It's time for a break.

Well, folks, it's about that time. Like everyone else on these here internets, I'm going to be taking a break. I'm just not sure where this blog is...

Just kidding.

I am going on vacation next week, though, so posting will probably be sporadic at best (And you said I couldn't learn something by watching Clueless! Use it in a sentence today.)

The good news is that I will be in at least three different states. And you know what that means! Opportunity for out of town crazies.

I just realized I never told you about the crazy I met in the airport on my way to Nashville, because I was so caught up in the breast situation.

For some unknown reason, my flight was canceled on the way to Nashville. Of course, I was already on my way to the airport when I found out. The next flight out was completely booked, so I ended up on an evening flight, with about five hours to spare in the airport.

I found the nearest bar, pulled up a stool and ordered a nice, cold, tall beer and geared myself up for some serious people watching. And boy did I get my money's worth.

From across the aisle, I see this man. Have you seen Spaceballs? If not, stop reading and go watch it. Seriously. What's wrong with you? If you have, do you remember Jim. J. Bullock as Prince Valium?



Now that we're all on the same page, I can tell you that this man in the airport totally had Prince Valium's haircut, but with bright orange hair. Well, and without the hat, unfortunately. He was wearing a purple velvet jacket, though.

He was walking toward my bar (like I own the place) with a cane and it appeared that someone had beaten the everloving shit out of him. He had cuts and scrapes all over his face, several bruises, and he was walking with a serious limp. He was also holding a Crown Royal bag.

He walked into the bar, and I could see the two men on either side of the only remaining seat thinking, "Please don't sit here, please don't sit here, please don't -- oh shit. He sat here."

He put his Crown Royal bag on the bar and propped his cane up on his stool and ordered a beer. The entire bar was nearly silent, as we all stared at this man. The bartender brought him his beer and he sipped it and sat there like no one was looking at him.

We all sort of went back about our business. I was staring out the window at passersby when I heard a loud, "KKKKCHHCHCHSSSHHHH!"

I turned to see the strange man looking dejectedly at the ground. Everyone was just staring, so I got up and walked over to see what happened. As I rounded the corner, all I could see all over the floor were nickels. See, in his Crown Royal bag? He had his entire life savings in nickels, apparently.

I got down on the floor and started gathering nickels. He was shaking like a little leaf and just sort of in shock. He had also dropped several bottles of pills. I scooped up the nickels and he held the Crown Royal bag open for me, as I dropped them inside. We got the mess all cleaned up and I handed him his meds and he sat back down.

The bar was completely silent. Also, I'm pretty sure the bartender was thinking, "Please don't pay me in nickels, please don't pay me in nickels."

I went back to my seat after I made sure he was secure on his stool. The noise level rose and everyone went about their business until, "KKKKCHHCHCHSSSHHHH!"

He dropped the nickels again. Once again, I helped him pick them up while most everyone else just stared. We repeated the process about twice more while he was still in the bar. He couldn't seem to hold on to anything.

After he paid his tab (I'm assuming not in nickels), he got up and limped his way out of the bar. Again, the bar was silent. Until I caught the eye of one of the guys who had been sitting next to the man and said, "Wonder who kicked his ass?" We all sort of started talking about it, like a bunch of strangers who have all been involved in a traumatic event.

I looked out the window and saw him slowly limping his way across the aisle to the gate when, "KKKKCHHCHCHSSSHHHH!" He dropped his bag of nickels again. In the middle of the walkway. Nickels are rolling everywhere, his medicine is on the ground. He dropped to his knees in a panic, meanwhile people all around him are slipping and swerving to get around him. He almost got beaned with at least one suitcase.

I rushed out in the aisle to help him out. His hands were too shaky to really do any good. We gathered up the change and his meds and I walked him over to the gate. He looked at me with these sad eyes and said, "Thank you. I want you to have this." And he handed me a nickel. A NICKEL. I almost burst out laughing on the spot, but instead I solemnly thanked him and went back to the bar.

He dropped his nickels two more times before they finally sat him down in a wheelchair. I felt like I had done my god Samaritan deeds for...the YEAR, so I let someone else handle it. I really wish I had asked him what happened to his face. It's probably better to just make up stories in my head.

What good deeds have you done for crazies?

[Author's Note: This story is 100% true. I promise. I couldn't make this kind of crap up. I'm not that creative.]

Care Burden, y'all.

As proof that I have the best readers in the whole world, today's blog is brought to you by Jeff over at This is Why Your Hold Time is so Long. If you haven't read his stuff, go check him out. I feel more and more sorry for him everyday (because his job sucks, people).

Yesterday's blog inspired him so much, that he wrote an entire song and sent me the lyrics. Without further ado, I give you:

"Care Burden" by Angsty Mötorboat

I want to be with you, know you, own you
I want to like you, love you, be near you.
My soul is beautiful and I want you to see
I want you and want you to want me

I pretended to be normal when we first met
This is how I entangled you into my net
Now that you're trapped and kinda into me
I'm opening the floodgates of insecure insanity

(Chorus)
So I'm sending you text mesages
and calling your phone
I'm not gonna give you
five minutes alone
If you don't answer
and if you don't share
I'm really very sorry
to burden you with my care

[sad and mellow guitar riff, which emphasizes the soulpain and angst]

I feel so rejected and I'm brimming with hate
It's only been a week, but you were my soulmate
How dare you destroy all the plans that I had
You make all my feelings turn scary and sad

Where will I find another woman like you?
I'm not believing it, we're not through
You're one in a million, clearly the best
Mainly because I've scared off all the rest

(chorus)

(Author's note: I'm not sure how to end this song, but I'm pretty
certain the singer devolves into screams and mumbling bordeline
psychotic phrases like "I made a doll that looks like you" and "I
watch you without you knowing")


What can I say Shine, it's a slow day at work.

Jeff

UPDATE: Cheese hears this to a punked up version of the Free Credit Report song. I concur. Who's going to make that happen (I have no musical talent, aside from the occasional karaoke)? Jeff is on board with this plan.

Could I please just meet a boy who doesn't want to wear my skin?

I'm just going to start at the beginning, repetitive though it may be. It's really long. Far too long. But when I sent it to Rebecca (do you ZooLoo? I do!) over at Losing it to see if she could help me edit it down, her response was "You. Cannot. Edit. Any. Of. This." So here it is, in all its glory. Feel free to skim it, peruse it, glance at it, print it out and light it on fire, or not read it at all. I won't hold it against you. There's some really good stuff in here, though. How did all of this happen in two months?


At the end of January, I got dumped by a douchebag of epic proportions. I wrote about it endlessly as if anyone cared. As it turned out, some people did (thanks for your support, guys!). Who knew?

I wasted far too much energy and far too many tears on someone who really never cared about me in the first place.

I closed myself off and shut myself down for a good four months. Then, one day, it was like the light just came on again. I started going out more and hanging out with my friends while not wearing my pajamas. I found some new hobbies. I met some new people. It was great.

Then I ran into Motorboater. We all remember him, right? Very quickly, though we’d only really been out a few times, he got really attached to me. It freaked me out. A lot. The whole time I was saying things like, “I’m not really ready for anything serious” and “Gosh, I kinda think you’re a jackass” and “Gee, no, I really don’t trust you.” And still, it didn’t dissuade him.

Then came the day when he decided to go into weird, slightly psychotic mode. There were phone calls and text messages and he asked me to meet his mom (after like three dates…wtf?). My personal favorite was when he asked me if I wanted to come hang out with him and his mom (no), and I said I had plans to go rock climbing with my friends and then we were going to have dinner. His response? “Cancel that. I haven’t seen you in a week.”

Not bloody likely. (Sometimes I don an English accent when I'm pissed.)

After a couple more calls and texts and some guilt trip about how he didn’t have anyone to talk to because his mom was hanging out with the guy she picked up at the last bar, I agreed to come out for one beer. Then his mom gave that stranger a blow job in front of the bar. And I was done. Stick a fork in me, whatever.

I didn’t hear from him for a while after that, which was fine with me. Then he called me one night, while I was at dinner with my mom. I didn’t call him back. That was the end of it. So I thought.

A week or so later, I ran into him at a bar. I tried to be nice and just sort of friendly let’s let bygones be bygones about the whole thing. But Motorboater? No…he steadfastly refused to speak to me for most of the evening, but while sitting at my table. Ugh. Then he finally left. At 2:00 am, I receive a text about how he didn’t think that seeing me would affect him, but it does and it really sucks when someone tells you they don’t want to get hurt, but then they ignore your calls and act like nothing’s wrong and how he knows that this is what happened to me in my last relationship, so he knows I know how much this hurts.

What?

So my year and a half long relationship is comparable to our three dates? No. Save that drama for your mama (not that she doesn’t cause enough of it on her own.). I’m out.

Then I met this guy and we were friends and I really enjoyed that and then he kissed me and it was nice and we went out once, but I was worried about it ending our friendship so I had to say something and I think I hurt his feelings, but we’re still friends and everything is okay. I hope. (And he reads my blog. Everyone say hi!)

Last week, I was shopping for groceries and this guy sort of…hit on me. Blah blah, he asked me out and he seemed cool, so I said yes. We had a really great first date. Like really great. Movie first date great. We had a really great first kiss. Like really great. Better than movie first kiss great. (Of course the next day, via text message he FREAKED me out by telling me he felt like we were involved and asking me if I felt the same…wtf? After what follows, you can totally come back up here and say, “Uh, shine? RED FLAG!” and you will be completely right and I will buy you a beer. Or a cupcake.)

And I got excited. About a boy. We hung out a couple more times. I decided to overlook that he was wearing crocs, for crying out loud…who does that? Plus, he was a smoker. Still, I was excited. Our second date was also good. Then we had our third date. It can only be described as awkward with a touch of defensive. I’m not sure what happened, but the whole time we were at dinner, things were just…off. He told me stories I wouldn’t tell someone I was trying to impress, he quizzed me on music (Because he knew I had dated a couple of musicians and he’s a musician, blah blah. Oh, by the way, I’m DONE with musicians. I hope…), and generally acted in a bizarre fashion.

Oh, I should mention here that he also had this thing for asking me what I was thinking. Do boys outside of high school still do that? I thought you men were all about not knowing what we’re thinking. And this wasn’t just like hey we’re sitting in silence for five minutes and you have this pained expression on your face so I’m going to ask you what you’re thinking because it seems like I should. This was like hey we’re kissing, but now I’m going to pull back and ask, “What are you thinking?” or say, “Penny for your thoughts…” Yeah, in that moment, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking. Trust me. It’s about what an idiot you are, though.

If I want you to know what I’m thinking, I’ll tell you. Does it seem to anyone that I have a problem saying what’s on my mind?

Also, if he texted me mushy crap like “Miss you, XOXO” I didn’t really respond (Because ew). Then a few minutes later I would get a text about how I didn’t respond. Usually fairly defensive in nature. “So I guess no hugs and kisses from you?” Ugh. I don’t really play that crap. It’s weird and stupid and I don’t get it. WHEN I’VE KNOWN SOMEONE FOR A WEEK. I don’t actually miss you, yo. So I’m not going to lie.

Then his roommate came home and everything sort of went into the shitter. It was already teetering on the edge, anyway. Then his incredibly conservative, incredibly republican, incredibly aggressive roommate gave me the third degree for an hour and a half. And he (my date) said the words “Obama is a complete fucking idiot.”

Sure, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. But really? Obama’s a complete fucking idiot? I just don’t think so. I refuse to sit and be attacked about my politics by people I barely know. Hell, I refuse to discuss politics with anyone.

I grimly muscled through it and about 15 more what are you thinkings and the next day, I promptly called my bestest mcbestest friend in the whole wide world and the love of my life (it’s really too bad neither of us is a man), Cheese, to discuss. We decided that he definitely lost points and that I was probably going to have to end it.

I was in favor of just letting it fizzle out. After all, we’d only known each other for a week and it wasn’t like we were friends or anything. But oh, no.

Every Monday night, after I work for 12 hours straight, I meet my mom for dinner. We’re trying to have a relationship and stuff. I guess while I was at dinner, he texted me, “Thinkin bout ya! :-)” I know there’s nothing wrong with that, per se. But we’ve only known each other a week and that’s the 37th such text I’ve received. It’s just a little much for me.

After dinner, I called Cheese and we talked while I drove home. Then I downloaded and installed the latest update for my phone (Hello, texting in landscape, you sexy beast!), which took a good half hour. Then my phone rang. Him again.

“Hi. Miss you. What are you doing?”

It’s 11:00 pm on Monday, I’m in my bed. Duh.

“You know, when I text you, it’s totally okay if you text me back. It’s not going to freak me out.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure me skinning a live animal in front of you wouldn’t freak you out. I let out a big sigh and explained that I was busy and shit.

We got off the phone and I went to sleep thinking, yeah, that’s over.

Wednesday, while I was at work, he called me. I didn’t answer BECAUSE I WAS AT WORK. He left me a message, “Uh, hey. It’s me. Give me a call if you don’t mind.”

Five minutes later, he texted me: Hey you! Any chance u may be able to hang after jits 2nite?

Thirty minutes later: Guess u r 2 busy 2 talk 2 me. Drop a line when u can if u don’t mind. Thanks.

(Can I just mention here how much I hate this kind of text? Unless you're phone is old, I see no reason that you can't type out at least most of the words. It takes me forever to translate and it gives me a headache.)

Two hours later: Is everything ok? Not like you to not respond. (To which I kind of wanted to scream “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS ‘LIKE’ ME!)

Three hours after that: Well…Hope u r ok.

Then at 11:00 pm, a minute and a half long voicemail including crap like, “I just want to make sure you're okay and you're safe and I haven't done anything to piss you off...just please call me and let me know you're okay, sweetie."

So, okay, with no response from me whatsoever, he called twice, left me two voicemails, and texted me four times. By this point I was so twitchy and annoyed about the whole thing, I didn’t even want to talk to him. Had it been one phone call or one text message (maybe even two texts), I would have gotten in touch with him and we would have proceeded with the fizzle.

Instead, at this point, I’m kind of concerned that he’s going to make a suit of my skin and wear it to feel pretty.

This morning, I sent him the following text:

I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I didn’t have my phone with me yesterday, and coming home to two phone calls, two voicemails, and four text messages is way too much, way too fast for me. I’m sure that you’ll find someone who will be thrilled with this level of attention, but that someone is not me. I just don’t see a future for us.

Which I think is damn near crystal clear (The Mole thinks I was far too nice). Not that I expected him to just deal and move on…since clearly he’s crazy.

He usually sleeps really late, so I wasn’t exactly expecting a response right away. I knew I was going to get one, mind you, just not in the next minute or two.

So I get this text:

Please don’t do this. I am very sorry that it was too much. I was genuinely concerned. I care and it gets the better of me when I worry. Please don’t end this…it just got started.

Ugh. First of all, no, you weren’t genuinely concerned. You were worried you had pissed me off, sure. But I’m a grown-up. Not returning a text message for a few hours is not a sign of death. Just a sign that I’m either a) busy, or b) don’t really want to talk to you. Either way, I’ll get back to you when I’m ready and pushing it is only going to make me want to talk to you less. Second of all, seriously, it’s been a fucking week. Get over it.

Then, before I even really had a chance to respond, which I didn’t think I particularly owed him anyway, since I had made myself clear, I get this text (we’re talking about maybe two minutes later…and again, I’M AT WORK):

Wow…No response to my feelings. Ok. Guess there is nothing I can say to change your mind. Thanks for the very little time we shared. Sorry to burden you with my care. Have a good one.

Boo fucking hoo is about all I have to say to that. Also, “Sorry to burden you with my care” is an INSTANT CLASSIC and I will be using it all the time. (Rebecca's reaction: also, sorry to burden you with my care is so awesome, i want to sew it on a pillow, stain it with my own blood and send it to someone. Hell, yeah. Sounds like a Christmas present to me.)

UPDATE: I received yet another text from him: I really wish you would reconsider. I thought we had a good thing starting between us.

It's Friday, we should break up - Taxi Drivers

Dear Taxi Drivers everywhere,

Driving is YOUR JOB. It's what you do for a living. How can you possibly suck so much at it?

If I sucked at my job even half as much as the majority of you suck at your jobs, I would have been tarred, feathered, drawn, and quartered by now.

Merging is not that hard. Driving the speed limit is not that hard. Knowing where you're going is...YOUR WHOLE PURPOSE FOR BEING.

Please learn to drive, so I don't have to kill you.

Thanks,

TMI Thursday - Please keep your penis to yourself.

I don't usually participate in TMI Thursdays because I don't want any family members who read my blog to have a heart-attack. However, I might have mentioned this to LiLu, and she might have said, "Um, why haven't you written that up as a TMI Thursday?" So here we are. Don't worry, you won't throw up (oh, the build up!). It's not even about tampons this week!

I pretty much had the same boyfriend all through high school. Of course, being high school kids, we broke up probably 37 times. And during those breakups, I dated other people. Somewhere near the end of high school we had a much more permanent breakup (it lasted six months, I think). I met this older guy who worked at (gasp!) CompUSA and played the guitar and had tattoos and thus started my fascination for semi-geeky musicians (to date, I have seriously dated TWO astrophysicist musicians. Who does that?).

Also, my mom hated him. That helped tremendously.

As I said, he was older than me and had more experience and didn't really care about my innocent high schooler status, like my high school boyfriends. And he had his belly button pierced. Which is just weird for a guy. I thought it was cool. I was young.

We both still lived with our parents, but as his were infinitely cooler than mine (read: didn't really care if we were at his place alone), we hung out at his house way more than we hung out at mine. Plus, my mom hated him.

So I would go over there and hang out. His parents loved me.

The other thing about his parents? They were nudists. Of the naked variety.

Aside from one really awkward hot tub experience (in which they were naked in the hot tub, but I did not see the nakedness), they kept their naked to themselves. I'm pretty sure you can get arrested for exposing yourself to a minor anyway, so it was a good call.

Then one day, I decided to go over unannounced. BAD DECISION.

I rang the doorbell and my boyfriend's dad's PENIS answered the door. I think it's still staring at me to this day. Hi, I've never seen your son's penis (that might be a lie, I can't remember the chronological chain of events), but looky there at yours! Eyes up, eyes up, DON'T LOOK DOWN.

That is definitely in my top ten uncomfortable moments.

After that, it was like all bets were off. His mom did naked aerobics in the living room (OUCH! She had no boobs, though), his dad worked on the '69 Mustang naked (Is it just me or does that seem dangerous to anyone else?). I don't think I ever saw them with clothes on again.

In which I make fun of my sister a little bit and hope she can take it. Love you sis!

My family ties are really complicated. No, not that show with Michael J. Fox and Elizabeth Baxter-Burney (or whatever her name is...), although did anyone else have the odd crush on Skippy? Just me, then? Okay.

What I'm really trying to say is that I have a complicated family. I'll give you the short-hand version (if I can).

My mom and my dad had sex. My mom got pregnant. They were then forced by their conservative Baptist families to get married and nine months or so later, I arrived on the scene. I just want to point out here that my mom got married at SIX MONTHS PREGNANT and she had a 22-inch waist. Chew on that for a second. I don't even think I was born with a 22-inch waist. As you can imagine, that marriage didn't last long. They were children and all.

When I was four, my mom remarried. A year and a half later, my sister was born. She cried all the time and I wanted to put her back because I liked being the center of attention and she was sooooo taking that away from me. I still remember standing over her crib at night (while she screamed...endlessly) telling her to "shut up shut up shut up" because I had a rough day ahead of me in first grade the next day. First grade was tough, y'all. Also, in our house (at that point) "shut up" was akin to "fuck off."

Meanwhile, my father got remarried and presently has seven other children. I'm getting twitchy just thinking about it.

Mom and Dad #2 got divorced when I was 12 and Mom married her current husband about a year later. Dad #2 remarried and now sports his own seven children in Montana, though two of them are adopted (it's still seven mouths to feed, yo). Dad #3 already had one son, who is older than me. He's married and has three children.

If you were keeping up, you can see why the question "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" is kind of complicated in my life.

However, I really only grew up with one sister. She's about six years younger than me and we are complete polar opposites. In most ways.

We had a tumultuous (look at me, using big words!) relationship growing up, but we're friends now and I can't even tell you how happy that makes me.

Of course there are times when I just look at her and shake my head in confusion. Her move from one apartment to another a couple of years ago was one of those times. I actually didn't help out with this one, so I wasn't there for the move itself, but my mom sent me the schedule my sister wrote up for the move because she thought it was "too hilarious." I don't think that even begins to do it justice.

See, here's the thing. My sister is incredibly organized. It's possible she also has some control issues, but that's neither here nor there (I love you, sis, don't kill me). I could only wish to be this organized...except, well, I don't.

If you haven't read LiLu's post this morning about pooping diamonds, go read it. I mean it, go. Just don't forget to come back!

I can totally relate, because I always think I'm organized. But really? I'm not. My clothes are often found strewn all over my bedroom or closet (or both, let's face it). I'm forever losing my jewelry or my hair thingies or my left eyeball (okay, that never happened. But only because it's attached in there really well). But that's part of what makes me fun and interesting. Yes, I just called myself fun and interesting. Deal with it.

My sister reads my blog, so I'm kind of taking a chance here. But I just couldn't resist sharing her moving checklist with you guys. All pertinent information has been blacked out and I've omitted the pages that had train schedules and room layouts on them (because the room layouts didn't show up on my copy). So these are just five of the twelve pages...yes, I said twelve pages.

It begins with a note and a table of contents:



Isn't she adorable? And organized? Personally, I take the "how much of my crap can I shove into my car every trip" approach to moving.



That's possibly my favorite page. I love how she stated everyone's role as though someone might get confused and start trying to pay for things and a fight would break out and all her stuff would end up in Harlem or something. Just for reference, David is my sister's boyfriend (who I suspect had no clue just what this move was going to be like...), Ginger is our mom, and Dana is our aunt (Mom's younger sister) and also The Queen of all Things to do with Moving. Do not question the Dana.

Next we have the actual schedule. You'll notice that my sister has more faith in movers than anyone on the planet. Also, I have no doubt that she sent them this schedule and threatened their first born children if they were more than thirty seconds late (not really, she used to be a social worker and stuff. She would never threaten children. Testicles maybe...). Aunt Dana, on the other hand, will cancel your movers three hours before they're even supposed to be there because she just knows they'll be late and it would be easier to just do it ourselves. What? Your family's not neurotic?



Now, for the cherry on the cake. The "unpacking checklist." There was even a plan for David's underwear. Totally cracked me up.





I should also point out that this entire schedule was made by a 22-year-old. Not a 45-year-old, as you might suspect. At 29, I'm nowhere near this responsible and organized. The move, as you can imagine, did not go off without a hitch. But I think it was far better than her previous move, in which, after driving her stuff halfway across the country, they realized that not only would her stuff not fit through the doors or in the elevators to get it up to her apartment, it also wouldn't fit in her apartment. So she had to get all new stuff to replace the new stuff she'd already gotten. And her old stuff had to be driving back halfway across the country. Good times.

If this is really a thing now, someone please just put me out of my misery.

I was really craving a soda this afternoon, so I hopped in my car and drove over to McDonald's.

While I was sitting in the drive-thru, waiting, I saw something I'll admit that I've never seen before. Good thing I had my camera ready, eh?



Okay, I lied. I couldn't get my phone out fast enough. So I used MS Paint to recreate the masterpiece for your viewing pleasure. Since I'm a terrible artist, I'll explain:

This girl coming out of the McDonald's was wearing a shower cap just perched on top of her head. A SHOWER CAP*.

And not even over her curlers. Just sitting there. On her head. Like Little Miss Muffet. At least, that's where I went with it. She was like a poor man's Little Miss Muffet. I think she was on her way to sit on her tuffet. What the hell's a tuffet?

Please tell me I'm not going to have to start wearing a shower cap perched on top of my head to fit in with the cool kids.

*Author's note: The shower cap was indeed bright blue. Why?