Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, January 31st

10. I'm thankful that I didn't run out of gas during my four-hour trek to urgent care and back this morning.

SNOW + TRAFFIC = DELIGHT

9. I'm grateful that I didn't throw up in my own lap from my coughing fits during said trek.

8. I'm relieved that after sleeping only eleven fitful hours last night, I was able to squeeze in a three hour nap this afternoon.

7. I'm thankful that my antibiotics cost only $15.

6. I'm grateful to the Jews for inventing matzo ball soup. Now I just need a nice Jewish grandma to come over and make some for me. Anyone have one I can borrow?

But, my lungs hurt! Not my fat!

5. I'm happy the nurse weighed me at urgent care. Because that's really important in diagnosing bronchitis.

4. I'm thankful that the nurse didn't argue (out loud) when I informed her that my shoes weigh 40 pounds.

3. I'm grateful that today's visit didn't involve stirrups and splelunking lights, at least.

2. I'm glad there's nobody around to seduce with my new perfume, eau du Vicks VapoRub.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, January 31st?

1. I'm thankful for my ability to suck it up and not be a big whinin' baby when I'm sick. Oh, wait. What's that you say? Epic fail? Well, fuck you unless you're gonna make me some matzo ball soup.

Playing Doctor

I hate doctors.

They think they know everything, because they went to school and shit.

But I had a Fisher Price doctor's kit and I know my own damn body.

And I damn sure know that charging hundreds of dollars to say "Open up and say ahhhhh" is extortionate.

I want a clinic where I can just diagnose myself and call in my own prescriptions. I'll be totally reasonable about it - I wouldn't schedule myself for surgery or diagnose a lump in my tit without the advice of something with schooling*.

But for the love of all that is holy, why do I have to pay hundreds of dollars to TELL YOU when I have bronchitis or a sinus infection? I've had them dozens of times - I know exactly what kind of SUCK they feel like.

It's Sunday at 5:15 PM, and guess what? The real doctors are at home with their families. Fuckers won't even let me pay them big bucks to get a Z-pack until tomorrow.

So for now I guess I'll just send myself to bed and say a prayer that I don't choke to death on my own lung cheese before morning. (You're welcome for that lovely image.)

*I would, however, diagnose my own anxiety and sleeping disorders. "Doctor Tricia says take three Valium and call me in the morning."

Relapse into Belligerence

It's been brought to my attention that I haven't been sufficiently cynical lately. Over the past month, people have used the following words to describe me on various occasions:

     - Googly eyed
     - Girly
     - Fucking nuts

Obviously, this must stop immediately.

So instead of pandering about how special my new boyfriend is, or how delicious his Sunday morning pancakes taste, I'm gonna go back to my roots and bitch about some shit.

Today's topic?

Close talkers.

You know who I mean. Those people who get right up in your face to discuss the weather or that report that's due on Tuesday.

I've always had a big bubble - and no, I'm not talking about my ass.

 My mom was so excited when I was born. "Oh, look! A cuddly little baby!" Then she tried to snuggle me, which was a serious party foul. I threw fists.

That was 34 years ago, and not a ton has changed.

Friends and loved ones can sometimes penetrate the bubble now without risking bodily harm, but I'm still a firm believer in Stranger Danger.

If you are close enough that I can smell your lunch on your breath? You're in danger, stranger.

Today I was accosted by the worst kind of close talker:

The Opposite Sex, Same Height Close Talker.

All I wanted was an iced coffee, but Joe Friendly Creepy wanted a morning chat.

Four inches from my face.

Seriously, Asshat? Yes, it's a little warmer outside - and I agree, that's nice. Your lukewarm spittle on my chin to prove this point? NOT so much.

I'm not even a germaphobe, usually - I may or may not let my brother's cats drink out of my water glass. But stranger germs on my face before 8:00 AM? Simply unacceptable.

Joe Creepy was lucky I was still half-asleep or he might be nursing a broken nose tonight. All I could do was grab my coffee and run to the car for a Purell facial.

So here's a rule of thumb, guys, in case you are worried that you're a close talker.

Picture the size of your dick.

The real size.

Now triple it and and subtract a couple of inches from the grand total, because I know you're still exaggerating.

That is as close as your face ever needs to be to mine while we're standing in line together.

Thanks and good night.

Traveling Light

In Eat, Pray, Love a friend remarks to the world-traveling Elizabeth Gilbert that she's like a snail - she's at home everywhere, because she brings her home along with her wherever she goes.

I have only one thing in common with a snail.

Dip us in butter and we're delicious.

A snail is definitely better equipped to handle life on the road. It doesn't need to cart toiletries all over town, and it rarely forgets pajamas.

At one point when I was unemployed, I was concerned that I might become homeless, but quite the opposite has happened. I have too many houses these days. None of them are mine, of course, but I leave a little trail of snail slime across them all.

I'm currently bouncing from my folks' condo to the boyfriend's house to the brother's place. This means that when I wake up I need to check the GPS to determine whether I'm in Richfield, St. Paul or Blaine, and how exactly to find the nearest crack house coffee shop.

It also means I'm toting more baggage than a sherpa, and that the odds are not in favor of my finding a clean AND matching outfit in any given bag at a particular time.

In theory, I understand the concept of packing light. But this is Minnesota and I never know whether I'll need three or seven layers to leave whatever house I slept in. Or what city I'll be in when my period arrives or it's time to give in and shave my legs.

My key ring looks like a janitor's but not one key opens the door to a place where I really belong right now. A house is a place to sleep, but a home is something different. A home has the imprint of your heart tattooed within its every wall. It's where you live and breathe and love, not where you throw down a bag for the night.

I've never been a money-driven person, but I sure do find myself dreaming lately of having a home. There's an old saying that you can have wings or roots, but not both. I have neither.

I think I'm too clumsy to fly, especially without a crash helmet and bubble wrap.

Maybe it's time to spread some roots and seek water.

Status Update

Tricia Lorntson went from SINGLE to IN A RELATIONSHIP

Just in case any of you missed it on Facebook, I wanted to keep you apprised.

If it weren't for Facebook, I'd never know shit. Marriages, divorces, kidlets and deaths. Facebook tells me everything about my 577 closest people I've spoken with at one point or another friends.

Seriously.

I've learned of people's demise on Facebook.

So far this has only happened when someone posts obits and memorials, though I can't help but wonder how long it will be until someone adds further options to the status button.

Jane went from DRUG & DISEASE FREE to THE FREE CLINIC

John went from UPRIGHT to QUADRIPLEGIC

Jane went from PREGNANT to FUCKED FOR THE NEXT 18 YEARS

John went from PUSHING PHARMACEUTICALS to PUSHING DAISES

Thankfully, we have the handy LIKE button to voice our approval of our friends' life changes - without ever using our voice. Now we just need a few more buttons and we'll be complete.

The YOU SHOULD'VE USED A CONDOM button

The SORRY YOU DIED button



and most importantly...

The I TOLD YOU SO button

With these minor adaptations, I figure I'll never need to actually have to have face to face interaction with another human again. I can just hang out with my laptop and push the HUMP ME NOW button or the I HAVE A HEADACHE button. Now that I'm IN A RELATIONSHIP, I'll probably have to learn where to find the IT'S YOUR TURN TO DO THE DISHES button and the YES, DEAR button.

Man.

Things were so simple back when people spoke. Bummer that vocal interaction is retro now.

The Indignities of Being a Woman

OK, seriously. I wish I had a penis.

Not only could I write my name in the snow while peeing, but I wouldn't ever have to have another annual.

An annual is code for the horizontal degradation we women must suffer through in order to get our greedy little hands on the birth control pills the nurses smugly hold hostage.

Due to a change in insurance I had to find a new doctor, so I researched potential providers by calling the nearest one and taking the first appointment available. As I saddled up in the stirrups, I realized that this isn't a very thorough way to select someone for a front-row face first meeting with my kitty. Nobody even bought me a goddamned cocktail.

The door opened and in padded a miniature woman who clearly went through menopause during the Reagan administration. As she unfurled my gown, she audibly inhaled at the sight of all my tattoos and murmured "oh, my..."

And then....no fucking joke...before she grabbed the speculum, she donned a miner's headband with a spotlight.

+

+

=

This is the woman who holds the future

of my sex life in her liver-spotted hands?

I immediately shelved any thought of discussing the risks involved in threesomes or knocking at the back door and I found myself nodding yes'm in response to her lectures on the perils of Marlboros and vodka. What else does one say to a tiny grandma other than yes, ma'am?

All I wanted was the pill, but somehow I walked out with a flu shot, a tetanus shot and smoking cessation aids in a cloud of unwed guilt.

Luckily, Dr. Demure can't have too many years left in her, so when she kicks it, I can get a new doc. Perhaps this time I'll inquire as to whether the OB in question has ever used the word orgasm in description of something other than the latest issue of Needlepoint Monthly.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, January 24th

10. I'm thankful for Saturday night cuddle sandwiches with my favorite bitches.

Heidi can never keep her hands to herself, she's always trying to cop a feel.

9. I'm grateful for my new fleece pants. Best $6.00 I've ever spent. They're black, so I'm pretty sure that means they can be dressed up for a night on the town.

8. I'm happy that while Neil and Reena are in Vegas next weekend, I can spend the whole weekend in her jumbo jacuzzi tub.

7. I ate escolar. I didn't know what escolar was. I Googled it. I'm really fucking grateful that none of these things happened to me after I ate it:

From Wiki: Like its relative the oilfish (Ruvettus pretiosus), escolar cannot metabolize the wax esters (Gempylotoxin) naturally found in its diet. This gives the escolar an oil content of 14–25% in its flesh. These wax esters may cause gastrointestinal distress in humans called "steatorrhea", the onset of which may occur between 30 minutes and 36 hours following consumption. Symptoms may include stomach cramps, bright orange oil in stool, diarrhea, headaches, nausea, vomiting, and anal leakage.

6. I'm thankful for Augusten Burroughs. Every time I read one of his books, I realize that my family is quite sane in comparison.

5. I'm grateful to coffeehouse baristas who are gracious enough to remember what I drink, because I can't answer questions before 10 AM.

4. I'm pleased that it's been so cold I haven't left the house this winter. By this time last year, I'd had three (count em, three) concussions from hitting my head on the ice. My IQ can't take another winter like that.

3. I'm thankful for homemade pancakes on a lazy Sunday morning. That's my kind of church - worshipping at the feet of Saint Aunt Jemima.

2. I'm grateful for the art of tattooing, which is slowly and terribly teaching me the art of not scratching every itch.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, January 24th?

1. I'm happy to realize that sometimes it's OK to admit that I am a girl and I do have...ahem...feelings.

Rock Bottom

You know what sucks? When it's 20 degrees outside.

You know really blows ass? When it's 27 degrees below zero outside.

An alcoholic may hit rock bottom when he wakes up in a pool of his own vomit and doesn't know where he is or where his pants went.

Minnesota hits rock bottom the third and fourth weeks of January, when it wakes up in an icy hell and doesn't know where the fucking sun went. It's too cold for vomit, and you can be damn sure you aren't falling asleep without your pants on this month.

This is the month when I am most apt to give my last dollars to the homeless guys on the street, because let's face it - I'm in my car with the heater blaring and they're not, so I don't care if they do spend it on a bottle of Popov. I'd probably do the same. I'm always warmer when I'm drunk.

The Star Tribune opined that Friday would be the coldest day of the year, and let's pray that they were correct. Because my nipples can't take much more of this standing at attention, they are exhausted.

Apparently there was some big pond hockey tournament this weekend, which leads me to wonder if you are required to be clinically insane to live in this Godforsaken state. Because nobody who is mentally stable wakes up and says "27 below zero? Let's go outside and play."

Two more months.

In two more months we'll likely hit 30 degrees.

Eight weeks.

I can do this, I've done it 33 times before.

Whoever said practice makes perfect clearly did not live in the Midwest. Cuz this shit? Doesn't get any easier.

I'll see y'all in March. Until then, I'm gonna be buried underneath a down comforter with The Boy and his cat. I'm only coming up for air, coffee and wine. And possibly chocolate.

Secrets

Secrets are fun - for people who can keep them, that is.

I've never really been one of those people.

I've been known to peek at my Christmas presents. If I find something that's just perfect for a friend's birthday, I inevitably get too excited to wait for the big day and blurt out what I will be giving them.

The Boy and I had a little plan for this weekend and decided to keep it a secret, just to see if we could.

Carrie called me on Tuesday to yell ask if we were getting tattoos the next day. "Of course not," I reassured her.

My dad thought perhaps we were going to the courthouse.

My mom, not a fan of having secrets withheld, texted me incessantly to ask if we were ring shopping. When I was evasive, her response was:

"If it's not a ring, it's the sex. I just didn't want to go there." (Since when is this an either/or?)

Um, thanks, Mom - I didn't wanna go there either. And just to be clear, I don't generally respond to text messages during 'the sex'. So you were wrong again, sorry.

But back to The Secret.

We DID get tattooed (but not on Wednesday...so I didn't lie, Carrie).

I got his name emblazoned across my collarbone in black script.

And if you believe that? Fuck you. Because my collarbone isn't hairy. Oh - and also, I'm not that stupid.

So what did we get tattooed?

It's a secret. 

Once Upon a Time

58 long years ago today, a crazy woman gave birth.

Now, we don't know if she was always a fucking nutjob or if ejecting him merely expedited the process, but one way or another, my father came into the world.

This was fortuitous for me, because 24 years later, after a whirlwhind love affair hazy with  marijuana smoke, I came into the world. If he'd realized that I'd be living with him 34 years later, I'm gonna guess he might've been a bit more adamant about using a condom.

But that would be tragic because then you wouldn't be reading this blog at all. So in honor of his recklessness and abandon, I will share with you some of the highlights that have come from having him as a dad.

When I was small he built me a pimped-out dollhouse. I'm telling you, it was nicer than any place I've ever lived, shag carpeting and all.

He coached all my sports as a kid. Being that he's actually a sports nut and I've always had two left feet, my guess is that this was a painful undertaking not dissimilar from trying to tutor a retard into Mensa. But he never let on how badly I sucked.

He always said yes when I asked for a popsicle. (Which is precisely why I always asked him, rather than my mom.)

He fixes my cars and garage doors and he hangs my pictures for me so I don't end up with 76 extra nail holes behind the frame.

He's always willing to pick me up in the middle of the night from the airport, the hospital or the bar, depending on my needs at a particular time.

But, wait.

Before you start thinking how perfect my life is and what a great dad I have, let me tell you something. It ain't all sunshine on the dad front.

He gifted me with flat duck feet and raging insomnia. I got my messiness and scatterbrained nature from him. He gave me my propensity toward insubordination and an insatiable love of all things chocolate or cheese flavored (minus the high metabolism - thanks, fucker).

And another thing? When I was little, his contribution to bath time was to come in while my mother bathed me and throw a cup of ice water over my head. Luckily, he hasn't tried that since I moved back in.

Domestication

They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. These men? Have not dated me.
But the time has come to pretend to cook for the boy.

And there's a problem. He's a meat eater and I'm a vegetarian cook. (By that, I may or may not mean I call it cooking when I slice cheese and slap it on a cracker.)
Now, I'm not a vegetarian, I'm just a hypocrite. I love me some meat but I don't like to touch it or cook it. Cuz it's yucky and...well, dead. I live in a sparkly little world where there are no meat-packing plants - the meat just grows on the little white styrofoam trays in the butcher's aisle at Byerly's.

So here are the options, and I'm gonna need some feedback from you people. Do me a solid, guys, and let me know which one would make you swoon (and forget about the lack of protein).

     - Spicy veggie quesadillas and corn bread

     - Tortellini with pesto, spinach and toasted pine nuts

     - Vegetable soup from scratch and homemade popovers

Or should I just figure out how to twirl nipple tassels as a distraction while I call Pizza Hut?

And by the way...this girl? -------------->

Doesn't exist in real life.

Sorry.

Everyone knows it's way too dangerous to operate a grill while you're naked.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, January 17th

10. I'm thankful for friends who will eat sushi with me. Because, really? Nobody looks good cramming crab in their mouth and shedding tears of wasabi joy.

9. I'm happy that in only, say, 22 more Monday Marvels, my appendages will thaw out for the year and it will be spring.

8. I'm excited to read my new Augusten Burroughs book. He's like my gay boyfriend. If he knew who I was. And if he wanted a straight girlfriend.

7. I'm immensely thankful that my leg has stopped seizing up. The mere idea of my bionic knee going awry sends me into the throes of panic.

6. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder - I'm extra grateful to be back in the underground heated garage after a few nights on the street. (Clarification: my car was on the street. Not me.)

5. I'm rather pleased that there was no oncoming cross-traffic when I slid right through an icy stoplight this morning. Mondays are generally best when NOT spent kissing airbags.

4. I'm super flattered that Gabby the cat found my lips so delectable this weekend. I don't think she's really a lesbian, though - I think she just enjoyed the taste of my cocoa-butter flavored Chapstick. Lesbian or not, I'm going to have to have a talk with her and explain that tongue kissing is reserved only for special cats people.

3. I'm grateful that my nightmares last night were just that - nightmares. I never thought I'd be so happy to wake up - and on a Monday, nonetheless.

2. I'm awfully excited about my double top-secret plans on Thursday! (And no, Neil - it's not what we discussed - so don't have a heart attack.)

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, January 17th?

1. I'm thankful for the birth of my father, because well, it led to me in celebration we get to have dinner at Burger Jones next weekend. They have a White Trash burger there with chicken-fried bacon and cheese curds on it. My arteries are clenching in delight fright.

Balance

I've come to realize that there are three things in life that are finite: weight, money and love.

If I lose ten pounds, a friend will inevitably gain it. If my brother drops weight, suddenly all my pants are too tight.

When I'm broke, everyone else is jetting off on vacation - but when I finally have a few bucks to go do something, my friends can't because they're suddenly on a tight budget.

And love...

Every time someone I know is destroyed in a relationship, it seems that someone else is tripping face first into a nauseatingly saccharine love story.

What the fuck is wrong with this system!?

I get the whole yin and yang thing. Without a negative, there can be no positive - blah, blah, blah. But imagine a world where we could all pay our bills while wearing our skinny jeans and then dive into bed with our equally smitten lovers.

Utopia, right?

Nah...it doesn't work that way. Human nature doesn't allow it.

Let's be excruciatingly honest for a moment.

Part of why falling in love feels so good is because it's so rare - and you aren't doing it at the same time as everyone else. Suddenly YOUR world is feels so much better than everyone else's - if only they knew.

And if we were all thin and wealthy, would it feel as triumphant to be able to afford things or look great?

Tragically, I think not.

And I'm *almost* too ashamed to say this....but....but...but...I hope you're feeling kinda fat and broke and lonely today. Because I've waited a looooooong time for my turn on this horse and I'm gonna ride this bitch like I stole it.

I Wasn't Supposed to be a Girl

So I bought a $59.99 hair straightener.

For those of you who don't know me, this isn't earth-shattering. But for those who do, you're aware that I don't do anything that takes more than a minute and a half in the name of looking good. From the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning until I walk out the door is under seven minutes. I dare you to find me a girl who gets ready faster than that.

I do wear eye makeup (because otherwise my face is interchangeable with my brother's and let's all just admit that's a bit creepy), but it takes me about 90 seconds to apply it.

If my socks match, I consider the day a fashion win.

And my hair? I just grab it by the fistful and toss it up on my head. I invented the messy bun. But this summer, a girlfriend straightened my hair before a wedding and I decided it looked super cute.

Lately, I've been particularly concerned obsessed with wanting to look pretty so I gave in and plunked down the coin, thinking that perhaps I'm ready to be a girly girl.

I am not.

After a shower, blow dry and a 20-minute wrestling match with the fucking straightener, this was the best I could do:

For the record, it looked entirely different when my girlfriend did it.

In my opinion, that's a lot of effort with very little return on investment. I give up. Some girls just weren't mean to be girls.

Anyone want a free hair straightener? It's only been misused once.

Search Me

It just never gets old. Every day is a whole new comedy routine, when I look to see how people are finding my blog through Google*. Here's a sampling of searches from the past 24 hours:

The best boner of my life
Really, sir? Weren't you there when it happened? What is Google going to tell you about that day that you don't already know? I apologize to both you and your eager penis, as I'm sure landing on my blog was a crushing disappointment. Sex addicts have strange fetishes
That's alarming. I wonder if meth addicts have a propensity toward smoking crystal? Or if alcoholics enjoy a drink from time to time?

Tranny strip club in Atlanta
This isn't Google Maps, buddy. I was only there once, and it was after 74 Stoli Red Bulls, so I'm pretty sure my directions would be a bit murky. Sorry. Try Mapquest.


Scrabble words with Snooki
Silly rabbit, Snooki can't read. You'll have to settle for naked Twister, although I guess being unable to reach from one dot to the next could be nearly as much of a disadvantage as trying to play word games when you're illiterate. Poor Snooki. What game could she win?

I like seeing my brother's boner
I'm not even playing around with this one. Call a shrink, you fucking freak. Immediately.

*Incidentally, not one single hit has come from any of the following key phrases:

 - Funniest blog EVER
 - Writers who should be paid exorbitant sums of money
 - I want to set up my son, Dane Cook, on a date

Freedom of Speech

You know what sucks?

When you write a really, really honest blog about your life and you don't hold much anything back. If you've been reading my blog for longer than - oh, three days - you know more about me than you ever wanted to.

We've talked about my kitty and her fur coat - and we've also talked about cats.

We've talked about my butt - hell, I've shown you pictures! (Yeah, sorry about that.)

I've blogged about sex and drugs and smooth jazz. I've written about anxiety, bipolar disorder and Mark Wahlberg's sweat.

I've told you shameful, humiliating things about colonoscopies and drunken escapades, family drama and financial ruin.

Now here I sit, and there's only one thing I want to write about - but I can't. Because it's too scary - scarier than doctors shoving cameras up my ass. Scarier than being unemployed.

It's the F word.

Not fuck.

I like that word.

Feelings.

It's such a dirty word, no?

Besides, if I elaborated you might punch me and I really can't have your assault charges hanging over my head.

I've got plans this weekend and I don't need you fucking them up with calls from the county jail.

Sucker for a Sign

I love me some Indian food.

Or Mexican food...or Italian food...or chocolate food...or 80 proof liquid food.

Chinese food would be somewhere on the lower half of my list - if it weren't for those damn fortune cookies.

It ain't the cookies. Frankly, they taste like stale sugared cardboard. But man, am I a sucker for signs. I read waaaay too much into my fortunes - unless, of course, they're bad - then I deem them defective and crack more cookies open frantically until I get one I like.

This is a genius marketing ploy, really. I order Chinese food specifically to get the fortune cookie.

If Valvoline gave me a Magic 8-Ball, I'd probably get my oil changed once in a while and I'd totally buy life insurance if it came with a palm reading (which, incidentally, would indicate whether I actually need the insurance).

What I wonder, though, is if people are born suckers or if we turn into them after getting one fortuitious cookie or lucky scratch-off lottery ticket?

My question to you, then, is this:

 Do you believe in signs?

  Luck?

Fate?

Of course, if this fortune cookie is accurate, I guess I'm never going to find out what you think, since clearly you aren't reading this shit.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, January 10th

10. I'm grateful that in a couple short weeks, my brother is going on vacation....again. I thought I'd miss the kitties, but it turns out Neil travels so much it's like being divorced parents with split custody. I'm the dad who gets them every other weekend.

9. I'm thankful that I *almost* had a chance to use Triple A this weekend. I figure the next time something goes wrong on the road will be March 1st - the day after it expires.
 
8. I'm happy to see that seven months after its drowning, as soon as I got a new iPod, the old one has risen from the dead. I guess I'll rename it Jesus and reroute my prayers.

7. I'm thankful for fleece in January, and wondering if La Perla offers a line of sexy fleece bras and panties? And if they don't? Why the fuck not?

6. I'm grateful that it no longer gets dark at 4:00 PM. Having daylight lingering until - oh, say - 5:00 PM makes it feel like spring is just around the corner...in six more months.

5. I'm pleased to learn I'm allergic to my deodorant. That's sexy. You know what else is sexy? Not wearing any until the rash heals. Who wants to snuggle?

4. I'm thankful that the guys in my office don't drink Starbucks, because when they get gift cards they give them to me. YAY, anti-coffee drinkers!

3. I'm grateful that Dana wrote such a sweet post about me on her blog, because I'm a validation whore. Now go follow her blog, too - pretend we're at Woodstock and let's all share the loooooove, man.

2. I'm very excited that tomorrow is Tuesday - because....because....because....well, never mind. I can't share everything with you. I have to have some secrets.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, January 10th?

1. I'm grateful that having artists as friends allows me to see a glimpse of myself through someone else's eyes.


Look how pretty I am through TJ's eyes!



Look how scary I am through Jon's eyes!
(And just for the record? No.
He is NOT someone I've dated.)

Adventures in Mating...and Dating

So The Boy said he had a surprise for me yesterday....and he wasn't kidding.

SURPRISE! He woke me up at the ass crack of dawn. Oh, wait, that wasn't it.

SURPRISE! He cooked me breakfast and took me out for (desperately! needed!) coffee. But that wasn't it, either.

Off we went...to the Minnesota zoo.

It was very educational.

We learned about the mating habits of tapirs. The boys, who are smaller than the females when most viable, are in danger during the courting process. If the female tapir decides she isn't interested, she may respond by pushing the male tapir's head underwater and drowning him. Men, take note: when we aren't in the mood, you'd best step off.

The Boy taught me how to differentiate between the male and female sharks. Who knew those weren't extra fins? Apparently they are aerodynamic testicles. (Kinda wondering why he knew that...)

But the real surprise came when we were ready to leave the zoo.

SURPRISE! He lost the car keys!

So we retraced all of our steps, slowly, because really - who doesn't want to see every inch of the zoo twice when it's nine degrees outside? We made a couple of pit stops at Guest Services to warm up, where we met a lovely lady named Sandy who assured us she was rooting for us. She told us she was impressed with our cool under pressure and The Boy admitted that he was feeling like a bit of a tool since this was our first whole day spent together.

I placed several calls to Triple A and we made arrangements for a locksmith to come out with a highly overpriced key. They told us it'd be about 90 more minutes, so we scrapped our dreams of a late lunch of Mexican food and headed for the zoo cafeteria. Just as we were polishing off our zoolicious sandwiches, The Boy was paged over the intercom. The keys? Had been found.

We canceled the locksmith and skipped off to pick up the keys at Guest Services. Our lady friend presented them to him delightedly and then asked if she could tell us a joke.

But of course.

"I think you two are going to end up getting married, and you should do it here at the zoo," she pronounced, presenting us with a glossy brochure entitled I Do at The Zoo.

Apparently we are the punchline.

Top Ten Turn-Off Jobs

Some women won't date a guy unless he's got a high-paying job. I suspect most of these women are tiny, hot and looking for funding for an augmentation. I'm not money-driven so I don't give a shit how much a guy makes - it's about chemistry, not a paycheck.
But....

(There's always a but.)

It does matter what kind of job he has.

Call me shallow, call me a bitch, call me what you like. But I will not date a guy who has one of the Top Ten Turn-Off Jobs. Can't do it. In no particular order, these are the deal-breaker jobs.

1. A clown

WHO started this?

You wear makeup and make small children cry. Did you hear that? That was the sound of my vagina slamming shut.

2. A mortician
If you spend your day gluing the eyelids closed on cadavers, those hands are not coming anywhere near my pants.

3. A pro athlete
You'd get all the road head and I wouldn't even get a team huddle with your boys in the locker room. Unfair.

4. A magician
If I need to explain the creepy factor here, then you're creepy, too. Get the hell off my blog.

5. A personal care attendant
No disrespect here, it's a totally honorable job and God bless you for doing it - because I couldn't. But I don't wanna suck your dirty-adult-diaper fingers.

6. A mime
I need to add something to my bucket list - punch a mime.


This? Is NEVER acceptable.

 7. Any job requiring tights
Your nuts are not cute to begin with. Don't make it worse by emphasizing them.

8. A personal trainer
If you're counting my calories or cellulite bumps for me, you're gonna get hurt.

9. A gyno
You're busy fingering diseased hoo-hahs all day. There isn't enough Purell in the world.

10. A figure skater I really don't want to be counting the days until I walk in on you kneeling in front of your boyfriend.

Insomnia

You know what the worst part of the day is?
Waking up.

I'm like a bear, except scarier and not as furry.

I'm a terrible sleeper. From the time I climb into bed, it typically takes an hour or two before I actually fall asleep, and then the fun begins.
I'm up and down. I toss. I turn. I kick. And sometimes hit. My ex-fiance often slept on the (tiny) couch out of fear for his nocturnal safety. The ex-fiance? Is 6'11" and over 300 pounds. But I could put the WWE Smackdown on him in my sleep.

I bundle up. I fling clothes off. It's not unusual for me to wake up in entirely different clothing than when I went to bed, which isn't even close to as kinky as it sounds, since I sleep alone. Apparently I'm more concerned with what I'm wearing when asleep than when awake.

Those people who hop in bed and are blissfully snoring three minutes later?
I could kill them.

My dreams are insane. Often nightmares, sometimes fun, but always vivid and disruptive. I need a way to turn my brain off.

And believe me, I've tried everything - legal and not so much. The only thing that ever worked was an Ambien, but it scared the shit out of me. That wasn't slumber, it was a 14-hour blackout. I get in enough trouble when I'm conscious, thank you - I don't need to worry about where I went and who I did in my sleep.

So every morning, after losing a violent battle with the snooze button, I wake up retarded. Groggy and crabby, with the functioning IQ of a potato.

I take no responsibility for the answers I give to any questions posed within two hours of my waking. All I can do is nod and grunt, and there is no comprehension beyond the immediate task at hand.

MUST. GET. COFFEE!

You wanna talk to me? Come back in 24 ounces.
 
Or next spring.

Nice to Meet You, Let's Hump

To the left! To the left!

Ever been to the dog park?

These fuckers don't play around, they get to the point.

Sniff.

Good to meetcha.

I'll get on top.

We humans have really complicated matters with our questions of gender and predilection, of courting and selection.

Seriously? A little help, here.


When I was growing up, our dog humped everything. He fostered a particular fondness for my brother's stuffed animals - and the family cat - but he was indiscriminate; a basketball would suffice in a pinch. (Incidentally, this was utter comic porn, since his little legs weren't quite tall enough to truly straddle the ball.)

If it smelled good, it needed to be humped. Shit - even if it smelled like, well, shit - yep. Still humped it.

There was no judgment.

He didn't concern himself with what the cat thought when he was pounding the teddy bear. And never once did I hear the cat ask if her ass looked too fat - though she hissed sometimes. She probably had a headache.

I bring this up not because I have a weakness for bestiality, but because I've noticed that Internet dating sites have begun to smell suspiciously like a dog park. A whole lot of rampant hormones, gender and species be damned.



Mama Duck ain't gonna like this boyfriend - he's black.

The Internet has certainly revolutionized dating, but I can't tell if we're evolving or devolving.

On the one hand, we have more options at our fingertips than ever before in history. Like it doggy-style? So does Bachelor #44. If fisting is your thing, open door number nine. You want an enormous black man? An Asian spinner? How about a fat fuck, with flour in the folds? Whatever you fancy, Google can give it to you in four seconds flat.

It's a dog park, all right, and it's scratch and sniff.

The downsides terrify me. If the choices are endless, how does one ever make a choice? And how does anyone get to know someone anymore? We're becoming sexually greedy and socially retarded - quite like the family dog.

I've become so desensitized after years of meeting people online that it doesn't offend or even surprise me if someone sends me a picture of his dick before we've met for a latte. It's just 'oh, yep - he's got one - check.'

I'm so disillusioned that when heading off to meet someone face-to-face for the first time, it's no longer called a date. It's called 'a meeting'. I tell my girlfriends we'll do dinner at 6:00 - I have a quick 4:30 meeting first.

Sniff.

Good to meetcha.

Wanna get on top?

I had a date on Sunday. I naturally assumed  it was gonna be another meeting, but it turned out (cue harps) to be A Date. This literally astonished me. Here we were, boy and girl - chatting, getting to know each other, flirting and laughing. Butterflies in the belly and stars in the eyes. What the fuck was going on!?


Suddenly he reached around behind me and I instinctively flinched.

Oh, not another one! You're trying for my ass already!?? It's been 22 minutes!

But you know what he did?

He put on my coat for me.

Now I kinda wanna hump him.

My Winter Home

In chilly booger-freezing cold places like Minnesota, it's not uncommon for people to speak of their 'winter homes'. For some, a winter home means an ice house on the lake where they drink beer and pee down the same hole from which they occasionally yank a bass.

These people do not bother me. For the most part, they are a harmless bunch, and the thin ice in November and March generally helps to weed out the dumbest of this particular species.

I'm too scared to go out on the ice myself (except for that one time; I had to - it's a Minnesotan rite of passage, like gagging down a glob of lutefisk), so I will not be one of the fools who drown.

But for others, a winter home means their second home - generally located somewhere south of the Midwest and our frostbitten appendages. These homes can often be found in condominium form, near a beach. These are the people I'd like to be punch.

Since these folks are evidently smart enough with their money to afford two homes while other dumbshits (like moi) cannot even afford one, it's safe to say these people are relatively intelligent.

When broken down to the basics, this means that everyone else is better than me.  Either they are smart enough to afford a vacation home in which to escape our seven-month-long winters....or....they are happier in the winter, sitting contentedly in their ice house. And those crazy fishing fuckers are still smarter than I am, because if their ice house is safe and they haven't fallen to a watery death, then at least they know how to measure and use an ice auger. I can do neither.

So here I sit freezing, watching it snow for the 79th day in a row, wishing I had a condo on the beach. Or even a hole of my very own to pee in.