Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Familiar, but not so Much

When you smell a hospital, you know things are bad. The hospital smell is so tightly linked to Bad Things. Maybe if I had a baby. Maybe then hospitals would remind me of We're Gonna Have a Baby. I haven't been to hospitals enough to have any good memories attached to the experience.

The first time was when I was 10 and broke my arm running backwards in a relay race at school. I was winning, I tell you, when I tripped on the back of my white saddle shoe, and slammed down onto my left wrist. The sharp pain thrust up my arm and I was taken to the nurses office, screaming bloody murder. The nurse assured me, there was no swelling, and it was a sprain. I refused to move it, and I cried non-stop until she let me go home. That evening, I couldn't sleep, and my grandmother who's a registered nurse(well, in her day) also assured me that it wasn't broken. My Mother finally called in sick the next day, since I absolutely refused to go to school with my arm hurting like that. I'll never forget the words she told me as she made that phone call to work. "Let me tell you, S, if that arm isn't broken, I'm gonna break it." I believed her. Needless to say, after an X Ray it was broken and I was stuck in a cast.

The second time was about a year later when I had to say goodbye to my great uncle, Zio. He was a man I'd really only seen here and there during visits to his home. He'd gotten quite old and senile over the years and was living with my Grandmother. He had a stroke, I think, and I hid behind my Grandmother, my face buried deep into her side, and Uncle Zio reached out for me. "Roberta," he kept calling me. "Roberta, give me back my cupcake." I thought it was pretty funny, because at that age the funniest thing to come out of an old man's mouth is "Roberta, give me back my cupcake." I think he got angry with me for laughing, as did everyone else, and the laughter became so uncontrollable that they finally had to take me out of the room. My Grandfather took me to McDonald's and I got popoids in my Happy meal. Remember those?

When my father was in the hospital, I remember those sliding doors opening in front of me and the rush of hospital smell, and I realized that this was the third time. The third real time. I'd been to the hospital myself, a few more times before this, but it was different, and I knew it would be my third real experience in a hospital. The smell soaked into my skin and I felt like I was just sprayed with Lysol.

I weaved around the hallways when I was called in, afraid to peek into the patient rooms where the doors were cracked open. I was afraid I'd see terrible things inside. Every one of those rooms held someone sick, or hurt or dying, someone that was sad that person was sick hurt or dying, and someone trying to fix the person sick, hurt, or dying. There was literally so much sadness on my father's floor that I felt like the whole building was going to break down into sobs. Other than a few beeping noises and scurrying feet, I was amazed at how quiet the place was. A heavy sadness...a tense hush like someone was trying to fall asleep.

After the visit and going home, I got the call from my Older sister, Roxy. There it was. "S, he's gone." The first word that came out of my mouth was,"Whoa." Gone. Gone or passed away are the words people use when it's too fresh to say the word dead. Like lost. Missing. Not there. Gone.

And that was it. All the panicking, planning, frantic phone calls, rushing to see him. It was all over. It was all for nothing, because I'd never get to see him again. I'd never get to hear his voice again. My tears started but not until much later, since it was such a shock that I had just seen him one day prior. I lost it, alone. I wasn't controlling anything. I wasn't aware of anything.

Then it was just me. I was all alone. I have a dead Dad. How the hell did that happen? I didn't have a dead Dad last week, or even yesterday. Hell, I didn't even have a dead Dad a few hours ago. His phone number is still fresh in my phone's call history, for Christ's sake. Now if someone asked me how my Dad was, I'd have to say he was dead.

I've always felt an uneasy feeling about not being there by his side when he died. His wife was a bitch, and I assume that she left him suffering. When I went to scatter his ashes with my Mom, I still felt uneasy. I felt like I had missed something. I took a step closer as my mother scattered his ashes, and felt a chill. A small breeze. Then everything was very still again. I looked up and saw the trees move just a bit right past me.

My body relaxed, and my breath rushed out of me. I didn't cry. Thanks for waiting for me Dad...I smiled, telling him in my mind that I'll miss him. At that moment I breathed in the last moments of my father that lingered.

Sometimes it hits me all over again that he's gone. This morning, someone sent me photos from the memorial and the first thing the popped into my mind, was, these are great, I should send them to Dad! Then I feel it. I'll never send him anything again. I found myself writing him an email the other day, that I knew he'd never get. Of course it came back. Undeliverable. Final. His phone number is still in my phone, and I can't bring myself to delete it. It hurts so much sometimes, and others I can smile it away. I think today is a day that I can't hide behind smiles. I miss my Dad.

To anyone that had the patience to sit here and read this whole post, it means a lot to me.

Saturday, October 27, 2007


I was asked last week, to blog the
Exotic Erotic Ball in SF. Now before I go into why I didn't go to the event and blog about it, let me slap myself about 6 times around the room.

OK. Now that I've abused myself for being stupid, I'll explain. After the shit happened with my friend and I was drudging around the house; pouting and breaking into frequent tears, my sister and I decided that we were going to go the Pirates of Emerson at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. So the ad for this thing, says that it's like, one of the scariest Haunted House events in America. They must've been talking about the actress. She's not that big anymore, but, anyway, this was nothing short of a joke and a waste of money. The makeup was terrible. The pirates were perverts, and the wenches were bitches. There was one in particular that rubbed me the wrong way, talking in a phony British accent and asking me why I looked so bored. She continued to talk to me, even after I made it clear she was getting on my nerves. Asking me why I paid 25$ for something that I didn't like. Obviously if I knew I wouldn't like it, I wouldn't've paid the 25$ to begin with.

All in all, the evening pretty much sucked. I did, however get to ride a few of the rides. I've never been on the rides at the Boardwalk at night, so that was pretty exciting. I made a little video, and I'll try to upload it after I write this. Quality sucks, but enjoy.

OK. So instead of blogging about how fun the Exotic Erotic ball was I give two thumbs down to the Losers of Emerson.

P.S. Thank you everyone for being concerned about how I was doing. I've been pretty fucked up for the past few days, and I'm just now starting to sober up and feel better. Sympathy sex, anyone?

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead

Have you ever had a best friend? Not the kind of best friend you call when you want to go to a movie, or gossip, but the type of friend you know you could call if you murdered someone and needed help to drag the body across your living room floor. I did.

Marie and I met years ago, quite on accident. She had a boyfriend that was friends with mine. I couldn't stand the bitch. I'll never forget our first encounter. It was one of those, "Why the fuck were you talking to my man?" conversations. I remember her having a few friends with her when she confronted me, because I had a reputation for smacking a bitch before I argued. I kind of smirked and thought, I'm getting too old for these games. At the time she was pregnant with twins, that I later became the Godmother for. I'd see her argue with her boyfriend and go ask her if she was OK. She spent the night at my place, a lot and we were pretty much inseparable. When she had her twins, they were the most annoying, yet adorable things I had ever laid my eyes on. I would babysit them, and buy them cute little things. There, began our friendship.

Over the years, she's managed to have 6 children. No. That wasn't a typo. 6 children. Let me add, she really has 7 but her first husband took her oldest. I've been in the delivery room with her for 3 of them. Held her hand, listened to her scream, and took photos of her new child coming into the world. She often forgot my birthday and Christmas, but I never forgot hers or her children's. She walked over me often, and borrowed, never returned money. When her last child was born, I provided everything that child needed. I bought her a crib, a bassinet, a swing, clothes, diapers, bottles, formula, a car seat, a stroller, a baby bath, and more. Don't ask me why I did this. What I do for people that I love is pretty much unconditional. I went without often, so she could have. So her children could have.

The last straw pretty much hit me a couple of months ago. Her husband's niece needed a birthday gift and I was out running around trying to find one. I ended up shelling out my own money, of course being told I'd be paid back, but never was. I asked her why she was doing all of this for a kid she didn't even know, and we'd been friends for years and she didn't even get me a fucking card. She then said something that's been ringing in my ears since the day she said it. "Well, you're not family." I let it roll off of me when it was said but it hurt me. Stung actually, since I'd blown off my own family affairs on more than one occasion to help her with those fucking kids.

I stopped going over there as often, but I felt so bad for all these kids that she has and can't really take care of. I promised the children, months ago that I would get them Halloween costumes and take them trick-or-treating this year. I managed to get every single kid a costume. Since most of you that read this blog are parents, you know that kids' costumes aren't cheap. Over the past couple of weeks, I've pretty much decided I didn't want to be friends with her in the same sense, but I had promised the children we'd go on Halloween, and I always keep my promises. This morning she called me and decided I shouldn't come. Not only shouldn't I come, but she decided she didn't like the Halloween costumes I got, and she was just going to put them in what they wore last year. I didn't even hesitate when I told her to go fuck herself. Well, not in those words. I think my exact words were something to the effect of, "You know what? Keep the Halloween costumes. Burn them. Eat them. Do whatever with them. Fuck the money I spent on them, and you. Fuck your shitty abusive lifestyle, and fuck you." Click.

As I hung up the phone, I burst into tears and almost regretted what I said. Almost. It's over. Years of friendship and being a second mother to her kids. Gone. It was a 2 minute phone conversation. And 10 years of my life just went *POOF*. I won't miss her. I don't want to be her friend. So why the fuck does it hurt so bad? Why am I still crying, and this happened hours ago?

I'm gonna go make a drink, and finish making the cake for my sister's birthday. I made a couple of heart shaped cupcakes, as my celebration of getting rid of Marie. I think I'll go frost it, eat it and cry. There's no place like home...there's no place like home....there's no place like home.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Sherry Baby

Disclaimer: Those aren't the shoes in this post, they only look like them. If they were, in fact, the shoes, I'd have them. :( But they're almost identical.

Today and yesterday were pretty boring. I've been sitting at home, trying to write about a topic of substance. Since I can't seem to get one fully typed out, I'm just going to stick to my bullshit posts and rants about the various things going on in my life.

Today I wore my Sherrys. (don't laugh...yes, I named my shoes) My Sherrys are that pair of shoes that I know look good, but they smell. They're also the most comfortable pair of shoes I own, and the cutest, so I absolutely refuse to throw them away. I fill them with baby powder before I put my feet in them, but they still stink once I pull my feet out. The problem is, they're slip ons, so sometimes I absentmindedly pull my feet out to play with the shoes and suddenly I'll smell my feet.

I've taken them off before in mixed company and people shout, "Good lord, what is that smell?!?!" I have to put them on in the morning and never take them off until I'm home and then I run into the bathroom and wash my feet, because even I can't stand it. My feet usually don't smell. I don't normally have this problem. Two days ago my Sherrys received another strike against them. The right shoe squeaks with every step. Some sort of air seems to be escaping from the sole when I step down. I sound like the little house cleaner from Poltergeist. I think we all have a pair of these shoes. I've tried finding another pair that are at least similar in the way they look and feel but no such luck. I've looked online and in pretty much every shoe store that I know of. I've looked in second hand stores, and gotten close, but no cigar. What's a girl to do? I should add that I named them Sherry just for the object of this post. I don't go around naming everything I own...

Anyway, enough about my Sherrys.

I haven't spoken to Snow all day. I've been a little bit preoccupied with housework, he never calls, and I'm not allowed to call him for obvious reasons, so unless I sign into Yahoo Messenger, we don't speak. I know work can be tiring, but I would think that it would be more fun to be tired out by me and not analyzing finance. I could be wrong.

My tattoo still hurts and it's been keeping me up at night for the past two nights, even with the booze and pain pills. Since it's right between my boobs, (I have large boobs) it's harder to sleep the way I'm used to. I like to curl up on my side and cross my arms in front of me. It's like a cross between the fetal position and Dracula, if you can imagine that. Unless of course I'm in bed with someone. Then I either lie on my side on their chest, or lie on my side with them poking me all night. That's a subject for another time....clearing my mind...ahem, yeah, so last night, after lying in bed for a couple of hours and reading, I managed to fall asleep on my back. I then woke up with a thud as I hit the floor while rolling over during an intense dream that I can't remember. It's always the really good, or really bad ones that escape memory, I think. The dog was quick to bark at me, then slightly cocked his head to the side wondering why I was sprawled out on my bedroom floor rubbing my head (hardwood floors) and moaning. He quickly ran up and gave me a lick before jumping onto my bed and hogging the center of the bed. For such a little thing, he sure does manage to take up a lot of room.

I guess that's it for now. I think I'm drinking tonight. Anyone up for one of my girlie cocktails?


Sunday, October 21, 2007

Murphy's Law

"Nothing is as easy as it looks.
Everything takes longer than you expect.
And if anything can go wrong,
It will, at the worst possible moment."

Not the case, today. I woke up today, and decided I had 'the itch'.
Anyone that doesn't have tattoos, can't possibly understand what the itch entails. Pretty much to sum it up, you wake up one morning and decide, today, you're getting a tattoo. Angel, my apologies for getting mine first, but I really couldn't resist.

I wish I could be one of those people that says, "Getting a tattoo is fuckin' erotic." Or "Nothing turns me on more than getting inked." I, on the other hand, am one of those people that cringes like a poor kitten in the tattoo artist's chair, asking 500 times if she's done yet. This is the second tattoo I had done by, Bonnie. The first tattoo I had done there was by Andy. Two sweet little cherries behind my left ear, tucked away for those that get close enough to taste them. Otherwise, they're pretty much hidden. Bonnie is a tough looking chick, with a hard shell, that looks like she's gonna smack you if you look at her funny, but she ended up making me smile and laugh the whole time. OK. Not the whole time, but a few times, during the process. She's the kind of person you feel comfortable with, and makes you glad that she did your work. Thanks, Bonnie. You're a champ.

I sat in the chair, shaking like a leaf during the line work, and almost having tears welling in my eyes a few times. We took a short break so we could smoke and I could bitch about how I should've taken some paid meds before I came. Bonnie admitted to me that out of all her tattoos, and this woman has a LOT of tattoos, that that area hurt the most. (Now, no one told me that this is one of the most painful places that you can get a tattoo. It begins right between my breasts, stemming up into two beautifully shaded clovers. Luck of the Irish, eh? Sure didn't fell fucking lucky... Shit, did I start this thought with parenthesis?) The shading wasn't so terrible until the end, and Bonnie was getting annoyed I kept asking how much longer. I don't have the highest threshold for pain, even though I do have a bunch of tattoos and plan on getting more in time.

Now, I know I'm into the whole, confidentiality thing, but I have to say, if you're in Northern California, and looking for a great tattoo artist, I'd send you straight to Santa Cruz Tattoo. Of course if you say that Simply Curious recommended you to them, I highly doubt that they'll know who the hell you're talking about.

Special shot out to Bonnie, Andy and Nate, my favorite tattoo artists and the best Santa Cruz has to offer. Don't let anyone tell you different. Haha, this is starting to sound like an ad.

I had a completely different post planned for today, but this will have to do for now. Tomorrow evening, I have a new topic while I'm not all doped up on pills.

Until Tomorrow,


Friday, October 19, 2007

Move Over Dolly

Small chested girls and boys of all shapes and sizes, today I give you big boobs. You've wanted boobs your entire life and today, I'm giving them to you. Now, after you've spent some time in the mirror playing with them, get ready to experience the real world of having big breasts. Here we go....

Your shoulders will hunch inward, just slightly; a result of trying to make your chest look smaller while you were growing up, embarrassed to have people staring at you.

The seatbelt never stays in place across your chest. It slides up and sometimes goes across your neck if you're not careful. You're terrified that you will one day be decapitated because of your 34 DDs.

The cuter the shirt is, the chances are it won't fit you. If it does fit in the arms and length, the logo on the front will be stretched so tight across your chest, that you look obscene.

The strappy, backless fad? Forget it. Where are you going to be seen with no bra? There's no way. While you're at it, you can pretty much forget one piece swimsuits. They don't make any that hold you in correctly, so you're wearing separates, forever. Better keep trim.

When you're cold, everyone else is going to know. They won't tell you that you're high beaming, but they'll enjoy the free show, anyway.

People will "accidentally" brush into you. They like to do this at bars, in tight hallways, on trains and on buses. They will be all "Excuse me," but will raise or lower their arms so that they brush into your breasts. They may even do the hard shove that presses their chest against yours. They won't thank you for it either.

Your mother will talk more about your chest than your career.

No running. Ever. Invest in three sports bras and wear two at once, But you'll still never run a mile. Use the elliptical trainer, treadmill, or Stairmaster.

The sight of speed bumps on the road may bring tears to your eyes.

Never close a hardcover book, too quickly. You may get a nipple stuck in there. Yes, it happened, and no, I don't want to talk about it.

Babies grab your breasts. They don't know any better. It's only mortifying when someone jokes loudly,"He's looking for lunch!"

Lovers try and name them. Don't let them. Keep your dignity. Maybe one great name like "Fantasia." But not "Bert and Ernie." "Pooh and Tigger." "Lefty and Lopsy." Fuck that shit.

You wear bras all the time. Constantly. Underwires only. No frilly-soft-lacy-pretty things. Industrial strength. Straps and inch wide. You look like a 1950s nurse who's into S&M.

Women will outwardly hate you because of your chest. Even your best friends.

There will be lines you can break, drinks that will be free, things that you can have and tickets you can get out of.

There will also be friendships never had, cute clothes never worn, sports never played, and pictures ripped to shreds in agony.

Your back hurts. Just all the time. A constant state of hurt.

You have a terrible fear of catching a football and it's completely understandable.

New boyfriends won't know what to do with them. They will opt for a mix of lifting and lowering, licking all over the place, hoping to hit a spot you like.

Sometimes you accidentally drop food down there, like popcorn. People think that's hysterical. You don't.

Sometimes you'll lean over the table to get something from the other side, like the salt, and you will end up dipping your breast in someone's ketchup. Yes, you'll be humiliated. No, you probably couldn't have avoided it.

You may catch yourself leaning on a table, resting only your breasts on it. Stop. You look obnoxious. I know you didn't realize it, it just happens sometimes.

Find yourself a period play and act the shit out of it. May I suggest Dangerous Liaisons?

Did I frighten you or just make you want your own pair of big boobs even more? No boys. I'm not talking to you. I know what your answer is. Even gay boys. I know you want a fancy pair for special evenings. I'm talking to the Itty Bitty Titty Committee here. All in favor of keeping your new knockers, say "AYE!."

Hello? Hello?

Yeah. That's what I thought.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

He's under my skin

removed for personal reasons

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


I'm somewhat of a wreck today. I'm fucking sick. My nose is dripping, my eyes are swollen, and I'm coughing things up that you only see on horror films. It sucks.

I chatted with Mad Libs, a little bit ago. He's growing a little more flirtatious, which is cute, but he moves very slow. He still hasn't received the little note I sent him in the mail, but maybe tomorrow. As for Snow, he doesn't seem as interested as before, but I think it has a little more to do with him having to take off of work and drive down here. I'm too sick to deal with either of them right now. Mad Libs, does on the other hand think there's a possibility of meeting when I take a trip in December to NY, so that might be promising.

I had a 3 hour session with a snot nosed brat. I do photography, and I work freelance, which some of you that read this page already know. This little girl was the type of girl you see in her photos and say,"Oh, what a darling little angel!" It's my job to make her look like that, but she was anything but an angel, and her mother was a bitch that wasn't happy with anything I took. I might add she's an only child.

There's something very twisted about a mother that lets her child dictate what should happen and when. Sort of like the modern day Veruca Salt. "I want it noooooooooow Daddy!" "Not like that!!!" She pranced around in a Burberry jumper that matched her mother's Burberry handbag, little blond curls falling in her face and she blew them out of the way with a quick breath out and a snotty look on her face. Simply disgusting. After the first hour and looking over what I'd taken, I have to admit, I wasn't that happy with them either. The little girl, I'll call her Veruca since that's what she was, was a total product of her environment and kept that nasty, mean looking smirk on her face the whole time I was trying to take her picture. I can think of a few other names for her, but I'll leave it at Veruca. She told me to shut up on more than one occasion and she also let me know I didn't know what I was doing. I smiled and told her she looked pretty while she told me I wear too much makeup and need to get my nails done.

So, Veruca was only 5, but with her little fur collared coat and Mary Jane's from Prada, you imagine her as a bitter lonely old woman with very few friends of substance. Can anyone say alimony? I bet her mother can...

Finally, we finished her session and she really did look darling in the final product. I have no children, and I have to say, in all honesty, if I had a kid like that, it would swear me against children for the rest of time.

Why do so many parents spoil their children to the point that they're so nasty at that age? There's no reason in the world a 5 year old little girl starts crying because she has a spot on her tights. When I was a little girl, I practically bathed in dirt. I was 5 and I played hard. Isn't that what 5 year olds are supposed to do?

I'm sick. I need cold meds, and Bunny, I blame you, completely.

*big sigh*

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby.

I once knew a girl that huffed markers in class. In the seventh grade. Yeah, she was the shit...

I often wonder what happened to those girls. The ones that never saw me but I was constantly studying. How did they get to be so cool at 14? How did they one day decide that thick black eyeliner was the way to go?

I moved often as a child. My Mom would get kicked out of yet another house or apartment, and we'd be off in search of new surroundings, and new schools. I'll never forget in the first grade when I found a tiny little spoon and brought it to school, only to have it confiscated and given strange looks by the teacher that took it that morning at recess on the upper school yard. I honestly don't know if my mother was called so that they could confront her about why her 7 year old daughter was playing with a coke spoon.

Starting new school is a bitch. I remember awkwardly standing in front of the classroom while the teacher announced a new student would be joining them. So many different kinds of children. Which did I want to be? The one good thing about moving a lot, and starting new schools is that you have a chance to reinvent yourself. Maybe I was rich, or maybe I was a cancer survivor. Maybe my father was an FBI agent and we were relocated so often because of his incredibly secret work.

You're always invited quickly to sit with people at lunch, on the first day of this new school. Of course that happy feeling fades the minute you realize that you were just invited to sit with the other outsiders. You really want to be popular this time around...it would be easy for you to get up and walk over to the cool kids' table and say that you're one of them, since they have no idea who you were in your last school, but you have your mother's words ringing in your ears to be nice to everyone. Of course you want to be cool. Of course you want to be liked by who matters, but you know in a few months you're going to relocate anyway, so what's the point of making new friends? You're trying to pretend Roxy isn't your sister because she looks just about as awkward as a giraffe, with her huge glasses and knock knees. Just sit, eat your school supplied lunch, and don't look too anxious.

Then you just get tired of trying, and find yourself sitting in the library, watching the drops slide down the glass on the window and race them, wondering which one will finish first. The crowd roars, as the drops race, and you eat your Wonder Bread sandwich, a little pissed off because your Mom knew you hate this kind of turkey. You escape into books. Find that life isn't so terrible, and you can always escape into the pages. Just then, another girl walks up to ask you what you're reading. You start to talk about the books you've read and you giggle and eat your lunch together day after day and talk about who you think is cute. So now you have this new friend, and everything is perfect, and your mom stops worrying about you and looking at you like you're some kind of adolescent reject, or broken child. Life is a blast. You have sleepovers and talk on the phone until you fall asleep, watching The Princess Bride, and Chucky, eating Ding Dongs, and she even lets you borrow her clothes, and she likes to do homework with you. She introduced you to her friends and you get invited to Birthday parties, go to the movies and throw popcorn at people kissing in the back of the theater and laugh. You belong. You have friends and you like your school and the teachers you have. Then it's time to move again.

Then it's going to happen all over again. You're going to start a new school, with new kids, and new teachers. Don't get attached again. Don't get attached again. Don't get attached again. Time to be new all over again.

The next time I'll be popular and liked and I'll be cool....you can pretend to be anything. Maybe you will walk pigeon toed and tell people you were in a terrible car accident, and that's why you're crooked. Maybe you can pretend to be blind or deaf, or that you don't speak English. I can talk gibberish until they write me off like the Indian girl in the last school with the really hairy arms and mustache. Maybe I would be British and talk with a high and mighty accent and pretend that I'm way too important, or too busy or noble to talk to them. Or just, well, too British.

It's a fact of life, starting over. You're going to have to start over, again and again in life. It will always be the same, starting over, only with different faces around you. But the pain, fear and unsureness will always exist.

Perpetually starting over,


Feed me Seymour!

So, I chipped my tooth. I know I mentioned it before, but I had to re-cap (no pun intended).

This morning I woke up still annoyed by the sharpness of my front tooth. I went to the dentist today to have them fix it. Of course they couldn't fix it today, but he did decide to take impressions of my teeth. The assistant comes in with that sticky, icky pink, pasty shit and the tray things for inside my mouth. I don't know who on earth has a mouth big enough that those things actually fit properly in there, but it was awful. So, the assistant tries, and I feel the thick pink, guck making its way down my throat and I gag terribly. He pulls the tray out saying it was a miss, since I have a high palette, whatever the fuck that means. When the dentist came he said, basically that meant I had to have even more guck put into my mouth so he would be the one to do it. He slabs it into the top of my mouth. Still breathing...doing OK....slopping more onto the tray that's going to go into my mouth...OK...I'm fine...I'll be OK....He slides it in, a little rough and I feel him push up on the tray, the pink shit sliding down my throat again. Side note: I normally don't gag when something is in my throat, but this was fucking gross. He pushes me forward, "Breathe from your nose, S. Come on S....uh oh...you OK, S?..." As I gag and choke, I'm swallowing this pink crap that's sliding down my throat and I'm flailing my arms wildly and kicking my feet. So again he says, "It's OK, S. You're doing fine! Good girl...almost done now" I swear I must've been turning blue by then, because for at least 30 seconds I couldn't get a breath. The shit felt like it was blocking my nose, as well. Then it happened. A dizzy, nauseas feeling, stirring in my head and stomach. I leaned forward, tray still in my mouth, unable to breath, gazing at him with pleading eyes, a he patted me on my back telling me I was doing great, and I vomited in his lap. Needless to say, he took that fucking tray out of my mouth. It serves him right.

The look on his face was classic. Maybe next time he'll get a clue when his patient is suffocating in the chair that he put too much fucking goop.

Monday, October 15, 2007


Time for a quiet night at home, in front of the fire, watching Heroes and sipping a fruity little girlie cocktail. Banana Malibu with ice and a lime green straw. My sister isn't old enough to drink. Shit, that makes me feel old.

Anyway, this is pretty much a post to clarify a couple of things for the women spazzing on my blog over some misconstrued bullshit that started very, very harmlessly.

I do not know the soldier that commented on my blog. It's decidedly clear, since he said "first time reader". Now, that being said, I have no intention of screaming, "Go-go Gadget Pussy!" and sending it to some random guy that said he was sorry for my loss. If I gave it up to every man that said hello,
I'd even feel sorry for me.

Now, quit with the nasty comments, and quit with the nasty emails. This blog is my place to be myself. I don't need random wives sending me shit, saying I'm after an affair with their husband when that's not my intention. This is the last of this subject that is going to get any of my attention.
If you don't like the content of my blog, or you're offended by the things I say, go the fuck away.

a little note to a soldiers girl, if you had actually read my previous posts, you would know, before jumping to conclusions, that he was not who I was writing about. Fuck off, bitch.


It's again, a rainy, sort of dreary day. Not a whole lot going on, but I spent way too much money at Macy's today. I'm not into, so called 'high fashion', but I do enjoy the occasional, nice top, or cute skirt. Today I bought two bottles of perfume I couldn't possibly afford on what I'm making right now. Only thing better than sympathy sex, is sympathy shopping. My father wouldn't approve.

Angel starts her new job tomorrow. From what I understand, she'll be working in a pet store, but in the fish and small animals department. I'm really proud of her for the beginning stages of leaving the nest. We all have to grow up sometime, don't we?

I chipped a tooth! Now maybe I can fit in with the Southern ladies that have gone out of their way to make my blog some kind of slutty haven, or something. I have an appointment on Thursday to get the thing fixed, and I can't wait. I keep running my tongue across it, and feeling that slight sharp scrape and it's annoying as hell. I refuse to be one of those women that never smiles with her teeth for the rest of my life. I can't wait to get it fixed.

I want to add, that I don't really understand why people feel the need to throw insults at people, that they don't even know. Are people so insecure that they need to live through other peoples' blogs? In a previous thread, I got a nice amount of anonymous comments, commenting on what a whore I am. I refuse to feel insulted by women that obviously have nothing better to do.

As for Snow, my married friend, I haven't slept with him. There is a yet involved, unless we drift apart. As for Mr. Mad Libs, I haven't heard from him at all, but he did say that he was going to be working for a few days. I like his emails. Something about them makes me blush like a school girl and he doesn't even flirt...Maybe it's just the attention. Everyone needs a little positive attention.

Last but not least, I want to thank the people that emailed me. I love getting emails from people asking how my life is going and lending an ear. It's sort of like free online grief counseling...lol.

Love Until Later,


OK. After a little investigating, I found out that this was all over a harmless comment I left on another blog. I refuse to explain myself to an angry mob of women that think I'm after some guy that's halfway across the world. Please people, harmless flirts are thrown around constantly online. My personal life and my blog life have nothing to do with each other. Even though I write about real time, true events going on, it doesn't mean I'm after every guy online. Give me a break. My apologies to the guy I left the comment to, because I had no idea undersexed army wives were so damn sensitive to the word sex. I'm ending it with that. Hopefully, you'll all move on and find some other innocent commenter to call a whore. I don't like feeling hindered in what I write about and I refuse to do so for sensitive viewers. Go read another fucking blog, bitches.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Smurfette was a Whore

Sigh. This is the saddest song I've heard in a long time, and it fits so well into all the drama I've been caused lately. Since I can't figure out for the life of me how to upload my own music to blogger, it would be helpful if someone could let me know.

On to my post.

If you've ever seen the movie Donnie Darko, then you know there was a whole speech about Smurfette. Some say she was a whore that was passed around through all the Smurfs. Some say that Smurfs have no reproductive organs. If they were, in fact, A sexual, you sure couldn't see a thing, even under all that tight spandex they wore. Smurfette, on the other hand, wore a tiny little, white sun dress that was flowing and dainty, and she never ever did cartwheels, because she was a lady. Smurfette was initially a bad Smurf, created by Gargamel to defeat the Smurfs and she had black hair I think. They completely changed her and made her good. Her hair magically changed from dark to blond, and she became the Sunset Tan girl, Olly, of the Smurf village.

Now, my point to this is, since I tend to take my time making a point, is that people can change from bad to good, can't they? Maybe it's a bad idea to compare a cartoon from the 80's to people, but come on...Can't one day a really shitty person wake up and be good?

I often wonder why God didn't create everyone equal if we can't stand each other's differences? It's beyond me and it's bugging the shit out of me. We all loved Smurfs, and they were BLUE for Christ's sake!

Rockabilly red Lipstick

For the most part, the memorial went off without a hitch. Today is a new day, and I refuse to dwell on what happened yesterday.

The married guy, I'll call him Snow, that I'm considering having an affair with has confirmed that it's his fantasy, too. So I'm considering getting some sympathy sex from him sometime this week. He says he's scared that he's taking advantage of my weakness. I can imagine him saying that if he came to see me right after my father passed and through teary welled up eyes, I began to kiss him and slowly let a strap fall off of my shoulder while unbuckling his belt, but this is after-the-fact, and I just want my sympathy sex, dammit. Anyway, since Angel is working this week, hopefully, I can just have him drive down from the city and seduce him, then. I love the fact that he's almost 20 years older than I am, and can handle the fact that I'm utterly selfish in bed. There should be more single guys like him. I have yet to find one. Not to say that I don't spend my fair share of time on my partner, I just like more time spent on, myself.

Today seems like it's going to be a lazy, drawn out day. It's exactly what I need right now.

Oh and I'm corresponding with some guy from New York. No, I have no idea who he is. He bought something off of me on Ebay, and decided he liked the way my stationary smelled. I really need to stop spraying my perfume on things to get positive feedback. After talking to him for a few minutes via IM last night, I've deemed him a 'non-stalker threat'. I'll call him, Mad Lib, since I'm sending him a book of Mad Libs (I haven't played with them since I was 10) and a sweet nothing note on Playboy stationary, sprinkle it with Paris Hilton perfume, and a little kiss with the rockabilly red lipstick I wear everyday. So Mad Lib is a pilot, which I find extremely, sexy. What is it about guys in uniform, anyway?

So, Snow, is hopefully driving down to give me sympathy sex, and I'm sending sweet nothings to a man I don't even know from the internet. Maybe it's time I found a new hobby.

Needing a quickie,


p.s. Roxy says she's sending me a check to help with the memorial costs. If she does, in fact send me something, I might have to take back some of the shit I've written about her. Nah....

Saturday, October 13, 2007


My father was probably not the best father in the world. He cursed a lot. He drank a lot. He fought a lot with my Mom and left us when I was just a little girl. I'm sure my Mom wanted him gone, but it broke her heart every time he promised to come to take us somewhere and didn't. It broke my heart, too. He married 3 women and hurt all three, although I think that they did their fair share of hurting him, too. He had three daughters. This is for you Dad.

My father was an ex-Marine. He was quick to tell stories that were probably very little of the truth, or more of an exaggerated truth. He loved to exaggerate and he loved the attention it got him. When he told me over two years ago that he wasn't going to live to see Christmas, I sobbed, balled and did all the things a 'good daughter' should. I offered to fly to see him and as he said no through coughs and pants, I still decided I wanted to see him. When Christmas passed and his chronic emphysema hadn't killed him, I don't know if I was mad at him for bullshitting me that he was going to die and didn't or if I was relieved that he hadn't died.

He was married to a pathological liar, just like himself. She was somewhat of an exhibitionist and loved to talk about bondage, leather, masturbation, porn, spankings, and plenty of other things. I'll never forget when she bent over right in front of me with a leather whip and asked my Dad to lay one on her. I've never felt so nauseas in my entire life. There's a fine line between parent and child once you reach a certain age. She crossed it.

When the next Christmas came, he told me he was going to die again. He didn't. I hated him for lying to me. I was his daughter for Christ's sake. He sent me a Christmas card and a scary, goofy lamp and I think belonged in The Nightmare Before Christmas...I didn't keep it. Then Christmas time was approaching fast again, and I wondered if I'd get the call from him, saying he was dying again. I did get the call...This time, for real. Of course, this was the third time he'd told me that, but for some reason I believed him this time and needed some reassurance that he was full of shit and that he was just fine. He wasn't. My father had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. He was given a few months to live. I understood it was serious but I closed my heart to the pain and wished it would just go away.

As a child I ran away a lot...and I mean a lot. I went from group home to group home. I was hooked on pretty much every drug at one time or another. I've overdosed. I've slept with men I didn't love. At 15, (I think I was 15) I overdosed on something. The doctors called my parents...My mother came first and both her and Angel sobbed at my bedside. I weighed a whopping 83 pounds and I was given maybe a week to live. No. I had no terminal illnesses. I was labeled self destructive. Between bulimia and addiction, I had ruined my life. My father came to visit. It blew me away, since I rarely ever heard from him or saw him. His advice to me, as he cut the hospital band off of my wrist, was to go and live for that week and not sit and detox in a hospital bed if I was going to die. I did just that. I left, and I didn't die. I ended up a strong, clean woman, chubby and college educated. There is a point to that story, and I promise I'm getting to it.

I went to visit my father before he died. Twice. The first visit was one that wasn't taking an emotional toll on me. He was thin...very thin. He coughed a lot and still smoked. He was still with the insane wife that was taking his meds with him and floating off to her job as a second grade school teacher. I say...they really have lowered the bar on who can teach your children these days. He wasn't the man I remembered. He couldn't eat. The second time I went he looked dead when I looked past the curtain is the musty smelling room. I walked to his bedside, hugged him and told him I loved him. Within 20 minutes we called an ambulance and brought him to the ER for severe dehydration. He refused treatment. He asked me to kill him repeatedly when we were alone in his room together as I helped his fragile body out of his gown and into some scrubs that he could wear home. He just wanted to go home he said. As the doled out more meds for him, Smurfette, which is what I'll call his wife, went to fill the prescription and I gave him water to sip and he hacked and heaved through his bony shell of a man. I didn't even recognize him anymore. He was an old man. He was quiet and wanted to die, as if he were 105. He looked 105. That night, I went home. The next day, he died.

It was a rush of pain that was drowned by Roxy that had decidedly taken control of the situation. She wanted to be the go-to person, and she wanted to be the one to fly down and handle a nonexistent estate. My father left no one anything. I was content with the idea that I would get the photos he left behind. Photos of us. When we all drove down to LA to go through the things, my sister was barking orders about how things with 'her father' should be handled. I really did hold my tongue, even though I wish she knew what this all meant to me. WE had just lost OUR father. But this was all about Roxy. She quickly went to that same old stale, dark, scary room where a couple of days before I held my father's frail hand and she rummaged through his things. I couldn't go all the way in. I didn't want to see his bed and where he once was, dead and cold... I wanted to run and scream that none of this was real. Roxy was struck with tunnel vision. She took everything from old tee shirts to his old military papers. These weren't the things I wanted. I wanted solid memories. Our memories. But did we really have any? Where was he most of my life? When she got to the closet, I heard her screech, "Ew. What the fuck is this?" In a little tiny container made of wood there was a teeny tiny dead lizard and a hospital bracelet. I wondered what the big deal was, and I looked a little bit closer. There it was. The hospital bracelet the he cut off of my wrist so many years before. I burst into tears and realized, my Daddy is dead. He's gone. But he saved this memory as a sign of my life. He knew I wouldn't die on him. He knew even though he hadn't raised me, that my mother had, And my mother, as bitchy as she can be sometimes, is bitchy for my own good. She loves me and tried as hard as she could to raise decent daughters.

As I sit here, I want to stand up as straight as I can, extend my arm in a snap and bend it at the elbow. My index finger grazes my forehead and I salute my father. A strong willed man. A stubborn man that loved his wives. Loved his daughters, and lived life fast and hard. He left memories that will last a long lifetime. I scattered him today, very illegally in Golden Gate Park, and I cried inside...We had a memorial service for him, and his wife couldn't be there. The stress of life without my Dad keeping her head above water seems to have been to much and she's now sitting in psychiatric ward. Ah...how life can be a drag.

I'll miss you, Daddy. I hate you for leaving me, but I love you for being my Daddy.

Friday, October 12, 2007

My name is Inigo Montoya

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father prepare to die.

Just a random thought that was on my mind and I had to share.

The guy that helped me today at Kmart sounded like cookie monster. It was extremely hard to listen to him talk in his friendly cookie way and not burst into laughter and start singing C is for COOOKIE! Angel didn't notice. She rarely does unless I mention something.

My Mom is on her way home. She was thoughtful enough to ask if I wanted a sammich for the memorial tomorrow since I can't eat chicken off of a bone. Something about it just rubs me the wrong way. I'd be happy with a peanut butter sammich ( I don't like jelly). Probably not gonna happen.

I can't get Mr. Stanford off of my mind. I met him online almost a year ago and we had an online romance that went nowhere. He left me hanging time after time, and stood me up more than once. I've come to the conclusion that he's either: a) Hideous and loves me but is scared I'd never love him back once I saw him in person. b) An Asshole that loves to watch me cry over being stood up time after time.(probably the answer) c) A woman that gets her kicks off of turning other women on, or d) dead, since I haven't heard from him in over a month but I'm still thinking about him. I prefer either a or d as an answer, but neither is true. At least then I wouldn't be the naive one sitting here at my computer screen wondering what the hell I did wrong. I need to quit acting like a psycho internet stalker woman and just move on, but I can't seem to. I really need to get a life.

I'm considering having an affair with a married guy from the city. He seems interested and I might be too. It might be just what I need to get my mind off of Mr. Stanford. Astrophysics. Who studies astrophysics anyway? He's probably sitting and talking to his collection of Princess Leah figurines, wishing they'd come to life and call him Luke. You never can tell. He probably still owns all of his Darth Vader Halloween costumes from his childhood.

Halloween is a night I'm not looking forward to. I'm taking my friend's (she's not really my friend anymore) kids trick-or-treating for the last time. I've decided I don't want to be her friend anymore, but since I promised the kids, I'm going to keep that promise. I hope she gets pissed off at me so we can fight and she can take back my promise for me. Otherwise I'm thinking I might fake a tumor or something to wiggle out of being friends anymore. I truly am a pathetic soul. I think I'll go listen to Eternal Flame and ponder the meaning of life.



Today is the first day.

So, today is the first day of the rest of my life. So why is it raining? I wonder why when I'm really sad, everything around me seems sad, too.

There's a note sitting next to my laptop that says,"Call me" from my mother. It has $60.00 attached and I'm sure there's some kind of shopping list she's going to give me. She had this idea, that at the memorial for my father, that we should all light candles. One by one, sad eyes, lighting on candle from the other person's while we sit or stand in a circle of sadness. My Dad didn't want this. I don't want this. All my life I've been a strong person. Getting it together all by myself after living a childhood, wreck. This is the first time in years that I've lived with my mother full-time. I think what I'm scared of is showing that hint of weakness that I know will emerge in front of people that haven't seen me since I was 5.

I know my Mom talks shit about me. She talks shit about all three of us. My older sister, the slut, I'll call her Roxy, since that sounds like the ideal old internet porn chick, is the only one that's really escaped the wrath of Mom. At least to the public eye. My Mom knows she's full of shit. Every once in awhile, when one of us does something that made her proud, she calls the world to tell them. "Hey everyone, S got into Columbia! Can you believe it? She's going to be a lawyer!" I don't think she called anyone when I dropped out because I didn't fucking want to be a lawyer anymore, and I wanted to come home and lie in bed for weeks and not be bothered. But she makes it a point to tell people her grownup daughter lives with her again. Maybe people are too smart to ask, "Well, what happened to Columbia?" Point being, I know my Mom talks shit. I know that for every nice thing she's said about me to these people I don't remember, coming to this memorial, she's probably said 10 bad things.

My baby sister, I'll call her Angelica, even though she's no angel. She and I have a closeness that I never had with Roxy. Roxy blames me for everything that went wrong in her life. Like I personally ripped happiness from her childhood. Sometimes I wish I did, just so I could have something substantial. Angie, has her moments where she can be a bitch, but hey, so do I. Yay Angelica! She just got a job yesterday, and it's her first real Job. Angie's 18, going on 19 in about 2 weeks.

So, now I have to get off of my pity pot, and call my mother, who probably thinks I'm still lying in bed. I've been up for about an hour...but she won't believe me when I call.

Sipping Coffee.


P.S. Roxy, if you ever do come across this and read it, I want you to know that you're a bitch for not helping to pay for the memorial.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

I've decided

Today is the big day.

I've come to the realization that I'm un-a-fucking-preciated.

My father's memorial service is in Golden Gate Park this Saturday, and I'm dreading it with every step I take closer. I tear up when I think of my father's ashes sitting on the kitchen table (are they on the kitchen table? I haven't looked...). I don't want to go. I want to be selfish and stay in bed, but I can't imagine people looking at me in the same light as they look at my perfect sister that decided that work was more important while I shell out money I don't have to make this happen. My mother and I changed the date we had planned the memorial so that her highness could make it, and bring her precious son, that I've never met, so she could tell more precious lies to the world about how accomplished she is. The bitch runs around cheating on her husband, and posting naked, wrinkled photos of herself online, and everyone praises her because she has her perfect little house and her perfect little job in Florida. I don't understand it. She's the 'good daughter'.

Plain and simple truth that's never told...I ran away from home when I was a little girl. When I say little girl, I mean I was someone that was about 11 when I first noticed that I could be noticed by doing anything drastic. I think I watched too much 80's television and I thought suicide attempts were pretty cool. I used any excuse to cut myself, and scar myself, making sure I left blood on the bathroom floor so someone could come running and worried about poor little S. Yes, I'm S. My mother didn't know what to do with me. I didn't really want her to do anything. I wanted her to be more like my grandmother, letting her children walk all over her, and getting away with pretty much anything. My uncle Dee, I'll call him, was pretty much my hero. I would chase after him, late nights on Haight Street, hoping that he'd take me under his wing and let me hang with him and his friends. It never happened. Funny, how I'm the one that ended up sitting in front of a computer screen, doing nothing with my life, and he lost his leg and it seems to be the best thing that's ever happened to his.

Well, la di da...This page seems to be turning into my life story, and that's not really what I intended it to be. I need a place...a place to look back on and see that my life was fucked up but I don't have to let it be. This isn't my first blog, but it's the first blog that I'm actually writing in. It's the first blog that is going to be all me...hopefully no one will ever actually find it. With my luck, I'll be called by my mother from work, saying, "OK. What the fuck S? Why does the world need to know about all this shit?" But hey, everyone else posts their life on the internet. Why should I be any different?

I'm going to go dig through the pile of shit in my room now, so I can find my chapstick. I need to get laid.