n8rlvr

I am moving!

2012-10-03T11:12:00.002-04:00

Oh, crap. I am at it again. Different blog. Different subject matter. Same old stubborn-ass Carrie.

Check it out. 'Cuz you know it going to be awesome.

it is not you, it is me.

2012-08-27T15:15:00.000-04:00

I know that many of you have all been anxiously waiting for my next blog. I know this because I get people emailing me practically every day, begging me to write. But, to the shock & awe of pretty much everyone I know, I have a life. I have been focusing on very important things like crossword puzzles and online forum “discussions” about who was the best Captain of the Starship Enterprise. {Jean-Luc Picard. Duh.} Oh, and I am going back to school. There is that, too.

I need to focus all my brain cells on becoming a rocket surgeon. (I am in the accelerated class for geniuses, of course.) I will definitely write more in the future, but I will be changing the focus of my writing. Instead of focusing on me, me, me, (there is quite a lot of humor there) I will be writing about more worldly topics such as women’s reproductive rights, equal rights, world hunger, and other boring stuff like that. When I do start writing again, I will let you know and link to the new blog. And who knows? Maybe I will write more silly stuff here. I make no promises. I prefer to avoid responsibility.

I have also “quit” FaceBook. It is such a time-suck. If you want to invite me to your sex party, please send me an email, or better yet, call me. Just sayin’. There for a while I was putting silly stuff on FB every day and having a blast making people laugh. But then I realized, being popular on FB is like sitting at the cool table in the cafeteria of a mental hospital.

Anyhoo, this is me signing off for an indefinite amount of time. I will leave you with this timeless piece of advice for women:

Never date a man who writes in ALL CAPS. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who cannot find the caps lock key will never find the clitoris.

~Me

ways to make me hate you

2012-04-23T10:37:00.000-04:00

You tune out when I am in the middle of a conversation. Really? That is so rude. I may like to ramble a bit, but what I have to say is important.

How can you run out of energy after only a couple of hours? That is just weak.

You send crazy text messages. Do I need to receive “K” five times in a row?

My friends aren’t important to you. How can you forget them after all this time?

How can you not be able to multi-task? I am not asking that you solve world peace and chew gum at the same time, but being able to hold a conversation and schedule a date simultaneously would be nice.

I know you play songs I hate on purpose. Not cool.

Sometimes I really need you to be there for me. Like that time you failed me when I was stuck in a ditch in the rain? That really sucked.

For these reasons, and many reasons I have chosen to keep to myself, I am moving on. I have decided to upgrade. I am getting a smartphone. Your uselessness as a “stupid” phone has irritated me for the last time. You remind me of my dishwasher ~ I have to wash the dishes before I load it. You are useful only when I baby you. And that, my dear stupid phone, is why I am saying goodbye.

to grunt and sweat under a weary life

2012-03-21T09:54:00.000-04:00

I am not a runner.

See exhibit A and exhibit B.

I am a fighter. When life gives me lemons, I launch those mother-fucking lemons at whoever pissed me the fuck off. Yo.

A long, long time ago (last year) when life was literally kicking me in the taco, I got a wild hair up my ass to run a half-marathon. It was:

1.) my way of focusing on something other than the big pile o’ shit that was my life
2.) therapy
3.) my way of fighting to stay afloat in this crazy thing we call “life”.

{Side note: When my life flashes before my eyes, I hope it is not the special extended edition with all the deleted scenes I have blocked from my memory.}

You see, when I run, I have this unlike-Carrie, out-of-body experience and I am able to process my deep-seated neurosis issues logically. (Full disclosure: I use the term “run” very loosely. It is more of a hobble, hobble, foot-drag. Imagine Igor crossed with Verbal Kint in a potato sack race.) When I am running, I am able to easily come to terms with life’s problems and formulate a reasonable and practical way to work through it. I feel like I can accomplish anything! Bring it.

Contrary to when I refuse to get out of bed and wind up with graham cracker crumbs in the sheets and I am surrounded by used kleenexes and my face looks like a bloated whale carcass. When this happens, everything seems insurmountable and my life is about to implode on itself and I am going to die of a broken heart like Padme. (If I’m being honest, and I think we all know honesty-that-will-come-back-to-bite-me-in-the-ass is a specialty of mine, sometimes I still refuse to get out of bed. But, I digress...)

Anyhoo, in my mind, a half-marathon made sense. Now, I couldn’t just Forrest Gump my way through this. I had to have a plan. It was either have a plan and stick to it, or die a slow and painful death whilst running the half. (I could just imagine it: my legs cramp up and my body collapses 20 feet before the finish line and I would be trampled to death because I would be, of course, in first place.)

This was not amateur hour. I commence to researching, planning, and researching some more and I work out a schedule that would combine cross-training with a couple of short runs* during the week and a long run** on the weekend. My mileage during the long run would increase by one mile every week, winding up at 13 miles a couple of weeks before The Muther-Fucker of All Races.

*short runs are normally about 2 to 4 miles
**long runs can be anywhere from 5 (depending on where you are starting) to a gazillion miles

So I began my training for my first half. In August. Now, certainly it isn’t as hot here as some other places. (Like Texas. Death Valley. Hell. All about the same.) But it does get hot and muggy; this is The South. And I must say so myself, I did amazingly well at sticking to my schedule. Which is a feat in itself because it interfered with my beer drinking time. My precious, precious beer drinking time. I ran, I cycled, and I ran some more. I ran in the heat, in the cold, in the rain, and in the dark. I mainly ran on beautiful Asheville days. (Asheville has an average of 212 sunny days per year, with an average high of 85. Heaven!) My favorite place to run is around my neighborhood. There are majestic views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, friendly neighbors that cheer me on, and most of my routes force me to do a loop, as opposed to an out and back, where I am more likely to get tired and turn back early. ‘Cuz I can be a total wimp when I start feeling pain.

Picture of the race taken by an Asheville Citizens Times photographer. Used here without permission.

When the day came of The Muther-Fucker of All Races, I was ready. I was pumped. Booya. This shit is about to get real! My awesome friend drove me there, and drove to different spots of the race to cheer me on and get pictures of me. For the most part of the race, I kept a smile on my face. I ran with the 2:30 pace group and they were a bunch of nutty girls that would hoop and holler the whole way and make inappropriate sex jokes. My kind of peeps.

Then, somewhere along the back half of the race, I lost the pace group. I want to emphasize that this half-marathon took place in the mountains. This is not flat land. I am guessing the elevation gain was probably over 1,000 feet. The map does not lie:

The last three miles were incredible painful; the last two miles were beastly; and the last mile was just downright cruel. There was one point within the last 500 feet of the race where I turned a corner, knowing I was so very close, and looked up a steep muther-fucking hill that must have been a 30% grade. Death could have opened his dark arms in my general direction and I would have run into his embrace willingly. (Okay, I may be exaggerating just a bit.)

cartoon drawn by The Oatmeal

When I finally crossed the finish line, I practically fell into my friend’s arms and said something along the lines of, “DO NOT EVER LET ME DO THAT AGAIN. SERIOUSLY, PUNCH ME IN THE FACE IF I TALK ABOUT RUNNING THAT DISTANCE AGAIN!”

Race results: (I was beat by two 70 year-old wrinkly people. Now that is humbling.)

So, after all the pain and suffering and torture, I will definitely be running the same half-marathon again this year. I am that bad-ass.

cartoon drawn by The Oatmeal

Maybe I am a runner after all.

postcards from the edge

2012-03-07T16:45:00.001-05:00

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I lived in a cozy two-bedroom basement apartment. I say cozy because it was small, but just the perfect size for me. I had a spare bedroom that my friends could crash in and that is also where I kept the litter box. (Now that I think back on it, this may have been a contributing factor as to why my friends never crashed there.)

As with any basement/lower level apartment, my apartment came fully loaded with an upstairs neighbor. Now, I have lived in apartments with upstairs neighbors before, but this dwelling was special; it was a regular house turned into apartments. This place was not exactly built for “sound proofing”. And my upstairs neighbor, we will call her Athena*, was flat-out, sponge-nut crazy-pants.

Now, I will give her some crazy-points, because she was going through a divorce and gawd knows everyone gets a little crazy during this inevitable point in life. In the short time she lived above me, I developed an eye twitch that still flares up to this day when I think about her. I think that if I wasn’t already a well-rounded individual (ha-ha!), Athena’s antics might have been enough to make me go postal on her ass. I want to share with you exactly how wakka-wakka it all was.

Her two prepubescent boys would come over to visit on a somewhat regular basis and they would commence to hold serious throw down, UFC style, wrestling-grudge matches. I know this to be true** because I could hear the bell at the beginning and end of each match. And then at one point, I think Athena and her new boyfriend were taking break-dancing lessons. Yep. I am positive that is what those two were doing up there.

She always, always wore heels. I think she went to the shoe store and demanded the store clerk pick out for her the loudest possible heels. And the way she walked, you would think she weighed 350 pounds. Nope! This woman was probably 95 lbs soaking wet. And she had a shit-ton of energy. So she would walk, in 140 decibel heels, back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. And back and forth. I really have no idea what she was doing up there. Could she not carry more than one thing at a time? Did she find it necessary to transfer all of her household belongings from one side of the house to another, only to do it again the next day? It was this kind of poignant and deep philosophical questions that kept me up at night.

Wait, no! That wasn’t what was keeping me up at night. It was sponge-nut crazy-pants. Let me describe a typical Friday night for you. By the time I rolled into bed after boozing it up with my friends, I would be ready to sleep like a security guard on night shift. But, Athena would have other plans for me. Because sometime around 12 am, I would hear maniacal laughter and she would commence to re-arrange the furniture in the room just above me. I have no idea if this was her bedroom, dining room, or smoking parlor, but this is the room she would regularly re-arrange. When she was done with that around 2 am, she would commence to dragging an industrial size chain back and forth across the room. Then she would take all the books off her shelves and toss them in the corner, one by one. Which in case you hadn’t guessed it by now, that corner was right above my bed. By now, she would have worn herself out to get a little shuteye sometime by 4 am.

As soon as the sun would start showing her magnificent rays, Athena would be up, running around wearing heels and vacuuming the room she just rearranged the night before. Don’t get me wrong, she was a very considerate person. She would normally wait until Sunday morning for her regular indoor basketball games. In heels.

*Names not changed to protect the innocent. I find it ironic that Athena is also the goddess of war.

**Any time I claim something to be "true", you just never really know, do you?

married men: the last frontier

2012-03-07T14:33:00.001-05:00

I was recently catching up with a friend of mine that lives in DFW. (Texas, that is. The state that can honestly say it is hotter than the asshole of a dying star.) She is happily single, fosters pugs, and absolutely cracks me up. (She also threatens to punch me in the taco if I don’t update my blog often enough, but I digress...) She has a particular tidbit of wisdom that inspires me: “I don’t like dating men. It cuts into my grooming time.”

Because really. Dating sucks and will quickly degrade any normal person’s dignity.

As we were catching up, we were discussing dating and I explained to her that I haven’t had much luck in like, forever. Here is the newest little tidbit of wisdom from this wise, wise woman:

“Single men are stupid, fickle, and stupid.

Honey you just need to find an older, married man. They are 1) unhappy in their marriage 2) VERY excited to get any attention, especially that of a younger woman 3) always buying you pretty things from Victoria’s Secret 4) most interested in giving you pleasure in bed so you allow them to come back 5) absent most of the time.

They are perfect.”

The moment my morals take a back seat to my desolate love life, I am finding myself an older, married man.

places I found love

2012-03-02T10:02:00.000-05:00

a wet nose

in the eye of the beholder

in my Google reader

at the bottom of the laundry basket

a cup of tea

the arms of a friend

the last place I looked

deep in the woods

in the force

on my knees

beside a stream

in passion

at the top of a mountain

a wagging tail

at the soccer field

the heart of my arch enemy

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

by the bonfire

in-between twisted sheets

over a beer

in the hospital

in a song lyric

at the Christmas parade

driving aimlessly

in a painting

on Wikipedia

while getting lost

while dancing

in a smile

in a book

an unspoken word

a soft touch

a kiss on the forehead

in a laugh

mid-orgasm

in the grocery store line

a pecan pie

a child’s eyes

dinner on the table

on a roller coaster

on a bike

300 feet above the ground

scaling a 5.8 trad climb

at a roller derby match

on a bench

in Oxytocin

on a beach

in a child’s drawing

on a post-it note

over a shared bowl of ice cream

over a shared bottle of wine

in a momentary glance

in hope

love is not always romance. sometimes love can simply just be.

mail bag: letter with a heart

2012-02-17T14:22:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while, I receive an email from a loyal reader. (I phrased it that way to make you think I have more than one loyal reader.)

Hey Carrie! I am glad you are updating your blog again. As a fellow writer, I am concerned about the next time you have writer’s block. When that day comes, here are some questions to answer.

<3, Amanda

1. If they made a movie about your life, who would play you?
When (not if) they make a movie about my oh-so-ever-oober-fascinating life, they would have to make it an epic movie. I am talking about long shots of me riding a magnificent horse over the horizon towards the camera, the wind blowing my hair as I longingly look wispy-eyed toward some random thing off-screen, and a soundtrack to top all soundtracks. I am talking about a soundtrack that would combine the talent of Sound of Music with the genius of Purple Rain and a little dash of Rocky Horror Picture Show thrown in for pzazz; this would all be arranged by Trent Reznor. Finally, to answer your question, none other than Natalie Portman would play me, a quirky single girl learning to navigate her way through the big city of Asheville. I think the climax (I said climax!) of the three hour film should be the throw-down death match (think Hunger Games) of the three men that have fallen madly in love with me. Cuz, you know, it should be a realistic epic movie. And during the filming of the movie, Natalie Portman would have a huge girl-crush on me and we would have one of those crazy, high-energy, three month, “experimental” love affairs, only to end when I remembered that I have an affinity for The Penis.

2. Who do you want to marry?
I am too smart/stubborn/slightly retarded to subject myself to the bonds of matrimony. And I certainly don’t want to have to go though the hassle of changing my name again. That is just a pain-in-the-ass. I plan on keeping the following people as my love slaves to do my bidding:

Jon Stewart: he will keep my mind entertained.
George Clooney: he can accompany me around town.
These guys:

Names are unimportant, but they will handle the entertainment. ‘Cuz one is not enough. And if I set fire to something whilst cooking (yeah, right), they will be there to save the day. I am practical like that.

3. Are you still on match.com?
Good gawd no! That was a disaster of epic proportions. Mistakes were made. But, as with anal sex or a friendship with your dad's new girlfriend, I urge you to give it a chance.

I mean yes, I would like to find love* and all that jazz, but online dating sucks big fat penises. Wait, no! Sucking big fat penises would be enjoyable (like that would ever happen...) Online dating is like getting your fingernails ripped out and while being subjected to bloated pigeon farts at the same time. Both, I would imagine, would be excruciatingly painful and horrible.

* (I really just mean sex** on a regular basis with one person.)
** (Mind-blowing sex, of course.)

4. Are you planning on running another half-marathon this year?
After training during the summer when it was hotter than the sun’s love-hole, after practically puking up berry-flavored Gatorade and snot from pushing too hard, and after getting smoked by two 80-year-old wrinkly people during the race, when I crossed the finish line of my first half-marathon last year, I told my friend, “DO NOT EVER LET ME DO THAT AGAIN. SERIOUSLY, PUNCH ME IN THE FACE IF I TALK ABOUT RUNNING THAT DISTANCE AGAIN!”

So, probably, yes.

5. What is on your bedside table?
My alarm clock, which sounds like a screech owl getting mauled by a hyena.
A rock that is etched with the word “strength” on it. (Just in case I forget to be as stubborn as a teenage mule.)
Maya Angelou’s The Heart of a Woman. Great book so far, but because I have the attention span of a goldfish, I also have:
Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. I am a huge fan of Hemingway and this is the only book I haven’t read by him. But for some reason, I can’t concentrate on it and enjoy it like I normally would. My mind starts wandering to solving world hunger* and I can’t focus.

* I am really thinking about the cute guy I met at a party last Saturday or whether I have a pair of boots to match my outfit I want to wear tomorrow.

6. Are you ready for the zombie apocalypse?
Yes and no. I can probably live in the woods for a while. I can start a fire without matches, build a lean-to and “theoretically” trap animals. But, I am perpetually lost, so I would be turning circles in the woods. And, not to mention, the woods aren’t really the best place for a zombie apocalypse. I need a barricaded bomb shelter with tons of automatic weapons and a vicious dog; none of which I have.

7. Could you ever go over to the darkside?
I can be bribed. I hear they have cookies?

8. When was the last time you fired a gun?
The last time (and “technically” the only time) I have fired a gun was this last summer. My buddy is a fireman and was appalled to learn I had never fired a gun, so he took me to the shooting range. This shooting range was special; it was in the middle of the woods, the target consisted of a crude body-shaped wooden cutout with a bulls eye painted on it by the hand of a three-year old and a coffee can for the head. I think Ted Kaczynski’s cabin was near there. But that coffee can was demolished by the time we got through with it. ‘Cuz we are badass like that, yo.

enthusiasm is for chumps

2012-02-09T10:36:00.000-05:00

I get excited over things that some people might consider mundane. I get overly thrilled when I go to a restaurant and cock-sauce is already on the table, when I get any new outdoor gear (which isn’t often because my job pays bupkis), and when I find a penny made in 1977.

-drawn by The Oatmeal

My enthusiasm probably annoys the hell out of most people I know. Case in point:

I am at a get-together the other day and I overheard someone saying, “Who was that Fundamentalist lady that was pied in the face on television?” I totally abandoned the conversation I was currently having, ran across the room, practically pushing people out of my way to get in on this conversation. I blurt out, “IT WAS ANITA BRYANT! SHE MADE IT LEGAL TO FIRE TEACHERS FOR BEING GAY IN FLORIDA! The anti-discrimination law was overturned 20 years later. 20 YEARS! BITCH DESERVED GETTING A PIE IN THE FACE.”

Only no one was impressed with my infinite knowledge and they just kind of looked at me with their mouths slightly open. I just lowered my head and turned around to help up the old lady I had stepped on in my mad dash to show off my mad trivia skillz. This scenario is pretty much par for the course in my life. I get really excited about something and can’t wait to share it with the world. Because how could everyone not want my opinion/facts/random useless knowledge about LGBT rights? Psh-shaw!

I was pretty embarrassed about my faux pas. But, hey, who are we kidding? This is normal for me. Anyhoo, this guy walks up to me and asks me if he can buy me a drink. I shrug my shoulders and say yes, because even though he really isn’t what I would consider “pleasant to look at”, it takes balls to walk up to a woman after she commits a huge social blunder. We get to talking and I realize that I am not still standing on my soapbox; he is a foot shorter than me. No biggie, really, but I have to lean over to hear what he was saying and his breath smelled like a combination of an ashtray, the devil’s asshole, and a goat fart. So, we are standing there, I am holding my breath trying desperately to avoid his noxious breath and he asks me if I have read John Updike. I tell him that I had never read anything by John Updike, but I did see the movie Witches of Eastwick and this totally counts, thinking myself incredibly hilarious. While I am chuckling to myself about my sharp wit, he rambles on about how I had not lived until I have read Updike. He went on to blabber in a condescending tone about how Updike was one of the greatest literary figures and his rich, unusual, sometimes arcane vocabulary transcends time, blah, blah, blah. Then Stinky Breath leans over to me and asks, “Do you like Vespas? Because you can ride on mine if you want.” Um... Unsure how to respond to his serious offer to let me ride on his Vespa, I looked at my watch, and made some incredibly lame excuse about forgetting I had to be somewhere and practically ran out of there. This time, that old lady knew to get the hell outta my way.

These are the kind of guys that are attracted to me. And the guys I am attracted to? Totally not interested in me, total flakes, or still in love with their ex. Ugh.

So, my plead to the Valentine fairy? Go fuck yourself.

sh*t single girls say

2012-01-25T14:06:00.002-05:00

Um, I really do hate Valentine's Day. Thank very much!

stand up comedy

2012-01-22T10:41:00.000-05:00

The thing about dating is that you have to put yourself “out there”. You tell yourself that the next time will be different. You convince yourself that the next date won't be a disaster, the next guy will be somewhat decent. You have to naively believe that you won't wind up sitting home alone on a Saturday night, dressed to the nines, excited about a date that never shows up. Or calls.

After realizing I had managed to run out of dating options in my current circle of friends, I had the awesome idea of signing up for matchdotcom. Because, well, you know... I am a glutton for punishment.

Let's do the rundown on my results:

Bachelor #1 ~ Captain Awkward: Our date consisted of awkward silences and plenty of, “Um, it is really cold outside.” And then more awkward silences. You know it is hopeless when I am silent. As we parted ways at the end of the evening, I just mumbled something about it being nice to meet him and turned to go. Then he proceeds to ask me if I wanted to get together again. I turn back to him with my mouth gaping open with this debonaire response, “Really?” Whoops. I am so smooth, I can't believe I am not butter.

Bachelor #2 ~ Prince Valium: zzzzzzzzzzzz. Nuff said.

Bachelor #3 ~ Major Dick: Tall, bearded, wears Mountain Hardware, all of which I find oh-so-very-sexy. And to top it off? He has the same twisted sense of humor I do. {Which is apparently rare. Who knew being depraved was uncommon?} He quotes the same movies I quote, we enjoy good beer, and he read my blog and didn't run away. Here is the short version:

Date one: awesome.
Date two: he rescheduled due to “illness”. Still awesome.
Date three: after the original date being canceled via text (no call) twenty minutes before we are supposed to meet, much deliberation about whether I should even give Major Dick another chance, and assurances it was an “isolated incident”, we went to one of the best restaurants in Asheville where we had a soccer trophy placed on our table by the owner. Mega-awesome.
Date four: never happens. Saturday night, I am at home, dressed to the nines, waiting to find out where we were going to meet, and I get a text from him right around the time we were supposed to meet. He made other plans. I shit you not. I can't make this stuff up. He didn't even call me ~ I got a fucking text. Ouch. I hope he gets debilitating stress diarrhea. The silver lining? I dodged a bullet with this one; he has a pretty bad reputation around town for being a Major Dick.

Now, Major Dick just happened to come into my life right about the time I was stood up on New Year's Eve. I was supposed to go to this awesome party, I bought a smokin' hot dress just for the occasion, and was pretty pumped about it. But my date wound up “sick”. So when Major Dick pulled his latest round of total fucking bullshit, I went straight to the cabinet for a nice healthy dose of Nutella. Only to realize that in my previous state of sheer stupidity, I decided I wanted to be “healthier” so I didn't buy anymore. And at that moment, I stood in front of the cabinet, staring up where the Nutella should be, realizing how totally vomitous this all is, and the tears roll freely down my face. If I had a nickel for every time I had been stood up recently, I would have enough money to buy Nutella. 2012 is shaping up to be a wet-hot shitpile of a mess.

Now, you would think that after so many times of being stood-up, lied to, and hiding in the back room from the po-po, I would do the sensible thing and stop dating. Take a break for a while. Seriously, this must be detrimental to my emotional well-being. If I were a sensible girl, I would plan to stay single for a bit.

I think for once, I am actually going to do the sensible thing. I don't have enough words to express how horrible dating has been. It is enough to make me seriously consider switching teams. If muff-diving was in any way tolerable for me, I think I might just wander over to the girl's side. But, since I have an affinity for The Penis, I am going to do the only thing I can. Invest in more toys. I would rather stay at home on a Saturday night because I wanted it that way, not because my date is a douchebag.

say goodbye to 2011, bitches.

2011-12-30T18:56:00.002-05:00

One of my all-time favorite bloggers, Aunt Becky, posted this list. I was inspired. Well, and a little bored, so I leave you with this. You are welcome.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
I backpacked Cold Mountain and slept right below the top. This mountain had previously kicked my ass, so this time, I kicked its ass. I also ran a half-marathon and kicked its ass.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
My only New Year’s resolution from last year was, “stop throwing a pity-party for yourself”. I did this by accomplishing shit; see #1. My New Years resolution for 2012: Walk away from an explosion in slow motion, without looking back. My life will not be complete until I've done this.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
One of my best friends had a cute baby girl. Her baby is so adorable that I have the uncontrollable urge to vomit rainbows when I am around her.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Nope. That white squirrel does not count.

5. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
Sex. Lots of sex. *sigh*

6. What countries did you visit?
Does fantasyland count as a country?

7. What day from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:
The day my profile got rejected from matchdotcom for being too inappropriate. I was shocked.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I attribute most of my good days to a couple of people with voodoo dolls canceling each other out.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Not installing that velcro wall in my room. Someday...

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I developed multiple personalities just to sort my shit out. I think that counts...

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My new “toy”. It has multiple speeds and makes me happy.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Boots and hats.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
"By the power of GraySkull!" has re-entered my vocabulary.

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?
Eye of the Tiger by Survivor

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? easy, happier. I lead a charmed life.
ii. thinner or fatter? considering I was a waif this time last year, I am healthier. I am not fatter...
iii. richer or poorer? Richer in friends, poorer in cash. Maybe my friends will give me cash?

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Sex. Lots of sex.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Filling out stupid questionnaires.

22. Did you fall in love in 2011?
They say love is like a roller coaster and I get it. After I see two people in love I totally want to throw up.

23. How many one-night stands?
If you count making love to Nutella, countless.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. He will be mine. Oh, yes. He will be mine!

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
I can’t think of anyone I hate; at all.

26. What was the best book you read?
Hunger Games. Yes, I know is it YA fiction, but it was fun, well-written, and entertaining. And they filmed part of the movie in WNC, which is full of The Awesome.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Ska. No clue how I didn’t know about this before, but yee-haw!

28. What did you want and get?
My “toy”. Trust me, I am much less cranky.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
HARRY POTTER! {sniff, sniff. they are all grown up now...}

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Older than dirt, according to my nephew. I had a wicked-awesome party at my house in BFE, lots of friends showed up, and my kick-ass roomie & my sister started a bonfire in the pouring rain.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Sex. Lots of sex. *sigh*

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
Total intimidation. Although, It's hard to be intimidating when your boots keep making fart sounds when you walk.

34. What kept you sane?
Really? Sanity was lost years ago...

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I have a girl-crush on Scarlett Johansson. I would switch teams for her.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
LGBT equal rights. Don’t get me started, because I get all hot-under-the-collar and passionate and I can’t shut-up about it.

37. Who did you miss?
My sister {in Cleveland, OH} & my mom {in Costa Rica}

38. Who was the best new person you met?
The friendly one of my multiple personalities.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011:
Whatever you do, do not take “toys” in your carry-on luggage. You might think it will be funny, but the security screeners don’t think it is funny. At all.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
scooby dooby doo
did a poo
and put it in his slipper
shaggy put it on
what a pong
it made him shake and shiver

*If you noticed that there were questions missing, you get an A for the day. Some of the questions were so stupid, that even I didn't answer them. And there is no question #21. Why? Who knows? And I am pretty sure no one cares.

So long 2011. 2012 is going to kick ass! Bring it.

Dating, holidays, and other mis-adventures

2011-12-19T14:13:00.000-05:00

I have been pretty quiet as of late. If this unsettles you, well, it should. Because when I get quiet either two things are happening:
1. nothing
2. shit that I cannot talk about because my mom reads this blog

Now your mind is reeling, I just know it. What could I possibly be doing that is SO bad, that even I could not publish it? I hate to disappoint, but the truth is, my life has become option number 1. Not a damn thing has been happening. I was going through this “I want to stay home, drink vodka, stay in my PJ’s curled into the fetal position, and get all my nutritional needs from Nutella” phase. 'Cuz it says right there on the container, part of a balanced breakfast. But I digress.

The holidays normally have me in a funk. While it seems that everyone around me is having a good old time drinking eggnog and decorating the Christmas tree with their 2.3 kids, I am reduced to sending out passive-aggressive text messages (my official conflict resolution strategy) as to why I do not want to go to some holiday party and wear the mistletoe headband my aunt sent me out of shear desperation to get me married off. I hate to break it to my aunt, but those mistletoe headbands don't exactly attract nice guys.

The other day I am at a party and a cute, dimple-faced guy starts flirting with me. Now, just to be clear, this is the first time a stranger has flirted with me since a drunken homeless man tried to cop a feel while I was dancing at the drum circle this spring. The flirting was fun, but I have learned not to hold my breath anymore. I don't immediately start fantasizing that said “cute, dimple-faced guy” and I to run together in slow motion, arms outstretched in a field of dandelions. So, I didn’t think too much about the flirting. Until he facebooked me the next day. Whaaa?!? A cute guy is asking me out on a date? Oh, yea. It is ‘cuz I got that boom-boom-pow-dem-chickenz-jackin-mah-style going on baby!

To be honest, he really wasn’t my type. No beard. No Mountain Hardware clothes. And he didn’t get my nerd jokes. But, hey. Who am I kidding? I am no longer 23 years old, living a carefree life by flinging my fertile eggs off of tiny little spoons onto the streets. I have goals in life ~ more than just collecting taco bell hot sauce packets from craigslist. Anyhoo, we go out to dinner, attend a play, and go to the wine bar afterward. We talk, we laugh, we kiss. At the end of the evening he says, “I would love to see you again,” with that sparkle in his eye. Fist pump!

And I never hear from him again. He even goes as far as ignoring my follow-up text. Seriously. What tha fuck? I mean, I realize I may not be the most awesome date ever (my skills are rusty) but at least some common courtesy would be nice. Maybe it was hard for him to be honest because of his learning disability. What is it called again? Alcoholism? Some people deserve a high five. If the face. With a chair.

After this latest round of rejection, I come to a couple of realizations:

I have been on auto-pilot recently, not giving any effort to dating. It is like when you drive home from work and all of a sudden you are at your house and have no recollection of getting there? Then you start to weird yourself out to the point where you don't tell anyone because you're either having a small stroke or are just incredibly bored with life.
I have blog fodder. Finally, I have bad jokes and stories to embellish about.

These realizations lead me to a decision; I am going to sign up for matchdotcom.

Quite honestly, it is one part boredom, one part desperation (effing holidays!), and one part glee that I will have more blog fodder. I realize this may not the the smartest move I have ever made, but seriously, when have I done anything that makes sense?

So, since I am one step above the poverty line, if anyone wants to sponsor me for matchdotcom, it is $20 a month. Send me money! I promise to blog about everything, direct from the dating world, in excruciating detail, all for your entertainment value! But wait! There is more! I promise, that if I am on a really bad date, I will stand up and say, "I'm an actor, they're all actors, & you're on MTV's Disaster Date!" and RUN out. What could be more entertaining than that?

sh*t talking like a champ

2011-08-17T13:30:00.000-04:00

I am a total shit-talker. I am not sure where it comes from, or what part of my deep-seated neurosis motivates me to do this, but I have heard myself mutter many, many stupid things. e.g.:

Me to an Iron Man: “You are going to eat my dust in this race.”
Me to an Xterra champ when mountain bike riding: “Watch out Slow Poke, I am going to be right on your wheel.”
Me to a weight lifting, muscley buddy of mine: “Let’s arm wrestle. You are going down, Bitch!”
Me to an alcoholic friend: “I can drink you under the table, Lightweight!”

And for some weird reason, trouble finds me. Not sure why…

I have been working relentlessly on developing a beer belly. One day, moments after I stepped off of the scale, I decided that I had to start running again to combat my inevitable spare tire.

Needless to say, I am not a born runner. In fact, I really don’t even like to run. It is like being forced to watch Howard the Duck using the Ludovico Technique.

I would start running for a bit (and I use the term “running” very loosely) and then start slacking off, and repeat the cycle over. Then I would make excuses as to why I couldn’t run:

“I have to clean my andirons.”

“I can’t miss my monthly coffee enema.”

“I am busy training my new parrot how to tell everyone to fuck off.”

I thought to myself, “Self, quit making excuses! You need a goal.” My initial intention was to sign up for a 5K or a 10K, which is totally doable. I would not even have to train too much for a 5K or 10K. I could take a backseat, passive approach to it. So, one fine afternoon, in between scouring the internet for naked pictures of the Old Spice guy and Googling How to dance to dubstep, I was perusing the upcoming races in Asheville and I stumbled across the Asheville Citizen-Times half-marathon. Sitting there in my threadbare PJs and eating Nutella with a spoon, I had an epiphany. I just knew I could do it. So, in my infinite wisdom, I signed up for it: my first half-marathon.

It did not take me long to find out a couple of my buddies were going to be racing with me. Not to put to fine a point on it, but these guys are in races all the time and are in very good shape. Like, serious-calf-muscles-and-six-pack-abs-in-shape. So of course, I am all like, “I am going to smoke both of you guys! Loser buys the beers!”*

*Because this is Asheville. There is beer (not crap Keystone Light beer either, awesome-micro-brewed-liquid-from-the-gods-kind-of-beer) at the end of every race.

At some point, the realization sinks in; I am going to have to train for this race. This means running three times a week and cross-training once or twice a week. This means sticking to a schedule and not fluffing off. It slowly dawns on me that this is seriously going to cut into my beer drinking time. SOMADABITCH. I somehow don’t think that Body Karma is going to get me through this. You know what I am talking about? You know how you make those break-even deals with the gods and your organs:

“I ate a salad for lunch, so I can have the beer-battered beer for dinner.”
“I can have martinis tonight as long as I eat the olives, which count as a vegetable.”
“I went to yoga on Tuesday, so I can spend Saturday lying on the couch watching Mork and Mindy reruns with my mouth slightly open.”
“I’ll get stoned, but out of an apple bong, and then I’ll eat the apple for fiber.”
“Turbo-hydro-flossing will surely make up for ding-dongs-and-Diet-Rockstar-energy-drink-fueled night-writing."

So I started training and running. Eventually, after a few weeks of intense workouts, I could run to the end of the driveway. Success! So I told my buddy that I was an official runner and how fast I was and how far I could run, etc. And she was all like, "Let’s go running!" And in my very Carrie-like humble approach, I was all like, “Hells yeah! You are not going to be able to keep up with me, Slow-Poke!” So, one day after work we go running together. I have to say right up front, in my defense, it was a very hot day; it got up to at least a gazillion degrees that day. And when you combine the heat with the humidity it feels like the devil’s asshole. So I am running behind her, stumbling and trying to keep up, wheezing heavily, just knowing I was about to collapse and die on this effing trail. And she had the gall to tell me to pick it up! I might have been hallucinating through the intense pain, but I could have sworn she said, “If your eyeballs aren't bleeding, you aren't trying hard enough!”

So I am going to take that priceless piece of advice and run 13.1 miles on September 17, eyeballs bleeding. And I will totally smoke past both of my buddies in the race. ‘Cuz gawd knows, I am not buying the beer.

dating disasters - this time it is me

2011-07-03T19:02:00.005-04:00

The other day I am on a date with this guy, the first guy I had dated in quite some time that I was somewhat into. He was outdoorsy, tall, bearded, cute, blah, blah, blah. (Seriously, when I see bearded guys wearing Mountain Hardware, I practically wet my panties.)

The plan for our date was to go on a short hike, but meet up for brunch first. So we are sitting in a local restaurant, having brunch, talking and having a good time. Then something absolutely mortifying happens. But before I get into that, I have to back up a bit. You need the back-story:

The day before our date, I had hung out with some friends. We had gone hiking, then swimming in the lake, and camping that night. So, in order for me to get to the brunch date in time, I had to wake up at the crack-of-dawn from camping, rush home and take a shower, then rush to the restaurant. I almost did not make it to the date on time.

So, there I am, on our date, having a great time. I just know he is dazzled by my beauty and grace. His jokes were funny and his words were like magical pudding. At one point, he sees some friends of his and they come over to the table to say hello. (This is Asheville ~ you can’t go anywhere without seeing people you know.) So after introductions are made, we are all standing there, chit-chatting and making small talk. I am extremely nervous, so I self-consciously reach up to run my fingers through my hair. As I run my fingers through my hair, I feel something. What is this? I think to myself. And as I pull my hand away from my hair, I realize I have just pulled A FUCKING TICK out of my hair. Holy shit balls!

So I am standing there, panicking. I have a tick in my hand, in a restaurant, and I am stuck in this conversation with Mr. Cutey-Pants and his friends. It would be incredibly rude for me to bolt for the bathroom. My mind is racing. What am I going to do with this stupid tick? I am blankly nodding and agreeing to something someone said, trying to be part of the conversation, but I have no idea what they were talking about. They could have just told me that their dog just died and my head is bobbing up and down and I just said, “Oh, that is great!”

Then I feel The Tick move in my hand. I freak the fuck out and jerk my hand down and The Tick falls to the floor. Oy vey! I have just released a blood-sucking tick into the effing restaurant! I manage to see it in my peripheral vision, crawling on the floor. So, as nonchalantly as I can, I try stomping on it. But, really, how can you stomp on A Tick, in the middle of a restaurant, standing in front of people you don’t know, and not look mishegas? I miss the first couple attempts to stomp on it, and finally BAM! I got it.

Whew. I can finally relax and go back to the conversation, which by this time, they are deep into their spiel and I have missed everything. I agree with what they are saying and secretly hope I am not volunteering for trail work or feeding the homeless. The friends finally leave, and we sit back down to brunch. “They seemed like such nice people,” I say. Even though I have no clue what their names were. I am starting to relax again. My heart rate is settling back to normal.

And then I feel IT. The fucking bastard Tick was crawling on my leg! I had not stomped on him like I thought. Oh, this little fucker is going to DIE! I manage to brush him off my leg with the plan to stomp on him for-sure this time. So, there I am, sitting down, stomping on this fucking tick. And when I got him, I ground him in GOOD. That little bitch was nothing but green bug guts by the time I got through with him. I managed to “drop” my napkin on the floor and wipe up his little squished carcass and dispose of him properly. If I could have gotten away with it, I would have lit that bugger on fire. But, hey, I gotta keep my cool. Stay sexy. Work that shikse appeal with my charm and wit. Which didn’t work ~ I never got another date.

I sometimes wonder if he thought I had Tourette's...

my hideously deformed teeth

2011-06-03T15:02:00.000-04:00

When I was fourteen my dentist decided that the world couldn't handle looking at my hideously deformed teeth and sent me to the orthodontist. My orthodontist explained that I have a “toothy grin”. In orthodontist terms this means I would look like the girl version of Steve Buscemi for the rest of my life unless my mom & dad paid him a gazillion dollars to correct it.

The "fix" entailed breaking the palette down the middle of the roof of my mouth, essentially giving my mouth enough room for my teeth. {I could have sworn my mouth was big enough to accommodate many things, including my big-ass-feet, but my orthodontist disagreed.} Therefore, they installed a medieval-type contraption in my mouth; it was a metal bar that went from one side of the top of my mouth to the other side. This would slowly expand and break apart my palette by turning a "key" a tiny bit every night. I swear whoever thought up this contraption was imported directly from the Spanish Inquisition. (Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!) Not only was it painful, it left me speaking like a total retard. Imagine trying to talk with a mouth full of marbles ~ that is what I sounded like.

Then about a month after the contraption was cemented into my hideously deformed mouth, I started my freshmen year in high school.

You got that right folks ~ I started my freshmen year of high school speaking like I was "touched in the head". I remember having to stand up on the first day of school, in front of a shit-ton of people I had never met before, and introduce myself talking like a total dorkwad. I would try to explain that the reason I talked like a total fucktard was this evil metal contraption in my mouth, but I don’t even know if they understood what I was saying. I could just see students nodding their heads and I imagined them thinking, “Yea, right. That girl is a freak of nature.”

And yes, I am still scarred to this day about it.

Eventually I got braces and became even more hideous looking. Teenage angst at its best. Can't you imagine it? Me rollin' in the hood on my ten-speed bike, trying to look cool. Me saying, "Yo! I am from da streets of Haltom City, Bitches! It is about to get for realz up in here." With a mouth full of metal?!? Yep. {I guess it could always be worse; at least I did not have to wear headgear.} Eventually the braces came off, and after two weeks of wearing my retainer, I lost the retainer. Too scared to tell my parents, I never replaced it. Now my teeth are crooked. This is my public apology to my parents, who sold a kidney to pay for my straight teeth and because of my retardedness, they are now crooked.

Sorry, Mom. I hope to make up for it someday by blessing you with 2.3 grandchildren. {This may be the only way she will forgive me.}

adventures in dating: the internet strikes again

2011-05-25T18:28:00.002-04:00

It has taken me quite a while to even consider dating again, much less putting myself out there. But, when I finally did get to the point that I was ready to date, there were no single men in sight. When I was dating in my 20’s, it was so very different. Not only was I younger, less discriminating, and there were people my age that were single, but I had the entire DFW metroplex to choose from. And date, I did! But now that I am in my mid-thirties and I live in a relatively small town, the dating pool has shrunk to a microcosm. Not only was I having trouble meeting any single, bearded, outdoorsy guys ~ I was having trouble meeting any single guys. What has a girl gotta do to get a poke? So in my extreme impatience infinite wisdom, I signed up for matchdotcom. Surely there are some eligible bachelors that are desperate enough pining away to date me. I imagined a handful of sexy bearded men lining up to date me and I would have to lock them in a cage match to fight to the death for even a chance at making babies with me.

If you have never entered the world of internet dating, I will just warn you now. There are some serious freaks out there. But once you wade through the deadheads, WoW players, and the unemployed that live in their parent’s basement, there are some nice guys out there. I dated this one guy who, while he is a nice guy, we did not have much in common other than mountain bike riding & beer. So now we are biking/beer drinking buddies. Good things DO come from internet dating.

And then there are the trouble makers...

You know the ones. There was one that made me think, crap, this guy is all wrong for me, so why do I have butterflies in my tummy? Successful, tall, dark, handsome, etc. He was a caricature of a New Yorker; he had the attitude and the strut down pat. People regularly ask him if he is in the mob. (I am not making this up!) And I found it oh so very S-E-X-Y. And in my supreme stupidity infinite wisdom, I called it off after only three dates.

I was scared shitless going with my gut, running scared playing it safe, being a complete retard protecting myself from imminent heartache. {This action could make me legally retarded.} But, if I’m being honest (and I think we all know honesty-will-bite-me-in-the-ass is a specialty of mine) if he had a beard, I might have dated him longer. And NO! I do not have issues, thank you very much. So, I am going to have to go back to the drawing board, get over it by marinating my liver in vodka, and my “toys” will have to keep me company. This is somehow incredibly logical, in an emotional annihilated kind of way. I assure you it makes sense in my head.

Well played, self. Well played...

dude, that camping trip was in tents

2011-05-23T19:30:00.001-04:00

The other day, I was hanging out with my buddy Ching, in the process of getting drunk like a middle-aged, bored divorcée. We are talking shit, and I am all like, “Let’s backpack Cold Mountain!” And she is all like, “Let’s do it!” So we get all our gear together and head out. If you don’t know anything about Cold Mountain, it is not just a movie they made into a book. It is an actual mountain in Western NC and has previously kicked the living shit out of me. Suffice to say, I can be stubborn. I could not let the mountain get the better of me, yo.

It was a fabulously beautiful weekend. Nothing could go wrong with weather this perfect...

The first day, we hike 8.5 miles uphill the entire way; the trail is rocky as shit combined with a 2,800 foot altitude gain. It is a serious ass-kickin'. Along the way, we make our way through an area that is called The Narrows (it is straight down on both sides) with breathtaking views. Eventually, we threw down our camping gear just below the top and fixed dinner while we watched the sunset from the summit. It was pure heaven.

While Ching seemed to have limitless energy, I did not. She stayed up taking great pictures of the stars while I snuggled in the tent with Petey. It took me about two seconds to fall asleep. And no matter what she may say to the contrary, I do not snore! I swear that was Petey.

She was ready to go first thing in the morning. She was up with the sunrise and taking pictures when I groggily stuck my head out of the tent. I swear, if we could bottle her energy, we would solve the world’s energy crisis. When it came time to throw our packs on our backs and start up a long, steep, rocky climb back, I am still exhausted from the day before. It takes all my energy to put one foot in front of another. There was one point I was seriously thinking about leaving my pack behind and paying someone to carry it out for me. I just knew I was going to fall over dead from exhaustion.

Seriously ~ how was this trail uphill both ways?!?

I don’t know about you, but when I am that tired, I get clumsy as shit. So, as we are coming down, I felt my foot slip and my ankle twist. Like a dumbass, I think, “I can catch myself.” But, immediately I realize I was so very wrong. I was going down. I wish I had a video camera at that moment, because my face contorted into a look of horror, dreading the outcome. Luckily, I fell on my side and only scraped up my arm a bit, nothing serious. But as I landed, I rolled on my back like an upside down turtle. I couldn’t go anywhere because I was strapped into my heavy-as-shit backpack. I was just stuck there, waving my hands and feet in the air. Thank goodness Ching came to my rescue and saved the day, or who knows, I might still be there waving my hands and feet in the air. Just call me Grace.

After what seemed to be a freakin’ eternity, I was beginning to feel like I just might actually make it back to the car. I just knew that it was getting close. I was deluding myself into thinking it was only 5 more minutes away when Ching cheerily says, “I think we only have 2.5 more miles to go.” Holy fuck balls. Why would she say such a horrible thing? I realized right then, she enjoys torturing me.

We already have our next trip planned...

Like a boss.

one city girl + one new mountain bike = epic

2011-04-13T20:24:00.000-04:00

Spring has arrived in Western North Carolina. The dogwoods are blooming and the pollen count is off the charts. I am loving it. I pulled out my mountain bike, blew the dust off of it and started giving it a tune-up for the season. As I lubed the chain & pumped up the tires, I took a stroll down memory lane.

You see, mountain biking started for me when a friend loaned me his extra mountain bike. The extra bike had been sitting in his garage getting rusty, so it wasn’t in the greatest of shape. But I rode it around for a few weeks and was instantly hooked. I loved mountain bike riding. I would yell and hoop and holler my way down the mountain; flying over roots and rocks and sliding dangerously sideways in the dirt. Oh yea!

So I bought my very own mountain bike. It was new, it was beautiful, and it was as shiny as my Papa’s bald head. I was like a proud new mama. The first time I took it out, I strut around the parking lot in my spandex shorts nodding at everyone like I was the shisnit. In my head, I had conversations with passing people:

Random person I do not know: “Wow. Your new bike is so cool. It is as shiny as a disco ball. I am so jealous! BTW ~ your ass looks so fabulous in those spandex shorts.”

Me: “Yep. It is such a burden, but I just can’t help being full of The Awesome.”

I proceeded to walk my bike out of the parking lot, reached the beginning of the single track, and took off. The bike rode so smoothly that I was getting up pretty good speed going downhill. I was laughing and feeling the wind in my hair when I realized there was a sharp turn up ahead. No problem, I have made this turn easily in the past. So I gently applied my brakes. What I didn’t realize was that these brakes worked much better than the rusty bike’s brakes. I went flying forward off my seat and landed crotch-hard on the bar. HOLY-SHIT-BALLS! Tears immediately welled up in my eyes. My bike and I fell over sideways. I just lay there motionless with my bike on top of me, weeping silently. I didn’t have the strength to move the bike off of me. Oh, the humanity! I was paralyzed with pain.

After what seemed like an eternity, I regained my composure and got up. I looked at my bike, laying there innocently. This sinister bike is not going to get the best of me, dammit! So I got back on, and started pedalling through the pain. My hooha was throbbing, but I pushed it out of my mind and kept riding. Eventually, the pain subsided and I started riding harder and faster as I got use to the bike ~ now dubbed The Evil One.

I started getting braver. And forgetting that I just cut a gash in my gash, I was speeding through the woods. I started going down a pretty steep, rocky incline. I was going way too fast and had to brake pretty hard. I squeezed my brakes and my ass comes off the seat. My hands leave the handlebars and I start flying through the air.

Tower, this is ghost rider requesting a flyby.
Negative ghost rider, the pattern is full.

It all happened in slooowwwww motion. This played through my head: “Huh. Look at this ~ I am airborne. This must be what they call an endo. I bet it is going to hurt like a bitch when I hit the ground.”

I fly over the handlebars, hit the ground and roll to a stop. And it totally hurt like a bitch. The impact knocked the wind out of me, which has not happened to me since the 4th grade when I decided to jump off the top of the monkey bars. I just lay there, sprawled out on the ground, gasping for air. My bike landed somewhere further down the mountain, but by this point I couldn’t give a shit about the whereabouts of The Evil One.

After I was able to breath again, I realized I had been crying. I had gone soft. Oh, hell no.

I dusted myself off, removed the leaves and twigs from my helmet, and looked at my now not as shiny bike. The Evil One is not going to get the best of me! And because I am an over-achiever, I got back on. And rode very slowly back to the car.

I am one hard core bitch.

No doubt about it though, my ass still looked fabulous in my spandex shorts.

spring cleaning

2011-04-04T16:35:00.001-04:00

So it is that time of year. Time to do some Spring cleaning, right? Washing the windows & cleaning out cobwebs under the stairs. So I thought I would do some Spring cleaning on my FB friends. You know the ones - the people that you just "friend" because you were in Geometry with them in 10th grade and haven’t talked to since? I really don’t care that they ate at Chili’s last night or that they are playing Mafia Wars/Farmville/Pot Farm or whatever is the new game nowadays. (Sometime I really sound like a crusty old lady.)

After I got rid of the boring people, I was browsing the friend finder. Low & behold, there was someone that I went to high school with. I thought to myself, how am I just now seeing Jane Smith*? And I sent her a friend request. And guess what happened? I get a response from her.

Jane Smith: “Um, I thought we were already FB friends. Did you unfriend me?”
Me: “Huh. Maybe I did. But if you didn’t miss me, I guess it isn’t really that big of a deal. Soooo, are you going to friend me?”
Jane Smith: “I am not going to friend you now! You will just unfriend me again.”
Me: “Very likely. But if that happens, I will probably try to friend you again & we can have fun banter like we are now.”
Jane Smith: “Bitch.”

And that was the end of that Facebook friendship. Geez, people can be so sensitive.

*Name changed to protect the somewhat, but not really innocent.

when I rule the universe

2011-03-31T14:22:00.002-04:00

when I rule the universe:

Musicians will make money according to talent ~ not by how controversial they are. Success in the music industry won't be guided by who take their clothes off, how many YouTube hits they get, or if musicians get out of limos without panties on.

{This is a pop star. Not a musician.}

People's faces will turn several patterns of plaid when they are lying. (This is probably the only way I will be able to tell when people are blowing smoke up my ass.)

Masturbating will not have a negative stigma. It took me until I was 28 to figure out that stroking the Honey Pot didn't really make you go blind. I blame my Southern Baptist upbringing.

They will have porn for girls. Plot lines, character development, and big, HUGE,

eyes.

People who abuse pets/children/other people will be thrown in a deep, dark abyss never to be seen again. And no, I don't think this is too harsh.

Gay people will be able to marry/adopt/serve in the military/hold hands in public ~ without it being an issue. Love knows no gender.

Nutella will be fat free, calorie free, guilt free.

Jersey Shore will be cancelled. That shit is just trash.

{The era of The Douchebag.}

Religion will be about hope and love ~ not fear and control.

There will no speakerphone.

I will have my own theme music that plays wherever I go. It shall be Celebration by Kool and the Gang.

Jon Stewart will be my love slave.

yes, please.

If you could rule the universe, what would you want?

old age

2011-03-28T10:07:00.001-04:00

I have incredibly short hair. Like, really short. I was having a conversation with my girlfriend the other day and in between our discussion of the proper way to introduce your new blow-up doll boyfriend to your parents and how many beets you have to eat before it turns your poo red, I told her I was getting my hair cut. She stared at me, slack-jawed.
“But your hair is already incredibly short! Any shorter & you will be sporting a high & tight." she exclaimed.
And as much as I appreciate her wisdom on the hair styles of Marines, I didn't listen to her. I stubbornly went to the hair stylist & said, "Cut it short! I want a pixie cut." So she cut it short. Very short. Which, granted, that is what I asked for, but holy crap!

And with my new do, every single gray hair I have radiates brightly in the sunshine. And I have a lot. Before, no one would believe me when I would tell them I have gray hair. Their shock and denial surely has to do with the fact that I look young & am beautiful. Or maybe because I dye it. Either one.

My roommate was one of the persons that did not believe me when I told her I have gray hair. So I pointed emphatically at my head & shouted LOOK AT MY GRAY HAIR! Her only response was, "Oh." And then she changed the subject. That is right. I told you so.

So now that my head painfully shows off all my illustrious gray hair, I have decided to not dye it anymore*. And while I normally choose to live in a state of denial, cuz that is how I roll, I will go all-natural. Just in time for my upcoming birthday. I imagine walking into my birthday party and everyone gasping with shock at my abundance of gray hair. I always like to make a grand entrance.

Booya. This shit is about to get real.

You might think that I am overreacting, as I have been known to do every once in a while. But with old age comes lunacy. And gray hair.

* Probably by the time you finish reading this, I will have changed my mind & decided to dye my hair anyway.

Happy Whatever You Want It To Be Day

2010-12-25T11:32:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Merry Yuletide, Joyous Yule, and Happy Chinese New Year!

but best of all, I think, Happy Festivus! The Festivus for the rest of us!

cartoon brought to you by Balls to the Wall, Y'all. Robin is pure genius.

Minor Differences

2010-11-27T22:23:00.000-05:00

How I view myself:

How everyone else views me:

Waiting for the tryptophan to wear off and the liquor to set in

2010-11-24T23:39:00.003-05:00

Fuck me. It is the god-damned holidays. Again. I abhor the holidays. If I could take a shit-ton of Xanax and go to my safe place for 30 days or so, I would totally do it. I could plan my emergence back into society just in time to party like a rock star on New Years Eve. But I gotta pay rent, yo. So I subject myself to the ear-bleeding Christmas music ~ I watch as the entire country goes into debt so they can buy their kid another Tickle Me Elmo or whatever is so important these days. Hey, parents, why don't you use your moolah for a fucking college fund instead? People's stupidity shines ever so brightly this time of year, right along with their gaudy Christmas lights.

But the irony is, most people don't know how much I hate the holidays. My friends do of course, but acquaintances in my outer circle have no clue. I smile and tell everyone Happy Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa. Whatevs. The way I see it, there is no reason to be a total bitch about it. I may be one reindeer game away from crawling into the fetal position and slitting my wrists, but that is no reason to bring other people down. What I don't get is how rude people get this time of year. The people who are the meanest are the people who are getting in the spirit. We Americans increasingly drive worse, flip people off more, our fuses are shorter, and people get trampled to death on Black Friday. Isn't the holidays supposed to be about love and all that junk? It is enough to make me want to flog myself. Or someone.

How did I get this jaded, you ask? Well, it didn't happen overnight, that is for sure. When I was a kid, everything was picture perfect, of course. Santa Claus and Jesus made their visits to my house every year. I would wonder how he fit down our 10" round, orange fireplace, but not long enough to really care. (He being Santa of course, not Jesus.) Also, I am not a Christian ~ this disqualifies me from caring about the manger scene. (Although, being raised Baptist, I still manage to feel guilty every time I say, "I am not a Christian." I will discuss this particular issue in year four of my therapy sessions.) Two, the commercialism of the holidays is truly disgusting. I don't feel it is necessary to go into debt to buy everyone gifts they don't need or want. This statement right there probably just landed me on a Watch List. I can hear it now:

Private Dick, "Sir, we have found another one."

Major Prick, "Another what?"

Private Dick, "A Communist, Sir."

Major Prick takes a moment to read my blog transcript. "Dear God! She is not a Christian and she hates Christmas? What is this world coming to?

Private Dick, "It scares me, Sir. I wake up screaming at night sometimes."

Major Prick, "We can't have her spreading Communist ideals! Round her up immediately! We will detain her indefinitely. Screw Habeus Corpus. We have to protect The United States of America!"

But I digress. I was explaining why I hate the holidays. The main reason is my family has spread to the far corners of the planet. I might get more excited about it if I had family close by and/or kids. But most Thanksgivings and Christmases I normally find friends that feel sorry for me and let me hang with their family. If it were not for friends, I would spend the holidays watching sappy movies, drinking myself into oblivion, and crying until my eyes are swollen shut. So for this Thanksgiving, I am going to list the things I am thankful for:

I am thankful ...

...for the fact that the Cowboys will probably lose. I hate the Cowboys. Jerry Jones is a douchebag.

...for midget porn.

...for not having to eat Turkey with any aunts or uncles that think acceptable conversation is saying things like, "So, why are you still single?"

...the Delaware election outcome. If Christine O'Donnell had won, masturbation would be illegal.

...for my low paying job. This way I can avoid "adult" responsibilities like having a mortgage.

...that they are not making a new Star Wars trilogy. Shudder.

...that Justin Beiber fever is over. Her hair is weird.

...for vibrators and pat downs at the airport. The pat downs are the whole reason I take my vibrator to the airport!

...for bacon. nuff said.

...that The Hoff is still alive. I would hate to see a world without him.

And finally I am thankful that I get to spend Thanksgiving with awesome friends that I love.

I leave you with this. You are welcome.