Auld Lang Syne

The place of my dreams. The place of my nightmares.

365 days.

A lifetime.

A fleeting moment.

There is no good year, and there is no bad year.

There is only what has happened, how we've reacted, what we've learned and how we grow.

I will not be compiling a list of resolutions.

Perhaps I will get fatter next year, or thinner. I may finally kick the Marlboro monkey for good or I may keep stumbling. I'd like to fall in love next year, and I'd love to not be paralyzed in a car accident.

How can I shape 2011 when I don't even know what will happen tomorrow?

I started 2010 unemployed after being laid off by someone I'd once believed in. I'm ending 2010 working for someone I'd also once believed in, and have found I do again.

I had an unexpected chance to travel through 16 states with my brother. We seized it and I'll never regret it.

I watched my cousin and his wife bury their child, and I'll never forget it.

I've made amazing friends all over the world through this blog, and I never expected it.

I lost my house and my parents took me in, and they never questioned it.

I sought closure of a relationship that has haunted me for more than twenty years, but I'll never get it.

Every year, it seems that things make me laugh louder and cry harder. If this continues I may, quite literally, explode in a fit of giggles or tears - or crazy -  before 2011 is over.

I'm not really certain how I thought I would suddenly find closure of decades-old trauma, when I'm at a loss as to how to even conclude this post. I know less every year, but I feel more. When I was fifteen, I knew it all. I'm thirty-four now and I don't know shit.

But I think that I'm learning to recognize that love comes in a lot of different forms. I may never find the kind I wish for, but I have received the kind needed to get through a particular day, or event, or time. To all of you who have shown me love this past year, thank you.

My hope for 2011 is that I can get better at accepting acts of love and at forgiving acts of hatred. I hope that I can give more love to others, whether it be a hug or a prayer or a laugh. And I hope that a year from now, I'm still here writing about all of it.

I'm signing out for the year, guys. I need a break for a couple of days.

Right now is a crying time and I wanna get it all out before January 1st, so we can go back to the funny. Because, really? Funny is so much more fun than all this fucking sentimental reflection.

FAIL! Technology - 1, Tricia - 0

You know what's awesome?

Getting a new iPod for Christmas to replace the one you bathed in iced coffee last summer.

You know what's even more awesome?

Getting excited to rock out with your bad self in the car to your favorite tunes after six months.

You know what's the most awesomesauce?

Realizing that the computer on which your iTunes library was archived is dead and gone.

And? The almighty awesomest thing of all?

Realizing that there is no imaginary 'Apple Land' in which all this shit is stored for you.

So.

I have a brand new, shiny, sparkly, green Nano with eight gigs of storage for my musical library.

Which will now consist of one song, when I can scrounge up the $1.29 to buy it.

 Airplanes

 B.o.B. and Hayley Williams

Because ...

I am going to pretend that airplanes in the night sky

are like shooting stars...

And I'm gonna wish I wasn't such a dumbass.

FAIL!

Technology - 1200+

(songs gone now)

Tricia - 0

Seriously. I'm a Winner...

I love to win!

Seriously. I'm one of those dipshits who puts $1.00 into a slot machine, 'wins' $0.40 of it back and cheers like a fool.

Just the very idea of winning something sends thrills of rapture down my spine. And let me tell you, I'm one lucky bitch*.

I recently won the Summit billboard caption contest for November, which is awesome since I don't really drink beer. And I won a Christmas gift package of holiday books and DVDs, which will be a splendid gift for my imaginary children.

But today...today is the mother of all wins. I'm pretty much the winningest winner ever.


Add caption

 I am the lucky recipient of a naughty bag o'goodies from Good Vibrations, which will totally enhance my entirely non-existent sex life.

For the record, there are no vibrators in this gift pack.

Oh no. It's full of things like sensual-smelling candles to set the mood, and edible massage oils. I'm sure they will taste amazing when I lick them off my own nipples. (And incidentally, yes - I can reach. If you were wondering.)

But then there's the other thing.

Um, yeeeahhh..............

If you've read my blog much, you are probably aware that I am a complete and utter loser have been living with my parents since November. So picture - if you will - me pushing my poor gray-haired dad to the ground in my stampede to the mailbox.

Cuz fuck him if he thinks he's getting his hands on my chocolate-flavored lube! He can buy his own.

*And by the way, I definitely bought myself a lottery ticket on the way home tonight - anyone as lucky as I am has to eventually win some shit that I need. I figure when I'm a millionaire I'll probably be able to find someone to suck my chocolate-covered toes.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, December 27th

10. I'm relieved I had the foresight to wait until I sobered up before using the home eyebrow waxing kit that Santa (rather rudely?) left in my stocking.

9. I'm grateful for 2% spandex. Without that smidgen of stretch, I'm pretty certain my jeans couldn't contain my fat ass after three days of holiday eating drinking.

8. I'm thankful for wrapping paper. It makes tearing open gift packs of heartburn medication and eyebrow wax much more exciting.

Surprise!! Holiday TUMS!

7. I'm grateful that so far the 'pull out and pray' method has been working. And no, I'm not talking about birth control. I'm talking about turning onto a street when all the snowbanks are so tall that you have no clue if traffic is coming.

6. I'm thankful for the gratuitous half-naked bloody boxing scenes in The Fighter, although I'd have preferred to be licking Mark Wahlberg's sweat off my fingers, rather than the fake butter they use to lube up the popcorn.

5. I'm happy that I have a small family. Rather than hauling ass across town in festive holiday attire, I was able to spend 90% of Christmas day in my pajamas. I did get dressed up to go to the bar that night, though.

4. I'm super excited that I got a new Nano for Christmas, after the tragic demise of my old one this summer. This means I can blissfully play my favorite songs 72 times in a row in the car again!

3. I'm thankful for the staff at Starbucks. Not only do I see them more often than my actual friends and family, but they always fulfill my needs quickly and cheerfully.

2. I'm grateful for Grey Goose and fat boys whose boobs bounce tremendously when they dance. It helped to anesthetize me enough to sit through Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat yesterday.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, December 27th?

1. For the love of God, I'm thankful that this is the last time I have to think of shit to be thankful for in 2010!

Sweet Baby Jesus

Considering my general Grinchiness, I have to say this was a mighty fine Christmas.

My father, who is known to buy his own gifts, wrap them, mark them To: Bill / From: Bill and put them under the tree, is not the easiest man to shop for. He's obsessed with baseball, though, and the brand new Target Field, so I found a coffee table book of the erection of the stadium. Once he opened it, he didn't speak to any of us the rest of the day - SCORE! (Not because we don't enjoy his company, but because it meant he *actually* liked his gift.)

I bought a copy of The Giving Tree for my mom, and rewrote it to depict her endless generosity toward me and my blatant abuse of it. She was laughing so hard she was tearing up - or perhaps it was the truth of it that had her crying, but let's not split hairs.

We aren't a churchy family, but we did praise baby Jesus every time we refilled our glasses of vodka and I believe I also shouted his name in glory whilst stuffing my face with homemade green bean casserole. I'm not sure what's holier than my mama's cooking.

Santa failed at his task to leave me a Cuban nympho under the tree, but to be fair, I was so stuffed that being poked with a Cuban cigar probably would've just made me barf.

Naughty Girls Peek

I've always been developmentally stunted a peeker.

 A stack of gifts lying there beckoning for days on end is just too much of a temptation.

When I was small, my parents told me sternly that if I peeked, they'd take the gift away and I wouldn't get it at all. You'd think that after doing this, say, once I'd learn. But nope. My stack of gifts always dwindled substantially from December 15th to Christmas Eve.

Now that I'm mature old, I can restrain myself, but just barely.

It's not even the material aspect of it. Frankly, you could wrap up a handful of gravel in pretty paper and I'd tear it open gleefully. It's the thought of getting a surprise, a present. I find it devastating when people are too lazy to wrap a gift and just hand it to you. WTF!? You just robbed me of 80% of the fun, you schmuck!

My family has always celebrated our holiday on Christmas Eve, which made the wait a tiny bit more palatable. Ha, SUCKERS! We open our presents a whole day before you.

Except now my brother has a serious girlfriend so we have to 'share' holidays.

I find sharing to be very overrated, mostly because it typically means 'sharing' the shitty stuff:

 - Sharing burdens
 - Sharing costs
 - Sharing blame

Rarely does it mean sharing the luxury condo in Barbados, the trust fund or the good drugs.

But I digress. The point of this entire rant is that it's Christmas Eve. There's a stack of presents. My brother is busy with his girlfriend's family all day. And I have to find a way to distract myself for 24 more hours, because just in case there's a sexy Cuban nympho under the tree for me, I don't want to peek and have him deported before I even get a chance to take a ride on his sleigh.

Blessed are the Singles

One of the most joyous things about being single during the holidays is getting to skip the entire 'gifts for the lover' bullshit.

The whole situation is fraught with landmines. In a fragile new union, there's the do I or don't I factor and in established relationships it's generally about not fucking up again like that one time.

And for anyone who says it's the thought that counts, I will counter with the fact that some thoughts are best kept to oneself. Don't believe me? Here are a smattering of lousy gifts I've received from gentlemen over the years.

 - One romantic boyfriend bought me a rather expensive fishing pole. This would be splendid - were I into fishing. But the timing of the gift was suspect as well; he bought this state-of-the-art rod for me just two weeks before he departed on a boys-only fishing trip to Canada. Needless to say, I found a new rod to play with while he was gone.

 - Several years ago, I received a promise ring for Christmas. What the fuck is this? It's like a dog peeing on a tree to claim it as its own, while not being willing to agree to come visit that same tree on every daily walk. And let me tell you, it inspires some heart-warming conversations at the office next week:

           Them (thinking your man is a bit cheap): OOOH! Are you engaged!?
           Me (eyes lowered in morbid humiliation): No. But I might be. Eventually.
           Them (confused): So why did he get you a ring?
           Me (unsure): To make sure nobody else moves in
           while he takes his time making up his mind.

- Another charming man apparently went to the mall and specifically requested the ugliest, chintziest, most cloudy diamond necklace available....and then presented it to me proudly. Let me let you in on a little secret: every kiss does NOT begin with Kay.

And before you call me a materialistic monster, rest assured it had nothing to do with the money. Had he gone to Wal*Mart or even Mills Fleet Farm, I have no doubt he could have found an adorable piece of costume jewelry for a fraction of the price that I would have worn.  No woman wants a 'diamond' pendant that appears to have been fashioned out of the teensy tiny shards of a smoker's yellow teeth.

This size looks just right.

 - Lingerie is another danger zone when shopping for your woman. Nothing says awkward quite like ill-fitting scraps of lace. If you purchase something too small, she'll be mortified at the idea of trying to squash herself into it and if you pick something super large and offend her, you'll never be seeing her in lingerie again....ever. Besides, even if you did, a baggy thong isn't gonna raise your flagpole.

One boyfriend actually presented me with a school girl outfit and tried to call it a gift.

Excuse me? Me dressing up like a slutty child to sexually arouse you is a gift for me how? I expelled him from school and suggested he transfer districts. Forever.

So here I sit, single, on the eve of Christmas Eve, knowing that no man will be sneaking into my room in two nights to lavish me with gifts. But if he did, he'd probably just blow it anyhow.

Fuck the Children: A Humbled Addendum

Contrary to the opinions of the guys I've dated and some of you who read yesterday's blog post, I do have a heart.

The comments on the post were great; I appreciate diverse viewpoints and enjoy a healthy debate, but I also received a couple emails telling me just how vicious, vile and horrible I am.

I considered creating a redemptive photo pictorial tonight illustrating selfless deeds I've done, but all I could find in my scrapbook were pictures of me skinning kittens and tripping elderly people with their canes.

So I guess you'll just have to trust me on this one.

I've been known to perform random acts of kindness and at times I even get teary while listening to Christmas wishes being granted on the radio.

(I staunchly refuse to watch The Notebook, though - I have to draw the line somewhere.)

At any rate, I sincerely apologize to anyone I legitimately offended yesterday by posting an incontrovertible and malicious untruth.

If you are one of the many people who meant well but were framed and you're currently falsely imprisoned and your husband or wife is working diligently to provide for your adorable little child but simply can't make ends meet with the wages from their full-time job, please email me immediately and I'll happily buy some shit for your kid.

And to the rest of you - please generously donate to whatever charity it might be that's close to your heart, as that's the beauty of free will. If the fund you opt to donate to is the Shut That Terrible Bitch Up fund, I'm sure someone out there is accepting donations for a supply of duct tape to wrap around my mouth.

Fuck the Children

So, I recently learned that one of the initiatives funded through the Salvation Army's red kettle holiday fundraising drive is purchasing Christmas gifts for children of those who are incarcerated.

I have issues with this.

Are our nation's future felons really a worthy charitable cause? Must we make their holidays merry?

These are the fuckers who will be robbing and stabbing us in fifteen years. Should we really chip in for the Christmas video game that teaches them offensive tactics?

And before you get all up in my shit about how they are children and they shouldn't be punished for their parents' transgressions, let's think about this for a moment.

Half of these baby mamas probably don't know for sure which daddy goes with which bastard - so you could just be buying shit for the kid with the garden variety deadbeat dad.

Felons are already getting room, board and three squares on our dime, so mightn't they just use their wages from the prison laundromat to buy their offspring, say, a book? That way perhaps their kid can come visit and teach them how to read. Win-win.

Or if their kids have champagne tastes and need designer sneakers or a gold-plated bong, mama needs to dip into the stash of drug money in the freezer, or turn an extra trick this weekend instead of turning to the red kettle.

Luckily, I have a solution. For all of you who planned on donating to the Salvation Army this holiday season, just buy me a gift instead. I haven't raped or killed anyone, and I don't have any bastards to raise up to follow in my bloody footprints.

Cheers!

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, December 20th

10. I'm grateful that Neil posted pictures of their vacation in paradise so that I could see exactly what they were doing while I shoveled their driveway.

9. I'm thankful to the Toad Whisperer for my new investment program. Best Christmas gift. Ever!

8. I'm relieved to find I survived Saturday's trip to the comedy club vodkathon with only mild lingering retardation.

7. I'm grateful for online dating sites. It's so refreshing to meet charming gentlemen who are into fisting and golden showers instead of the same old dinner-and-a-movie yawn.

6. I'm thankful that we get a long weekend in honor of Jesus. It's about time he did something for us.

5. I'm happy to be home from Blaine and back in the land of the living Starbucks on every corner.

4. I'm incredibly thankful that my job is NOT at the Mall of America. I think I'd rather clean public restrooms with my tongue than work retail at the biggest mall in the country during Shitmas season.

3. I'm happy we're having another damn snowstorm today, because I got really spoiled after a reasonable and safe commute this morning for the first time in a week.

2. I'm grateful that I didn't piss myself after inadvisably eating a spoonful of the Indian hot sauce on its own at dinner last night.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, December 20th?

1. I'm thankful that it's almost Christmas, which means I can still hope that a strange man actually sneaks into my house at night and fulfills all my fantasies.

Pure Romance

Every girl wants to be romanced and I'm no different. Except that I'm different.

I have no desire to be smothered in diamonds. Jewelry doesn't make my heart flutter and a big fat diamond ring would be wasted on me. Besides, my fingers resemble little sausages and sparkly doesn't fix ugly.

Flowers are fine, but I never remember to change the water or throw them away so after a day or two, I just have crusty leaves all over my desk and wonder what smells moldy.

If a guy wrote me a poem, I'd kick him in the kneecap and drop him off at a Find Your Nutsack workshop.

But this?

This makes me weak in the knees.

I think it may be love.

The Funny Thing About Funny...

I'm going to see one of my favorite comedians tomorrow night and I'm totally aroused excited - but it made me realize something.

Are you ready for this?

Sit down if you must...

Here it is:

There are some very fundamental

differences between men and women.



Now, before you nominate me for a Nobel Prize in physiology, let me explain how I've come to this startling determination.

In an exhaustive study of women everywhere (and by that I mean the opinion of everyone I know with a vagina), it's been found that the funnier a man is, the sexier he becomes.

Seriously.

Nothing propels ours skivvies off faster than a guy who makes us laugh.

But in an exhaustive study of men everywhere (by which I mean what I've noticed in my limited and awkward interactions with them), it seems that the funnier a woman is, the more the guys laugh. And then go fuck the hot vapid girl anyhow.

I get the whole 'men are more visual' thing, but aren't there limitations to this? I once went out with an incredibly sexy man. Disgustingly hot - I completely out-punted my coverage, physically speaking.

But as soon as he spoke I wanted to stab him in the ear. There are no words to describe just how terrifically boring and conceited this guy was. And suddenly he was really unattractive.

So, I'm asking for your feedback here. Why isn't the penis connected to the funny bone when the vagina so clearly is?

My Snooki List

Snooki recently made a list describing her dream man. Self-help books tell us all that clarifying what we want is the first step in bringing our dreams to fruition, and there's no doubt in my mind that Snooki's a bookworm.

She's looking for a tan, funny, fist-pumping gorilla Guido juicehead nympho who likes to party, sleep in, and is super romantical (her word, not mine). Picky much? No wonder she's single.

But again - we girls are told our whole lives not to settle, so I can hardly blame her for casting aside the Guidos who don't fist-pump properly. At any rate, she's an inspiration to women everywhere and as such, I'm making my very own Dream Man List:

 - Breathing is good

  - You should not have children or other sexually transmitted diseases
 
- You must either possess hair on your head or recognize and embrace your baldness - there is no middle ground on this issue

This guy seems sensitive
and romantical

- Authority to write prescriptions is a (huge) bonus and can be leveraged as compensation for other...shortcomings

- Fist-pumping is unacceptable and violators will have their nut sacks tweaked with a pliers

- You must be smart enough to entertain me but dumb enough to love me - it's a tightrope

- Your libido should be fully operable by remote control so you are only horny when it's convenient and/or appealing to me

- Tattoos are encouraged, provided they don't depict your gang affiliation, wife, or your inability to spell

- You must find full-contact games of  Wordster (bar Scrabble) highly fulfilling

I should also note that facial accommodations are made for men who are 6' 3" or taller. Sorry, shorties - that's how life works. Step aside in your lifts.

If any of you guys out there are interested and meet these qualifications, I look forward to meeting sleeping with you soon.

2010: An Epic Fail

The new year is coming and with it the profound reflection on months past. Every year I think, I hope and I pray that the next year will be better. Surely, I can't flail forever, right? Right?

But methinks that 2010 was not That Year. I rang it in unemployed and it's only gone south from there.

Behold, my top ten fails of 2010:

10. I've given up birth control due to excessive costs. This would be more troubling if I ever got thrown down, but just think - I have the potential to accidentally breed.

9. While interviewing for a job and being taken on tour by the VP of the company, I fell down an entire flight of stairs, flinging my coffee everywhere and belting out a loud homage to my good friend Jesus Christ.

8. When fulfilling a lifelong fantasy of riding a mechanical bull, I didn't even make it 30 seconds. The brothers are wrong - apparently my fine, thick thighs are not that remarkable.

7. I took it down the throat and then up the ass, and he didn't even buy me a drink. The cherry on the butt-sundae, though, was when the doctor lost whatever the hell it was he biopsied in my derriere.

6. I gave my brother a boner. I feel dirty just typing that.

5. I assaulted my poor, dear mother. Now, don't get me wrong - I didn't punch her. But forcibly drugging someone is probably classified (somewhere) as assault. I would like to point out, though, that it wasn't a roofie and I didn't rape her.

4. The only other action my ass saw all year was when I got my salad tossed by a spider. OK, it was closer to my dressing than my salad, but whatev. I still felt violated.

3. When entrusted with children in 2010, I first gave a six-year-old with Asperger's a 24-oz caffeinated soda (not recommended). Then later in the year, I dropped an adorable three-year-old. ON HER HEAD. Anyone need a babysitter?

2. I drank about 46 shots of vodka, got kicked out of a gay strip club in Atlanta, and then barfed on myself in congratulations.

And my number one fail of 2010?

1. I've been defeated by the recession my loser ways and I moved in with my family. Know anyone looking for a broke, chubby thirty-something mess who lives at home? Yeah, didn't think so. Fuck.

FAIL!

2010 - TKO

Tricia - 0

Hardcore

There may be some misconceptions out there. I think that some people perceive me to be a bit wild, but really I'm just the girl next door - with the mouth of a trucker.

I've been told by some that I look tough, but when I came home last summer to find a (gigantic!) toad perched on the door frame blocking my entry, I threw stuff at him and I cried.

I blog about some bawdy stuff, but the only guy who sees me shirtless is my tattoo artist. And he cried.

The only balls I put in my mouth are the ones at the Testicle Festival, and most Friday nights you're more apt to find me reading a book than dancing topless in a bar. Except in NYC. And possibly Atlanta.

But my readers?????????? Now, they are hardcore.

Yesterday I mentioned my amazement that someone in Burkuni Hooeyville has been reading my blog, and shortly afterward, a girl living in Ouagadougou emailed me and introduced herself. She also pointed out that the picture I'd found on Google was taken in the rural parts of Burkina Faso, whereas she lives in the more...cosmopolitan...capital.

Here she is!

Isn't she cute?

I clicked on the picture to enlarge it and ponder her cuteness, and.....SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! Are those alligators? Crocodiles? Does it really matter if we differentiate!? They are huge, scary, nasty bastards, and there she stands with her back to them, smiling like a doll lunatic. That? Is HARDCORE.

I asked her how she ended up in Oogaboogaloo, and she told me she moved there to be with the man she loved. I can't generally be bothered to walk down the block for a man. She? Is HARDCORE.

She lives somewhere where they scream 'white girl' at her as she walks down the street, and she bravely wears sundresses that bare her (gasp!) shoulders. In a Muslim country? THAT IS HARDCORE.

For entertainment here in Minnesota I read a book, or mainline espresso, or guzzle vodka.

This girl?

Watches people feed live chickens to crocodiles in the wild for entertainment.

Seriously. Watch her video. This girl is wild. I totally want to meet her now, but I'm just not that hardcore.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, December 13th

10. I'm thankful that I burned 897 calories shoveling snow yesterday, which helps to offset the 4,237 calories worth of chocolate pie I consumed while snowed in this weekend.

9. I'm grateful for catnaps. Nope, not 20-minute snoozes. Four hour naps that you justify because the cats are sleeping on you and it would be rude to disturb them.

8. I'm relieved that it was just the roof of the Metrodome that collapsed during the storm, and not the roof of someplace important like, say, Starbucks. Or a pharmacy.

7. I'm thankful for Reena's gigantic bathtub. It's a nice place to thaw out after stepping outside for a minute and a half.

6. I'm positively delighted to learn that they now make whipped cream flavored vodka, and you're more than welcome to send me some for Christmas. Now I no longer have to get drunk on plain vodka before licking whipped cream off people; this is much more efficient.

5. I'm grateful that someone was smart enough to invent remote car starters and heated seats. I bet the fuckers who can afford cars with these perks are even more grateful.

4. I'm excited to learn there is a country called Burkina Faso, and that I have four readers there! I don't know they got the WiFi hookup in their huts, but I sure am glad they did! If I'm ever in Ouagadougou, I'll definitely swing by on a camel and say hello.


These aren't my actual Burkanese readers.
(C'mon, these guys are way too young.)
But to my real readers there, send me a pic and I'll post it!

3. I'm thankful for my two hour and six minute commute this morning, as it gave me ample time to scream belligerently at send shout-outs to my good friend Jesus Christ.

2. I'm happy to know that in just over one week, winter begins. Because I'm deeply enjoying the 35" inches of snow and the blistering cold we've experienced so far this autumn.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, December 13th?

1. I'm very, very thankful that my brother and Reena are not foolish enough to send me a picture of the two of them lounging at the tiki bar on the beach, for if they did that right now, I'd probably kill both of his cats* and then burn their house down out of raging spite.

*OK, I wouldn't kill the cats...but as for the other part? Just try me...

Snowmygod!

Mother Nature must be on the rag - cuz man, is she a bitch!

For once the weather reporters didn't lie like horny teenage boys. We got exactly as many inches as they predicted. Up to 23" inches in parts of the metro, and really? We all know that any more than 8"? Is just too fucking much.

The roof to our pro football stadium collapsed from the weight of the snow, and many are lamenting the fact that the Minnesota Vikings weren't in it at the time.

Minneapolis skyline - before and after Snowmaggedon

And although I haven't had to go anywhere this weekend (yay!), the fact remains that my boss probably expects me to show up tomorrow. So after nearly 48 hours of denial, I opened the garage door to see snow drifted up higher than the license plate on my car. Sweet.

Oh, and did I mention it's colder than my heart outside?

I shoveled for an hour and forty minutes, and I'm not sure whether it was a heart attack or mere bitterness I seemed to be dying from. With each heft of the shovel, I pictured my brother in a chaise lounge poolside. I'd fling the snow and when it flew back in my face, I'd swear I caught a whiff of rum punch.

Now, I live in a condo for a reason - because my parents own it there is no maintenance involved. So why the hell am I up here shoveling snow and feeding cats while Neil and Reena apply suntan lotion to each other's tender areas? Driving twice as far to work and back all week?

Because I'm single and broke, so I have no excuse not to...

Santa needs to bring my ass a boyfriend this year so I don't have to be the cat-sitter/snowplow/Valentine's Day babysitter anymore.

It's time for someone to take care of my shit while I'm on vacation. Anyone wanna buy me a fish so I have a pet I can't neglect while traveling? And pay for my trip?

     ------crickets------crickets------crickets----

My Deadly Sin of the Day: ENVY

Neil and Reena made one of the last flights out before the airport shut down due to the Snowpocalypse, and they are now here:

Except Reena is shorter and Neil is whiter...

OK, I shouldn't exaggerate. The sun has set in Cancun by now so really, it's more like this:

Fuckers.

Here's what they left behind:

It's extra awesome when you accidentally
unearth the wrong car!

Current temp in Cancun? 77 degrees.

Current temp in Minneapolis? 150 below zero. OK, exaggerating again. But really, once windchills are 20 below zero or lower, it's all the same. Bottom line is don't go outside or your boogers will freeze, your eyelashes will crust over with ice chips and frostbite will gnaw off your appendages one by one.

I could be positive and say things like 'Gee, I'm lucky I don't have to drive anywhere in this blizzard' or 'Wow, that was nice of Neil to leave a bunch of homemade mac-and-cheese for me before he departed for paradise', but The Want Monster has taken over and he's having none of this gratitude bullshit.

I want a tropical vacation!

I want chocolates on my pillow and sand in my crotch! And not just chocolate smears from my chin because I passed out last night with a mouthful of pie.

I want someone to fold my towels like swans! I tried to make the cats do it, but they just chewed the towels and shed on them.

I want Pina Coladas for breakfast and afternoon sex naps in a hammock! The cats agreed to nap with me this afternoon, but there's no hammock and neither one of them will put out.

But no more wallowing. I've gotta go clean the cat box now and then shovel some snow drifts, which is nearly the same thing as a romantic getaway by the ocean if I hum calypso music and wear a sarong while doing it. (None of this nude beach shit for me. You're welcome.)

Fuck! I'm a Cliche...

My brother and his girlfriend are off to Cancun to frolic in the surf together for a week, doing tequila shots and baking in the sun as couples who love each other and aren't broke sometimes do.

I?

Am babysitting his cats.

He knows that when left to my own devices, I subsist contentedly on cheese, crackers, chocolate and vodka, so they stocked up on critical supplies.

Did I mention we're going to get a ridiculous blizzard this weekend? Up to two feet of snow. Now, weather reporters tend to measure like men, always trying to convince us that five inches are eight inches, but still - travel is sternly discouraged this weekend, and I've always been one to follow the rules set forth by anyone of authority.

So I picked up some trashy novels and magazines, and now I'm curled up on the couch with two cats. And a chocolate pie.

Hello, Lover!

Oh, and I'm wearing sweats...

and eating tortilla chips.

I, too, have a decadent vacation coming - of the loser thirty something woman variety. There will be hot baths, cat spooning and orgiastic chocolate consumption. But I do give you permission to punch me in the ovaries if you see me drink a wine cooler.

Luckily, I'm single (don't gasp in shock!) and alone during a blizzard in Blaine, so ain't nobody drivin' up here to see if I have any Sea Breeze mocktails.

Dear God

Dear God,

I know I promised I wouldn't bother You unless I had something really profound and spiritual to discuss, but here's the thing - Christmas is coming and I figured I'd best just go straight to the top. The kids always pitch fits when I cut the line for Santa and besides, every time I sit on his lap I get that damn candy cane in the ass.

I figured sending my list directly to You is a win-win - Santa gets a break and the kids can stop crying and wipe their snotty little noses.

I've been really good this year - just ask that guy I met at bar close that one time; he hollered something that night about never having had better. So here's what I'd like for Christmas this year:

PRINCE CHARMING
He doesn't actually have to be a prince, since I don't want the responsibilities of being demure and lady-like that I hear come with being an actual princess. In fact, he doesn't even need to be charming - I'm flexible. I'm hoping he's not a meth addict, though, or 5'3". And if he could be less broke than me, that would be stellar, because I'm ready to be romanced. It's time my dates started paying for my ramen.

A WINDFALL
Feel free to deliver this in whatever way You see fit - a winning Powerball ticket would work, as would an inheritance. But if You must off someone in order to better my financial situation, I'd prefer to submit a list of qualified candidates, because I kind of like my folks and they're also broke, anyhow.

FANS
As You know, I'm a validation whore, so more readers would be fantastic. I like the ones who stroke my ego, please, not the ones who call me an ugly, foul-smelling, alcoholic lesbian bitch. That's just unnecessary - all the lesbians I know smell just fine.

PNEUMATIC TITS & LEAN LEGS
You can part the Red Sea, so You can damn sure handle this.

Let me know if You need some token cookies left out on the 24th to ensure fulfillment of my needs - I'm sure I can get my mom to bake some.

Sincerely,

A Very Good Girl

The 80s Called...

...and they want it ALL back.

I'm seeing an awful lot of alarming trends reminiscent of the 80s. Leg warmers...leggings...frosty blue eye makeup...

First there was Madonna and now there's Lady Gaga.

First there was Michael Jackson and now there's Justin Bieber. And yes - it's a fair comparison...MJ was equally white at the end.

Shirts are going off the shoulder a la Flashdance and I'm pretty sure I even spotted some jelly bracelets recently.

DIDN'T THIS SHIT DIE FOR A REASON!?



Do NOT make me pull this outfit out of storage. You think it was snug then?



FAIL!

80s - 1

Tricia - 0

Fan Club

There are several reasons I like blogging, but the best parts are clearly the fame and the fortune.

I'm pretty much showered with riches and I have to choose carefully among my endorsement offers. Nike? QuickTrim? I'll have to think about that. Belvedere? Godiva? Where do I sign?

But even better than analyzing endorsement deals is sorting through my fan mail. I generally have stacks of love letters and offerings. Poetry, proposals and the occasional pair of tear-stained undies.

I'd love to be able to respond to them all, but as you know we famous people get oodles of mail. Sometimes I get, say, three comments a day - and really, who has that kind of time?

Every now and then, though, I'm so moved by a fan I feel the need to respond. Such as tonight.

Tershbango,

So let me guess you are a fucking piece of shit psychotic bitch who goes on rampages because you can't get your daily fill of Prozac? YOu are fucking worthless you ugly slut alcoholic whore.....after I'm done here you are gonna wish you weren't such a hideous foul smelling lesbian BITCH!!!!!!!!!

-Anonymous

(Grammar and expletives left splendidly intact...)

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you so much for writing. I appreciate you taking time away from your World of Warcraft gaming to do so.

I appreciate your feedback, and as such, will be awarding you with an I LOVE TERSHBANGO T-shirt. Size 3XL, I presume? I'll also throw in a box of Trojans, so that you're prepared should there ever come a day when a woman agrees to relieve you of your virginity.

As far as the foul-smelling stench goes, I suggest the Hounds Head Grooming Kit for Men, as I suspect the odor is actually emanating from your sweaty, unattended balls. But since you're obviously a loyal reader of mine, you no doubt read all about it in my recent giveaway and already have your kit on order. Enjoy it!

Happy Holidays!
XO
Tershbango

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, December 6th

10. I'm thankful that my mother seems to be getting over her pneumonia. This bullshit of doing her laundry and feeding her is for the birds.

9. I'm grateful that Christmas is less than three weeks away. The 26th is always a relief because it becomes socially acceptable to bitch about holiday music without being branded a Grinch.

8. I'm happy that I was able to get my car unstuck this morning without assistance. Nothing says 'capable winter driver' quite like getting yourself stranded atop a snow bank...in the entrance to your office parking lot.

7. I'm gloriously proud that I made plans last night...and didn't cancel them. Only those who truly know me understand the heroic effort involved in peeling my ass off the couch and getting it out of the house after 5 PM on a Sunday.

6. I'm thankful to know that there are always options for us singletons. Always.

5. I'm pleased with the advent of targeted marketing online. Since I filled out a dating profile and described my body type as 'a few extra pounds', I get delightful advertisements for gastric bypass every time I log on.

4. I'm grateful that nobody else was in my office today when I let that quiet little fart rip. Turns out it wasn't quiet. Or little.

3. I'm thankful that the low today is only -1. Because that's tolerable, but -2 degrees is just brutal.

2. I'm grateful for fleece pajamas and I've decided they are a splendid day-to-evening look - very versatile, really.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, December 6th?

1. I'm super happy that Neil will be frolicking on a beach in Cancun next week, whilst I trek to the other end of the metro area earth to babysit his kitties.

My First Holiday Card

I've never sent out Christmas cards.

I love receiving them, of course - especially the pictures. You can leave the dry holiday letters out, though. Nobody gives a shit that your kid moved up a level in Boy Scouts or that your daughter gets her braces off next summer. And we really don't care about your cholesterol levels.

When I used to have single friends, they sometimes snapped pics of their pets. Over the years their photos have transitioned from dogs to weddings to babies and now the cards I get depict my friends and their rosy-cheeked families.

I'm always single and I don't have a pet (I'm pretty sure my vibrator doesn't count) so I've always skipped the entire ritual. This year, though, I've decided to embrace my independence and take a holiday photograph of my family.

Voila!

My first Christmas card...

You'll have to download it if you want a copy.

I can't afford any goddamned stamps.