It's Friday, we should break up - In which I was going to break up with American Airlines, but instead I give you...

This guy (Courtesy of The Bloggess's Sex Column), not exactly SFW (I'm not really sure, but The Bloggess said it was probably SFW if your boss wasn't a dick, so I'd go with that):



I'm so confused. Is it sick? Is it awesome? Is it...Demolition Man, but a little better? Why don't they make any internets parts for girls? Do you just do it with your guy friends? Why do you have to stick that other part in your ass?

Lots of people like to masturbate with a vacuum cleaner? WTF?

I have only questions, no answers.

TMI Thursday (not really) - My vacation hated me. Or at least the travel parts did.

Okay, so I know it's TMI Thursday, and I should be writing a gross or hilarious story to entertain you. But I'm not gonna. Today, you get to hear the story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down...oh wait, that's the Fresh Prince theme song.

You get to hear about my vacation. Or at least the travel portions of it. It was almost as eventful as my trip to Tennessee. But with less funny stuff and more almost crying. Mostly, it's just that I'm a dumbass. So you already know that:

1. I made my flight arrangements with the AM/PM screw up.
2. I managed to get food poisoning or some kind of bug two days before my trip.
3. The same day I was puking my guts up, all my sleeping arrangements fell through and I had to scramble around to get a hotel in Seattle. By the way, nothing is cheap in Seattle.

What you may or may not know is that on Saturday, after I went to work at my mom's, I was finishing up my packing. I went down to my car to get something and I...fell down the stairs and twisted my ankle. Not a sprain or anything, but still.

So I wrapped it up and kept on truckin'. (That's what she said! At least in my head, somehow.)

My friend Leslie took me to the airport and dropped me off. I decided to check my bag because when I'm traveling for nine days, I really don't want to have to worry about my liquid situation. Plus, I totally hate going through security anyway. The whole thing is getting a little out of hand.

When I checked in at the gate, the woman said, "Well, you got the last seat on the plane!"

Um, hi, excuse me. I bought my ticket on this plane weeks ago and you're telling me that I JUST NOW got a seat?!? Buying a ticket now means the same thing as thinking about buying a ticket, apparently. Let this be a lesson to all you smug bitches who think you've got a seat on the plane. YOU DON'T.

After all that, I figured I deserved a beer. I walked over to the bar and ordered a tall one. The bartender asked the usual questions, so I told him my story. And he totally gave me free beer! The woman next to me said I had "great style" (ahem, in my $15 Target dress, thank you). Things were looking up.

The plane to Denver took off and landed without a hitch, and my friend Bones was there to greet me at the airport. We decided to just stay and hang out in Denver with Joanna and Tony. Everyone had a good time, and on Monday afternoon, Bones dropped me off at the American terminal at the Denver airport for my flight.

Only my flight wasn't on American. Instead, this leg of my trip was on Alaska Air, something I totally didn't realize. So, off I went, across the entire terminal to find Alaska Air. Not that I don't enjoy a good scenic tour of the airport, of course. And this fit perfectly in with most of the other things that had happened on my vacation.

I got to Seattle and my friend Brian picked me up from the airport. We hadn't seen each other in five years, so there was much hugging and excitement. Seattle was wonderful and I promise to tell you more about it at a later date. This story, however, is all about travel hell. For this purpose, I'm going to skip to the end of my vacation.

My flight was at 11:30 pm on Sunday night, which put me back in Dallas Monday morning at 5:00 am. My friend Patrick (Don't blame me if you click that link and don't understand anything on his blog. I don't either.) actually agreed to pick me up. When I got to the airport in Seattle, however (after a day of drinking and hanging out by the pool), I found that my flight had been delayed for an hour. I called Patrick to let him know, and Brian hung out with me for a little while.

My flight was set to board at 11:50 pm, and take off at 12:30 am. They loaded us on the plane around midnight. But the plane went nowhere. At 1:30 am, the pilot's voice sounded in the cabin, "We're sorry folks, but we've decided to screw you all over. This plane is broken and it's not going anywhere. Please file off the plane and line up at the gate to change your travel arrangements."

Okay, so that's not exactly what he said, but it's the general gist of it.

Lucky for me, I was sitting in row 12. Which meant there were only about 40 people in front of me in line. At no point did they bother to call in extra American Airlines employees to help sort out their mess. I suspect that there are some people who are still standing in that line.

I thought maybe I would be sneaky and call to change my flight arrangements while I was in line. My phone had very little battery, but I whipped it out and dialed American Airlines.

First of all, technically, my flight had left the day before. So the system thought I was trying to make flight arrangements for the following year. Yeah, that's not annoying. Once I finally got a person on the phone, she said, "Well, ma'am, I can't really help you. They're not showing that flight as canceled in this system, so I can't change your reservations."

I said, "Okay, let's say I missed my flight."

She said, "Ma'am. As far as I know, you're on that plane. I can't do anything to help you."

Seriously?

So I gave up and hung up the phone. What else could I do?

A few minutes later, the women from the gate (who's supposed to be helping people change their flight arrangements) comes by to hand out the number for American Airlines, so we could all call and settle things. I let her know that they wouldn't help anyone until she pushed the little button for "Cancel This Flight."

She didn't seem to think this was terribly helpful.

I waited in line for almost two and a half hours before I got to the counter. And I was in ROW 12. At one point, someone got on the speaker and said, "We've rescheduled this flight for noon tomorrow (when really they meant the same day, as it was 3:00 am), but there will be limited seating for those of you in line." Really? Who the fuck else have you put on this flight? Shouldn't the people you just screwed over at least get the first chance at the seats on the new flight? No?

The soonest I could get to Dallas was 2:45 pm. My new flight was scheduled to leave at 6:00 am, with a layover in LA. I was so happy to have a flight, I didn't really ask any questions. And she never mentioned my luggage, which I had checked to be on this flight. She didn't even tell me what airline I was flying (Alaska Air...again). The thing about American is, even if you're flying a different airline, they don't really tell you. Nor do they give you the real flight number. You get the American Airlines version of the flight number, which has little to do with the actual flight number on the actual airline. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I finally figured out the airline situation and decided that my best course of action was probably to go find my luggage and make sure it got on my new flight. So I went down to baggage claim, found my bag, went back up to the ticket counters. Alaska Air is, of course, on the opposite side of the airport. I had to pay to check my bag (AGAIN. I had just paid to check it on the American flight), which pissed me right off. Then I had to go through security again because they don't really care if you've been inside the airport all night and just had to come out of the secure area to get your bag because your airline is so jacked up that they canceled your red-eye flight and you just want to get back in there so you can possibly take a nap with the homeless dudes sleeping all over the airport. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I made it to the gate, tried to fall asleep, didn't fall asleep, got on the plane and took off for Seattle. I had a middle seat, making it nearly impossible to sleep on the plane. I'm going to just make a new rule here. If it's a two hour flight, YOU CAN HOLD IT. Stop climbing over me to pee. Go before you get on the plane, and then sit there quietly for the duration of the flight. You're a grown-up. You do NOT have to pee every hour.

What? Everyone else is allowed to make rules, but I'm not?

Anyway, I get into LAX to discover...LAX is like the shithole airport of the planet. I don't know where anything is and there's no one to really tell me. I can only seem to find four other gates, but none of the televisions have things on them that are useful to me. I have no idea where I need to be, I only have an hour to get there, and my phone is almost dead.

I decided that getting to my next flight was totally worth killing the rest of the battery in my phone, so I looked my flight up online. It said I needed to be in Terminal 4. Great. Now where the hell is Terminal 4?

I found a little place for a "shuttle." I think bus would probably have been a more appropriate word, but whatever. I had to take two, TWO buses on the tarmac, WHERE THE PLANES FLY to get to my terminal.

This is when I discovered that it's not possible to get anywhere in LAX in under an hour. The good news (depending on your perspective) was that my flight to Dallas had been delayed for two hours. Not exactly comforting, since my last delayed flight was canceled.

After I made it to the proper terminal and even the proper gate, I realized I still needed to check in to get my boarding pass. BUT WHAT IF I DON'T HAVE A SEAT? There are 25 people in line in front of me and at this point, I was almost in tears. I had been awake for over 24 hours and hadn't had any food since the previous day around 4:00 pm.

It turned out that I did have a seat. And the plane did take off. So a mere 16 hours after I arrived at the airport in Seattle, my flight landed in Dallas. By the way, this was also only about 15 minutes sooner than I would have landed had I just stayed in Seattle and taken the rescheduled flight. Awesome.

I had already decided that there was no way my luggage had made the trip with me, but it rolled off the carousel. I thought I was home free.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

On the way to my place, having stopped to get some food and feeling much better about life, I stuck my hand in my purse to retrieve my keys. But there were no keys to be found. In a flash, I remembered using my bottle opener earlier in the day and tossing my keys on top of my bag. They must have fallen into the couch or something.

My apartment complex does not consider being locked out an emergency and the tears of frustration and exhaustion were threatening to fall. I won't bore you with the rest of the story, but I will say that there was a locksmith involved (and the stupidest man I've ever met in my life) before I finally found my keys in the bottom of my suitcase. WHERE THEY HAD BEEN THE WHOLE TIME.

Asshole keys.

Please feel free to share your traveling horror stories to make me feel better.

I swear I'm going to give you guys an update on what was my horrendous experience traveling back from Seattle...

Just not right this second. I have a crap-ton (technical term) of work to do.

But I totally love you all and I miss you and I will write soon! Also, I will catch up on all your blogs. Promise.

TMI Thursday - Lock it up

Even though I'm on vacation (sitting at Tougo Coffee in Seattle, having a latte with Brian who runs the place), I thought I would share this little TMI Thursday story with you. Thanks to LiLu for once again encouraging me to make an ass of myself on the internets.

I used to live in this house in the suburbs with a couple of roommates (one of whom was my boyfriend at the time). When we all moved out of the house, I had to move back in with my parents for a little while. Yuck. Love you, Mom!

My neighbors had a little dog named Hunter, or "Hoosty." I have no idea why he was Hoosty, but there it is. Shortly after I moved out, they asked me to dogsit. Of course I was happy to do so. My boyfriend wanted to go to some party with his work people, so we did that first. I soon got tired and wanted to go home, but he wanted to stay out (I used to be kind of a wuss...). He drove me back to the neighbors house and then went back to the party. But he was going to come back and stay with me later.

I put on my cute little white nightie with the little pink flowers. And the matching cute little white panties with little pink flowers. You know...so I would be ready.

Then I walked out into the backyard with Hoosty.

Seems pretty safe, right? But what I had failed to notice (and my neighbors had failed to mention) was that they had the kind of door that appears to be unlocked on the inside, but when you get outside (in your nightie), it is most definitely locked. And then you're stuck outside. In your nightie.

Probably in this scenario, you would stay put. Wait for your boyfriend to get back from the party and let you in, right? I mean, he had a key and everything.

But it was cold. And I had no idea how long I would have to wait.

My parents house was only about two miles away, and I was a little tipsy, so really my only logical choice was to walk. To my parents house. Barefoot. In my little white nightie.

So I set off. I should mention here that my feet are really sensitive. I can't even walk on those aggregate sidewalks. You know, the ones with the little pebbles in them? Yeah, no. Ouch.

Well, between my neighbor's house and my parents house, there was maybe a half mile of sidewalk. I spent most of the walk through the neighborhood on my tippy toes, trying not to step on so much as a twig. Unsuccessfully.

Once I made it out to the main road, I had almost forgotten that I was only wearing my little white nightie. Which maybe covered three-quarters of my ass. And maybe three-quarters of my boobs. Sexy.

All I could think was, "Oh, sidewalk! Glorious sidewalk!"

Then, "Oh fuck. I'm naked."

What choice did I have at that point, though? I was no longer tipsy and really contemplating my course of action. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was already halfway there. The half ahead of me had a sidewalk, where the path back to the house had twigs and rocks and crap. I forged ahead.

It was about midnight and cars were sparse on the road. Two cops passed me, though. You'd think, if you were a cop, you might come to the conclusion that the chick on the side of the road walking barefoot in a little white nightie (in a residential neighborhood) might be having some kind of issue. They did not.

Right about then I heard an odd hissing sound. I looked around, but didn't see anything and then --

FWA SSSSSSSSS CH CH CH CH!

Sprinklers. On me. On the side of the road. In my little white nightie. Ugh.

Quickly I was soaked to the bone. And far more naked than I was before.

A pickup truck sped by me on the road. I thought, "Whew. At least he didn't stop." And then I saw his brake lights. He threw his truck in reverse and backed up to my location. The whole time I was chanting, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit" under my breath.

He got back to me and leaned over to roll down his window.

"You look like you've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess. You need a ride, little lady?"

Uuuuhhhhhh. Crap.

"No, sir. I'm good." I meant to do this, obviously.

"Is there someone you could call or something? Do you want to use my phone?"

"YES! Could I please call my 6'5" tall, incredibly buff (this was a lie...) boyfriend and tell him I'll be at my parents house. It's just right up the road."

"Sure. You sure you don't need a ride?"

"No, thanks."

So he let me use his phone and I called and left a message. Then I walked the rest of the way to my parents house, soaking wet and freezing cold. But I made it.

When my boyfriend came to pick me up, we had a "discussion" about how stupid it was to walk to my parents house naked. I had no choice but to agree. I didn't even get any that night.

And I haven't worn that particular little white nightie again.

UPDATE: Upon request and because I forgot initially. My little white nightie possibly looked something like this...but white. And with little pink flowers.

Since I'm on vacation, I thought I'd post the rest of those pictures.

So I've arrived in Seattle. My time in Denver was a blast. Good to see old friends and hang out. But Seattle? I want to make slow love to it all night long. It is amazing here. I just got cold walking to get coffee. COLD. In July.

Oh you know how people are always joking about not being able to walk in Seattle without tripping over a coffee shop? That's not really an exaggeration. At all.

Anyway, here are the pictures. Promise I'll log in and blog more later. After I shave my head and get several tattoos.


More from my younger days. This is me with my Aunt Dana's Boston Terrier, Tucker. I was scared to death of him, despite what it may look like.



My mom's second wedding. That's my sister's dad with the child molester mustache. He's not a child molester, though, I promise.



I'm at the beach! Someone carved my name in the sand with a shovel!



Meet Sanders, my first boyfriend. I suspect that he doesn't know he was my first boyfriend, but that's his problem. He lived next door to my aunt and uncle (I helped dig their pool with a spoon...dressed in my bikini. Shut up, I was three.).



Me and my little sister (of Moving Checklist fame) at Rock City in Chatanooga, Tennessee. Note the sexy hot skort things we're both wearing and my sister's 12-inch thick bangs. Anyone who's ever asked me what color my hair really is...I'm pretty sure this is it!



Let's move on to some scary hair. I really have no idea what the fuck I'm doing or why on earth I would still have such a picture in my picture album, but...here it is. Try not to be afraid.


Seriously...WTF?

Oh, and here's my I-have-no-idea-why-this-is-my-school-picture 8th grade school picture in Hawaii. With three of my best friends. And in case you were wondering, yes, I do believe that is a rodeo scene across the chest of my white button-down shirt. No, I have no idea why that would be the case.



On to high school, where my mom promptly made me do Glamour Shots. Please hold while I scrub the two inches of makeup off my face. I remember the whole time this "photo shoot" was taking place, feeling like I couldn't smile, lest I crack my face in half.



A montage of high school/high school dance pictures. Eesh.

My high school boyfriend, Marc. I'm wearing a vest. I don't know why.



In this one, I look possessed.



School pictures, junior and senior year. Who let me get a perm (no, it wasn't the first time)?






Sophomore homecoming. It seemed like a good idea at the time to go ahead and dance before we got our picture taken. Nice hair, eh? And seriously, if you haven't already, check out those eyebrows. They're like caterpillars. I hadn't really noticed yet, though.



Junior homecoming. Meet Tony. He was the goalie on our soccer team. And he had green eyes. And a car! Oh, and he was kind of a jerk. Why yes, those are chopsticks in my hair.



Senior prom. Meet Travis, son of the nudist parents. Oh, how my mom hated him.




We stayed at prom for about 45 minutes. Then we went out somewhere but I have no idea where no one tell my mom. I can't still get grounded for something I did 12 years ago, right? There must be a statute of limitations on that...

After senior prom. At the Village Inn. I'm wearing overalls. They were the thing then, trust me. Everyone was doing it.



After high school, I moved to Dallas, met some people, and did some stuff.

Jay and I dated for almost five years. For some reason in this picture, he's trying to eat my face or something. I picked it because it's the only one where I might look cuter than him. He totally reminds me of Jim from The Office.



I blame this next picture on him. Completely.



Back in the day, before college, I spent a number of years selling houses. I looked like this:



These are some random embarrassing shots:





Oh, and I can't forget...the moment I knew I didn't want to have children. When they parked me at the foot of my stepmother's vagina and made me watch her give birth. I. Am. Never. Doing. That.



And last, but certainly not least, here's me...this morning, while sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle making this blog for you. Hi!



If I'm not home in a week...leave me the hell alone. I love it here!

It's Friday, we should break up - Life

So, not only have I already screwed up my flights for my vacation (meaning I get less time with my friends in Denver and New Mexico), but yesterday (while I was spending a lovely day with my head in the toilet), I found out that my housing arrangements in Seattle next week have fallen through.

The Mole and her boyfriend just moved to Seattle, and I was supposed to stay with them. As payment, I was going to help them unpack! I'm so giving.

Yesterday, The Mole sent me an email saying that actually, their movers are going to be nearly a week late, and won't arrive until the end of my trip. So while they have an apartment, they don't have any stuff.

She asked if there were any way that I could move my trip. But I'm leaving in like 36 hours. And it was already a nightmare trying to schedule this trip with so many people.

I know it's not her fault, and I'm certainly not blaming anyone for this unfortunate turn of events. I just wish I had more than 36 hours to financially plan for an extra $600 (at least) in hotel costs for the trip. If I hadn't scheduled with so many people, I'd just see if I could cancel the whole thing. And trying to deal with all of this while puking my guts up is less than fun.

So, Life? I'm breaking up with you a little. But I feel like this will be one of those short, high school style breakups in which we get back together in a few hours when I feel less stressed and ill.

TMI Thursday - In which I show you some pictures

So I'm sitting at home. I think I have food poisoning. I've been puking...among other things all day. I feel like shit.

What better time to go through some old photos and share the embarrassment? Now, I don't have a scanner here, and these are all old photos, so...I took pictures of the pictures with my phone camera. True story. They're blurry, so it's pretty much useless to click them. But I think you can get the idea.

First up, the wedding of my mom to my dad. They were both 16-years-old at the time, I think. My mom is gorgeous, by the way. And like six months pregnant with me. So I guess technically, this is our first family photo.



Now for a family photo in which you can see me. I haven't bothered to ask my mom what's up with the unfortunate haircut.



And the whole family shot? Just look at all that lovely '70s hair! Props to Aunt Kim, at the bottom, for keepin' it real with the long hair.



Proof that I'm pretty adorable?





That kid in the picture up there? Yeah, that's my dad. Say hi to Dad's acne, everyone!

As I got older, I got even more cute. Which is hard to believe, I know.





This post has been cut short due to the internets I steal at home being really sucky today. Get better internets neighbor!

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?

It's a sad day...

Steve McNair, former quarterback for the Tennessee Titans was shot and killed on Saturday evening in downtown Nashville.

As I am a Titans fan, and a Steve McNair fan, I am sad about the loss.

Click here for the few details that are available.

Is it just me, or does it seem to be in fashion to be dead? That "if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" question kind of seems to make more sense now, doesn't it?

I would like a break from death, please.

TMI Thursday, if you're a boy.

I'm not sure this counts as TMI Thursday in the true sense, but it's on my mind today.

Boys, this one is not for you.

No really, stop reading.




Still reading? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...

What the hell is up with tampons these days? (You're sorry you kept reading now, aren't you?)

They stopped making my favorite kind years ago. What is so freaking hard about a flushable, biodegradable applicator? I mean, okay, and one that doesn't scratch the inside of your lady parts to bits, thank you Tampax.

And this no applicator thing? I don't get it. It's small, so that's nice. No awkward tampon sword for you to pull out of your purse in front of your boss or that cute boy at the bar who just offered to buy you a beer. But let's talk logistics for just a minute.

So the demon blood is visiting you (What? That's not what you call yours?). Let's say you're out with your girlfriends. Somewhere public. You go to the bathroom and need to exchange your cotton. So you unwrap this no applicator piece of crap, wiggle the string around, put your finger and the bottom, and shove it up there. But now...your finger's kind of a mess, yes? (WAR PAINT STYLE) And you still have to pull up your pants and get to the sink. BUT HOW? It's just gross. I refuse.

And I hate plastic applicators. I hate having to wrap them in toilet paper and touch that biochemical waste plant that is the little trashcan in the public restrooms. And ladies, while we're at it, please stop like wiping your "sanitary napkins" all over the bathroom. Unnecessary, mmmkay?

It just really seems like we could come up with some better options here. And don't even try to talk to me about the demon blood cup thing. 'Cause no. Just no. Let's just say I tried it once and it spilled...SPILLED. Yeah, and I wasn't home.

I don't want to have children. I have no use for the demon blood. Shouldn't there be a box I can check to opt out?

Remember in the second grade when we all learned how to tell time? Apparently, I missed that day.

I'm taking a trip up to Seattle next month to visit friends and see if I might like to live there. Driving seemed like kind of a hassle, so I decided to fly. And since I was already flying, I decided to take the opportunity to visit a friend who lives in New Mexico and see some friends who just moved to Denver. I got online to make my plane reservations yesterday and it went something like this:

Go to the website, choose the "Multi-City" option.

Plug in the cities. (Basically, I'm leaving Texas, flying to Denver to see my friends, traveling to New Mexico by car to spend a couple of days with Bones, then traveling back to Denver and boarding a flight to Seattle. After five glorious days, it will be back home to the Texas HEAT. And it is capital letters HEAT.)

Find the perfect flights. The times all worked, everything was harmonious.

Airline website's insistence that I log in causes all my information to be lost. Fuck you and the advantage number you rode in on (that makes no sense).

Experience much frustration when I finally get logged in, realizing that I have to re-enter all my information.

Notice that the perfect flight is no longer a choice.

Almost break down into tears.

Hold it together.

Search and search until I find yet another perfect flight.

Book the flight.

Sigh with relief.

Not so bad, eh? I got a pretty good deal and all my flights are non-stop, so I don't have to spend nine hours on a plane on my home from Seattle.

The schedule looked something like this:

Texas to Denver - 10:00 am to 11:00 am
Denver to Seattle - 5:00 pm to 7:00 pm
Seattle to Texas - 11:30 am to 5:00 pm

Perfect, right?

Or so I thought.

What my schedule really looks like:


Texas to Denver - 10:00 pm to 11:00 pm
Denver to Seattle - 5:00 pm to 7:00 pm (Look! I got one right!)
Seattle to Texas - 11:30 pm to 5:00 am

You'll notice that I got most of the am/pm times wrong and so will now be getting back into Texas at FIVE AM on Monday morning...upon which I'll have to drive to work. Plus, I lost an entire day of my vacation, since I'm not leaving Dallas until TEN PM on the first day.

Who does that?