so i breed thicker skin and let my lustrous coat fill in and i'll never admit that i loved you...
really misses anything is the point of this post because for five or six days (i don't really remember because the days start running together) i've been busy running interference and being the good daughter to my dad by going to breakfast at 8 and the good daughter to my mom by staying up and talking nice with her because my sister is ignoring her until 2 or 3 in the morning and being the good sister by listening to her constant narcissistic (sp?) bullshit (and this keyboard can fucking kiss my ass because a bunch of the the keys keep sticking and i swear to god it has nothing to do with the 7 well-vodka tonics i've had nor the fact that i'm all concerned that this post will probaby cost me 20 bucks by the end) concerning why she doesn't give a damn WHAT mom and dad think of her life even if she's being so fucking selfish onboard a ship off the coast of alaska that her folks shelled out multiple thousands of dollars fr her to be on and the only thing i can think of is how nobody yet hates me or has had a beef with me because i'm so busy being everything for everyone else but _I_ hate me and i don't know which is worse since maybe if THEY hated me it would mean i was having a good time which i'm having (don't get me wrong) but i keep findting (see? i don't know where the fuck that 't' came from, but i type fast enough and backspace slow enough that this entire parenthetical is warranted) that my happiness is all back-burnered and i'm TIRED (honestly t.i.r.e.d.) of making sure everyone else's ass is taken care of and powdered and tucked in and if they weren't blood, i swear to god, and i was into guns at all, and tehy didn't have a metal detector that check all your shit before you get basck on board i totally would've capped some asses by now and to make things worse the only thing that could possibly make me feel sated and home and normal right now is too fucking far away.
and even if i erase this post first thing upon arriving home to my unsticky keyboard--
i miss you. i miss you. i miss you.
gonna be gone
for a week. so i thought maybe i'd share some other sites, for you to check out while i'm not posting. they are sites that i go to a lot, and that i like, but that i haven't linked to on the side over there yet.
fat free milk
lord crimson's view of the world
que sera sera
the philadelphia experiment
(scroll down for britney pics!)
and, at the head of the class:
girls are pretty
also, be sure to visit my friend, the hard artist
. his is my favoritest site of them all. plus, he really likes visitors. he's not nearly as hard as he'd like his public to think.
wish me luck on this trip. i'll either come back with ten pounds of fresh cod, or my mother in a body bag.
now i'm off to pee in a cup. figure out what this burning urination is all about. and it truly makes me smile thinking of how many ways a certain somebody is going to misinterpret that and start freaking out.
peed in a cup. everything is fine. i found this from a girlfriend waiting in my email inbox. she was explaining the miracle of womanhood (meaning cramps and bullshit like that) to another friend of ours. i liked it, so here it is:
Cause she feels rotten as hell. Something you need to know about cramps - the mechanism that causes cramps is exactly the same as that which causes labor. Bad cramps are the same as early to middle labor pains. NOT a pleasant thing at all. SO....you might keep that in mind in dealing with members of the tenderer sex.
And while I am on the subject....it's a funny thing about being a woman. Everything about your body is set up for making babies, whether you ever do or not. It's like someone says to you, Jerry, someday you might possibly dig a ditch....so you need to carry this shovel and this posthole digger and these work gloves and this sun visor around every day of your life until you are, oh, 50 or so. Whether or not you ever dig a ditch, you should carry these things at ALL times just in case. Then you can start to lay them down, one at a time. Laying them down one at a time will cause you just as much pain as hefting them around did, by the way. And no matter what else you are doing, for 40 years, you carry that equipment around. OK...now add in to that the fact that the handle of the shovel is treated with a substance that makes you itch or break out or something equally miserable...
until next week...
somebody somewhere developed some program
(details can be found at the site... i can't be bothered) that can supposedly tell a writer's gender from a passage of their writing.
it thought i was a guy. i wonder if it's the cursing...
this is a link featured on msn.com today.
this lady scares the shit out of me. i hesitate to think what happens to anyone who DOES click on this link. does she jump out of the screen and spit on your shoes?
ten (though there are plenty more) reasons he's not just 'some' guy:
for the secretive little mouse commenting from the 949 who has a high speed internet connection provided by cox. who are you, little mouse? come out, come out, wherever you are...
01. he's funny.
02. he's smart as hell.
03. he's thoughtful.
04. his face kicks ass. (meaning it's good-looking, not that it actually jumps off his head and beats people up. though it wouldn't surprise me if it could. he has an awful lot of talents.)
05. sexy sexy hands.
06. he looks at me. really
looks at me. like he sees something new there that even i didn't know about.
07. every once in a while, his kickass voice will kick out a kickass word that makes my head spin.
08. he bought me mars.
09. he's honest and sincere.
10. i dropped a bomb on him saturday night, and he still
ran his fingers through my hair the entire drive home.
i went to the mall. it sucked.
then i went to target. on the way in, a very striking teenager with very long legs and very short shorts walked by me. a 50ish man came from behind a corner and approached her.
"excuse me, do you remember where you got those shorts?"
"um...you know, i've had them forever..."
"i'm looking for something for my daughter, and i just know she would LOVE those shorts. they look great..."
there was more, but by then i had entered the store. i try to assume the best of people, but the guy did spark some red flags.
on my way out, i saw him sitting alone in the target cafe. on the table sat a mostly empty bag with a tube of shaving cream standing up past the sagging plastic. our eyes met for a beat too long. he moved to get up and head my way until he noticed two teenage girls just behind me.
"excuse me, where did you two get those fabulous tops?" fucking gross...
i started the drive home crabby as hell. the heat-seeking strollers at the mall had done me in, and the creep at target pushed me over the edge. i think that my tolerance for people in general has lessened significantly as i've aged.
the stretch of westminster avenue between seal beach boulevard and bolsa chica held some hope. it cuts a path between the seal beach naval weapons station, and it has no traffic lights. i wasn't planning on being reckless, but it's a nice piece of road to turn up the radio and gun it a little.
the two cars in front of me, one in each of the two lanes, decided to match speed at five below the limit. at least two-tenths of a mile was wasted before the audi in front of me moved over to the right. i started accelerating (which is nothing impressive when a mere 75 horses are running the show). the shitter driving the audi decided that he wanted to kick it over the speed limit right along with me. it was fine and all, until my turn came into view, requiring me to make a plan to get over to the right. i tried to pass him.
the fucker looked over briefly before punching it. i was determined to pass him so, like an asshole, i punched it too. a cop car came into view, driving the opposite direction. it became a brief game of chicken... the audi finally relented, fearing a ticket.
pussy. jonny law strikes no fear in my heart! it was with a citation-worthy crack across my windshield and expired tags that i was finally able to get into the right lane, just as the cop passed us.
i slowed down as my turn approached, feeling a bit like a jackass.
i looked up to see a hawk fly over my car, he and i separated by five or so feet. hawks are some fucking cool-ass birds.
i've been relegated to entering orders into some bullshit order entry software today. it's not something i usually do, but those who normally handle this crap can't be trusted. special orders, you see. requires a few more clicks than the run o' the mill order. they're always fucking shit up. it's easier for me to do it right than slog through their fuckups later.
i've come across an address format i've stumbled across before. i need someone to explain it to me. here's an example:
1300 east 2700 west
bumfuckegypt, ID 83333
now. what the hell kind of street address is that? is the first part a house number? is it a GPS coordinate? lat and long, perhaps? are all those interior folk actually runnin' some kind of technology that us coastal pricks are ignorant of? maybe the USPS trucks drive around scanning the pieces of mail into an onstar system that just drives them directly to the location. for the MAIL DROP.
i feel like maybe that first paragraph made me sound cocky. but it's true... i'm the smartest cat in this joint.
today, i miss this:
how i've forgotten lately how much i hate my job. it's become this thing i simply have to get through, so i can get home get to the phone get online.
apparently, this job isn't so horrendous when i have other things to occupy my thoughts.
i don't even care that i haven't been getting enough sleep. sleep is so overrated when life takes on a new shine.
'some guy' he says. 'i'm just some guy.' i call bullshit. 'some' guys are nothing like him. 'some' guys would aspire to be more like him if they knew better. but the point of 'some' guys is that they don't. and they never will. in much the same way that he could never be 'just some guy.' he could TRY to be 'some' guy, and he'd still not be able to stumble that far, that low.
so here's to all the guys who THINK that they are just 'some' guys, but who really could never ever be just 'some' guy.
p.s. is it friday yet?
fresh fish!, continued
dude, seriously. my moms needs help. today:
"okay so there's this thing that i'm donating to and the details don't really matter but if you go to alaskaairlines.com RIGHT NOW and sign up for frequent flier miles you get 500 right up front just for signing up. but do it NOW and email me your frequent flier number SOON because then i can get you another 100 for this donation thingy, you know, the one whose details aren't important. and THEN when you get to the airport, you can get more for your flight to vancouver! love you!"
[i haven't checked, but i'm pretty sure alaska airlines flies to like, three places. that i'll probably NEVER need frequent flier miles for. and the vacation is still almost two weeks away. it's gonna get worse. i can feel it.]
so i'm going on a trip at the end of this month. on a cruise to alaska, courtesy of my parents. they, since finding yuppie success (after both kids had moved out, of course), dangle fancy trips in front of me and my sis a couple times a year in an attempt to coerce us into spending time with them. when they upped the ante by offering me and sis our own room, we simply couldn't refuse.
i'm stoked about the trip. but i'm not stoked about how stoked my mother gets. she's progressively flooding my email inbox and my cell phone voicemail with tiny little tidbits that she's found during intense bouts of net research or heard from a friend:
"okay, this isn't an emergency or anything, but if you get this message within 4 or 5 minutes, call me. we're at the sporting goods store, and they have this GREAT deal on windbreaker jackets with fleece lining. we're picking up one for each of us, and we're at the checkout right now, but if you call back soon we can get you one, too!"
because that's what i want--to be forced into outerwear that my mother picked out. i already know that it would either be the exact same color(s) as one of theirs, or blue and neon pink. i know my mother.
"i did some research and compared a bunch of weather reports from the internet. according to my calculations, i expect it might rain most of the time we're there. bring a poncho! i'll bring an extra one of mine, too. just in case."
"i'm planning on bringing dog treats. that way the dogs pulling the dog sled will like me best."
"i just found out that you can buy fish at one of the ports! [groundbreaking news, that. imagine, fish, available at a PORT!]."
"wait, more news. the port where you can buy fish? they can send it to any address you want! you give them a date, and they freeze some fish caught that very day and send it off! what a great idea, if you like fresh fish."
and these aren't excerpts of some larger, mind-blowing message. these ARE the messages. multiple ones a day, trickling in ever steadily. i'm beginning to think that vacations are not a form of relaxation from day-to-day drudgery for my mother. they are a unique mission unto themselves.
i am very thankful that i'll be sharing a stateroom with my sister. i'm sure my folks are in a schmancy upperdeck room with a balcony. but i can guarantee there won't be a single mention of a freaking poncho in my room.
moon, and mars, and meteorites, oh my
good lord there's a lot of night sky action goin' down tonight
i may have to stay up late and see if i can catch some of those perseids. yee haw!
the actual zoo, and the piles of money,
is exactly how my weekend left me feeling.
for those inclined to give a shit, i'm in the middle of working on one of those "about me
" lists that are all the rage with the cool kids these days. i'm not done yet, but you can find the link to the left over there somewhere.
it feels like
something is happening.
something is happening that i don't think i can go into great detail about here.
something is happening that made a guest appearance in an awesome dream last night, and i rarely dream about real life things or real life people.
something is happening that took all the luster off of the plans i have today.
but, i did sleep like a rock last night, which i haven't done in weeks. so thank god for the somethings that happen.
i really feel like writing something
right now. but i keep losing my train of thought. so i'm gonna give up and go to bed. maybe i'll have better luck tomorrow.
p.s. i really think everyone should be as excited about mars passing so close to the earth as i am. dammit.
mars is rad
yesterday wasn't so good. it wasn't friday or saturday, first off. but work sucked. and my boss was a pain. and i got home, expecting to find something fun from a friend in my mailbox, but was instead greeted by a large envelope from the courthouse. AGAIN. everytime i've sent that damn paperwork in, they've found SOMEthing wrong with it, marked it up with a red pen, and sent it back. it's like being in school again. red pen red pen red pen. that's actually kind of hard to type fast.
anyway, to top it off, my eyes were all allergic or something. i don't actually have allergies, but a couple times a year my eyes get all burny and weepy. no other symptoms. i started freaking out, thinking that maybe i was developing an allergy to cigarette smoke or cats. if i had to force either one of those things from my life right now, i would be a very sad girl. probably incredibly irritable as well. (and don't try to make me feel better by saying that even if that was the case, a simple visit to the ol' doctor and some prescription allergy meds would fix me right up. i'm trying to have a pity party over here.)
i went to bed at the same time as most 9-year-olds. took an antihistamine and everything. couldn't fall asleep. finally fell asleep, then i half-woke up to the muffled sound of my cell phone ringing. AND i didn't even have elton john on! but, alas, i was too pitypartyful to drag my burning eyes out of bed and get the phone. i continued to wake up all night. it was awful. one time i woke up from a dream that i was having surgery to remove one of my kidneys. i don't know who i was donating it to... in the dream, i woke up in the middle of surgery and could feel them digging around inside me. lovely.
ANYway. it only took four simple things to make today better than yesterday.
1) it's fuckin' FRIDAY
2) i like voicemail
3) i have a lunchdate that involves in-n-out
4) this picture:
or, as i like to call it, 'fox's the o. muthafuckin' c.' and now, a review.
a PREview, actually. i've decided to review the show before i've actually seen it. i have it safely stored on vhs (what, you think i can afford shit like a tivo? please), but have decided to wing it. i have a feeling that my preview will be just as good as my review would've been postview.
i never particularly cared that melrose place and 90210 probably didn't represent the actual reality of southern californian denizens. (i hope i used that word right, 'cause i totally don't feel like paging through the ol' webster's collegiate right now.) at the time, i lived 3,000 miles away from kelly's beach house and michael's hospital. now i think i can understand how native socalians felt about those shows. 'what a sad misrepresentation!' they cried, their fists in the air.
i'm here to tell you that now i do care. as a registered voter out of the fine county of orange, i can say with certainty that hardly ANYone lives like those lucky little bastards on that damn show. yeah yeah, escapism, suspension of disbelief, etc. but they should've just made up a name of a county for these fucksticks to live in. there ain't no real place like that, anyway.
so back to the preview. everything about the show is TOO. the houses are too big and too close to the ocean. the girl next door doesn't look like a girl next door; she's too dark, too vixeny, too self-assured. the good boy is cuter than the bad boy, which is just blatantly incorrect, even by la-la fantasy drama rules. the bad boy acts too much. the dad is too understanding. and everyone, post-op mother included, looks ten years older than the characters they are playing. and teenagers don't wear suits to parties, no matter how rich they are. especially in southern california.
anyway, the writers did a good job of making viewers at least care a little bit. even i was curious what was going to happen after the bad boy angrily rode off on his motorcycle.
the lighting left a little to be desired. that could just be fox's fault; production values aren't always incredibly high on no-star mid-season inductees.
the show closer was mighty intriguing. though the smiles, the big sunset fade-out, and the rising music were a little overkill. but i'm sure i'll be tuning in again next week, if only to find out how the good boy is going to react to all this. i can smell a dirty love triangle on the horizon. and EVERYbody loves a good love triangle. even great shows like dawson's creek resorted to the love triangle.
until next week...
and just what
the hell is this:
Pass this message to 7 people except you and me. You will receive a
miracle tomorrow. If you choose not, then you refuse to bless someone else. Don't ignore and God will bless you.
it's a freaking threat. whoever writes chain letters thinks that i will quake out of fear of blessing denial.
whatever. a threat. hah. like god gives a crap about chain letters.
i found this link at the lunatic squirrel
. it's kind of interesting, especially when it kicks out such gems as:
Monique is a very rare male name.
Very few men in the US are named Monique.
Be proud of your unique name!
saturday night's alright...
i bought elton john's newest greatest hits over the weekend. even worse, i picked it up at target. how very soccermom of me--perusing the new releases while shopping for a toilet brush.
i rarely get phone calls. what i mean is that i rarely get REAL phone calls. that bastard "out of area" calls me ALL the damn time (god bless caller i.d.). i found out quickly, though, that EVERYone likes to call me when i'm blasting elton john while cleaning my counter.
"what the hell is that?"
"what the hell is what?"
"oh, just the neighborhood kids playing marco freaking polo in the pool behind my porch."
"no, it's worse than that."
"oh, you mean the music? elton john."
"what, you got a problem with elton john?"
"jesus christ. didn't you pick up fleetwood mac's greatest hits last month?"
"yeah, what of it?"
"well...it's not very punk rock."
oh, i'm so very sorry. let me rush to hot topic this very instant with daddy's credit card and pick up whatever cd kroq is pushing this week. maybe the studded leather bracelets are on sale, too! i obviously didn't stop and think about how elton john was going to affect my standing in the punk rock community.
and somebody please tell me what the fuck is up with good charlotte. yeah, it's rock if it happens to be 1985 and i only have to hear one song from them before they fade into one-hit wonderism. but it's single after single after single.
but, you know, good for them. milk the wave of trl and fill your pockets with cabbage as long as you can. lord knows i haven't figured out a way to make a decent buck yet.
besides, i think elton john really rounds out a collection that includes not only fleetwood mac, but steely dan and john denver's muppet christmas as well.
p.s. is there a doctor in the house? i've got some crazy infected ingrown hair on my forearm that is beginning to look like a misplaced nipple.
internet dating update: boys are dumb. it doesn't matter where or how you meet them. they are just universally dumb. (chicks are dumb, too, but that's besides the current point.) and by 'dumb', i mean misleading, chock full of false advertising, and/or confused.
i don't think i'm meeting the right people. my new tactic is to blame it on southern california. so now i've convinced myself that i just don't mesh with this geography, and i'm toying with the idea of a move.
the move is not because of my dating experiences thus far--that would be silly. part of it is that my ex is here, and so why should i stay? it's like his turf or something. i didn't grow up here, and i don't even like it all that much, so maybe it's time to get the hell out. and i've recently passed my two-year anniversary of living here. i've never lived in any one place longer than two years, ever since i graduated high school. so i'm all itchy to get moving. to where, i don't know. and to what job, i don't know either. that's the most important part. some cities on the list:
san francisco area
minneapolis/st. paul (a new contender. not thought out.)
and in other news, i've been checking in on andi
and suddenly i'm hella jealous. i used to lead that life. of course, at the time, it made me nuts. made me wish for some kind of decision and stability. which is probably why i ended up getting married (and you can see where that got me). but now, on the other side of the fence, it makes me drool. i want to play with motorcycle boys and coffee boys and bus boys. well, bus boys may be a tad too young.
but for now, i'm putting my energies into finding a new job. this one fucking blows.
it's funny, when i was married, the constant smalltalk question was, "so, when you gonna have kids?" now that i'm single again, the topic of discussion is my lovelife: "so, been on any hot dates lately?", "you got a new boyfriend yet?", "any news on the boy front?" apparently, being a contributing member of society consists of the following things, and in this exact order if at possible:
1) committed long-term relationship with someone who has their shit together
3) kids, within two years after the wedding, or people think you're weird.
4) property ownership ("do you know how much money you've burned on rent over your lifetime? you should really buy a place, even just a condo or something." fuck off!)
5) fat retirement
if you break the cycle, then people don't know what to do with you. when i didn't take my husband's last name, it became this whole THING with most people. i'd ask the wives why they DID take their husband's last name. "well, it's just what you do. that's how it's done." innovative thinking, that. which brings to mind the story of the monkeys in a cage. i'll do my best to sum it up:
so there are 5 monkeys in a cage. in the center of the cage is a platform with steps leading up to it, and above the platform hangs a bunch of bananas. one by one, the monkeys try to get the bananas, but every time their feet hit the bottom step, ALL the monkeys are sprayed with cold water. it doesn't take long for them to learn to stay away from the steps and the bananas.
one monkey is removed and a new monkey is introduced. the new monkey immediately heads for the stairs. the other four monkeys pull him down and force him to the ground, since they don't want to get sprayed with cold water. the new monkey doesn't know what the hell is going on, but after getting slapped around by the four monkeys everytime he ventures toward the stairs, he learns to stay away.
another of the original monkeys is removed, and a second new monkey introduced. you can imagine what happens. the new monkey moves toward the stairs, and the three original monkeys, as well as the first new monkey (who was never sprayed by water), are all slapping the new guy around. of course, he learns to keep off the stairs.
this continues, until eventually the original 5 monkeys are all replaced with 5 monkeys who have never been sprayed by water. they have no idea why they are staying away from the stairs and the bananas, but that's the way it's been done since before their time, so they steer clear of those stairs.
just because some policy or law or rule or social standard exists doesn't mean it makes any sense. shrugging your shoulders and exclaiming, "well, that's just the way it's always been done" is a weak-minded copout.
question everything, even if the answers don't end up changing your mind. but for god's sake don't get married, buy property, and start spittin' out kids just because "that's the way it's always been done around here." do all of the above because you WANT to. because it makes you happy. because you ARE actually tired of putting months and months of money into your landlord's fat palms. because you love kids.
christ, i don't know quite what happened here. i think there are a lot of unrelated paragraphs next to each other up there. fuck it. bye.
whoever it was that said, "you know, if your gall bladder is acting up, you might think that digging around in the medicine cabinet for the hydrocodone that you were prescribed two years ago the last time it happened and taking one pill but then taking another one a mere two hours later because it doesn't appear to be kicking in because of possible age deterioration is a good idea, but it is not, in fact, a good idea at all,"
was totally right.