Lost Gift Cards, Elections Make People Assholes, and Other Fun Tales

I haven't blogged in far too long. So instead of regaling you with every damn thing that's happened, I present you with a series of tales from the last month.

Ahem.



Lost Gift Cards

An as always lovely family member gifted me with 100 smackers from spafinder (dot) com for my birthday back in September and, because I'm much too busy to do lovely things for myself like getting MASSages, they've been sitting on my desk for the last million days.

I had a free day today, so I finally got my ass in gear and made an appointment last week at a spa. I gave them my credit card to hold my appointment and then didn't think anything of it until this morning when I went to grab my gift cards.

Gone. Like, gone. Like, I tore apart my apartment and they were nowhere to be found. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck. The spa was very understanding that I'd be late and I pretty much sobbed all the way to my appointment, telling myself that I didn't want to do it and I couldn't afford it, but I didn't exactly have a choice. I really didn't have a choice. If I canceled, they'd still charge my card, so my choices were to get a massage that I couldn't afford or to pay for a massage I didn't get. Luckily, I'm not dumb so I got the massage.

And it was lovely. Seriously, insanely wonderful. It's ironic, but there's nothing like a massage to ease all your tensions created by getting a massage you can't afford.

I still can't find those damn gift cards. I've now cleaned my whole house and there are only there potential reasons they went missing:

1. I threw them away. Which I find highly unlikely. I just don't see myself doing that.
2. They were abducted by aliens with a lot of tension in their backs. Totally possible.
3. Maintenance at my apartment stole them. Unlikely, but unless they were stolen by aliens, it's the most rational answer I can think of.

It's just money, I know, but I feel like I'm out 200 bucks. $100 that I couldn't afford today and $100 that is probably being spent in a day spa on Venus. Damn Venutians. 

The Saga of the Pet Bed

A month or so ago, I spotted this fluffy, cushy, gray pet bed on sale at the grocery store. Hobbes doesn't have any pet beds, mostly because he prefers to sleep on the bed with me, but with Eminem over a lot, the bed is getting quite full. And I do have this storage basket at the end of my bed, which is perfect for a pet bed and Hobbes could sleep there and feel like he's still on the bed. Plus the gray looks so pretty against my bedspread. 

Ahhhh if life every worked out so perfectly. 

I put Hobbes on it and he jumped off it like it was made of lava. How dare I endanger my cat so! I put catnip on it. No dice. I covered it in treats, which he nimbly grabbed one by one without putting more than one paw on the bed at all times. 

Them Eminem came over and gently patted the bed and told Hobbes to get on it. And the damn cat did. Because that's how much he loves my boyfriend. Luckily for me, it didn't last long and Hobbes wouldn't lie down. 

I tried it with Hobbes again last week, by just patting the bed and telling him to get on it. It worked for a few minutes and he even lay down for a bit, but jumped down the minute I left. He's refused to get on it since. 

I give up. I totally give up. 

Elections Make People Assholes

I'm going to assume you all know that I'm an Obama girl. If you read my Sprocket Ink posts at all, you know I'm a fan of the O man and, thus, was totally celebrating his win last week. As many others were! And many others were not. I totally get that. Had Romney won, I'd have been super pouty and devastated. Such is human nature. 

So of course, Facebook was rife with both sides of that election night coin, as was to be expected. I was all, "Victory!" and "GoooooBAMA!" And others were all like, "It's the end of the world and we're all gonna die!" Or something like that. I'm paraphrasing. 

And I have to say that I love that! That is the fun and power of an election. Emotions run high and people get all passionate. That's politics, baby and I lurve it. 

I did unfriend someone on facebook that night and, I have to say, I don't regret it. It's not what you'd expect either and I'm only sharing this story because of what I learned about myself because of it. 

My friend posted on facebook something to the effect of how shameful it is how we're all behaving, gloating and complaining and it's just an election and how can we possibly put so much trust in power in the hands of one man and we're acting like idiots (this is from memory, mind you). And she told us all to shut up.

And I was mildly offended. But I thought, This girl is my friend and I've known her for years and I'm going to share my perspective and she'll be gracious about it. 

So I wrote (again, from memory) something like, This is how it goes for elections. For me, this is a win and so I'm celebrating. I'm sorry some might see that as gloating, but that's how it goes. 

I honestly think I wrote more than that, but I can't remember. And she replied (and this I remember verbatim): With all due respect, Andrea, that speaks volumes. 

And then my brain exploded. 

I was just so offended, so furious. I didn't care what her politics were or who she voted for or if she thought I was crazy for my politics. But her pride, her condescension, her self-righteousness struck me as offensive. How nice to be so much better than the rest of us! To not behave like idiots over something so trivial as an election. Pathetic little peons. 

That's what I felt she was saying, dripping with condescension  I stared at the "friend" button on her facebook page for some time. I knew it was childish to unfriend someone, something I've never done because of something so seemingly trivial, but was moved to do so instinctually. After too long, I finally did press it and then click that I was sure that I wanted to remove that person as a friend. 

It was a pretty powerful move for something that took such little time, but I knew almost instantly that it's what I wanted. I can't be friends with someone who thinks she (or he) is so much better than I or so much better than everyone else, who can't forgive human nature, who has to tell her friends to shut up when she doesn't approve of them. 

Only inclusive people get to be in my life, people who can accept that we all have differences, even if we fight tooth and nail over them, because that's what is great about friendships, and life, and people, and this country. The dialog, the fight, the celebrating and the sorrow, it's all part of this life and it's how we make it better. 

No, I will not shut up, thanks. Not today. 

A Good Man is Hard to Find

I really wanted to end this with a happy story. Eminem and I went though a little rough patch recently, had a little hiccup, and I honestly didn't know how to deal with it at first, because I've never been to that point in a relationship. Usually, I just get dumped. 

And at the end of the day, with all my shitty past relationships, I don't know that I would appreciate him as much as I do without having been treated so poorly in the past or had my heart broken too many times. Being wounded so often certainly made me scared to stick with it, of course, but he's worth it. The fear of losing him makes me want to work at being good to him just as he's trying to be good to me. 

I told him, half crying, half laughing, that I wouldn't let him go easily. I've dated all the other men in the world. All of them. And he's the only good one. 

I just knew in my gutty gut that he's the best guy I've ever known and so I'd figure it out, we'd figure it out. And we did. We're great. Stronger than we were before, I think, which feels fucking phenomenal and I can't express how fucking happy he makes me. We're both learning how to be with each other and I appreciate every minute. 

He's one in a million, that guy. 

Public Service Announcement

Ah Facebook.

Facebook is a magical place, isn't it (pronounced itn't it, like Ursula says in the Little Mermaid)?

I have become close with more than a few of my bloggy friends. My bleeps, as it were.

But, truth be told, in a world like ours, on the grand Internet, life is blurry. How many times have I started a story, "my friend so and so said. I mean, this girl whose blog I read..."

And I mean it. Many of you lovelies have become my friends. It's an amazing thing really.

And because of those burgeoning friendships, some of you have become my Facebook friends as well.

But here's the problem. While I'm not an anonymous blogger per se, I have decided to safeguard my privacy a little more tightly.

I've had some issues with an overeager "fan." Yeah, we'll say a fan. Because when I say fan it makes me feel all important and shit. Like I'm a legitimate writer or something. Ahhh fame has its drawbacks. What a rough life we celebrities lead.

Anyway. My personal Facebook page is private. For a reason. A lot of that reason is that I share personal pieces of information on the blog and my friends on Facebook do as well.

Not to demean my bloggy friendships, because you folks are the super coolest and I value you. But I don't want to devalue my own desire for privacy in the effort at not hurting feelings.

Therefore, I declare some rules! Because I'm OCD (as we've already established) and I love rules. At least the ones I make. Those are the best kind.

• If you want to connect with me on Facebook, please "like" my fan page. That is for why I made it. And hey, there's always Twitter. Or even the old fashioned way: email (gasp!).  
• If I know you outside of the blog. Like, we've connected through phone or in person, etc (I will use my own discretion here), I may consider accepting your friend request. 
• If we are already friends on Facebook and we don't meet the above criteria, I'll be deleting you. Sorry. That's just how it goes. And it's only fair. 
• If your blog page is a personal page, I'll be friends with your page on Facebook because I like to promote my friends' blogs and get blog updated on Facebook. But expect to be put on a limited profile list. 
• If I am not your Facebook friend, you are not allowed to get your feelings hurt. This is about my need for privacy. Not your feelings. Mmmk, pumpkin? 

I do think it's a little sad that I feel the need to make an announcement such as this. But I don't like hurt feelings and I like fairness. 

Plus I'm lazy. I don't want to send this message in response to every friend request. This way? Easy peasy. See? Lazy. 

Thanks for understanding and respecting my privacy. I love you guys in my panties.

Letters to the Internets

Dear Myspace,

You're dead, dude. Give it up already. 

Love,

Me

Dear Facebook,

Oh Facebook. How I hate to love you and love to hate you. 

I hate your farms and your mafias. But I love that you let me block them. It's like living in my own sanitized,  segregated neighborhood of Facebook. I'm such a Facebook bigot. Maybe I should learn to be more tolerant of farmers and mafiosos. No. Nope. Can't do it. I hate them. Fucking farms.

I hate your groups with thousand of people daring jackasses to do stupid shit. But I love that you expose so many stupid fucking people for what they are. Makes me proud to be a human.

I hate that you make me get into discussions with friends I never would have had in real life. I never wanted to know how certain friends felt about some things. I want to live in my bubble where all my friends agree with me and my opinion is the only one that matters. But passions run high on the Facecrack and pretty soon it's all, you're stupid no you're stupid no you are. And I hated the 3rd grade the first time around. 

I love you Facebook for your massive photo albums and how easy you make it to attend someone's wedding or party or vacay I wasn't invited to. It makes it easy to sit on my ass and pretend to be social. 

I hate you, Facebook, for suggesting friends from preschool I didn't even like then. If I wanted to add them as a friend, I would. But now they're all on a suggestion list, taunting me. And now they'd requested to add ME as a friend. And you're all "you have 873 friends in common" so I know they'll notice if I ignore it. And then I feel bad. I don't add them. They just go on my list of shit that makes me feel like a bad person. 

I love you Facebook, for providing hours of stalking entertainment into my friend's lives. Sometimes you make me feel shitty and inadequate. Others, I feel superior and full of the awesome. 

You're so complicated, Facebook. I don't know how to feel about you.

Love, 

Crazy Lady

Dear Twitter,

Twitter, you're the most fun of all. 

You provide hours and hours of procrastinating, sleep-depriving fun. But, I hate that you distract me so. I hate that I have to check you every five minutes or I feel like I'm missing out. 

I love your crazy tweets about moist tacos and Saskatchewan and bechamel and bacon. I love that living with you, Twitter, is like living in a secret land with its own languages and customs that no one understand until you live there. I love that you make me say things like tweep and tweet and twit. 

I hate your follow fridays. I lurve all my tweeps, so why should I spend hours worrying about forgetting someone and hurting feelings? So I boycott your #ff now, Twitter. What the hell are you gonna do about it? 

Twitter, I hate how fickle you are. You suck me in and then you throw me out. And when you do, you show me a fat fucking whale to taunt my pain. It's like getting picked last for dodge ball all over again. I know everyone is having fun in there, but here I am, all stuck on the outside. Lame sauce, Twitter, lame sauce. 

I also hate how you just can't seem to get your shit together. How many followers do I have? Huh? It shouldn't be that hard. Just count them up, stupid! Stop losing my lists and my DMs. It's like you're the most absent minded person I've ever met. I've known drunk peroxide blondes in Hollywood more put together than you. Get it together, man!

But lastly, Twitter, I love you. I love that you bring me tweeps. That because of you, I've met some totally and completely awesome sauce people. So even though you're kind of a flake, I forgive you. 

Love,

Andygirl

Dear LinkedIn,

You'll never be cool. You'll never have all the flash and dazzle or be addictive in any way at all. But you know that. And you own it. You know what you're good at. And you do it well. And that makes you totally cool. So you just keep doing what you're doing, you lone wolf you. Don't ever change.

Love,

Andrea

Dear Stumble,

I am not a dude. But something about what I "like" has made you think I'm a dude. For a while, I thought you maybe just thought I was a lesbian (which, let's face it, I am half lez), but then it confirmed it: you stumbled onto an advice page for guys to pick up girls in a bar. 

But here's the thing, stumble, even though you're wrong and I'm very much a vagina, I think it's funny. Clearly only guys like Star Wars and internet humor. Clearly. So I'm going to take this as a challenge and keep liking things I actually like, but also like things I know only dudes would like. I really want to see how you confused you get, Stumble. I want to see if you figure it out. 

So far, it seems you now think I might be a feminist male-female transvestite. Awesome! You rule, Stumble. You rule hard.

Love,

andygirl80

Motherfuckingheadache

Oh man, Internet, I am absolutely incapable for delivering a coherent and/or funny post right now because I've been stricken with The Headache. I get migraines sometimes, I do. And I'm not above medicating, but truth be told all I have is Pamprin in my house and with my head this shitty, I really do not belong behind a wheel of a massive piece of machinery. Thus, I will not go to the towns to fetch medicines. 

Though I've been told I'm funnier when I'm sick, I can barely make myself spit out complete sentences. It took me six times to log into my email this morning so I could tell my colleagues I wasn't making it in. Seriously. I'm. A. Motherfuckingmess. 

So I've just been trying to sleep, which is hard because it's also motherfuckinghot and I have a motherfuckingcat who is stoked that I'm home and keeps crawling all over me (note: I am going to be a terrific mother someday). 

Cat: purrpurrpurrpurr *crawlingalloverme* purrpurrpurrpurr 

Me: get the fuck off me, cat! it's hot and you can't sit still and my head hurts and you're not fucking helping. 

What did I say? Terrific. Mother. 

At this point, I'm feeling like I might tear out my eyeballs to make this headache stop, except I'm not exactly sure how that would help. But it sounds reasonable so I'm considering it. Don't judge me. 

On another note, it's been a big last two days for me. I got Twitter married to PretendWriter AND I now also have a Twitter mistress, one miss LizzyDanger. Two in one day. I believe congratulations are in order. I'm officially either a pimp or Bill Henrickson or both. Don't ask. It's just an absurdly funny thing and we're all running with it. It's why I love Twitter. But I am registered at Ikea and I expect all new furniture any day now. 

This post is derailing fast, so I'll leave you with some shameless self promotion. IF you lurve my blog, you should also be lurving my Facecrack page. And IF you likes my Facecrack page and you also have a blog, let me know and I'll promote your blog on my page. See how that works? Love. So much love. Conditions: You must "like" my page. And don't post your blog on my page, yo. That's just rude. Just email me the link at awesomecrazylady at gmail dot com (with your name too). I will read it when I find some time (so TRY to be patient) and I'll link up a post that I particularly like. Mmmmk, pumpkins? 

And here's a funny picture of a chimp (this is a chimp, right?)

Either he's been given a hard math equation to solve or someone just told him he's adopted. 

The line between distraught and confused is a thin one. 

A Stalker Story

In the age of Facebook and Twitter, we all love to throw the stalker word around. And I do too. Oh I loves me some Facebook stalking. Not that I'm actually interested in the people I "stalk," because it's more of a voyeuristic peek into someone else's life that fascinates me. And the more content the better. I may barely know someone, but if they have tons of photos or notes, I'll waste years of my life poking through them. And yeah, without Facebook providing this sordid habit, it would never occur to me to care about my friend's cousin's wedding photos from 5 years ago. But they're THERE. For ME. To LOOK AT!

Don't tell me you haven't clicked on someone's profile and discovered their content isn't private and felt like you just discovered El Dorado and the entire Incan Empire. And Amelia Earhart is there. And she's partyin' with the lost colony of Roanoke. I know how that feels, yo. It's fucking golden.

But that's all innocent until you discover your husband has 4 other secret lives complete with wives and children and dogs.

Wait, how did this post turn into a post about Facebook? This post, Internet my love, was supposed to be about my stalker story.

*ahem*

I think most women have at least one stalker in their lifetimes. And I'm lucky, my stalker didn't turn into violence. Though I've known girls who've experienced very scary situations. Some that I was present for. I'll tell ya sometime about how I once stupidly stood between a friend and a crazy guy with a baseball bat. Turned out okay, but it easily could have gone badly and I would be writing this from a wheelchair and a computer with voice recognition software.

I think I must have been 21 at the time (so, the days WAY before Facebook). I had yet to move to Hollywood to live the ohsoglam life and was still subjected to my boring and dusty town with a nonexistent dating pool. Misery for a young girl ready to take over the world. So when this new guy came into my life all shucks and sweetness and openin' the door, I swooned. He was the brother of an acquaintance and so I thought, someone I know knows him, therefore: SAFE.

Uh huh.

I went on one date with Stalker Boy. And it was okay. No alarm bells sounded. He was nice. We laughed. And ate food. He drove me back to my little apartment and gave me a very chaste kiss at my door. I didn't feel the earth crumble or hear music swell. But it was nice. I thought I might go on another date. Maybe. I would consider it. I had to work the next week, but after that, maybe I'd go out with him again. Probably.

He called while I was at work the next day. 5 times. I had gotten home (I worked retail) pretty late so didn't return his call(s) that night. And I worked early the next day so it would have to wait until later. Except he'd called another 10 times by that evening.

Freaked out, but still sure I could calm his obvious eagerness by simply calling him, I did just that. And dumbly agreed to another date. Which did calm him down. No crazy phone calls between dates. That's crossing a line.  And the next date was similar to the first. Nothing terrible. Nice. Mellow Saturday night.

It must be mentioned that at the time, I occasionally attended a church. I worked a lot and my heart wasn't in it, but I sometimes went. And Stalker Boy attended this church too.

So the Sunday after the second date, he just shows up at my door, ready to drive me to church. Which, even at 21, I found damn presumptuous. We'd been on two dates, for one, and I wasn't ready to be claimed, to show up on his arm as his girlfriend (besides, I've always felt I should be asked before that title is used). But also, I hadn't said anything about going to church that day. He'd just assumed I would. How did he know I didn't have to work anyway (I found out later that he'd looked in my planner and seen my work schedule).

I didn't go with him that day. Principles aside, I wasn't dressed for church. So whatevs. The same routine of a million calls a day repeated for a few weeks after that. He never did show up at my door again, but I was pretty sure he'd still claimed me for a wife and was not going to give up. I got used to deleting all of my messages every night before even listening (I didn't yet own a cell phone). I wavered over what to do. Should I call him and tell him to leave me alone? That didn't feel safe somehow. I just felt like angering the beast was a bad idea. So I never did call him back. The calls eventually stopped and I didn't run into him, so I went on with my life.

But that is not the end of this tale.

Oh no it is not.

I wish it were, but I have one final, creepy incident.

After he stopped calling me and I was on with my life, one of those life changes included the leasing of a new car. I must mention that I in no way saw Stalker Boy during this time. I didn't go to church and I didn't run into him anywhere. But would you believe? I came out of work one late night on the closing shift, locked the doors to the store, walked to my (new!) car only to find a note on it. From Stalker Boy.

And I swear, Internet, that I have no recollection of what that note says. Either it was inconsequential or so horrifying that I have blocked it from my memory. But that is not the point. The point is: how in the HAIL did he know it was my car? Had he followed me to work? Maybe he'd simply staked out the parking lot near my work waiting for me to show up so he'd know which car was mine? Or maybe he'd been lurking around my apartment and saw my new car (it should also be noted that my apartment was a back house that I rented from an old lady and my parking spot wasn't visible from the street).

What do you think I did next, Internet? Well, I can tell you. I freaked the shit out. It had gone from annoying and creepy to SCARYASHELL in 3.5 seconds. You have to understand that I was truly scared. I had no idea if he was watching me then, but I called me dad pretty fucking terrified and stayed at his house that night. The next morning I called his sister, told her that if he didn't leave me alone I was getting a restraining order, and she believed me. And that was the end of it. Thank the lard (copyright Coco).

It could have been worse and I'm glad it didn't. I mean, obviously. But I probably could have taken more precautions, but girls are made to feel badly when falsely accusing a guy of anything. But you know what I think? Screw that. Better safe than sorry. You do what you have to to stay safe, yo. And truthfully, that may be one reason I dated a cop after that. I mean, I did like Cop Guy (even if I never saw him) on his own merits. But the incredibly large flashlight he gave me as a gift didn't hurt either.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.