Whistle While you Work

If you're one of my friends who was so worried I found some kind of rabbit hole or accidentally wandered off the face of this earth that you decided to give me a call or send an email recently, then you know the question, "What are you up to?" is met with a list of large, looming complaints that all overlap while having absolutely nothing to do with each other. You might also note that it seems I've been giving this same, impossible-sounding list since sometime in December. That is because it is the same large, seemingly impossible list of complaints, but now the complaints are really really real, and I'm not a hypochondriac, I swear. Hi. I love you. I miss you. I cannot see you right now. I see my mom, sister, my laptop screen, the lady that gives me my Methadone dose first thing every morning, and the guy in Jamba Juice who I believe is starting to know me by name.

Anyway, this pity time has caused me to develop Writer's Ear.

Writer's Ear is a constant hazard of my life as a writer, and I should have known I was headed right towards it, but I've been too icky to notice I wasn't taking the best care of my head. But last night it was undeniable -- Writer's Ear. My right ear aches, deep inside, like I'm developing an ear infection. Now, I haven't had an ear infection since I was little. I used to get them all the time. All the time. At least once a month I had strep throat or tonsillitis, and usually that came with a monster ear infection that would leave blood on my pillow and cause the most monstrous nightmares where giant ants were throwing enormous bricks off a building. The bricks would shatter and it would feel like my eardrums were bleeding. This was because my eardrums were bleeding.

I've later learned that those kinds of ear infections are pretty common for children growing up in a house with second-hand smoke. Both my parents smoked inside when I was little, and it's funny that we just thought I was a sickly kid. I'm on my back, ears bleeding, asthma racking my lungs, and my parents were like, "You need to calm down. You're stressed about school and friends and it's making you sick." No lie: even our dog had asthma. I got older and was home less often, and once Dad had lung cancer, at his place they started smoking outside. That last sentence wasn't a joke, by the way. It's the sad fucking truth. Including the part where all of us smoke outside. Together. As a family. And it's one of the few things we all do as a family. Still.

But this is supposed to be a funny story about Writer's Ear. So uh, ignore that last little brain spasm of a paragraph.

So I'm not living in a house filled with smoke, and I'm not seven, so the fact that my inner ear was hurting and popping whenever I yawned was troublesome to me. And then I realized it was probably due to my headphones. I've been wearing headphones for I don't know how many hours a day, and sometimes I'm walking and sometimes I'm writing or reading, but for a good part of my day I'm plugging my head shut with little buds that play loud loud music. I push them into my head while I'm at coffee shops because the cappuccino machine is loud and the constant pulse of techno they play there is even louder. So every day I mash these little buds into my ears.

And then, in the morning, I go walking. Well, when I'm not vomiting. Because since I've been sick, all I do is vomit. So now I'm mashing the buds into my ears so they don't fall out, and I'm mashing them as I walk faster, which means I'm sweating, which means I'm pushing sweat into my ear canal and then plugging it up. I've made an ear terrarium, and I'm wondering why my ear might have developed an infection? I'm not so smart sometimes.

Writer's Ear has other side effects, which include getting so focused on whatever it is you've been writing all day that you zone out of conversations, end up taking showers that last close to half an hour, and can't do anything without pulling a pen and the back of an envelope out of your purse to jot down sixteen things you thought about in the time it took for you to get from your house to the clinic which is 15 minutes away, driving.

Writer's Ear is more annoying to the rest of the people in your life than yourself, because you are constantly:

A) Distant.
B) Distracted.
C) Bitching about your ear hurting.
D) Talking about iPod headphones.

I've switched to the headphones that don't go inside my ears, which are too big for my head and don't block out sound the way I'd like, but I think I need to give the inside of my right ear some time to dry out. I can deal with it right now, while I'm sitting here at home and sitting still and writing, but it was a pain in the ass this morning, when I was trying to actually get things done. And I can't really stop walking, you see, because I don't have a driver's license and I'm at constant war with Office Ass even though I don't work in an office.

I am battling Office Ass with everything that I am. This is also a condition that makes others suffer because it makes you:

A) Hate yourself.
B) Tell everybody you hate yourself.
C) Feel extreme guilt about every calorie consumed.
D) Apologize for wearing clothes.
E) Constantly fluctuate between indulging and punishing yourself.
F) Constantly discuss the waves of guilt that involve the size of your own ass.
G) Forget that others really don't want to spend their day telling you how not fat you are, when you know for a fact that you are and they are all liars.
H) Lose all of your friends. (see A-G)

I do a pretty good job avoiding most of the junky food my house has to offer. I've ordered every soup and salad combo Santa Cruz County has to offer. But I have a hard time resisting some of the Starbucks treats when they're right in front of me, beckoning. "You'll come up with the best blog posts if you have just a taste of sugar. With pumpkin. And chocolate."

I was recently complaining about Office Ass to my friend Elizabeth. "You don't look fat," she says. "But. Are you snacking in between meals?"

There isn't a word to describe how guilty I sounded when I responded, "Kinda."

Elizabeth summons her inner Dr. Phil. "Look. You're working hard, and you've been sick and you're detoxing. You can try not to eat, but you're still walking some, and you look fine, and you won't always feel like this and then you'll lose anything you gained in like a week when you go back to normal living. So what if you gain a couple of pounds. You're sick. Skinny is not always more fun. Quit beating yourself up about it."

Still.

Office Ass is a concern of more and more people as the holidays end. The other night I was with a group of people discussing Weight Watchers, and more specifically, what the hell a POINT was. This conversation, I should mention, was led by a heterosexual man. Sympathetic women were trying to soothe him as he basically admitted he was fucking starving and hated life, but dammit if he wasn't going to stick to his alloted points. One of them found the entire points thing fascinating. "How many points is a bag of Doritos? Wow! How many points in, like, a pint of Ben and Jerry's? Holy crap." A couple of years ago I tried to explain the maddening reality of my best friend's metabolism, which allows her to have Guinness and ice cream for a midnight snack without even a single calorie hanging around to cling to her body. (It's maddening! Maddening, I tell you!)

OK. I don't have a lot more to say today. I'm actually supposed to be writing a review for some hotel in Pennsylvania for peanuts, that I've never actually been to, but hey, at least it's money, and it keeps my mind off of how fucking sick I am. But this is another place where I'm supposed to write, to check in to say I'm okay. It is, in many ways, the only way some of my friends have proof I'm alive. So hi. All of this which is to say, I'm fine. I'm a dork, but I'm fine. And thanks for the emails, and checking in on me, even though I've been neglecting this blog and neglecting so many of you that seem to care so much about me, but I'm just so fucking sick and haven't held ANYTHING down for over a week. Again, I'm rambling! Hopefully, soon enough my writing will be back up to par and I'll stop being so annoying. I know I'm boring you all lately. I'm even boring me.

It's a nice day for a....white wedding

OK. That's it. I'm not drinking an energy boost drink EVER AGAIN.

I have a nice energy boost and everything, what with all the chemicals they put in that thing, but the nightmares that I have at night are simply terrible! I had my first Red Bull the other night and slept horribly. I kept dreaming that someone was chasing me and trying to kill me. My sister said she woke me up about three times that night because I was kicking and yelling.

I thought briefly about the Red Bull, but then decided it was just me being really tired that caused the dreams.

Well, last night being that most of the day I was pretty lethargic and sick, I had another energy drink because I was feeling really tired and I had the worst dream last night.

It was one of those dreams where you wake up going, "Oh, man. It's just a dream."

OK. So in the dream I'm getting married to this guy I know and like who shall remain unnamed for the time being until something between us changes. But for some reason this wedding was just sort of thrown together. I don't even think I'm wearing a bridal gown. There's all sorts of people there that I know, but they all look miserable-- like I've called them to a meeting. We have to wait in line for the couple before us to get married so that I can, and then when it's time, we're married before I even know what's happening. There's like, no ceremony at all. Then the photographer is pulling on my arm, "Hey, I forgot to take any pictures, so could you guys all stand in the center here and pretend you're having a good time?"

So we're all fake dancing in the center of this room where there's all these overturned chairs and tables and it's a mess and I see my reflection and I look like shit. I start trying to cheer all of my friends up, but they don't want to talk to each other, so some of them have moved on to other rooms and some are hiding and some are just getting drunk. I try to go out the front but someone stops me and says that my mother is out there getting the cake ready and getting my presents together.

I was really mad because some of my best friends didn't show up, but people who I think are only nice to me in person but are evil behind my back all were there, trying to kiss my cheek and tell me how happy they were for me.

I go to try and cheer someone else up, who for some reason is sitting on a wall with a couple of people I knew from high school and she tells me that I'm not going to get any cake if I don't hurry.

She was right. The cake was all gone. The presents were in a jumbled pile by the door and quite a mess.

I walked outside and sat in the grass. There were some Star Wars action figures there, so I picked them up and started playing with them like dolls. I made a little box-chair and was pretending that the Star Wars guys had gone to a strip club and the girl action figures were dancing for them. People were walking by and staring, but I didn't give a shit. I started rolling in the grass and creating this whole world for my action figure dolls just like I did when I was a kid. Some guy came up to me and told me that he didn't know what to get me for my wedding gift because I never registered anywhere and he had no idea what I would like. That's when it all hit me. I was married, I had no wedding presents that were any good, and I couldn't remember the ceremony. Then I sort of woke up in the dream and realized that I was in the bed alone. I was very upset that the last thing I remembered about my wedding night was playing with Star Wars action figures.

I went to my computer and sat down to write a blog entry and I thought to myself, "What am I going to tell everyone? They are expecting me to type 'Well, I'm a taken woman, now. Everything was beautiful. All went just as planned. Off to Cancun!' But instead I want to write, 'Could someone tell me what the fuck happened? Why did I spend my wedding night alone?'"

I went and found the guy I married, who was sleeping alone in a bed. He looked like he had been out drinking all night long. I woke him up. "Hey," I said, shaking his leg, "What happened last night? I never saw you?"

"Well, you were asleep," he said, "I didn't want to wake you."

"I just remembered we never planned a honeymoon."

"Well, you needed this wedding so badly, I guess it never occurred to you that we could use this ceremony as a chance to better our lives together."

"We didn't get any presents. We got one thing that looked like it wasn't an ash tray, and it's a battery charger."

"We didn't get any money."

"We don't have anything to do now. I don't even really remember it."

"That's fucking great."

"I just feel like maybe you are mad at me," I said to him.

"Really? Why do you think that?"

"Well, I just feel like maybe you didn't want to get married to me and you were doing it to be nice and now you hate me. I think you think we made a mistake."

Then his face somehow morphed into David Spade's: "Oh. You think?"

And I woke up yelling.

I've had wedding nightmares before. Once I dreamt that I was sitting around watching the sunset, and for some reason I knew that I had taken LSD, and since I've never taken LSD in my life I was curious as to what it would do to me. I was able to sit in the air and lean back like I was in a rocking chair and watch the sunset. When it was all over, I walked home feeling really safe-- until I accidentally walked onto a highway, and the concrete sides were too high and I thought I was going to be killed. When I made it home there was a huge party in my driveway and everyone was hugging me and telling me how beautiful I was. I asked my mother what everyone was talking about and she said, "Your wedding, silly."

I looked down at my hand and I had a ring there. The boyfriend that I had at the time really wanted to get married and I didn't, and in this dream he had drugged me, planned and went through a wedding. That's when I knew it was time to get out of the relationship. I was so upset that I had missed my wedding.

Anyway, I'm feeling a little bit better. I know I dropped a bombshell in my last post, but I really needed to lighten up my page a little bit. I don't want this blog to become one of those blogs I avoid and I don't want it not to be any different. I'm still feeling pretty yucky, but that's because I now have pneumonia on top of being on Methadone now. Actually, they've pretty much stabilized my dose which means that I'm not feeling symptoms of withdrawal at all, but the pneumonia is making up for it. Tonight is going to be one of my better nights. I can just feel it. Well, as long as I don't wake up in a Billy Idol video.

No more Red Bull. I mean it.

Oh, one last thing, if you've had the attention span to get this far into my post, I found this shit this morning and it scared me. So if Red Bull isn't giving me nightmares, I believe this has a fair shot. I tried to post the video but can only hyper link it.

Once the Drugs are Done...I feel like Dying

I want to say before I write this post, that I'm not looking to be judged. I know that opening my personal life up on the internet is asking for a bunch of assholes to make me feel like shit, but I'm going to write about this subject anyway, and just hope for support instead of assholes making me feel worse.

About a year ago, I was prescribed a prescription pain killer. Who am I to say I didn't enjoy pretty much every moment of being on that pain killer. It was a bottle of some pretty strong shit, and it had a bunch of refills. Yes. It was a narcotic. Yes. I kept taking it even after I wasn't in physical pain anymore.

After some time, I realized I wasn't taking these pills for pain at all anymore. I would take them like clockwork first thing in the morning. After lunch, I'd take them. Before bed, I'd take a couple more. So, three times a day, without being in pain or even getting high for that matter, I was pumping myself full of narcotics. My doctor kept refilling my prescription, without asking me how my pain was doing.

A few months ago, it hit me. I'm addicted to prescription pain medication. I spoke with my doctor about this, and she assured me that it would be better to "ween" me off of the medications instead of just quitting cold turkey. She told me that it would be painful and I probably wouldn't stick to it. Slowly I began to "ween" off of the pills, when it hit me again. I just, can't, do this. I told her I wasn't ready to "ween" so sure enough, she said "No problem" and gave me my prescriptions back. At the time I was thinking of what a cool doctor I have. Now I'm looking back thinking what an idiot she is. Why the fuck would she allow me to stay addicted? Why wouldn't she tell me to suck it up and get off of them before it got any worse?

It got worse. I don't walk around high. I don't get high at all. but when I don't take my prescription pills, I can't function. I sweat. I shake. I vomit. It's like all the symptoms of every flu you've had all thrown into one fucked up flu that there's no cure for, except for taking my damn pills.

Today I took the first step. Over the past few weeks I've been looking into programs and trying to find a place that helped to treat this addiction. I honestly don't feel alone in this. It's more common than I thought for people to become addicted to these medications and for doctors to keep the addiction going by doling out more pills with stronger prescriptions instead of helping their patient. I went to have blood drawn this afternoon, and Thursday I'll be starting a methadone detox program. I've been told by a few people I know, that this isn't the way to go. A lot of people are concerned for me, becoming just as addicted to methadone as I am to these pills, but I can't imagine myself, as young as I am, flushing my life down the toilet for an addiction that I know I can beat before it gets any worse than it already is.

For now my plan is to start the program this Thursday. (I have to go in under complete withdrawal symptoms, which is something that I've never let happen, and it scares me to death) I'll have an intake and they'll give me my first dose. It's supposed to completely wipe out all symptoms of withdrawal within half an hour and the dose will last me 24 hours. I will have to go in every morning, as long as I'm part of the program. Since my insurance doesn't cover "detox" I'll be on "maintenance" instead. So instead of a 21 day program, I'll set up a treatment plan and detox over the next 4 months instead of 1.

I hope everyone that reads this blog understands how hard it was for me to write this post. It's going to be a pretty bumpy road over the next few months, but I hope everyone is here for me and understands that this could've happened to any of you, just like it has to me.

The Baby Itch

Well, I got the phone call I’ve been waiting on for a while: two of my best friends in the world are finally having a baby. They'd been trying forever, it seems, and they're very happy to be one month along. They keep repeating that they know they aren't "out of the woods," which only strengthens that myth of storks leaving babies in gardens and cabbage patches way out in the middle of nowhere (or "the nowhere", as my newly-pregnant friend was mocked for saying). I always imagined mothers crawling through thorny vines and poison ivy, shielding their tiny infants in their hands, both faces streaked in mud until they both found a warm home. So really, finding out when I was a little bit older, that I instead came from a belly was a relief.

Anyway, my cousin is due to have her baby in about a month and a half. My friend had another baby a few months ago. A guy that works in my Mom's office just got forced into marriage because he 'accidentally' got his girlfriend pregnant. Stars are having babies left and right. One of my other friends is trying with his wife, too. "Forever!" I said to him the other night. "You're having a kid forever. It's not just some kind of summer thing or like, a five-day rental. Forever."

He nodded with that look that says, "I love it. But hey, run while you've still got the chance."

Why don't I have the baby itch? Particularly with the way everyone on television wants to remind me lately that my insides are ticking away like the stopwatch on 60 Minutes and how I've only got so many years left before it's too late!!!!!. Even scare tactics aren't working on me. Sure, I get all cutesy when I see an adorable baby do something so adorably babyish, like chew on a fist or point at me when I cross my eyes and wiggle my nose at him or her. But there's no ache inside, no pull with a whisper, "Baaaaaay-beeeeeee."

Nothing. In fact, that tiny voice inside me often says, "Oh, thank God. No baby. Whew. Can you imagine?"

I'm exhausted from a day that involves waking up, showering and dealing with the basics of day to day life. I was exhausted after trying to take a cell phone call inside of a building with shitty reception because the call was to cancel an appointment and I couldn't quite make out what was being said. That was exhausting to me. Clearly I'm not ready for any kind of responsibility involving another person's upbringing for the rest of my life. The rest of my life. I get irritated when the dogs climb over me in the middle of the night, almost pushing me out of bed. I honestly don’t think that I have the patience motherhood requires at this point in time.

Sometimes it makes me feel like a bad person, though. I feel like I'm not being a good enough woman, that I'm not trying to hurry up, get married, buy a house, "settle down" and start a family. "Settle down." That's what my Mom would always say to my sister and me when we were jumping on our mattress or running through the house playing Tag.

"Girls!! Settle down!"

It meant, "Quit acting like a fucking idiot and shut up!" Now it means, "Quit pretending you don't want what we all have. It's why you're on this earth. You're supposed to sit still and be quiet and let someone else be loud and obnoxious for a change. You're done. Be done. Just sit still for once."

Settle down. Buy a house. Stop renting. Stop chasing. Start planning for a future. Get a savings account. Invest. Get a CD that doesn't have Flogging Molly on the cover. The kind I can't touch until I'm in my fifties.

I can't imagine stopping my life and changing every aspect to raise a child. I just can’t imagine how I would do that. And the fact that I'm not even slightly upset at the thought of not doing that someday makes me feel a little guilty. Then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. I want to rock all girl power and say that I don't need a family/child to validate my womanhood. I don't need a family/child to prove that I'm good enough, that I've been Chosen by a male to breed with. I don't need the world to carry on my seed... or egg... or whatever it is that we say when...shit, you know what I mean.

I'm just not done yet. I don't want to raise someone when I'm not even sure how to take care of myself. I don't think it's responsible to bring another human into this world when I have no idea when exactly I'll get my next paycheck. How do people do it? How does everyone do it? And why am I not even slightly pulled in that direction?

I know that it's OK to feel this way, but I'm surprised that it even bothers me sometimes. I surprise myself when I fantasize about weddings and houses and sweet couple moments that come from years of life together, memories together and that look you give each other when you remember that you were there for that first wrinkle next to his eye and you've been there as the rest of them arrived. I know it's kind of hokey that I think about cakes and music and large gatherings of people celebrating love and birth and the joy of life. I want it in bits and moments. I just don't know if I want it every single day.

I'm a lousy babysitter. I'm good with children, but not in the motherly sense...I’m the "cool babysitter." I whine right along with them, wishing even more than they do that Mom or Dad would come home soon. I'll want to eat ice cream for dinner and 9 times out of 10 I let them convince me that it's a good idea. We watch scary movies and stay up too late and fall asleep on the couch in our clothes with our shoes on the good pillows and the dog on the nice sofa.

The thought of having a child sick and needing a doctor scares the crap out of me. Holding a crying child, knowing that there's an infection and the kid doesn't understand pills or medicine and all it knows is pain, pain, pain and it's my job to make the kid feel better but secretly I'm just worried I'm going to catch it too? I'd be at my Mom's door so fast and so often that she'd move and not tell me.

Never. Not once. I've never genuinely wished I had a baby. I've never envied someone else's child. I've never been curious what my child would look like. The only time I've even thought about what I'd name a kid was back in high school and some of the names I came up with were so lousy that I'll never tell anyone what they were. I don't look at baby clothes and say "Aww, if I had a little girl I’d put her in this." I don't inhale deeply when I pass a Baby Gap. I don't rub the bellies of pregnant women when I see them in public. (Or in private, for that matter…) I still get a little uncomfortable at the sight of a woman breastfeeding a baby. I get a little uncomfortable at the thought of someone else going through labor. The thought of me going through labor makes me sweat with fear. I'm not even curious. I'm not even slightly interested.

When I moved into my last place, I bought some furniture and started trying out new dishes, making cookies and cooking things I've always wanted to try. Someone tilted her head to the side and said, "Oh, you're nesting. So cute."

No, I needed bookshelves for my books and I've never had a big kitchen before. I'd have cooked if I didn't always have the counter space of a dorm room. It's not nesting. One month later it wasn't even safe for the kids I watched to nap on the floor. I'm not a very clean person when I’m extremely busy. I used to think I wasn't that bad, but now I know I used to live with messier people, or clean people that picked up my stuff too. I've never seen before just how much of a slob I can be when I don’t have someone I pay to clean. Nesting always reminds me of the end of Sesame Street when Big Bird would tuck his beak into his armpit and start snoring. What I do is more like Bird's neighbor Oscar, noisy basement and all.

So, I don't want a baby. That doesn't make me a bad person. That doesn't mean I'm less of a woman. Get off my case. Maybe I'm just being the responsible one. I'm leaving more space for your baby. Now my baby won't steal your baby's spot in college. My baby won't make your baby feel insecure, or break your baby's heart someday at a dance. My baby won't be at a stoplight when your baby hits my baby's car because your baby was jamming out to a CD while talking on a cell phone, and now your baby's insurance premiums won't go up. My baby won’t sell weed to your baby on the schoolyard. I'm just making your world for your baby a better place without my baby around to make your baby feel secondary. You're welcome, by the way.

So I guess this means I'm a pretty great woman. A selfless woman. A woman who won't bore you with baby stories and pester you to babysit. A woman who's always available for a night out or a quick cup of mid-day coffee. I'm the woman you can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the morning and I won't scold you for waking anybody. When you come to my house there will be an 89% less chance that you will be puked or peed on (unless you get me really drunk). I can loan you a book that doesn't have any pages torn out, scribbled on, or chewed off. I will not serve you a Cosmo in a fucking sippy cup. You will never have to watch me clean my son's tiny penis with a wet nap and then sing a song about my son's tiny penis to his tiny penis while you search the room for something to stare at instead. I won't ask you what I should do about my sore nipples (unless they’re really cold or I had a really great night the night before). I'm not going to be the woman who only half listens to you because I'm listening to the baby monitor near your head. Most importantly, I won't be the woman who tells you that you aren't really a woman until you have kids. I'm not going to be that lady that gives you that pity look and says, "Oh, they just make it all make sense, you know? They give your life meaning. Direction. A purpose."

I believe you are important even if you don't have a baby. I promise to never make you think otherwise. I do believe in you, just as hard as I believe in me. Together, we don't have to have babies to be somebodies. We're just as valid in this world, even if we don't need a booster seat or high chair at a restaurant. We're worth staring at in the street, even if we're not pushing a tiny version of ourselves in a stroller. We are strong, independent women who are beautiful, talented, marvelous creatures. And when we read Charlotte's Web or James and the Giant Peach at night we don't read it out loud, but to ourselves. It's still good.

And I promise not to judge you with babies if you promise to not judge those of us without. I won't ask you what it's like to lose what I can only imagine is your personal identity if you promise not to comment on how empty and lonely my life must be.

Just in case I someday change my mind, however, Simba (the chihuahua) is keeping me in prime condition. Every single night, right in the dead middle of the night, he finds a way to wake me up. I haven't slept through a full evening in over a year. I do believe after these dogs, babies are going to be a breeze. I’m entitled to change my mind, but right now, this is where my mind is at, and I don’t understand people can't respect that.

Whoa. This post ended up really long. SORRY!

Are you Smarter than a 2nd Grader?

I went to my Gramma's house the other day and played with my little cousin. We both have our little pink Nintendo DS, so we synced them and played together. She loves that I have all the cool games. So while we were playing Donkey Kong and I was kicking her 8 year old rotten sweet ass, she asked if she could play alone. Kids. Hmph. Fine. She just got tired of losing. Ha! So we traded games. Of course the only thing that my uncle buys her are lame educational games, so I figured, how hard can a kid's educational game be? I mean she's 8...right? Wrong. Big Brain Academy...that's the name of the game. Sounds like a little pussy game, right? Wrong again.

A picture of my spoiled adorable little cousin playing with her DS.

Here I am all whizzing through the practice test and shit, going fast as fuck and not getting all of them any of them wrong. I'm like, yeah, I'm the fuckin' man woman. I've got the same warm feeling as when I was beating her ass at Donkey Kong. Go me! So the little guy pops up and tells me how much my brain weighs. I'm not going to say what he told me, because I'm actually embarrassed. Not only does my brain weigh about as much as a coffee cup, I got a D+. A fucking D+! Let me add that I had a full academic scholarship to an Ivy League University, and I scored brilliantly on my LSATS. I was pissed. I figured I just didn't know the mechanics of the game and I needed to pick my speed up a little. So I tucked the DS into my pocket and left without giving the game back. Shut up. I didn't steal her game. She's happy as a clam with Donkey Kong. Obviously she knew I had the game, anyway. She thought she was getting over on me by keeping Donkey Kong. I bet she got tired of being told she has a little brain too.

That night, I took the game out while everyone in the house was sleeping, and I began to play. I played, until my hands hurt and my fingers bled. OK. Not really. But I played for about 4 hours because when I looked up it was well after 3:00 am. No sooner did I look up that I got this dizzy throbbing sensation in my head and stomach. It was something like car sickness. I'm thinking to myself, fuck...I think I'm gonna barf. I don't know why it is when I feel sick, I always wait until the last possible moment to get up and go to the bathroom. Maybe it's the thought that I might overcome the feeling and not barf at all. This wasn't one of those times. I waited and waited, until I knew there was no overcoming the feeling and I ran to the bathroom fumbling for the switch, remembering just a little too late that the light bulb was out, and projectile vomited in the dark right into my toilet. I'm talented I tell you. Can't you just hear the Mexican guy on TV screaming "GOOOOOOOAL!" Needless to say, after all those hard hours of playing Big Brain Academy, not only did my brain seem to shrink, but I'm now battling carpel tunnel syndrome and arthritis in my 20s. (I have managed to work my way up to a C though.)

I don't understand why they have all the games they have for kids today. Look at the show, Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader. I do better on that show than I do on the brain game, but nothing makes grown men look more stupid than not knowing their fractions or 3rd grade Geography. I guess what else bothers me, is when I was a little girl, kids seemed a hell of a lot smarter, even without all this high tech bullshit. I grew up on Top Ramen and cartoons where little blue men skipped around singing and ran from a one toothed villain and his cat, and I turned out just fine. Even if that stupid game says I have a brain the size of a pea. In my opinion, the "Super Size Me" Generation is doomed.

Drama Queens Should Never Shop Alone

I only went into the damn store to pick up cigarettes. I do it all the time. I really do. I go into that store. All. The. Time. This, was not supposed to happen.

I bumped into my ex in aisle 2. Well, I almost did. I would have if I had taken three steps more. First I should say that I don't normally even go down aisle two, but I reminded myself that I needed bottled water, and I can never remember what fucking aisle it's in, even though I buy it, weekly. It wasn't in aisle two. Anyway...I heard his voice as I was looking down and I snapped my head up fast enough that I was able to dodge behind a display of Christmas shit that hasn't sold yet. Please never remind me when I'm old and gray that I hid from an ex-boyfriend behind a Santa missing an arm and a tooth colored black with a marker, while my nose dripped and I was too scared to make a noise, so I just let it.

There he was, standing there, like we never dated, talking on his cell phone. Didn't we divvy up California after we broke up? I thought so. I still take weekend visits to San Francisco, therefore northern California is mine. He told me he was moving, anyway...What was he doing in my half of the state?

There was something about not being prepared to see him that yanked my insides down and pulled me back behind that decrepit Santa.

He was talking on the phone to someone, laughing every few seconds about some story that I wasn't getting to hear. He pushed his hair back behind his ear and leaned forward, looking in the air, with a slightly annoyed, worried look on his face and trying to improve his reception. It's his new girlfriend on the phone. It's all I could think at the time. It had to be. She was probably telling him all about her day, and babbling on about the most mundane things in the world, and of course he looked absolutely charmed by every syllable that came out of her mouth. Maybe he craves her like that. When she talks, he doesn't float away like he would when I'd talk about some shit that happened at work because he just misses her, that much.

She's probably absolutely perfect, with one of those kick-ass lifestyles. She's smart and talented, with a car. A shiny car that never breaks down. And, um, food always comes out of the oven on time and cooked perfectly. I bet the bitch bakes her own bread. From scratch. Something I've never, ever been able to do. She probably has one of those bodies that bounces back after childbirth (10 times), and she never, ever has to go to the gym. She's just always skinny. She probably always has perfectly crispy clean sheets that she irons, and she recycles everything. Even newspaper. She has the perfect dog that catches Frisbees in the park, instead of my slightly neurotic dog that can't quite grasp the idea of fetch. She gives the best back rubs and blow jobs and never demands that he reciprocate. She doesn't eat much, but when she does, it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. I bet her name is something incredibly sexy, like Holly, Yvette, or Tiffany. She cums the second he's inside her and she's always left satisfied.

And then it happened, as it often does in these parts. He lost the call. I heard him shout "Hello?!?!" a couple of times before closing the flip phone. The signal must have faded.

Would he call her immediately back? Would he stop the next shopper he saw, demanding to use his or her cell phone to call her back and tell her how sorry he was that they were interrupted? Would he run out of the store, leaving his cart full of perishables to be by her side as soon as possible? What would he do?

He shrugged. Made one of those, 'whatever' faces and shoved the phone back into his pocket. I guess it wasn't Tiffany. Or maybe Yvette doesn't excite him enough that he needs to call her back immediately.

Or maybe, just maybe, he still wished the girl on the other line was me.


Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG

I'm not a sicky NO MORE!

I'm feeling better. Hear that? Better!

Anyway, I couldn't stand seeing the sick post on top, anymore, so I'm just posting this until later this evening. New post on the way.

Oh, and thanks for all the well wishes, balloons and porn that found its way to my inbox. Most of it was appreciated.

Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG


Also, I did that little tag that was going around and it came out pretty cool, so I figured I'd post it.

Here are the rules and links for anyone else that would like to try:

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together


Here you have it!

I'm a Sicky

I had this really great post planned for today. I'm not going to write it.

I'm a sicky. Super duper sicky. I can hardly breathe without something leaking out of me. My body hurts. My head hurts. I have a fever. I can't breathe. (I know I mentioned that but it deserves more note since it's probably the worst part.)

I want balloons. People stopped sending me balloons. Since I'm a sicky, I deserve fucking balloons, don't you think?

*cough cough...sniff sniff*

Who says Football isn't Fun?

This is my least favorite time of the year because of all the fucking football. If you ever saw as much football as I've had to watch, you might just start crying.

Let me tell you this much...people have NO idea that I actually can't stand football. They don't know how I find it repetitive and boring. How have I done this? How have I tricked people that have known me my whole life into thinking I'm the coolest girl, ever? Because I'm an absolute expert at faking the football orgasm. Mm mm... Because I really am the coolest girl alive. Because I can.

That's right folks. I can wiggle, scream and cheer with the best of 'em. I can spill beer and throw chips and just about paint my face red white and blue every weekend. It's not just a game for me. It's an art form. Now, I'm willing to share some secrets because I think we're all friends here, now, aren't we? Plus I strongly believe that this will contribute to happy, healthy relationships.

Now, if you break any of the following rules, it will be obvious that you're faking it, so be very careful.

1. Don't walk in front of the television while the ball is in play, while they're doing an instant replay, or while the ball is at something called "the line of scrimmage."

2. Walk (and by "walk", I mean "RUN") past the television only during commercials.

2a. If you're watching the Super Bowl, fuck it. Stay away from the television at all times. Pee before the game starts.

3. Offer beers to everyone when you stand up. You'll be the coolest girl there, and it's still a semi feminist move if you're already on your way to get your own beer.

4. Be familiar with shouting the words "asshole" and "pussy."

5. When the ref throws the flag (it's yellow), start shouting possible reasons why. Try "FOUL!" "Pass interference!" or "face mask!" Don't worry, the boys will yell, too. Continue shouting through the ref explaining why the flag was thrown, at which point you will stop and ask,"What was the call?" Then you will all argue at what the call must have been.

6. Anytime there is a call against your team, it's time for you to yell, "Oh that's Bullshit!!" Just like that. Try it, it's fun.

7. It's called a touchdown and it's worth 6 points.

8. Then they try to kick to get an extra point. That's worth one. Generally they'll get the extra point. If it's a close game, they may try for two points. We don't have enough time, so I'm going into this here. Just trust me on this: If it's a close game and one team gets a touchdown, say,"Do you think they'll go for two?" This'll cause a boy debate, about field goal and ranges and red zones and things you don't need to worry yourself about. Just sit back and think about how cool you look. You'll make it through this yet.

9. If guys are suddenly really upset, ask them what happened. They'll be more than happy to shout out the injustice of the last play. Let them vent.

10. DO NOT attempt to kiss your boyfriend or significant other at ANY TIME during the game. Do NOT go "TOUCHDOWN!! KISSES!!" You will not get them. People will hate you.

11. NEVER, EVER TOUCH THE REMOTE CONTROL.

12. You don't need to know every athlete, but it helps if you know a few names. Here is the athlete that makes it sound like you know your shit. Ready? Bronco Nagurski. (NA-GUR-SKEE). Is that a great name or what? He played for Notre Dame I think. Or something. Doesn't matter who he is, or was. Just say things like, "Well he's no Bronco Nagurski." What I like saying is, "Well, I was really comparing him to someone like Bronco Nagurski." Chances are, they'll all tip their heads back and say,"Oh. Well yeah. If you're doing that." It works like a fucking charm, I'm telling you.

13. Know that being a girl means that if there is an argument about sports, even if you know you're right, they'll say that you, the girl, are wrong. They will find a loophole in your logic and there's nothing you can do about it, because you have ovaries.

14. You're supposed to be happy about overtime. No grumbling or sighing or pouting. After all, this is football and you love football. Yay for more football!

15. Make sure you know which two teams are playing, because they're gonna switch channels during the commercials. They'll watch other games at the same time, so be on your tippy toes. If you're the only one rooting for the "guys in blue," you could end up cheering for the enemy of a different game. At any moment there might be three different games on TV within an hour. I know. I'm sorry.

16. If, like me, you're ever in a situation where you're in a public place and your significant other is standing in the middle of the bar shouting,"That's what I'm talkin' about! You can't fuck with the -insert team name here-!!" It's completely OK to pretend you don't know him at all. Get someone to buy you a drink.

17. I don't care how persuasive they are. Listen to me and listen good. It's not tradition to take your shirt off when there's a turnover. You don't have to do it.

18. The Super Bowls are counted off in Roman Numerals. Don't say the X's and I's. Hey, I don't know what level of expertise you're on. I'm just checking.

19. If you're watching the Super Bowl, you'll probably have to sit through the pre-game and post-game festivities. It's OK to laugh at the pre-game stuff (which involves a terrible film of some guy making the Super Bowl ring), but it's not OK to laugh at the post-game footage. The levels of beer consumption are so drastically different before and after the game that it's best not to have any reaction that might affect an emotionally vulnerable, boozy sports fan.

20. The season does end eventually. Then you get to watch hockey, basketball and baseball! (these are things you're supposed to be excited about.)

Now go out there and fake it like a pro. You can do it. GO TEAM!

Back without further delay,

-S

p.s. I can't wait to write a little about the past week. We all knew my break wouldn't last, too long, right?

C'est la vie

I'm a harmless flirt. I guess it comes naturally, and some people are either extremely offended by me, or extremely intrigued.

I always hated reading posts where people announced their demise, or that they needed a blogging break. Maybe it's more for me that I'm writing it...I don't really know.

I'm taking a little blogging break. I might be around commenting a bit, but I probably won't be blogging much or at all for the next couple/few weeks. I don't know how long the break will last. If it even lasts, but I have my reasons.

I'd like to formally apologize if I've ever personally offended anyone by my words, or actions.

Happy New year, everyone. Looking forward to it!

I Love the Rain the Most...When it Stops

It's not often that I have the house completely to myself. Between my Mom and my sister, I'm usually dodging one of them left and right. This weekend my Mom went out of town to my aunt's funeral and my sister went to work, heading to her boyfriend's after.

So I was sitting in front of the fire with my pet laptop, when one of the dogs started crying and begging me to take him out. I got up, wandered to get his leash, still warm and lethargic from the heat of the fire I had going, and before I put it on him, I opened the door. Please note I was wearing nothing but a wifebeater, undies, and flip flops when I flew out the door after him screaming for him to stop because he managed to slip past me, before I got the leash on him.

Where I live, it's pitch black. It's in the middle of the woods, in the mountains, and you really don't run out without a flashlight. It was pouring rain and the dog was nowhere to be found.

Push Play

I stood in the middle of the clearing in front of the house, Christmas lights flashing, shivering just a bit, rain pouring down on my head and shoulders, and I let my head fall back and the rain pounded onto my face, dripping down over my neck, chest and body. I forgot all about the dog, and I could hear the music in my house playing behind me and I began to sway, letting my hands rise toward the sky and I smiled. I smiled so big that giant tears began to mesh with the rain falling, and I spun in circles, arms stretched out at my sides, palms up, in the pouring, cold, rain. Occasionally I slowed even more just to wipe the vast amounts of rain getting in my eyes and nose.

With Mazzy Star lulling in the background, I crossed my hands over my chest and realized I wasn't smiling anymore. I was full on bawling in front of the house in the rain and still swaying to the soft sounds of the rainfall and dim music. I cried for everything and everyone. I cried for all the times I forgot to cry when I've lost something or I hurt in the past. I cried for all the pain I had hidden away so well when people were watching me. I just cried. I cried for me. Knowing no one could see me or hear me because of the rain, I bawled to a point where I could hear myself sobbing. Still spinning in the rain, slowly; soaked and shivering.

Eventually the dog came back, standing at my feet, looking at me, perplexed as to why I was standing, sobbing in the rain, almost naked. I imagine in his mind he was calling me a stupid human.

I knelt down, scraping one of my knees a little bit on the gravel rocks, and with a slight stinging ache, watched him run around me, count, four times before he stopped and let me put the leash on him. I walked around the house, not crying anymore and I felt more cleansed than I'd ever felt. Sometimes, all we need is a really good cry, all alone, in the pouring rain.

Just remember...rain is cold and you'll be shaking uncontrollably for about 20 minutes, even after you're back in the house and in front of the fire. I'm STILL cold.

I thought shit like this only happened in the movies...

Christmas at Gramma C's with the Little Wooden Hand

This was the first Christmas for years that I was there and (semi) sober and able to enjoy everyone's company. Sitting around the table and cracking obscene jokes. It was the first Christmas in my life that I didn't get a call from my Father wishing me a Merry Christmas, or some completely inappropriate gift from him. Anyway, it's almost the new year and soon, bigger and better things will erupt in my life.

I can feel it. After dinner my uncle D, fell in love with the stocking stuffer that my Grandma gave him. It's a wooden back scratcher. It's long and at the end it has a little wooden hand shaped just so, for scratching. I'm sure you're thinking,"Oh, I have one of those, I love it too. They reach all the right spots."




Well this wasn't exactly the same kind of love. D found this thing to be the funniest object in the world. It was his new best friend. I really can't begin to describe the love here. You see, the hand extends and retracts, and it does look just like a tiny little hand, so it has become the source of great amusement. Perhaps you should all get one for yourselves. I had no idea how many possibilities were loaded into one little wooden hand. Why you can:

• Hi five with a little wooden hand.
• grab objects from across the table with a little wooden hand.
• caress your lovers cheek without having to move from the couch with a little wooden hand.
• scratch your chin like an intellectual with a little wooden hand.
• pose like The Thinker with a little wooden hand.
• put a little wooden pinkie into your mouth and say "one million dollars"
• scratch the dog with the little wooden hand and not get any hair on you.
• smoke a cigarette with a little wooden hand without having to bring your hand all the way to your mouth.
• drive like a low rider with a little wooden hand.
• brush your hair back with a little wooden hand.
• bitch slap someone with a little wooden hand.
• "raise the roof" with a little wooden hand.
• smack the back of someone's hand for grabbing something from across the table when they shouldn't with a little wooden hand.
• have the worlds smallest wooden hand stroke the worlds smallest wooden penis (don't ask).

How could I possibly think of all these uses for such a seemingly creation? Put the little hand in a room full of friends, family and beer and see what happens. And if it's on Christmas night when tensions are already high, you're in for a treat. Be prepared because...
YOU CAN PAY FOR PIZZA WITH A LITTLE WOODEN HAND.

Of course in our state of of wooden hand giggles, the next logical step was to share the love of the little wooden hand with perfect strangers so they too could see what a genius invention it is.

There is a knock on the door. Everyone hides in the kitchen, except for D, little wooden hand in...well, hand, and I'm on the sofa with an engineer whistle in my mouth. Everyone is silent. It's amazing how how well this is going to come off. D opens the door and the pizza guy doesn't even bat an eye. (I should add that D was wearing and old engineer's cap and aviator glasses and weighs about 250 pounds) He stares at D and starts to hand him the pizza. D flicks out the little wooden hand, which has money in its tiny wooden grip. The arm extends, and the hand reaches out to the pizza guy. This is too much for D, who is already well aware of the comedic power of the little wooden hand, and he begins to giggle. He giggles right in front of the pizza guy who now just wants to leave.

D invites the pizza guy in with a creepy "Hi. You wanna come in?" This forces em to hide my face in the sofa. I mean, come on, it was fucking funny. It's a big city but a small neighborhood, and who knows. I might see this guy on the bus in a week and he could scream out, "Her and her freak train conductor uncle tried to seduce me with a little wooden hand!" The pizza guy leaves, snatching the money from the tiny wooden hand and running down the stairs so fast I thought he was going to fall down and we were going to be sued. D eventually closes the door, after waving goodbye with the hand for a minute or so and smiling. The rest of the bunch come out of the kitchen and blame him for ruining what would've been "The ultimate Pizza guy, little wooden hand Joke."

Now you probably thought my life was all glitz, glamor and fun late night parties in New York with strange rich men, that just treat me like a princess. But in reality, all I do is sit around on Christmas night thinking up new trick for the pizza guy. And while most of the time, I go home drunk at the crack of dawn after these types of events, I instead think about how great the the look on the Pizza guy's face was when we extended a little wooden hand with a twenty dollar bill crammed into its little fingers, at his appalled face.

It's been a hard holiday season for my family. I'm sure you all know that. I'm just trying to make light of a hard time and there isn't much I wouldn't do to try and see my Mother smile again, even if just for a split second. Any ideas?

P.S. Mom, if you're reading this, please close it and try not to peek too often. I love you dearly Mom, but this page isn't really a place for my Mommy's eyes. I'm sure you understand.

They say it happens in 3's

I apologize, but this post has been lost. I'm leaving it up because I appreciated the comments, but the words are just nowhere to be found.

I'm in NYC! Bittersweet Symphony...Ahhhh

This is going to be an incredibly, LONG post. So if you don't have time to sit and read it all, you're probably better off not starting it. I promise you won't be sorry if you do.

I had an incredibly hard time staring Guinness in the face at first. I don't know how I got so nervous. It felt like I was in Middle School and he was asking me to dance. We gave each other the quickest answers to every question. Where were the jokes and flirting we'd grown so accustomed to? How did we end up scaring each other like this?

I grabbed the drink menu and it fell out of my hand. As I lurched over to pick it up, my elbow hit my water glass, sending it tumbling over. I jumped up and cursed. Guinness was quick with the napkins preventing the spill from pouring into our laps. Water dripped off the table on to the floor. I was humiliated as a busboy came over to mop up the floor. I could feel my face flushed as people stared at us. I was right. We were going to ruin everything by meeting face to face.

Guinness looked up at me and smiled, making eye contact. "Let's get out of here, k? I'm not all that hungry anymore." When we walked outside, I spoke first. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous."
"Do I make you nervous?" he asked. I answered,"No" and we both smiled and began our walk to the car.

I had imagined our first meeting together so many different ways, but I never thought it would be me saying stupid shit while he wished he were somewhere else. He was much taller than I was, and I could see a small nick on the back of his neck where he must have cut himself shaving. I imagined his face being so soft to the touch, but I wasn't bold enough to touch it. Bear with me folks, I know I'm probably boring you but I want to savor every moment of the first encounter.

We ended up in Applebees and we had a couple drinks. 2 mudslides later we were much more relaxed. We were able to look at each other. We made jokes and even touched each other a few times, casually. We avoided conversation that was too deep. We stuck to things like sports, movies, and music. We had the coolest waitress that brought me an extra little bowl of cherries because my drink lacked one. I sat in my little corner sucking on cherries and giggling. I was getting a little tipsy. I took a sip of his drink and it was a lot stronger than mine was, and I began to hiccup immediately. He told me how beautiful I was and I hiccuped and smiled. My foot accidentally brushed against his under the table. I know he said things after that, but I didn't hear them. I was imagining what our hotel looked like, and exactly where I'd be pinned as he slowly worked me over. Would we be in front of the door? Would we be in the hallway near a bathroom? Would there be a mirror where I'd spot myself smiling before I closed my eyes and allowed myself to fall into him?

I don't know if he even asked me, but within an hour we were at the hotel. It was a really nice room, but there was a little too much light in it, for my taste. I looked around, my mouth dry and I ran to pee. I'd been drinking after all. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and asked him if he could bring me some water. As he handed me the water, our fingers touched. I blushed for noticing it. Behind him was a section of the wall, close to the mini fridge, that would be a great place to get pinned against. I could hear my pulse in my ears and I could feel my blood rushing through my wrists.

He pulled out a little bag and inside was a scarf that he got me for an early Christmas present. "I love it," I said. I could feel his breath on my skin, next to my left ear. "I'm glad,"he said quietly, and the scarf fell from my hands on to the floor, as his gaze weakened my grip on it. I took a step back and went to the bathroom again, sitting on the toilet, with my face in my hands, and I tried to catch my breath and compose myself. As I found my way back to Guinness, he smiled when he saw me. "Hey you," he said. "It still trips me out that you're here. It seems so unreal...just a bit." I smiled and he kissed me on my cheek. My body sort of fell into his, and my arms went around his waist, and my mouth found his neck as I blew hot air on his skin in an exhale. I heard him gasp. He looked at me and smiled with a smile that told me I could do no wrong. He was absorbing me with his eyes. Taking in ll of me. I think I felt more beautiful than I've felt in a very long time. I felt captivating. Important. We kissed. "You're a good kisser," I giggled. "So are you," he exhaled and leaned in to kiss me again.

The next time we came up for air, he asked, "Are you okay? Is this all okay?" I just nodded, unable to talk. I was panting. "You make me weak," he said, and we both smiled and started kissing again. We kissed and kissed. We kissed against the front door. We kissed in the hallway. We kissed with me pinned against the wall. We kissed with him pinned against the wall. I was ready for anything, wanted him to do everything. I wanted him to steal me and keep me in this room forever. I just wanted to let him have me.

He pulled me toward him again and moved his hand to my breast. He kissed my collarbone as he whispered words I couldn't make out into the skin of my neck. W climbed into bed. He was on top of me. Our bodies weren't used to each other.
"Ouch. You're on my hair, I said. "Sorry, he panted. He moved a little to the right. "Ow!" he yelped. "That's my arm." It continued like this for awhile. A little bit of tossing and turning, trying to make it work. We started out slower and got better at it. By the time the night rolled around, we were very, very good at it. We screamed over the sirens as the ambulances passed. We talked and kissed and had sex over and over. I had orgasms that made me blind. The arches of my feet were aching from being clenched for so long. I kept craving for more and more. All of those quick fantasies I'd been having over strangers were surfacing and he'd answer my cravings instantly with completely with complete satisfaction. He hit all of those aching spots inside of me. I just couldn't get enough.

Eventually he got enough, because he's lying here next to me, sound asleep with a slight smirk on his lips. The little tip tap of my fingers on the keyboard aren't disturbing him. I imagine tomorrow morning we'll wake up and without saying a word, we'll begin kissing, and starting the process all over agin as light creeps into the room. Our bodies will be aching from the night before, but we won't care. Morning sex is beautiful. It's quiet and hungry. Hushed and bittersweet. There will be bruises and muscle cramps. My hips will probably groan from the mere wight of him, but I won't care. I'll welcome the dim pain. I wish I could feel him on top of me for weeks.

I'm sure I'll find time t run around and read over all your blogs tomorrow night after I tire him out again. Note to Sara Sue, I asked him about taking a picture and he said he'd think about it. So that sounds promising. I'm trying to think of something creative that I can get involved in, too.

I'll be back, all.

Love and kisses from NYC!

-SCG

Up, up, and Away!

This will be my last post until I get to NY.

I'm off tomorrow, and staying for a week. I'm nervous as hell. Ahhhhhhhhhh.


Anyway...wish me luck, everyone!


-SCG

I'm 13 again. God help me.

I was tagged by Ted (isn't he just the funniest fuckin' guy around?) to do the letter to my 13 year old self, thing. I honestly avoid tags like the plague, but something about this tag just kept calling to me, over and over again. It's a little hard not to sound like others that have done this tag before me, but I'm going to give it a shot, anyway. Over the past few days that I haven't posted and I've lurked on other blogs, I couldn't help but flash over my life just a little and think that it might feel good to jot some of it down.

OK. Rules are, to link back to the person that tagged you, write a letter to your 13 year old self, and then tag 5 people to do the same. (I think)

In turn I tag:

Sara Sue
Ann
Sweet Ass
Dyna Girl
Jen
Winnipeg Princess



Dear S,

This letter is reaching your hands from the distant, or, not-so-distant, future. There are a few things I wanted to tell you, while I have this once in a lifetime opportunity, and I hope you listen to me. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up a little less fucked up, if you do.

Right now, you're probably late for volleyball practice and wondering if anyone will notice. They won't. So you're better off going home, because you'll spend years of your life trying to impress those little blond bitches just to be spit on, over and over again...

Next year you're going to have one of those huge fights with your Mom, and you'll say "I hate you and I want to go live with my Dad" in her face for the last time. It'll hurt her to the point that she'll walk to your room in tears and start packing your shit. Let me tell you now, that you don't want to go there. All those stories your Mom told you about him are true. He'll drink and verbally abuse you. You'll leave home all the time and stay gone for weeks at a time and he won't even notice. Stop hurting your mother. She's the only one that will always stand by you.

Before your 15th birthday, a boy named Jayme is going to steal your heart. In an attempt to keep him, you're going to lose your virginity to him in his tree house and he's never going to speak to you again. Your dad is going to find out you had sex because he hears you one night giggling on the phone and he drags you to Planned Parenthood where they're going to tell you that you're pregnant. 2 weeks later you'll be drinking with your friend Sandra and have a miscarriage. Jayme's an asshole. Sandra's a bitch. Keep away from them and keep your legs closed. Later you'll find out that he got HIV from a girl named Kia and died before he turned 23. Be glad that wasn't you and thank God.

When you finally come back to your senses, your Dad puts you on a bus and sends you home.

You'll meet a girl named Tia, and she'll convince you to steal a car and drive it to LA. You two will decide to go dine and ditch at Denny's. Since you know you have a good heart, I don't have to tell you that you get caught because you felt so bad that you left the waitress your Mom's phone number so she wouldn't get in trouble with her boss. You'll spend a minute in Juvenile Hall and then your Mom will come and get you. I told you. She's always there for you.

Remember that asshole that touched you when you were little? This year he's going to get into an accident and lose a leg. That's right. It's true. What comes around goes around. You'll see him gain over 200 pounds over the years and become one of those old, fat, limping men, that you secretly hope won't sit next to you when they get on the bus.

After your stupid escapades as a teen, you'll slowly start to grow up. Of course you dabbled in drugs. Drugs were the least of your problems after a point. Never EVER stick your finger down your throat. You're not fat. Don't let anyone tell you that you're anything but beautiful. You only have big calves because you dance, and trust me, being limber will come in handy down the line.

You'll fall in love again. He'll break your heart and open your mind at the same time. I'm not going to tell you to avoid him, because it was a good life experience and makes you a very strong woman.

You'll go to Columbia University and decide it's not for you. You'll blow off a full academic scholarship so you can take pictures. I'm not going to tell you not to do it. Good for you. Do what makes you happy. You never wanted to be a lawyer, anyway.

On that note, I'm going to close this letter, and chin up little girl. It's a long bumpy road, but I promise you, one day you won't be so awkward. One day you'll be completely comfortable in your skin. And one day, you'll see, all those bitches that you thought were so hot in school, and they'll have fat, saggy asses and tits and they'll gnash their teeth when 'they see how amazing you've turned out.

Oh, and stop trying to act stupid to get in the retard class. They'll never let you in.

-SCG

Pre-Flight Jitters~Updated

White and simple panties for a first meeting; or black and racy?

I'm so excited about my trip that my brain has turned to mush. I leave in less than a week for NY and every time I think of it, I get that nervous, mushy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's like having a crush on a guy for the first time, all over again in middle school. Guinness called me this morning, just to let me know he was as excited as I am, if not more.

This post will be kept short and sweet, because I have so much shit to do before I leave, and I haven't done a fucking thing yet.

First note. If you haven't voted yet in the Bloggers Choice awards, what are you waiting for? The guy that's ahead of me jumps up 5 votes every time I get one. Here are the people that need your votes.

1) Me. Duh. Click here to vote for me for the Best Blog About Stuff.

2) You have Mike, over at Tongue in Check. He was nominated by Sara Sue, one of my favorite bitch, I mean female bloggers, for Best Humor blog, and best blogging Host. Vote here and here. He has an eclectic, funny blog, that grabs you at first glance and will keep you reading.

3) The Joey Polanski Show for Blogitzer. Honestly, I don't know what a Blogitzer is, but if anyone deserves it, he does. Sara said so, so it must be true. Vote here for Joey.

4) Cissy Strutt has been nominated for Best Photography blog. Sissy deserves this award a hell of a lot more than those in the lead, so shoot her a vote people, right here.

5) Angel, one the bloggers from South Africa was nominated for Best Parenting Blog, and Hottest Mommy Blog. Shoot her some votes, too. You can vote here, and here. I'm forgiving Angel for voting for someone else for Best Blog about Stuff. Go vote for her.

So, I know you have to register and shit for the site to vote, but it's a small price to pay for those bloggers that you love and care about, right?

OK. On that note, I'll probably post again in a few days, before I leave for my trip. Can I trust you all to sit and amuse yourselves in the comment section? I'll allow you all to talk quietly amongst yourselves until I return. It will probably be Friday.

Behave. (or don't)

-S


P.S. I want more balloons. I'm putting them on my sidebar. Get creative and send me some fucking balloons. I completely blame Ted for getting me started on this weird fetish.

Now, you have something to look at to vote properly. Fuckin' A, I'm supposed to be cleaning and packing and instead I'm trying to find the cutest pair of panties?!?! Where the fuck are my God damn Balloons? :(

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

For those of you that belong to a church or at least pretend to, you know that every Christmas there's some kind of boutique. They sell presents that you wouldn't buy for anyone but your Grandmother or great Aunt Edna. Everything from crocheted crosses, to little handmade aprons for your dish soap. (if you don't know what that is, look below and cringe)

click to enlarge if you dare or care

Today, I went to visit my Grandmother who is all of 82 with all of her wits about her. Don't let this woman fool you. She's a cunning, sneaky woman. I love her to death because she raised me right. Coming in at night with her yardstick making sure we said our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys was always a treat. I go to visit her every single Saturday and she plays all old and innocent and shit. I'm getting distracted, as usual. OK. So, today she calls me on my way there and asks if I'd like to accompany her and go to the Christmas boutique. I absolutely despise these events but I knew that if I didn't go, she wouldn't get there, since she's completely immobile and she really did seem to have her heart set on it.

After practically carrying her up a flight of stairs, we get into the room and I see 75 old withered women look at us coming through the door. A luncheon! She tricked me into taking her to a League of the Sacred Heart, luncheon! She turned to me and swore up and down, I'm sure with her wrinkled little fingers crossed behind her back, that she forgot it was a luncheon. (For someone that forgot it was a luncheon, she was quick to pull that envelope with her dues that was obviously made way ahead of time.) Along with lunch, they were having a little boutique, as I mentioned before, with strange crocheted or knitted, (I really don't know the fucking difference) toilet paper holders and handmade quilts, along with all kinds of other shit you hate getting for Christmas, and will never use. Not once. Not ever. Also included, for the low price of 6 for $5.00, were raffle tickets. On the table of things that were being raffled off were 5 bottles of booze, and some other stuff. After seeing the booze, my vision became tunneled and I bought my raffle tickets.

I didn't win. I never win a thing. With a room full of lucky Irish people, some are bound to be less lucky than others. The raffle went something like this...Cue obnoxious swishy music. ~~~~~~~~~

A woman named Rose, screamed out, "Number 2806!!! I SAID, number 2806!!! Does anyone have number 2806?? Last call for number 2806!!!" Last call came at least 4 times. Everyone sat there squinting at their pile of tickets, wondering if it was them, and I hear a deep, raspy voice scream, "Beengo!" I turned around to see a man! *GASP A MAN* An elderly man, named Patrick had slipped in. I suppose he was married to one of the women. He was waving his raffle ticket in the air, calling out,"Beengo! Beengo!" Women looked appalled and whispered, while another woman walked over to him and told him gently that it wasn't bingo, but it was, in fact, a raffle. In any case, he traded the winning ticket for the Vodka. (I don't know how these old people can in good faith, take these bottles of alcohol when they know damn well they can't drink with all those fucking medications they're on. My Grandparents have whole tables full of pills) Or maybe they can. My grandmother was a little loopy this afternoon. Maybe she's been nipping at the cooking sherry with her Codeine. I wonder if Patrick thought he had died for the sake of Jihad and realized the Quran had a typo. It wasn't 72 virgins after all. It was one 72 year old virgin and her name was Sister Rose.

The day was pretty uneventful other than my Grandmother tricking me into an old lady fest... I bought a few handmade cross magnets for the fridge that already has too many magnets from my many travels and escapades. Does anyone know why 7 out of 10 women over the age of 70 are named Rosalie? Whenever someone screamed the name Rose, 10 people turned around. I'm glad I have a name that isn't common.

Until we meet again,

S