Oh The Douchebaggery

Why the deuce don't you love me?

Aaaargh.
I cannot be that bitter tard who complains about getting older while maintaining a perpetual singleton status.

But come the fuck on!

Every dude I meet is either in a relationship or contemplating screwing one of my friends.

What is so awful about me?
The ladies like me.
Here I go tooting my own horn, but, yeah, the ladies like me a lot.
I could be a seriously busy lesbian.

But I am not.

I choose the dudes.
Sorry ladies...don't mean to break those hearts but a butterfly has got to fly, ya' know?

So my mom has this theory.
And of course she's my mom so she might be a bit biased...but I like her story and I am fucking sticking to it.

Mom thinks I am just too smart for most bros.
That's the kind of rationale I can get down with.

So here is my challenge for the day...

If you own a pair of gonads and think you are up to it...
give a sista' a call.

I promise scintillating, mentally challenging convo and, if you play your cards right, a possible nip slip.

Oh yeah, boobs.

I have those.

Tis' the season for well-wishings and all that garbage.
But I am here to remind you that things still blow heartily.

oh crap..did I just say that?

Yeah, consider me the beckoner of un-joyous things.

I have scores of grievances that just leave me appalled...ala' the fatuity of cheer accompanying the season.

2008 sucked hardcore.
Even those who weren't affected economically must admit that the past year had little in the way of good tidings.

A few examples...
1. George W. reigned supreme (oh, and on a not-so-side note, we are still occupying Iraq)
2. The economy earned a top grade in FAIL!!
3. Paul Newman died, thereby rendering my list of top two (holla' Marlon Brando!) stars I would totally fuck in their heyday, down to zero.
4. I have a herniated disk---probably not on your list of fuckage, but this is my rant..so---go bob an apple or something.

Point is, I have neglected this blog.

So sue me.

I promise that on January first I will write something relevant...

Who am I kidding?
Probably not as much relevant as acerbic and mean spirited.

Until then, get your nog on.

Shit, my family is weird.

Today was my nieces' birthday celebration.
Much love, Nico and Lena!

And my dad and step-mom flew into town to join in on the festivities.

Much fun was had.
We read books, made yarn-balls (yup! I was a straight up girl gone wild with the crafts today), and played dress-up...the usual.

PAR-TAY!!!

So my pop and I are kickin' back in the big people room talking current events and family stuff when he informs me that my brother recently got married.
Wait. What?

I like to think that I am close with my family.

Sure I dodge a call here and there when I just can't take the inevitable barrage of questions...i.e. "What are you doing with your life", "What happened to the last guy you were dating", "Are you eating enough", and, oh, my fave.."Should we be concerned"?

But I keep in touch.

My brother lives in Nicaragua, so it's feasible that distance just got the better of us.

But MARRIED?

That's kind of a big announcement.

So I am assuming there is only one reason that Michael (and, Mike, if you are reading...congrats and call me immediately) neglected to tell me the news.
You are worried I won't approve.

Pisshah!

I learned for the first time today that you are fluent in Spanish.
How did I not know that?
Color me impressed.

Then I learned you were married.
Color me confused.

I love you bro.
Reach out and touch someone.

So, after having my mind completely fucked, My mom and I take our leave.

I couldn't shut up about Michael and his new bride.

My mom looks at me and asks, "Are you feeling the pressure"?

I had to take a moment before I realized, excommunicated though they may be, my parents are, for all intents and purposes, still stalwart Catholics.

And I am their spinster daughter.

Thanks Michael and Mehera.
For making me look bad since 1977.

Mama has a new job.

I know I should be hallelujah'ing, but it's not like I am movin' on up.

I had to go to TJ Maxx today to find an undershirt that would magically transform my new work shirt into something less than a one-woman burlesque show.
Whoever decided that a form-fitting, transparent, poly/lycra blend was appropriate for daytime wear is clearly a sadist...
or, well...a straight man.

I'm not exactly complaining.

I mean, it's Christmas. I keep seeing softly lit commercials with the faintest twinkling of bells and voice overs of people talking about their loved ones followed by the ubiquitous ad-spot for jewelry, toys, McNuggets...ya'know, all proofs of love, Capitalist style.

I would love to go shopping.

Wait. Let me reiterate.

I am the rare woman that detests Sex and the City (go on haters, bring it!), loathes fruity drinks (folks, that splash of cran is just there to fool you into thinking I am a lady), and HATES shopping.

I would just love to be able to have that disposable income.
And let's face it...If you are buying somebody an ear-muffler/sock set, chances are you have money to throw away.

Yeah, we are in a recession.
I am feeling it.
You are probably feeling it.

If you had the foresight to make your chosen field that of a doctor, a pharmaceutical sales rep., or a real-estate agent dealing in foreclosures, than YOU are only feeling the aftertaste of champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

Good for you.
And Merry Christmas to yours!

As it stands, I have this romantic vision of Christmas...sugar-plum fairies and all.

We might not have had a lot of money growing up but my parents were damn good at fostering dreams.

So. Here I am...When my mother was my age she already had three children and more than a few Christmas' under her belt.
As much as I am bothered by the actuality of the season, I am heartened by the intent my parents' gave it.

It's all about surrounding yourself with the people you love.

I mean, if I was on the dole and had one stick of government cheese left, sure as shootin', I'd pick up some complimentary toothpicks from the Whole Foods and make a ghetto deli platter to celebrate the occasion.

Looks like I am about to be able to afford my own cheese.*

*(But it really is about surrounding yourself with the people you love. And the cheese you love. Stay away from my cheese, good for nothing scoundrels!)

I'm Yosemite Sam!

Merry Christmas!

I have moved around a lot.

I suppose some of the times the destinations have been legit.
Parents divorce, I moved to a state with a lower cost of living, I went to college...blah, blah...natural progression.

But the majority of my moves were solely based on fanciful impetus.
Here are some of the major reasons I have abruptly left one state for another:

My friend slammed my head into a car door and I was so pissed I decided to ditch town.
I really liked a song about the place.
My out-of-state friend was lonely and swore we'd be the prettiest girls there..

The list goes on.

Along the way I have made some friends, joined a few circles, and vagabonded my way out of dodge.

Every once in a while a person from my past suddenly materializes and we end up engaging in some stilted rehash of our past, regardless of how little time we actually spent together.

This used to happen often via myspace when I used my real name.
It always made me feel awkward when I would get a friend request from someone I barely remembered or someone I outright disliked.

Long story short, I dropped that account.
Now both my myspace and facebook accounts are under pseudonyms.
The people I talk to on there are actual friends.

So, imagine my dismay when I was walking to the store the other day and ran into a girl who grew up right down the street from me.

One in a million chance here, as I grew up in South Carolina and now live almost 1000 miles away.

I also rejected her as a friend on aforementioned legitimate, now defunct, myspace page.

Uncomfortable!

I'm not an asshole.
I just always found this girl unbearably boring.

You know those types who have absolutely no opinion about anything. They never make a joke. If you go out with them they cling to you like so much saran wrap.

Imagine this scenario...
You go to a movie.
Afterwards, as so often happens upon exit, you give the show your own review.
Something like,
"Wow, those special effects were so sub-par. Talk about suspension of disbelief! And that story line must have been written by a fifth-grader. I mean why did all the women from planet Zortron look exactly like Victoria Secret models? And do you really believe that Liv Tyler would end up with Steve Buscemi?".

And boring friend opines, "Yeah".

Period.

So, I am standing outside the store just trying to think of things to say.
I am asking open-ended questions, attempting to get an ounce of reciprocation from a clearly dead horse.
I was so bored I could have taken a nap right there on the curb.

Talk about "blanket" statements! Oh, I am bad!

It maybe lasted five minutes but felt like mother-effin forever...so I did what I had to do...

I pretended I had an appointment and gave her my number, promising to "catch up".

Dear lord.
Please don't punish me for giving out false digits.

Some friends accused me last week of referencing my age too much. Or, rather, that I often complain about getting old.

Let me defend myself a little here.
I know I am ,by no means, old.

When I talk about getting older, it's usually in relation to the fact that most of my friends are younger than me.

All of my friends are extremely bright. Stupid people bore the hell out of me (take note, Anne Coulter).

And I know that wisdom is not directionally proportionate to the length of one's tooth.

It does seem ,however, that while the majority of my contemporaries, as well as my younger friends, had their shit figured out by twenty-five, I am still floundering.

I have been applying to jobs that pay the equivalent of what I was getting paid when I was fourteen and working at McDonalds (and yes, I know, evil empire....but before you scoff, I was underage, had an in, and a burning desire to afford a car by the time I was legal. I really wanted out of the styx).

Point is, I just feel too old for the same old dead-end job.

Of course, I majored in Creative Writing, so I might just be one of those people who floats through a banal existence only to get published and lauded posthumously.

I mean, I do actually write (I mean besides this little baby girl).

But I can't seem to figure out what to do about it.
It is sooo hard to get published.
Especially if you are unmotivated.
Ahem, not that that's me. Motivation and laziness are totally different animals.

Aside from all my whining about my lame path at the moment, I am also plagued by my body's reaction to aging.

Nobody can guess my age and I get carded all the time (though I think a lot of bartenders do that to up their tips...especially considering that there are ones who do this repeatedly, probably as a reaction to my emphatic, "Oh yes! You may".

I think my main problem is that I have no desire to become a workaday adult...A clock-puncher.
And because my daily life is so monotonous, I spend every free moment searching out fun.
Perhaps more often than I did when I was half my age.

You may ask (though probably not) where this coming from?

Well, I have been laid out in bed for three days straight, unable to move.
It blows. My body has betrayed me for my youthful escapades.

I have had a bad back since I was in high school.
I ran a lot. Up and down mountains.
That will fuck up your alignment as much as Boss Hog's after chasing the General Lee over a ravine.

So because it has been Holiday season, friends have come into town...and those who are already here had time off.
And because I have been a veritable hermit since I quit my job, I decide to cram three months worth of shenanigans into two weeks.

My back went out on Thanksgiving.

It does it a few times of year and usually with no apparent trigger.

This time, I blamed it on the mattress I slept on.
Usually, I take it easy and recover after a few days.

But because I am a fool for fun, I figure why not just worry about it later?

I am so grown up.

Needless to say, I went out dancing (and in pain) every single night after I killed my back.
Up until three days ago.
It was then that I tried to get out of bed and ended up screaming so loud I worried the neighbors would call in a domestic violence report.

I just cannot reconcile my body's limitations with my need to eat life for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I am totally going to be the old lady on the dance floor when I am seventy.
Only I will be wearing my bling in the form of one of those medical alert necklaces.
You know...the ones you push when you have fallen and can't get up?

I talk.
A lot.
It's kind of my thing.

I like to keep it light and airy for the most part.
But I am pissed as all get-out and this is as close to a diary as I have so... here goes.

What the fuck is wrong with the giant cock-tards bombing the hell out of India?
I get it...sort of.
You are extremists and, therefore, every move you make is a calculated attempt at getting attention.

Why bomb a factory making capitalist-friendly goods when you can bomb a hospital?

That will certainly earn you a place on the nightly news.

I try to avoid politics on this blog as much as possible because I tend to think of it's format as an enjoyable alternative to the suck-fest that is life.
But I have way too many family and friends in India to just remain silent.

I am no Tom Brokaw, nor do I purport to be.
That said, I know what I know... as a human being with a conscience.

Of all the people in the world to target, these industrial sized ass-hats choose the people of Bombay?

I'm going to get a little personal here, as I have some history with the region.

I have never encountered a more lovely, loving, spiritual, and completely centered people.

My love and prayers go out to you, India.

The dick-faces responsible for your suffering are sure to endure a world of hurt considering the folks they are messing with.