Laughing All The Way

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

A Moment of Perfection

Judge Judy is on Ellen. It’s like a dream come true. Seriously, words ellude me.

Scah-rude

Things I’ve ingested today:

A cookie
A Mango slushee
A HUGE Bloody Mary (aka dinner)
Two dill pickle spears
An avocado

Bruce gets mad at me for eating a single meal a day. The messed up sleep thing means that I am asleep during typical breakfast and lunch time. I eat dinner with Bruce and then snack a little late night. He is amazed that I am able to function on 500 calories a day, but then I point out to him that sleeping takes so few calories and when I feel light headed I just lie down on the floor. No really, the floor thing works. So today I made the effort: mango slushee for breakfast (sure I got it at 8 PM, but whatever), avocado and a cookie for lunch (protein and carbs to keep me going), and Bloody Mary (I used V8, so that’s like a meal replacement) with a side of pickles.

I’m kind of feeling the big serving of vodka so I’m going to find my way to the couch.

Peace out bitches.

All gassed up and nowhere to go.

Bruce is away these days. Far away. I have the car. And a GPS device.

Now all I need is a destination.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Jesus Died For Someone’s Sins, Just Probably Not For Yours (Right?)

Emo. Seriously. Why are there grown men smearing on the black eye make-up and acting like they are so angry.

Jared Leto, you were in My So Called Life and you don’t get to be pissed if someone doesn’t dig your deep-as-a-thimble music. Picking on Elijah Wood is one thing, at least he’s famous, pouring beer on random people just enjoying a concert of someone else’s music is just so fucking petty. And just for the record, whatever Emo use to mean (and it really did mean something once, you know it like was Punk that dealt with emotion type things) your little spin in the emo purview has been less than illuminating. Get out of Sundance and off of MTV if you are going to be all about the…blah blah blah. See how you’ve bored me so?

Fall Out Boy and Pete Wentz you don’t get to write a song about how commercial punk/emo has become and how much you hate the MTV-ization of your little corner of music (“Bandwagon’s full, please catch another”...catchy) because, and stay with me here, you missed punk by about 30 years and Emo by about 10. What, you’ve been doing this since 2001? Oh sorry, didn’t realize that you were so entrenched in a deep and serious history of music. No bitch you are the new wave of emo (not to be confused with New Wave, that’s a whole ‘nother post) and you don’t get to lay claim to any sort of originality or significance, unless we’re talking about the significance of boys wearing eye-liner.

You and Leto need to meet up and have an Eye-liner Off. I hope you can turn left. (Siouxsie Sioux would beat you to death with the weight of her collar alone fuckers).

Friday, January 26, 2007

Lalala.

I forgot to say. I had a dream. I had a baby. That walked at three months old. Damn, my babies are super advanced.

Also, a few weeks ago, Tara Reid and I were playing touch football. With men in the military. In a field of hay that had a patch mowed down for said game of football. Also, Tara was blowing a senator (cross between Trent Lott and some other guy) and I was in the front seat with a nice military guy, trying to act all casual.

Geneva Convention Resolution: Peer Pressure Is A Form Of Torture

Natalie, I expect you to friend me.

Tales from my bed

After the great Fleshbot incident of 2007, I was talking to Bruce before we (really he) went to sleep. Bruce had watched the clip and came to the same conclusion (kind of boring, really not sexy and definitely a rented car). During his time at Fleshbot Bruce noticed an entry about Superman in porn.

I didn’t go looking, so I am summarizing based on what Bruce told me. In the 80’s a comic book featured Superman being kidnapped and hypnotized. Whoever kidnapped the Man of Steel was going to ruin his good name by making him star in a porn. (That is so weird, mostly because this was a mainstream comic book not some freaky sex thing.) Bruce went on to say that in the end, Superman refused to act in a way that was outside his moral code.

I replied, “Well, yeah. Because you can’t hypnotize someone and make them do something they wouldn’t normally do. Like you can’t make someone murder someone.”

Bruce paused and said, “Um, yeah….It’s weird that you know that.”

I can’t remember where I learned that, maybe Perry Mason, Colombo, or one of the millions of documentaries I’ve watched, but is it so weird to know that?

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Descent-Not safe for work!

My low has just gotten lower.

In my effort to find a way to sleep (I was sleeping at 11 PM and woke up at 1 AM) I started reading a bunch of new blogs, boring blogs because what better way to make me sleepy. One post mentioned a few blogs that I had heard/read about but never read myself. Fleshbot (I’m not linking for a reason, we’ll get to that) is one of those “best of sex blogs” but several of the blogs I read have been in the Fleshbot round up for best post of the week, which just means that the blogger in question wrote about sex and lots of people referred that post to Fleshbot (I think that’s how this works).

Not thinking things were too nitty gritty I perused, after all I haven’t bought porn in ages and maybe I am in the market for “Meaty Treats” or “Sodom 3”. Turns out, not so much, BUT below these posts (scroll down a few more entries, you’ll know it when you see it) I came to what looked like a YouTube link. (THIS IS NOT A YOUTUBE LINK).

Because I cannot draw this out, you get the bullet point version of the event:

Open to the front seat of a car with a woman freely lubricating the various gear shifting/emergency braking sticks Woman lowers herself upon the gear shift and proceeds to pleasure herself Woman pulls off the gear shift and skillfully inserts the e-brake into herself Blah Blah Blah-there’s some German sounding words here, which still does not explain this Woman inserts the e-brake into her, errr derriere Woman participate in water sports Woman double-dips and re-pleasures herself with e-brake and gear shift Woman makes sure to taste whatever was on the e-brake

Okay, so I watched to whole thing, more accurately I fast-forwarded because there is only so much gear-shift sex that one person can watch without feeling some sympathetic pains, but what I was thinking the entire time: “I wonder if that is a rented car? I mean, it’s not like someone is going to want to mess up their own car. Who wants to smell hooch and ass every time they shift into first? And urine is hard to get out of upholstery, that is certainly a scent that lingers, as I’ve learned from standing next to homeless people in cities. So, based on the premise that this car is rented, I am pretty sure that no matter what the parameters are, I am never renting a car ever again as long as I live.”

And I use to think I was a rebel for smoking cigarettes in rented cars.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Insane Clown Posse of Orange County

There is a difference between being self-aware and self-absorbed. I know, this all seems so very basic, except for the fact that so many people get them confused.

The endless diatribe about being an open sounding board and blah blah blah, when the resounding truth is that people are rarely being honest when they claim sympathy or empathy. You are not walking in someone else’s shoes and even if you were there, the response and take away from any given situation is always unique. My sister and I grew up in the same house and being a year and a half apart in age a general assumption is that she and I had similar experiences. We had a collective experience, but our take aways were entirely different. In the past we would get high and share our respective memories of certain times in our family’s past.

Hearing our stories from the outside, most people would refuse to believe that we were at the same place at the same time.

Today, my early morning was occupied by watching “The Real Housewives of Orange County.” It’s like a train-wreck. I can’t help but watch with gruesome fascination. Not your typical American family, but then what is typical these days? Listening to these women speak about money, life, love, and family in varying degrees of self-delusional myopia makes me shudder with fear and excitement. One woman says that she has been dating the love of her life for the past six month, especially since they’ve conducted a practical world tour in those six months. I wonder what the four ex-husbands of this woman would say. I am sure they were each the respective love of her life.

Another speaks of how she’s a MILF and she finds that charming. Notably, there is no footage of any of her son’s friends actually proclaiming her to be said MILF, just the interview footage of the woman speaking of herself in such terms. Nice.

There is the 24 year old wannabe starlet shacking up with the 40-ish single dad in a light-bulb relationship (on again/off again). In the first season there were the epic relationship battles. Season II sees them back on, but not fully engaged and she’s looking at moving to LA. Of course she wants to move to LA, not that she wants to be famous or anything, she just, like you know, wants to be young and party, and stuff.

I don’t object to these people based on their personalities, if anything that’s what I respect about them. What I can’t stand is knowing the truth of Orange County. The fancy cars are leased and houses are re-mortgaged to the hilt. Housing prices are shockingly reasonable due to the fact that they aren’t all that close to LA and there is a whole lot more space there than in certain other places in California. All accounts of residents from Orange County, the five women picked to represent the millions of families that live within gated communities in America, indicate that these women are really just trashy steps down.

In one of the most recent episodes one of the “housewives” sits down to lunch with a friend and comments about how bad she feels because she can’t help but remember the time when this friend was watching the “housewife’s” children for a week and the friend’s house flooded and was entirely ruined. In her next breath, the “housewife” asked if her friend liked her necklace because it cost $15,000. Okay, new money and all, but really, kind of cuntish of her.

And in respect to the term “housewife”, most of these women were mothers, but only one was a true housewife. In fact, most of these women were considerable money makers, or the sole money makers, in their families. I respect any woman (or man, I’m down with the times) that stands up and says they are a housewife. Being home all day is an achievement, trust me, this is something I learned these past three months.

What really is driven home by this show is that once you put someone on camera they morph from self-aware to self-absorbed (there is a dynamic shift from Season I to Season II, with one of the first season participants fleeing Orange County after her attitude caused a skirmish wherein her husband punched another woman in the face. TWICE). And I can’t get enough of it. Maybe one day I will have children of my own, wealth of my own, a house of my own, or maybe not. All I know is that I am taking lessons from these women on how not to be a fake bitch with not even the loosest grasp on reality.

About the insomnia, still not sleeping normally. I have an appointment with a Dr. in a few weeks. Hopefully there will be drugs dispensed at that time and sleep will commence with regularity.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

It Smells Like Burning Rubber In Here

There was a great post here, all about ants and something else. It’s gone. Bruce is snoring. It’s 3:00 AM (don’t care what the time stamp says) and I’m making the worst loaf of bread ever. The yeast never frothed the way it normally does, the dough isn’t rising correctly, and I think I burned out the kitchen aid mixer, or at least that’s what I took away from the foul smelling smoke that started wafting out of the engine component (I’ve just finished registering the kitchen aid on line because I might need to return this one). I’m soldiering on with the bread, but I can’t vouch for the outcome of this loaf, I think it’s going to be very dense.

Points that were valid: entomologist should not dump 10 tons of concrete into a colony of millions of ants just to see what the colony looks like; ants are strong and have a crazy metabolic rate; the ants deserve a super power, like the Lasso of Truth; Bruce would not like it if piles of concrete poured down on him at work and he had no way to escape the onslaught.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Now with 90% more asides

I had a dream, no, not like him, but a cool ass dream. She was there with the two of them, so was she, as well as her, her and her. There was copious dancing on tables and drinking. By copious I mean, “dang I nearly killed myself by mainlining Patron”. But there was more. A scene, terribly tragic, where I poured a glass of water on the fucker who is not named here. I actually said in my dream that he was not worth wasting alcohol. There was more, a dance off ensued (damn you Lindsay, I so want to be like you but without all the naked crotch shots and totally embarrassing scenes), and I ended the night laughing my ass off because I won, not the dance off I don’t know how that ended, but at being…better.

I once recommended that we (not the royal we) should not revel in the downfall of others. No really, as much as we want to dance on a cloud and rejoice that we are superior, and make no mistake, we are quite secure in our assured superiority, we cannot stick out our collective tongues and mock the loser for being a loser (like I just did).

The dream was not all about the bad and in fact was more about the good. It was the equivalent of a cool blog. I suppose that the dream was influenced by the post I recently read about the topics that were covered at the last blogHer (how to get traffic, how to make money, how to write interesting posts). All I could take away from that was the intense desire to slam my head into a wall. Serious bitches.

So what if Dooce makes money off her blog (and let me say here and now: who the fuck cares? Getting fired for blogging about work should not earn you respect or consideration. Get over your shit.)?The average mommy blogging bitch isn’t going to be able to make that kind of cash that allows her husband to quit his job and work as a freelancer. And I don’t give a shit if you’re a stay at home mom, work at home mom, work at work mom or not a mom at all, if your blog is so crappy that you need to be taught how to write an interesting blog topic you need to step away from the computer and spend more time with your kids (except for those without kids, you’re free to spend time drinking).

The fact of the matter is, the conference is an excuse to leave a miserable family for two days and spend it with other people who will tolerate an in-depth description of little Tommy’s addiction to his binkie or why you believe children should be breast fed until they start college. You can drink without worrying that you need to be up early or called upon to change a dirty diaper, unless you really are interested in learning about adding code to your blog for a drop down menu. As the conference rolls into its next year (PS. BlogHer is about do-ocracy…what the fuck is a “do-ocracy?” This just sounds like the organizers are lazy and making the paying customers plan the sessions.) I can only imagine what topics will be proffered for discussion (blogging about food is an awesome topic, no really).

Lest you think I am a shrill bitch, I congratulate the various groups of bloggers who gather for a weekend away from their families and their everyday lives for a few days of drinking, shopping/sports watching, and all around general misanthropic behavior. I respect those people who take a chance on trusting words on a screen to not be crazy and take a little risk in believing that the human condition is not entirely wretched, especially when most evidence on hand speaks to the contrary.

I am just so weary of all the bad and all the crap. BlogHer posts should be banned from the Internet, see how upset they make me.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

The Road Not Taken

For a few years I was more a rumored slut than I was an actual slut. There was the German grad student who spent a lot of time asking me what things meant. He and I would hang out in my room, so clearly we were fucking. And then there was Thomthumb. We watched movies late night and shared pot brownies, so of course we were fucking. There was a guy who walked me across campus one night, a guy one of my flat mates took home and freaked out on so I let him sleep in a chair in my room, the HOTT Scott (who was very hot and very Scottish), and a few others.

The irony of this period of my life is that this was my moderately celibate time. I was relatively unbroken and relatively taken. For the majority of this time I was fascinated by the Film Major and sooner than later I ended up in bed with him. Other than the Film Major there was only one guy other at this time. Every girl deserves a French lover. I got mine on the New Year’s Eve of 2000.

I was meant to meet Carrie Patch (Soon to be Carrie Un-Patched) in Paris and through a series of unfortunate events previously seen in some cloying Martin and Lewis movie, there are two hotels in Paris by the same name, one in the heart of the city and one way out on the outskirts of the city. Carrie (with a car-load of people) went to hotel A and learned she was to be at hotel B. Unable to let me know about the change in itinerary, I was boarding the train in London to Gare du Nord, and making friends with the American boys sitting in my row. We chatted and talked about the collective plan for the entire universe to meet at the Eiffel Tower. Saying our farewells, I made my way via metro to hotel A.

The desk staff clearly explained to me what they explained to the Patch Family Robinson and I was left to figure out what I would do. I knew there was no way I was going to make it to hotel B and decided that I would make my way to the Eiffel Tower and spend the night with the aforementioned universe. As I trudged back to the Metro hail started and I knew that not having a warm room in Paris was going to be a thing. Luckily the people of Paris proved to be something or other and my thing was bounced all over the place.

To summarize: there were Algerian men speaking in Algerian about taking me to their house for “fun”, an Algerian woman who dragged me off the train to save my life (thanks!), the only waiter that spoke English at the restaurant the Algerian woman was eating at before she went to meet her boyfriend (while her husband stayed home and watched their child), the Algerian woman went to her rendezvous with her boyfriend and I went home with the French waiter.

Okay, so there we were in the hail trying to catch a cab and all we could get was a night bus. That fucking thing was heaving full with people in various states of intoxication including the gang of boys who would eventually steal my wallet. Have no fear, I was able to grab the hand that was reaching into my bag and by refusing to let go and raising hell my wallet was “miraculously” found on the floor. Thankfully my return ticket was still in the wallet, but of course the cash was gone. I cared little for the missing money, I think it was the equivalent to a pack of cigarettes; I just like the fact that I kicked some bad attitude French ass. Half the bus said I was lucky I didn’t get stabbed and half said they were glad they didn’t tangle with me.

Needless to say, the bus driver kicked all of the trouble makers off the bus, including yours truly and my fearful waiter followed (fucker didn’t even try to beat those guys up, just tried to talk me out of making a scene. Little did he know of my love for scene making). Finding a cab was impossible and we wandered through the city trying to find a doorway to shelter us from the endless weather. Finally, many hours into 2001 we found the last cab in Paris and paid our way in change to his apartment. I was never more grateful for a warm apartment with a strange man: a bath ensued as did some pretty adventurous sex. The next morning he and I went on our respective ways.

Thus ended my three year celibacy with the guy that no one ever saw and was never rumored to be part of my stable- I took the one less traveled by, and that had made all the difference.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Tactical

would you please tell what time this post shows?

It should be 5:27 AM.

Monday, January 15, 2007

I bring it on myself

The sleep, she is elusive.

Just the other day, I tried to poison Bruce and myself. It all started with a cold snap in California. Not exactly much ado about nothing (as a side note, I love that in Shakespearian English “ado” is a euphemism for virginity. Good ol’ Will was so punny), but not nearly as deadly as the news would have us all believe, the temperature dropped to freezing. Being the flower-pot gardener that I am, I planted my next-year’s blooms in October only to see them bloom in January. There is a new rose bud about to open, the tulips have pushed through, the snow pea tendrils are twining around the African daisies and I have no idea what the other pot is, but it too is growing. Suffice it to say, I was concerned that a freezing temperature would kill off all the new growth. So, after I heard the news, I dragged everything into the living-room and went about my day.

While doing the dishes I killed a gnat. And then there were two in the bedroom, and one in the office. After two days of swatting for our lives, Bruce and I started looking for the culprit: the garbage can was recently bleached, and we rarely use the in-sink disposal, no food on the counter and no dirty dishes in any other room. Suddenly (I think in terms of great suddenness even though rarely things happen suddenly. I was explaining this to Bruce and by way of example I said, “It’s not often that events are sudden. I mean, it’s not like ‘Suddenly, the cat fell down.’” Bruce has taken to mocking me with suddenly.) I recalled the time from this past summer wherein I was the girl with the bugs. I realized how damp the soil in the pots was and knew I must have brought the gnats in with the plants.

Mind you, this is the point in the story where I must confess that Bruce suggested that the plants were the problem and I insisted that the gnats came before the plants and I suppose that when I get to heaven and God gives me the chicken or the egg quiz, I will fail that too, because I was soooo sure that my plants would never infest the house. Ooops. Also, you need to know that the rest of this story takes place approximately 15 seconds before we go to bed.

I remembered that the last time I cleared up the gnats with a little raid and by letting the potting soil dry out to kill off the larvae. And then just to be sure, I got the can out and sprayed the plants. Then I took a big sniff to see what it smelled like. Of Raid. That I sprayed in the living-room. Right before we went to bed. Even though the instructions on the canister clearly indicate that Raid is toxic and you should evacuate the house after spraying.

So Bruce and I end up trapped in the bedroom for the evening, which is fine because that’s where we sleep. But then, and this is a spoiler so anyone who hasn’t watched Gray’s Anatomy and might want to should stop reading now, Bruce snores, like Meredith Gray. And he uses those nose strips. And just like in the show, there is a 5 minute grace period and it’s all back to snore city. There is a throat spray and that doesn’t work either. I spend half my night rolling him over (and I never walk away with any proceeds, not like back in the day when I needed cab fare home and I would roll the guy of the moment for his wallet) and the other half begging him to stop snoring. For the record, Bruce has no recollection of any of these night time interactions. (The funniest is the time where I touched his back to get him to roll over and he threw back the covers and LEAPT out of bed. I then laughed and said, “Well, that’s new.” To which he responded by getting back in bed, clothes-lining me with his arm across my neck and then used him arm as a grapple hook and wrestled me to his chest. After I stopped laughing I realized that I couldn’t really breathe and wormed my way out from under him. But it still is super funny)

And I get that sometimes we all get congested. I myself have woken up to a snort, there was a specific period of my life, which I refer to as Junior year in high-school where I used my Western Civ. class to catch up on missed sleep and was known to jerk awake with a snort. I am not proud. Anyway. I get it, people snore.

Bruce is a whole different level. At a certain point I get tired of trying to sleep, usually about 5 AM and I find my way to the couch. Except a few nights ago, what with all the poisonous spray in there, I really am trapped. I can’t even blame someone else. I was the one who wanted to smell the Raid.

The result is that I have the most awkward sleep schedule. I know that I will have to do something about this once I start working, but for the time being, I get some good sleep between 9 AM and 5 PM. These are basically the hours that Bruce spends at work. I get up in time to sort out dinner and watch some prime time television.

If you’re observant you’ll have noted that I am writing this at 4 AM. I wonder if I took some sleeping pills if I would sleep though the noise?

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Plunge

I’m watching Armed and Famous. Erik Estrada is still my hero. I can’t wait to see LaToya Jackson arrest someone. This is not okay.