Oh The Douchebaggery

I woke up feeling awful.

I was weirdly tired as I have been the past few days.
I say weirdly because I haven't been doing much at all.
I swear I had to deliberate the pros and cons of remaining as is and just allowing my dog to pee on the floor.
And it's cold and rainy, perfect "staying in bed" weather.

Finally, my better judgement won out and I threw some paper towels down.
Just kidding!
I layered up and released the hound.

I got back inside to make coffee, realized I was out of cream, threw the whole day in the pisser, and got back in bed.

I spent the next few hours watching the daily show on my laptop.
It's the only news source I turn to these days.

I finally had to get myself together enough to bathe because I had an interview.
I quite honestly didn't have my hopes up because though I may be charming, witty, own a Breck girl smile and buns you could bounce a quarter off of, the job market is, shall we say, as slumped as Lindsay Lohan after a night on the town.

But, gotta' keep the faith, right?

I'm not gonna' count any chickens before they hatch, but fingers crossed, I do believe I nailed it.

This comes on the crux of a new potential writing gig (unpaid, but damn interesting).

So,I get in my car enjoying a tiny glimmer of hope.

And I turn on the radio and they are playing And She Was by the Talking Heads.

Friends, that is one of my all time personal favorite feel-good songs.

So I am just driving along, singin' aloud...
God was my co-pilot.

Just as I pass the big blue bug, I spot a rainbow.

Are you kidding me?

You could have knocked me over with a unicorn sprinkled in fairy dust.

It turned out to be a good day.

I was walking to the store today and passed a bevy of candidate support signs.

I also think I ran into Nosferatu, but that is a whole other story.

So I was thinking about politics. How, I am indeed and whole-heartedly behind one candidate. How my politics are right 100% of the time and how people who disagree with me disgrace humanity...and the good ol' American way.

Shit has been bleak.

Sliding down a razor, dousing yourself in acid and then rolling around in rock salt, bleak.

So imagine my dismay when Hollywood came a courtin'.

Every time I watch t.v. (and it's a brand new day, America, 'cause I watch all my t.v. online---fuck all this converter box business! I don't need no stinkin' H.D., I need something that converts television into something less like a giant seething pile of crap) I am bombarded by some loser celebrity telling me about my need to vote.

Duh.

If you don't vote then you are retarded.

And if you are retarded, then that means you are voting for the McCain/Palin ticket.

So, we are safe, right?

But right now I must immediately bathe and say a few rosaries, 'cause that Nosferatu is one scary dude.

I recently re-joined the Y because I have nothing better to do.

I am ambulatory enough as it is, I don't need some cardiovascular machine making me it's bitch! No thanks.

But I am just bored as hell and need something, ANYTHING to do.
So, I take stock of all the possible options (a. completely succumbing to crazy-person behavior and walking around the burg mumbling and acquiring tics, b. moving to Cambodia to do charity work....i.e. help raise the Pitt-Jolie's next pet project, c. taking up macrame, or the god awful d. making myspace a serious habit) and I settle on the most palatable recourse...working out like a fiend. Anything to cure me of the "what-to-do's".

It's helped a bit.

I have some place to go besides my godforsaken apartment.

I even amp myself up before the two block walk with mantras like, "hey, maybe you will meet somebody new".

As if!

Since I renewed my membership I have seen a score of ass-hats that I would never, ever, talk to if polite society didn't deem it necessary.

There is the grunter. He is at the gym 24/7 and I'm not even sure if he has a larynx because all he manages to say is "uuunnhhh" and "aaaahhh".
And p.s. your parachute pants are not fooling anybody!

Then there is the anorexic hipster.
I'm confused.
You are on a cardio machine and wearing a sweater vest.
What?
I was on the machine behind you for well over an hour. I must admit, It's kinda' enviable that your body doesn't emit sweat. But, seriously! I was trying to figure out your butt the entire time I was there. I am not the proud owner of junk! Wish I was...but you are just frightening. Get yourself to an outpatient clinic immediately. Honestly, Karen Carpenter called and wants her body dysmorphic disorder back.

And finally, former customer who might just double as a creepy exhibitionist.
Why is it that every time I am in the locker room i see you in all your Adam and Eve-ery?
It's weird.
It makes ME feel like a perv.
And you wanna' make small talk when we are both buck naked?
EEEEEW!

Dress thine self..and then maybe?

At a later date.

At a less pervy environment!

As you well know, I have been caught in the grips of some life-changing bull lately.
I just don't know what to do to fulfill my dream of making my life as awesome as it possibly could be.
I wanna be loving it like those air-jumpers in the mid-nineties era Toyota commercials.

Instead I feel like I am driving around life's highway in a Yugo.

So, I have a friend, Julia (x's and o's, my friend, and thanks for changing the landscape of my google analytics page to represent the foreign corners of the globe...keep on logging in...I needs to cover the global map, muahaha!) who is a trekker of the nether regions of our little planet.

She writes about her travels and gets a few odd jobs along the way.

Other words, she is living my dream.

I had it first!
Only I never had the determination or drive to make it happen.

Ladies and gents, if there is anything I have in abundance right know, it's determination and drive.

Something has got to change.

So, while Julia's been continent hopping and sending ecstatic reports all along the way, I have been sitting at home reading every last jet-setting account with more than an ounce or two (okay, maybe a kilo) of envy.

And as much as she has enjoyed her travels, my little butterfly wants to return to the cocoon of stability.

She suggested months ago that we move out west together.

I was all in, because it had been a plan of mine years ago, which was quickly thwarted when I ended up totaling my car in Memphis.

Graceland was sooo not worth it.

A moment of kitsch was all I got from what was supposed to be a soul-lifting sojourn.

So we have talked on and off about the possibilities.
The where and the when, as you have it.

Two days ago I got a report from Julia, who is now on her way back to the states.

She suggested Hawaii.

Fire up the poi, boys. I am there.

I had a fleeting moment where I doubted my Hawaii-iability.
I was thinking, "Could I really subsist in the great land of the brohan?"

But I had to mentally slap myself when I realized, Duh...It's Hawaii.
Who couldn't make a go of it there?

They have my two favorite natural features, the mountains and the ocean.

Crap. I think I might just be a wahine in the making.

I finally found a philosophy I can get down with.

I am newly obsessed with the show, Taboo, on The National Geographic Channel.
And by newly, I mean since 5 a.m.

Damn this arctic tundra we live in! I was arrested from sleep no less than four times last night.
I miss you, slumber...You were so kind!

So I am tooling around on my computer because it is within arm's reach and I am too motherfunkin' cold to leave the warm nest of my bed.

I am willing my stomach to shut up because it wants cereal and I can't bring myself to put on pants just yet and make the 10 foot trek to my kitchen.
Instead I banish my culinary yearnings (albeit meager, because my cabinets hold mainly spices and dried goods---livin' la vita dolce here, my friends) in favor of a few pre-dusk viewings of Taboo.
I won't insult your intelligence by going into detail about the shows content.

The name speaks for itself.

I got caught up in a few episodes about nudist colonies.
There was some full-frontal attack on my senses.

Why are nudists always so damn un-sexy?

It's completely counter-intuitive...Why you wanna drop your drawers when you own a twelve pack?

Beats me!

I think the problem is that National was covering (to loosely coin a phrase) American nudists.
I swear they don't look so rotund and furry in the south of Cannes.

Whatever.

My most favorite episode thus far covers a wee group called Freegans.

These are people who subsist on the waste of others.

Hello! That's me!

Those who live in or around the east-side know there is an abundance of pure gold in the form of trash.
I have furnished my apartment with cast-offs.

And those of you who know me, know that there is a certain dumpster residing in the 02906 that is shangri-la for unwanted goods.

Finally, a name for me.

I am a freegan!

Only snag I can foresee is food appropriation.

I am not at all jiggy with the idea of eating vegetables from a dumpster.
I am not interested in harshing your mellow if you happen to be alright with said excavations.

Hell, one of my best friends hitched her way from North Carolina all the way to Big Sur with zero cash in pocket and a will to thrive subsidized only by eating trash remains.

I have worked at enough bakeries to see that there is a huge contingent for this activity.

But I draw the line at old food.

Unless I spent money on it.
Then I am in it to win it.

I say, psshah! to bacterium!
What's a little tummy-ache compared to the act of getting a meal for free?

I have said it a million times...Providence is small.
But lately it has been getting downright claustrophobic.
In a town that's barely a few miles wide, it is impossible to retain any amount of anonymity.

It blows.

Inevitably, one has to encounter their past.
I'm not sure of the proper decorum when running into exes. I don't know if anybody is prepared for such awkwardness.
But I'd like to think that I can rise above the weirdness of the situation and behave like an adult.
I mean, we all know there is a giant fetid elephant in the room, so let's just do away with the pretense, say hello, exchange some non-controversial pleasantries, and move on.

Where is all of this coming from?

I got the fake-out today.

You know the move.
I'm sure we have all been guilty of the maneuver at least once or twice.
I was walking to the bank today when I became unfortunately aware that I was sharing the sidewalk with someone from my past.
Now, let's just delve right into this conundrum...
You have seen me naked!
You have heard me utter some meaningful nothings.
We shared a period of time together that meant something, at the time.

I am no floozy!

My dating history is not littered with many casualties.
So when I see you out, I expect at least a nod of recognition.
Instead, you are pretending to make a call.
I know you are pretending because you are overly animated and flushed and just doing your best to act like the meter-divide that seperates us somehow offers a cloak of invisibility.
Guess what?

I saw you.

And now is where karma catches up with me because, I too, have used the fake-out.
I'm not proud.
Uncomfortable conversations are not high on my list of enjoyable activities.
But we are for all intents and purposes (not to mention, calender-wise) adults.
Say hello to a sista'.
I'm not going to bite your ankles, I swear!

Yeah, I have now decided to be French.

Something about short grey days and chilly nights makes me go all Anais Nin.

Shit, it's cold.

I have been drudging through my wardrobe, dressing and undressing, all just for a short jaunt to the Cumby's.

How the hell did this happen?

It seemed like yesterday I was walking around in cutoffs and a tank top.
I am now wearing my fuzzy pants.
They are not cute at all.

How the hell am I supposed to get laid if I am dressed like a frickin' Inuit?

Ahh, man.
I need cute winter-wear.

Does that exist?

I have recently been introduced to a book-sharing club (by proxy, thank you! I am not at all that nerdtastic!).

I don't buy books anymore.
I have moved often enough to learn that accumulating books is moot.
I mean, once they are read, they are read.

My father called me a couple of months ago asking my permission to ditch the library I had growing in his garage.
Yessir!

I loan books from the library.
I own a few essential tomes...
Please Kill Me, Lovesigns!!!, Roget's Thesaurus...the classics!

So, color me tickled when I find a venue for sharing books that doesn't involve actual pay for purchase.

The fun thing about this literary community is that you never know what to expect.

One week it could be some Tuesdays with Morrie affair, the next, The Collected Works of Will Shakespeare.

Shit runs the gamut.

I recently received a book entitled Into Thin Air.
I am obsessed.

I dig non-fiction, mainly because most modern fiction seems hackneyed and makes me doubt my chosen dubious profession.
Reading is a lost sport, sadly.

And writing is the Chicago Cubs of professions.

Ouch.

So, I would have never gone to a book store and chosen this account of an Everest climb. It was chosen for me

I am going to give a shout out to my N.C. friends 'cause they know I like to hike.

I adore making mountains my bitch.

I have fervently climbed to peaks well after daylight has given way and resources and reserves were low, whilst pushing for the summit.

I'm not fooling myself.

I know Everest is no Candy-Mountain land..but gosh, darnit! I have made climbing Everest my new "goal to achieve-before-I-die".

If one Sandy "reprehensible" Pittman can do it, for the love of god..so can I.

I have nothing of real import to do...
Nothing to set the alarm for, nothing to mark the calender for (save friends' visits, doctor appointments, the charting of my decline into poverty, etal.).

So I have become obsessed with minutiae.

I have slept an average of three hours per night for the past week and a half.

How do I fill my days?
I have been cleaning like an underpaid and overworked migrant.

Two days ago was a dear friend's birthday...Happy, happy, Rosa Sparks!

Because I am like the little drummer boy and have no gift to give, I decide to a)
make a mix tape and b) clean out my closet and give my cast-offs to said wonderful lady.
Apparently she liked both. Or she is just completely un-superficial and doesn't give a diddly about the net worth of my "present".

Either way, awesome!

It took me well over an hour to clear out my wardrobe.
I was psyched to have spent 60 minutes doing something conclusive---something with a purposeful end result, if you will.

I proceeded to get down and dirty.
I rid my apartment of all meaningless detritus.
Bye-bye, high school and college yearbooks! Sionara, first drafts of stories I thought I might someday complete. So long, letters from exes!

You have been exorcised from my living space.

So I am running around just trying to find things that serve no purpose in my life so that I can do the ultra-cleansing ritual of throwing them to the curb...and I keep coming back to my refrigerator.

When I was working full time I never cooked.
Excuses prevail but, not the least of which is, I am tired and can afford to eat out.
Long story short...my fridge became the burial ground for more than a few take-out containers.

I am quite frugal.
I refuse to leave half of my dinner uneaten.
It goes in tupperware if I am at home or in a box if I am out.
Thing is I never eat the remains.
The act of taking it with me soothes my conscience even if it makes for a nasty breeding ground of bacteria in my Frigidaire.

One plus about not having a steady income is that I honestly don't eat that much.
I don't have to spend a ton on groceries.

And seeing as how I am on a fucking gluten-free diet and gluten-free equals highly specialized and highly specialized means I shop solely at Whole Foods and Whole Foods equals wallet raping, I can thank god for the small grace that I am not a foodie.

Whew..

Anyways, Ms. Rosa came over after my crazy merry-maid fanatics went down and was like, "Holy, shit! Your apartment is spotless and so organized!"

Then she went to retrieve a drink from my fridge, which I formerly dubbed Darth-Rator.

"Umm, haven't hit the fridge,yet?", she asks.

I answer that, with all my newfound zeal for cleanliness, the refrigerator is the final frontier.

Scary ominous shit goes on in there that I don't want to know about.

Who knows? The purple moss growing on the butter tray could hold the cure for AIDS.

I'm too scared to look inside sometimes.
True story.

Folks, I got so antsy today that I tackled it.
My fridge is so clean, Outkast could write a song about it.

Cue Star Wars music.

The final frontier has been conquered.

Sadly all that is left on it's landscape is a loaf of bread, some cottage cheese, a million condiments, and some turkey dogs.

Fortunately, thin is in.

I have been feeling stressed lately (see below post).
The world is just nuts and I have been seeking some kind of recourse for my anxiety.
If I had the dough, I could just throw caution to the wind, get loaded on liquor and drugs, flee to Vegas, and kill a stripper.

Been there, done that.

Time for something new.

As you know, I have taken to walking everywhere.
I am doing my part for the environment (hell, my mere presence outdoors is beautifying the neighborhood, zing-o!) while keeping my mind on leaves and pretty things rather than the current state of affairs.
But it's turning chilly and Providence is only so big...I'm getting cold and bored.

So, I decide to take me some yoga. Word.

I grew up on the ancient art of pretzling. My parents were hippies, tried and true.
So I am not unused to the exercise.
It has been awhile though, so I am unsure of what to expect for my first class in three or so years.

Let me tell you, when you have taken yoga from a ninety pound human contortionist in a dingy little mud hut in India, the paunchy nose-breather at the Y is not at all intimidating.
Dude teaches ghetto yoga.

So I situate myself in the back, because I am new and quite frankly don't want to embarrass any of my humble classmates with my skills, fo' realz. I kid! (no really, I kid.)

And I find myself next to "the talker".
This woman keeps asking me questions like, "He wants us to put our hand where?", "Is this supposed to hurt?", "Do you come here often?"...you get the gist.
All the while, every time we strike a pose, she is groaning like Monica Seles.

People keep turning around with a look in their eye that says, you are ruining my chi, bitches.

I am guilty by association.

And there was a mighty wind a'blowin'.
I imagine that 80% of those taking the class are vegetarians/vegans and because the class starts at eight, it's safe to say that a fair number of them had already supped. Surely some legumes were consumed. Any one could have been the guilty party.

But the aroma came from my vicinity.
Jesus H.

Ever feel like announcing aloud(much to the condemnation of the gaseous person standing--or as in my case, grunting and rolling about ,next to you) that you are innocent of the smell?
Like when you enter a public restroom after the previous patron has dropped the bomb and then you have to exit defiantly with that disgusted look on your face that says, "Not me!".

It's gearing up to be election time and, as per the usual, everybody seems eager to share their views.

And because I am no stranger to espousing my opinions whenever and to whomever I please, (Dear RISD student in ironic Urban Outfitters tee, Everybody does NOT love an Italian girl---I happen to think Sofia Coppola can kiss a ripe ass....don't get me started on the theatrical version of the Virgin Suicides--rubbish!) people have been bending my ear for weeks about my take on the race.

There is a surfeit of coverage out there just gagging up the airwaves and I have had my fill.
Most of the the mainstream news is manufactured hype anyways.

The televised news program is a fairly boring genre.
There's no stunts, no laugh tracks, no real big draw most of the time.

I mean, ever heard the way these guys enunciate?

Take for example Stone Phillips (The fact that his "name" is Stone should tip you off that he's a fraudulent prick)..."I'm Stone Phillips. Tonight, a gruesome discovery--there seems to be a giant metal rod betwixt my ass cheeks. More after these commercial breaks".

Even respected news anchors like Brian Williams sound like douchenozzles.

Point is, I have enough problems to worry about than the fucking Dow Jones falling another hundred points. I get it---hell in a hand bag!

I have heard enough!

So, I vow to keep my eyes and ears off the news until this election blows over.
I will vote. I am no dummy.
I will watch the returns.
And depending on the outcome, I will breathe a sigh of relief and resume to my pundit-ing, or I will pack my bags and hitch a bus north.

Amen.

Oooh...my name is in lights.
Or at least my candy-bar's name is in script.
http://theplug.net/35/ifyoucouldnameacandybar.htm

I highly recommend this blog.
Mainly because they printed something I had to say.

No seriously, it's one of the only blogs I read.
Good times.

I was taking a walk around town yesterday, as I am likely to do, like....everyday.

Generally speaking, I am freaked out by the police.

Even when I am being nothing more than an exemplar citizen, I am frightened.

Nothing makes me more nervous than seeing the MAN in my rear-view.
I drive a little slower.
I chuck anything and everything I am smoking.
I am the picture of propriety.

I have had quite a few issues with the police...because I break laws...and often.

I don't endanger other people.
I am not at all reckless.
I reserved that right for my twenties.
That's what your twenties are for, right?

No. I break stupid laws.

I jay-walk. I throw the occasional cigarette butt out the window.
I commit man-slaughter.

Who doesn't?

So, I am pleased when I come across a 5-0 who has a sense of humor.

For some reason, all the cops on the east side hang out at the take-and-bake pizza place I often walk by.

They recognize me and my dog.

And for a gag that never gets old...

I got one of those hair-dryer looking things that measures one's speed pointed at me the other day... followed by, "You are walking way too fast...Slow down, miss".

I love you Mr. Cop Guy.

Remember that sense of humor the next time you pull me over and I claim I am on "cold meds".

One of my fave shows is Jeopardy....'cause I am a nerd.

But I am pissed as hell at it's proctor.

Will Ferrell might not have done anything good in awhile, but his parodies of Mr. Trebek are so hilarious and on-point that they made S.N.L sweet...for at least a hot minute.

Jeopardy has been on air for well over 20 years.

I don't need to research that fact because Toolie Trebek and my family have some history.

I was born and raised in the redneck riviera...a.k.a. Myrtle Beach, S.C., a.k.a., home of Hooters, a.k.a., Putt-Putt capitol of the world, a.k.a., birth-place of Vanna White.....You get the point.

Trashy!

For a clearer representation of the wonder that is the South Carolinians...
witness this beauty.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww

So my mom, my sister, and I went to some stupid tourist attraction one day.