28 March 2009

Not Gonna Write You A Love Song

But I will tell you a love story.

No, it's not my own; however, if any of you are interested, I'll be more than willing to expound on that topic.

What I would like to talk about today are my parents. Two of the most amazing human beings I've ever had the fortune to have in my life. I believe it. I've heard others say it. Friends of theirs. Family. Friends of mine. These two people are two of the brightest areas in my life and they always have been.

My parents, we'll call them Pat and Dolly, will be married twenty-nine years in a few short weeks. Together, including dating; just about thirty-three years.

Pat and Dolly met on a blind date, oddly enough, right around 1976. It was a good year. My father had been back from Vietnam for a few years and my mother spent her time taking road trips with her friends. My father had just finished his business degree in college and was a single man, living with friends. One fateful night, my father's best friend had a blind-date with a woman who happened to be my mother's cousin. The two (my mother's cousin and her respective date) were a bit nervous regarding the whole ordeal, so they invited respective friends, being my mother and my father, on their date, so as to change the blind-date to a double blind-date. Isn't there something about a double-blind in poker? Off topic, yes, I know; I don't play poker, so I wouldn't know, but it sounds vaguely familiar.

Regardless. The four meet at a local bar in Scranton (where I originally hail from; home of The Office) and my mother's cousin and father's friend did not hit it off, not by a long shot. They actually ended up arguing and storming off. This left my mother and father to clean up the mess. Two individuals, who had never even spoken a word to one another, not even on the telephone, sat in the bar, alone and probably quite uncomfortable. At least, I'd be, had it been me.

They ended up having a great time. They drank and danced (probably to Steely Dan) and enjoyed one another's company for the remainder of the evening. Where the two others had ended up, Lord only knows. At this point, after a few hours, they only had eyes for one another. According to my father, as he dropped her off at home that evening, he asked my mother if she believed in "love at first sight". My mother proceeded to say "yes" and then threw up in the bushes.

They dated for a few years and eventually got married. Three years later, I came along. Six after that, my brother.

27 March 2009

"Re-Recessionization", As In Where's The Bottom?

Google, one of the largest search engines on the Internet (Internets - as good 'ol GW would say) is currently laying off around 200 workers, which, in the grand scheme of all of Google's employees, is probably not too much, but for a Fortune 500 company with stock prices at nearly $347.50 per share, it's a "big deal". According to MSNBC.com, there are approximately 20,200 workers; therefore, this is only affecting 1% of employees worldwide. $347.50 a share for a piece of Google is pretty pricey, especially compared to the illustrious CitiBank stock, where, at a low this year was performing around $2.50 a share (yes, that's two dollars and fifty cents) and is now at approximately $2.66 a share.

Why bother laying off only two hundred workers when it's barely going to put a dent in retained earnings, on a large scale?

At this point, with the economy in the condition that it's in, you need to ask yourself (or Google, for that matter), if the layoff is completely necessary, or if it's being done as "compensation" to show that some of these higher-earning companies are still "suffering", just as the smaller companies are.

Yes, as the automotive companies, financial industry and newspapers take their respective hits, illustrious old Google is rolling with the punches, taking their medicine and laying off (with possible recall, mind you) one percent of their employees.

The employees that were laid off, reportedly, weren't even higher-earning positions, they were smaller positions, such as trainers, outside contractors and excess marketeers. The two hundred jobs that were sacrificed could have potentially been saved had the decision-makers of this conundrum decided to consolidate these positions and lay off a few higher-earning execs instead. Doesn't sound like too much of a burden to me.

Then again, a burden in the hand is worth a slew of Google stock shares. At least from their perspective.

Once again, Corporate America is at its game of trampling upon the smaller business, the smaller worker and working-class America itself.

The point of this post?

Just my opinion: I'm no economic analyst and I'm no representative of our great financial system.


If Google is laying off miniscule-paying positions to take their role in the Recession, you know the bottom's got to be near soon. They simply wouldn't pull this stunt otherwise.

Oh, To Be An Irrational Homophobe.

I'm generally tolerant of pretty much everyone. I don't bias myself against certain types of people and I certainly don't prejudice against cultural groups. Assholes don't have colors, ethnicities or sexual preferences. If you're an asshole, you're an asshole; the universal quintessence of douchebag, speaking the universal language of parochialism.

I can't stand prejudice of any kind. It drives us, as people, back a few centuries in the progression of humanity. And by humanity, I mean love, tolerance, virtue and peace. Humility.

I would honestly say, above all, something I despise the most are people that are of the homophobic persuasion.

I just. don't. get it.

Despite what some biblical scholars say, I don't think homosexuality is a choice. It's a way of being, it's a state of mind and it's preference. It's none of my business or my place to judge whether you're a chick that wants to be with a chick, or if you're a dick that wants to be with a dick. To be quite frank, there's nothing wrong with it. I support gay marriage. I support the same healthcare benefits that are "entitled" to heterosexual couples. Why should a homosexual couple be treated any differently, especially by the government? Are they not oppressed enough by large percentage of society in general?

I know several people, unfortunately, that are just positively frightened at the prospect of a same-sex, gay individual habitating their airspace. Ridick, much?

Why must we be such subjectively-abundant, societal retards?

Christ on a cracker, guys. Spread the peace. Accept people for who they are, not what you think they should be in your "perfect world".

There's no such thing for now.

It's something to work toward, but it's never going to happen if people aren't willing to let their Shangri-la "ideals" and their bigotry go.

26 March 2009

Just Like A "Dove: True Beauty" Advert... But Not.

I've got a fascination with celebrities. Hence my stalking of Beet's site and subsequent appointment of Staff Writer for the new blog, which I'm stoked about. I got my log-in assigned to me and I simply cannot wait to start. Won't be long, guys, won't be long!

I digress.

I'm at work today, and terribly bored, so I decided to compile a list of "Top 10 Most Beautiful Female Celebrities", a la Sarah. Feel free to add your two cents and to add any of your own. I'm talking these are the girls that I'd probably have facial surgery to resemble. Sigh. To be young, beautiful and successful.

1. Rachel McAdams
2. Jessica Biel
3. Eva Mendes
4. Scarlett Johannsen
5. Penelope Cruz
6. Gisele Bundchen
7. Megan Fox
8. Demi Lovato
9. Katy Perry
10. Christina Ricci

According to AskMen.com, (a thoroughly wretched site unless you actually do resemble any of these woman) the Top 5 Most Beautiful Female Celebrities are:

5. Anne Hathaway (...Are you KIDDING ME? Have you not seen this picture? If you haven't, you really, really must.)
4. Keeley Hazel
3. Marisa Miller
2. Megan Fox
1. Eva Mendes

To view their full "Top 99", click here. I hope you're feeling thin today. Because if you aren't, you're not going to feel much better after viewing their list. Hell, even if you are, you probably aren't going to feel too great after browsing through.

I'm going to go and see if I can accomplish throwing everything up that I've eaten for the past six years.


25 March 2009


For all of you that are unaware, my family and I will be moving in a few short weeks to a completely different state, area, you name it. Different style of home, new surroundings and all of the crazy adjustments that go along with it.

I'm down for change; I honestly am. I'm truly looking forward to this new chapter in life.

I did, however, have a slight meltdown last night in the middle of the night regarding this move. I can honestly say, up to this point, I've never had a second thought about whether or not what we are doing is right for us. I still insist that this is a gigantic opportunity and I'm still very excited about the brand-new existence that's in store for us. Even if I were able to second-guess to the point where I was really considering not doing it; that's not an option at this point. Contracts are signed, deposits for school have been paid and jobs have been secured. There is no failure or question option here.

It's frightening, sometimes, how something can be so utterly right in every way and then in the blink of an eye, the same thing can seem so overwhelmingly impossible.

I'm going into this optimistically.

It's a great opportunity. Our new home is beautiful and a half mile from the beach. The area is safe and quiet and I'm going to have the option of having my long-awaited garden in my backyard. It's got a garage. My current home basically has a parking lot in the rear, with no possibility for a garden or for leisurely enjoyment. My husband will be attending graduate school at one of the nation's most prestigious private colleges for his particular major. I will be very close to my mother and father, who are so important to me as it is. I have secured a decent job (nowhere near as posh as what I've got now, but it'll pay the bills sufficiently) and I'm also going to be pulling in some additional income with the new blog that I've signed on with.

I guess it's just the pre-move jitters. I generally don't experience these feelings; more often than not, I'm the one who is reassuring everyone in an ever-changing environment that things are going to work out for the best. Hell, I didn't even get the pre-wedding jitters. I've. always. been. so. sure. Of everything. I'm the one who always had oodles of confidence, even if I didn't feel it way deep inside, down to the core.

Confidence is a great facade to model.

However, when you really have to maintain it for a long period of time, and lord it over those who are lacking, it becomes a little more difficult than not.

"F" Is For "Feminism", or "Freaked Out", Whichever You Prefer.

Today I received my "official" confirmation of a new blog launch that's coming up in the next few weeks!

I was recently asked by Sasha of Evil Beet and Sasha Is A Monster to write for her new "women's" blog that will be launched in the coming days.

Need I say how excited I am to be coming on board with such an established blogger and how happy I am that I was asked to join! I'm a bit nervous. Oh, a bit. It's obviously going to be a much larger platform than what I'm used to, and I sincerely hope that I do as well as Sasha is giving me credit for at this point.

I hope we gather a large following as she's already drawn on her other two sites.

I've got a lot of hopes for this new venture and look forward to beginning!

I'm going to go into the bathroom now and vomit my apprehension out.

Enjoy lunch!

23 March 2009

Getting Personal

Today, I read a lot of true-life stories on a favorite blog of mine, Sasha Is A Monster. Sasha is also the managing editor for Evil Beet Gossip, which is a fantastic site in its own right. I read and read and read until I felt that my poor, breaking heart could bear no more heartache for some of these writers.

It's amazing the stories that some people have. The trials that they've experienced that have either made them or have broken them. The things that make these people tick. The things that pushed them to the brink of emotional or mental breakdown, only to be pulled back in by the reins of life's funny things. Funny, funny things.

What is it, really, that keeps us from driving ourselves crazy at night as we lie in bed and pore over whatever it is that happened to have consumed that particular day? Is it the good that keeps us going? Or is it the challenge of overcoming the bad that keeps us on? Is it fear of failure or fear of success that keeps us on an even keel?

These are questions that I mindlessly (or over-mindfully) ponder day in and day out. These, I think, are the true secrets to living. Not whether or not there's a God (that's simple faith on the individual's part), or if we've fulfilled our "destinies" (because, really, who's to say what is whose destiny? Maybe there are several things that are to be our destiny?).

I think about my own, personal highest times in life; times spent with family and friends, surrounded by love and happiness and the absolute scent of opportunity drifting along the winds. Those days of driving down the road, carelessly with the music blaring from the speakers and living that sheer joy that is what life is supposed to epitomize. Supposed to.

I also think about my lowest points in life, where I had locked myself in the bathroom to take forty-five minute showers, in the dark, twice a day, (sometimes three times) because I felt comfort in my wet, dark, secluded "closet". I think about lying awake, waiting for an ex to come home to wonder what kind of mood he was going to be in that night. What we were going to fight about. If I was going to get hurt. Again. Nights of upset and distaste so liquid in my mouth that I could barely choke down water without the bile biting at the back of my throat and threatening to burn another hole into my weary stomach lining.

Life is such an amazing thing when you think about it. Both great and terrible, kind of like the Wizard of Oz, if you've ever seen that movie. (And if you haven't, you're absolutely banished from my planet. Get off. The island.) Amazing, are these opportunities that we seize by the horns and equally amazing the way we sometimes so frugally allow these same mind-blowing opportunities to pass us by. I use the word 'amazing' here in a sense of both horrific and wondrous, because really, isn't life both horrific and wondrous, all at the same time?

Religion and philosophy aside; what is the purpose of these trials? To see how much the human spirit can endure before breaking?

I've been to the point where bend equals break equals breakdown and it's not easy putting those pieces back together again. Honestly, how much can one person endure? And is it fair? Do some inherently receive the short end of the stick consistently? Why? Are there any answers to these questions?

"We die only once, and for such a long time." --Moliere

And honestly, any joking aside. Think about this next point, not for what it appears to be, but for what it really is:

What if the hokey pokey is what it's really all about?

20 March 2009

Turn-Offs and Other Shat

A few co-workers and I were talking this afternoon about bowel movements.

Grossed out? Still here? Let me explain.

I, being my clumsy self, decided to make myself a cup of mid-afternoon coffee here in the office, and in the process of pouring it, I spilled half of my steaming cup on my lovely pink linen pants that I broke out of the "Spring" closet just today. Not only did it kind of hurt to the point where my eyes actually watered from the burning sting, but it stained these pants in the most bizarre way. I have brown spots all over the front (and crotch) of my pants. I almost look like I decided to lie down in it.

I proceeded to come back to the common area with my half-cup of coffee and splatter-art pants. Of course, everyone pointed and laughed, as they usually do when I walk into a room, but that's beside the point. Another co-worker of mine asked oh-so-cleverly if I had peed my pants. Honestly, I sometimes feel that I work with a six year-old. Did I pee my pants... Christ on a cracker. Flippantly, I answered "Better to pee yourself than to be peed on", simply because I couldn't think of anything wittier at the time.

This is where the topic of bowel movement comes into play.

A woman I work with (we'll call her Devendra to protect the innocent) proceeds to tell us a story that was told to her by her sister by a co-worker of a former friend at a retail chain store in my area. Evidently, this woman and her husband are into, what I would call, for lack of a better term, shatting on one another.

Really, how disgusting is that? I mean, I get it; there's all sorts of weird people out there with weird fetishes and what I'm into is probably weird to someone else and tame to another. But really. Shatting on one another? Where is the appeal there? If someone so much as passed gas during sex, I'd have to bail. Let alone shatting? Is there a proper term for that kind of fetish, anyway? I'd be curious to find out the proper name for this act.

How does one even go about proposing that to a partner? I don't even think it could be something verbally suggested. I think it'd just have to happen. No, really. I guess you could just kind of skirt around it.

"Hey, honey... I had a BIG DINNER tonight... What do you say we go on into the
Some people claim they're "too full" to have sex.

This, however, seems to be quite the opposite.

They can't have sex unless they're too full.

Procreation of the (M)Asses

My mother came to my house this morning. Early. See, she watches Jane while I work my full-time days and my husband attends school during the day, and it works out so very well.

My mother is a fantastic woman and a phenomenal caretaker of her only granddaughter. I couldn't have hoped for a better sitter, while I sit here at work and fritter away the time doing things like this. We're slowly working toward Sarah being a stay-at-home mama; I honestly can't wait. Jane is sixteen months old and not getting any younger, and she is my joy; to spend entire days with her would honestly be complete bliss. We're creating a future for her right now, a foundation so positive and secure and I look very much forward to the day that I can spend my days and nights with her.

I digress.

My mother shows up this morning, while Jane was still nestled in her crib and while her daddy slept away the early morning hours. I'm in the process of showering, doing my normal morning routine and chatting with mom while I put my makeup on. We're talking about this and that and she asks me if I had seen the news this morning.

I'm normally not so much of a morning person that I'm coherently able to make the news a priority in my morning routine, but who knows, right? It could happen. One day. Maybe when I'm the stay-at-home mom that I know I'd be just so great at.

She proceeds to tell me that there was a young man arrested in the area over the past few days for slapping and squeezing the head of a sixteen week-old child.

What the fuck.

My jaw dropped. My stomach instantly clenched and I felt like I had to throw up. I probably could have cried if I weren't so mad.

How could someone be so heartless? And mental? Honestly, what kind of monster would do such a thing to a child? Let alone their own child! I don't get it. Not a bit, not even to try to play the Devil's Advocate and defend it. Not touching that one.

I did a brief stint working for Children's Services in my area while I was seeking a better opportunity and I have to say, that place was, by far, the most depressing job I've ever held. In my entire working career. The poor children that come through the door, the families torn apart by abuse; the parents with their drug problems that were obviously way more important than raising their children (which is why they ended up in the place that they were).

I would leave work at times, crying for these poor, lost souls that would probably not end up in a good situation (and not entirely too far down the road) which, in turn, leads to more fucked-up individuals creating even worse situations for their next generation. I don't begrudge the system; it's as good as the government is going to allow it to be, at this point, anyway, and I think that being 'in the system' is by far better than being raised in these bleakly horrible environments.

My bottom line is... Accidents or not, mistakes or anything else of the like; if you can't raise a child, give it up. If you don't feel mentally competent, or even emotionally available, consider another option. Like adoption. I've seen far too many children subjected to the horrors of abuse and the toll that it takes on them for the rest of their lives. The loneliness of neglect is just as detrimental to these poor kiddos.

I love my daughter more than the world could ever understand and I couldn't imagine ever putting her in a situation that would harm her or compromise her idea of safety and what it is to be fostered, content and nurtured.

I can definitely stick by the statement that parenting is not for everyone and it's not an easy job, by a far cry.

But in these all-too-common circumstances, take a step back. Open your minds and really think. Put the child (or the potential child) ahead of your selfish needs and desires and really ponder what it is to be a parent.

It's not all stroller pushing, clothes shopping and naps.

19 March 2009

The Hair, It Is A-Changin'

I've got this manic urge sometimes that requires me to do odd things to my appearance. I've got this insurmountable urge to do this and to do this tonight.

I was once told by someone that to shave one's head (especially in the event of a woman doing so) is synonymous of a new beginning or a cleansing of one's self.

I don't know about all of that; could be true, but who knows.

However, I'm going to go nuts tonight and do something crazy to my hair.

The urge has been coming on stronger and stronger lately and I feel that the change is necessary. It's adamantly unavoidable.

Wish me luck and hope that it turns out well.

Hair looks good = photo.

Hair looks awful = long rant about how I hate the way I look and how everything I do turns to shite.

Check back later!

17 March 2009

Love, Actually

Following reports of Natasha Richardson's injury while skiing this past weekend, and subsequent (alleged) brain death, I want to touch upon a subject that is of a relatively sensitive nature (at least to me, anyway) and kind of expound on it a bit.

First, allow me to express my deepest condolences to the family, regardless of the outcome; I can't imagine having something so tragic happening at the drop of a hat, like this has. I can't imagine what her poor family is going through right now, her husband, Liam Neeson and their children, as well. This woman was only forty-five years old. I hope and pray that she can overcome this injury and go back to loving life with her family.

My point of this post is just that... Don't take a breath for granted. Don't waste your time enveloped in anger and wrapped in the past. Don't live with remorse and don't always assume you can apologize next time.

I've spent (and seen) too many moments wished and pissed and frittered away.

I've seen sudden death and the recourse it takes upon those remaining. Things left undone, unplanned, unsaid.

I've seen the remorse of regret that goes hand in hand when someone is suddenly ripped away.

The more people I lovingly surround myself with and allow into my little world, frightens me tenfold as that circle grows larger. The people that I've brought into my life that I care for more than anything are my reason for living, my hopes and my dreams for the future. They are my family.

I can't reiterate the point enough. At the risk of sounding like a bad cliche or sappy ending to an overly-emotional movie; don't take the ones you care about for granted. Don't go to bed angry. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Especially the positive things. Avoid negative people and negative places. Fill your lives with happiness and light, enjoyment and love.

Above all, live each moment as it were your last. Live your life at its potential and do your best in all you do.

The bottom line is: take care of yourselves and even better care of the ones you love.

16 March 2009

My (Un)Lovely Lady Lumps

Prior to becoming pregnant, I never really had what you would refer to as a 'big rack'. I was always a 34 B, not too big, by any far cry and not flat, either. I was just meh.

When I became pregnant, I adopted these gigantic jugs that were just not mine. I don't know who's they were, but surely no product of my body.

And then, there was the aftermath. I breastfed for a few weeks, until my supply dried up and my boobs went back to a minus 34 B. Translation: Not quite a B, but too big for an A cup.

What. Happened. To my boobs.

Realistically speaking, I understand the physiology of the stress pregnancy takes on your cup size. It dramatically differs month to month. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to realize this. You don't even have to have carried a baby to know it.

But now, that I've kind of got my pre-baby body back, I have to practically yearn for what I had before. My pre-baby boobs. Where did they go? Will they come back? I apologize for my lack of discretion; this is a burning question of mine as of late.

I'm twenty-five years old. I need better boobs. I'm honestly starting to think about even paying for them.

If I could afford to spend a few grand on something frivolous...

The more I think about it, I think I would. I don't know. I don't really know how I feel about it. I'm not anti-surgery. I'd never get facial work done, because I'd be too aghast at looking at myself in the mirror and seeing someone even slightly different than what I've gotten used to looking at over my years, liking it or not. I couldn't.

But a boob job might be different.

How do we feel about our boobs, ladies? Is a boob job something we'd rule out? Should I consider it? Does it set back the obligatory feminist in us, no matter how deeply buried?

A Child's Face Can Say So Much... Especially The Mouth Part Of The Face.

I'd like to take this opportunity to talk about my daughter.

My beautiful, happy sixteen month-old daughter, who is now in the process of cutting her molars.

God love her, she is not happy with anything lately. She's a daddy's girl through and through, but she's been clinging to her mama like plastic wrap lately. Not that I mind, don't get me wrong! I think it's great that mama's got a one-up on daddy... We've got an unspoken battle going on over who the little angel prefers and at this point, I think we're 2 and 1 and I'm up.

I was making a lovely dish of linguine and clam sauce last night to celebrate Sunday and while my illustrious husband was napping, I had the babe out in the kitchen with me while I cooked. She played and played for a little while, banging on the pots and pans that I had so lovingly spread out on the kitchen floor and babbling to her 'dollies' about colors and numbers. We're in the process of teaching her ABCs and her numbers and I have to say; being the absolute brillz child that she is, she's picking up on things so quick.

I digress.

I'm in the process of simmering my sauce just so and the little lady decides she wants some mama-time. Right now. She's starting to cry and grab onto my yoga pants, half-pulling them down in the process. My back door is open. My neighbors are out and about in the lovely weather. I'm mooning them from my kitchen door. Lovely.

I pull my pants back up and turn the heat on the sauce down. Picking up my sweetheart (we'll call her Jane for internet purposes), she curls up in my arms and starts muttering to me about Elmo and how she loves Dora (as in the Exploraaa). She's so endearing at times like this. She's such a strong-willed child, and smart and when she shows a little bit of vulnerability (especially to her mama!), I'm completely blown away.

Doing anything for the rest of the night, baby Jane makes impossible. Not that I mind. I'm soaking up the attention from my own personal daddy's girl and strutting around the house like I won the World Cup or something. Or at least like I got us a good deal on car insurance, anyway.

Needless to say, Jane was so attached to me for the rest of the evening, that I had to kick hubby out of the big, warm, comfortable bed, because she wanted in. I awoke around 3 AM to find her sweet little body curled up against mine, patting my face and saying 'Mama... Mama'. Almost brought me to tears. The love I hold for this little girl is just insurmountable.

Today, my mother comes over to watch the darling and I get ready to go to work. I'm just about ready and Jane is smiling at me and waving at me... Blowing me kisses and showing me her pearly little teeth that she's overcome, so far.

Then she looks at me and says, "Now, GO, Mama. Go", and points to the door.

So much for being a mama's girl.

Goodwill. All Sorts Of It.

I packed about a quarter of my house yesterday.

For all of you that don't know, we're relocating (and soon, thankfully) and I'm in the midst of some serious packing and sorting and giving-away of stuff. Blah. If any of you want some free clothes, or smoothie-makers, pots, pans or old shoes... I'm your hook-up. At least, for the next few weeks.

Anyway, I had run to a few of the local grocery stores and drugstores to ransack their stock rooms and take all of their boxes, and I actually made out pretty well. I did, however, run into some relatively interesting individuals. People that smiled. People with mullets (wtf). People that made nasty faces at oncoming cars and people that passed them by in the aisles of the store. People that you just knew you'd have to hold your breath while they walked by. People are so funny.

I don't know. I know everyone's got their crosses to bear and what not, but I don't understand why, as a general populace, we can't be more pleasant to one another. Seriously. I mean, I'm kind of confused at the weird looks I get from people (strangers) that I greet in my day. Is that so abnormal? Am I doing something odd?

Sometimes humanity really disappoints me.

Other times, I'm ridiculously impressed.

On a funny note, a co-worker told me today that I'm the most un-inhibited person she's ever met. I think that's a good thing. Maybe she admires me for being so... Well, free. Or maybe she just thinks I'm creepy and weird. Either way. I suppose I made an impression.

13 March 2009

The History Of Friday

I've made it another week. Alas, it's Friday. Friday symbolizes so much for me, as it always has.

Even when I was a little girl, Fridays always held such anticipation of what was to come on the weekends. I had the family that always welcomed my girlfriends for sleepovers and trips to the movie theatres, pool parties (when the weather was warm, of course - I did grow up in the frozen Tundra of Northeastern Pennsylvania where it's Winter nine months out of the year) and pizza.

My best friend, Nicole would normally stay over on these sacred weekends and we'd do all sorts of things that young, pre-pubescent girls do. Hairstyles, facials... One time I convinced her that a 'mask' made of baby powder and lotion would be fantastic for her skin. This sucker was gross. And sloppy. My parents scrubbed my carpet for weeks trying to get the gook out. Needless to say, when she went home the next day, her parents freaked out at the grime that covered her face, her hair and most of her belongings.

I was always the 'friend' getting their other friends into not-so-big trouble. You know. The one that always called too late or the one who convinced their friend to convince their parents to stay over that night, despite the fact that it took an hour of coercing and they just knew that they'd be in trouble for it the next day; it was all in good fun, anyway. It was all for the sake of being kids.

Fridays, when I got older, symbolized massive sleepovers with tons of screeching, screaming girls and late-night phone calls to the local radio stations to request our new, favorite pop-y song that was played on the radio sixteen times a day as it was. It was sneaking out of our furnished basement to take midnight swims in the pool, or to sneak over to the next-door school yard to smoke the obligatory, rebellious teenaged cigarette. In high school, Fridays were summed up by the high school football games and pizza afterwards. Pizza and obnoxiousness. You know the high school brand of obnoxious, where you wave and yell crude things to passerby, driving in their cars. Toilet-papering. The typical behavior of hormone-ridden kids.

Fridays gradually began to symbolize the beginning of an entire week of partying and debauchery. Underaged drinking and going to work with hangovers, trying desperately to hide your bloodshot eyes with concealer and dramatic, over-long bangs. These years seemed to go on for, well... Years. I guess they did. It's amazing how the time goes by so quickly and you find yourself in a completely new place.

Those years eventually progressed into my band-playing days, where Fridays signified extreme anticipation and excitement, wondering where our next gig was going to take us, who we would meet, where we would end up afterwards. Days of sleeping until 4 PM and waking to prepare for the night's show, only to begin again the next day, and the next day after that and so on and so forth.

Those days are long gone.

Now my Fridays consist of a good dinner, a good movie and quality time with my wonderful husband and amazing daughter. We're homebodies now and rightfully content with it. Fridays now begin with the alarm ringing at 7 AM and creeping out of my warm bed, away from my warm husband, tip-toeing past my daughter's bedroom so as not to wake her, just so I could take a brief shower and head to work. Work nowadays is not playing in a band, my instrument, my voice, but calculating client's retirement fund fees and moving money from account to account, day in and day out. Friday mornings fade insignificantly into Friday afternoons and before you know it, it's time to leave work for the day.

That's where I'm at today.

3 PM. Quitting time is 5.

I can't wait to go home and begin my lovely, cozy weekend with my lovely, cozy family, my most important experience of all time and my most valued asset.

These are the best Fridays of my life.

11 March 2009

Annie, Are You Okay?

Last night was the Michael Jackson segment of American Idol.

Needless to say, I'm a gigantic fan of AI and I watch it faithfully each year. I even TiVo it if I don't happen to have the time to watch it on any given night, which rarely ever happens, because anyone who knows me, knows not to bother me on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. Under penalty of severe crabbiness.

At any rate, I thought they were all so good. I think this is the first year that I've actually really liked pretty much everyone in the top tier. The only one I'm not ridiculously crazy about is Jasmine. She's a gorgeous girl with a fantastic voice, but she's got the personality of a stale cracker. I understand that she's only sixteen, but come on. Call Adopt-A-Personality, or something. Make it interesting, honey. Some dramz, maybe? Anything?

I'm really excited to see who's voted off tonight. I think it's going to be Jasmine, and probably Anoop, which is unfortunate, because I think Anoop is super-talented, with a great personality, but his rendition of 'Beat It' last night was just horrid.

I also love Megan. She is totally the girl I want to be. I mean, really. She's gorgeous. I'd trade faces with her in a second. She's got a great bod. And, she's just so frigging neat. If I didn't love her so much and want to be 'that girl' so badly, I could potentially hate her forever.

Oh, well. You win some, you lose some.

On another note, I'm being very good with my over-eating today. Wish me luck. I had a bowl of shredded wheat for breakfast (and I'm not generally a breakfast fan; I just have no desire to eat in the morning, oddly enough - just the other fourteen hours or so that I'm awake).

I had a cup of coffee, too, which was just horrid. I don't know what my problem is, but I can't make a decent pot of coffee to save my life. Really; if any of us actually ever cross paths, please don't ask me to provide the coffee. I don't know what I do. Or what I don't do. But it's always relatively mouth-watering, and not in a good way. Gross.

Today's kind of a boring day. I don't really have a whole lot of interesting stories for the day. It's grey and cloudy outside. Warmer than it has been, thankfully, but I think the rain is pending. Which is okay. I'm a rain fan. But sometimes the darkness just makes me feel so blah.
It also appears to affect my husband, but then again, almost anything and everything affects him. He's been miserable all day today. I'm so glad that I'm not home, because I'd probably have to file for divorce, at least just for today. I. Just. Don't understand. And can't really comprehend that yeah, everyone has their moody moments (myself included), but being generally happy and cheerful is not that hard, when you really look into your situation. I guess that doesn't apply to everyone, but in my (our) circumstances, we're in a pretty good place and beyond all irritations and I just don't understand why people let little things irritate them. I'm not going on about it. I'm just going to accept it and be as happy as I can. I'm a generally content person. There are certain things that surely set me off, and quick, but I'm a generally content person.

B to the L-A-H.

Rant. End.

10 March 2009

You Can't Have Any Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat.

So, I've been having these 'weeks' lately, where all I truly want to do is eat.

It doesn't really matter what it is; as long as it won't bite me back and it's relatively chewable and passable, I'm down for it.

I know I'm not pregnant. I've been relatively regular with the monthly red bandit, so there's no chance.

I guess the only thing I can attribute it to, legitimately, anyway, is PMS, DMS and AMS (you know how that goes: pre-, during- and after-).

I don't know what the deal is. But I'm really, really not comfortable with it. I'm starting to wonder if I have an eating compulsion, an eating disorder that hides its ugly head deep, deep in my tummy (or my head, maybe?) and insists that I eat eat eat despite the fact that I'm just not hungry.

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe I'm just bored. Or stressed. I don't really know. There's obviously something going on up (or down) in there.

I know... I know that if I don't cut the crap out, I'm going to start gaining weight. And then I'm really going to hate myself. Not because I think women should be cookie-cutter (mmm, cookies, I'd love some cookies, thanks) thin and everyone should look the same; I don't. But I do know what my standards are of myself and if I were to go beyond that, it'd be out of sheer laziness and general pigging out.

I wish I were twelve again, when I could eat whatever the hell I wanted and not have to worry about the repercussions of bloat, breakout and guilt.

A New 'Brand' Of Pirate?

Amidst recent chatter that there will, in fact, be a fourth installment of cult-hit Pirates of the Caribbean, another British actor is slated to be considered for a role in the hugely popular franchise.

Russell Brand, most popular for his stand up comedic acts, is a candidate being discussed for the new PotC film, alongside Johnny Depp, who, at this point, look like they could be long-lost relatives, if not brothers.

I'm a big fan of Russell Brand. I especially liked his commercial with Britney Spears advertising for the VMAs. They had a very gritty, nasty chemistry that I just adored.
He's campy and fun and obnoxious, but in a good British way that we Americans can all identify with. At least those of us with a sense of humor, anyway. Brand is not for the faint of heart.

Evidently the new prospect for the flick includes Sparrow and Barbossa's characters reuniting in new world New Orleans (my absolute most favorite city on the face of the earth) to search for the Fountain of Youth.
Regardless, I am a gigantic fan of the Pirates films and I greatly look forward to viewing the new installment, Brand-ed or not.

09 March 2009

The Intricacies Of Inadecquacy

Those were two killer words to spell. And I don't even feel like spell-checking them to see if they're right.

You guys can do the math on that one.

I hate. hate. hate. how there's that one person in your life, that no matter what you do, makes you feel like you're always just below par, always just a little bit not good enough.

I have a person in my life, who will remain nameless to protect the not-so-innocent, that, with almost every singular step I take or every decision that I make: subtly implies that no matter what I do, is never one hundred percent right. No matter how I look, or what I wear, things I say or enjoy; good is never good enough.

And it's a positively sly manifestation of non-verbal communication. It's actions. It's looks. It's positive neglect to acknowledge my excitement at something that gives me joy or induces pride in whatever it is I might do.

It's the anti self-justification that I've tried fruitlessly to establish over a period in time in my life.

I goddamned (and fuck you, spell-check, I do not want to use the word 'goddaughter' here) well know that I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. I'm attractive enough. I'm involved enough. I care enough.

But there will always be that one person in your life who will negate these happy mantras at their every whim.

A Day In The Life

So I decided to mix up my blog a little bit, some current events tossed in with little personal anecdotes and what goes on in my day.

Today, well... Today was a very boring day, actually. I guess today is not the day to begin doing this, but hey, now is always the best time, anyway.

I woke up at 7:30, to be at work for 8:30. Luckily enough, I only live (literally) a block from work, so the snooze button on the alarm is my greatest friend in the morning. I snoozed. And snoozed. And snoozed until I saw that it was 8:02.

8:02 AM = No AM shower.

I crawl, half-heartedly, out of bed and drag myself into the bathroom to salvage a semi-acceptable appearance for work. To be quite honest, I'm not caring entirely too much lately, as I'm moving to a much better, happier area and I've only got eight more weeks left at my current job until I begin something new. I do the normal morning routine: wash the face, brush the teeth, attack my Jew-fro with a comb, brush, water, hairdryer, flat-iron and some dynamite. The norm.

I get to work ten minutes early (a record for me) and just. know. that today is going to be one of those ass-dragging, 'everyone's going to irritate me in one way or another' type days.

I kill as much time as I can while in the office. Kind of uneventful.

Around 10 AM, I start popping antibiotics.

Oh, yeah, good story.

I insisted I broke my toe two months ago and no one believed me. I'm a little bit of a drama queen, so I always make a bit more of a deal of things than should be, but hey, I'm a woman and I can get away with these things.

I digress. After "breaking" my toe, weeks and weeks go by and my toe is actually worsening, not getting better. It's my little toe on my left foot, which is, of course, a tender area, even by the low standards of my threshold of pain spectrum. Toe gets redder. Purple-r. Bigger. And bigger yet.

So, finally, this past weekend, I decide to make a move and call my physician. I have to admit, despite the fact that I'm a whiner and complainer when it comes to injuries, minor or not, I'm not a big doctor-goer.

I go to the doctor (after waiting for an hour and a half, in which I actually, seriously contemplated just going home and making a go of dealing with the pain and swelling and grossness) and he takes a look at it and decides he wants to do an x-ray. I take a limp down to the radiology department in the building and they microwave my toe. I limp back to the examination room and wait for this doctor to come back. I wait another half hour. By this time, I'm so disgusted that I'm considering leaving. Again. I start muttering insults and curses under my breath, in half-hopes that someone will hear me and ask what my problem is, or if they can help me or get someone for me. To no avail, I might add.

The doctor finally decides to show back up and let me know that my toe was, indeed, broken at one point in the past few weeks and it was now infected (ew, gross, an infected toe) because of the unnatural way it healed. Outwardly, bone-wise, it doesn't appear to be deformed. But I guess you never can really tell with tiny digits. And I do have little toes.

So, regardless. They put me on antibiotics (high-dose, take them four times a day antibiotics) and here I am today, at work, late, un-showered, gross and irritated just on the sheer basis of being here.

Beauty And The Beast

Tale as old as time.

Unfortunately, as true as it can be.

Rihanna, the recently-beaten, heads back to work this week not days after deliberations that charged Brown with felony assault and terroristic threats. According to her producer, Adonis Shropshire, Rihanna is resuming her life and beginning new recordings. "She's doing okay", Shropshire is quoted to say. Shropshire explains that Rihanna is using her music to "move forward".

Move forward, indeed.

Rihanna, aka Robyn Rihanna Fenty, has declined a no-contact order against the accused beater.

There. Are. No. Words.

I understand that she's under a great amount of stress right now. I can believe that she's confused and hurt and doesn't know where to turn.

But how. How. In God's green Earth, do you turn to the one who practically strangled you to the point of unconsciousness?

I can't fathom it. I can't even stomach it.

I'm a reformed victim of emotional abuse (just as real as any abuse that there is) and once my relationship dipped to an all-time low, I was out. I was done. There's only so much you can take (and simultaneously know in the back of your mind that you shouldn't be putting up with it, 'loving him' or not).

I am, as I am sure are Rihanna's fans, wholeheartedly disappointed in her lack of repulsion of this horrible creature known as Chris Brown. There is no turning back for her, now. And I'm sorry to say, after taking a mistake back of this magnitude, whatever comes to her down the road is entirely on her head.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying 'she deserves what she gets' by any means; this is clearly a damaged, wounded girl. However, there is only so much accountability that can be taken for things that are out of your control. Beyond that, it's all growth and reliance on your own previous experiences.

Such a sad, sad situation.

I don't see this ending well.