Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Bungle in the Jungle

Having survived a cold, Christmas with both of her parents and snow, all in one day mind you, we find our heroine at a bar on Christmas Day evening. She's had at least 1.5 drinks already and is dismayed to find the entire staff of the bar across the street from her apartment at this different bar several more blocks down the street. Even though the bar across the street from her house was supposed to be open but isn't, obviously, because the entire bar staff is here, drunk as shit.

Did I mention she had to put on her actual snow boots to get there? Snow, Not. Our. Friend.

Enter 45 year old man, Mike LeDouche. Mike sees our darling and begins to chat her up. One thing you have to understand about our heroine is that older white men totally dig her. Mostly because she listens to the same kind of music they do. That and one other obvious thing but we'll leave that one alone. All I'm going to say is that men on Harley's have a serious predilection for our girl. Serious predilection.

So when Jethro Tull comes on the music player and she starts singing. WHAM! They're in love. It's instantaneous. They don't see it coming and the only thing old white men love more than a stacked woman, is a stacked young woman who won't bitch about their iTunes playlist.

Unfortunately for our heroine, there is only one man over 45 that she, our darling, would settle for. Mr. LeDouche, he's not him. Sadly, George is probably in his villa in Italy drinking the night away and we'd like to think that he's thinking about our girl. Yeah, we'll leave it at that. He's thinking about our darling heroine.

So when Mike LeDouche starts to pour it on thick and heavy, our girl, she doesn't pull her punches. She merely says 'You? Not my problem,' as she curls her lip up, scrunches her eyebrows together and up in that 'Ugh.' facial expression. She walks away from the tell-tale ticking time-bomb that is this 45 year old man who has deluded himself into thinking that Hell has indeed frozen over with the incoming snow and monkey's have finally flown out my father's butt. He thinks not only does he have a shot with our darling but it's a bull's-eye!

The great part is that she won't even look back to see the destruction. She'll just chuckle with satisfaction knowing he's blown his ownself up. He was always only aiming at his own target painted on his chest. And if she smoked she'd probably light her cigarette off of his flaming wreckage. She's that cool.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Vap-O-Rub'in Good Time

Apparently the man who invented Vick's Vap-O-Rub is from Greensboro, NC. I read that on a sign the other day in downtown Greensboro. It's nice to have a general direction and embodiment of the man whom I'm to thank for the greasy nastiness currently residing on my chest.

I remember being a wee child and getting sick and my mother slathering the Vap-O-Rub on me. I always had these polyester pajamas that would just stick to the stuff and it just made me feel even ickier. At the time I'd also have a fever which would break in the night so by the time I awoke in the morning I was drenched in sweat, in pajamas that were literally stuck to me because I was hot enough to melt the Vap-O-Rub which then mixed with my sweat and proceeded to migrate everywhere so that my entire bed smelled of cedar trees and juniper bushes.

It's still gross, now I just realize the futility of the situation. If I want to sleep in a horizontal position I've got to slather it on. Otherwise I'll have to lean against the wall with a pillow which doesn't especially work too well to sleep. I've tried.

Le sigh.

Here I am. Covered in Vick's Vap-O-Rub. It's on my chest, on my upper lip, and actually in my nose somewhat. I will sleep tonight, I will. Plus this way if some handsome man breaks into my bedroom to woo me, I'll already be greased up and ready to go.

Hopefully he won't mind the smell.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Who knew?

Who knew that a person of medium build and relatively small frame could make this much snot?

Snot, snot everywhere and not a drop outside of my body. Noooooooo it's in my head. (You thought I was going to say not a drop to drink, didn't you? Haha. I thought about but then I thought that's pretty gross. You don't want to think about drinking snot. Plus it doesn't really have a liquid state. It's pretty much a colloid. Well mine is. Okay I'm going to stop now.) Every last bit of it. Le groan.

Plus I have a fever, which doubly sucks. All I really want to do is immerse myself in a clear pool of cool, cool water and stay there until all of this goes away. All of the sickness, all of the holidays, all of the cheer, all of everything. Just lay, suspended in the cold liquid and rest away from the world.

But I suppose I'll have to settle for a cool bath and see where that gets me.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

On Being an Asshat

You know what? Sometimes you should just keep your damn mouth shut.

And just because someone instructs you to give someone else their criticisms of said person doesn't mean you need to. Sometimes you just go 'Okay. Sure thing.' And not hit the send button. Exactly what is the point in making someone feel like shit? Great they feel like shit. And now you get to deal with my snotty ass attitude and no matter how much you say 'Don't shoot the messenger' I'm still jumping out the coupe blazin. So duck homey. You made the choice so quit acting like a puss-box and buck up and take the crap you get for it. Maybe next time you'll say to yourself 'Remember when I told Anna that nasty criticism and she jumped all in my shit and I wasn't too happy about that? I know! I won't make that mistake again!'

And another thing. Sometimes you shouldn't be an asshat. Granted for some people that's difficult as being an asshat is their modus operandi (I don't even know if I spelled that right but my Give-A-Shit-Meter is at the 'Shooting the Bird' level right now so just deal. And assume I can spell.) and it's always so difficult to deny your true nature.

Give a shot and see what you come up with.


Monday, December 13, 2010

You're never as smart as you think you are.

But you are probably stupider than you thought.

And yes I know, stupider is not a word. I'm trying to make it a word by using it regularly and in context. Similar to my campaign with Canadia.

And yes I know that if you aren't as smart as you think you are, by definition that means you're more stupid. Or stupider. Stupider than you thought you were.

I finished my biophysics final today. All 4 questions of it. Questions in which I graphed chaos theory and determined the distance between two ends of a protein for FRET. *To translate that last bit for my non-biological minded readers, just insert 'some marginally hard shit' in place of the parts that don't make sense to you. Those were the questions I could do. The other 2 questions were about enzyme kinetics and molecular dynamics of alpha helix formations. *To translate that for my non-biological minded readers please insert 'No one likes the people that can actually do this impossible shit.' in the parts you don't understand. I still have friends (I think?) so that tells you how successful I was on that. Assuming that my friends like me and if they don't it's not because they're jealous of my mad enzyme kinetics skills. Because those skills, they don't exist.

I got to thinking about how smart I really am. While I like to think I have an increased apitude for some things I often realize that I'm really not as smart as I think that I am. Or I drink too much and the alcohol is killing off my brain cells. That and the fumes. From what I can't remember. Or I'm just getting older. I hear you peak intellectually in your mid-late twenties. Although I imagine that's because at that point in your life you don't have the time or the inclination to wax philosophically about Sartre. You've got to clean the damn tub and those Sartre brain cells have to be re-assigned to remembering to pick up laundry detergent and tampons.

But the point is this, that if you were as smart as you thought a smart person could be then how smart would you be?

You would be as smart as a smart person could be, if a smart person could be smart.

So really it's a matter of perception. You perceive that you're smart and you are. Until you're proven wrong and you come face-to-face with your own idiocy.

Good luck with that.

Monday, December 6, 2010

All I want for Christmas is an Rx for Valium and a bottle of Scotch.

Ah, Christmas.

How do I love thee?

Is it with ribbons and bells? And cockles and shells?

(Not that I know what a cockle is but it works.)

This time of year is generally stressful for everyone. Example: My mother hasn't slept in three days. Hence I haven't slept in two.

Here are some tips to help you avoid the Holiday Blues:

1. Get a prescription for tranquilizers and mix up everyone's favorite cocktail: Beating the Winter Blues with a Snooze. Combine 2 parts whiskey/scotch/other liqour that knocks you out cold, anything but Tequila (That usually makes people aggressive and crazy. And naked.), with 1-2 prescription tranquilizers. Sleep your way through the Holiday Season! Repeat as needed.

2. Purchase a pistol-grip, pump-action shotgun. Think of how well behaved everyone will be when you're toting Ol' Bessie around. Lines will magically disappear when you come through waving that around in the air. Cars will move and no more arguing over that parking spot. Why that nice woman in the over-sized SUV will just let you have that parking space when you're standing out the sunroof with her grill in your cross-hairs. Note: This method generally works better if you haven't bathed for a while or washed your hair. You need to really commit to the image of crazy, otherwise you don't really have the necessary clout to wield such a gun with any believability.

3. Are you lonely and emotionally cold this holiday season? Why not take all that money you were going to spend on gifts and presents for loved ones and head for a warmer climate? You'll get felt up by your local TSA agent and while the warmer climate won't warm up your soul it will cheer up your general demeanor. Especially when you know that while you're sunning on the beach with a Mai Tai or several, your friends and family are running the Christmas Rat Race in the freezing cold. Look at that, Dinner and a Show.

Everyone remember to stay safe and warm this holiday season and keep your family safe and warm as well.
This doesn't mean you can stuff Uncle George in the fireplace for mentioning you've gained a few pounds but the sentiment is nice.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

I'm kind of having a moment.

Apparently the world is ending. Right now. The rain is pelting, driving really, against my window on the tenth floor of my apartment building and the wind is howling, making this eerie high whistle, kind of like a train.
Which now that I think about it may or may not be a sign of an incoming tornado. That whole train whistle thing.

Well I'm definitely not getting up to look now. I totally want to be clueless of my impending doom. I don't want time to think about all the dumb shit I've done in my lifetime. Most days I have a cavalier 'Fuck it.' attitude towards my misdeeds and mistakes but today has been an odd day. I'm super sensitive but in a fleeting way, if that makes sense. Not sensitive in a 'I'm going to spend 3 days sobbing because I'm a lard-ass' way. More like a 'I may be a lard ass but I can't honestly think about that right now because I'm too busy cooking up theories about how the neighbors down the hall are tied to their desk chairs being held hostage because their Amazon.com packages have been in the hall for 3 days. Oh and the world is ending with the Super-Tornado bearing down on us.'

Anyway, back to dying, if I was to die I would want to do it unexpectedly. I wouldn't want to have to plan it and figure what my last words would be and who I'd say 'Goodbye' to and in what order. Do I say my parents first because they're most important or last so that it hits home that I love them the most? Do I tell people to do things that I never got to do? Say things I never got to say? Do I say to my best friend 'Tell the neighbor I always got butterflies in my stomach when I saw him.' 'Tell the one that got away that I'm sad things didn't work out.' 'Apologize to the 900 people I screwed over and/or ignored.' 'Tell Kid Rock I think his music sucks and he blows as a musician.' (Anybody can fucking holler and it takes a special kind of person to sing about trailer parks and ruin Bob Seger.) Not to mention that when you know your death is coming you have to set up the memories that you want to see when your life flashes before your eyes. And whenever I've tried to do this before I always close my eyes and see Howard the Duck. Whom I'm mortally terrified of, so that doesn't work out.

Dying is a pain the ass and it's pain to prepare for. Maybe I'll just go to bed and hopefully the tornado will come while I'm asleep.

But just in case, I love you mom. And someone please tell the neighbor that he'll never know what he missed.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

The Tabernacle of the Lord and my Upset Stomach

I'm not necessarily (I hope I spelled this word right. It always bothers me. I have trouble with double consonants.) a religious person. I consider myself a moderately spiritual person and if I was polled on the street I'd align myself as a believer. There are a lot of tenets of religion that I can get behind and a few that I have difficulty with, but the purpose of this post is not to promulgate my religious opinions.

I've always been prone to puking. Ever since I was little. I regularly gag on my toothbrush, so I go through a lot of toothbrushes. As a consequence I can pretty much puke and move along rather quickly. I don't especially require a lot of time to get it together afterwards. It's kind of like when your dog tosses her cookies and then looks all relieved and ready to play before she realizes what she's done and tries to eat it again. But without the eating of the regurgitate. That's just gross. Mostly the relieved part.

Anyways, due to my prevalence for puking I can all but think about alcohol and vomit. I have more than a beer or two and I'm up the next morning puking my brains out. It's a fact I've come to live with and the majority of my friends have learned to deal with it. But here's the kicker.

For some reason I tend to puke in church parking lots. Drive me down a road when I'm hungover or even just full (I get carsick too.) and I'll find a church that has a need to have the parking lot splattered with my lunch. I've pretty much yaked in almost every church between here and Charlotte. Baptist? Check. Moravian? Check. Non-denominational? Those are my favorite because I feel they're less judge-y than the others. Being that they're essentially spectral urchins, doomed to wander Protestantism without a place to call home or whatnot.

I've never puked in a Catholic parking lot. I don't know many of them and plus there isn't one of those on every corner down here. It's not like the Baptist and Moravian churches. You can't go 3 blocks in this area of the South without getting your hot-cross bun soggy from being submerged in the baptismal pool while being serenaded by an entire full band as accompaniment. Not that there is anything wrong that. In fact I imagine it's the guilt I feel from being hungover on the Sabbath that drives me to retching. I also have a tendency to feel guilty a lot which drives me to drink and repeats the whole saga. Or if I just happen to be carsick then I just feel sheepish for puking for no reason. For just having a weak stomach. I feel as if I'm being judged for being puny pitiful. Think about all of your great religious icons: Jesus Christ, Samson, King Solomon, those boys in the fire, Buddha, Ghandi (Do we count Ghandi? I think he may be more political than religious. But he didn't ever eat so I figured I'd include him here.), Moses. I doubt Moses was ever struck down with a weak stomach. He survived a trip down the river in a reed basket. I so much as look at an paper boat in a bathtub before I turn green. These heros are all strong willed and pious and righteous and had the constitution of an ox. I've got the constitution of a goldfish. Put me in a bag and shake me up and I'll upchuck instantly.

Needless to say I spend a lot of time asking forgiveness, but I'm not really sure what to ask absolution for? I don't think there is a commandment that says:

'Thou shalt not regurgitate in my parking lot.'

'And if thoust hath regurgitated in my parking lot, at least make sure it's while no one is there. Otherwise it's just downright shameful.'

Monday, November 29, 2010

The Bus Station is Way Creepier in the Dark

I can tell I'm morphing into one of those psychos that normal people look at and wonder what the hell is wrong with them. One of those people that run for fun or get bored and do wind sprints. I can tell this for two reasons.

Number one being that I just sprinted across the entire bus station trying to get on the bus I needed to get on and still I missed it. But that's only because it gained ground on me because I had to run around 4 buses. The point here that I kept up with it for a good part of the bus station and after I stopped I felt sad. And mad because I missed the bus but damn the running part was fun.

Secondly because I'm going to be late for spin and I'm pissed about that too. Not because I hate being late but because I'll miss a third of spin class. And I'll be late.

The point is that I'm stuck at the bus station after dark. Let me just say that old adage about the looneys coming out after dark, there's something to that. For serious. It makes me wish I had a shotgun.

I figure a shotgun will serve multiple purposes in the zombie apocalypse. Killing zombies and blasting dumb ass fools with cartridges filled with rock salt who don't know better.

Then again that second part could be applied in multiple circumstances. Like sitting at the bus station after dark.

The Advantage of Being Single in the Bedroom

You married and committed people are really missing out on one important factor that us single people have access to.

Because there are two of you.

Single folks can slide the bed right up against the wall because, well, only one person needs to get it in and they can do that from one side. And when the bed is slid up against the wall you get the always amazing experience of the cold wall.

You know what I'm talking about, right?

Remember back to when you were a kid, going to bed at dusk in the summer when it was still just a little bit light outside and your mom left the window open to let in the breeze; it was still a touch warm and as you lay in your little twin bed looking out the window wishing you were still outside playing. You realize you're a little warm.
So what do you do? You put your little bare feet right up against the wall. Because in the realm of things that you as a six year old can control, sticking your feet on the wall is about the only thing. You most certainly cannot fight the oncoming sleep or prevent the sun from setting and your parents have already put you to bed. So as you lay there stubbornly staving off sleep because at the grand old age of 6 you're convinced that the really exciting things happen at night whilst you're sleeping the unemcumbered sleep of innocents, where the dreams are images of fun and gaiety, you try and stay awake by pressing your warm little body against the wall. But you never win.
Sleep always comes and whisks you away.

It's the cold wall that makes me realize that I could be happy being single for the rest of my life.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Get the Fuck on the Bus!

The following is a list of a few pointers for boarding the bus in a timely manner:

1. Learn about the bus and where it is going before you get on. That is why they waste all that paper on brochures that only end up littering the ground at the bus station. I'm sure they have some inside; it has to be where they come from. The time to inquire is not when there are 14 people behind you in line. If you must ask a question, ask 1 question. Not 37! Shut up, and get the Fuck on the bus.

2. Consequently, don't argue with the bus driver. He knows where the bus is going as he is one DRIVING THE BUS TO WHEREVER IT IS GOING.

3. If the bus costs $2. Please don't pay in nickels. That's 40 coins. I'm not kidding, the man in front of me today on the bus paid in nickels. Trade ten of them for 2 quarters or something. Shit. We don't have that kind of time. Do you know how long it takes to put 40 nickels in the change thing on the bus? 1 minute and 12 seconds. (Yes, I timed him and yes, he dropped 3 of them and had to bend over and pick them up.) Just hurry up and get on the bus.

4. Do not holler at your homeboy across the bus station from in line. Because then you hold up the line yelling 'Huh?' and 'What you said bro?' Call him on your cellular telephone. I know you have one because you put the person on the other end of the phone call you're currently having on hold so you could speak to your other friend, across the bus station. Shut up and get on the bus!

5. Finally please just shut up and get the fuck on the bus! We're on a time schedule here. Some of us have to get home and tie one on early so we can deal with the tragedy of our holiday get togethers!

Thank you and thanks for riding.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Nothing Ruins a Friday Like a Call from The Health Department

You've spent an entire day at work. You've avoided inoculating yourself with various pathogens. You haven't even sprouted a 3rd arm from hanging out in the radiation waste closet. But you're walking out of the building and Voila! your phone buzzes and you've got a voicemail. And who is it?

None other than the county Health Department.

Damn, look what a few beers and the odd glass of wine on a Friday night will get you. It didn't even taste raunchy but alas it was. You'll know better next time.

I'm making it a policy to interview everything going in my mouth from this point forward. At least this way I'll be informed when I call the nurse at the Health Department back. They always want so much information.

But then again it's not as if the real live living entity will parade out to answer my questions about being disease free. That would be awkward.

Me: Do you have a last name?

Him: McDonald

Me: Are you clean and disease free?

Him: Cluck cluck ba-cock cluck

Me: Will you make sure that the kitchen personnel cook you thoroughly?

Him: Cluck!?! Ba-COCK! CLUCK ClUCK!!!

Me: Oh yeah. Sorry about that. It's just that I just got hurt the last time I did this and I don't want to feel that pain again. I have to be wary.

Him: Cluck?

Me: Oh I got Salmonella from your brother Ted. Old man McDonald needs to keep his chickens clean.

My Best Friend

My best friend just died. My best friend Special.

Special, who loved me when I knew no one else did. When no one else found me fit for consumption Special was there. Waiting on me, happy to see me.

Special, who sat by my bed and barked when neccessary to warn me of things that went bump in the night. Who wagged his tail when I got home to remind me that he loved me.

My best friend who protected me from all the evil in the world, even the evil exes. My best friend who used to run at night just because he wanted to be free for just a few moments of his life. Who loved his family without abandon. Who knew that they loved him. Who deserved all the love the world could ever offer and hopefully knew that the people that loved him tried to fill him up with love. Over and over again.

Special Dog, I love you. I'm glad you're free of your pain. May your soul wander the neighborhood of happy neighbors with full bowls of ramen noodles and lonely female dogs. May your soul lay in the sunshine and scrub your face on the freshly mown grass to scratch that one irresistible itch. May your sould be serenaded constantly by redheads who sing your praises in multiple languages. May your soul find that aggravating cat who was your brother and who also secretly loved you. May you find him in the great afterlife and may you two wait your wait for the rest of your family together. Tell Chocolate to take it easy on you. You deserve it.

But know this:

I'd still kick anyone out who was blaspheming you, again. You may not have been my dog from the get go but by damn, you were my dog at one point. You slept in the floor of my bedroom and snored. No one will speak ill of you. Not then and especially not now.

I love you Special. My eyes burn as I write this because I've cried so much. Mostly because I didn't say goodbye. Because I had the best laid plans to come and see you and once again I've let you down. Now I beg your pardon. Now I rely on your forgiving, unapologetically kind nature and know you'll forgive me as you always did.

You truly lived up to your name Special. You truly were a Special dog. And I miss you. And I love you. Please wait for me.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Anna Gray Feels Sorry for Boys

The transition from teenager to adult is a rough time for everybody. Some of us are lucky enough to ease gradually into adulthood and transition well. Those of us with vaginas.

Girls are groomed to be adults our entire lives. We play with dolls and in miniature versions of vinyl-sided houses complete with shutters. We watch our Mom with admiration and strut around in her clothes in a hurry to grow up. Even those of us that were awkward and wore skater jeans and t-shirts fell into the woman mold easily enough.

Boys on the other hand, not so much. Granted I guess you could argue that they never really grow up. Motorcycles, speed boats, and giant tv's become the play things of grown men but they're still very much toys. 'Big Boy Toys' and all.

Think about a boy you know, or knew, when he was 20. How he was so confident in his manhood but still sat on the bus talking about video games. Some of them grow out of it, thankfully. These men become sex symbols and send women into apoplectic fits. Thank you Don Draper. But those that don't, still they're awkward. Women spend their entire adult lives searching for an adult and rarely if ever do we find one. We find boys in men's bodies that still play video games and are just awkward. There really is no other way to describe it. Awkward. So much so sometimes you just stand and watch. It's like a train wreck. There's so much carnage but you just can't look away. They flounder and fall and tumble and teeter their way into adulthood. Even the ones that are successful are often socially inept and backward. They stand around in dad jeans and windbreakers and guffaw at their friend's tawdry jokes that haven't been funny since 1992.

I can't begin to imagine why there are so many of them like this. I'm not a man; I don't know. I imagine it has something to do with not maintaining a self-questioning, self-doubting, self-critical constant dialogue with yourself that has been drilled into who you are since you were able to toddle about on two feet.

Don't take this the wrong way. Men, you're what you are for a reason. I doubt it's going to change anytime soon. I'm just saying that after spending the last 8 years on college campuses I've noticed a trend. I'm sorry you don't transition better than you do. And I feel a little bit sorry for you in that regard.

The Test Results Are In

For the last several days I've been a bit ill. Rather than regale you with the details let's everyone assume that I've been in severe distress of the gastrointestinal kind. Yesterday I went to the doctor and had a day full of 'Gee. I've never done that before.' and other general inappropriateness. It's kind of like being on your period except for the fact that if you get tired of your period you can remove your uterus. It's much more difficult to remove your intestines. And if you're wondering they won't remove your uterus without cause. I asked last year and they got surprisingly ill about it.

Anyways, long story short, the doctor's office calls me today to tell me that my blood work was normal and that my white blood count is good. Which means I don't have an infection. Which means it's probably cancer. Or someone has poured salt on me and I'm turning inside out like a slug. But most likely, it's cancer.
Now I'll have to have chemotherapy and my hair will fall out. And the only men I'll ever get then are the sickos that have bald-chick fetishes and are psychologically and emotionally stunted because they spent their formative years scraping calluses off of grandpa's gnarly feet and now are compelled to find someone to take care of. Not to mention that my hair is really the only thing I've got going for me. Well that and my skin. I do have great skin. I also have a melon for a head, which doesn't lend itself well to baldness.

So I say to the nurse on the phone: 'So we (I like to say 'We' so that they feel involved in my decision making process. I feel it makes them more dedicated to my wellness.) still don't know why I'm sick?' She then says 'Are we doing other cultures?' 'Yes. You are doing cultures.' (I said 'You' there because I'm not doing anything but dying, obviously.) 'Oh. We don't have those results yet.' 'So everything is not normal then is it?' 'Your bloodwork is.'

Great. I'm giving birth to Sigourney Weaver's Alien; it is literally crawling around in my abdominal cavity kicking the shit out of my spleen and using my stomach for a trampoline while swinging from my small intestines like a chandelier, but my blood is normal. So much so that the doctor's office felt compelled to call and tell me. Aren't I the lucky one?

I just wanted to inform you, blog readers that I'll probably be dead soon. And if I don't die, I think I can save my eggs but they'll have a better chance of being viable if they're fertilized. So if any of you have an in with George Clooney or any other super-successful and/or talented, attractive, (they must be attractive) men that are interested in being a father please have them email me. I figure we can practice the old school way until my chemo so my ovaries get the idea and start making eggs. But please let them (the applicants for future fathers) know they may end up as a single parent.

I figure my chances of getting hit by a bus have exponentially increased due to my proximity. Plus I'm clumsy. It doesn't bode well for survival of the fittest any way you frame it.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Stupidification of the Middle Class

I think I read somewhere or heard somewhere that America is slowly polarizing. Economically speaking of course. The middle class is apparently dissolving and people are either moving up or down, whichever the case may be.

I could see this as actually happening. But the purpose of this post is not to discuss the obfuscating economics of the country. The only way I ever understand what the Federal Reserve Board has to say is when I use that translating tool thing on Slate.com. For serious, check it out.

I want to discuss the melding of the American intelligence into a quagmire of general idiocy and stupidity. I'm not talking about politics.

I'm speaking of the honest-to-goodness stupidity that is invading our general lives. No one can spell anymore. For example, a sign on the bus under a picture of a guy who clearly has caused some trouble on the bus says this, exactly:

This man is band from riding.

Yes. You've read correctly. This man obviously has a pair of cymbals, a harmonica, two different drums and a bicycle horn hidden somewhere under his windbreaker.

Monday, November 8, 2010

I'll need you to answer your phone and bring bail money.

So at the bus station there is this weaselly little guy who sells drugs and thinks he's a bad-ass. He's clearly not a big-time drug dealer because he doesn't dress nice enough to be a big-time drug pusher. Also, he has exactly zero friends.

Oh, he knows everyone. It's not that he lacks acquaintances. They all grimace when he comes over to talk to them. They see him coming and casually, and sometimes not so casually, turn and go the other way.

For some reason, homeboy has decided that we need to be friends, He and I. This will not happen.

One day a while ago he walked over to me and just stood there. Like a lump on a fucking log. Walks over and just stands there. He's too cool to walk over and say 'Hello' or something else cordial and interrogative. No, he's got panache. He thinks he can just invade my personal space and I'll be besotted with adoration. Don't think so. I say, 'Can I help you?' (Because I wanted it to be obvious that he and I were never going to work. And I wanted it to be clear that I would like him to back out of my personal space so I went with a hypothetical question.)

Not only is he rude but he's also stupid. He says 'Yeah, I want a cheeseburger with pickles, ketchup and some fries.'

I roll my eyes and turn away.

Then there was today.

Dude walks over and starts talking to me. I didn't even make eye contact or pause the iPod, so I have no clue what he said. But it began with, 'We find ourselves together again.' Yes, obviously I came here to see you. It couldn't be that I take the same bus at the same time every weekday and you've seen me here at this spot at this time for going on 3 months now. But you clearly have no life so you just hang out at the bus station and sell drugs. He finally meanders away and tries this game on someone else. Then the bus rolls up.

Do you know that this fool has the gall to come back and fucking touch me? He wanders over while I'm in line for the bus and starts smacking my hand with the back of his.

We do not touch people we do not know.

If this was someone else I might just let it slide but you know, I think I could actually take this fool. He's not that much taller than me and you can look at him and know that he's a punk bia-tch. The kind that'd be prime ass-bait in prison. He's part of the tribe of people that act hard and buck up against everybody but then get their ass handed to them once the guy they've pissed off finishes pommeling them with one hand tied behind his back. Bad news bears I tell you. Bad news bears.

Needless to say that causing a fight at the bus station maybe wasn't the smartest thing for me to do. But the cops have told me that if you come and get me they won't press charges. They'll just let me walk with a reprimand and their sincere thanks for handling this situation.

Man, I'm going to be a hit at the bus station in the morning.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I'm a mess. Just let me be.

Today, at work, I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours.

I won't regale you with the details of why I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours but let's just say I'm having a rough day.

A really rough, rough day.

(But I did stick to my diet and eat my good, healthy lunch. Only because there were green beans involved. Without the green beans I'm pretty sure I would have lost my shit completely.)

I find that I'm the kind of person that walks the line kind of shoddily while still managing to get it done. For the most part I'm a semi-functioning adult type person with some serious emotional issues. But then somedays, I just fall the fuck off the tight-rope. Then comes the nose-dive into the moat of muck that surrounds my emotional stability. While I'm down there I usually take a couple of days to wallow around in it. Get myself good and covered. Just to convince myself that indeed, I do want to be out of the muck. There is no good that comes out of muckraking. Especially when you're the one in the muck being a rake.

I don't know why I don't cop to it. If I would come to terms with my eventual lapses of sanity I would be much happier. Hell, if I could see them coming I could just prepare for them and at least warn people.

'I'm sorry Anna cannot come out to play today. She's going to blow a gasket in about 3 hours.'

Knowing about your shit and doing something about it are two completely different things. I heard that in an episode of Grey's Anatomy and I swear to God I'd tack it up on my bathroom mirror if it didn't make me look like a total loony tune. But it's true.

I'm grateful to everyone in my life who realizes this about me and loves me anyway. It's rough sometimes and I realize that. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry.

You'll have to excuse me. I must go. I have an appointment for my mud muck wrap. 

Thursday, October 28, 2010

I'm starting to resent Lunch.

First I would like to say that I just realized that I haven't had a soda since Sunday! That's a new record.

I'm on this diet. Well, it's not really a diet, it's more a lifestyle change. (I totally stole that from my bff Jess.)

Because eventually one gets tired of being a lard-ass and decides to get off her hind-end and do something about it.

Lunch used to have to hide in amongst the foliage from me. Every day I would wake up and start planning how I could trap and ensnare Lunch. It would spend all morning quavering, wondering when I would pounce from my super-neat hiding spot and gobble it up in 2 minutes flat. Lunch, he was running scared.

Now, I feel Lunch jeering at me. Laughing and pointing with Dinner. 'Look at the fat girl now! MWA HA HAA,' Lunch now chortles. He doesn't even bother to hide anymore. He sits out in the open and taunts me.

'Yummy broccoli! Can you not wait to eat your yummy yummy broccoli, ANNA? . . . You do not even have a soda to wash it DOWN with! You must drink of the WATER! MWA HA HAA! Silly child, I no longer hide from you in fear. You no longer pose a threat to my well-being! I taunt you with my availability now. Be sad. Be very sad. Yes, I want to lick the tears of your sweet, sweet misery.'

Now I no longer attack Lunch. I merely sit quietly and masticate alone and silent. Where once there was the joyous euphony of the Angels singing their heralded songs of peace and goodwill now is just the cacophony and discordance of my ululations of sorrow at missing my Chef-Boyardee Mini Raviolis and Velveeta Shells & Cheese. Gone are the Meatball Subs and Pepperoni Pizza Hot Pockets. Lamented are the Code Red Mountain Dews and Cheddar Cheese & Sour Cream Ruffles.

I no longer look forward to lunchtime; I just groan and suffer through it.

And the first person to leave me a comment about how I can have the things I want in moderation or to treat myself once in a while, I swear to the Lord on my everlasting Soul, I will hunt you and down and maim you. We're talking ripping limbs from torsos. I can do that now. I've been weight-training.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Why I Will Refuse to Do Anymore Work Related Surveys

The University I work at is a public university and apparently public universities give a crap about EVERYTHING!

Within the last two weeks I have gotten invitations to surveys about the library, the library's research services (You can now skype with the reference desk. I don't even know what skype is.), dining services, the university budget and personal financial planning services. Oh yeah and that whole health survey thing that decided I was still too fat and crazy as well.

Obviously the university budget must be okay because they've been able to hire 900 hundred people to make, send and audit surveys about everything which would increase the demand for personal financial planning services that could be held at the library and then we could rely on dining services to cater the whole damn thing with healthy menu selections from the folks who care about nutrition.

The reference desk, they'll have to fend for themselves. Via skype.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

I Hate Holidays! - The How and Why

I think it's time that I explain why I hate holidays. And  which holidays I hate so that you, friends and blog readers, know when and why I will be cranky.

Here is a list of Holidays I hate (in no particular order):

1. New Year's Eve
2. Valentine's Day
3. Halloween
4. 4th of July
5. Labor Day
6. My Birthday
7. Columbus Day
8. Easter (sometimes)

Here is a list of the holidays that I enjoy:

A. Thanksgiving
B. Christmas

I hate holidays because my parents are divorced. There are few holidays that can be stretched out into two days. So as I child I was the rope in a constant tug-of-war between my parents on holidays 1-8. Whichever parent I wasn't with I felt supremely sad for because they were alone and that was somehow my responsibility. At the age of 8 I had complete autonomy over the decision of where I was going and when. I merely had to speak up and say 'Parents, apparently you've missed the memo but I'm brilliant so please let me make decisions that could affect my personal safety and well-being. I think I'll go have a night-cap now.' So it was always my fault when one of them was alone on President's Day. My parents never did that whole 'Let's Holiday together!' It didn't work for us. I hate holidays because I always feel guilty on them, because as a grown adult if I'm not with both parents then one of them is alone and I feel guilty. Heaven forbid I not be with either of them, then I'm just useless.

Holidays A & B are holidays that could be celebrated over an extended period of time. Holiday A was split between that Thursday and the weekend. I was with one parent on the Thursday of Thanksgiving and the other parent got me that weekend. So I just got really fat and ate several Thanksgiving dinners. Holiday B was actually two days so that always worked out nice. One parent had me for Christmas Eve and the other had me for Christmas Day. Life was grand.

Here are the specifics for why I hate holidays 1-8:

1. New Year's Eve - That whole parent's being alone thing. To this day I still become nauseated whenever I see that God-AWFUL ball drop. My stomach churns and turns and moans and groans. This is also why I hate Dick Clark. I will never feel more guilty in the entire year than on New Year's Eve.

2. Valentine's Day is the day before my mother's birthday and I usually haven't found her anything brilliant yet so I'm all panicky. That and I'll be single forever. And I used to work at a florist and you will never feel the same way about Valentine's Day after you've seen the aftermath of a florist on Valentine's day. People, get over the red roses.

3. For serious? I have to dress up? Maybe I'll be a sexy something stupid.

4.My parents, for some reason, believe that their right to be an American is somehow tied to my involvement in their celebrations. That unless I am within eyesight they'll no longer be American. I think they're scared to become Canadian.

5. The summer is ending. No more beach time. Pout.

6. My birthday? Do I really need to become older? (Btw - I'm turning 23 again this year. For serious. Put it on my cake. And a balloon.)

7. Why should the banks be off but I still have to work?

8. I generally hate chocolate so Easter is a hard holiday for me. That and my memaw doesn't cook anymore. But there was that one Easter where she shoved chocolate cake in my mom's face. That was pretty entertaining. Maybe I will move Easter down to the lettered list...

So you see it's not that I'm always a cranky, Grinch type person, I've just got a lot of emotional baggage and it always seems so heavy on the holidays.

Friday, October 22, 2010

The day I almost, almost died.

Today, I almost died. Almost.

I didn't see my life flash before my eyes or anything so it was probably closer almost almost dying. But still, I could have died. For serious.

It all started when I was getting on the bus this morning and this skinny guy, wearing the ugliest jeans I have ever seen in my life, hefts up this cardboard box he's carrying and totes it onto the bus with him. He had it all taped up. I mean the entire thing was covered in tape. Not a spot was missing tape. It was taped up like he didn't want anyone getting whatever was inside the box out, or preventing whatever was inside the box from breaking out of the box unnecessarily. I'm thinking it was a bomb. (If you would have seen this guy's pants you'd understand why I thought it was a bomb and that he was tired of living his fashion-abused life and wanted to take as many people out with him as possible.) I mean why else would he have a box like that? It's not like he's shipping it somewhere. Why take it to Greensboro to ship it? What sense does that make? It was totally a bomb.

And I almost, almost died.

I know that bombs can be small and don't really need to be heavy but I figured that it was all the shrapnel wrapped around the bomb that made the box heavy. And packing it in tight would cause a bigger explosion because it would create more force by impeding the process of the shrapnel escaping the box. Granted he could have achieved this easier in a tight, plastic case because cardboard doesn't really impede shrapnel moving at a great velocity but he looked like an amateur. No camouflage and all.

I was so convinced it was a bomb that I sent my bff a text message and told her that I loved her. And that she could have all of my clothes. I IMed my other friend and told him to tell my mother that I love her and to also tell the sexpot neighbor that 'He'll never know what he missed.' My other friend I IMed to tell a description of what the guy was wearing and what he looked like because I feel like she'd be responsible enough to tell the police the details. She seems good under pressure while I hope the other two would be too busy wailing and gnashing their teeth and pulling out their hair to do anything functional.

What? I'm kind of big deal. I almost, almost died.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Mush Mouth

I used to enjoy going to the dentist. Honestly I did. When I was a child the dentist was yet another adult who would smile down on me and praise my general awesomeness because I never had a cavity. EVER. (Still haven't! Score!) Plus, it didn't hurt that I got to get a toy out of the toy bin because I was sweet child without a sweet tooth!

Then came the time to have my wisdom teeth extracted from my head. I say extracted from my head because the dentist had to cut them out of my jaw which is really just an extenuation of my head. And it was a tragic event requiring a hyperbolized account.

I want to start off by saying that I have never appreciated my mother more than I did in the debacle that was my wisdom teeth extraction surgery. She quickly proved her mettle.

Sooooo...off to the dentist I go. He mentions that I should probably go ahead and have my wisdom teeth extracted, even though the year before he said that I had enough room in my head for them and the rest of my 28 teeth. So...off to the oral surgeon I go.

My oral surgeon confirms his opinion and says that he'll have to cut them out of my head/jaw and that I'll need to be under 'light sedation.'

     Me: Light sedation?

     Him: Yes. Light sedation.

     Me: I want to be asleep.

     Him: You will be.

     Me: No, you don't understand. I Need to be asleep.

     Him: You will be.

     Me: Like for real asleep. I don't want to be conscious at all.

     Him: If you wake up you won't remember it.
      *Remember this last part.

We schedule the appointment.

My mother, at the time, was starting a contract job where she would be flying back and forth to Florida every week. It was under her strong suggestion that I move my surgery up to when she would be in town to take care of me because she thought I couldn't handle this without her. She was correct. She woke me up every hour to replace the ice packs on my jaw and slid pieces of bread soaked in chicken broth down my throat so I wouldn't die of starvation. (Never more in my life have I ever wanted to just die on the spot than when I was sitting in my mother's bathroom floor staring into the toilet, having just retched all the blood plugs out of the holes in my head, where I should have had teeth, because I cannot stomach prescription pain meds.  I just sobbed like a little child and my mother in her infinite wisdom just let me sit there and feel sorry for myself for a little while. She then collected me and poured me back into bed with several Tylenols and another helping of chicken flavored bread.) Previous to all of this I was living with my two bestest girlfriends and they should take time to say a quiet thank you to my mother for preventing me from lying in my bed at the house whining and bleeding everywhere. I'm not easy to deal with when I'm in pain.

The morning of the day of the surgery comes. I'm a little nervous. Mom makes me wear a button up shirt with my sweat pants; I look like a freaking retard.

Enter the nurse:

     Nurse Doom: Anna, we're ready for you.

We both stand up to go back with Nurse Doom.

     Nurse Doom: Ma'am. You're not allowed to go back with her. You'll have to wait out here.


     Mom: You'll be back out here in 5 minutes to get me anyway, so I'll just come on back now.

At this point I have pretty much reached hysteria. I'm about 3 burst blood vessels shy of a full blown apoplectic fit. Maybe it was the fear of being put under and dying that scared me, but I'm pretty sure it may have been that I saw my oral surgeon cackling like a mad man and rubbing his hands together in that whole 'I'm installing miniature spy cams in people's gums and taking OVER THE WORLD' fashion. Creepy. Panic ensues. I may have even begged for my life at this point; I can't remember. They finally get the IV into my arm and as I'm drifting off to Never-Neverland my mother is stroking my forehead and assuring me that I'll survive. I also think she mumbled to Nurse Doom that she may want to go ahead and restrain me. I don't know why.

An eternity goes by and I wake up. I notice a really bright light in my eyes. Then, there is a steady, striking, pressure in my mouth. Naturally I'm confused, so I open my eyes. They seem to not follow my instructions. As I start to regain consciousness I realize that the striking pressure in my mouth is Doctor Mengele pounding on my head WITH A HAMMER. My eyes immediately begin to work and I proceed to flip out.

In retrospect it's a good thing my mother had them restrain me because I was not a very happy camper that day at Camp Punish-me-ka-wa. I now know why cops are always afraid of people that are high. It's because they're insane and violent and often very very afraid and very very dangerous. Needless to say they pumped more drugs into me and off I drifted back to la-la land. All the while I was sort of awake I was mumbling very nasty things to Dr. & Nurse Pain. The key to this part of the story is that you'll notice that A) I woke up and B) I remember it.

Finally they get done. Apparently it took longer than anticipated and that's why I woke up, or it could have been that I was highly anxious when they administered the drugs or maybe because I was kind of drinking a lot at the time and my liver was the size of a basketball. Either way I woke the fuck up and as Nurse Doom is explaining what happened to my mother I'm yelling garbled obscenities as loud as humanly possible when one literally has 'cotton-mouth' (from the drugs and all of the cotton taking residence in my mouth to soak up the gallons of blood). Then I threw up on the wall just for effect. So now there is blood, vomit and cotton on the walls of the Concentration Camp Oral Surgery Center and the obscenities are no longer hindered by a mouth full of stuff. Needless to say, I was not invited back for another stay at Camp Castigation.

On the way home packed with fresh cotton and more blood, I finally pass out. My mother must have floated me into my bedroom at her house because I don't remember walking. Also she took off my shirt and put on my pajamas so I guess wearing the button up shirt was smart on her part because I didn't have to be involved in its extraction from my person.

My next memory is of my father, who has always had a very weak stomach, looking rather piqued at all the blood and gore. In my haze I realize instantly that my father doesn't know what happened! So I proceed to tell him the story and get all riled up again and the obscenities begin flying, again.  To his credit he affirms all of my suspicions of Nazi conspiracies in dental implants and agrees that Dr. Mengele should have his license revoked.

He then looks at my mother and says:

     'Pam, is she alright? I can't understand a word she's saying. She's got mush mouth.' 

Who then says:

     'Steve, she's so high on those drugs I don't think we'd understand her even without all the cotton. You should have seen the fit she pitched at the oral surgeon's office. She kept going on and on like that; I can't imagine that she's happy. Do you want a cup of coffee?'

Geez, I thwart a modern day Nazi scheme and all they do is drink coffee.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Premature Ejac..err... Peaking...err...Over before it begins?

Everybody knows that one person that they look at and think:

'You know, they're so great; they just haven't hit their stride yet. They'll be awesome in a few years.'

Sadly this isn't me. I totally peaked early. Got everything that needed doing out of the way by the time I was ten and now I'm just scrambling to not go sliding down the backside of the hill on my face and embarrass myself.

Seriously, my most prodigious moments were when I colored on my Cabbage Patch Kids with crayons because they needed makeup; which really pissed my parents off at first. Then they realized how brilliant I was because I colored them in the right spots where makeup would be. It was all sweetness and light then. I was no longer a 'smart ass' but a 'creative and precocious smart ass.' This occurred all over again when I shaved Barbie's head because she had 'leukemia.'  

What? I've been a science nerd my whole life. 

My mom still tells those stories to strangers. We meet new people and she says: 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's so smart! She shaved her Barbie's head when she was 6 and proclaimed she had leukemia.' At which point, people look at me like I'm a freak. Then comes the perfunctory, 'Awwww. What a smart little girl!' Except that now I'm almost thirty and they wonder what in the hell went wrong? 

One of these days I'm going to prove how smart I am by calculating just how many brain cells Jose Cuervo has consumed right there on the spot. I'll plot it out mathematically and take into account the change in brain cell number with respect to time and they'll be astounded. Or they'll call me an AA sponsor. All I'm saying is that it's starting to get a smidge embarrassing. It's not ever 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's curing cancer and saving the lives of starving African children!' The closest we'll ever get to that is when she says 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She could have went to medical school but she was too boy crazy.'

Let's not even get her started on that topic. Each holiday that goes by is even more depressing than the last because my entire family lines up by the door to see if I waltz in with a man. I figure if I give it a few more years I could show up with an albino circus dwarf and they would cheer. Only because he has penis. I give it until I'm 35 and then I figure I can have an illegitimate child without any shame or guilt from my family. They'll just be grateful that someone wanted to sleep with me at all. By the time I'm 40 my aunt will be hiding behind the door with the electric cord so my mom can go to work with the turkey baster. Men have it so easy. 

So there really is no hope at all for me. Little do they know that I met my soulmate when I was 7. He was the biggest black and white tomcat you've ever seen and I carried him around like a rag doll. Pea Pie (I don't know. I was an odd child.) was the only man to ever see and proclaim me his, unapologetically. True to form with every other man in my life, he disappeared one day to leave me stammering and quaking in his absence. I've been fucked up as a football bat ever since. 

When I was young I was motivated. Now I'm just lazy. When I was young I was full of optimism and joy. Now I'm just lazy. 

So if you'd please move a little to the left, you're in my path and the rock is going to roll back down this track in a few minutes.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Immersing Yourself in All Aspects of the Situation

The great thing about living in the South is sleeping with your windows open. Well, except in the winter, and the summer too, when it gets down to 95 with 98% humidity, but otherwise it's quite lovely to lie in your bed with the windows open.

It often causes a body to become introspective of sorts. That is until introspection becomes an abutment on the highway of self pity travelling to the city of self loathing.

Sooo, you watch TV. Do you know that I feel guilty about getting rid of my old clunky tv (that still works) for a newer skinnier model? I can totally justify it. I simply do not have room for the old clunky one. . .but alas. It's still here, in a chair, in the middle of my room because I don't have anything to put it on, because it's old and clunky.

But I digress.

I was watching Sex and the City and got tired of that because really, they put SJP in some crazy getups. I mean some of them are awesome, but she for serious had a bedazzled fanny pack on, at which point I physically said 'No more.' out loud and cut off the DVD player. Whereupon I found the late night self help guru.

Whose instructions are 'to immerse yourself in all aspects of the situation.' Sure thing gramps. Why don't you immerse yourself back into your prune juice and let me know if you want to be in all aspects of that situation? It sounds unnessecary to me. Doesn't he understand that immersing myself in all aspects of my situation is the reason why I turned on the dad-blamedt TV to begin with? I was so looking forward to not thinking about my inadequacies to do differential equations and derive permeability equations with respect to time, and also not thinking about having my motivation to work harder at the gym show up mid-workout and make me feel like shit even harder because I was finally gung-ho about half-assing it, and definitely not thinking about immersing myself in the half-eaten, hidden situation of Doritos that my bff has in the cabinet in the kitchen, which is a whole 10 ft away from my head, that I physically have to restrain myself from ravaging.

Seriously, this is why I drink. So I can avoid the aspects of my situation and immerse myself into the bottom of the gin bottle. It's not that I drink to forget; I drink so I can avoid all the aspects of my situation. And if I happen to be having a particularly happy situation with which I would like to be immersed. . .What's a little vodka besides a handy lubricant into that roiling vat of aspects?

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

An Open Letter to the Monkeys in the Parking Operations Jungle/Office

Attention Monkeys,

Yoo hoo! Over here. Lookie, it's a banana. Do you want the banana? Look, here. Here!

Damnit! You people really are monkeys. Quit picking your god-blessed nose!

Listen I got an email from the matriarch of your living group (I'm not sure what a group of monkeys are called. Geese congegrate in gaggles and Rhinos hang in out crashes but Monkeys?) saying that my last bus pass purchase was not debited from my pay check last month. For some reason,

Could you put down the toy car? Please? I'm talking here.

She seems to think that it should be compounded with this month's purchase and debited twice from this month's check. I'm not sure why the burden of your office to not do a satisfactory job lies on my head.

Do not climb on my head. Do not do it! Don't do it! NO!

As I was saying, I came over and filled out my paperwork correctly and accurately. I think that when I signed the form authorizing the payroll debit that it was assumed that the debit would be in a timely manner, and now that timely manner has passed. So, I do not feel as it is my responsibility to pay the past due debit. Yes, I do have my receipt and it indicates a pass for the month of September and that the debit will come out of the September pay check, which it did not. Need I remind you?

Did you just hurl poop at me? Bitch! (Why am I arguing with a monkey?)

Just try and listen. Look, over here. Back over here. Yes that's a happy monkey. No, not that happy. Quit spanking Bob.

You know what? Nevermind. I'm leaving. Do what you want. You're going to anyway. That's why they established a gang of monkeys in the Parking Operations office. So that no one has any recourse in the pursuit of their complaints.

Do me a favor will you? Do you think you could talk to the warthogs over in library sciences about my fines?

Anna, The Small & Docile Reptile Hunter, Gray

Monday, October 11, 2010

Falling Down is Overrated

I have fallen down 4 times within the last week. All in painfully public places.

It's as if the cacophony of my emotional life is affecting the timbre of my gait. (I know that doesn't make any sense as cacophony and timbre are aural words and falling down is an often painful tactile experience but what's a little sensory obfuscation once in a while?) Or I'm just a klutz. Or maybe I'm a mess. It's like that Lady Gaga song 'She looks good but her boyfriend says: She's a mess.' Except that I have no boyfriend, which is probably a good thing for me right now.

This weekend was very interesting and probably one of the better ones I've had in a while; I think I got to see everyone that I currently love. Including sexpot neighbor. (Not that I love him or anything but it's always nice to see him, because he's pretty. It's kind of like my watch, I love looking at my watch because it's shiny and awesome.) I also saw 'He Who Must Not Be Named' and no it wasn't Voldemort, but Dipshit, which is why I'm grateful I don't have a boyfriend because I remember what it was like having a boyfriend like Dipshit who sucks at life even worse than I do which is pathetic. (God, it's amazing how unattractive someone becomes because their personality sucks.) Yes, we don't refer to Dipshit by name as I'm still currently angry that we're sharing the same atmosphere but that would require one of us to shuffle off this mortal coil and I'm not sure that I hate him That much. Close, but still...I'm trying to be an adult about all of this. Anyways, off to my bar I go and guess who's there?

Personally I'm somewhat proud of myself. The last time I saw him I was completely unprepared as I had just left the gym and Spruce Street was the last place I ever imagined seeing him, and do you know that this Asshat had the gall to try and speak to me? Who is he kidding? But this time I didn't make eye contact nor did I stress and hyperventilate. Okay maybe a little and I did try to sneak out the back door of the bar. I was prevented in this by my bff who informed the watching parties that we/I are/am 'VIP Motha Fucka' as we walked past him and his posse. She then chided me that I shouldn't be the one slinking around avoiding eye contact. As always, She's right about this too.

So oddly enough I'm strangely confident and have a renewed sense of awesomeness which I like to imagine never quite left but was there all along.

I haven't fallen down lately either.

But that may be because my unknown degenerative neuromuscular disease went away?

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Faking It Until I Make It

Lately, I've been in a shit mood. Or so I'm told. I cannot refute or deny this fact as my modus operandi is generally a nasty, cynical, sarcastic, sour outlook on life. But don't get me wrong, I consider myself a realistic person. My evaluative powers are on point, I just suck at life. Duh.

For example, have I cured cancer? Rid the world of malaria and polio? Saved the tigers from being hunted down and turned into soup? Found a clean, cheap renewable energy source?

No. I haven't.

Maybe you're saying to yourself, 'Anna, those are very lofty goals. Maybe you need to be more realistic. Find smaller goals that you can accomplish within a reasonable time frame.'

Okay. How's this:

Have I seen the hot neighbor sans vetements yet? No, but I'm halfway there. Can I use a ruler to accurately measure things? Apparently I can only get two sides done, the third is a crap shoot. This is the email I got in response to my measurements earlier today:

"Can I check the 3.5 inches? That seems really small."

Yes, it is indeed really small. Really, really small. Be my guest.


When your lips are all tingly. . .

My lips are all tingly and I really wish I could say that it's because I was rubbing my super hot football playing boyfriend's leg with Ben Gay when things got a little kinky and went south, if you catch my drift, but I cannot say that's why my lips are indeed tingly. My lips are tingly because I hate the treadmill.

No, it's not like that time I had that stroke in spin class from screaming at that dumb bitch who insisted on talking to me throughout the entire class even though she showed up 20 minutes late and then proceeded to mock my poor, suffering uterus (What? I'm on the rag.) from the next bike over thus sending me into a blind rage where upon I questioned my entire existence and bled from both eyes. My lips were never really tingled during that debacle.

It's because I'm stupid. I came home from dinner with my mom and went directly to doing my homework after a mini-tantrum, but that was because my poor momma simply cannot drive. So I tried and tried and tried. For a solid two hours I tried, and the only successful thing I managed to get done was logic myself in circles for an hour and fourty-five minutes and spent the other fifteen minutes deciding I hate science. Then I decided to go for a run at the gym. Needless to say 6 months of spin class has obviously spoiled me and after about 2 miles my right quad is sc-Reaming at me. At which point I got on the bike and spun it out, which I'm honestly surprised that it actually worked but Hot Dog! It does!

Getting to my tingly lips, after my shower and hair masque I decide to put some bio freeze on my quad because I'm doing double spin tomorrow and I need it to be healthy. And like a dumb ass did I wash my hands before I put the vasoline on my lips?

Hell no.

So now my lips are tingly. But they do have a rather refreshing menthol smell.

Friday, October 1, 2010

No, no. Not that jar of jelly. That's your crazy cousin Lenny.

Apparently the newest green trend in post-death preparation and storage is called aquamation.

Yes, they take your favorite relative and sit them in a vat of fat reducing potassium hydroxide for 4 hours and then pour out Uncle Stan's viscera and munch up his now soft gelatinized bones and return them to you. (They recommend your loved one being dead before this occurs as I imagine it's probably pretty painful.) The article I read then went on to describe that the remaining potash hash could be used as fertilizer. Yes, this is a brilliant plan. I want my applesauce to taste like dead hippies.

Obviously our mates down in Aussie-ville have gone off the deep end and are now worried that they're going to run out of room to put dead people. Um, Hello. . .The Outback? It's a vast, barren wasteland where nothing will grow but rabbits. So barren that less than 10% of the Australian population lives in the Outback. It's essentially a giant collection pit for rabbit pellets and dead Australians.

I'm not sure what's wrong with dumping people in a pine box in a hole with a marble slab set on top of it. I get that coffins now-a-days are the renovated backseats of the muscles cars from the 70's and are plush and posh and all. Honestly, I would just like someone to shove me in a pine box and plunk me in a hole unceremoniously. If a pine box made by felons is good enough for Billy Graham and his wife, then who am I to demand that I require a soft silk lining to ease my transition into the afterlife? I think it's odd that even in death we feel that we must overcompensate.

And make sure you get me in the ground the next day. None of this waiting and waffling and 900 visitations and crap. I'm dead. I'm gone. Get it over with so everyone can eat and get on with their lives.

But make sure they serve barbecue. I really like barbecue.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Tacky and Unrefined, yet Not Very Delightful

If you just saw a busload of busload of blind people get off the bus, get the fuck out of the way. They're blind. They cannot see you when you stand in their path. That's why they have on dark glasses and sticks. Believe it or not they're not all Neo from the Matrix imitators.

You don't get the right to turn your nose up because he bumped into you. Take your tacky Ed Hardy luggage (Jesus Christ, that man makes lugagge?) and move out of the way.

Monday, September 27, 2010

My Hate-It List for Today

I hate men's feet.

I hate men's feet that are gross.

I hate gross men's feet.

I hate gross men's gross feet. Especially those who refuse to wear socks. Even with sandals.

I hate rain.

I hate weddings,

I hate the bus station.

I hate my hair.

I hate the sweater I have on.

I hate my pants too.

I probably hate everything but because I hate caring at this point I cannot make an evaluative statement about everything. Just know that I probably hate that too.

Ah, the Joys of Singledom.

The thing about being single and almost 30 (Gasp!) is that it's not the same as it was when you were 25 and single or 22 and single. When you're 22 and single the only time people ask you if you have a boyfriend is when you're about to seal the deal and both parties want to evaluate the risk of partner repercussions. You have to honestly weigh the benefits of getting it on and having to fight with a disgruntled, pissed off partner at a later date. But if no one else is in the picture the risk of the sex becomes much less and depending on your outlook is either more or less fun that way.

At 25 people don't ask if you're single. They ask if you have a boyfriend. Then if you're my mother you proceed to ask if you have a girlfriend. But when you reply to the negative in both regards they smile and acknowledge that you're enjoying life and not weighing yourself down with the stress of managing a significant other. Unless you're my mother and then you see the lives of your yet unborn grandchildren flash before your eyes.

David Sedaris writes that his brother once said: 'Motherfucker, I ain't seen pussy in so long I'd throw stones at it.' While I'm not sure why one would throw stones at something you haven't had in a while I'm in the same boat, well substitute male genitalia. And I think it's a great visual. This is why on a particular Saturday evening I found myself face to face, sucking face with a bartender from my favorite bar trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with me. It's not that I don't find him attractive, it's not that we don't have things in common. I like gin and he gives it to me. But the issue lies in the fact that at a certain point I no longer see men as much as I look at them and evaluate the degree to which they could help me with my little problem. It's not that I'm desperate, I'm bored. And tired. If one more person asks me if I've got a boyfriend and then ask why not when I don't reply in the affirmative, I'm bound for the funny farm. I understand that we as humans are designed (Bad word choice, but work with me.) to be with someone. At this point I've been single long enough that I need to consider that I may be single for a while and maybe a committed relationship isn't for me. Maybe I'm supposed to not be involved. What if I'm supposed to be single so if someday I'm at the bank while it's being robbed I can sacrifice myself in lieu of the bank robber killing the new mom?

Okay so that's a little far-fetched but the point is that if I sit down and seriously evaluate my feelings on the matter I find that I'm not as panicked about it as I should be. It's seriously difficult for me to think about having a boyfriend because I descend into a panic when I'm faced with the option of having to talk to someone who has the least bit of interest in me. Hysteria. Panic. Anxiety. It's seriously not a fun time. I think it has to do with the fact that I'd then have to relinquish control but that's a different post entirely. But I cannot get past the guilt that comes along with just getting the job done because every once and a while you just need to get the job done. So when found face to face alone in the dark with your favorite bartender you're aggravated. Because out of the two of you, he shouldn't be the one who can't make up his mind. I'm supposed to be the wishy-washy one, I'm wishy-washy. To me it's not a matter of if we do or don't. Honestly I don't care either way, but make a fucking decision. I've got to go to bed.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

My Strange Magnetic Field.

I need to ingest more heavy inorganic metals or something because every piece of electronic equipment I have dealt with in the last little while has kicked the bucket. Except for the confocal, and that's the way we like it.

Here is a list of the electronic issues I've had in the last two weeks:


1. There was the whole DVD burner dying. Not a slow quick death but a long drawn-out ordeal in which it's function gradually just stopped.

2. When I got the new burner it promptly burned 3 DVD's and then quit for 2 days. (I've found that if you let it rest between burnings it behaves quite well.)

3. The battery in Department truck. But that could be because it sat all summer without being driven.

4. For some reason Hulu won't work for me anymore. It tells me to connect to the internet in the player window while showing the rest of the page. Which usually means I'm connected to the interwebs. And yes I cleared my browser cache.

5. My printer which has never misbehaved ever. Ever suddenly couldn't pick up the paper yesterday.

6. The poster printer thought about not behaving for about 20 minutes this morning but I gave it the stink eye and it decided it was in its best interest to work.

My mother has always sworn that every computer problem she's ever had is my fault. I didn't even have to be in the room for the computer to hiss and fizz and bang. But it could be that she just doesn't like me too.

Needless to say something is off about me.

But I guess that's a moot point.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Koo-Koo Banana Crackers Yahoos at Yahoo

The horoscope writer at Yahoo has gone off the deep end. So much so that I am thinking about writing a letter of concern to the folks at Yahoo. My favorite theory is that the normal horoscope writer left her position to start a psychic hotline and they've had to pawn off the responsibilities of the horoscopes onto the underwriter for the inspirational writing dude at Yahoo. Here is my horoscope for today:

It's hard to imagine you lacking imagination. Actually, it's impossible to imagine. So now, don't worry -- there's no need to imagine you lacking imagination, because you're so imaginative. You just won't have time for anything else (like imagining lacking imagination). You're fielding great ideas left and right, and the ones you like you're holding on to. You'll implement them all in good time. Yes, all in good time.

Here is my horoscope from yesterday:

There's something new up ahead, and you think you've gotten a glimpse of what it might be. Is it a new project? A new apartment? A new love? A new lease on life? New energy? A new sport? A new car? A used car with a new car smell, thanks to somebody's bright idea to sell a spray that smells like a new car? It could be exciting, whatever it is. 

I'm not one of those people that directs their life from their horoscope and frankly, I'm concerned for the people that do. Read both of the above horoscopes and you'll find one thing in common, that they don't actually say anything. And they don't actually say anything worse than they normally don't actually say anything which is hard to imagine because you'd think that horoscopes should actually say things, important things, things that matter, things that direct, things that encourage, things that discourage, or things that look like they're encouraging but the subtext is that they're really discouraging. Needless to say, it's odd. 

Friday, September 17, 2010

A lesson in Dichotomy from Muddy the Mudskipper

In my freshman English honors class (I know, I know, I was smart once. Seriously.) there was this guy Andy. Andy had two aggravating characteristics. One being that he looked exactly like Muddy the Mudskipper from the Ren & Stimpy show. It's really hard to think about Emily Dickinson when 'Don't Whiz on the Electric Fence' is on repeat in your head. The second aggravating thing about Andy was that his favorite word was dichotomy. Everything was dichotomous. Or characters exemplified a dichotomous nature. Dichotomy, dichotomy, dichotomy. It took me three fourths of a semester to actually look it up because I refused to on a matter of principle, but one day he actually did get a 'That's a good point Andy' from the professor so I thought it might help. Needless to say his usage only escalated from there and we were all tremendously fucking grateful there was only a quarter of a semester left.

Anyways, I'm in a very punchy mood today. Mostly because I've had the Golgothan touch this week but that's beside the point. I was talking to a friend of mine about the imminent street festival downtown and he was aking if I was going and I believe I said something like 'Hell No. I moved downtown to get away from the degenerates of this town; I do not relish spending an entire day in their presence. I spend enough of my spare time at the bus station to satiate my thirst for the masses.' Then I just went ahead and saddled the high horse and rode it for all it was worth.

Then I realized that 'Fucking Muddy' was right!

People are extremely dichotomous. (Or at least I am.) Maybe he was onto something or maybe he was ahead of his time and realized something about the nature of people that our young minds weren't able to fathom yet. That as freshmen in college we were so convinced of the constancy of our nature that the idea of any kind of duality in our person was unheard of. We hadn't yet failed at anything and our faith wasn't tested and our experiences went without grounding.

Then again, he may just be a stupid mudskipping fuck and I may just be crazy.

Fat Girls in Hooker Shoes

Here's the problem with fat girls in hooker shoes. It's not that they're trying too hard or trying to overcompensate for being chunky or for having too much junk in the trunk. It's not the fact those shoes are hideous with their bedazzled strapiness and platform soles. I don't even mind that the shirt you're wearing with the pucci print clashes horribly with your camo handbag. We'll also ignore that your shoes are adorned with pink rhinestones.

Homegirl does get kudos for not having butterflies on her shoes and not having one of those mini bookbags for a purse.

My problem with the whole situation is that it defies the physical laws of nature. If your feet look like blood sausages that have been crammed into little miniature strappy bedazzled tourniquets then it has to be next to impossible for you to remain upright. I would surmise that the enormity of your nether regions brings your center of gravity closer to the ground thus enabling you to wear your hooker shoes without toppling over. How your ankles don't become impacted I'll never know.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

On The Subject of Lunch

So there is this woman who lives in my building who obviously, obviously has an eating disorder. We call her Skeletor, but that may be because my roommate fancies himself to be He-Man and it makes him happy to think of our building as Castle GreySkull or whatever. The point being is that this chick is skinny, unhealthily so.

You can tell first and foremost by her hair. It literally looks like straw. I am prone to my gremlin moments when my hair has a mind of it's own but at least it looks healthy whilst messy. Then you see her in a bathingsuit and you cringe. You cringe because you know she's not having her monthly menses and that her bones are brittle as hell and her heart probably has a few hundred more beats left before it shuffles off this mortal coil and she's pushing up the daisies. It's really sad.

But this morning on the elevator she got on with me and we had quite a pleasant conversation. Here's the kicker. She's a PhD, in Cancer Biology. So she has to know that her body is suffering, right? No matter how nice and cordial she is, nor however much I could milk her for a job in Winston, I cannot even reasonably think about being her friend because I'd compulsively feed her sticks of deep-fried butter. Or corn bread and pintos. Or something. Food. Lots of food.

The funny part is that she takes a lunch box. I guess she feels like she can fool people by toting a lunch box around. Then I started thinking about what could be in her lunch box, which got me thinking about what was in my lunchbox. Here's what was in my lunch box: 2 slices of cheese pizza, 1 caesar salad, 1 cup of applesauce, 1 peach (that tasted like nail polish. Yay for pesticides.) and a diet pepsi.

Obviously my heart would have problems for the exactly opposite reason. But I have to have a nice lunch and some snacks. And I only ate one of the pieces of pizza.

People say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day but honestly breakfast makes me puke. So that makes lunch the most important meal of my day. And in Europe I hear that their biggest meal is lunch and they've been around for forever so they can't be all wrong. I'm going to lobby Congress to put more emphasis on lunch. Lunch should be the most important meal of the day! It's in the middle of the day! At the peak of the day really! Hence it's eating as the best time of the day so it's the best meal!

But I do really like dinner too. . .

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Another great idea from Anna Gray!

Are you tired? Lonely? Do you feel your life operates without a sense of purpose?

Then do yourself a favor and prove it with the new and improved BIO 543 - Biophysics!

Did you think you were smart? -- Biophysics can disabuse you of that notion instantly by mathematically proving diffusion and osmosis!

Were you mislead into a career that boosted your self esteem? Can you complete your daily tasks? -- Where is the fun in that! Why get things done in a reasonable time when you can waste hours of your life trying to find answers to impossible mathematical problems! Ten-thousand factorial? By Jove! My calculator can't do that!

Is the majority of your free time spent smiling? Do you speak sweetly and without vehement outbursts laced with curses and foul language? -- Your neighbors already look at you funny. Why worry about adding insult to injury? Biophysics can teach you to swear in more creative ways than you though possible!

Do your pencils still have erasers on their ends? -- You're a pompous ass. Nobody is that good. Hurry up and eat them so you fit in.

Do you feel validated as a human being? -- What? You want a freaking cookie?

Remember! If you're unsure as to whether or not you're a glutton for punishment be sure and choose BIO 543 - Biophysics! You'll be glad you did!

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

It's time to regroup.

Here's a quick and dirty narrative of the latest saga of my life.

I have been charged with backing up one of the computer systems at work. So, I go the secretary and she orders me 100 DVD-R's that end up not working apparently because that drive only reads DVD+R's. So, I regroup.

I know! I'll get someone to take me to Staples to get DVD+R's. That way the DVD burner will read them and I'll be good to go. I go ask someone, they say yes. Then they say no. They'll bring me DVD+R's tomorrow. They forget to bring the next day and the next day and the next. So, I regroup.

'I know what I'll do!' I say to myself in a moment of brilliance. 'I'll purchase an external hard-drive to back the data up. . .and I'll use the department truck to go get it!' I go to get in the truck, and trundle off to Best Buy to get said external hard-drive. I purchase the external hard-drive with a fair amount of ease and think my luck is turning around. I go out to the parking lot to get back in the department truck and crank it.

Click, click, click. So, I regroup.

Try again.

Click, click, click. So, I regroup.

Obviously the battery is dead. I'm in the parking lot of Best Buy in a town 30 miles away from the one in which I live in a state owned vehicle. After several phone calls the Physical Plant guy comes and jumps the truck and I make it back to campus.

Now armed with the external hard-drive I go to backup said computer and wait, there's people on it. Can't do it now. So, I regroup. 

I check the sign up sheet and wait an hour after they're supposed to be off the machine. But they aren't. I'll wait until tomorrow. So, I regroup.

Tomorrow comes and I successfully manage to copy the data off of the computer onto the external hard drive. Today, my luck has to have turned around. But it hasn't. I've spent the last 4 hours of my life trying to get my own machine to burn DVD-R's of which it is completely capable. I've re-installed drivers, re-installed software, downloaded new and different software, re-started my computer at least 14 times, used 5 different DVD-R's and 2 different DVD+R's and begged, pleaded, threatened and repeated the process all over again. It still is not working. So, I must regroup.

It's five minutes until 5 and I have to go because it will take the whole five minutes to dissemble my CPU from the monitor and lug it down the hall to the elevator to the roof, pitch it over and get back to my office in time to collect my things to catch the bus.

I believe thoroughly in creating your own luck.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Do you want to join my new support group?

I'm starting a support group. It's going to be called MDOMWTIF (AICDAAI).

It's short for: My Doctor or My Wii Thinks I'm Fat. And I cannot do anything about it.

I put that last part in parentheses because it's mostly vowels and acronyms really need consonants to make them work.

If you've had the pleasure of conversing with me lately you've noticed the extreme mood swings that are exemplary of dieting and/or hours of a frustrating video game that may or may not have taken over my life at the current moment. (Seriously, there is no need for a video game to be that damn frustrating. The stinking bosses are easier than the stupid elk-seal hybrid experiment.) But I've been dieting and I was pseudo successful. As of last Thursday before the Mellow Mushroom trip and before the weekend of food that was this past weekend, I had lost one pound.

Now at my family practice doctor's office, not only does the nurse check your temp and pulse and put you through the grueling process of weighing you in the middle of the nurse hive so that they all may judge you conveniently, they now get out a tape measure and measure your middle.

Because really, you weren't aware that you're fat?

'Who me?' You always say. 'I'm not fat, I'm big-boned. Now hand me those cheesy poofs.'

And in case you were, in fact, in the dark about your body size, your video games now can weigh in on the verdict. Yes, I have plopped onto the Wii Fit board and had it determine, that I, am obese. Yes, you read correctly. According to the Wii I am obese. I personally choose to believe that the Wii was built for tiny Japanese people and thus it believes that all Americans are over-sized, over-sexed and generally gigantic.

I understand that there is an epidemic sweeping this country and that as Americans we're the heaviest we've ever been and we're raising a nation of children that are the heaviest they've ever been as well. As an adult I look at myself and compare myself to the other women in my family and I realize that I indeed look exactly like they do. Yes I may have an extra 10 pounds that I could stand to lose or an extra 30 but for as far back as I can remember the women in my family have always whined about losing weight. In fact I believe it's what links me to them genetically. Not that we all have the exact same body shape and are emotional messes but that we all want to lose weight and can be only marginally successful. Yes, I could probably lose ten pounds if I ran a marathon everyday but I'm not going to change my body shape and I need someone to accept that. If I need to drag my entire family into the doctor's office with me the next time I go to prove to that man that I will look like this no matter what I will. (He's been my doctor my entire life. Yes, he was my pediatrician too.) I know he's dealt with my mother on more than one occasion so he should compare us and see that I'M ALWAYS GOING TO LOOK LIKE THIS. It isn't going to magically go away.

But then he'd probably say anything to get the gaggle of women that is my family out of his office. We're kind of a mess.

Anywho, first support group meeting this Friday, 7PM. . .at someplace where we can eat fried food. I can't talk about my vulnerabilities without being fat, happy and full. And knowing that my arteries are screaming.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Beach: The Hurricane Can't Stop the Critic.

I thought it would be fun to title this post like a bad B-movie horror flick.

I went to the beach this past weekend with my mother and dog. I was going to do a daily blogging from the beach as the ocean normally makes me feel all introspective and thoughtful and stuff. But the before we managed to even leave my mother had smashed my phone in the trunk.

Not that my phone was inside the trunk and she shut it, sealing it away in the trunk for a length of time--that she shut the trunk on my phone, my phone was physically in between the trunk and the body of the car and she closed the trunk onto my phone. Multiple times. Because it wouldn't close and what do you do when something doesn't close? Try, try again.

Hence busted phone screen. Hence weekend at beach without external communication. Hence hysteria.

But here are a few gem's of my mother's conversations over the course of the weekend:

'He's nothing but an old fucking shithead.' - Obviously  some random old guy.

'They gave us a free order of hushpuppies for our trouble'. . .'No it wasn't nice of them. I told them to do it.' - Because the people at the BBQ place didn't assume that she wanted french fries with the sandwiches and she had to go back in and order them which is their fault, thus they owed her some hushpuppies. Hell, she got away with it.

'I wonder why no one else is parked here. Why are they all parked over there?'. . .'That no parking sign doesn't mean me, does it?' - No Mother, it doesn't.

It was a bad trip for babies, as she yelled at two different women. One for bringing her infant on the beach and the other was in the seafood restaurant. This woman was incapable of taking her child outside to cry. She felt it would be resolved more quickly if she merely asked the child to be quiet, which it wasn't. But I'm sure she wishes she would have taken him outside as my mother berated her in front of her whole family for being an idiot. To Mom's credit not one of her family members came to this woman's aid to defend her or anything. Maybe they think she's an idiot too?

Thursday, September 2, 2010

My Burgeoning Romance and/or Fuck You Dominos

According to my horoscope today, I am good at two things as a pisces: Being Psychic and Romance.


I'm supposed to be on my toes for a surprise meeting in which I use my unbeknownst mental faculties to manipulate someone into coitus. With me. I'm supposed to be involved in this process.

Neither of which have happened. I don't think my ESPN is working today. And the only dirty thoughts I've had all day occured first thing this morning when I had an email from Fucking Dominos about $5.99 pizzas. (Let me tell you. I could ravage some pizza.) For serious? Are they aware that I'm on the third successful day of my diet? That this, the third day, is truly the determining factor of whether or not I can stick to my diet; That if I can make it through today on a limited number of calories that I can make it work for a little longer; That the mere mention of carbohydrates and cheese to my starved, unsaitiated brain causes hunger tremors?

Maybe the Domino's pizza is Pisces.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Why Yes, There does happen to be a divot in my forehead.

I'm growing a horn. For serious. An actual horn. I'm not joshing.

Anyway, I'm bored so I'm feeling the topography of my forehead to see if my horn will be lonely and I feel the divot that has been in my head for about 17 years now and I thought...that'll be a good story.

Swimmy flashback stuff.

I was a pretty lanky, clumsy kid. I've retained the clumsiness. The lankiness, not so much. My gramma had this theory that we weren't allowed to play inside unless there were gale force winds outside so we, my cousins and I, were at the kid across the street from my gramma's house. We were probably hopped up on icee pops and Coke. The soda, not the drug.

My two cousins have no natural fear of anything. This has carried over into their adult lives without much incidence. Which I must honestly admit is more than a little amazing.

So there are five of us. Four boys and me. I happen to have been the oldest and the brains of the operation. Although I can't say without a doubt who decided we should play kickball. Or who picked out the landmarks that were to be the bases.

The other thing you need to understand is that as a child I was exactly the way I am now. Competitive as hell with a fairly large smart ass streak. 'Of course I must go first', I insisted. 'Of course, because I'm the oldest.'

Apparently since I went first I was the first to notice that there was a bird feeder in front of second base, which happened to be a dogwood tree. Needless to say that a lanky 10 year old can gain a lot of momentum in the short distance between home plate and first base and then increase that momentum from first to second.

I run smack-dab into the bird feeder. I imagine that my head snapped backwards and my feet kept going. I imagine this because A) I couldn't watch my ownself run, that's absurd and B) I was knocked out cold.

I woke up in an eerie silence staring at steeply swaying, yet mangled bird-feeder spewing seed as it completed it's swing back and forth. Then one by one 4 heads come into my field of view. Two were smiling, (Family, what can I say?) one was grimacing and one looked languid and pale. That's how I knew there was probably a fair amount of blood oozing from head. Poor kid never really could handle the sight of blood too well.

Thankfully the neighbor kid's mom was a nurse and she had enough sense to know that if things were quiet, someone was bleeding. (I'll say here that I spent a lot of blood at their house, I was never sure why.) She waited to deal with her own swooning child until she had staunched my bleeding and determined I didn't need stitches. Then promptly sent us across the street where I was instructed to stay on the porch because Mamow didn't want blood on her carpet.

It healed up quite nicely and I don't even have a scar. But if you ever have occasion to run your finger over my forehead you'll notice that there is a good sized divot in it. Yes, I chipped my skull on a birdfeeder.

Chalk yet another mishap to my inability to pay attention and my need to show off.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Country mouse v. City mouse

Here are some directions to tell if you're a city mouse or a country mouse.

Do you know what a mountain oyster is? Have you ever eaten one?

If you answered yes to either of these questions, you're a country mouse. If you said yes to the second question. . .Gross.

Do your teeth number in the single digits? Do you have teeth?

This one is difficult because it really could go either way. What? Crackheads don't have teeth and they're city mice.

Do you own a Jesus trucker hat? In pink?

If you answered in the affirmative or had to stop to think about if you did or didn't: Country mouse.

Is your idea of a fun day off the farm to get on the PART bus without any clue, Any CLUE, where it's going, therefore causing you to stand in the aisle and yammer on to the driver about what is happening and where you're going causing said bus driver to miss the FREAKING EXIT SO THAT NOW WE HAVE TO TURN AROUND AND WE'LL BE FREAKING LATE AND MISS THE NEXT BUS?

Eh, I think you get the picture.