Wednesday, September 30, 2009

the falling leaves drift by my window

MMMM, the beginnings of fall. Can you feel it? The past two days have dipped a bit into the beginnings of fall weather. And while it's just a taste, I absolutely love it! I can't wait for it to get colder and while we don't have much of a fall season where I live, I'll take it. I won't even start in on how much I miss the change of seasons in France, how the air gets so crisp and you can almost taste fall in the wind as you walk down the crowded streets, wrapped in a cozy coat, hands tucked into deep pockets, a scarf wound expertly around you. The whole experience for me is pure magic.

I really think I'm going to make moving more north a goal at this point. I get to go to San Francisco again in December for work and I am so super excited about it! I love that city, love the weather, love the art, love the clash of cultures, love the food, love the people out on the streets, bumping into each other. It's fanbloodytastic. I think, in a couple or few years, if I can afford it and I've really built my resume with my current job, I'm going to get my butt out of this town. And anything north of say Santa Cruz would make me happy, preferably near the coast. *sigh* I get all wispy and gooey just thinking about it.

How can anyone be unhappy in the fall? I know, I know, the majority of people get all depressed this time of year. It gets cold, the sun disappears, people stay inside, ergo, depression. When I lived in Paris, our French friends had a running joke that they used to freak us Americanos out. They told us that during fall and winter, people jump in front of trains on the metro. So, of course, whenever a train stopped, we were convinced some poor sod had hurled him or herself to their perilous metro-death. What is that in French? Le Train du Mort? Something like that. My French is tres rusty. Point being, most people prefer the warmer weather, when the flowers bloom and the bees start humping birds. Or something like that.

Except, and maybe this is more proof of my insanity, I'm so not like that! I love when the heat dissipates and everything gets cold and the leaves fall. I love the light drizzle and the grey skies. I love that! Lovelovelovelovelove!

A few years ago, I wrote a little poem the on first day of fall, which I feel is appropriate today because of the change of seasons, sure. But, it's also pregnant with metaphor which seems particularly applicable to me right now. Enjoy:

a quarter past midnight and the doors are locked tightly and demurely
slightly hazy, the parking lot lights shimmer and quiver
the air is tangible, crisp, teasing with autumnal promises
as it crackles with energy full of change and remnants of childhood

with the irresistible excitement of something new and intriguing,
I part my lips just slightly and breathe in the barely fall breeze
it even tastes like autumn, like leaves the color of elementary schools
and miniature ghouls marauding for sugar and smashed pumpkins

yet, on this eve, whence a season dares to dance round my heart,
something new floats in the night, a flavor unknown, perhaps merely a scent
I barely sense it, inhaling deeply, attempting to discover its source
but I cannot, for while I am wholly captivated, it is all too faint to discern

and at that, tiptoeing into the recesses of my unconscious, it becomes just that
simply a memory I cannot finger, only smile at the deliciousness of my anticipation
and realization gives way to imagination or perhaps the reverse occurred as well
for a new and stirring scent at the door of a season, is inherent in such change

still something else tingled in the breeze, more than change, more than the night,
more than inklings of fall, but something old, forgotten, abandoned like a childhood toy,
battered and broken, though apparently not beyond repair, for it took one a new taste
and I reached for it once more with all the exuberance of a child in women's clothes

for the thing so unnameable, yet desirable, inhabits many names and faces
it is the face of hope, a catalyst for life, hurtling toward a future I cannot foretell.
hope so childish and silly only as an adult do I truly want it, do I appreciate
its possibilities, its promises, its unabashed fervor for seeking unforgettable moments

like tonight

with the air so crisp and raw,
electric with desire
and something new and promising
standing before me
a life mine for the taking
if I but smile

Monday, September 28, 2009

like a red rubber ball

The time has come, to talk of many no no, Lewis Carol, get the eff out of my head so I can write something sensical. Right. Like anything that comes out of my fingertips is ever sensical. Oh well. Allow me to start over if you will. The time has come for bed, but naturally, that's the time my brain really turns on.

I had a good day today. When I tell you what happened today, you are going to want to climb into the computer and slap the living shit out of me, begging me to see reason. You are going to say, "DAMN, woman! You had a bad day. You had a BAD. DAY." But, I won't see reason. So you can just keep on a slappin'. In fact, that slap is starting to feel good. Hold on, let me put on some music. Uno dos tres...

Where was I? Oh yeah, my good day. Well, let's just list all the good points. I had a sucky as weekend. So I was glad to wake up in a good mood after a really, really good (damn good) dream. I was glad to be busy, to go to work and crack into some of my projects, to make a dent in my work. I normally despise Mondays with the core of my being, but I was stoked to go in today. So what if that's in comparison to my craptastic weekend? So what. Life is all relative, my friends. And I was ready to be happy today. Ready for a good, damn day.

So you can imagine my chagrin, my utter despair at discovering a missing valuable item. I went to the Target on my lunch break. side note: isn't life much better with definite articles? because I was looking for some pink shorts to wear at the cancer walk on Sunday. And I found some. Can you believe it? Happy days are here again. Right? Well, when I went to purchase said pink shorts, my wallet was gone. GONE. Like, not buried in my endless pit of a purse, in my monstrous sack of a bag. Gone. And let's clarify: I wasn't upset yet. I was only inconvenienced and irritated. Like, this is so entirely LAME!

So, then commenced the frantic search for the wallet. Never mind that I was driving licenseless. I retraced my steps, I called friends. Nada. Then commenced the canceling of the debit card, my corporate credit card, the iTunes card. Meh. I still wasn't upset. Even when I announced to the boss that I would be late tomorrow because I now have to subject myself to the insanity that is the California Department of Motor Vehicles, (I can think of a better explanation for the letters DMV, but I won't repeat them here) I wasn't upset. In fact, this whole ordeal has been kind of funny. Funny in an I just ran over one of my crazy cat lady neighbor's many cats kind of way. But still funny nonetheless.

It's kind of ridiculous right? I had the shittiest of shitty shittastic weekends and at work on Monday, my wallet disappears. And who does that kind of thing happen to? Me. Moi. Yours effing truly. It's highlarious.

I'm pretty sure it's stolen, and pretty sure it was right out of my office. Unless it fell out of my purse pit, I don't see how I could've lost it so easily. But, oh wells. What are you gonna do? I could wallow and cry and bitch, but I've already done enough of that for the next ten years so I'm all out of wallow. If you have some extra, I could bring myself to do a little, but only a little. I know my limits.

So whatevs. I'll spend my morning in the DMV (you're trying to figure out what words I was thinking of aren't you?) instead of doing the writing I need to for work. That's life. That's what all the people say. And still, and still, I had a good day. I enjoyed my happy hour with the therapist. Hell, that woman makes my day. And I enjoyed seeing Mo and drinking tea and getting her addition to my Halloween costume. Which, oh em gee, is the best costume in the history of Halloween. In the history of costumes. In the history of the world. The best. And I'm not even exaggerating. I'm just being honest. Is your curiosity piqued? GOOD! Because I'm not telling what it is. You have to wait for the pictures in one whole month. MUAHAHAHA!

I feel sexy when I do my evil laugh. I mean, don't you?

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Stone Cold Fox

I am feeling good for the first time in days. I didn't this morning. This morning I felt like shit that had been trampled on by roadkill that had been run over by a dumptruck which then was hit by a train. And ultimately, I felt like the shit and the roadkill and the dumptruck. Just not the train. Fucking train. Fuck him and his train track. (Well, not actually, I won't be getting any action for a while.)

But that was mostly the hangover talking. Good god why did I drink that much? I do not even remember the last time I was that drunk and I'm reminded why I drink so minimally. And I suppose that's good for what I'm dealing with. I mean, I may eat my words tomorrow or in a few days. I may go back to weepy idiot woman again. But getting that pissed really got a lot of purging done. Sometimes all you need is a drunken cry to feel better later. Much later, after the hangover dissipates.

Because hungover me was just as shitty. I was cranky and miserable and the whole world looked like a rotating ball of shit. But, after walking to meet the friends at breakfast (because I wisely left my car at my friend's last night and hoofed it home), a painful grocery store trip, a little forced cleaning (more on that later), a subsequent nap which was pure heaven, and a long-needed phone convo with one of my favorite people on the planet otherwise known as a best friend (my lovely Lynn who just moved back to Oregon and I'm so happy for her!), meeting the friends at the farm again (god love them), and the gift of a very fantastical book from the effervescent Morgan, I'm feeling better. I feel tired, yes. Worn out, oh fuck yeah. But, better. Somewhat human.

And since this was intended to be a short post, I'll just quickly mention the cleaning. I LOVE to clean. I hate laundry and dishes, but otherwise love cleaning. It's relaxing, just focusing on the task of organizing and cleansing. It always calms me down and clears my head, not to mention that the clean space helps for a more sanctive (I just made that word up) living space. But, by my standards, my place is in squalor right now. Not by normal standards, mind you. Many people live much more disgustingly than this, but it's just not something I can handle. And I just have not had the energy to clean at all. I don't even recognize myself right now. So, I forced myself to do a little. Not much, mind you. I've been more in the mood for a pout. But, maybe tomorrow I'll be able to do a little more and a little more after that. Baby steps on the bus.

And speaking of Bob. Or not really, but what a great segue. I have to quote this great book Mo gave me called, "It's Called a Breakup Becaue It's Broken." You can find it here. And I'll keep you updated when I get further into it and have benefited from its infinite yet often acerbic wisdom.

My fave excerpt so far:

"But the flip side of breaking up - and here's the Best News part- is that you are also breakingfree from a relationship that wasn't working. Freedom means no more agonizing, no more drama, and no more time wasted on someone who wasn't appreciative of who you really are. Freedom means you can redesign your life and the sky's the limit - you can take all the things you hoped for in your relationship, all your dreams about what love should be and feel and look like, and find a guy who will actually make them happen. During this time when you feel decimated and powerless, remember that you are still in control of at least one thing- yourself...You get to decide whether to use this situation as a turning point, and be dignified in your grief, or let it overtake you and hold you back. So start now. Start today. Don't be a victim of heartbreak, be a take-charge superstar! (Yeah, that's kind of goofy, but you know what we mean.)"

And you know what else I like about this book? It keeps telling me I'm a superfox. And I just love that kind of affirmation.

And here's a picture of me being a superfox and rocking the mic at karaoke last night:

weepy drunk idiot woman alert

Clearly, Internet, it's time to get down and dirty and totally honest. With you. With myself. With the whole goddamn world. I am not holding it together. I am not.

And I've just arrived home at this moment from karaoke with friends (heart you guys!) still drunk. And when I say drunk, I mean DRUNK! And I should explain, I don't really get drunk, not since my very early twenties anyway. But I guess I figured that if I ever deserved to be drunk and forget and drown my sorrows, as it were, tonight was the night. (For the record, why I ever thought I deserved to feel this crappy, I'll never know. Being drunk sucks.) I drink occasionally, but I never drink enough to get drunk. I know my limits and tonight I very much in full awareness crossed them. But, despite the rockage of the karaoke (well, who knows. I could barely even hear myself), I really am bedraggled. And some guy yelled at me for taking a chair and made me cry, which god knows would not normally happen. Normally I'd tell that dickwad off. But, as shitty as I feel, he made me cry. Like sobbing. Into my friend's shoulder. That's not normal.

And thank god for my friends who let me lug my sorry self around them all day and watch football and generally bitch about life. I know that's what friends are for, but they really proved their worth today. They didn't judge me for one second or try to convince me it's not worth it. Because, and this is why I love them, they get that this phase I'm in, this bitchy, weepy, catty, irrational phase, this is important in the heeling process.

Nonetheless, I'm not quite ready to heal. Today, today I'm no longer angry. My anger has caught a ferry to weepy land. I mostly just feel sad, sad for the loss of something I thought promising. And sad for my own rejection. And yeah, I so totally have rejection issues from being adopted. And yeah, my crazy abusive mom used to leverage that to get me to be perfect. But, I haven't felt this rejected in a long time, not since...well, you don't really want to hear that story. But, suffice to say, it involves a much more serious incident that this one and that leaves me wondering what the hell is up.

I think maybe it's that I feel so flippantly discarded. Like one day, with no warning, it's all over. And I have no say in that decision. It's incredibly disempowering but it also, well it just sucks. And of course no one want to hear that they're not the kind of person you can have feelings for. And I really think that's what I've been thinking about. I think I would've preferred to have not heard that, even if it was the truth. I don't want to know that someone I like just doesn't have feelings for me. It makes me feel...less than I know I am. But knowing isn't the same as feeling.

And you know what else? I miss him! I do. I miss the friendship. I miss being able to call or text whenever I want and share something. I miss the laughter. And you know what? I liked him. I did. He made me laugh. And we had fun. And to have that discontinued without my consent, well, how is that fair? It's NOT fair. I know. I know. Life isn't fair. But, I don't have to accept that right now.

And I learned some things from a friend today which were at first reassuring. I guess. But, now I don't know what to feel about it. I don't know how I want him to feel. Do I want him to feel badly? YES! That would make me feel better. But, no, no I don't want that. Not really.

I hate that he's made me this weepy idiot woman who cries in public. What IS that? I don't do that. I'm a tough cookie. Men come and go and I have always managed to take care of myself. Since I was like 15, it's always been just me. Me against the world. I've never relied on anyone else. It's all me and I appreciate me. I barely remember the last time I was this affected by someone. It was a looooong time ago and I just don't get it. We didn't date that long. We weren't even a couple. Who knows how many snatches graced his door. But for some reason, I'm having a hell of a time dealing with this. And I really didn't see this coming. Not the dumping, I mean, yeah, that was a little unexpected. But I mean my reaction to it. I've become a woman I don't recognize.

I'm not sure what that means. Maybe it's good. Who the hell knows at this point?

I do know that I can't live like this. I have a life to live and things to do and a paycheck to earn and this pathetic person I'm being is just not good enough for it.

Shoot. Me. Now.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

hotter than a whore in hell

IT'S. SO. DAMN. HOT! I am so totally, completely over summer and I am so totally, completely over Southern California weather. I love Fall. I repeat, I love Fall! So, where are you Fall, you fickle bitch? I need you to come back and kick Summer to the curb. It cooled off a bit a couple weeks ago and helena handbasket was it wonderful! But, it was just a tease, like any good woman is. And triple digits just stomped right back.

Now, don't leave yet. I know you're going, is she really talking about the weather? Well, yes, yes I am. But stick with me, I'll talk about myself too. Do you really think I'd disappoint you like that?

The forecast promised me today that it will cool off next week. I for one fell for it and am staking all of my hopes on that damn forecast. If it doesn't cool off, I may sue. Who will I sue, you ask? Who cares? We live in a litigious society, I'm sure my lawyer will figure out someone to litigate. I say that as if I'm one of those exotic people on TV who retains a lawyer. Isn't that always impressive? Any tiny offense and they announce, "you'll be hearing from my lawyer!" I have to admit, that's so uber cool. I'm going to go around threatening a fictitious lawyer from now on. Think of all the people I'll scare. Think of all the free swag I could get! Hell, even if I did have a lawyer on tap like the kind of beer you only drink in pints, I would never have the guts to actually sue someone. Even if someone murdered all my friends and family a la the Massacre at Two Pines, I would probably chicken out and end up paying him for his time and trouble of going through arbitration and possibly trial (Notice how I'm throwing around the legal jargon? Are you impressed? Intimidated? Turned on?), never mind that it would probably be a murder trial. Maybe I'll just hire a kick-ass blond to go on a revenge killing spree instead. That would be hot.

I might be going through some kind of Tarantino withdrawal. Anyone want to see Inglorious Basterds with me? No? Losers.

Or it might be that this insane heat is making me crazy! You know how people talk about cabin fever? I think the same thing happens in extreme heat. It's not like anyone can handle being outside in this for too long! So we all camp out inside, parked in front of the a.c. wearing refrigerated underwear and eating ice. Thaaaat's right. Hold that image in your head for a minute. Are you done? Awesome. But that's not healthy! Humans are supposed to be outside, soaking in life and other people and the crisp autumn air, while tromping through piles of leaves and stopping briefly to re-wrap your scarf or pull on your new knit gloves. *sigh* When will fall get here?

Maybe I should move. I mean, this isn't really an option right now. First, I just moved like 6 or so months ago. Wait, really? 6 months? Has it been that long? Excuse me while I count on my fingers. May, June, July...3, 4 nope. Nope. It's only been like 5 months. Dude, I used to be so good at the math. Nonetheless, I just moved. And moving sucks. I don't exactly want to go through it again right away. And have I mentioned that I love my little house? I love my little house. It's so cute and there is so much left that I want to do with it. There is so much nesting left to be done. And moving away from my current city would take some serious life rearranging which really isn't realistic right now, with my current financial situation and this is current shithole otherwise known as the economy.

On the other hand, I don't know how many more summers like this I can handle. I think I'm nearing my limit. So in the meantime, a girl can dream can't she? Join me in this dream, will you? C'mon in. The water is great!

How about Seattle? (Let's just start at the top and work our way down. I'd say Canada, but dude, that would be filling so many of my ex-pat fantasies which I'm just not sure if I'm ready to confront and if I'm opening up this fantasy, I'd rather move my ass to Europe. I've lived in Paris, so maybe the South of France this time...maybe Cassis or Marseilles. mmmm the Mediterranean. Wait, where was I?) Back to Seattle. I haven't been there in years, but it's so lovely and green and wet and the city is so cool. And what is the temp in Seattle right now? Why it's 63 degrees right now, Internet. Did you hear that? Didja?? 63! Sixty three. That is like 40 degrees less than the pool of lava where I live is right now. And it's already cooled off like 10 degrees from it's hottest. Damn, that's so not fair.

Let's move down a few states, shall we? In San Fran today, it was only 70 degrees and it's only 55 right now. Now, if you ask me, which let's face it, you are, that is some lovely fucking weather. And despite how unbelievably expensive it is in the city, I can't help but love it. Every time I am in Frisco, I wonder why I don't live there yet. That city just so completely suits me. Sing with me now...I left my hearrrrt...Okay, okay, I'll stop singing. But you know you liked it.

I'm getting bored with this game and I know you are too, so let's quickly just go down the coast and see what I'm missing out on. Santa Cruz: 55. Monterey: 55. Cambria: 56. Santa Barbara: 70 (getting hotter, but 70 is still heaaaven). We all know it's miserable in Los Angeles and South Bay and the OC right now, so let's skip those and go to...Oceanside: 73. San Diego: 70.

And what was the point of this exercise you ask? The point was to realize that everywhere else north of south of where I live is exponentially better on like 50 levels. And every summer I live here, the more I realize that. Maybe in a few years I'll have the guts to try to write for a living and that will free up my habitat options. Maybe. Or maybe a random rich millionaire will die and leave me his (or her) entire fortune.

Yeah, and Ryan Seacrest likes girls.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

all the single ladies

Hoo boy am I feeling crappy today! Between stress, the suckiness that comes with being a woman (I swear, god, when I die, you and I are having a little chat about that), the ri-goddamn-diculous heat, and a headache and nausea from what I assume is a side-effect of a flu shot (more on that in a bit), and the debacles of this afternoon, I am like the the ambassador of crap. No, the president of crap.

Yeah, so, flu shot. I have never, ever, had a flu shot in all my life. Between having dubious opinions about vaccines and also believing that human beings are supposed to get sick so that we can survive in this germ-filled world, I've never gotten one. But, with my BIG EVENT coming up, I figure I just can't get sick. I don't have time to be sick. No way no how, dude, can I get sick between now and the middle of October. Not happenin'. So, I caved into peer pressure (which, by the way, I totally survived in my teens, but I cave as an adult. WHAT is that about?) and followed two coworkers to get shots like lambs to the slaughter. But, now my head feels like Nine Inch Nails has taken up residence and feel like my stomach is hosting a miniature Cirque de Soleil. And my arm kinda hurts too, you know, where they stabbed me with the death juice.

And maybe it's not side effects. Maybe it's all psychological and the headache and nausea are one more thing I'm bringing up with god when I finally meet her, or him, or it (see my last post). Whatever god is, I do not approve.

But, enough bitching. I had intended to post something relating to the title of this blog, I really had. I know you are all going, what is UP with this crazy batshit woman?, so I'll get back on subject. I was going to say that when I feel like shit, I like things that make me laugh and since the world seems obsessed with one music video by one Beyonce, I'm going to share some fabulosity with you.

And okay, I realize that just posting a ton of videos is a complete blogging cop-out. But, you know what? Too bad. Do you really want to hear more about digestive pyrotechnics? Didn't think so.

I promise, even if you hate Sasha Fierce, you will find milk shooting out of your nose watching at least one of these, even if you don't drink milk. Really. That doesn't happen to you? Hrm, sounds like a personal problem.

First, a classic. I loves me some J.T.

And now some very sophisticated choreography that I think is really an homage to Miss Knowles and her dance stylings (this kills me):

And last, a little bit of genius. (and if you don't watch this show, OH MA GAH, you should):

And with that, I say adieu.

Monday, September 21, 2009

inject the estrogen and call it a night

When it's nearing midnight and you're feeling too hyper to sleep and more emotional than usual (Yes, emotional, not emo. We old ladies in our late twenties like to pronounce the whole word.) because good old Aunt Flo is about to call any second now (bitch), and you know tomorrow is going to suck anyway because you're way past your bedtime, and you've been riding the cranky train for the last few days (Aunt Flo again), the best thing to do is just give in to the madness.

And when that happens, Pamprin, a purring cat, and Will & Grace have the power to make everything better.

And I can hear the fellas groaning at this estrogenfest, but I have news, dudes, estrogenfests are necessary for your survival. Trust me on that one.

'Nough said. The end. Say goodnight, Gracie.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

saturday night smackdown: berries vs. mice

So some old friends drug me to Knotts Berry Farm yesterday, a place which, despite being a southern Californian, I haven't stepped foot in since maybe 1996. As a teenager, Knotts wasn't that bad. It's the perfect place for teenage mayhem and mischief if you're 16 and the most important things are hormones and bravado. But, as we slogged our sweaty selves in the heat (well, I slogged, the boys pretty much jogged from ride to ride) around the park, I realized there's a reason I haven't been back and also why that other theme park (YOU know, that one with the mice and pirates and churros, mmm churros. You know. Disneyland!) still gets my money time after time. A dad we met in line with his very hip little girl (she had a very chic angled bob and incredibly chi chi sunglasses) put it very well: Knotts is the poor man's Disneyland.

I couldn't have said it better myself. Let's examine:

Parking. At Disneyland, parking is not an art form, it's a science. The parking structure at the D-land is an OCD anal retentive's wet dream. So naturally, if I go to Disneyland, I take extra panties just in case. There is no confusion. You are directed along the incredibly structured parking route by the smiley people with the light-up airport flashlight swords directly to your spot just as everyone in front of you did and what everyone behind you will do. It's precision. It's a perfectly organized parking lot. *sigh* At Knotts, we drove around the entire park trying to find the lot, made more U-turns than I like to make in a year, and then battled Wal-Mart shoppers with strollers the size of small cars to find a spot which was ultimately just big enough for my vehicle that the guys had to get out before I parked and, as for me, well it's a good thing I exercised the day before, I'll tell you what.

Cleanliness. It goes without saying that one of the best things about Disneyland is how fucking clean it is. It's freakishly clean. If you happen to be lucky enough to spot a bit of trash on the ground, you'd better yell BINGO before some attentive employee cleans it right up so fast you're not sure it was there in the first place. And don't get me started on the bathrooms! They're. So. Clean! If I were a doctor and at all qualified to make absurd recommendations, I would recommend giving birth in a Disneyland bathroom. They're that clean. I mean, at least the women's restrooms are. I can't speak for the men. And thank god for that. At Knotts, we did spot two employees who seemed to be equipped to clean the streets. But they were talking, so there's no way to know if they do, if fact, employ people to clean. And don't get me started on the bathrooms. My advice is, if going to the Berry Farm, bring purell.

And that brings me to truth in advertising. Everyone knows that at Disneyland you're gonna see a giant fucking mouse. That is either the Mickey himself or his peckish girlfriend Minnie. It's a guarantee. And if you don't care for them, you can eat Mickey pancakes or Mickey ice cream bars or buy Mickey wear. Dude, if mice frighten you, steer clear of the Disney, but I absolutely know for certain that every human knows what they are getting themselves into when venturing into the Happiest Place on Earth. But at Knotts, do you think they have berries? Huh? DO YOU? Well, I didn't see a single one, that's for damn sure. And I like berries. Berries rock. I like berries on cereal and ice cream and in lemonade and in my mouth. You'd really think that someplace that calls itself a berry farm would sell berries. But no. You'd be mistaken. Like I was. Dammit. And somebody please explain to me how Snoopy became the mascot? Don't get me wrong, love me some Peanuts. It's fine holiday fun. I just love that Lucy. What a bitch. That's a girl after my own heart. But, I just don't see the connection. Somebody call Robert Stack.

And speaking of unsolved mysteries, nobody ever dies at Disneyland. No really, they don't. Nobody. Ever. Has. Like, it's a long-held legend that if you're about to die, they cart you off Disneyland property. That way your untimely death can sully the city of Anaheim instead of the Happiest Place on Earth. And while that is supremely creepy, doesn't it make you feel all cozy inside knowing that no one has died on a ride you are about to board? Nobody said anything about injuries, now, but to the Disney, death is just off-limits. Isn't that magical? *ahem* But, I'm pretty sure that many people have died at the Knotts. If the shut-down rides with little crosses and flowers around them (granted it IS Halloween Haunt time) aren't an indication, then I'm sure there has to have been a gang shooting or twelve. I just prefer to know that I'll leave the park alive, even if only briefly.

But, I will say this, unless you go to Disneyland in mid to late September or in January to mid February, it will be crowded as hell. And you pretty much have to pick your poison. Battle strollers and moms with no regard for the back of your legs or battle teenagers having sex in public and smoking? It all depends on your level of tolerance, I suppose. And I realize Disneyland is expensive. These days, if you hand over your first born child, you can visit both Disneyland and California Adventure. But, I guess you get what you pay for. And they let you have your child back at the end of the day. So that's not so bad.

I suppose this is the point in the blog where I write that I am not affiliated with Disneyland in any way and no one from Disneyland paid me to write this raving endorsement of the park, without which their revenues might grievously plummet. Because, you know, I am so influential and millions of people take what I say as gold. I'm like Oprah. Only white. And poor. And with better fashion sense. I mean, dude, if I had her money, I'd way cuter than she is. I'd have twelve personal trainers too, all from different countries. Wait, where was I? And Knotts Berry Farm, please don't sue me. When you get churros, I might go back. And clean bathrooms.

Friday, September 18, 2009

just pop a pill, shuga

So, without writing about work, which I really shouldn't do, probably even to say good things, because I really like my paycheck, I've still got to say that I've been under an unbelievable amount of pressure lately.

This is how I feel lately:

Though, for the record, my desk is way more organized than hers, even at my most stressed. And my hair is way better. But you knew that. And what the hell is she wearing? That tie? My god, someone buy this girl a mirror. No wonder she's stressed.


I have a big event looming (no, not just big. HUGE. MONUMENTAL!) and just not enough hours in the day to get everything done, even if I take my work home, which, bee tee double you, I have been. I'm not sure that I'll see at light at the end of the tunnel until after said event, at which point I'll just collapse in such pure ecstasy at completing it and living through it. When that happens, please celebrate my survival with me and send flowers to the Community Hospital, room 211.

god I hope that is a real room and that it is occupied by a 75 year old woman named Myrtle. Please make Myrtle's day. She likes Gladiolas and lime Jello.

Naturally, this is taking a toll. I am punchy and cranky and sleepless (because I'm stressing about all I have to do) and irrational and sensitive. My synapses just aren't firing and I don't think I'm making much sense, at least I don't sound like I do. Example of a typical conversation this week:

coworker: hey, Andy, did you get blah de be blah done yet?
me: (oh my god, I fail at life and they hate me) no, but did you know that the French plan to colonize the moon in order to export moon cheese, the last untapped cheese? damn, these people are genius. do you think they'll make the moon people learn French and become their slaves? That would be so typical. Let's protest!
coworker: greaaaaat, let me know when you're done with blah de be blah.

Do you see? It's an utter mystery. Was I really talking about French Moon Cheese or was that just what my brain interpreted whilst I was actually answering in a completely sensical way. Maybe there is a point when I become so tired that my brain takes over my body and I become this automaton genius which can churn out incredible amounts of work without ME ever actually thinking a coherent thought. It's fantastic! I really am a genius! Except, I also feel migrainey and dizzy and nauseated, so maybe the side effects aren't worth it after all. Fine print: not for women over 50 or under 45, not for women who are pregnant, may become pregnant, ever have been pregnant, ever want to get pregnant, or who came out of someone's pregnant belly at some point in time, or even come into contact with the concept of pregnant. But, Automoton Genius is not for everyone. Please consult your doctor to see if Automaton Genius is right for you. And don't smoke.

See? Punchy.

The point of all this was that I got to go home half a day today to make up for working last weekend and I am laying in my bed trying to nap, but am way to0 dizzy and stressy to sleep. And while I would loooove to drag my ass to the car and drive to the rite aid and buy some tylenol pm, I don't want to. So I won't. Because really, I hate those pills anyway. I have always struggled with sleep, well, not ALways, but off and on for years. And I would rather wait it out before I pop some chemical concoction that will eventually turn me into a whacked-out, drugged, crazy lady with too many pets, a pile of newspapers everywhere, an addiction to shopping off TV, and a world view that includes me at the center and all the planets and their inhabitants rotating around me. Really, I just don't want to be my mom. And no, I'm not exaggerating. I was actually leaving a lot out to be nice.

Suffice to say, I am trepidatious about medication. Plus it's like 3 pm and I don't want to sleep 8 hours and wake up at 11 tonight ready to boogie. That's just inconvenient, really.

Did I mention that I'm punchy? You all will think this is hilarious when I'm roommates with Myrtle and her Gladiolas that you sent her. Who's laughing now huh? Not Myrtle, that's not who.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Mr. Annoying Parker

This morning, as I rushed to the Starbucks to caffeinate myself and grab my Greek yogurt with granola (apologies to my friend Morgan, but I do sometimes go to Starbucks), I was faced with one of the more annoying parking lot incidents: the dude with his door open. He was just sitting there, one leg in, one leg out, primping in the mirror (no, he wasn't on fire; he was actually an older-ish white guy in khakis. khakis! good god, is there a more unflattering article of clothing?), and not noticing that I was creeping into the only space next to him in an attempt to get close enough to be noticed before I ripped his black and shiny car door off. I clearly did not want to do the latter, but hell, dude, notice me! Just as I was about to honk, as I am loathe to do, he finally did notice me and jumped out of his car and closed the door.

Do you think the story ends there? Do you think I simply parked my car, retrieved my morning sustenance and went merrily on my way? Oh no, Internet, you are wrong. Mr. Annoying took that as his window. And you know, that was probably smart on his part, because the 60 something white guy in khakis is really just not my type. If you went to school with my dad, I have to draw a line. A girl has got to have standards. Not only does he walk with me into said Starbucks and hold the door for me, but as he flirts amid apologizing for his parking rudeness (which, let's be fair, I did appreciate), but he then goes on to explain how he really hates it when people do that, but how he was once so angry, he took a guy's door off. His door wouldn't do that, mind you, it's too heavy, but that dude was asking for it.

Now, do I really have to explain any more at this point? I mean, any girl would be falling all over herself for this dude, right? Let's go down the list of irresistibly attractive qualities shall we? One, old enough to be my dad. Two, rude parker. Three, clueless as a box of hair. Four, gets so upset whilst parking that he rams into people's car doors, tearing them off and leaving them lying on the asphalt like roadkill turtles!! My god, who DOES that?

Needless to say, I didn't ask he the other party pressed charges or what his insurance carrier did. I smiled in a please don't stuff me in your trunk way, collected my yogurt and green tea and booked it for my car. Hell, I was late for work by this point anyway.

But, that interaction got me thinking that shit like that happens to me every damn day. Why the hell am I not writing about it? I used to be a pretty good writer. I even used to blog regularly. So, here you go. My attempt to write again hast begun. Read at your own peril.

And here's a video of a batshit lady who treats her cat like a human:
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