Things I found in my house on Sunday morning

For any of you who have come over on a Saturday night, you are aware of my aversion to cleaning up.  Once the food is served, I really hate the idea of continuing to play hostess; I want to enjoy your company and have a good time. Unfortunately, since the rest of you are total slackers who wouldn't clean up even your OWN kitchens,  stepping out of my bedroom the next morning often calls to mind exiting the bunker, post-apocalypse.  That is to say, it's scary and full of unfortunate surprises. 

• Beer bottles are probably the most obvious and seemingly least interesting items to be found. However, their mere presence in my home is not nearly as fascinating as their locations. Who is finishing a beer in the bathroom?  When did a framed photograph of my in-laws make the transition from vertical to horizontal and become acceptable for use as a coaster?  I suppose I should be happy that you even thought to protect the furniture in the first place, but at what cost?

• An Unidentified Random Hat generally shows up somewhere on the living room floor or maybe on the kitchen table.  We never know to whom it belongs, nor does anyone claim it.  The real question is not "Who left this here?" but "Why do we have to many friends who find it socially acceptable to wear knit beanies and Tam O' Shanters in public?" Seriously people, it's summer in Florida.  Lay off the hats. 

• Shot glasses with half a shot in them can be completely blamed on me.  Here's what happens:  Yay! Alcohol makes things more fun!  Wait--don't want to drink too much, take it easy there, no sloppy drunk girl today.......Rock Band!!!  More Rock Band!!! Uh-oh starting to lose the buzz....another shot of tequila should fix that....wait a whole shot is too much.....eh screw it.  The next morning, a half-empty shot glass is a reminder of my unfortunate lack of accuracy in estimating my blood alcohol content coupled with extreme paranoia that I will get drunk and throw up on things. 

• Clothes that smell really, really, really bad are the fun surprises that often haunt the next few days as I make my way through my chores.  Did you play drums so vigorously that the sweat soaked through your Levis and was threatening to rust out your double-bass pedal?  No problem!  Change into your back up pair, but not without casting the offending jeans with all your might in some random direction, preferably into the be-darkened corner of a rarely used spare bedroom. 

It may sound as if I am complaining.  Not so!  I love these Sunday mornings, and I love all of you.  I also love pretending to be asleep to that Joel cleans up at least half of the house before I have to deal with it.  See you Saturday night!  Bring beer.

I think I figured out part of it....

I was thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about wanting to steal other identities, and I thought "Hey I wonder if it means anything that I chose these three specific people to be?."

Here's what I think it means:

Mary-Louise Parker:  Well, more accurately I want to be her character on Weeds, Nancy Botwin.  Nancy-Bot owns everyone she knows.  No one uses her--she uses everyone around her, but they love it.  Something about her intoxicates everyone to the point that they don't see her flaws, they only see the awesome parts.  Everyone is fiercely loyal to Nancy-Bot and they don't even turn her in for dealing drugs or having FBI agents murdered in her bedroom.  I just know that if I could look and act exactly like Nancy, no one would complain about my bad judgment or lack of tact, because they would love me too much and instantly forget about all the bad things I have done. Instead of keeping account of my mistakes, they would shield me from the consequences of my actions, delivering me lattes and cooking me things even though I never put out.

Alison Mosshart:  *sigh* Ahhh Alison.  I'm going to try to control myself and stay on-point because I get very easily off track when I start talking about her.  She is, arguably, the sexiest human alive, not to mention she is sooo talented. I want to be her because she owns the room.  When Alison is on stage, she is home. Everyone is glued to her; she never needs to feel self-conscious or embarrassed.  She can get sweaty, she can stumble, she can scream into the microphone off-key, and all it does is add to her magnetism. I, on the other hand, have to work so hard just to survive on the stage that it's like I'm drowning and people are pointing and laughing at me as I struggle to come up for each breath of air.  If I were Alison, I would never feel humiliated again.  

Zooey Deschanel:  This is the most tragic of them all.  When I was a teenager, I thought "I'm going to be funny and smart and free-spirited. I'm going to have awesome bohemian clothes and play folk guitar."  I am none of those things; Zooey is all of them.  Even down to her messy hair and un-manicured nails, she is what I clearly envisioned for myself once all the teenage drama was over, but it didn't work out that way.  The closest I get is listening to Carol King records and chewing on my cuticles.

I think this post has been very NOT Hyperbole and a Half -like.  I love Allie Brosch, who writes that blog, and you should definitely check it out, but I shall do my best to just write pure me and not copy her or anyone.  If that's not enough for you, I'll remind you of what a Mexican drug king pin said to Nancy-Bot in season 4:  "Nothing is ever enough, but we live, and we try."

I'M CONFUSED!!!!

It has recently been suggested to me that perhaps I am copying Allie from Hyperbole and a Half, whom you should definitely check out because she is really funny and original and her blog provides hours of lolz.  This one comment has made me question my whole existence.

Well, to be fair, it started way before that.  I've discovered that I have a compulsive need to try to BE someone else.  Not just a philosophical "I want to be someone other than me" thing, like, I choose specific people that I want to basically steal, like in that Ethan Hawk movie where you see Angelina Jolie's boobs, but without all the killing.

That's Mary-Louise Parker, Alison Mosshart, and Zooey Deschanel.  I have tried to be each of them on several occasions.  At least I have good taste.  No use trying to be an ugly chick. No one likes them any more than they would like me.

When I was told that my blog is a lot like Allie's blog, like maybe I'm copying, I thought to myself, "Time to find out what is funny about YOU and write that way."

That's where the problem started.  I have no idea who I am.  I'm always trying to be someone else or something else or improve in some way, if you took that all away, I'm not sure what you would find.  One thing that I'm fairly certain of is that it wouldn't be very funny.

My gut reaction was to stop writing my blog.  Why keep blogging if I am just trying to be something I'm not?  These are my words, but am I saying them with a secret wish to be someone else?  I know that it's just a stupid blog that only like 10 people read, but it's so reflective of my life that this really disturbs me. Why do anything? Why say anything?  Why?

I'M CONFUSED!!! 

What kept me writing was that I thought "What would these 10 people do if I stopped blogging?" and I came up with the following possibilities:

• Drive nails into your temples
• Join a gang
• Call your parents
• Start a fight club
• Watch more internet porn
• Forget I exist

None of those options work for any of us, so I shall continue to post as I figure this all out.  SUCKAS!

How the Universe Made Me Want to Stab an Infant in a Crowded Airplane

It all started with me being snarky at the gate when I went up to the counter for new boarding passes. I had to get up really early that morning, but it was almost okay because I was looking forward to the day.  We were on our way to my home town to visit friends and family, which pleased me greatly. Whenever I am in a good mood, it confuses me that other people can be grouchy. Do other people have lives too?  Do they have feelings that are unrelated to my current mental state?  This does not compute with me.

My only crime was happiness, a level of joy that apparently offended the counter people greatly.  When I greeted them and asked for help, they just stared at me.  Nothing. No facial expression or movement or verbalization of any kind would even indicate that either of them saw me there or heard my request. 

The problem with a good mood that is thinly veiling the misery of waking up at 5am is that the misery WILL show itself at some point.  I said to the Delta associates who stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed before me,

"Are we not using our words today?"

Big mistake.  They were in charge of assigning our seats and thus deciding if we would want to live or die by the end of the flight. They chose die.

The whole time we were waiting, there was this baby.  She screamed non stop.  I smiled and in a singsongy voice announced to my husband that baby cries don't bother me in the slightest!  This is all part of my attempt to present myself as a prime candidate to have kids of my own, but probably just made me look insane.  The fact is that baby cries do not upset me at all, as I assume that I will someday  have to hope other people have patience with my crying baby.  It's called empathy people.  It didn't hurt that the mother and child were unwashed and appeared indigent, perhaps poor immigrants who have recently arrived to cash in on their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Perhaps they earned money for plane tickets by acting as seeing-eye dogs or human foot stools.  Who were we, the over privileged American yuppies, to begrudge a poor little Nicurguan baby her right to cry?  What next?  Try to stop the caged bird from singing?

Like I said, my mood was pretty volatile.

Not only did the counter trolls seat us in the VERY LAST ROW of the plane, but guess who we shared the row with?  None other than La Madonna herself, breastfeeding her baby and adjusting her nimbus with her free hand. Upon being seated I commenced patting myself on the back.  What a greatly magnanimous person I am!  Who else would be so gentle and kind as she took her  seat by this poor immigrant, who would surely return my greeting if only she spoke English?  Maybe I can arrange to tutor her on our language and teach her our ways! 

When the baby started screaming almost instantly, I reminded myself that I would one day be in the same situation, and again congratulated myself on my understanding and fellow feeling.  Then things started going south.

First, she spoke to me, in perfect English, asking me to trade seats with her so that she could be on the aisle. Obviously that would be the best place for her since she has the baby, but that would put me in the middle, and I hate the middle.  Everyone is always taking your arm rests and touching your thighs with their thighs.  Unfortunately this is one of those social situations where I had absolutely no choice so I had to do it. 

Then she fell asleep with her head tipped back and her mouth wide open, which was just gross.  It put her face on full display, shaved eyebrows growing back, chapped lips, and snub nose.  This was when I really started hating her.  I hate everyone who sleeps on planes because I want to sleep on the plane more than I've ever wanted anything, but I just can't do it.  It's soooo uncomfortable and I am always afraid of looking EXACTLY like she looked at that moment. 

Serendipitously, she roused from her refreshing nap just as the flight attendant reached our row with the scraps left over from feeding snacks to the other, more fortunate passengers.  Normally this is my favorite part of the flight because I love those little gingerbread biscuit things.  Well, I should say lovED, past tense, because presently I loathe them. 

Now is a good time to mention my recent purchase of several pure white items of clothing.  It's a new phase.  My favorite pure white thing I have bought to date is a sheer cotton bathrobe that I wear as a pashmina.  It makes me feel all sophisticated and unblemished.  Ten minutes after the flight attendant brought our cookies, the back of my prized piece of clothing looked like it had been smeared with human feces.  People who allow their children to spatter semi-digested foodstuffs onto the clothing of total strangers should not exist.

After the baby finished her little snack, the STD warehouse who gave birth to her took them both to the lavatory to get cleaned up.  My seat and hers were decorated with globs of chewed up cookies, and what did not hit my white top landed on my jeans.  I did my best to clean up everything with some sanitizing wipes from CVS, but some messes are just beyond the capabilities of a mere moist towelette.  When she sat down, I had removed and balled up my defaced faux-pashmina and was stewing quite obviously, but she didn't care.  That was when her wedding ring was brought to my notice.  Strike two after the English capabilities--she's married.  Why should I feel the least bit compassionate toward a married American woman with no bra who allows the wanton destruction of the property of others?   

As the flight continued, mommy dearest took more open-mouthed naps, and child was allowed to dump juice on my feet, pull my hair and pound on my thigh with her disgusting sticky evil baby hand.  It amazes me how much devastation was brought into my life in a 2-hour time span by a person who would have easily fit into the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me. 

Maybe when I have kids, people can come down to Florida and visit me. 

If I ignore you, will you go away?

I saw a very classy fellow sporting a tee shirt with that profound questioned emblazoned on it today, and it has prompted the following lists of respondents and how they might answer that question:

• Traumatic Brain Injury--No
• Gangrenous limb--Yes
• Acne breakouts--Yes
• Clamydia breakouts--No
• Tyrannasaurus Rex--Yes
• Jeff Goldblum--Probably Not
• Poo water gushing from an overflowing toilet at a dinner party--No
• Oil gushing from ruptured well in the Gulf of Mexico--             Also No
• Wall posts on Facebook--Yes
• Farmville requests--No
• Ice--Yes
• Icebergs--Eventually
• Weapons-grade Plutonium--Evenutally
• McDonald's French Fries--Never

Disney World: You Broke My Brain and Crushed My Soul

Let me start by saying that I, like most children who live in America, have experienced many happy times in Walt Disney World.  Family members tell me of happy hours spent shaking Mickey's hand and learning about the countries of the world through repetitive song.  These pleasant childhood days are lost to me, as all memories prior to the atrocity of my last visit to Orlando are completely erased.  Pleasant thoughts of the past surrender when confronted by the  Optimus Prime of Clusterfails (OPC Day).

I take most of the blame. A great deal of trauma could have been avoided if I had just admitted to myself and others that I am NOT good-natured and do not view life as a funky adventure.  Let me take this moment to officially state that I have a very well-defined comfort zone, and I have zero interest in expanding or altering it in any way.  I am also a spoiled snob when it comes to certain things, and I'm okay with that.  Unfortunately I had not yet embraced this truth about myself at the time of OPC Day, and my ill-timed enthusiasm to be perceived as whimsical and easy-going screwed me over big-time.

The first problem was that I agreed to go to Disney World in the first place.  As a little kid it's okay, but a group of adults wishing to force prepaid enjoyment upon themselves are probably better off in an atmosphere like Las Vegas or a Carnival cruise ship.  For anyone over the age of 14, Disney is just sad.  It's hot.  There are little children everywhere.  There are tourists EVERYWHERE.  You have to wait in line baking in the sun forever to do things that you don't even want to do, but since you paid about $95 to get in, you force yourself to act happy and excited every time something happens.  I've seen people taking pictures of squirrels at Disney.  SQUIRRELS. 

It began in the hotel, at check-in.  A family member had been so kind as to book the room using that website run by Captain Kirk, where the prices are so affordable that you might almost be inclined to overlook that they are offering you a single queen bed despite the fact that you have three full-grown adults in your party.  That night was the beginning of the end as far as my psyche was concerned.  It was so disgustingly sweaty between those two carbon-based butane heaters that at one point I think I actually had a minor stroke.  Being so easy-going as I was, I had volunteered to occupy the MIDDLE of the bed, which by 3am was starting to feel more like an especially lumpy funeral pyre.  I genuinely wanted to die. 

Before everyone else retired to their hotel rooms, the rest of the group congregated and made decisions about how best to destroy my life.  They really hit the jackpot.  "Let's get up super early so we can be at the park when it opens!!!!!!!! Won't that maximize our fun?!?!?!?!?" 

Here's a graph I made to show the relationship between enjoyment in life and the time I have to get up in the morning:

After consulting the graph, I could tell that even with solid sleep, my social skills at that hour of the morning would be somewhere on par with Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein, or at BEST I could hope to achieve Rain Man status.  Since the rooming situation allowed me approximately 22 minutes of sleep that night, what we were looking at for my mental state was probably something like Carrie at the prom after they dumped all that pig's blood on her.  I didn't link that video because it is too horrible, and if there existed a Youtube video showing ME that morning, I wouldn't link that one either, for the same reason.  Some things you just can't un-see. 

My Loving Husband attempted to neutralize the situation by bringing me a cup of coffee from the lobby.  Here's a tip:  If you can look into your Styrofoam cup and clearly see the tiny little bubbles collecting through the colorless liquid, you are in for some real crap coffee.  Attempting to drink the vile urine-colored substance served only to exacerbate my Carrie-like rage.

We went down stairs to get into a friends' mini van, my most hated of transports, with 6 other people who looked like they were on a mixture of Zoloft and crystal methamphetamine.  After driving through Starbucks with great ceremony to highlight her great generosity of spirit, the family member at the wheel safely transported us all to the park, where several bajillion tourists had already arrived and were waiting, their fanny packs bursting at the seams with sanitary towlettes and disposable cameras. 

Since I do not enjoy the feelings of intense anxiety, uncontrollable nausea, or paralyzing terror, I did not go on any rides for most of the day.  And I was FINE WITH IT. I wasn't being grouchy, I just wasn't going on rides. Apparently not going on rides by choice is a capital offense in Disney World.  All day I had to listen to "What's wroooonnng???" (annoying) "Do you need more coffee?" (patronizing), and my favorite, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

NO, nothing is wrong. NO, I do not need to go back to Starbucks. NO, I do not need to use the bathroom. I JUST DON'T LIKE RIDES.  By mid afternoon I was so worn out by trying to be cheerily uninvolved with the theme park experience that I gave in a went on a ride.  I shall rue that decision until the end of time.

The ride I caved and got into the line for was Mission Space.  It is designed to simulate what an astronaut might experience on a flight to Mars, with g forces (still not sure what those are) and hypersleep.  (NOTE: Since I began writing this paragraph, I am experiencing a significant tightness in the chest and the general feeling that I might die.  My genuine aversion to telling this part of the story astonishes me.  Must keep going!)

First the locked me in a capsule the size of a Porta-Potty with Loving Husband and Random Cousin.  The doors closed and locked with a sound that I would normally describe as "a space shuttle about to go out of the atmosphere", but in this case I guess that's exactly what they were going for.  I lay back and tried to breathe, hoping that I could just go to a happy place until it was all over. 

It's freaking me out too much to talk about the next 3 minutes in any detail, but I can honestly say that it involved blood-curdling screams, tearing at the walls, beating on every available surface, clawing at Loving Husband's arms, and massive amounts of tears and mucous.  Something snapped.  I was truly and legitimately traumatized. 

It took days for me to recover.  The rest of that afternoon was spent wandering around Epcot maintaining a shell-shocked expression and wondering which of the countries sold dignity as a souvenir.  Really, it was the perfect capper for a 24-hour period designed specifically to strip me of self-worth and reduce me to a quivering pile of shame and humiliation.

So the point is.....Disney World......don't go there.   

What NOT to Do in a Relationship

No one sucks at relationships more than I do. 
The fact that I have such an awesome guy in my life right now is a result of a magical combination of luck, his ability to overlook what others might consider significant stumbling blocks, and alcohol.  Rohypnol may also have played a part. My abilities to navigate a relationship are akin to those of a pair of blind arm amputees in a bumper car rink.  I am going to give you a few examples of major judgment lapses that I have charged into full-speed, and I hope that you may learn from them and avoid some major head trauma. 

Fatal Error #1:  Accidentally mistaking YOUR life for a romantic comedy
Your brain has just made an excellent decision and told your feet to walk away from what is obviously a horrible disgusting disaster waiting to happen.  Then someone turns on the soundtrack from Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, and you realize that your brain is a total knob and you should DEFINITELY  turn around, run into the waiting arms of your soul mate, and share a magical kiss that will undoubtedly lead to epic amounts of hand-holding and face-touching.  FAIL.  Get back to me 48 hours later when the lighting at Denny's at 3AM reminds you that the object of your dramatic embrace is a complete toad with $7 in his pocket which he will probably spend on Doritos and Red Bull, though a more appropriate use of his money might be a down-payment on a truckload of Noxema.  DAMN YOU, MICHAEL CERA!!!

Fatal Error #2:  Following Your Heart
Your heart is basically a useless retard and is made up of two parts.  Part one is actually your crotch pretending to be less creepy so that you will listen to it, kind of like that boy in your high school who wrote you vaguely sexual poems and "accidentally" grazed your boob while opening his locker.  That's what's you're listening to most of the time when you think you're "following your heart" and being all free-spirited and true to yourself.  Part two of your heart, which doesn't take over as often but is equally destructive, is just a part of your conscience that never fully formed to the point of being afforded valuable brain real estate. Under-developed and gimpy, the heart-part of your conscience only kicks in after you have made a fatal error but is too spastic to actually fix anything, so it just freaks out.  Not useful.  Good if you like midnight crying jags and random panic attacks, though.  Luckily I do! 

Fatal Error #3:  Expecting to be Accepted As Is
Maybe your mom taught you that you are just perfect exactly as you are.  I hate to talk trash about your mom, but she is a dirty filthy liar.  If you're like me, you not only rife with personality flaws, but most of them are easily changed with a little determination and self-discipline.  Looking for a relationship in which you are never expected to do any form of self-improvement is like trying to sell a house with a clause that the purchaser is never allowed to clean or maintain it in any way.  No one's buying it.  I'm not saying you need to be a different person to please some one, but working to change the things that NO ONE would EVER be attracted to is not going to affect your personal integrity.

That is literally everything I have learned in the past 10 years about interacting with the other humans. Following my advice will not exactly put your relationship in the all-star category, but it might help prevent you from some serious self-destruction.  Vaya Con Dios!

WEM Time with The Oracle

My life is not exactly filled with wall-to-wall accomplishments.  It may be different for other people who spend their time teaching kindergartners to read or performing breast augmentation surgery, but in order to accommodate my largely boring/selfish lifestyle, I have lowered the bar significantly as to what qualifies as "pride-worthy".

I guess my sense of accomplishment was almost semi-legitimate because I did make it through the entire 30 days with no alcohol that I blogged about a few weeks ago.  The four of us celebrated as a group by basically saturating our livers in the beers of the world for the 72 hours most people refer to as "Memorial Day Weekend", but we shall henceforth refer to as "Weekend of Epic Milestones", or WEM. I like making up acronyms. It makes me feel important.

Many exciting things happened during WEM, things of which I am alternately proud and crushingly ashamed, but the piece de resistance most definitely happened on Monday afternoon around 2:00.  By this time I had been at the beach for about 4 hours and had consumed a large iced coffee and about 4 Cornonas.

Time for some back story:

Living in Florida, I have at many times had the need to pee while at the beach.  My friends say "Go in the ocean! It's basically a toilet that takes up 2/3 of the Earth's surface!" but I cannot do it.  Perhaps it's due to what I like to think is the one modicum of dignity that I am still clinging to, but most likely it's just a shy bladder, which retreats into my diaphragm at the very mention of nautical urination.

I have found the cure for a shy bladder, and it is indeed a large iced coffee and 4 Coronas. It helps that this was not my first need to pee that day. My multiple visits to the Shell station bathroom, where I continued to not buy anything, were progressively enraging the attendant, who was not looking too thrilled to be working a holiday in the first place.  When the need struck me yet again, I decided it was the time for bravery and ventured into the water.

Although my first try didn't work out,  after some sage advice from a truly wise friend, who for the purpose of this post will be known as "The Oracle", I was able to experience the truly magical feeling of public urination.  I followed these simple steps which may be of use to those of you who have a similar aversion to this activity.

1. Fully immerse yourself in the water, even splashing playfully in the waves.
2. Stand up slowly, acting like now is the time for reflection and a breather from all this watery horseplay.
3. When the level of the water is BELOW the crotch, about at the upper thigh, stare out at the horizon. Onlookers will assume you are communing with nature and contemplating the infinite and incalculable nature of existence, most likely keeping their distance, awed by your depth and spiritual connection to the ocean. 
4. Concentrate.  This is definitely the biggest challenge, because at any moment a huge wave could come out of no where and knock you down or someone could start talking to you.  It is imperative that you block these possibilities out of your mind. The consciousness must cradle the urethra.  
5. Pee.  
6. Pee more.
7. Pee pee pee pee

Like I said, I had a lot of diuretics that day.

For those of you who are disgusted by my confession, you should know that I did swim around to rinse off afterward. Since I had just finished peeing myself in that very spot, I doubt that the little swim did any good though. 

The Oracle and I continued our walk back to our spot, where I shared my sense of pride and self-worth with the group.  Since my friends are just as boring and selfish as I am, they were happy for me, and we rejoiced greatly in the glory of my great accomplishment.  What have YOU done lately?