Happy Hayward

Headin' to Hayward, WI this weekend - home of the pina colada pudding shot and the painfully beautiful sunsets. We won't slurp these or see these, though, as we'll be working. Since I cannot afford a dream house of my own, I'm helping finish the flooring in this one so as to possibly be invited back.

The first step is getting there. When I downloaded directions, the map that Google gave me ended in a pond halfway there. I'm hoping that this is Google's idea of a joke and not a Twilight Zone prediction of the last moments of my life as I careen off the road to die trapped in my car in a watery grave filled with algae and toads.*

But assuming I make it there intact, the goal is that at the end of the weekend, their basement floor looks something like this:

Four women.

No clue.

Mostly just praying that we don't end up with a floor like this:

Stand back, Martha Stewart, and watch how the real bitches do it! We may be novices, but we figure we've got a leg up on you (ba-dum-BUM) since we're not weighted down by ankle monitors.

*If I do die in the pond, I'm an organ donor - and here's what I recommend:

- Give my eyes to someone so that they may see the light

- Give my boobs to someone so that they may see the cleavage

- Donate my brain to medical science to study the effects of long-term drug abuse (uppers,  downers, chocolate - you name it)

- Toss the liver and the heart - one's pickled and the other is pretty cold

I Wonder...

...if really ugly people are chemically wired to find other really ugly people sexually attractive or if they've just resigned themselves to their fate and keep their eyes closed?

...why you have to pass a test to drive a car, but not to raise a child?

...if geese get peoplebumps when they're cold?

...what kind of drugs were involved the first time someone threw weinies in a crockpot and smothered them in grape jelly and mustard? And more importantly, where do I get these drugs?

...why they named that show The Biggest Loser instead of The Littlest Winner?

...why a surgeon is allowed to call their work 'practice' while an H-VAC tech is called a 'repairman'?

...if I'm really this fat or if I have a Discovery Channel tumor growing inside my stomach? And my arms? And my legs? And my ass?

...why dogs are allowed to bury their face in your crotch the first time they meet you, but when people do that it's considered trampy?

...why I don't spend more time at the State Fair, since I feel utterly sexy next to the carnies and the trailer trash double-fisting their deep-fried candy bars on a stick?

...who tested the first bungee-jumping harness?

...why they call it being 'stood up' when you're left sitting down...alone?

Why am I Allowed to Speak?

I humiliate myself daily. It's my version of Tourette's syndrome - I simply cannot control the fact that stupid shit just flies out of my mouth.

My office phone has no caller ID (WTF!?) and we have no receptionist. There are only a few of us working there so it gets lonely boring. There are basically two people there that I am chatty with on a personal level, and we have to be silly sometimes to entertain ourselves.

I was expecting a package from a client today, and when my phone rang, I answered it and thought it was my office buddy on the other end (sounded just like him, in my defense).

Caller: You have a delivery at the front.

Me (purring coyly, even though I know damn well what it is): Is it chocolate?

Caller: Um...no...

Me (still coy): Flowers?

Caller: Um...no...

Me (indignantly...and for the record, still thinking I'm talking to my silly coworker): Well, then...was the driver hot, at least!? Because otherwise I want no part of this.

Caller (awkwardly): Um...I AM the driver.

Me (chokes a little): Errr...I'll be right there.

For the record? The driver was NOT hot. He was obese and sweating and smelled vaguely of cheese. Oh, and he had a baldytail (you know - the balding guys who grow the straggly little ponytail as though length makes up for girth). I'd have snapped his picture for proof, but at this point I was already skeeved out that he thought I was flirting with him, so I signed for my package and ran.

I should be gagged at all times when in public

I Wonder...

...why a period of four days is called a LONG weekend but a SHORT work week?

...why bleeding for FOUR days is called A period?

...why 95-degree bathwater isn't hot enough but 95-degree July makes me bathe in my own sweat?

...why we teach children not to lie but then pulverize their dreams by later admitting that Santa Claus isn't real? And while we're on the subject, why do we tell children not to talk to strangers but let them sit on old men's laps at the mall in December?

...why anyone pays Heidi Montag for anything?

...why the little V cutout in a Valium looks suspiciously like a heart?

Coincidence? I think not.

...why the likelihood of running into a hot guy is directionally proportionate to how bad I look that day?

...why it's OK for doctors to make you wait months to get in, but when the bill comes, it's due immediately?

...why I would punch a guy in the spleen if he expected me to cook dinner because I'm a woman, but if there's a toad on the patio, I expect him to remove it promptly because that's 'men's work'?

...why the only people who say that money doesn't matter are the people who have some?

...why that guy outside thought it was attractive acceptable to wear Zubaz?

...why football players get paid astronomical sums of money to get repeatedly hit in the head when I fall down and hit mine all the time for free?

...why it feels so deliciously good to sneeze?

...why spicy food is pleasantly painful going in and just plain painful coming out?

...why I'm single?

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, July 26th

10. I'm thankful for this proof that the reason Avery think I'm not pretty is because clearly he's batting for the other team, as evidenced by the red patent leather peep-toes he favors.

We may have to explain to him how to coordinate his outfit with his pumps

9. I'm grateful for the breeze that alerted me to the fact that I'd tucked my skirt into my undies and waltzed out of the bathroom looking like a jackass, with my Hello Kitty skivvies on display.

8. I'm thankful for the first six followers on my new blog - you guys are proof that someone reads this besides my mom!

7. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a big mouth - both figuratively and literally, so you can imagine my concern to realize that my lips seemed to be swelling. They had that puffy feeling that is generally associated with the day following a hot makeout session. I finally realized that my new scented Chapstick was the culprit - apparently I'm allergic. I'm grateful to have figured out that this was the problem - I was beginning to wonder if I was sleep-kissing, and that disturbed me mightily as my only roommates are my brother and his two cats.

Sexy, no?

6. I'm grateful for all of the leftovers from Neil's birthday bash on Saturday since grocery money is scarce. Reena has approximately 416 leftover hot dogs to send our way, so surely Dr. Atkins would roll over in his grave and give me a thumbs up.

5. I was thankful to see that my (frighteningly alcoholic) ex called me repeatedly on Sunday morning between the hours of one and four AM. It makes me feel special and loved to know that I'm on the mind of someone whose blood-alcohol level is undoubtedly somewhere north of .25.

4. My job on Saturday was to transport Neil's cats to Blaine. I'm grateful to have completed the mission with all my limbs intact, as this was the face Morgan made at me when I wrestled her into the kitty kennel.

This is how Morgan feels about imprisonment

3. I was thankful to see that Cirque Du Soleil is following my tweets now. This is undoubtedly because they've heard talk of my amazing athleticism and stunning gymnastic talent and are looking to cast me in their next show as the clown who falls down a lot. But if it pays more than three bucks an hour, I'm totally in.

2. I'm embarking on an experiment in weight-loss. Since I hate my ass but love to eat, I've decided to explore alternate methods of dieting. I'm going to cut out all cocktails (and the late-night pizza they force down my throat) until my birthday rolls around in October. My liver is thankful  for the respite, as my pants will be too, I expect.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, July 26th?

1. As is inevitable with any addict, you reach the point where you cannot afford your habit, and your life revolves around the fix and how to get your hands on it. So I was delighted that my brother received a Toddy cold-press coffee brewing system for his birthday. I can now resume my iced coffee habit without worrying about the dealers at Starbucks and Caribou breaking my arms over delinquent payments.

Don't talk to me until this is gone

Either/Or

Once upon a time I made decent money doing work I didn't like. Then I got laid off and made far less money on unemployment while trying to find a job doing what I love. But nobody would hire me to write, sleep or eat, so I recently took another job doing what I don't love, but for even less money than I made on unemployment. Life is grand. And so I find myself playing another round of Either/Or, a super splendid recessionista budgeting game.

Deodorant or body wash
The correct answer here is deodorant. Shampoo can be substituted for body wash in a pinch, but if you smear it in your armpits on a warm day it merely results in slimy, bubbling body odor after a few hours.

Phone bill or car insurance
I believe in Murphy's Law, so I was forced to choose to pay my car insurance. I rarely answer my cell phone so if it gets shut down, it won't affect my life as greatly as if I let my car insurance lapse and then manage to rear-end someone or mow down a small child.

Utilities or groceries
This was a no-brainer. I paid the utilities so my brother wouldn't punch me in the ear when our electric got shut off. Wikipedia states that a person can live for several weeks without food, but I'm fairly certain I can't live more than three days in July without air conditioning.

My anti-anxiety medication or my birth-control pills
My birth-control (which protects me now against immaculate conception) is used in the hope that someday I might get laid...and it's supposed to be unhealthy to go on and off the stuff. That being said, it's far unhealthier (for you and me) if I go off the anxiety meds. So I choose to be calm and fertile rather than a raging panicky lunatic who is protected from being impregnated by all the men who clamor to sleep with raging panicky lunatics.

When I'm Rich

In small children, we call fantasies imagination and we encourage this behavior. As adults, doctors call these fantasies delusional and often prescribe medication to limit them.

While slurping down my ramen noodles, I often fantasize about winning the lottery. So frequently does this happen (both the ramen and the delusion) that I've compiled a list of the first ten things I'm going to buy when I win.

1. A retirement home for my parents. (See, Mom! That was number one!)

2. A loooong vacation for me and my besties. Think lounging in the blue lagoon in Iceland before jaunting to Tahiti and then heading to Greece to eat olives.

3. A cheery barista to ensure I'm never without an iced coffee during my waking hours (which will be far fewer once I'm rich).

4. A tricked-out laptop with chrome spinners.

5. Perkier boobs.

6. A shirtless masseuse named....well, let's be honest, we don't really care what his name his so long as he looks good and has strong hands.

7. The memorial tattoo that my brother's been wanting but hasn't had the money for.

8. A personal chef who specializes in Indian food and various desserts. And also who specializes in the martial arts so he or she can moderate my portion sizes.

9. Laser hair removal...the gift that keeps on giving.

10. A bodyguard. Not to protect me from others, but to protect my wallet from me so I'm not broke again in six weeks.

I Want a Reality Show

I've always assumed I have no marketable skills or talents, but with the tidal wave of reality TV stars who are laughing all the way to the bank, I must reassess.

Snooki makes a reported $10-30K per episode on Jersey Shore. Maybe they have room for an albino guidette next year? I'm already chubby and I'm sure I could find an obscenely short skirt in which to perform drunken cartwheels on the boardwalk.

The mom on Pretty Wild frightens me with her googly eyes and dubious parenting skills, but she's certainly been able to milk the cash cow spawned by her thieving underage daughters and their lush breasts.

And has anyone heard about Adam Richmond's job on Man vs. Food? He bellies up to a trough and stuffs his face to the tune of $35,000 a show. I eat too much for free!

These people may be mocked mercilessly, but we're the ones crying come payday.

At this point I'd participate in any reality show offered to me that paid more than I make right now. Producers, take note - I make almost nothing. Here's your chance, for peanuts, to film me competing for the love of a quadriplegic monkey. Or perhaps we could revive that show, The Swan, where they give homely people 75 plastic surgeries instead of esteem coaching. If nothing else, I sing worse than William Hung and would be willing to do so wearing nothing but a platinum grill on my teef while the studio audience throws roadkill at me.

There must be a reality starlet buried deep inside me, just waiting to bloom in all her glory and begin sweeping in the Benjamins by the fistful.

My Life: For Sale

My computer is dying. I've been ignoring the warning signs for too long, fearful of having to watch my best friend pass to the other side. But the time has come to shed my cloak of denial and admit that my computer is on its last legs. This is a time when I wish there really was a Santa Claus (though I still wouldn't sit in his lap because that's creepy).

The idea of being unable to write causes me physical pain. I must admit, too, that the idea of being able to pretentiously write while sitting in a coffee shop causes me physical glee. So I'm hoping that out of the ashes of an old friend will rise a newer, better friend. I need a laptop.

But I'm broke.

So here are the things I'm willing to sell to raise funds for a laptop:

My eggs
The expired kind in my fridge or the pickled kind in my ovaries - I'm flexible.

My K2 rollerblades
Tricia + wheels = urgent care...

My Trek mountain bike
See above.

Advertising space
Tattoo your logo or website on my body. Pricing is determined by location, location, location and by the square inch. There is plenty of real estate up for sale. Just sayin'...

My brother's cats
Please don't tell him until after the transaction has been completed, because all sales are final.

My art
Make an offer. I'm cheap.

My services
Need a babysitter? I'm not a registered sex offender. Need your house cleaned? I'll grab my French maid outfit (though for an upcharge, I won't subject you to that).

My soul
It wouldn't be the first time.

Prices are all negotiable - no reasonable offer refused! Hurry - sale ends when I raise enough for my laptop or when my current computer dies and I hang myself in misery, whichever comes first.

My Religious Experience

I need about as much sleep as a brown bear. When I'm overtired, I'm rendered mildly retarded. The only appropriate answer to any question posed before 9 AM is "large cold press with room for cream".

Some people must meditate naked in the woods for forty days without food before they make contact with God. I merely need four nights in a row of being up past 10 PM. As I rubbed my bleary eyes while waiting in line at Caribou this morning, I saw Him...and as promised, He is good.

6'5", broad, brown-eyed and heavily tattooed. He is everything I'd imagined and it was all I could do not to throw myself at the altar of His feet and pronounce myself saved. But since I know that not everyone is comfortable in the presence of evangelists, I summoned every ounce of restraint from deep within and merely prayed silently for His grace to wash over me...naked.

But, as is often the case, my prayer went unanswered and He bent down and kissed the hot chick beside him.

I left Caribou pondering whether He really was God, and He's trying to teach me yet another fucking lesson about patience, or whether insomnia goggles are simply similar to beer goggles. I'd never seen God at my Caribou before and I found myself wondering if it was really just that balding guy with the paunch and the mismatched socks who comes in around the same time as me twice a week.

Like anyone who believes they've been touched by God, though, I'm hungry for more. I'd better go back and investigate after a sound night's sleep.

Body Wrap

Today I got a body wrap - thanks, Reena! Allegedly this service sucks all the toxins out of your body, leaving you lean and refreshed. After a long night of drinking to celebrate Neil's 30th, I figured I had plenty of toxins to spare. Flourish Spa also claims you lose 4-14 inches after just one treatment. So I waltzed into the room in my undies, fully prepared to reappear with Megan Fox's body. OK, fine - that might be more than 14 inches. I'll take J-Lo, then.

We made awkward small talk as the lady rubbed me down with the magic potion (which smelled suspiciously like Vicks VapoRub) and then she busted out the pallet wrap. Round and round she went, wrapping my torso and then each individual limb into a plastic cocoon. I waddled over to the table and heaved myself up in all my shrinkwrapped glory and she tucked me in and left me alone, with instructions to relax and take a nap.

90 minutes is a loooooooong time to be left with nothing but your own company and some unbreathable Spanx. I played drums on my belly for a while, quite enjoying the noise the plastic wrap made. Then I meditated for a minute and a half. Then I decided that I should photograph the occasion, because really - if I have to feel like 10 lbs of sausage in a 5 lb casing, you should have to see it. I am not showing my face so as to protect my identity, and any remaining pride.

And then? The unthinkable. I realized I had to fart.

What to do in this situation? If I ripped one, I feared I'd blow my plastic wrap up like a bubble, thereby eliminating the benefits of being snugly wrapped in the first place. And also, when that poor woman came to cut my out of my casing, it would be like a dutch oven that had been baking for an hour - the blast when the plastic tore free might've taken her to her knees.

So, like the lady that I am, I held it in.

Eventually I was freed from my wrapper and the lady wrung the saran wrap into a martini glass and tossed in an olive for garnish. My sweat was pure Stoli at this point. I was dismayed to realize that my pants still fit - I was expecting them to hang limply from my newly exposed hipbones. I'm not sure where those inches were lost, but it wasn't anywhere south of my navel.

J-Lo did NOT call because she wants her body back. She's still got hers and I've still got mine. She's gonna have to learn to live with the disappointment, I guess.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, July 19th

10. It's Monday, and you wanna know where I am? NOT AT WORK. I'm pretty thankful for long weekends.

9. I'm grateful that my heart is resilient and bounces back after being shattered. (See the second-to-last entry in my old blog for details.)

8. I'm thankful that I've discovered the joyful union of olive muffaletta and cream cheese on crackers. I'd been wondering how to get more fats mixed in with one another, so finding this delightful snack is a relief.

7. I'm grateful that it was just the patio umbrella that was hurled over the fence Saturday night while we sat at the bar enjoying our cocktails in the storm. Though the idea of a Dorothy-like road trip to Oz sounds fun in theory, my guess is that being hurtled skyward by a tornado might actually hurt.

6. I'm thankful that Heidi wants me to write a little ditty for her wedding ceremony. She was really hoping I'd sing, but we decided that perhaps for the pain tolerance of everyone involved, it would be better if I simply speak.

5. I'm grateful for the spa day we're having tomorrow. Reena bought me a gift certificate to get a body wrap, which I've never done before. Allegedly they make you skinnier. I'm hoping for about forty pounds skinnier. They'd better wrap that shit tight and stand back before it blows.

4. I'm thankful that my cuz and her family are rolling into town next weekend. I heart them. I heart them a lot.

3. I'm grateful that it doesn't appear to be 90 and humid outside today. We're headed to the Twins game tonight and I'm not a fan of lounging in my own Slip-N-Slide of sweat.

2. I'm thankful for all the kind friends who took me out this weekend - for cocktails, for coffee, for french toast. For being broke, I certainly was lucky enough to do it up three days in a row. My friends rock.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, July 19th?

1. 30 years ago today, my life was changed by a blessed event. My mother went to the hospital to give birth to my brother, Neil. But that's not the blessed event to which I refer. Oh, no. My father was in charge of baby-sitting me during the time my mom was hospitalized, and I was introduced to...SUGARY CEREAL. Dad wasn't aware of the 'food rules' and so without Mom around to monitor my nutrition, I was in Cocoa Krispies heaven. So Neil, I thank you for coming into my life. It's been much richer and much sweeter for your presence.

WELCOME!

The Internet is an extraordinary beast.

I have Facebook to surreptitiously stalk my exes (older? Check. Balder? Check. Fatter? Check.) and keep up with my several hundred closest 'friends'.

Doctors have been rendered obsolete. I simply use WebMB to diagnose my bipolar disorder, my thyroid disease and my various forms of cancer.

I can check the weather without glancing out the window, I can stay updated with hard news regarding the Kardashians, and I have worlds of porn right at my fingertips.

But the most pleasing capability of the Internet, to me, has been the outlet it provides for my cyber-diary. Started last fall as a lark, as an add-on to my art website, I learned that while nobody is particularly interested in my art, they are moderately amused by my train wreck of a life. And so the blog has flourished, watered with my tears, and here we sit.

This move to a new host was made with you, dear reader, in mind. If you're so kindly taking the time to read about my dating disasters, my financial follies and my colonoscopies, you ought to be able to leave snarky comments at will. And so it now shall be.

My old blog will be available for viewing until October. After that point, in true entrepreneurial spirit: if ya wanna read it, you'll have to buy it. In book form. Details to follow on how you can buy my blog book. I'm sure it will be considered a charitable deduction, as it will help me maintain the ramen lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.