circle from the water fountain to the door, not sure if I should be seated and pretend to study or if I should try to pee again or if I should get a snack or if I should just FUCKING CAVE AND BEG FOR A CIGARETTE.
Hell, when you're really desperate, a used butt from the ashtray will work just fine.
So I guess this post is my convoluted way of saying, "HOLD ME!" and "THOSE CHUNKS I COUGHED UP WERE ISHY!" and "::incoherent sobs and snortles which indicate my desperate need to suck on something deadly::!"
(Oddly enough, this is the first time I've quit while medicated and I guess I'm not exactly the most impartial judge ever, but I don't think I've been cranky or crabby or moody or violent this time.)((Can't recommend medication enough, ya'll.))
Any by "again", I mean, "AGAIN???" and now the sight of the word "again" has lost all meaning to my brain. Wait, maybe I should specify exactly what I quit smoking here.
I quit smoking cigarettes again-again. Again. Nope, still means nothing.
Anyhow, I finally did it: I got hungover enough that the thought of smoking a cigarette made me gag for two days. (If you need to quit, too, here's the trick: smoke 4 times more than normal in 1/4 of the time and overindulge in adult beverages and lay on the couch moaning for two days )((works like a motherfucking charm, let me tell you)).
When you quit smoking, the first 2 or 3 days of abstinence are the hardest and it feels like someone has ripped a gaping hole in the back of your mind and all you can think about is stuffing that hole full of carcinogens and tobacco and sweet, smokey tendrils of vapor love. But if you're already so hungover that the though of thinking about thoughts means possibly dying and YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO DIE,...well, then smoking isn't so high up on the list of priorities, you know?
Nevertheless, your lungs feel lonely and too-pink and there are all these random moments during the day when you're not sure what exactly you should be doing with yourself. Like, "Well, just finished up dinner and now I'll just...um...what DO non-smokers do after a meal? The circle is incomplete!"
Not smoking during those designated Cigarette Times feels remarkably similar to when you purposefully walk into the kitchen but then can't remember why you walked into the kitchen, so you just wander around aimlessly from drawer to drawer hoping it will come back to you, and eventually it does, but not until you're in the middle of taking a dump.
Everyone around you is smoking, and they all look pretty damn pleased with themselves. That guy with the cigarette in the car next to you at the stoplight? HE IS TORTURING YOU AND HE KNOWS IT. That movie you've seen 4,000 times but never really noticed before how much the actress smokes until now? THAT BITCH IS TRYING TO DESTROY YOUR LIFE. All those people at all those holiday parties who brave the icy winds and stand outside in a huddle? THEY ARE HAVING MORE FUN THAN YOU.
Tuesday night at 7:40 p.m. when we took a ten minute break from my British Lit class, the flashing neon light behind my eyes kicked on and all I could see was "CIGARETTE TIME! CIGARETTE TIME! Hurry up, it's CIGARETTE TIME!" and all my class friends filed out the door and I stood staring after them, a thin stream of drool connecting my chin to my shoes, until someone asked if I was coming and I muttered, "No, I'm trying to quit."
That, of course, elicited a chorus of "good for yous" from the smokers, but I know from experience that when they say "good for you", they really mean "better you than me, sucker."
And I spent the rest of the break walking in a circle from the water fountain to the door, not sure if I should be seated and pretend to study or if I should try to pee again or if I should get a snack or if I should just FUCKING CAVE AND BEG FOR A CIGARETTE.
Hell, when you're really desperate, a used butt from the ashtray will work just fine.
So I guess this post is my convoluted way of saying, "HOLD ME!" and "THOSE CHUNKS I COUGHED UP WERE ISHY!" and "::incoherent sobs and snortles which indicate my desperate need to suck on something deadly::!"
(Oddly enough, this is the first time I've quit while medicated and I guess I'm not exactly the most impartial judge ever, but I don't think I've been cranky or crabby or moody or violent this time.)((Can't recommend medication enough, ya'll.))
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
The Trouble With Philanthropy...
So.
Yeah.
I spoke with Five Head last night. He was disenchanted with his school's walk-a-thon fundraiser. Every year, the kids of Ambassadors for Christ ambush their unsuspecting friends and family with requests for sponsorship: $1 (or more, if Jesus moves you) per lap on the school track. Every year, I find myself forking over cash to a school which provides superior education, if not substandard reality, because of Five Head's goddamn endurance.
This kid brother of mine, he was disenfranchised with the walk-a-thon because apparently they use "walking" as both a punishment for the kids when they are unruly AND as a fundraiser for the school.
Five Head calls this a "mixed signal". True enough, kid. True enough.
So I asked him for a solution. What does he think is a more appropriate punishment?
"I don't know, doing our normal thing? It's what we do anyway."
Yeah, that won't fly. Okay, try this: what's a more appropriate fundraiser?
"Um, how about a read-a-thon?"
Yes, I say. How about a read-a-thon? It encourages reading. Duh. Also, the kids would have to practice the "honor system" (JESUS APPROVED!) for keeping track of the books that they read honestly and accurately.
BRILLIANT! My kid brother was born to be an effectual administrator. I told him to pitch the idea to his school.
It made perfect sense to me. "Just THINK!" I said. "If you pitched them the idea and handed them a check from a generous contributor who supports your read-a-thon concept?! You could change your school!"
"Maybe..." he said. "I might be able to convince some of my fast-reading friends...AND, I could talk to my teacher and see if the principal will agree to it! I could get a plaque on the wall with my name on it!!"**
And now he's all pumped up about change, which is kind of ironic given the red state in which he lives.
Then I made a grave error: I promised to pay him 25 cents for every chapter he reads between now and Thanksgiving.
My kid brother, who mocks the picture books and praises 500 page chapter books. Do you have any idea how many days are left between now and Thanksgiving? Millions of dollars in quarters worth of days, that's how many.
And then I compounded stupidity by saying I'd also pay 25 cents for every chapter read by every friend he convinces to join him in his campaign for a read-a-thon.
And then my budget called the cops and I was arrested for domestic assault. Because I beat up my bank account. With my TONGUE.
Oh my god, please let all my brother's friends be retarded.
**Apparently he got this idea from a plaque on the wall outside his classroom donated by the family of a kid who got ran over in the street by a car. I reminded him to look both ways and then we talked about how "accidents happen".
Yeah.
I spoke with Five Head last night. He was disenchanted with his school's walk-a-thon fundraiser. Every year, the kids of Ambassadors for Christ ambush their unsuspecting friends and family with requests for sponsorship: $1 (or more, if Jesus moves you) per lap on the school track. Every year, I find myself forking over cash to a school which provides superior education, if not substandard reality, because of Five Head's goddamn endurance.
This kid brother of mine, he was disenfranchised with the walk-a-thon because apparently they use "walking" as both a punishment for the kids when they are unruly AND as a fundraiser for the school.
Five Head calls this a "mixed signal". True enough, kid. True enough.
So I asked him for a solution. What does he think is a more appropriate punishment?
"I don't know, doing our normal thing? It's what we do anyway."
Yeah, that won't fly. Okay, try this: what's a more appropriate fundraiser?
"Um, how about a read-a-thon?"
Yes, I say. How about a read-a-thon? It encourages reading. Duh. Also, the kids would have to practice the "honor system" (JESUS APPROVED!) for keeping track of the books that they read honestly and accurately.
BRILLIANT! My kid brother was born to be an effectual administrator. I told him to pitch the idea to his school.
It made perfect sense to me. "Just THINK!" I said. "If you pitched them the idea and handed them a check from a generous contributor who supports your read-a-thon concept?! You could change your school!"
"Maybe..." he said. "I might be able to convince some of my fast-reading friends...AND, I could talk to my teacher and see if the principal will agree to it! I could get a plaque on the wall with my name on it!!"**
And now he's all pumped up about change, which is kind of ironic given the red state in which he lives.
Then I made a grave error: I promised to pay him 25 cents for every chapter he reads between now and Thanksgiving.
My kid brother, who mocks the picture books and praises 500 page chapter books. Do you have any idea how many days are left between now and Thanksgiving? Millions of dollars in quarters worth of days, that's how many.
And then I compounded stupidity by saying I'd also pay 25 cents for every chapter read by every friend he convinces to join him in his campaign for a read-a-thon.
And then my budget called the cops and I was arrested for domestic assault. Because I beat up my bank account. With my TONGUE.
Oh my god, please let all my brother's friends be retarded.
**Apparently he got this idea from a plaque on the wall outside his classroom donated by the family of a kid who got ran over in the street by a car. I reminded him to look both ways and then we talked about how "accidents happen".
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Trouble With Technology...
This is a highly classified transcript of the email transmission I received from Admiral Five Head at 1700 hours on Saturday night:
if you recieve an e-mail about a poem that if you do not emailit to 5 others you will have bad luck DELETE IT!! there is no such thindg as luck. also there may be a virus i do not think so but it is possible. also, if these storys are true demonic forces ma be withheld in the e-mail.
End Transmission from
Five Head
Capt. of U.S.S.Bold
Current Occupation
Star Fleet Command/
United Federation of Planets
Rank:Admiral
Home:1-000-000-0000
Note:ONLY 3 calls a
week for ensigns
Apparently, Jesus hates SPAM, too.
Oh, and Mom? I think you need to send this kid to MORE church.
Because clearly he hasn't been brainwashed enough yet.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Trouble With Trusting A Fart...
Before we get started, let me remind you that there is still time to enter my blogiversary giveaway!
I debated long and hard about whether to share this story with you all because...well...it's pretty fucked up and due the nature of this revelation, many of you will have a hard time looking me square in the eyes from this moment forward. I must admit, that's no great loss to anyone, but it will make me uncomfortable because then you'll be forced to focus directly on my schnoz, and that like doesn't happen enough already, asshole.
On the other hand, I am sure many of you will high-five me and declare, "This brave, self-less woman had the courage to crawl into the stinking depths of my inner being, grasp the sinewy tail of my darkest demon, and to wrench it free of my soul and out into the light of the day where it will melt and scream in agony! You, Cat, are my fucking hero!"
Or maybe not.
I even went to Facebook for help: Cat "wonders if there's REALLY such a thing as "too much information". I think people want to know, you know? Do they? I do. TELL ME."
To which everyone responded, "Yes there is such as thing as TMI, but we still want to know anyway." So basically yes. But no.
In the end, I opted out of sharing the story. It is the only way to retain the solitary shreds of my self-respect and dignity. This revelation is better left untold, a secret among many, hidden from the prying, judging eyes of the Interweb.
And then I remembered this post, wherein the last of my dignity up and bailed on me back in December. So now I figure, what the hell? Why not. It might make someone incredibly uncomfortable, and I've been known to go to great lengths to cause discomfort.
So here you go. You're welcome and I'm sorry.
I remember this time, it must have been in 9th grade, when my best friend Sara came from Virginia to stay with me for a week during summer break. We were too young to drive, and thus spent most of our days slathered in facial masks, painting our toe nails, calling Josh Wright on the telephone, and video recording every single second of our time together. And no, it was not the sexy kind of video, perverts.
We arranged to be dropped off at the movie theater to see some flick and meet some boy, and therefore had to stand outside and wait for my mom to come and pick us up after the movie was over. Of course, Sara and I did our best to "lean sexily" against the side of the building, and "appear to be older than we were", because of the things that matter, those are the two which matter most to ninth grade girls at the movie theater.
As we stood there in the hot night air, leaning our little hearts out against the brick wall of the building, we noticed two elderly couples exit the theater doors together and make their way down the sidewalk towards us. It was obvious that the couples were together, on some kind of a double-date, and all four of them were laughing: hysterical, belly-style laughter. Santa Clause laughter.
We were never able to glean the source of their mirth, be it the movie they just saw or some other instance of hilarity. They shuffled slowly along, whooping and hollering and crying and occasionally leaning against the wall to catch their breath, which is what I presumed one of the old ladies was doing when she stopped and braced herself against the wall.
Except that instead of catching her breath, she spread her legs and peed.
PEED!
She just let her bladder go right there on the sidewalk in front of god and fucking everyone. Which caused the troop of gay old friends to laugh EVEN HARDER.
Needless to say, my friend and I were beyond horrified at this spectacle, unable in our youth to imagine a time when our own bladder might fail us or a situation which might call for such extreme public humiliation. Perhaps even worse was the response of the old woman's date, who simply gripped her arm when she had finished watering the cement and steered her on down the sidewalk, all of them still laughing and bellowing to beat the damn band.
We stared after them, jaws unhinged and resting on our shoes, watching as they reached the car and the woman spread her legs once again and finished off her business right then and there behind the car door. It seemed to me that there were gallons - neigh, OCEANS! - of piss coursing out of that old woman. It was a sight to behold.
Then she gathered up her skirt, got into the backseat of the car, and they drove away.
I didn't sleep for a fucking week, let me tell you. There is nothing so terrifying to a teenager as the thought of growing old and losing control of your body. It simply cannot be, this "aging" thing you speak of. Look at me! I'm perky and elastic-y and simply fucking glowing with the light of a thousand unicorns! I will never be that old. Right? RIGHT!!??
And so now you might understand why, when recently I made a stop in the restroom to pee, I had a stroke and died on the toilet when I...saw.the.SKID MARK.
I literally floated up out of my body and looked down upon my soiled garments and thought, "Whose ass is that? Surely that is another person's ass. For my ass would never behave in such a manner. I demand to know whose ass I am wiping!"
And when finally I accepted that it was, in fact, MY ass, the memory of that old lady and her oceans of piss flashed before my eyes and I realized, maybe for the very first time, that I will one day clutch my belly as uncontrollable laughter causes me to shit myself in the movie theatre while on a date with a prostate cancer survivor in a toupee, and probably with a prescription for Viagra that he often confuses with his styptic tablets.
After this realization, I sent my grandmother a package of diapers and a sympathy card.*
*Actually, the first thing I did was text Gray because he was having a really bad day. And suddenly he realized that his day wasn't so bad anymore because at least he had clean boxers. And then I told Veronica, whose response was, "Are you actually TELLING ME THIS?"
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Trouble With "Creamy White" Lung Excretions...
So I'll be posting about our (fucking freezing cold)((did I mention BRRR?)) Rock the Dock IV excursion at some point this week, but at the moment I'm busy trying to make my coughing productive, which according to About.com means that I should be "producing excretions" and that I should also be noting the color of said secretions, which will range from "dark red" to "creamy white", and REALLY? Is "white" not a good enough description of the color? Because I didn't realize Behr was consulted in the naming of the various colors of productive cough excretions, and while they're at it, they might as well go all O.P.I. on our asses and name phlegm colors like "Funny Bunny" or "Just Tea-sing". Or "Mucus Plug".
If you haven't guessed, I'm sick again. Gray got sick on Friday and then I got sick on Sunday, and together we are one gigantic ball of pathetic sick pussies, and now I'm picturing mangy cats fighting over a scrap of cantaloupe rind in a dumpster. We're even more pathetic than that, I assure you.
I've been trying to figure out why the hell we've both had upper respiratory infections several times this year because normally I get sick once a year, in the fall, and it's always brought on by allergies to some kind of devil pollen spore in the air in Minnesota, perhaps due all the gays, because isn't everything their fault? I normally don't deal with the allergy attack, so it turns turn into a sinus infection and then into walking pneumonia and then I lay on the couch in a feverish haze of Oprah and Saltines until my coughing becomes productive and I stop seeing Richard Simmons doing the tango on the ceiling.
This time, I have no allergies. I have no fucking reason to be a walking, whining, phlegmy excuse of a human being.
I mentioned this to a co-worker who said nonchalantly, "Oh, didn't you know? Everyone around here gets sick. It's because there's no fresh air."
And I was like, "EUREKA! That's probably exactly what the hell is going on!" because we work in a really big building full of people - public people, germy people - a building through which stale air is circulated through the germy, public people and then recirculated down to my office all.day.long. My office is underground. No windows. No fresh air. PUBLIC GERMS EVERYWHERE.
Not only does Gray breathe the germy air, but he deals directly with the germy public all day long, touching them and touching things they've touched and then touching things like his STEERING WHEEL and his LUNCH BOX. And now I realized it sounds like he works in a brothel.
We're both OCD hand-washers. In fact, I am perpetually skinless on my hands from washing them all the time (a habit I picked up when I was a waitress), and Gray washes his hands every 45 minutes to an hour, but there's nothing we can do about washing the AIR, and ohthankgod now it's finally all making sense, because I was starting to google "lung cancer" and "cystic fibrosis", and if you think search results for "productive cough" are gross, don't even get me started on "lung mites", people.
So now I can feel free to keep smoking, right?
If you haven't guessed, I'm sick again. Gray got sick on Friday and then I got sick on Sunday, and together we are one gigantic ball of pathetic sick pussies, and now I'm picturing mangy cats fighting over a scrap of cantaloupe rind in a dumpster. We're even more pathetic than that, I assure you.
I've been trying to figure out why the hell we've both had upper respiratory infections several times this year because normally I get sick once a year, in the fall, and it's always brought on by allergies to some kind of devil pollen spore in the air in Minnesota, perhaps due all the gays, because isn't everything their fault? I normally don't deal with the allergy attack, so it turns turn into a sinus infection and then into walking pneumonia and then I lay on the couch in a feverish haze of Oprah and Saltines until my coughing becomes productive and I stop seeing Richard Simmons doing the tango on the ceiling.
This time, I have no allergies. I have no fucking reason to be a walking, whining, phlegmy excuse of a human being.
I mentioned this to a co-worker who said nonchalantly, "Oh, didn't you know? Everyone around here gets sick. It's because there's no fresh air."
And I was like, "EUREKA! That's probably exactly what the hell is going on!" because we work in a really big building full of people - public people, germy people - a building through which stale air is circulated through the germy, public people and then recirculated down to my office all.day.long. My office is underground. No windows. No fresh air. PUBLIC GERMS EVERYWHERE.
Not only does Gray breathe the germy air, but he deals directly with the germy public all day long, touching them and touching things they've touched and then touching things like his STEERING WHEEL and his LUNCH BOX. And now I realized it sounds like he works in a brothel.
We're both OCD hand-washers. In fact, I am perpetually skinless on my hands from washing them all the time (a habit I picked up when I was a waitress), and Gray washes his hands every 45 minutes to an hour, but there's nothing we can do about washing the AIR, and ohthankgod now it's finally all making sense, because I was starting to google "lung cancer" and "cystic fibrosis", and if you think search results for "productive cough" are gross, don't even get me started on "lung mites", people.
So now I can feel free to keep smoking, right?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Smoreguessboard
Angel Butt, in the bathtub playing with her toys when it's time to dry off and get ready for bed: "NO! Play toys! No bed!"
Me: "You can take a bath tomorrow, but right now it's time to dry off and sit on the potty!" I pull the plug in the tub, and it makes a violent sucking sound, like the drain is hungry for blood.
Angel Butt: "NO! NO TOYS!" She frantically shoves each of her bath toys behind her body, eyeing the drain as it sucks and swirls. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes.
Me: "It's okay, your toys are too big. They won't go down the drain."
Angel Butt: "No water, no!" Try as she might, the pull of the drain is too strong and she isn't big enough to block all of her toys from advancing towards the whirling tide. In a fit of desperation, she begins stacking each toy on the side of the tub, out of harms way, working feverishly and glancing at me with frightened eyes.
Me: "Good idea, love. The toys will be safe up here." The water has now all drained from the tub, and she sits staring at the few toys left clustered around the silent drain.
Angel Butt: "Bye bye, water! See you later!" Grinning, she stands and extends her arms towards the waiting towel.
***
I am a sad, pathetic nerd. I googled "Forks, Washington" and squealed with glee when I saw it was a real place on Google maps. And La Push. And Port Angeles.
I'm going to go weep for my pride now.
***
Today is birthday party #3 of the Ark-Invasion (like the British Invasion, but with fewer shoes) and I'm pretty sure that Angel Butt is going to associate Minnesota with Birthdays forever going forward, and will always be disappointed by the lack of trick candles and chocolate cake on future visits.
***
I was hoping my mother would forget all about her request, but last night as I kissed all of the family goodnight and walked towards the safety of my bedroom, I heard her call after me, "Maybe TOMORROW you can help me set up my Facebook page..." I pretended I didn't speak English.
Me: "You can take a bath tomorrow, but right now it's time to dry off and sit on the potty!" I pull the plug in the tub, and it makes a violent sucking sound, like the drain is hungry for blood.
Angel Butt: "NO! NO TOYS!" She frantically shoves each of her bath toys behind her body, eyeing the drain as it sucks and swirls. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes.
Me: "It's okay, your toys are too big. They won't go down the drain."
Angel Butt: "No water, no!" Try as she might, the pull of the drain is too strong and she isn't big enough to block all of her toys from advancing towards the whirling tide. In a fit of desperation, she begins stacking each toy on the side of the tub, out of harms way, working feverishly and glancing at me with frightened eyes.
Me: "Good idea, love. The toys will be safe up here." The water has now all drained from the tub, and she sits staring at the few toys left clustered around the silent drain.
Angel Butt: "Bye bye, water! See you later!" Grinning, she stands and extends her arms towards the waiting towel.
***
I am a sad, pathetic nerd. I googled "Forks, Washington" and squealed with glee when I saw it was a real place on Google maps. And La Push. And Port Angeles.
I'm going to go weep for my pride now.
***
Today is birthday party #3 of the Ark-Invasion (like the British Invasion, but with fewer shoes) and I'm pretty sure that Angel Butt is going to associate Minnesota with Birthdays forever going forward, and will always be disappointed by the lack of trick candles and chocolate cake on future visits.
***
I was hoping my mother would forget all about her request, but last night as I kissed all of the family goodnight and walked towards the safety of my bedroom, I heard her call after me, "Maybe TOMORROW you can help me set up my Facebook page..." I pretended I didn't speak English.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Trouble With Facebook...
So my grandmother and I said our goodbyes before work this morning, as she's heading back home to Arkansas (insert banjo here) to get ready for her knee replacement surgery on the 24th. She's having some sort of mechanical, synthetic knee inserted into the place that is currently occupied by old, disintegrating knee, and I wish I would have known this was coming because I gladly would have offered her one of the totally human knees from out of my chest freezer, but now it's too late because she's going to be part-cyborg and I just can't get comfortable with the idea of eating a Thanksgiving dinner that was prepared by a robot. I'm old fashioned like that.
The real reason for this post is and EMERGENCY CRY FOR ASSVICE from you, the creepy Interwebnet strangers, because last night I attempted to set up an email account for my robot-neigh-grandmother, and my mother piped in from the kitchen and said, "Maybe tomorrow night you can help me set up a Facebook page," and then I had a stroke and died right there on the couch, with Landers by my side.
In lieu of flowers, Cat asks that a donation be made in her name to her name. Cash, if possible.
Because, um, I'm guessing if my mother has a Facebook page, she'll want to add me to her friend list and, well, I'm not exactly ok with that concept. In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely ANTI THAT CONCEPT, because the Facebook bone's connected to the Blogger bone, and I'm guessing that she might follow the trail to this here website and, subsequently, die from a stroke herself.
Now...my mom knows that she and I do not believe in the same variety of higher powers, or in higher powers at all, and she knows that my lifestyle is...less pious than her idea of what a pious lifestyle should be, and she knows that I write things for school that make her cringe.
What she doesn't know is that I have a website that basically amounts to a giant FUCK YOU MOM, and even though that is not my intention here (you won't be surprised to know that I never even consider my mother or her feelings when carrying on about my business), she will most definitely view the content of this blog as a personal affront, if not to her, then at least to her friend Jesus, and I love my mother (crazy though she may be) and I don't want to hurt her.
On the other hand, this is MY blog, not hers. When I was a fourteen, I "dated" the youth pastor's little brother (he was nineteen, but this didn't seem to be a problem for our families because he was a "man of god", or whatever), and at one point we made out a little and he basically dry-humped my stomach for 45 minutes, then apparently god spoke to him and told him he was DIRTY FILTHY EVIL, so he felt the need to tattle on himself. That's right, TATTLE. So when my mom heard from our pastor who heard from the youth pastor who heard from Mr. Dirty Filty Evil, she did not come directly to me, but instead went into my bedroom and read. my. diaries. ALL of my diaries.
And then grounded me and stuck hot cattle brands on my eyeballs and peeled my skin off. Or at least it seemed that bad at the time.
And he? Was forgiven because he was repentant, or some bullshit.
So ever since that massive violation of what little privacy I had to begin with, I've never EVER since been able to keep any kind of diary or journal. I break out into cold sweats and my hands clench up and I punch the walls and then I get drunk and have unprotected sex in exchange for drugs. Or something like that. It was traumatic, what can I tell you?
This is why I have a problem with the idea of my mother finding this blog vicariously through Facebook. I would, once again, feel the need to censor MY truth in order to pacify her, and I am not okay with doing that.
On the other hand, I'm already going to hell, so I doubt that the degree to which I'm going to hell is really going to make any difference to her god.
Interwebnet, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?
The real reason for this post is and EMERGENCY CRY FOR ASSVICE from you, the creepy Interwebnet strangers, because last night I attempted to set up an email account for my robot-neigh-grandmother, and my mother piped in from the kitchen and said, "Maybe tomorrow night you can help me set up a Facebook page," and then I had a stroke and died right there on the couch, with Landers by my side.
In lieu of flowers, Cat asks that a donation be made in her name to her name. Cash, if possible.
Because, um, I'm guessing if my mother has a Facebook page, she'll want to add me to her friend list and, well, I'm not exactly ok with that concept. In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely ANTI THAT CONCEPT, because the Facebook bone's connected to the Blogger bone, and I'm guessing that she might follow the trail to this here website and, subsequently, die from a stroke herself.
Now...my mom knows that she and I do not believe in the same variety of higher powers, or in higher powers at all, and she knows that my lifestyle is...less pious than her idea of what a pious lifestyle should be, and she knows that I write things for school that make her cringe.
What she doesn't know is that I have a website that basically amounts to a giant FUCK YOU MOM, and even though that is not my intention here (you won't be surprised to know that I never even consider my mother or her feelings when carrying on about my business), she will most definitely view the content of this blog as a personal affront, if not to her, then at least to her friend Jesus, and I love my mother (crazy though she may be) and I don't want to hurt her.
On the other hand, this is MY blog, not hers. When I was a fourteen, I "dated" the youth pastor's little brother (he was nineteen, but this didn't seem to be a problem for our families because he was a "man of god", or whatever), and at one point we made out a little and he basically dry-humped my stomach for 45 minutes, then apparently god spoke to him and told him he was DIRTY FILTHY EVIL, so he felt the need to tattle on himself. That's right, TATTLE. So when my mom heard from our pastor who heard from the youth pastor who heard from Mr. Dirty Filty Evil, she did not come directly to me, but instead went into my bedroom and read. my. diaries. ALL of my diaries.
And then grounded me and stuck hot cattle brands on my eyeballs and peeled my skin off. Or at least it seemed that bad at the time.
And he? Was forgiven because he was repentant, or some bullshit.
So ever since that massive violation of what little privacy I had to begin with, I've never EVER since been able to keep any kind of diary or journal. I break out into cold sweats and my hands clench up and I punch the walls and then I get drunk and have unprotected sex in exchange for drugs. Or something like that. It was traumatic, what can I tell you?
This is why I have a problem with the idea of my mother finding this blog vicariously through Facebook. I would, once again, feel the need to censor MY truth in order to pacify her, and I am not okay with doing that.
On the other hand, I'm already going to hell, so I doubt that the degree to which I'm going to hell is really going to make any difference to her god.
Interwebnet, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Trouble With Having To Push Buttons and Stuff
Hi! Hello. Yes, remember me? I used to post, like, all the time and stuff? And if you think really hard, you might recall I used to do shit like comment on YOUR blog. I promise that even though I haven't been marking my cyber territory much lately, I'm still reading one of your posts every week. Honest!
I'm loving the Google Reader, except for the fact that I still have to click through to another page if I want to leave a comment on your blog, and frankly, I'm getting so spoiled by this laptop that I'm only a few months away from expecting everything to happen for me automatically, without any type of physical or mental exertion.
Gotta pee. Done!
Want some bacon. Mmmmm!
Leave a comment on the post about fisting. Didn't have to click through to another page!
I know it's asking a lot, but I'm kind of a whiny bitch like that.
Gray took me out to dinner and a movie tonight. We saw The Wrestler and it was awesome. Seriously. Go see this movie. And if it turns out that you hate it, blame Obama.
Afterwards, we stopped into the bookstore. I wanted to buy everything on the damn tables because I'm a total sucker for book covers. You can go ahead and add "totally judges books by their covers" to my list of reasons I'm going to hell.
Bright and shiny yellow with an embossed ducky? SOLD!
Foggy looking landscape with scraggly trees and drippy font? Hook me up, yo!
Anything with Dr. Phil's face? Would rather do an at-home circumcision. On myself.
But what I really needed was a new copy of Jane Eyre for my women writers class. Sure, I have a textbook anthology which includes all the Charlotte Bronte novels, but it's so BIG. It's unwieldy. I like to read in bed and be comfortable, and that requires one-handed reading. The textbook is too heavy for one-handed reading, it requires two-handed knee-balancing maneuvers. It's just too much work.
Also? I love Jane Eyre. I've read it several times before, many years ago. So many years ago that when I pinched together all 300 pages of the story in my text, I looked at the thickness of pages and declared, "Jane Eyre was never this long before!" So I figured if I went and bought a paperback copy of the book, it would kind of...be smaller. Fewer pages. Less work. Just like I remembered it.
There were two copies of Jane Eyre available at the bookstore, and the smaller of the two has about 450 pages. Because, of course, the textbook pages hold more words than the little paperback pages.
Apparently, willing a classic novel to "be fewer pages" doesn't work. I have got to figure out a way to add Jane Eyre to my Google Reader.
I'm loving the Google Reader, except for the fact that I still have to click through to another page if I want to leave a comment on your blog, and frankly, I'm getting so spoiled by this laptop that I'm only a few months away from expecting everything to happen for me automatically, without any type of physical or mental exertion.
Gotta pee. Done!
Want some bacon. Mmmmm!
Leave a comment on the post about fisting. Didn't have to click through to another page!
I know it's asking a lot, but I'm kind of a whiny bitch like that.
Gray took me out to dinner and a movie tonight. We saw The Wrestler and it was awesome. Seriously. Go see this movie. And if it turns out that you hate it, blame Obama.
Afterwards, we stopped into the bookstore. I wanted to buy everything on the damn tables because I'm a total sucker for book covers. You can go ahead and add "totally judges books by their covers" to my list of reasons I'm going to hell.
Bright and shiny yellow with an embossed ducky? SOLD!
Foggy looking landscape with scraggly trees and drippy font? Hook me up, yo!
Anything with Dr. Phil's face? Would rather do an at-home circumcision. On myself.
But what I really needed was a new copy of Jane Eyre for my women writers class. Sure, I have a textbook anthology which includes all the Charlotte Bronte novels, but it's so BIG. It's unwieldy. I like to read in bed and be comfortable, and that requires one-handed reading. The textbook is too heavy for one-handed reading, it requires two-handed knee-balancing maneuvers. It's just too much work.
Also? I love Jane Eyre. I've read it several times before, many years ago. So many years ago that when I pinched together all 300 pages of the story in my text, I looked at the thickness of pages and declared, "Jane Eyre was never this long before!" So I figured if I went and bought a paperback copy of the book, it would kind of...be smaller. Fewer pages. Less work. Just like I remembered it.
There were two copies of Jane Eyre available at the bookstore, and the smaller of the two has about 450 pages. Because, of course, the textbook pages hold more words than the little paperback pages.
Apparently, willing a classic novel to "be fewer pages" doesn't work. I have got to figure out a way to add Jane Eyre to my Google Reader.
Friday, January 02, 2009
The Trouble With Being Proactive
About 30 minutes ago, I had a realization coupled with a brief flash of panic: My classes start on January 7th and I haven't ordered my textbooks yet. EGAD! I did the same thing in August for my fall semester classes - totally spaced that I have to have actual books, and that these books don't appear on my coffee table as if by magic, and that I must go in search of the books IMMEDIATELY or start off the semester as "that girl" who isn't prepared for class, which really isn't that big of a deal (unless you're crazy like me and require the undying love and approval of everyone on earth, especially the people who determine my grades).
So just now, I logged onto a series of elaborate websites associated with my university and it's bookstore and their web order company (of course I had to reset my password because I couldn't possibly be expected to remember something I set up 5 months ago and only used once), I searched my spring courses for which texts I needed (of course none of them were available used, of course they weren't), I swallowed the giant lump in my throat (cheapness) and clicked "purchase".
Then I checked my yahoo email account and saw this offer from Barnes & Noble:
So just now, I logged onto a series of elaborate websites associated with my university and it's bookstore and their web order company (of course I had to reset my password because I couldn't possibly be expected to remember something I set up 5 months ago and only used once), I searched my spring courses for which texts I needed (of course none of them were available used, of course they weren't), I swallowed the giant lump in my throat (cheapness) and clicked "purchase".
Then I checked my yahoo email account and saw this offer from Barnes & Noble:
Of course. It's just like me to get free shipping offers immediately after paying shipping. I'd hate to break stride on this point, I'd really rather continue on missing opportunities to save money on items I'd rather not pay for in the first place. I find comfort in routines.
Monday, December 08, 2008
The Trouble With Doing Laundy In An Apartment - Part II
Well, I just got back from dropping off the shopping cart back below the stairwell. The shopping cart that I needed to haul all our dirty clothes to the laundry room upstairs. And then to the other laundry room down the hall because the machines upstairs couldn't handle it all. I'll be heading back up there in 14 minutes to put them all in the dryer.
We made SEVEN LOADS OF LAUNDRY since last Sunday. Seriously people, I washed 6 loads just one week ago. What the fuck? Which one of the two of us is walking around with 14 pairs of pants on every day, because that's what it must take to make SEVEN loads of dirty laundry in as many days. Jesus Christ.
To be fair, one load is comprised of sheets (that I didn't do last week because we were out of town for most of that week and, well, I'm just kinda lazy like that) and towels. But still, this is really quite ridiculous.
Let's do the math:
7 loads to wash at $1.50 each (plus two machines that cost $1.75) = $11.00
7 loads to dry at $1.25 each (plus two machines that cost $1.50) = $9.25
Soap, bleach, dryer sheets (guessing here, no clue) = $4.00
My wasted fucking time = Priceless
So that's $24.25 every week that we're spending to wash our damn clothes. Seriously, I am implementing a NAKED ONLY rule around here. You either wear the clothes you been wearing all day, or you can walk around naked for the rest of the night. Your choice. I'm opting for naked, unless I go outside, and then I'll wear clothes only because it's snowing and my nipples are sensitive.
I did, in hindsight (which provides a glimpse of how foggy my brain has been lately), remember why I was hesitant to do laundry yesterday. Last Sunday? A week ago? When I did the laundry?
I washed Gray's Ipod. And dried it.
So....add that to the $24.25 in standard laundry fees, and that = HATE FUCKING LAUNDRY.
We made SEVEN LOADS OF LAUNDRY since last Sunday. Seriously people, I washed 6 loads just one week ago. What the fuck? Which one of the two of us is walking around with 14 pairs of pants on every day, because that's what it must take to make SEVEN loads of dirty laundry in as many days. Jesus Christ.
To be fair, one load is comprised of sheets (that I didn't do last week because we were out of town for most of that week and, well, I'm just kinda lazy like that) and towels. But still, this is really quite ridiculous.
Let's do the math:
7 loads to wash at $1.50 each (plus two machines that cost $1.75) = $11.00
7 loads to dry at $1.25 each (plus two machines that cost $1.50) = $9.25
Soap, bleach, dryer sheets (guessing here, no clue) = $4.00
My wasted fucking time = Priceless
So that's $24.25 every week that we're spending to wash our damn clothes. Seriously, I am implementing a NAKED ONLY rule around here. You either wear the clothes you been wearing all day, or you can walk around naked for the rest of the night. Your choice. I'm opting for naked, unless I go outside, and then I'll wear clothes only because it's snowing and my nipples are sensitive.
I did, in hindsight (which provides a glimpse of how foggy my brain has been lately), remember why I was hesitant to do laundry yesterday. Last Sunday? A week ago? When I did the laundry?
I washed Gray's Ipod. And dried it.
So....add that to the $24.25 in standard laundry fees, and that = HATE FUCKING LAUNDRY.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Trouble With Salons
I went last night to get my hair colored as closely back to my natural hair color as possible. I've been all bleached out with extremely offensive dark roots for, like, ever. Last time I had the color filled was back in April (yes, that's 7 months, you did the match right). As you can imagine, it wasn't pretty. I decided that in light of our upcoming trip to Arkansas, I'd better do something to make myself a little more camera-ready. It is the holidays, after all. Cameras will be tossed around like (hopefully) eggnog.
I called up the semi-swanky salon I went to last time, mostly because when dealing with color, I'm much more comfortable paying a bit more money to make sure they don't totally fuck up my head and force me to shave it all off (again). I don't have a regular stylist at this place - to call myself a "regular" there would be pretty funny. I just asked the nice appointment phone lady to please find an apprentice (cheaper) in the next week, and explained what I wanted done.
"So you want to go back to your natural color?"
"Yes, I would. I need the blond filled in an color added."
"Ok, let me see who I can find for you to do that...hold on just a sec..." She transferred me to a different appointment lady, who basically asked me the same questions all over again and then decided that I was coming in for a "color correction and full foil and haircut". Which? Um, no. Just a fill and a color will be all, thanks. But I figured I'd have an easier time explaining it to the stylist upon my arrival.
I actually got in my car last night and drove to the salon (I've been wont to back out at the last minute and not show up at all), a salon which is located no closer than three suburbs away from my apartment, and still made it a few minutes early. I checked in at the desk, and the woman told me to go ahead and wait in the lobby *pointed to the lobby*. Then she said something kind of odd: "I know it's a little bit scary, but it's totally safe." She was referring to the lobby, where I was to go park my ass and wait.
I kind of did a double take upon hearing the word "scary" and I was all like, OMG someone else finally noticed that the people in these salons are all kind of bitchy and perfect looking and I always get super uptight before I come to one because I know that even if I'm wearing the boyfriend jeans, someone else will be wearing the skinny jeans with the long t-shirt, and how can I possibly compete with that? Let alone my make up, dude I should have gone and had my make up professionally done before I came here to get my hair done, I mean do you SEE what these lights do to my complexion? Oh god so gross. You're right lady, that lobby IS TOTALLY SCARY!! But, if you say it's safe, I believe you. I can do it! I am JUST as good as these other women!
As I turned the corner into the waiting room, I had a little extra bounce in my step. It might be scary at the semi-swanky salon, but by golly, it was safe. Then I got a good look at the main area of the salon. There were no walls or ceiling, electrical wires hung every which way, and workers were coming out of the plastic sheeting wearing hard hats.
Hmmm. Perhaps I misinterpreted the receptionist's comment as common-folk camaraderie, when really, there was a tiny chance she might have been referring to the massive construction project underway. It's possible.
My stylist was super cute (all of them seem to be super cute there), a curvy woman with dark hair and kind eyes. We sat down and I successfully communicated what I wanted to have done. I wanted to return to my natural color, light brown. But to do that, I'd have to go a shade darker if I wanted to ensure the bleached out ends would take the color.
Down the row of workstations from us, a mother was getting her hair done. Her husband was toting two young boys around the salon, trying to keep them entertained while his wife finished up. He came around the corner with the baby in his arms, and when that baby saw his mother he started screaming, "MAMA! WANT MAMA!" She was trying to calm him from beneath her tin-foil shroud, and I commented to my stylist about how cute he was.
She got all dreamy eyed and said, "Oh, I know, isn't he? I notice all the little kids in here now that I'm pregnant." Took me a second to realize she hadn't just smacked me in the face, that she'd only just spoken to me.
Because OF COURSE SHE WAS PREGNANT! Why wouldn't I have been randomly assigned to the one pregnant chick at the salon? Of course mine was pregnant. I tried to be politely inquisitive and asked her how far along she was.
"I'm due in April." Of course she was. By this point I was having to make a pretty concentrated effort to remain calm. Not only was she pregnant, but she was exactly the same amount of pregnant that I would have been now. I bit my tongue to keep from telling her about my miscarriage, because really? Did she need to know? Not at all. Would it have freaked her out? Probably not, but still - no reason to go around upsetting pregnant chicks. You know, if possible.
"Is it your first?" I just had to ask, although I already knew. Yes, it was her first. When she walked away to mix the color, I just shook my head in amazement. It's totally my kind of luck. Another unexpected "neener neener boo boo" from the Universe.
Anyhow, so she did a great job on my color and I tipped her a ridiculously large amount of money, thinking she probably needs it what with the baby coming and all. So now I'm (sheepishly) able to present to you my new hair. I know most of you on the Interweb have no idea what my old hair looked like (picture orangy-bleached 3/4 and dark top 1/4), but I'm not sure when I'll be seeing my Jill again, and damn it all if my Jill doesn't need to see the new (old) hair.
I called up the semi-swanky salon I went to last time, mostly because when dealing with color, I'm much more comfortable paying a bit more money to make sure they don't totally fuck up my head and force me to shave it all off (again). I don't have a regular stylist at this place - to call myself a "regular" there would be pretty funny. I just asked the nice appointment phone lady to please find an apprentice (cheaper) in the next week, and explained what I wanted done.
"So you want to go back to your natural color?"
"Yes, I would. I need the blond filled in an color added."
"Ok, let me see who I can find for you to do that...hold on just a sec..." She transferred me to a different appointment lady, who basically asked me the same questions all over again and then decided that I was coming in for a "color correction and full foil and haircut". Which? Um, no. Just a fill and a color will be all, thanks. But I figured I'd have an easier time explaining it to the stylist upon my arrival.
I actually got in my car last night and drove to the salon (I've been wont to back out at the last minute and not show up at all), a salon which is located no closer than three suburbs away from my apartment, and still made it a few minutes early. I checked in at the desk, and the woman told me to go ahead and wait in the lobby *pointed to the lobby*. Then she said something kind of odd: "I know it's a little bit scary, but it's totally safe." She was referring to the lobby, where I was to go park my ass and wait.
I kind of did a double take upon hearing the word "scary" and I was all like, OMG someone else finally noticed that the people in these salons are all kind of bitchy and perfect looking and I always get super uptight before I come to one because I know that even if I'm wearing the boyfriend jeans, someone else will be wearing the skinny jeans with the long t-shirt, and how can I possibly compete with that? Let alone my make up, dude I should have gone and had my make up professionally done before I came here to get my hair done, I mean do you SEE what these lights do to my complexion? Oh god so gross. You're right lady, that lobby IS TOTALLY SCARY!! But, if you say it's safe, I believe you. I can do it! I am JUST as good as these other women!
As I turned the corner into the waiting room, I had a little extra bounce in my step. It might be scary at the semi-swanky salon, but by golly, it was safe. Then I got a good look at the main area of the salon. There were no walls or ceiling, electrical wires hung every which way, and workers were coming out of the plastic sheeting wearing hard hats.
Hmmm. Perhaps I misinterpreted the receptionist's comment as common-folk camaraderie, when really, there was a tiny chance she might have been referring to the massive construction project underway. It's possible.
My stylist was super cute (all of them seem to be super cute there), a curvy woman with dark hair and kind eyes. We sat down and I successfully communicated what I wanted to have done. I wanted to return to my natural color, light brown. But to do that, I'd have to go a shade darker if I wanted to ensure the bleached out ends would take the color.
Down the row of workstations from us, a mother was getting her hair done. Her husband was toting two young boys around the salon, trying to keep them entertained while his wife finished up. He came around the corner with the baby in his arms, and when that baby saw his mother he started screaming, "MAMA! WANT MAMA!" She was trying to calm him from beneath her tin-foil shroud, and I commented to my stylist about how cute he was.
She got all dreamy eyed and said, "Oh, I know, isn't he? I notice all the little kids in here now that I'm pregnant." Took me a second to realize she hadn't just smacked me in the face, that she'd only just spoken to me.
Because OF COURSE SHE WAS PREGNANT! Why wouldn't I have been randomly assigned to the one pregnant chick at the salon? Of course mine was pregnant. I tried to be politely inquisitive and asked her how far along she was.
"I'm due in April." Of course she was. By this point I was having to make a pretty concentrated effort to remain calm. Not only was she pregnant, but she was exactly the same amount of pregnant that I would have been now. I bit my tongue to keep from telling her about my miscarriage, because really? Did she need to know? Not at all. Would it have freaked her out? Probably not, but still - no reason to go around upsetting pregnant chicks. You know, if possible.
"Is it your first?" I just had to ask, although I already knew. Yes, it was her first. When she walked away to mix the color, I just shook my head in amazement. It's totally my kind of luck. Another unexpected "neener neener boo boo" from the Universe.
Anyhow, so she did a great job on my color and I tipped her a ridiculously large amount of money, thinking she probably needs it what with the baby coming and all. So now I'm (sheepishly) able to present to you my new hair. I know most of you on the Interweb have no idea what my old hair looked like (picture orangy-bleached 3/4 and dark top 1/4), but I'm not sure when I'll be seeing my Jill again, and damn it all if my Jill doesn't need to see the new (old) hair.
Excuse the expression on my face (and the nose, never look directly at it) - I'm terrible at taking my own picture, but Gray is worse. He tried 4 or 5 and all of them were blurry. So I'm afraid you're stuck with this gem!
HAPPY FRIDAY everyone. If you're pregnant, could you please wait to tell me until Monday? I need a break this weekend.
Friday, November 07, 2008
The Trouble With Doing Laundry In An Apartment
I need to start washing laundry before I've exhausted all other underwear options. For example, this week I've worn pantyhose, bathing suit bottoms, and leggings in lieu of proper undergarments. Now, it's not so much that the alternatives to underwear don't provide the same basic service...they all keep my shit contained. It's just...well, I feel like I should just go ahead to do the laundry already. We've got two people in this household. TWO! That's an extremely reasonable number, capable of wearing only so many clothes in a day.
But the laundry room! It's on a different floor! And what if someone else decided to do laundry 5 minutes ago? They will beat me to the laundry rooms, and they will take all the washing machines, and I will have dragged all our dirty laundry upstairs for no reason. So I'll either have to sit guard and stake out my claim on the washing machines, or risk someone else walking in and taking the machines just as the first person clears them out, in which case I'll have dragged all our dirty laundry upstairs for a second time, all for naught. I could run upstairs quickly and scout out the current status of the washing machines, and if they're vacant, I could run back downstairs, grab the clothes, drag them upstairs and snag the machines. Except, what if someone arrives in the meantime, and steals the washing machines out from under my nose? Well, then I'm right back at square one.
Then we have the issue of quarters. Do I have quarters? Yes, I have quarters. Do I have ENOUGH quarters? Well, to determine that, I'll first have to sort the laundry so that it's in piles approximately the size of the inside of the washing machines (machines of varying sizes, I might add), taking color and fabric into consideration, then determine how many total loads I will need to wash. What if I have some whites, but not enough for a full load? Do I forgo the bleach this time and simply combine the few whites with other pale, non-bleeding colors? Or do I wait to do whites until next time (who knows when that will be)? Can I live another day without the whites?!
So let's say I get all of the loads laid out in piles on the floor. Now it's time to count the quarters. It's $1.50 to wash and $1.25 to dry for 60 minutes, $1.50 for 72 minutes. I've got enough quarters for all of the loads to wash, but not to dry, so I will have to get in my car and drive to the car wash and deposit cash into the change maker in exchange for quarters. But all I have is a $20. So I'll be carrying back 5lbs of coins in my pajama bottom pockets (that's all I wear at home, and yes, I frequently walk around in public looking like I expect to fall fast asleep at any moment), and they're likely to drop around my ankles as I'm walking back from my car into the apartment. But, whatever. So I flash a few folks. So I'll have too many quarters for this time, but not enough for next time. I'll just do this dance again in 6 weeks.
Okay, I've got all the quarters. Now I have to determine which loads will dry in 60 minutes, and which loads will dry in 72 minutes. Well, this one has jeans, so perhaps it will need more dry time. But if I combine all the jeans together in one load, they will be too heavy for the machines, and get all wrinkled up together in the dryer. So I'll split them up between this load of towels and this load of t-shirts. The addition of the jeans changes the drying dynamic of the towel and t-shirt loads, however. So I must reconsider my original dry time estimations.
Now, assuming I figure all of this stuff out, and I get my clothes up to the laundry room, and the washing machines are free, and I have enough quarters, and everything is going off without a hitch. Well, now I've got to remember to set a timer for 25 minutes when I get back to our apartment, because I'm likely to lose track of time and forget to go throw the clothes from the washers into the dryers. When I finally realize it's been an hour and a half, I'll have to put on my pants and race upstairs to the laundry room, where I'll either find an irate Russian lady* who has been waiting an hour for the inconsiderate asshole to return and quit hogging the washing machines, OR I'll find all of my clothes laying in wet heaps on the floor beside the washing machines, because the irate Russian lady decided to take matters into her own hands (they're good at that, the Russians) and remove the inconsiderate asshole's clothing from her way.
Same problem applies to the dryers, but those drying times are invariably about 3 minutes apart because I started one and then began filling the next, so that by the time I return to my apartment, I don't know HOW long I should set the timer for, if I even remember to do it at all.
Don't even get me started on the lint traps.
Once I've successfully wrangled all of the clean, considerably fluffier clothing back to our apartment, then I have to race the onset of the wrinkling. Then there's the folding and the hanging and the putting away of the clothing. The process of washing laundry in an apartment takes HOURS AND HOURS of my Sunday, and cuts considerably into my pant-less drinking time. Naturally, I wait to wash laundry until we're running out of clean clothes. Which probably makes the task just that much more difficult, since then I'm dragging two heavy bags of dirty clothes, carrying one basket, and kicking the detergent up the stairs.
All of that said, I'm sure you'll understand how I came to be wearing a brassiere on my ass today.
*We have an unusually high ratio of Russians to non-Russians in our apartment building, presumably because we're right next door to the Russion Baptist Church. I swear I'm not making that up.
But the laundry room! It's on a different floor! And what if someone else decided to do laundry 5 minutes ago? They will beat me to the laundry rooms, and they will take all the washing machines, and I will have dragged all our dirty laundry upstairs for no reason. So I'll either have to sit guard and stake out my claim on the washing machines, or risk someone else walking in and taking the machines just as the first person clears them out, in which case I'll have dragged all our dirty laundry upstairs for a second time, all for naught. I could run upstairs quickly and scout out the current status of the washing machines, and if they're vacant, I could run back downstairs, grab the clothes, drag them upstairs and snag the machines. Except, what if someone arrives in the meantime, and steals the washing machines out from under my nose? Well, then I'm right back at square one.
Then we have the issue of quarters. Do I have quarters? Yes, I have quarters. Do I have ENOUGH quarters? Well, to determine that, I'll first have to sort the laundry so that it's in piles approximately the size of the inside of the washing machines (machines of varying sizes, I might add), taking color and fabric into consideration, then determine how many total loads I will need to wash. What if I have some whites, but not enough for a full load? Do I forgo the bleach this time and simply combine the few whites with other pale, non-bleeding colors? Or do I wait to do whites until next time (who knows when that will be)? Can I live another day without the whites?!
So let's say I get all of the loads laid out in piles on the floor. Now it's time to count the quarters. It's $1.50 to wash and $1.25 to dry for 60 minutes, $1.50 for 72 minutes. I've got enough quarters for all of the loads to wash, but not to dry, so I will have to get in my car and drive to the car wash and deposit cash into the change maker in exchange for quarters. But all I have is a $20. So I'll be carrying back 5lbs of coins in my pajama bottom pockets (that's all I wear at home, and yes, I frequently walk around in public looking like I expect to fall fast asleep at any moment), and they're likely to drop around my ankles as I'm walking back from my car into the apartment. But, whatever. So I flash a few folks. So I'll have too many quarters for this time, but not enough for next time. I'll just do this dance again in 6 weeks.
Okay, I've got all the quarters. Now I have to determine which loads will dry in 60 minutes, and which loads will dry in 72 minutes. Well, this one has jeans, so perhaps it will need more dry time. But if I combine all the jeans together in one load, they will be too heavy for the machines, and get all wrinkled up together in the dryer. So I'll split them up between this load of towels and this load of t-shirts. The addition of the jeans changes the drying dynamic of the towel and t-shirt loads, however. So I must reconsider my original dry time estimations.
Now, assuming I figure all of this stuff out, and I get my clothes up to the laundry room, and the washing machines are free, and I have enough quarters, and everything is going off without a hitch. Well, now I've got to remember to set a timer for 25 minutes when I get back to our apartment, because I'm likely to lose track of time and forget to go throw the clothes from the washers into the dryers. When I finally realize it's been an hour and a half, I'll have to put on my pants and race upstairs to the laundry room, where I'll either find an irate Russian lady* who has been waiting an hour for the inconsiderate asshole to return and quit hogging the washing machines, OR I'll find all of my clothes laying in wet heaps on the floor beside the washing machines, because the irate Russian lady decided to take matters into her own hands (they're good at that, the Russians) and remove the inconsiderate asshole's clothing from her way.
Same problem applies to the dryers, but those drying times are invariably about 3 minutes apart because I started one and then began filling the next, so that by the time I return to my apartment, I don't know HOW long I should set the timer for, if I even remember to do it at all.
Don't even get me started on the lint traps.
Once I've successfully wrangled all of the clean, considerably fluffier clothing back to our apartment, then I have to race the onset of the wrinkling. Then there's the folding and the hanging and the putting away of the clothing. The process of washing laundry in an apartment takes HOURS AND HOURS of my Sunday, and cuts considerably into my pant-less drinking time. Naturally, I wait to wash laundry until we're running out of clean clothes. Which probably makes the task just that much more difficult, since then I'm dragging two heavy bags of dirty clothes, carrying one basket, and kicking the detergent up the stairs.
All of that said, I'm sure you'll understand how I came to be wearing a brassiere on my ass today.
*We have an unusually high ratio of Russians to non-Russians in our apartment building, presumably because we're right next door to the Russion Baptist Church. I swear I'm not making that up.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Trouble with Muses
The trouble with muses is that you have to have one. When I started writing here (again) in September, subject material presented itself in the form of hormone-driven hair growth and constipation. Or maybe I spared you the poop talk. But I had a pregnancy to discuss, dammit! I was going to bore everyone to tears with the minutia of my gestation, and the Internet was no exception!
Well, we all know how that panned out. Suffice it to say I am no longer in the mood to discuss pregnancy, nor the loss of it.
Soooo that leaves me with fewer options for inspiration. This life of mine, well it is not a life that people would want to read about, not even my own mother, who doesn’t know about my blog because she is morally opposed to the word “fuck-a-diddy” and I refuse to censor myself in such a cruel manner. My job is not particularly exciting, or even mildly interesting for that matter. Sure, I’m in school, but unless you want to read about the many ways in which a radical quadratic equation can be manipulated, I doubt you’d find I have much to say on the matter of higher education. (Fortunately, my course load in the spring includes some creative writing. I plan to make you my guinea pigs at that time.)
My boyfriend…well, he’s awesome, so I’d prefer to humiliate him as little as is possible (except to tell you that I succeeded in scaring the holy living shit out of him on Friday night when, after he forced me to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre II and Freddy vs. Jason, I ran screaming down the hall as he was finishing up in the bathroom, and he jumped several feet in the air, turned white as a ghost, and screamed like a girl. It was awesome). And even if I did wish to humiliate him, it’s hard to work with what he gives me. Ooooh he took out the trash and did the dishes without being asked. Aaaaah he makes the bed every day. Woooo he remembered out half-anniversary. BORING. I don’t have any dogs or cats, so there are no pet-related shenanigans to report. I do have two goldfish, so I guess I could try a post about them…
Alice hogged all the goldfish food. Buggy pooped a strand twice his own length. They swam in circles. The end.
Huh, well now that I’ve crossed the goldfish post off my list, I’m kind of out of options. I could try one of those posts where I ask my loyal readers (both of you) to send me a goofy idea and I’ll take your idea and weave a fantastic short story from it. Unfortunately, I’m a little rusty in the writing department just now. The last short story (SHORT story) came from a dream I had in which everything on the planet made of plastic came alive and began to slaughter people. Creepy dream. Marginally creepy and only semi-coherent story. I believe my Jill’s response was akin to a double eye-roll.
I could resort to the blogger’s ultimate cop out: posting photos. That is, of course, if my camera was not broken all to hell. I could post my opinions regarding the current economic stich, or the political climate, but I am sick to death of thinking about all of that. Also, I’m extremely ill-informed. Some would say I’m ignorant. I prefer to think of myself as informationally challenged.
So for now, expect a lot of posts about how I have nothing to post about. Oh, and hunchback porn, naturally.
Well, we all know how that panned out. Suffice it to say I am no longer in the mood to discuss pregnancy, nor the loss of it.
Soooo that leaves me with fewer options for inspiration. This life of mine, well it is not a life that people would want to read about, not even my own mother, who doesn’t know about my blog because she is morally opposed to the word “fuck-a-diddy” and I refuse to censor myself in such a cruel manner. My job is not particularly exciting, or even mildly interesting for that matter. Sure, I’m in school, but unless you want to read about the many ways in which a radical quadratic equation can be manipulated, I doubt you’d find I have much to say on the matter of higher education. (Fortunately, my course load in the spring includes some creative writing. I plan to make you my guinea pigs at that time.)
My boyfriend…well, he’s awesome, so I’d prefer to humiliate him as little as is possible (except to tell you that I succeeded in scaring the holy living shit out of him on Friday night when, after he forced me to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre II and Freddy vs. Jason, I ran screaming down the hall as he was finishing up in the bathroom, and he jumped several feet in the air, turned white as a ghost, and screamed like a girl. It was awesome). And even if I did wish to humiliate him, it’s hard to work with what he gives me. Ooooh he took out the trash and did the dishes without being asked. Aaaaah he makes the bed every day. Woooo he remembered out half-anniversary. BORING. I don’t have any dogs or cats, so there are no pet-related shenanigans to report. I do have two goldfish, so I guess I could try a post about them…
Alice hogged all the goldfish food. Buggy pooped a strand twice his own length. They swam in circles. The end.
Huh, well now that I’ve crossed the goldfish post off my list, I’m kind of out of options. I could try one of those posts where I ask my loyal readers (both of you) to send me a goofy idea and I’ll take your idea and weave a fantastic short story from it. Unfortunately, I’m a little rusty in the writing department just now. The last short story (SHORT story) came from a dream I had in which everything on the planet made of plastic came alive and began to slaughter people. Creepy dream. Marginally creepy and only semi-coherent story. I believe my Jill’s response was akin to a double eye-roll.
I could resort to the blogger’s ultimate cop out: posting photos. That is, of course, if my camera was not broken all to hell. I could post my opinions regarding the current economic stich, or the political climate, but I am sick to death of thinking about all of that. Also, I’m extremely ill-informed. Some would say I’m ignorant. I prefer to think of myself as informationally challenged.
So for now, expect a lot of posts about how I have nothing to post about. Oh, and hunchback porn, naturally.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Trouble With Smoking
First, can I just say...ENOUGH WITH THE BLEEDING ALREADY! God, I feel like some kind of really grotesque sieve over here. Stupid fucking pads, I hate them. I feel like I'm wearing a giant diaper every day (as opposed to the small diapers?). And I miss my thongs. Full coverage panties are so restrictive.
Ok, moving on.
The trouble with smoking, aside from the whole "really bad for your health" thing, and the "really hard to quit" thing, oh and the "god I really smell bad" thing...are the logistical problems that arise, namely the buying of the cigarettes and the smoking of the cigarettes. Which basically describes the whole process of smoking, now that I think about it. Shut up.
Buying them is becoming a problem. Aside from the rising cost and inconvenience of stopping to buy them, there seems to be a shortage of cigarettes available for purchase. It must be some kind of weird side effect of the economic trouble. I ran into a small gas station by our apartment building last Friday to buy a pack of my preferred brand (and by "preferred brand", I mean the only brand I will spend money on. It's the brand with the two-humped creature on the packaging. That brand is my brand. The light variety, to be more specific). It's a very popular brand, and in my experience, it is generally well-stocked in gas stations across America. But last Friday, the gas station didn't have any variety of my preferred brand. None whatsoever. They had one brand and one brand only. An icky brand. It seems they are experiencing a cash-flow problem at the moment. In addition to cutting back the variety of cigarettes, they also quit stocking chewing gum. Because, you know, gum is so expensive and nobody ever buys it?
Ok, fine. I figured this particular gas station would soon be declaring bankruptcy and that would be that. As it turns out, another gas station in my neighborhood also quit stocking my preferred cigarettes. They still had a couple of the fringe varieties of my brand in stock, but not my preferred variety. So now I'm really concerned about the shortage of cigarettes in the area. It seems like an odd thing to run out of, because don't people smoke more when they are stressed? In fact, that's my favorite excuse for smoking in the first place! I don't see why gas stations still sell flavored coffee creamers if they aren't going to carry smokes. How can you drink delicious coffee without a delicious side of cancer-causing agents? I'm afraid that before long I'll have to drive all the way up to Canada to get my fix. And if that happens, I'll probably be forced to give up the habit entirely, because if you haven't noticed, gasoline is also getting harder to come by.
The second problem is that I have a really bad memory. I'm amazed every day that I make it out of the house with pants on. Pants seem like something I would be apt to forget on a regular basis. I don't like to smoke in our apartment. The morning-after scent is too unpleasant. So I'm forced to go outside, which usually isn't a problem. Except when I forget to bring my keys with me and I lock myself out of the building. Like I did last night. Gray wasn't home and I was kicking myself for not knowing a single neighbor. I stood looking at the door for quite some time, thunderstruck at the situation, because I was JUST IN THERE watching Jon & Kate Plus 8, and the commercial break was almost over and I was going to miss the Christmas episode if I didn't figure out how to break into the building. I walked around to the front door hoping I could sneak in on the coat tails of another resident. I practiced my "I swear I live here, I'm not a robber, I'm just a moron" speech while I waited. I texted my Jill to bring her in on the action (and let's be real, to give her a chuckle). I waited. No one came. Just when I was thinking I'd have to bed down on the stacks of phone books and sleep in the entryway, one of the building managers appeared. He almost walked right by me, apparently mistaking my frantic waving for a greeting. Luckily, he put two and two together and let me in.
I spent the remainder of the night huddled on the couch, trying to warm up after my extended foray with the damp night, and pondering how exactly it is that I find myself in these kinds of situations. I chose to absolve smoking entirely and blame the episode on my crappy memory, therefore avoiding a close-call with having to quit again. See how my rationalization works? It's awesome.
I can't say I was surprised this morning when I couldn't find my keys. Because they were sitting on the bench outside. Where I left them. When I went out to smoke. And thought I was locked out.
Ok, moving on.
The trouble with smoking, aside from the whole "really bad for your health" thing, and the "really hard to quit" thing, oh and the "god I really smell bad" thing...are the logistical problems that arise, namely the buying of the cigarettes and the smoking of the cigarettes. Which basically describes the whole process of smoking, now that I think about it. Shut up.
Buying them is becoming a problem. Aside from the rising cost and inconvenience of stopping to buy them, there seems to be a shortage of cigarettes available for purchase. It must be some kind of weird side effect of the economic trouble. I ran into a small gas station by our apartment building last Friday to buy a pack of my preferred brand (and by "preferred brand", I mean the only brand I will spend money on. It's the brand with the two-humped creature on the packaging. That brand is my brand. The light variety, to be more specific). It's a very popular brand, and in my experience, it is generally well-stocked in gas stations across America. But last Friday, the gas station didn't have any variety of my preferred brand. None whatsoever. They had one brand and one brand only. An icky brand. It seems they are experiencing a cash-flow problem at the moment. In addition to cutting back the variety of cigarettes, they also quit stocking chewing gum. Because, you know, gum is so expensive and nobody ever buys it?
Ok, fine. I figured this particular gas station would soon be declaring bankruptcy and that would be that. As it turns out, another gas station in my neighborhood also quit stocking my preferred cigarettes. They still had a couple of the fringe varieties of my brand in stock, but not my preferred variety. So now I'm really concerned about the shortage of cigarettes in the area. It seems like an odd thing to run out of, because don't people smoke more when they are stressed? In fact, that's my favorite excuse for smoking in the first place! I don't see why gas stations still sell flavored coffee creamers if they aren't going to carry smokes. How can you drink delicious coffee without a delicious side of cancer-causing agents? I'm afraid that before long I'll have to drive all the way up to Canada to get my fix. And if that happens, I'll probably be forced to give up the habit entirely, because if you haven't noticed, gasoline is also getting harder to come by.
The second problem is that I have a really bad memory. I'm amazed every day that I make it out of the house with pants on. Pants seem like something I would be apt to forget on a regular basis. I don't like to smoke in our apartment. The morning-after scent is too unpleasant. So I'm forced to go outside, which usually isn't a problem. Except when I forget to bring my keys with me and I lock myself out of the building. Like I did last night. Gray wasn't home and I was kicking myself for not knowing a single neighbor. I stood looking at the door for quite some time, thunderstruck at the situation, because I was JUST IN THERE watching Jon & Kate Plus 8, and the commercial break was almost over and I was going to miss the Christmas episode if I didn't figure out how to break into the building. I walked around to the front door hoping I could sneak in on the coat tails of another resident. I practiced my "I swear I live here, I'm not a robber, I'm just a moron" speech while I waited. I texted my Jill to bring her in on the action (and let's be real, to give her a chuckle). I waited. No one came. Just when I was thinking I'd have to bed down on the stacks of phone books and sleep in the entryway, one of the building managers appeared. He almost walked right by me, apparently mistaking my frantic waving for a greeting. Luckily, he put two and two together and let me in.
I spent the remainder of the night huddled on the couch, trying to warm up after my extended foray with the damp night, and pondering how exactly it is that I find myself in these kinds of situations. I chose to absolve smoking entirely and blame the episode on my crappy memory, therefore avoiding a close-call with having to quit again. See how my rationalization works? It's awesome.
I can't say I was surprised this morning when I couldn't find my keys. Because they were sitting on the bench outside. Where I left them. When I went out to smoke. And thought I was locked out.
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