Oh The Douchebaggery

Man oh man.

Do you remember when you were young and it was Christmas eve and you couldn't get to sleep because of the promise of shiny new toys awaiting you outside your bedroom door?
And then Christmas morning would come and for an hour or so, you were on top of the world.
And then Christmas night would dawn and you would lie in bed wondering where all the merriment went?

I hate the holidays.

I feel like we use them as a marker for our slow march towards death.

Thanksgiving was a few days ago.
It's a holiday I'm not really jiggy with at all.

Hey! Let's celebrate the raping of this great land of ours! With mashed potatoes! And dead birds!

I mean, thanks, Columbus.
Or was it Amerigo Vespucci?
All depends on your sixth grade teacher's account of "history", I suppose.

That said, I am lucky enough to have spent face time with family and friends.
And for that I am indeed thankful.

But holidays inevitably lead me to think about what exactly I was doing on said previous holiday.

Okay.
Last year at Thanksgiving I had a steady boyfriend.
Um, sucks that I don't now, but, honestly, I can give thanks that he's officially curb material.

I also had a full-time job.
Sucks that I don't now, but...
Yeah. That one still stings.

My sister was pregnant.
Uncomfortable for her.
Not so much me, really.
But I have a brand new member of the family.
And she rules! (but then, she is an Aquarius...so it goes without saying)

One of my B.F.F.'s had yet to take root elsewhere.
I miss you, banana!

But some of my friends have returned.
Thankful scores another!

I am bothered by so many elements of the whole holiday concept.

As soon as Halloween was over, all the fucking radio stations started playing Christmas music in heavy rotation.

Are you kidding?

Who bops along to Silver Bells when driving down the street?

I see you bobbin' yo' head...cause' those bells be a' jinglin'

For real?

There are maybe three Christmas songs I enjoy.
But only ONE time every 36 hours, please.

I'm getting off course here, but Jesus. (I meant that as an expletive. I wasn't naming him as the reason for the season)

Can't we just fast forward to New Years Eve.
Drinks, debauchery, making out with random strangers....that's a holiday I can get down with.

It's certainly not bringing any boys to the yard.

I went out with a friend last night who, as of late, is making all the men swoon.
Of course, she has a boyfriend, so all the attention is moot.

Meanwhile, I am desperately single and ready to get my lovin' on.

What the hell.

Everytime I have a man in my life I am constantly hit on.

It's like some serpent eating it's own tail affair.
One can't win.

So if I need a man in order to get a man, I might as well just settle, yeah?
Attention all balding, overweight, middle-aged, acne pocked men with self-esteem issues:
I'm available!

I woke up late today.

This is good, as I have been a straight-up insomniac lately.
That said, the days are short, the sun is all but a memory, and it's frigid.

I swear I had to summon up my internal jaws of life in order to just get the fuck out of bed.
I figured I had exactly two hours before darkness dawned.

Sure it was sprinkling, nee, pouring...but it was relatively temperate considering the arctic blast that has been the mainstay over our region this past week.

So, I decided to take a walk.

People, my walks are not cute little jaunts around the hood.
My walks are exodus-style journeys.

My poor dog.

It's storming and i am dragging my pooch all over Providence.
She looked like a key character in Watership Down.
And I was the scary fuhrer at her lead.

So I am two hours into my walk when my dog refuses to move.

When I first procured the lovely Ms.Sheena, she was but a baby.
8 months old.

At the time I was living in North Carolina (Holla atcha Ashevegas!).
I spent my spare time hiking.
And I had ALOT of spare time.

I would take Sheena up on the trails with me and she would poop out after an hour or two of our uphill climbs.

I inevitably would have to carry my sweet little bundle of fur down the mountain.

But she's now eight and her time with me has been pretty predictable.

My dog is the most exercised dog on the block.

So I was not at all pleased when, two miles from home, I had to pick up a soggy mass of stink and carry it all the way home.

I was singing a new version of Manilow's Mandy all the way to the homestead.

I have a wickedly talented friend who has recently designed a line of t-shirts.

Friends, I limit the usage of my signature tag line to the few things worthy of it...but I will go ahead and say this,
Debbie Allen's tees are phunky phresh.
That's right, you heard it from Krunky Brewster first.

(For all of you scratching your heads, that's my breakin' name)

So Debs enlisted a few of her friends to model her shirts in order to pump up her look-book.

I was on board because:
a) I'm a ham
b) I honestly have nothing better to do
c) FREE AWESOME T-SHIRT!!!

I'm not harboring any delusions of grandeur.
I know I am no Giselle (even Giselle's not Giselle, but rather a space alien cloaked in humanoid skin), but I like to think I am easy on the eyes.
Dear god, either I have been fooling myself or the camera HATES me.

I do not like having my picture taken.
I am always the one with her head turned or down.
I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I am grandstanding if I actually pose for a picture.

I mean, every time somebody tells me I have pretty eyes, I can no longer look them in the face.
It feels like bragging.
Like, "Damn straight! Look at these superior orbs!"

In other words, I make a terrible model.

I walk around everyday using my face.
I eat, I breathe, I smile, I grimace (oooh, do I grimace!).

But put a camera in front of me and I am a one-trick pony.

My go to face says "Do I smell a fart"?

Tyra and crew would have a field day with me.

Add modeling as one less option in my search for gainful employment.

I am allergic to gluten.

Every time I eat wheat I develop a cough that sounds like a malfunctioning steam engine.
It's not at all appealing.

And, unfortunately, gluten is in everything.
I dare you.
Take out a few containers of food from your fridge or your cabinet and there she is.

Evil bitch is in more food than Will Smith is in movies.

So it makes for a serious quest when I am searching for a suitable meal.
I like esses!

I just got back from staying at a friend's house.
Much love, sugar biscuit!

And due to the aforementioned omnipresence of my gastronomic nemesis, I was left few choices.

Fruit, blah.
Vegetables, blaher.

When I snack, I like to make it count.

Then I see them.
Lit by what could only have been the halo of the gods (or at least a built in shelving bulb) were my beloved cheese cracker of choice---Cheez-Its.

I cracked.
I was in the midst of culinary delight for the briefest of melancholy moments, for I knew tomorrow I would suffer the injustice of bronchitis.

I'm still not sure if a moment of pleasure was worth the gluten-induced huffiness I endured on my walk the following day.

I do know that when (or, I suppose, if) I end up sentenced to the electric chair and the death waiter comes to take the order for my final meal, I will already have a menu in mind.

I will calmly request a freshly baked loaf of bread (with a side of cashew butter), a white pizza, a heaping plate of pasta, and an economy size box of Cheez-its.

It will be, from now on, the best day of my life.

Until the inevitable after party in hell.

I have been waxing lunatic lately.
Seriously, I eat a box of looney-tunes for breakfast each morning.

Those who don't follow this blog regularly may not know that I quit my job just in time for the worst economic collapse in American history.

Oh, yes I did!

So I have made finding a new place of employment my full time job.

Nobody will throw me a bone.

I honestly don't get it.
I am way over-qualified for most of the meager positions I apply to.
And consider my horn tooted, but I am damn personable.
I can rock an interview like AC/DC rocked a seventies era concert hall.

And yet, by noon today, I had sent my resume out to 3 different prospective employers and got back exactly 3 rejections.

I wanna' be done with the food industry.
I really do.

Nothing is sadder than a career waitress.

Shit, there is this one pizza delivery guy who frequents my place and must be pushing sixty who, if humanity has a heart, must be making bank...'cause "there but for the grace of god"...

That kind of decrepitude earns big tips.

So today I went to my mom's in order to "borrow" some dinner and was all kinds of confused.

I went on another of my epic walks and returned at a quarter to 7.

I could have sworn I left at 4.
I judged my time by the show she was watching before I left.

I remember distinctly because Beyonce was on.
I was like, "Mom, since when are you into Beyonce"?

She said something along the lines of, "Ah, not so much. But she's on Oprah"
You know women of a certain age group love the big O (no judging!).

So when I got home and pilfered her fridge I asked about Beyonce's performance.

Mom said, "That was yesterday".

Holy mother of hell.
I have lost track of time.

I need something to do.

Bartender, I'd like some milk with my looney-tunes!

I am once again pissed off at my computer.

Many of you know my problems with mac have been frustratingly frequent.

A few days ago my firefox went haywire so I have been using the wildly inferior Safari browser.
And every time I want to look something up that I know I have looked up like, a million times before, I have to type the whole damn thing in.

Now, I am by no means fluent in computer terminology, but isn't that called enabling cookies?
I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do it.

And I cannot bring myself to go to the apple store yet again, because I'm sure they have started to think me some feeble-minded putz.

I have too much pride to drag my ass into that shame spiral.

And, oh lordy, please do NOT get me started on Itunes.
I can't afford a fancy Ipod. No, I have a faux-pod.
And because apple has such a monopoly on music sharing, I am unable to get my music onto my crappy Mp3 player.
So, when I want to rock out at the gym I am forced to listen to f.m. radio.

Heavens to murgatroid! Contemporary pop sucks a fat one.

There's this new media darling, Katy Perry, who just gets my goat.
She kissed a girl. Big deal. What self-respecting woman hasn't experimented a little.


Wow, you are soooo counter-culture.

So today I heard her new hit.
I'm not sure what it's called, but suffice it to say, it blows meteor-sized chunks.

The refrain has this clever bon mot..."You change your mind like a girl changes clothes".

Ummmmm, since when did girls corner the market on changing clothes?
What kind of stinky-ass dudes are you hanging with?

Some stupid magazine I was reading dubbed this bitch "America's next pop goddess".

Well, if that's true, consider me a heretic.

It has happened to me.

I'm as excited as Jessie Spano when she got her hands on some no-doz and a unitard...

witness my missed connection here...

http://providence.craigslist.org/mis/910790558.html

Thanks, Michael.

Yeah, I know it's a fake. But it's nice to know my friends care enough to falsify an internet listing in order to qualm my supreme bouts of insecurity.

Much love!

If you abbreviate it, you get P.D.P.

It's also the group whose mix-master extraordinaire, one Mr. Dox, got me actin' a fool up on the dance floor at the Local 121 Saturday night.
I must say, I got down in a bad way.

When I say bad, I mean I was throwing out moves like the robot, the shopping cart, and, god forbid, the fishing line.

I know a lot of people don't know the technicalities behind most of these moves (besides the regrettable robot) because I have made them up, Paula Abdul-style, as well as having given them their respective monikers.
I like to think I can dance.

I have seen extensive wedding video footage proving just the opposite.

But hell. I like to dance.

I just cannot shake my fury for the funk.

And my propers go out to all those who had to be within three feet of me on the dance floor because I was sweating so hard I could have been the before pic in an Arid Clinical Strength photo shoot...or an extra on Titanic...after the ship has sunk.

Holy hell, I was drenched.

I swear, I never sweat.
My pores are like a miracle of science.

My friends who have gone on a run or to the gym with me can back me up (please back me up).

But something about hitting the dance floor and getting jiggy turns me into a fountain of perspiration.
i think it must have to do with the pure pleasure of moving around wildly on account of delicious beats. One loses time until the bartender shouts last call and you realize you have been shaking your shit for six hours straight.

I was glistening like Richard Simmons when I finally left the joint.

I have to once again give my stamp of approval for the boys of the P.D.P., for their skills are admirable in that they got a relatively gland-less wonder like me to produce enough moisture to irrigate a small African village.

So my friend is in town visiting.

We went out for a late night soiree (classy, right)?

After the festivities had died down and we had gotten our cardio via funkin' it up on the dance floor, we head to the 7-11 to replenish our resources. My late night snack of choice is corn nuts.

I do love corn nuts. Mmmmm, barbecue, thank you!

As I put my bag on the counter, a well dressed, seemingly sober, and, quite frankly, fairly decent looking dude, turns and asks if he can pay for my purchase.

I am thinking, wow... what an upstanding gentleman. Chivalry is not dead!

My bafflement was evidenced in the form of shocked silence whose void he quickly filled with an addendum...

"All you have to do is suck my cock".

What?

A bag of fried corn kernels for my virtue (not to mention outright professional skills, bitches).

I was so taken aback that I had to walk away and tell my friend.
Visibly livid, she confronted him.

"What the fucks?!" followed as she let out a torrent of rage much to the obvious shock of the clerk.

After the assbag made his exit, the clerk apologized, head hung in shame.

I'm sure he must have felt emasculated.

I know the economy is horrific right now and that any stable employment is hard to come by, but come on!

The customer is not always right.

Especially when he is a fucking pile of misogynistic stool.

It's about mother-fuckin' time!

I swear to god, I was walking with a spring in my step today.

I was smiling at strangers, filled with admiration for my fellow man, and just generally enjoying this new day.

No lies, I was concerned because the polling place was empty when I went to cast my ballot.

And Florida had me freaked for a hot minute, but then Florida always has me freaked.
My Floridian friends know how I feel about the state, but you guys pulled through in the clutch, so thank you.

Hell, I am positively on the verge of tears just writing this.

Obama, '08!!!

Today has just been craptastic.

I went to vote but apparently I was the only one.

I swear to god, during the primaries, it was standing room only. And today I could have said "Obama '08" in a whisper and gotten it back ala' echo.

I'm starting to freak out.

Mainly because I have decided, whole-heartedly, to make good on my plan of getting the fuck out of the U.S. if this election doesn't go my way.

Land-ho! Antarctica!

Yesterday I was at the gym, just trying to chase away the doldrums.

I brought along my latest issue of Blender (which featured the reprehensible media sensation Katy Perry) to read while I attempted to forget my decline into poverty.

I was happy to find an exclusive with Chrissie Hynde, whom I have always admired.
She was going on and on about her recent return to Ohio, her burgeoning community activism in said state, when the reporter asked her about her thoughts on the upcoming election.

Her response was priceless.

She'd rather "vomit and lick it up" than talk politics.

I'm on board with that!

Can we just get this election over with already?

But then Chrissie said something that troubled me.
She swore allegiance to Obama but declared that he would never win.
She claimed she "knew her people" i.e. the people of Ohio, a key swing state.

I might be a perpetual Pollyanna wearing rose-colored glasses, but seriously, I find it impossible to believe that any person owning a fully-functioning cerebral cortex would vote for anyone other than Obama.

I am positively stymied when I walk past a car with a bumper sticker celebrating the McCain/Palin ticket.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I got home today to find this sweet little youtube nugget.

Palin, you are owned!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4aHL12vtEM&feature=related

Yeah..
Not much new here. But I am supersticious and felt I had to say it aloud.

Yesterday was Halloween and, like every single other holiday ever, I was sick.

The majority of those reading this blog know me personally.

Can you remember some kind of holiday-related festivity when I was not under the weather?

It's as if my immune system detests parties.

So, I had a rad costume ( I know it was rad because I tested it out on the audience at "The Friends of Brown St. Park" get-together yesterday afternoon, to much acclaim) and a few parties to hit when I came down with a serious bout of "I feel like ass".

So, I bow out of my party-going, make a mess of mashed potatoes (nothing soothes the soul like dreamy, fluffy, carbs) and take to bed.

I was enjoying some Family Guy when the first of way too many trick-or-treaters came a 'knockin.

I had two bags of candy.
One was a mixed bag...Paydays, Whoppers, Heath Bars, Milk Duds...all respectable sweets.

I also had a reserve bag...the shangri-la! Reeses Cups.

I was hoping that I wouldn't have to dig in to my Reeses.

Not gonna' lie, I usually end up going out before all my candy has been distributed. So the second bag, the one holding the delicious chocolate/peanut butter goodness, was supposed to be all mine.

My very first costumed hellion, after receiving a box of milk-duds, looked at the bag on the foyer table and said, "Can I have one of those too?"

My precious cups?

I expected her mom to butt in, say something along the lines of, "Don't be rude", "Appreciate what you got", "Say thank you", or, I dunno, "I was clearly drunk when I conceived you, you bastard!"

No.

Nothing.

So, being the magnaminous person that I am, I opened my bag of Reeses and gave the brat her charitable due.

Folks, I know we are in an economic decline here, but, what the fuck?

I had more visitors/beggars last night than ever.

I swear people were pulling up in wagon trains.

I had thirty people at my door at one point. And some of them weren't even dressed up.
That pisses me off to no end.

I mean, if a stranger wearing sweats walks up to your door on any other night of the year and asks you for candy, do you give it to them?

Now, I know I may sound like a grinch. But come the fuck on!
If you are over the age of 14 and can't at least dab a little Clearisil under your eyes ala' Bride of Frankenstein, buy your own damn candy!

Traffic got so bad that I ran out prematurely and had to turn my lights out, fearing that I might get egged or t.p.'d.

I am done with holidays.

Bah Humbug.