i obsess.

what it's like when you have a disability but can't get assistance because you forget to call because of the disability:

I'm on hold but it's already afterhours for the mental health triage for Kaiser and I have a feeling I should've tried to call maybe slightly earlier than I did, which was, hilariously, right at five o' clock.  You know.  Quittin' time.  So, basically, I nailed la hora solid.

What I want to know is this:  after I get the help I need, and b'lieve you me, I need it, N.E.E.D., should I write a book about my ADHD experiences?  Now don't you all (hee!  I said "you all," like there are more than three of you reading) kiss my ass and say, sure, honey, you should do it!, sure's shootin', don't just blow a bunch of hot air at me; tell me if you think there might be someone who would benefit from my semi-horrific collection of disarranged, colossally messy life puzzle pieces, none of which fit together in any coherent fashion.

Or, conversely, tell me if you think that, oh, poor dear, she really *is* a big, sodden, ridiculous mess (and please take note of my having deliberately NOT described myself as a fierce, hot tranny mess, b/c I am simply not that interesting anymore, people), and she just needs to find somewhere quiet where she can whisper to herself and rock out in her kewl granny chair.

Book?  Or whispery chair scenario?

It all starts here, people.  IT. ALL. STARTS. HERE.  (It also all falls out of my ear, or ass, depending on your pov, or maybe quite possibly where you're standing, in which case, I apologize and -- you're right.  Absolutely no more beans/beer at the same time.  Scout's honor.)

Dweedle deedle dee!

bullets - now, eighteen percent more bullety!

• If there were a class given on how to become a real, live grown-up in a series of lessons, no matter the level of difficulty, I would sign myself up for it.  (Of course, I'd also be willing to sign up for stripperobics, so that really doesn't illustrate my point all that much.  And, may I add, sigh?)
• I need to have the information tattoo'd on the backs of my hands that I am not allowed to stay up past eleven p.m.  Or I need to hire someone who will follow me around and repeat the mantra about the bedtime hour thing into my ear to the point of Elmo-doll-annoyance levels.  (There is a good chance that, not unlike during my childhood, when I became accustomed to the nasty liquid my mom painted liberally onto the nails/cuticles/upper portions of my finger skin in order to prevent me from turning them into bloody stumps, I would cease being irritated by the mantra, and simply hum and/or chant along.  Um, and once again I have self-defeated.  This is not heading anywhere good.)
• Hangovers are difficult to manage when trying to keep up with toddlers.  Toddlers don't accept the statement that "mommy just needs to lie here on the sofa for a little while longer" as anything they need to be bothered with comprehending, and will continue to whine at an increased pitch, while simultaneously beating mommy at random, unpredictable physical angles and moments, with wildly uncomfortable objects, subsiding only long enough to allow mommy's slack form to collapse further into the cushion and begin to believe that the beating/whining has concluded, only to have the whole thing start over with renewed force and volume.
• Hangovers are particularly incompatible with that child mecca of shopping locales, Toys R Us.  The trembling hands, the crepey facial skin and bloodshot, burning eyes, and the hot flashes that announce themselves just after your child has unleashed a series of what appear to be rolling cannons, but in reality are merely a lot of brightly colored bouncy balls, do not allow for appropriate handling of the tantrums that are fucking inevitable while trapped inside its four Dante's-favorite-level-multiplied-by-primary-colored walls.  (Oh, good lord but it feels so right to drop the f-bomb within that statement.)
• When wiling away a few hours outside of the home you spend entirely too much of your time in lately, try to occupy those precious moments (TM) with something not so very television-marketer's-wet-dream-esque, such as repeating, verbatim, every second of the most recent episode of Lost to your friend, whose husband accidentally taped Dancing with the Stars instead, and really ought to be beaten severely for such a heinous error, but then forgiven mightily, b/c, after all, he bought tickets for a live!  theatrical!  production! as a wedding anniversary gift, which is why the VCR had been summoned into action in the first place, and my friend, of course, went with option B, because there might never be another such gift again if the beating were to take place.  (And also, because domestic violence is so gauche.)  Did I mention, the details of the show were repeated in such, um, detail, that it probably took just as long to spell it out as it would've taken to just watch the damn thing?  Might I add that the rendition my friend endured was probably, on a scale of "highly amusing re-telling" to "would rather watch a hole being dug to China," less entertaining than the digging scenario?  Because I say things like "um" and "like" and "she goes" and "he went" and "they were all" a lot.  A.  L.O.T.
• wahhhhh.

Furthermore, I was gonna blog last night, as in, I was planning a gigantic tour of all my beloved blog pals' super-suites, and I was gonna leave delicious, toothsome, chocolatey comments in my wake, and -- well, that didn't happen (obviously).  And tonight is allotted to saying more than "hello" to my husband; we may even have a conversation that clocks in at beyond the five-minute watermark (gasp!).  Plus I have to work, too.  We're trying desperately to get that damn website we've lately devoted the bulk of our time/attention/my right arm, hand, shoulder, and neck to (mousing is killing me, people) online within the next week.  That's right!  Pretty, funny, prunny delights for the chilluns!  For sale!  Materialism, I heed your call.  I am but your humble servant.  (What.  I miss brand-name shampoo.)

p.s. I totally came home after the wine/Lost fest 2006 and watched Project Runway, while stuffing my mouth full of cookies and delicious, frothy, cold milk to chase.  Did I catch that right?  Is Jeffrey out because he cheated?  And, my dislike of that Laura person knows no bounds.  She is akin to a cold, dead monster.  Only with less heart than a cold, dead monster would be possessed of.  She's the daughter who oughtta be guarding the gates of hell.  Maybe her sweet papa, Satan, gave her a short vacation so she could fulfill her dream to be a fancy-poo designah.  Barf.  I pity her offspring.  (And did anyone lay eyes on that yikes-y husband of hers?  Sheesharooni.)

p.p.s  I got even more photographic evidence handed to me last night of that trip to San Francisco, and I'm compiling, and collating, and I'm gonna have a really, really awesomely photographical post up about it.  Soon.  Stop pestering me already (she said to herself in a lecturing tone)!!

p.p.p.s. !!!!!! 

p.p.p.p.s .....

one of the people in my neighborhood.

There was a summer during my mid-twenties where I spent a few months couch-surfing at my friend's apartment, located along the boardwalk of one of the more popular beaches in southern California.  This particular apartment was situated on the ground floor of an old house that had been converted into a series of small, fairly economical flats (economical in comparison to some of the more expensive real estate in the area, that is, given that it was on the beach in southern California -- did I mention it was in southern Cali?  on the beach?  because it was).  It was adjacent to another building that housed a few very, very posh flats people rented for prolonged periods of time - although it was generally most popular in the summer months, I'm guessing.  There were three floors, and, therefore, three flats.  The middle flat was rented to a recently divorced man; the rest of the household included his two small daughters and their mid-twenties-aged nanny, a girl I shall call Alice, for non-truth's sake.  (Her name, of course, was something other than that.  But since I don't know her whereabouts currently, I don't want to out her in this silly tale without being able to ask her permission, and of course, there lies the dilemma, and, hence, the faux handle.)

Alice was well acquainted with my good friend, a girl I'll name Lucy Ann for the purposes of her presence in my story.  The day I first arrived, Alice stopped by and we had a long, leisurely bitch session about her employer, with whom she apparently was very smitten.  This smit had even brought about her present employment, it was so intense.  She had first fallen for him at a young, impressionable age, when she saw him on television (or maybe she'd heard him on the radio and *then* saw him on television.  or in a movie.  or both.  all three.  I don't.  really.  know.  okay??!?), and when she spied him in Chicago in a deli, and approached him for his autograph, they spoke for a long enough time to result in his engaging her as his children's nanny for the summer.  I suppose that means she has a very friendly, warm personality.  I mean, yes, of course it does.  I just don't really remember all that well.  (It was a long time ago, this story.  All of it.  And my memory is fuzzy, and drops out in parts.)

After Alice left, L.A. (Lucy Ann's nickname, which seemed quite apropos, given our location - southern California, for anyone who missed it) and I discussed Alice and her employer.  Mainly her employer, though.  Because I was mystified as to who he was.  L.A. tried to describe him, and his big, early eighties hit, but I couldn't even start to put a face to the description.  I was a little young to recall the song, and the subsequent musicals he'd starred in, etc.  (Too bad imdb.com didn't exist, at that point, or I'd have been able to place him immediately, *and* his white-boy gerry curls.)  Suffice it to say that I never displayed any fan-like attitude toward him, because I was pretty underwhelmed, not knowing who he was.  When I was in his vortex, my nonchalance left him obviously perplexed, and not a little disconcerted.

Lots of stuff happened during that several-week tenure on L.A.'s comfy divan, which is not to suggest that I spent the entire time on the couch, although I did lounge there for a lot longer than her roommate probably would've preferred (I have a feeling he would've preferred my ass to have not been there at all, in fact).  Some of the stuff included attending several soirees at the neighbor's, with really fancy booze in the liquor cabinet, and having long, excessively annoying conversations with him while sitting on the sand outside of the apartments, on the other sid eof the boardwalk, trying to journal and wishing he and his guitar and his drone about the good, old days would stop leaning over the balcony toward me and up and find something else to do.  Having a really worthless relationship with a surfer that resulted in getting a kind-of broken heart (and really, kind-of broken isn't even true; I think it was merely scratched, or even just a little bruised.  Bruises can hurt so much when first garnered, but after some time, they prove to be, not breaks, but simply roundish, purpled spots that fade quickly).  Wearing a jute-colored, macrame-like string bikini that reminded me of Farah Fawcett, and feeling like a supahstar (then seeing photos of myself in said bikini, and waking up to the knowledge that, indeed, I was many things in it, but not one of them included being a star, supah or otherwise).  Eating a lot of Big Ed's ice cream cookie sandwiches after smoking too much ganja in the early part of the day and having nothing other than wandering aimlessly to the corner market to discover fatty snacks on our daily agenda.  Well, nothing other than riding rusty beach bikes that had strips of navy and red paint dangling from the metal, to out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall restaurants that smelled of briny ocean and deep-fried food, for late lunches and even later suppers; and to the donut shop in the wee hours, one of us sitting on the handlebars while we careened crazily about, then tipping over in the sand, where we would open the greasy bag of pastries to eat right there with our coarsely covered fingers.  Bonfires in the dark, moist night air, sand squelched between icy toes, and early-morning wake-up calls from the surfer boys to hurry our asses up if we were gonna get the good swells.  Which we managed to do almost never, to the heightening irritation of our surfer boy buddies.  Smelling the air, salt-laden, pungent, upon waking each bright, golden-white day, and remembering where I was with a satisfied settling of my gut.

And now, so many years later, finally, I am able to recall the song my friend tried so unsuccessfully to jog my memory about, through the magic of youtube.  I am, at long last, aware of who I was living next door to, for a magically weird time.  Of all the wildly nostalgic crap that I flailed through in that sandy, scrubby, floundery summer at the beach, one of the memories that stands out is that, for a couple of months, I had  an eighties rock star for a neighbor.  Neighbor by proxy.

on classism, and other random shit.

Because I think it's weird, and stupid.  I come from working-class stock; actually, no, I come from farmer stock, if I'm being super-honest, and anyone's guess would do for whatever my people were before that, the ones who lived in Ireland and Germany and Scotland and wherever else my ancestry originated (but who were probably just plain, old agri-folk-types, and nothing fancy and royal to mix it up, either, despite my uncle's likely out-and-outrageous claims to some royal line or other, notwithstanding).

Anyway.  I've wanted to discuss this for some time, now, this whole classism thing that is rife in our culture, yet covered up and ignored, and disdained, and tut-tutted, because it's this uncomfortable subject because WHY?, and it just gets pushed further and further off the table, which makes me feel kind of crazy (imagine that!).  Why should I be ashamed of the amount of dollar signs (or, to be fair to the world economy, rubles, or deutsch marks, or euros, or pounds, or canadian dollars, or lire, or yen, you get the picture) that I may or may not be able to list next to my surname?  Big fucking deal.  Yawn.  I'm rich in experience, and acquiring more of it all the time, because I'm greedy like that, and it's what matters most to me.  I'd rather have an imagination than all the money they could ladle onto me from giant, monster-ladles that should instead be serving delicious soup and sundry other goodies to all who clamor for them.

Ugh.  I feel it, I feel the urge to purge my brain of the steam it's been building from the last while, ever since I got timid of unloading it very completely when I started getting more traffic than usual, and I felt weird about advertising the old brain's compulsion to barf a rainbow, because I felt like a two dollar (there, see?  monetarily annotating my worth, even facitiously, metaphorically, lamely) whore, showing all my naughty pieces to anyone who cared to crack half an eyelid at me, however lazily said eyelid might be cracked.  (Oh, and for those who came because they'd heard there was cheap crack available, we're all out.  Sorry.  There was a run.  Evidently, I have the good stuff.  Or not.  Whatever.)

Woah, Nellie.  The glut is unglutting a little too screwball, a little too fast, and all I really wanted to say is that I am not ashamed.  I'm proud.  I'm pleased to say that I am not a rich girl.  I'm barely even middle-class.  (I am, however, scarlet due to my constant, unceasing chagrin over the lack of a degree from a university, because it says much, too much, way too much about my inability to commit, to focus, to complete a task, ANY task, gimme a task and I'll half-ass it right in front of your half-cracked eyelid.)

I love that I am finally embracing my working-classism.  I'm stoked to be a worker bee.  I don't want to be riding on the lip, the tip, the crest of the wave of human bodies, the ever-marching, never-ceasing toil of the laboring folk.  (I wanted to say "folks," but it smacks of the president's speechifying style, and I no likee that style.  I want nothing to do with his pretended attempt to strike a pose as a worker-bee, when he so clearly rode in on the silver-coated coattails of his war-profiteering forebears.  N.  O.)  I am dirtied by life, by labor, I have given birth to more than a son, I have birthed a legacy of appreciation, joy even, in the knowledge that I am what I am.

I just wanted everyone to know that. 

You may now allow your eyelid to cease hanging out at half-mast.

p.s. I hope to get more sleep tonight than last night, which is precisely why my rambling is worse than usual.  I hope you'll be able to sleep after reading my barfy rainbow, and it won't infect your dream state, jesus won't somebody make the girl shut it.  *wrenches hands away from keyboard*

hoo, boy. er, girl. no. person. yeah. hoo, person.

I was so heartened by your compliments about bunny-o that I tried to make another one today, and he/she/it didn't turn out nearly so oddly adorable as Mr. Orange Patootie did.  So now the wind has died down and my sails are empty and dragging on the water, and on *top* of that, I'm so freakin' tired (I'm suspicious of my thyroid -- I think it may be sneakily turning up the heat, by increasing in intensity), and irritable, and just farty fart fartastic, really, and I haven't had any time to blog, only really, I haven't had ANY time, because I'm trying to put what little energy I do possess into creating fine, fabulous thingamajigs for sellin', so I owe about a kajillion people a visit, and it's not just because I owe, but because I'm itching to find out what's going on with you all, and this may be the longest sentence I've ever written, and that's saying something, especially for me, and now I'm just really gonna *go* for it and make it the truly-longest fuckin' sentence ever, yeahhhh who wants a piece of this sentence, it'd make a hearty lunch for some starving fool somewhere, poor fool (because I'm not much of a cook, even regarding sentences, so here's some damn catsup, fool), but I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach because I (in a random stupid-beyond-my-normal-level-of-stupid-moves maneuver) didn't realize I was supporting advertising on my blog with the thisnext link, until it was pointed out to me, and I suddenly feel used and manipulated and really dirty, yuck, so I'm taking it down, because, well, gross.

Yeah.  That simply had to end.  How awful.  (The sentence-that-could-be-a-meal, albeit a horrifically flavorless one, not the thisnext disappearance.  Although, now that I think on it, I'm betting the thisnext meal would be on the bland side, too.  All tan and taupe foods, with very little salt, and too much starch.  Yuck.)

God I'm boring.  How do you people suffer the little words that appear before you, put here by me and my stupifyingly boring brain?

So, to recap.  Hypothyroid issues are on the rise.  Bunny numero dos no es muy divertido.  Sentence that tried to dominate the universe, but got eaten by some hungry fool.  With catsup.  Thisnext is my pimp.  Boring oring oring.

G'night, you liddle dollsh.  (Too many wine tonight, thinksk me I.)

this ain't the laugh shack.

I could try to twist myself into knots and amuse (bemuse?  be a muse?).  I could try to tailor posts in easy, hilarious bites for the several people who read regularly to pleasantly ingest along with their morning (midnight?) coffee.  But I don't write for a magazine, nor any other periodical publication, nor for television, nor film.  Neither is that my eventual aim.

I don't write just for me, though.  I write to communicate -- with an audience that I expect/hope will respond.  Retort, even (bring it, bitches).  And I expect that audience to be honest with me in their retorts.  As I am with them.  I don't look to entertain for passive consumption.  I open the hatch and let the ol' brain dump, and while I'm aware that my style, this free-for-all of worded mental explosions (um, ewww) that I attempt to capture in my computer's net (you like that one?) is not for everyone, I don't much care.  (Alright, I care a little, else you wouldn't see me occasionally wriggling around as I demonstrate my sad, second-grade weird-ass double-jointed elbows that freak people's shit out, shouting, Lookit what I can do!  Yeah.  I crave attention and am not adverse to admit it.  I also occasionally cannot abide any attention whatsoever, and I try desperately to pretend that I know no one and am therefore unknown, and no one's looking at me, nor do the no ones want/need anything from me, and I hunker down in a dark corner, and gnash my teeth and wail -- er, gnaw on my cuticles and sniffle into a lavender hankie.  I suppose that's my screwy brain striving for balance, at least in this particular realm.)

I don't pre-compose what I write here in this space.  I was terrible at paper composition in school, and disappointed the hell outta several professors who had (excessively) high hopes for my work, after my daily, exhaustively exuberant interactions in class, and during private meetings outside of class, of which there were many, because I was always and forever probing amongst their brains to learn! more! than! they! had! probably! ever! planned! to! share! with! such! a! terribly! high strung! student! 

In fact, I was mystified, and more than a little disillusioned, by my sheer inability to write properly for term papers.  I discovered, kind of recently, that I simply do not possess the wherewithal to create good, well-structured prose that presents a specific idea, develops the idea, provides evidence and a solid argument to support the idea, then wraps it all up neatly with a pretty, shiny, yet hearty, concluding statement bow.  (Sigh.)  I know, or rather, I'm beginning to learn, where my, erm, (questionable) talents rest (although I should probably use a less passive term for their position, and really, there oughtta be a better word for something that isn't necessarily a talent) in projecting the bizarro world of my thoughts onto (into?) a captured medium, like writing, and I like that.  (My feelings toward the feedback/interaction that result, however, vacillate wildly, and in no clear pattern, as of yet.)

It's those rampantly swaying feelings that make me at once so timid, and frighteningly enamored, of the cyclical process of blogging.  I walk a tightrope in this flat, yet fulsome space; my emotions gambol along the gamut; my heart soars and tumbles.  I am as close to flying as can be, when I blog.

Albeit with the wings of a chicken.

***********

Oh, and that word I was looking for?  To define my n0t-so-much-of-a-talent?  Found it.

Tourette's.

this blog should be renamed.

I should've called it "I confess."  That's what it often feels like, when I open the window to enter a post; I'm about to pen (er, type) something that I just have to get out.  That's always the thing that I pick to write about, when I have a few ideas jostling each other for the front position at the queue (don't you all think I'm so european-flavored now for having said "queue?"  Although friggin' Netflix uses that word, so nevermind).  I invariably go for the thing that feels most like emotional vomit -- and lucky you who find yourself reading it! 

Anyway, I'm confessing.  Stop interrupting me.  Jeez.  You're all worse than my toddler.  (And by you all, I refer, of course, to all of me.  The many varieties of me that live inside the 2 x 4 that is my head.  Jealous?  You should be.) 

I haven't got time to blog right now.  I haven't got time to visit any of you.  I want to.  I want to SO VERY MUCH.  (Yes, it requires caps to express it.  This confession is my master.  Actually, the blog is my master.  I am the blog's bitch.  But I digress.  Sort of.)  I can't stop by, I can't read, I don't even dare *dream* of commenting.  If I were to happen to run by in a blog-reading frenzy, I wouldn't have time to say hello.  And I feel like SHIT about it.  You've all stopped by so much lately and said such nice, coffee-and-scone-ish things, and I owe you all cake.  A lot of cake.  And I got nothin'.  I'm SORRY, you!  And I'm SORRY, Blog Master.  I feel so bad.  I'm sorry.

(But I'm not sorry for not saying anything at Mignon's, because she posted a picture of me that reveals how truly excited I was to lay eyes on her and those darned rapscallions of hers, in fact, I'm so unsorry that I defy her to ever visit Portland again and come over to my house and have dinner with me and my family.  DEFY.  In fact, we would totally *not* grill delicious steaks, accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes, with just a hint of yam mixed in for extra flavor, and fresh veggies du jour, nor would we have a fabulous local pinot to accompany said dinner, Mignon, no.  We wouldn't.  We wouldn't even suggest it.  So you can just stick *that* in your pipe and smoke it.  Mmmm.  Delicious Portland smoking.  No.  None of that, either.)

Anyway.  I've confessed, I've purged, I've disemboweled.  I feel slightly better.

I have to go to library hour, now.  Pray for me, internets.  I'll be praying for you (if I can't visit, at least I can contribute somehow).

Look for my grande sexpose on San Francisco night life soon!  (Okay, not really about the sexpose, but it's what I'd like to be doing it on.  Still, it promises to be sultry.  Get yer fans out.)

huh; the re-huh-ening.

Sorry, blogliners.  I'm copying Mel and altering this post.  But it was dumb.  Because, you see, I jumped the gun.  I am not preggers.  Phew.  No.  Wait.  Let me say that again.  P to the motherfucking H-E-W. 

I thought I was; I took a test yesterday that was extremely unclear, and I took another one this morning, after living with the impression that I was a newly pregnant person for a twenty-four-hour cycle, and I am most certainly not with child.  Well, other than the one I've already got.  But believe me, he's enough for now.  I'm not ready yet, and I'm SO relieved to discover that I don't have to suck it up (the gracious phrase my husband dearly loves to utter on a regular basis, that has now burned itself into my brain in a most ignoble fashion, and oh-how-thrilling that is for me, thrilling in a way that makes me want to get scissors and dig it out, but I digress) and have another kid when I'm not ready.  The best part about having gone through this (because there's *always* a silver lining, kids), is knowing with certainty that I am not ready yet.  I was sort of thinking I might be, but I'm not.  I want to have more solo time with the kid I've got, and I want to go on a vacation next summer, even if it's just a camping trip, and I want to get so many things done and that would've all had to be put on simmer.  And I feel so good, and my body still belongs to just me, and well, alright, a little bit still to the babe, because he still nurses once in a while.  Because I can't seem to close the snack bar.  Mehhh.

Thing is, yesterday I felt like Laura Brown, Julianne Moore's character from The Hours.  You know, where she's on the bed at the hotel and the water comes up and she's submerged and crying.  I felt like I just wanted to throw it all over, just turn tail and run.  (I guess it's in my nature, being a Democrat and all/snark.)  I felt cowardly as hell, but I felt terrified and incapable, and I felt beat.  I felt like life finally got me.  Like it was all, Ha!  You lose!  You're trapped!  You're stuck!  HaHA!  And today I feel like I'm gonna win.  I'm not sure what I'm winning, but I'm cool with that.  I don't like knowing that part, anyway.  I just don't want to feel like I've lost, not this early.

p.s. I enjoy a good challenge, if that isn't obvious by now, but I don't enjoy it when it's like a sheer, smooth wall and I'm supposed to find footholds in thin air.  That kinda open invitation for disaster ain't my bag, baby.

p.p.s.  Hooray!  For not being pregnant.  (As my husband climbed into his hoopty non-baby car this morning, he said, "Congratulations!"  And I had to think for a while, insert pregnant pause, before he said, "Um, duh, you're not having a baby.  Congratulations for that?"  To which I replied, "Don't you mean, oh, you lucky sunnuvabitch?")

Bye!

drive-by entry. (you might want to duck.)

I was out of town until last night, and a myriad of business details, household and otherwise, require my attention at the moment, which means my blogging, erm, duties are being postponed (you like that?  I knew you would.  I did it for you, special-like), as a result.  Forgive me, o grand internets, for my heart belongs to thee, but you must abide by my haphazard schedule.

Coupla things, before I split and careen madly about, in the manner of the dog when she's chasing my son, toddling happily before her, brandishing the doggy crack, i.e. a small flashlight; first, I had a fabulous time this weekend with mah ladies, and I think they'll appreciate the all-out flourish of love that I shall now demonstrate through the subtle use of a specific term of endearment (did I lose you all, yet?):  my hos.  Because, yes, they are just that deserving and fabulous.  Second, I am floored -- my tongue's been disabled -- from having been passed the crown of CHBM as MotW.  I don't know who to thank or where to wave, so I'll just do it randomly and scare my son, the dog and the neighbors into thinking I really have gone off the deep end.  (I don't think anyone was doubting it previous to now, but this makes it so. very. official.  Also, so. very. sad.)

This is a crap post.  I can't let it continue. 

*kills post dead*

The End.

p.s. I promise to try hard to invent a much better-tasting post in the immediate-near future.  But I have pictures from this weekend to sate the two or three of you who accidentally started reading this boringness to the third power, and you've earned something.  If not cake, which I already et up because it was delicious and yummy, and because it was in the form of a twinkie, which I assume will live on in my stummick for many years (one would hope), then at least a photo.  Feel free to eat it if you forgot to have a meal or snack recently.  Mmmm.  Decadent photos.

p.p.s. I totally got permission from my friends to post photos, which I'm over the freaking moon about.  I have proof!  There are people in real life who like hanging out with me are willing to tolerate my presence for an extended period of time!  Lookit!

p.p.p.s.  I'm insecure.  Shut up.

 

from left to right: Raquel, Tessa, Jen (the lady of the hour, aka the bride-to-be), Emily, Debbie, and Pattie. 

I'll share our super-power alter-egos in an expanded, tell-all post later.  I mean it.  You're getting the director's cut of the insanity.  Be prepared to cover your eyes.  I'm serious as a heart attack, bitches.

*******************************

I would be seriously remiss if I didn't include a heartfelt thank-you to both Jenny and Cristina.  I think you guys are wonderful.  Thank you for thinking of me and liking my writing and being my friend and stuff.  And -- yeah.  Really.  Thank you.

no one can save me; the damage is done.

Guess what song I can't get out of my head since I sewed this design out earlier today.

(And I apologize thoroughly to all of the fellow non-fans of this, erm, song's creators.  Who will now be forced to live -- may it be brief -- in the hell I built when I came up with this idea, and then placed it here for all to be stung by.  I'll put some chips out and chill some beer, so it's not quite as godawful.)

p.s. This is not to say that I hated all hair bands.  Because I would've probably been willing to admit, out loud, to being the drooling, cross-eyed Def Leppard fan that I was.  In fact, I've lately considered re-purchasing Hysteria, because I need to hear Excitable once more.  (And anyone who insists that the album prior to that one is their most artistic effort, bla bla bla, don't bother - I could care less.  That wasn't the one that included the tasty-licious, worst/best pop-rock hit released on the airwaves during that era.  Of course, I speak of Pour Some Sugar on Me.  The lyrics - so dumb, so corny, so. effing. good.  Besides, I have already declared myself the antithesis of a music snob, if you recall.) 

I just want to try to recapture that feeling of being young and overzealous and chomping at the bit of life, again.  For a second or two.  Windows rolled down, volume up much too high, the tiny bit of sweat snaking down beneath the bridge of the Vuarnets, and on the nape of the neck, the neck that you've elongated in order to appear as tall as Stephanie Seymour (even if she is totally tacky, you prefer Linda Evangelista but the boys all like Stephanie because she goes out with Axl and she has big boobs), because your hair is so long and heavy and must, must, must be worn down, at all times, because boys will notice.  And it will be the best rush of your life, when they do.  And you will believe that life will get bigger!  and better!  and more important!  and fuller!  and everything will grow to mammoth proportions of excitement!  and adventure!  and experiences will keep blowing your mind!  and the music will always carry you to that same place of pure, unadulterated joy when you are driving with the heat and the wind whipping the hair in your eyes and your heart is racing as you look forward to your life.

Yeah.  I gotta get that album again.

And listen to it on my cd player.  Because I don't own an Ipod.  And I never will.  TM.