Saturday, April 30, 2011

Oops, I Got Old

The time has come to admit it. I got old. I'm no fool, I can read the signs:

I found a gray hair this morning. A big, fat, wiry gray hair.

I don't understand kids these days.

My wrinkles have stretch marks and my stretch marks have wrinkles.

I consider the digestive effects when making a menu selection.

My bra has requested backup.

It's raining outside and I have a blanket and a cat in my lap, and really? That pretty much says it all.

Perhaps at our wedding reception we'll play bingo and have prune juice shots.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

I'm a Sellout

My mom and I nearly pissed ourselves laughing a few years ago at a basketball game when it was announced on the jumbotron that Oscar Mayer was the official wiener of the Minnesota Timberwolves.

Corporate sponsorship is everywhere.

Khloe Kardashian’s entire wedding was paid for by vendors clamoring for advertising and companies wanting product placement. I may not look like a Kardashiass, but believe it or not, I can be equally annoying. (I know, you’re stunned.)

So is it really that surprising that I’ve asked Summit Brewing Company to sponsor our wedding?

Let’s back this train up for a minute.

I’m not just some random beer whore, no.

I won a contest last fall where I submitted a thought for folks to ponder while drinking their beer, and Summit recently turned it into a radio commercial. When the marketing execs sent me the audio file, I merely suggested that perhaps they’d like to sponsor us.

And I might have mentioned that I’m utterly shameless and would happily wear a Summit-branded wedding dress.

I may or may not have begged.

We’re still in negotiations but I can't lie...it’s not looking good. Something about restraining orders, blah blah blah.



Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Going Postal

Me and the post office. You wouldn't think there'd be drama, but there always is. My brother is still miffed about the time I sent him to the post office to mail a butt plug, so I knew that this time I'd have to go it alone - even though this parcel is much sweeter.

I sent chocolate chips to the Netherlands.

It's really not as weird as it sounds - my impossibly adorable friend TJ lives there. Once upon a time, she painted me a fairy tale and mailed it halfway across the world. She mentioned recently that she loves American chocolate chips, but they are non-existent in her part of the world, so I thought I'd send her some.

Simple, right?

Not so much.

Off I went to the post office, only to be told it would cost me forty-some dollars in postage.

"Seriously?" I asked. "To mail a couple of bags of chocolate chips?" Indeed, he informed me this was my most cost-effective option.

He then presented me with a stack of documentation the size of a Yellow Pages (remember those?) and sent me off to the isolation room to fill out the customs paperwork. I told him that I'd rarely heard of terrorist plots involving Nestle, but he glared at me sternly. Postal clerks, incidentally, have the exact same sense of humor as the TSA.

But I filled out the papers and got back in line...

Only to be told I'd be required to purchase insurance for the parcel.

"Just to be clear," I argued, dumbfounded, "You're telling me I am expected to purchase insurance for a couple of bags of chocolate chips? Are you shitting me!?"

He explained the criticality of this insurance policy by offering me a worst-case scenario. "If your package were to be lost in transit," he scolded solemnly, "then what would happen!? See, this insurance is veddy, veddy important insurance. What would happen without it?"

I took a deep breath and tried to decide if I felt like punching him or laughing.

What would happen, Sir Dumbass of the USPS, is that TJ would have to make peanut butter cookies instead. Because you can take your chocolate chip insurance and shove it up your keister.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Non-Celebrity Rehab

One of the joys of addiction is its vise-like grip. If you quit smoking for, say, three weeks and then tumble headfirst off the wagon and land on a pack of Marlboros, climbing back on the wagon is just as excruciating as those first few days when you quit. My man and I relapsed briefly, but have put down the smokes again.

And now, for your entertainment and mockery, an evening in the life of two addicts trying not to smoke...

Thing 1: Why are you so crabby? You want to smoke, don’t you?

Thing 2: No way. I totally have this under control. I’m not crabby. Why are you so damn crabby?

Thing 1: Who said I’m crabby? You’re the crabby one and it’s pissing me off.

Thing 2 (smugly): Ah HA! So you ARE crabby! I knew it.

(Thing 1 stomps off for a walk, returning a bit later.)

Thing 2 (snidely): Where did you go?

Thing 1: For a walk.
Thing 2: Oh, and your mouth is broken? You couldn’t mention that you were leaving?

Thing 1 (sarcastically): So-RREEE. Didn’t know I needed your permission to take a walk.

Thing 2: I don’t give a shit if you take a walk but have some respect and let me know if you’re leaving.

(And then things really began to go downhill.)

Thing 1 (roaring): This is bullshit! I do everything around here.

(Um, when did we change topics?)

Thing 2 (bellowing): Oh, yeah? Welll...welll...well, fuck your friends!

(Again, what?)Thing 1: Why the hell are you with me?

Thing 2: Why the hell are YOU with ME?

(Impasse. This is thin ice. We don’t want to admit we love each other when we’re this pissy, but we’re also in danger of saying something so mean we can’t take it back. So instead we sit and glare at each other for a while, chins up petulantly.)

(Tick tock)

(Tick tock)

Thing 1 (meekly): I’m sorry.

Thing 2 (hangs head in chagrin): Me too.

Thing 1: You want to smoke, don’t you?

Thing 2: Yep.

Thing 1: We’re doing a really good job!

Thing 2 (defeatedly): Yeah, we rock.

(Retire to bed at 7 PM so as to minimize further risks of punching each other in the face or making a mad dash to the gas station.)

Monday, April 25, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 25th

10. I am delighted to find out that they now make Wonder Woman underoos in grown-up sizes!

9. I'm happy that, at nine bucks a crack, I only needed one Baileys and coffee to warm up at the baseball game on Saturday.

8. I'm thankful  for slow, sunny Sundays.

7. I'm excited to learn that part of a Hindu wedding ceremony includes a payment from the groom (Neil) to his sister (moi). I let him know that my sibling services are very high-end.

6. I'm thankful that even though we fell off the smoking wagon briefly, we hopped back on. It wasn't easy chasing that wagon after a lungful of Marlboros, but we caught it.

5. I'm grateful that yesterday's drama didn't end in a violent brawl. It would be embarrassing to get your ass beat by a crackhead at Walgreen's.

4. Speaking of violent brawls, I'm proud that I am calm and mature and would never punch someone in the ear when they irritate me on a Monday morning - hypothetically, of course.

3. I'm thankful that gas is so expensive that it prohibits me from driving to my brother's house to pick up my bicycle to ride, so as to save on gas.

2. I'm grateful that my fiance listens so well. He asked me what my favorite flowers are (hydrangea) and then wanted to confirm again a few days later: "You said your favorite flowers are garbanzos - right, sweetie?" (Um, no. Beans aren't very romantic, but thanks.)

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 25th?

1. I'm thankful that my mom Easter Bunny has better taste than a fistful of Peeps. Godiva truffles and wedding magazines make a great Easter basket.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Jesus Would Be Proud

My family is generally pretty white trash and we definitely spent Easter at Hooter's one year. My poor boyfriend at the time was crippled with indecision - stare openly at the veritable breast buffet or avert his eyes piously as though he was in church.

But we've never made Jesus as proud as he must be today of the folks we saw on the way home from Easter brunch.

We stopped at Walgreen's and while I ran inside, Mark stayed in the car.

As I walked in, my tender ears were assaulted with all manner of expletives, hollered at the volume that only a black woman can reach. One of the clerks was backed up against the rack of lip balm and Trojans by a woman the size of a linebacker gone soft, with nappy cornrows and a sloppy tracksuit.

Apparently the woman had been spotted stealing something and was now belligerently howling in the clerk's face about racial profiling and lawsuits. Spittle that was undoubtedly laced with crack smoke and various STDs spattered the poor guy's face and Walgreen's associate vest as she carried on telling him what a cocksucker he was and she couldn't wait for him to meet her lawyer.

The other staff rallied and eventually got Crazy McCrackwhore out the door. I paid for my goods and raced back to the car to tell Mark about the drama.

But he was too busy watching the Little Caesar's across the street, where a pasty pizza driver was doubled over with his plumber's crack on full display as he hurled all over the ground beside the dumpster.

Jesus must be beaming down with pride.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

You Gotta Be Shittin' Me!

Exactly how much money must one have before a $6400 toilet seems reasonable? I heard about this shitter on the radio this morning, and I almost shit my pants.

One of its claims to fame is that the seat automatically raises and lowers using motion sensors, thereby eliminating arguments about leaving the seat up. To this I say, if your arguments about this are violent enough to require a $6400 solution, might that money be better spent on therapy? Or a divorce?

But that’s not all this toilet will do. It’s got built-in speakers that can be connected to your iPod – which begs another question. Are you seriously spending so much time on the crapper that you need a customized playlist?

I suppose there are women who would appreciate the pulsating bidet with adjustable water pressure, but a quick trip to Fantasy Gifts could save you about $6370.

The seat warmer would be nice in January, I guess, but so would a trip to the Bahamas - which you could easily afford with the several thousand dollars that seat warmer set you back.

In summation, I suspect that anyone who spends $6400 on a toilet is a piece of shit. Especially when you could be feeding starving children or saving your money for something that’s gold-plated.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

My Girl Parts are Showing

I swear on the bible US Weekly that this will not devolve into a wedding blog. I realize that most of you would rather tear your fingernails out with pliers than read about centerpieces and wedding favors, and I wholeheartedly agree.

But...

I may or may not have drunk a bottle of champagne in my pajamas on Sunday while reading Bride magazine.

I felt a little sweaty afterward, and vaguely ashamed.

My girl parts are showing and I hate that.

I'm not obsessing about enormous dresses and Jordan almonds tied up in tulle, but I am definitely fantasizing about throwing a kick-ass reception. Except I'm guessing it's rude to host a soiree and ask folks to BYOB and BYOFood.

Fuck.

The man wasn't keen on my idea of selling my body to pay the IRS, so he probably won't support the idea to fund a wedding reception, either. But luckily, Bride magazine offers helpful tips about how to divvy up the budget. Let's review.

Reception Budget: $24.00

They suggest allocating 30% of your budget for alcohol, which gives us $7.20

Another 30% for food ($7.20 if you've been paying attention)

15% for cake and favors ($3.60)

25% for entertainment ($6.00)

So we'll spring for a fifth of Karkov, a 20-piece Chicken McNugget meal and a box of Twinkies. Now, who wants to sing and dance for us? We'll totally pay you six bucks.

You know you're a winner when the VFW and some dry chicken is a fantasy that's entirely out of reach.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

I'll Trade You This Ass for Those Tits

While checking out at Target, we perused the display of trading cards. There were UFC fighters and Justin Bieber, pro athletes and pop princesses. And nestled among them all were packets of Garbage Pail Kids.

My childhood washed over me in a wave of nostalgia.

We traded Topps baseball cards and Lisa Frank stickers, and occasionally a scratch-n-sniff sticker. Garbage Pail Kids came on to the scene when I was in fourth grade – the same year it was trendy to hide Ziploc bags full of Kool-Aid mix and sugar in your desk. The cool kids were discernable by their vibrant purple or red index finger, used as a surreptitious fun dip sucker when the teacher’s back was turned.

As I stood there basking in the innocence of childhood memories, the man opened his mouth and squashed my sweet reverie.

“Ah, I totally remember the Penthouse trading cards…”

My mouth dropped. “Excuse me?? What kind of sick childhood did you have!?”

“Huh?” He looked confused.

Baseball cards are for trading. Garbage Pail Kids are for trading. Sticky masturbatory materials are not for trading!”

It was at this point that the checkout lady snorted a little.

Oops.

Inside voices.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 18th

What's up, ladies? How YOU doin?
10. I'm still giggling at the fact that Mark was walking around the zoo with sweaty palms and rattled nerves, hiding an engagement ring in his pocket, while I obliviously photographed kitty porn.

9. Speaking of animals, I'm thankful that I learned about Furry Conventions this weekend. I have never heard of a better fetish in my life for mocking.

7. I'm grateful that getting engaged was a chance to celebrate. And by celebrate, I mean champagne and pancakes was an excusable breakfast.

6. I'm excited to hang out with my family this weekend because I love Jesus Easter baskets.

5. I'm happy that my coworker had a baby girl this weekend, which means I can go back to Target and buy the disgustingly cute tiny pink swimsuit with the tutu on it.

4. I'm so pleased that my brother shared the story about his friend digging into her poached egg this weekend only to find a tiny fetal chicken. There's no appetite suppressant quite so effective as horror stories like these.

3. I'm grateful that I was able to peel myself out of bed. It's incredibly difficult to get out from under the blankets on a Monday morning when you fell asleep with the window open and turned the bedroom into an icebox.

2. I'm happy to know that if you tell waitresses you just got engaged, they bring you complimentary chocolate lava cake to celebrate. (Calories don't count when the dessert isn't added to your tab.)

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 18th?

1. I'm thankful that imagination is free, because I let my inner girl out this weekend and planned a bombdiggitytastic wedding in my head. Seriously - you had a blast at the reception.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

His Side

So, the man wanted a chance to give you his side of the story and I agreed to let him write a post for my blog, but I reserved all censorship rights to his material if I deemed it offensive. Of course it was offensive (duh - we dig each other for a reason), but I removed all the information that could incriminate me in any way. Please enjoy this version, edited for your delicate eyes.

Note: All spelling and grammar is left intact. My snarky side notes are in red text.

The Top Ten Reasons I Love Bubbie (Shut up. Yes, he calls me bubbie.)

10. Even though she will deny it, the answer is yes, Tricia does have a girly side and it's super cute. She was reading bride magazines today to look at dresses.

9. Believe it or not, the girl is a pretty damn good cook. AND she even cuts up raw chicken and meat even though she hates it to make meals that I like. (This is a big fucking deal. Chicken is nasty.)

8. Even though I work like a pack mule and work out six days a week she reminds me to take weekends off sometimes to sleep in and enjoy them and she taught me calories don't count on Sundays.

7. I thought farts were always funny but the girl did teach me the word BUTT TRUMPET. And I must say my Bubbie is the best butt trumpeter I have ever heard. ( <--Bullshit! I only farted a couple of times and that's because he was squeezing me and poking my stomach!)

6. Seriously, who doesn't want a girl that sends you sexy pics like this?

5. My cat is a whore and will let most anyone pet her but my cat adores having a sleeping partner in crime.

4. Even though she has horrible nightmares, she still tolerates sitting through horror movies when it's my turn to pick for movie night. (P.S. She loves zombies...)

3. My girl is my super model. (OK, I may or may not have have altered this one slightly.)

2. I'm a nerd to the core. I can recite you almost any song from the 70s to today and I can recite entire movies, pull quotes from anywhere and I LOVE video games. She doesn't give me shit for any of it.

1. I ask all of you readers out there to please keep reading her blog and spreading her name out there. (Yeah! What he said!) Her dream is to get paid to write and I maybe slightly biased. But the girl can write. And you keep reading it which means you like it. So help the girl out and keep on reading and keeping on.

And I give you all my word she's in good hands.


Saturday, April 16, 2011

He Put a Ring On It

The Top Ten Reasons I Said Yes

10. <--- Look at him. Seriously. He's delish!

9. He makes me Sunday morning pancakes. (This makes it slightly more forgivable that he wakes me up at the crack of 10 when he's playing Guitar Hero with the volume blaring.)

8. His cat needs a female role model in her life, especially as she enters her tumultuous teenage years.

7. He dances around naked wagging his penis for me to make me laugh when I'm in a bad mood. Nope. I'm not kidding. I think he's hoping to learn to twirl a tassel.

6. He's not afraid to buy tampons for me.

5. Let's be honest, the fucking tax break will be great.

4. He gives amazing back rubs. And not the normal kind of guy back rubs, where they halfheartedly squeeze your shoulders a few times and then try to pull your pants down.

3. He's motivated and driven and as much as I wanna punch him for it sometimes, he pushes me to take better care of myself.

2. He's the man I imagine growing old with. Though, to be fair, I'm picturing rocking chairs and lemonade and he's looking forward to locking the brakes on my walker so he can bend me over and try to break a hip.

And the number one reason I said yes?

1. Because I love him like a fat kid loves cake.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Hey, Whatever Motivates You...

My boyfriend is a robot stoic and I’m human a lazy whiner.

He works seven days a week and spends two hours a day in the gym. Since we've quit smoking, I've heard him complain exactly once. I can't decide whether I'm in awe of his superhuman willpower or whether I want to kick him in the shin for making it seem so easy when I feel like I'm floundering all day long.

The other night, in the throes of an epic nicotine/caffeine/alcohol/sugar fit, I informed him that I was pretty sure I was dying of lust. Lust for any and all of my old vices. I needed a fix (or some coddling).

He suggested I go eat some baby carrots.

What the fuckety fuck?

Baby carrots are NOT a vice - or an appropriate expression of sympathy for my struggles.
I need a buzz. Espresso, vodka, Marlboros, something. Rumor has it you can get high from endorphins at the gym, but that sounds like a lot of effort crock of shit. The only thing I get at the gym is under-boob sweat and crabby.

But I will not cave.

I will not give in.

I will not falter.

I will not fail.

Because the momentary relief of sucking smoke deep into my lungs would be overshadowed by the eternal blackness of admitting that my boyfriend is tougher than I am.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Om Sounds Suspiciously Like Dumb

So much for my positive visualization exercise in preparation for the tax accountant.

I should've just lubed up, because Uncle Sam definitely bent me over and gave it to me hard - and now I have to figure out how to pay him a few thousand dollars for the privilege. My day job ain't cuttin' it.

My boyfriend, conservative that he is, vetoed my plan to sell back alley hand jobs, so I've been combing my brain to figure out if I have any other billable skills...and it turns out I do!

Babysitting

I'm definitely a reliable babysitter, and I've never permanently injured a kid in my care. My specialty  is children who are potty-trained. And asleep. Call me for rates.

Mobile Advertising

My car is bright orange so it already catches people's eyes. Now you can capitalize on that by printing your advertisement on my car for a fee.

Prices are determined on a sliding scale of humiliation. I will totally drive the Summer's Evemobile if you need to boost your douche sales, but it will cost you more than comparable space to advertise, say, a travel agency.



Sleep Studies

Sleeping is basically my favorite pastime, so why not get paid for it? I'd happily allow you to hook me up to electrodes and monitor my brain inactivity while I slumber, for the right price (which, incidentally, would be anything more than a dollar). 

If none of these options pan out soon, I may have to resort to insurance fraud - accidental dismemberment pays rather handsomely. So....do you think it would be easier to live without an arm or a foot?

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Open Up and Say Om

You won't be hearing from me today because I'll be terribly busy preparing for my tax appointment.

Nope, I won't be lubing up so it hurts less when Uncle Sam pounds me in the ass - I'll be meditating.

All successful people know (and The Secret told me, duh) that positive visualization is critical to obtaining the outcomes you want in life.

So I will be busy envisioning the delightful scene in which the tax accountant double and triple checks his numbers, before stammering, "I've never seen anything like it! I was sure you'd owe thousands, but apparently you qualify for exemption Lah Dee Dah and rebate Blah Blah Blah! Looks like you're getting a six-figure refund."

Please don't call or text. I don't want you to fuck up my delusion spiritual visualization exercise.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

It Must Be My Thyroid

People think being lazy is easy.

People are wrong.


It takes focus, strategy and stamina to be a sloth.

Did I tell you about my workout program? Yeah. The plan is to get up when the boyfriend wakes up a couple of mornings a week so I can go to the gym before work.

Oh, and did I tell you that my boyfriend gets up at 4:30 in the godforsaken morning??

So this plan isn’t exactly going…well, according to plan.

I have great intentions – the best intentions - when I go to sleep at night. But intentions don’t mean shit at the crack of dawn.

I bet you think that being lazy in the morning just means refusing to get out of bed.

Wrong.

This morning, the alarm bleated its Song of Satan and the boyfriend hopped out of bed whistling cheerily.

I moaned angrily into the pillow for a while, but I knew it was in vain. Boyfriend wasn’t gonna turn the alarm off. Nope. That was my job. And I had to get out of bed to do it.

So I clambered out of bed and silenced the beast.

And peed.

And brushed my teeth.

And drank a bottle of water.

And kissed the boyfriend goodbye.

And put on my workout clothes.

And then I burrowed back into the bed.

Even the cat knew I was being a slug. She stood in front of my face and meowed at me indignantly. I’m pretty sure she’s in collusion with the boyfriend and was hired as a spy.

I meant to go to the gym, I swear I did.

But…but…but…

And that?

Is exactly why my butt looks the way it does.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 11th

10. I'm happy to report that the snow might...might...wait for it...might be gone for good this year!

9. I'm pleased to have rejoined the world of the sane. I think the only one who liked me better as a tragic sloth was the cat. She adored having an 18-hour-a-day bed buddy.

8. I'm grateful for my man, who dragged my sniveling ass out of bed every evening during the Chantix Chronicles and made me go for a walk. And rubbed my back while I cried. And tolerated my lunacy. And didn't kill me himself.

7. I'll be relieved to get my taxes done this week. Even though it will be terrible news, at least it will be done and over and I will no longer lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling wondering how many backseat handjobs I'll have to sell to pay off Uncle Sam - I'll be able to make a spreadsheet and plan accordingly.

6. I'm oh so pleased that the boyfriend has figured out that if he squeezes me just right, he can make me fart. I've never heard him laugh so delightedly.

5. I'm proud to be a new graduate of Savage Love University - I don't know what's more disturbing - that hundreds of people have written in to him with their creepy problems, or that I've now read every one.

4. I'm thankful for my dad for pointing out a couple of women who really must be added to my Fuck-It List. Just imagine how good it would feel to punch Octomom with one fist while boxing Kate Gosselin's ear with the other.

3. I'm grateful to have reclaimed my sense of smell just in time to visit BF's grandma in assisted living. Nothing like Eau Du Elderly Pee to make you glad you quit smoking so you can breathe deeply.

2.  I'm thankful for the CamWow app, which finally got me to laugh - mostly because I can't wait to put on sexy undies and take naughty pics to send to the man.


And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 11th?

1. I'm not smoking OR crying. Dear Chantix, I win. Please kiss my round white ass. That is all.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Blog, Interrupted

I just lost three and a half days, and my mind.

I wasn't going to write about this because it was so humiliating and frightening, but now that I've reclaimed a shaky grasp on sanity, I can see it for what it was. A scary reaction to a dangerous medication.

I started taking Chantix a week before we quit smoking and almost immediately (says the boyfriend) began looking glassy-eyed and empty. After three or four days on the stuff, it seemed perfectly reasonable to burrow in my bed all afternoon, crying and pulling my hair.

The scary thing is that I didn't even realize this was abnormal behavior, until Wednesday. I sat at my desk Wednesday morning, my legs jittering up and down. At lunch I ended up sitting in my car sobbing uncontrollably for no reason. Drove back to the office in a cold sweat. My ears were pulsing and my vision was blurring and I felt like a race car driver in a video game.

And suddenly it seemed like a perfectly brilliant idea to floor the accelerator and aim for the concrete median.

I didn't, of course, but the allure of this idea, and the way it came out of nowhere with such force, terrified me and left me shaking. I got back to the office and locked myself in the bathroom to cry some more. After an hour or two, I realized I was not calming down so I called the doctor and burbled my fears to him through my tears.

Oh, just a textbook psychotic reaction to Chantix.

My options were to go home and rest for a couple of days and try to flush it out of my system, or check myself in for observation if I didn't believe I could be trusted not to suck a tailpipe. Due to my fear of padded rooms, I dutifully promised that I would tell on myself before doing anything violent.

Have you ever had to tell your boss you need a couple of days off because you're crazy? It's awful and humiliating. Nothing says dependable and promotable like your employee crying at you about how they have to go home so they can concentrate on not offing themselves.

And so I lost three and a half days, sobbing and sleeping. Nightmares and cold sweats and gallons and gallons of water, and making a list in my head of all the reasons it would be a good idea to die. I found dozens, if not hundreds, of reasons.

The best thing I can say about the Chantix is that I felt like I was made of concrete. This, at least, made the actual task of suicide much too much effort to bother with.

Today is the first day that I've mustered the energy to try to reconnect with the world. I feel shaky and run down, but I feel sane.

I'm sorry for the long, rambling and thoroughly unentertaining blog post, but consider this my PSA about Chantix. I haven't had a cigarette, but at what expense? I know people who've had great success using this medication but I am begging you - if you are going to quit smoking, consider another method.

Your loved ones don't want you to smoke, but they also don't want to supervise you around sharp objects. And nobody wants to watch you fall to pieces.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

My Fuck-It List

It's kind of like a Bucket List, but more fun. It's a list of people I'd like to punch or kick before I die. I was in a dreamy sort of mood when I wrote out my Bucket List. Now that I've quit smoking, it seemed like the appropriate time to make out this list.

Nicki Minaj
She sings in baby talk while wearing a pink wig. Inexcusable.

Girls who makes the duck face for the camera
You don't look sexy, you look like dimwitted whores.

My Grandparents*
Because every child molester should be punched. Repeatedly.
*Don't worry, there are no other elderly people on my Fuck-It List...

Every guy who wears his pants sagging below a foot of exposed boxers
No explanation needed.

My ex
I paid thousands of dollars for my time with him and some sort of ROI would be appreciated.

The entire cast of Jersey Shore
Because those asshats get paid more money than I will make in a lifetime and I doubt they have a cumulative IQ of as much as Ronnie can bench press.

People with full carts who don't wave the person with three items ahead of them in line at the grocery store
First I'd like to punch you, then I'd like to punch your mother for raising such a rude person.

The IRS
I realize I can't actually take on the entire IRS. Really, any employee will do.

My old landlord
You can't know how to speak English when rent is due, but forget how to speak it when shit is broken.

Parents of screaming children in any restaurant that doesn't serve combo meals
Integration is overrated, stay with your own kind. You go to McDonald's with your devil spawn and I'll go to the real restaurants.

Justin Beiber
You are not allowed to sing about love and heartbreak until you've grown your own pubic hair.

Every guy who has cheated on me
Because the nice guys I've dated have had to suffer the aftermath of your transgressions. This roundhouse is for them.

As much as I'd like to continue this list, I feel I ought to cut it off here. If it went on to itemize two hundred more folks I'd like to punch, you might begin to question my emotional stability.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Just Lock Me Up

Why can’t you go to rehab when you quit smoking??

For every other drug addiction, you can go to a treatment center where all your decisions are made for you, where you have professional support, and where they have an arts and crafts room with lots of yarn.

This is how I feel today.
Instead we nic addicts who are trying to quit have to roam free on the streets, where our withdrawals can spiral into violent outbursts in the blink of an eye. And we have to go to work. Heroin addicts don’t have to go to work when they’re kicking. Of course, most thieves and prostitutes don’t punch a clock anyhow, but whatev.

Inpatient rehab for cigarette smokers would be brilliant! It would give us time to detox in a safe environment without jeopardizing every relationship we have. Instead my addict boyfriend and I are detoxing together - unchaperoned.

I almost burst into tears about 47 times last night, because I just knew he was looking at me funny. And I’m pretty sure he almost punched me when he was tossing and turning, trying desperately to fall asleep to the lullaby of my grinding teeth.

We deal with stress very differently.

He went to the gym for two hours. I buried my head in the pillows and pulled my own hair for two hours.

He was feeling anxious and jittery and thought doing the Humpty Dance might relieve our tension. I felt like my skin was crawling, my nerves were on fire and my digestive tract was swollen. I figured doing the Humpty Dance would make me sob or fart, or most likely (and sexily) both.

But we made it through the first 24 hours without bloodshed or breakdown. Stay tuned for the next scintillating installment of Withdrawal Woes - without the help of Promises or paper crafts.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 4th

10. I'm thankful it's snowing. Cuz for the briefest of moments there, I thought it might be spring.

9. I'm delighted that Gabby woke me up early on Saturday morning specifically to pet her. Is it just me or would this basically be the feline equivalent of a guy waking his girlfriend up at 4 AM and telling her he's in the mood for a BJ?

8. I'm grateful for whipped cream and raspberries...and whipped cream. I'm not, however, grateful that I read the back of the can. Did you know that the bastards at Reddi Whip think that there are 80 servings in a canister?

7. I'm happy that my second laser session is over, because the tech needs to work on her less talky, more paying attentiony to where the fucking laser is pointed thing. Ouch!

6. I'm happy that the Chantix hasn't caused any of the disturbing side effects, such as suicide, that people warned me about.

5. I'm thankful that I didn't get drunk enough at the comedy club on Saturday to sign myself up for amateur night, which may or may not have happened in the past.

4. I'm excited to hear about the release of the Snuggie Sutra. Who doesn't want to get laid while wearing a blanket with sleeves?

3. I'm humbly grateful that I've been a nonsmoker for twelve hours so far and I haven't bludgeoned anyone to death. Yes, I was sleeping for nine of those hours, but let's not split hairs.

2. I'm pleased to see that I have almost nothing on my calendar this week, which will help me continue to not bludgeon anyone to death as I delve deeper into this nonsmoker thing.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 4th?

1. I'm thankful that we're eight months ahead of schedule on getting our family Christmas portraits taken.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Damned Lazy Kids

Kids today are fucking lazy.

Their spoiled asses don't even have to leave the house - they order their drugs on the Internet. There was a recent story in the local news about a 2-C-E party that ended in 10 hospitalizations and one death. I wonder if they got off the couch to go to the funeral?

In my day, we had to page our drug dealers and then wait impatiently for them to find a phone to call us back. Then we had to drive somewhere sleazy to buy our goodies from some creepy guy with questionable hygiene. And credit cards were not accepted.

When I was young, we had to drink a lot to get drunk. It took stamina, effort and time. Now shots and beer bongs are going retro as people soak tampons in vodka and shove them up their shitholes for instant intoxication.

What happened to the good old days?

In 1993 when you dropped acid, you had to suffer through the aching spine and crawling skin as you came down. You couldn't just order Indian Xanax online to take the edge off.

Kids today are pussies and I'm scared to see what the next generation will devolve into. If I got pregnant right now, by the time my daughter was ready to experiment with drugs, she'd probably expect me to spoon-feed them to her and then whip her up some dinner.

Well, guess what?

Mommy don't play that. If my imaginary kid wants to get rocked, she's gonna have to find her drugs the old-school way.

Because we all know that one of the most important lessons is that anything desirable in life deserves your best efforts to achieve score it.

Friday, April 1, 2011

FAIL! Laser Clinic - 1, Tricia - 0

I suffer from a deplorable disease called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I know this since I diagnosed myself - because, frankly, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome sounds much more sympathetic than Lazy Slob Syndrome.

One of the symptoms of this crippling disorder is my inability to get up before the crack of 10 A.M. except when someone is holding a pistol to my head. And yes, I envision my boss standing bedside every morning with a Glock in one hand and my rent money in the other. It's an ugly, ugly choice.

Like a teenager, I perpetually wait for the weekends so I can sleep in.

From what I can tell, this disease is terminal. There are, though, a few instances in which the benefits of getting up outweigh the tragedy of leaving my snuggly warm bed behind. They are, in no particular order:

 - Heading to the airport to embark on a tropical vacation

 - Snacking on a David Boreanaz / Jason Bateman sandwich

 - Getting to my book release party on time

 - Driving to the lottery headquarters to pick up my gigantic check

 - Having Sunday morning pancakes in my pajamas with my boyfriend

Please note that there is nothing about labial electroshock therapy on this list.

NOTHING.

The sadist fucks at the laser clinic scheduled my next appointment on  Saturday morning and I have to be up at 7:30.

To get my pubes burned off.

I realize that my case will probably elicit no sympathy from those of you with children, but let me remind you that you, too, could be sleeping in on weekends...if only you'd used a condom.


FAIL!

Laser Clinic - 1
Tricia - 0
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