Archive for August, 2008
Sometimes, I live in a vacuum. A black hole. An undiscovered cave of lunacy.
Sometimes, I am just ridiculously unobservant and retarded.
Today is one of those times. Actually, the last month has been “one of those times” and today is the always necessary, almost always dreaded reality check that lures me out of the suckage and into the harsh, unforgiving light of fact.
Here is what I have known:
- Mr. T and I leave for Jamaica on September 15th.
- Mr. T is not blind. (This will be important later.)
- Jamaica is a tropical destination and therefore requires swim suits.
- Pamster and Woody went swim suit shopping with me and helped me choose two new suits for the trip.
- I don’t wear swim suits in public.
- I’m not obese, but I’ve got some cushion for the pushin’.
- I am ridiculously self concious and jealous of skinny women who look great in swim suits.
Here’s what JUST dawned on me:
- We will not be the only ones in Jamaica.
- There will be other women there in swim suits.
- Mr. T will be able to see these other women.
- I will look significantly more whale-like in comparison to the other women.
- I no longer want to go to Jamaica.
This post has no rhyme or reason. It’s just a little virtual vomit from my brain.
If I could be a superhero (or, in my case, super villain to some), I would want the power to mentally send calories and fat to other people and particular body parts. For example, I could sit down and eat an entire pepperoni and black olive deep dish pizza and mentally send some of the fat and calories to my boobs, and then divvy up the rest amongst my enemies, celebrities and skinny whores. And I wouldn’t send it to their boobs, oh no. I’d send it all to their arms, back and stomach in disproportionate amounts to make them look ridiculous. And the power would apply to existing fat I already have. I’d just say, “Belly bulge, Angelina Jolie’s left armpit!” “Back fat, Paris Hilton’s upper right arm!” “Spare tire, Pam Anderson’s cavernous hooha!” and it would be so. My super alter ego would be called Vindictiva. Or Rancora. Or Acrimonia. And my superhero (or villain) sound effect would be the loudest belch ever. It would be known as the belch of despair to those that oppose me. Muuaaah. Muuuuah. Muuaahahaha. *belch*
Sometimes I think I was born without the capacity to feel emotion like regular people. I mean, I feel pain just fine, and sadness, and anger…I guess it’s just the positive crap I don’t have. I don’t mean to be so cynical, but it’s really just in my nature. I should be ecstatic about planning my wedding, but I’m not. I don’t even actually feel like I’m planning anything special, or even something for me. I’m just going through the motions and I have no idea what to expect in terms of my reaction to that day. And I’m really excited to be going to Jamaica, but I don’t FEEL excited. I don’t get all giddy and smiley and shit. I’m not a normal girl. It doesn’t bother me most days, but lately, it really has. I’m fine with not having the mommy gene, but is it normal to be physically averse to the presence of children? I really have a physical reaction to children. Sometimes I shudder, sometimes I get ill, sometimes I just have to walk away, and on the rare occassion, sometimes I’m just fine (these times are very few and far between). If things like getting my pre-ordered copy of Harry Potter in the mail can make me so blissful, why can’t things like wedding planning do the same? I’m a freak. Oh, well.
I don’t understand why people can’t ride their bikes on the sidewalk when one is available. I understand that it’s inconvenient to pedestrians, but I think it’s far more dangerous to get hit by a car than by a 32 year old guy running down the sidewalk or that group of ten year olds walking home from school. What do I know? I stick to the sidewalk and I don’t care if it’s against the rules.
I get an email everyday between 3 and 3:15 from our secretay notifying me that fresh coffee has just been made. I truly hate that Starbucks shit, but I still drink it. I think I’ll stick with tea today, though.
I love buying shoes, but I despise wearing them. I just want to go look at them all lined up in my closet. I don’t actually want to put them on my feet. I keep slippers at work for this very reason. In fact, when I took this job, I told them I’d only accept the offer if I was allowed to wear slippers all day. They said yes and we had a deal. In fact, our new client loves them so much that he made a note of my shoe size so he can buy me a new pair when these die, and part of my wedding gift from the girls here was a pair of hot pink monogrammed spa slippers. If my feet hurt, I will not be productive. Achy feet make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…
My idea of the perfect lazy day would be sleeping in until the Price is Right starts at 11:00 and being served nice hot Steak ‘n Shake in bed (mmm…Frisco melt with chili and cheese fries). From there, I’d move to the couch and watch a fun mix of the Smurfs, Rainbow Brite, ALF, Punky Brewster, Fraggle Rock, She Ra, Transformers (old and new) and Harry Potter. Someone would bring me a hot fudge sundae with extra marischino cherries at some point. I’d read some Harry Potter and Charlaine Harris while soaking in a bubble bath. For dinner, Mr. T and I would enjoy some deliciously fattening chinese food and several bottles of Adam Puchta wine. Then we would cuddle and watch a comedy. Due to the chinese food and wine, we’d probaby fall asleep before the movie was over. Aaaahhhhhhhh…I wish this could happen.
I wish some rich person would give me tons of money to travel all over the world with Mr. T. Jamaica will be my first trip out of the country. I am dying to visit Australia, Costa Rica, Puerto Rico, Bora Bora, Greece, Bangkok, Shanghai, Italy, Spain, South Africa, Ireland, Norway and so many places that I’ll never be able to afford. Especially with the dollar trading as it is now…
Why don’t I have any mad skillz? I can’t draw, sing, take amazing photos, paint or anything. I’m not even that great at baking and I wish I could be a baker. When I grow up, I want to have a winery and a horse stable with lots of land for horse riding and a bakery on premise. Is that too much to want?
I just found out somebody wants to advertise on this site. It’s an online engagement ring retailer. How insane is that? That’s weird to me…but bring it on!
I’m tired. So here, have this:
Which is why I enjoy randomly yelling things like “uterus,” “hooha,” “camel toe” and “rock me sexy Jesus” thorughout the work day. I work in a basement with three guys (no, it’s not some underground black market sex shop or anything fun like that) and I take a lot of crap from them, so the sporradic mention of menstruation and female anatomy is really only fair game. Imagine my sheer delight when Puffin sent me a link to this book with the subject line, “You need this.”
He may have been joking (come on, I JUST finished a document in which I managed to say kumquat – like I wouldn’t want this?), but I immediately sauntered over to the Amazon Marketplace and bought myself a publisher’s overflow copy for $6.58. Cha-ching!
When I get this, life is going to be so fabulous. This is better than word-of-the-day toilet paper. To me, it’s like telling a child, “Hey, don’t jump off that wall! You’ll hurt yourself.” And then the kid jumps. Assface. You deserve to get hurt. Oh, that’s not the point. The point is, I can’t wait for my first status meeting after getting this book. *laughs evilly* Sweet.
I’ve had it with drama. I will have no more of it. Consider this a public notice that, from this day forward, there will be NO.MORE.WEDDING.DRAMA. It is my goddamned day and I will do what I want. You will not dissuade me, discourage me or dis me in any other way without getting punched in the kidney. This weekend was exhausting but much needed, as this is the first time I have felt like I can actually have the day I want and everyone will simply have to deal with it.
Friday, I finally asked for my raise. The convo went like this:
Me: So, what are the chances of me getting more money in the very near future?
CD: Pretty good. I just need to talk to a couple of people and I’m happy to do so.
Done and done. Painless. I officially grew a pair that night, and at 9:00 AM on Saturday morning, I was sure glad for that. Biodad calls and says that we need to get together and talk about “some wedding stuff.” I said I’d come over later that day and immediately went into panic mode. Biodad doesn’t officially know that my stepdad J is walking me down the aisle, but if he didn’t figure it out on his own, that further intesifies his retardedness. But he and C (my stepmother who I “lovingly” call stepmonster, although in an effort to stop the drama, I will now just call her C) have an uncanny knack for making me feel guilty for being the child of divorce. Funny.
So I head over there and the convo kicks off with biodad telling me how appalled he and his family were that his name did not appear on the invite. Um, what? Did you give me tons o’ cash for this? Nope, J did. So his name gets top billing. Deal with it. He says that he’s still my father and deserves that respect. I sidestepped the nasty comments hanging on my tongue and simply said that it was not done out of spite, but out of etiquette.
He then hands me a court transcript from 1997 when my mom took him to court due to him not wanting to pay my sister’s child support AND room and board while she was in college. The end result of the battle was the judge lowering child support for BOTH of us and Mom was rightfully angry about that. Biodad never has made much money and therefore has used that as leverage to pay minimal child support. Whatev, that’s between the two of them. THEY got married, had two kids and got divorced. Let’s keep this in mind – NOT MY FAULT. I am the child here. I tell him that I don’t need to read this – it’s in the past and all focused on money. The root of the issue here is that J RAISED me, not him, so I have a stronger connection to that side of the family. I told him that I am now 26 and have officially been an adult for 8 years and if he wanted a relationship, he needed to put in the effort. Again, I’m the kid. I can’t babysit a relationship with two fully grown adults if they aren’t willing to put in the work.
C starts in on how my mom threatened to punish me if they pursued a relationship with me (not true, but I can’t convince them of that so there’s no use wasting my breath addressing that issue), and I abruptly cut her off (go, balls!). I told her, again, that that was in the past and if she truly believes that happened, that she at least needs to realize that my mother no longer controls me. I remind them again how old I am and told them that it’s not fair to expect that I’m the only one here capable of pursuing this close bond they apparently want to have with me. I don’t think C ever got that, but biodad did. He FINALLY admitted that they need to reach out and be in touch with me more if a parent/child relationship is to ever be established. I told biodad that J is walking me down the aisle and he accepted that. I told C that she can help my sister M get dressed before the wedding but then she needs to vacate the bride’s room so I can have some peace. They even offered to give me some more scrilla for the wedding.
So who knows what’s to come? Perhaps this is a turning point in my life, one that will lead to a drama-free (or at least a low-drama) future where my divorced family can play nicely in the sandbox and share me like adults should. Perhaps my hopes are too high, but the wedding rules have been established and that’s what really matters right now.
A note to divorced parents around the world – grow the fuck up already. Do you not realize how your selfish, childish behavior negatively impacts the children you decided to bring into this world? They did not ask for this or sign up for this. They simply shot out of uteruses (uteri?) into dysfunctional situations beyond their control. They live lives filled with guilt and bear the burden of blame for something that should never be placed on their shoulders. You fought the custody battle and ended up with this agreement, one where the child is simply a pawn to be moved back and forth at your whim. We simply wait for Dad to show up at 5:00 every other Friday and suffer the arguments based on dirty clothes and running late. Our ears hear the hateful things you have to say about each other, and cause us to feel guilt about loving each parent. It fucks with our heads and our emotions. It’s not fair. Sure, you didn’t plan this, but you DID do the deed that brought us into the world, and it is now your responsibility to make this as easy on us as possible. In the process, it will make your life more difficult. Find solace in your friends, but make sure those conversations take place well out of our earshot. You made this bed – YOU lie in it, not us. Don’t play the victim. Don’t pretend like your life was so hard as a result of what the other parent did to you. You did this to each other, and you need to own that. You can’t call 24 hours before a family event and expect us to be available. We have our own lives. We work hard to build happy relationships that bear no resemblance to that which led us to this point. We don’t need your approval to live our lives the way we have managed to see fit. It was a hard road that led us here, and we are proud of the progress we have made and the successes we have enjoyed. We are successful in spite of you, not because of you. Now that we are all adults, leave the past where it should be and move forward.
PS – You will not ruin the happiest day of my life. If you cause one ounce of drama between now and then, I will absolutely punch you in the kidney.
Ok, honestly, I have zero desire to re-live my adolescent years. My awkward phase lasted waaaaaay too long and my nicknames ran the gamut from Thunder Thighs and Jolly Green Giant (although I have never been green) to Lightening Lips and Little Miss Giggles (I don’t mind the last one, laughing burns calories and makes me feel better). I was the first girl in my class to wear a bra, and the boys learned how to snap it very quickly. So the post title is misleading, but for a few brief, sweaty hours on Friday, it was good to be a little kid.
As you recall, I had a date with my best friend (and her two friends E & S) to go see a free concert downtown featuring none other than my beloved Boyz II Men. Although they were down a boy (and are now men), it was still the most fabulous concert I’ve been to in recent history. I would like to personally thank St. Louis mayor Francis Slay for providing such a wonderful night of entertainment, which was ended equisitely with a fantabulous fireworks display. Ahhh. Here are some highlights:
I knew it was going to be a fun night as soon as we got on the MetroLink platform. MexiMullet. Need I say more? Okay, I will. I was the most fabulous mullet I have ever seen – it was a short hispanic guy with this beautiful straight, thick, shiny black hair…in a rockin’ mullet. Awesome. We tried to snap a pic, but that little hairy guy was fast!
A potentially homeless but definitely crazy man approached E and asked her to trade her almost empty bottle of beer for his half empty bottle of water…wrong on so many levels, but the interaction was hilarious.
I wanted to save my cash for beer, so I stood in the only food line that accepted credit cards in order to blow $6 on egg rolls from hell and some dried up crab rangoon…and quickly managed to drop scalding hot grease down my dress. Deep fried boobage, anyone? Yowza.
This concert drew an extremely diverse crowd and I wish I had brought my camera to capture some of the horrific fashion we saw. I can now confidently say that my back fat pales in comparison to most of that encountered in public, and more women need to be aware of their repulsive overgrowth of adipose tissue that is visible in those hideous halter tops they are wearing!
Although many of the outfits made me want to puke a little in my mouth, I was apparently one of the few people that night who managed NOT to puke. That’s an exaggeration as I only SAW one person toss his cookies, but that was more than enough. Better yet, after the spewer walked away, his buddies covered the pile with straw and we spent the evening watching people in sandals walk through said barf…gross, but oddly entertaining.
The concert started AND ended with Motown Philly. I was so pumped when they started with it, but then got mad because, let’s face it, that’s their best song. Why waste the best song first? So I refused to leave after End of the Road and sure enough, they came back and hit the Philly one more time. ABC BBD, indeed.
Best/worst for last…we were standing behind the CREEPIEST baby I have ever seen in.my.life. Remember this video?
Yeah, the baby looked JUST like that. Seriously. Beady, bulging eyes open so wide I have no idea how they stayed in that misshapen baby head. And it stared at me ALL NIGHT. I was so freaked out.
The night ended with the longest MetroLink adventure of my life, and a few things happened on the way back to our station that really pissed me off. First, we are all CRAMMED into this train and this group barrels in at the last second, separating me and Ms. B. We could still see each other and it wasn’t a huge deal, but then they decided to converse over the two of us. Again, not horrible until one of the guys (with a quasimullet) says something about the potential for the train to be full of *shuddersatthethoughtoftypingthisword* faggots. WTF? Okay, A, that is a truly horrid word. It ranks right up there with the N word because both are words steeped in hatred and prejudice. B, HELLO! You are in what we fancy edjumacated folks like to call PUBLIC. There probably are a few gay and/or lesbian people on this train, and even if not, any one of us could have a loved one who is, so keep your bigoted mouth shut. When his conversation turned to NASCAR, I was less than surprised (sorry to stereotype here, but he truly was your textbook redneck assface).
Then we finally get to our stop (which seemed to be the stop for everyone else on the Metro) and start walking to our car. I notice an older woman who is mentally challenged walking alone, so I slow down so I can walk by her and make sure she makes it down the stairs and across the tracks okay. I worked with Special Olympics kids in HS, and I have always had a special place in my heart for those with disabilities, so I tend to feel protective of handicapped people. This lady was so sweet, just smiling and waving at people on the Metro as she slowly and deliberately limps down the platform. Then a young woman around my age turns around abruptly and YELLS at this woman to “hurry the hell up.” I bite my tongue and make a comment to Ms. B about making sure there’s no home game the next time we take the Metro. The lady laughs and chimes in to agree. So we are all three walking together. We get to the tracks (keep in mind, her supposed caretaker is a good 20 feet ahead of us and not even looking to make sure she is okay – she walks pretty well, but unsteadily, so someone should be with her for the stairs and tracks) and walk slowly across. The girl turns around to yell, “Come on! Keep up or I’m leaving you here!” I was still trying to behave so I said, “No worries, we’re good!” and the lady replies with, “No, we’re great!” We laughed and the girl seemed to slow down and wait for the lady. We were heading different directions, and although I was loathe to watch the lady leave with this horrible excuse for a human, I had no choice. I watched as they crossed the street and headed away. It seriously broke my heart.
So although the evening ended on a rather sour note, rocking out to Motown Philly and pretending to sing into a hairbrush made for a pretty entertaining evening. I am officially pumped for New Kids on the Block. I am so ready for that jelly.
Yeah, yeah, I’m a crier. We know this. Especially when left alone with my thoughts in the silence of a radio-free tanning bed, apparently.
I hopped into my favorite bronzing bed for ten minutes of much-needed relaxation and pigment modification, with the hopes of squeezing in a nap. I should have known that wouldn’t happen, but I had hopes. Instead, my mind started racing, thinking about everything I need to do and everything that’s going on (all of this, while I was breathing! Imagine that!). Naturally, my thoughts turned to my parents moving and my sister trying to move, which led to one ultimate conclusion that led to the aforementioned tears…Grandma was the glue that held us together, and now that the glue is gone, my family is falling apart.
Let me tell you something about crying in a tanning bed – it’s retarded. Don’t do it. The goggles get all full of tears and then the tears start sliding down your face, only to be blown every which way across your face and down your neck before they dry into salty lines of pathetic misery that, if you aren’t careful, can actually cause your tanning efforts to make you look like a pasty version of Mike Tyson. Luckily, I wiped mine away before that could happen to me (again – hey, at least I learned my lesson).
But really…I never see my uncles, my aunt spaced on my wedding shower (I don’t generally care about getting gifts, but when a family member that I actually like fails to come to a shower because she FORGOT about it, that means she owes me something really good…it never would have happened if Grandma were here), my mom is moving three hours away, my sister wants to move to stupid Michigan and my cat keeps trying to run away. I doubt the latter has anything to do with this thought process, but it’s been pissing me off…no balls, no claws, do the math, you blue-eyed devil! (For the record, my cat actually does have blue eyes…and might actually BE the devil.)
*Sigh* What’s a girl to do? Once my family has moved away, it’ll just be me, Mr. T, Tedders and the spawn of Satan sitting around, staring at each other. Mr. T is so busy that it’ll most likely end up being just me, the dog and Hellkitteh staring at each other, especially when the wedding is over. At least I can stay distracted with that for now (hey, I found a bright side!)…
Ah, fucket. I can’t change it, so I have to deal with it. And by “deal with it,” I of course mean “avoid it, drink heavily and wallow in self pity.” Who wants to join me? Pity parties are more fun when you’re not alone! Besides, I’ve been told that drinking by myself might qualify me to be an alcoholic…you don’t want me to be an alcoholic, right?
Speaking of wallowing, I sure have been eating like a pig lately. I feel like a total porker. Maybe I’ll address that tomorrow – I’ve been considering attempting to start the GM diet to detox my system, but I hate tomatoes and don’t eat much beef, so a few days will be difficult. (Have I ever mentioned how picky I am when it comes to food? I’ll save that for another day, but it’s ridiculous.)
But before any crazy detox starts, I will spend the evening gorging myself on pasta followed by enjoying some old school entertainment – Boyz II Men at Live off the Levee! That’s right, you are SO jealous. You are going to miss action like this: