No Means NO

Seriously?

Mark’s cat likes to snuggle.

I mean, she really likes to snuggle.

When I’m blogging, she resides in my lap. When I’m sleeping, she curls herself around my head.

Now, I love animals, and I’m not one to turn down free cuddles. But Gabby really needs to learn about boundaries.

She woke me up in the middle of the night raping my nose with her tongue. No joke – she licked me awake. I pushed her off, explained that NO means NO, returned immediately to dreamland, and forgot about it entirely.

Until I got up to brush my teeth and caught a glimpse of myself.

She licked a little patch of skin right off my nose.

Luckily, I’m fair-skinned and freckled, and it will be 90 and sunny today – so I can pretend it’s a sunburn. In the meantime, I’m waiting for a return call from my attorney. I’ll be doing a rape kit and prosecuting Gabby to the fullest extent of the law.

Prayers of Desperation

Dear God,

It's me, Tricia.

I don’t ask you for much.

OK, that’s definitely a lie. I ask you nearly every day for the winning lotto numbers – but I don’t completely hate you for holding out on me.

And I know I often ask you for the strength not to strangle people, but I think we both know I can be a tiny bit dramatic – I don’t really have murderous fantasies.

But anyway, I hope you can find it in your heart to do this one teeny little thing for me.

I’m going up north to a friend’s lake home this weekend and we really, really, really want to be in the water, so how about a little sunshine?

It’s the only vacation I’m gonna get with the man this year, and you know damn well I’ll never be able to afford a boat, house or lake of my own – so can you smile upon us with some good swimming weather and help make this weekend spectacular?

Feel free to piss torrents of rain upon us any time after the 5th of July - except maybe not on our wedding day, either.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.
Tricia

P.S. And about…that one thing…I really am sorry about that.

Why I Should Not Be a Hairdresser

So it turns out there’s a reason that hairdressers go to school.

I had a crappy day and thought that some fresh color would cheer me up. My roots had grown wild and were taking over. It was time for a change.

Word of advice.

Coloring your hair yourself?

NOT a good way to cheer yourself up.

I was going for a soft, summery auburn. Instead I accidentally recreated the Look of Angst that I thought I retired 20 years ago.

Dammit!

My hair is purple and my skin is suddenly even more washed out. Bet you didn’t even know that white comes in so very many shades.

I asked Mark how bad it was and he suggested we go smoke cigarettes in the stairwell and listen to The Cure.

Or watch Twilight.

I would’ve marched my newly goth self back into the bathroom and slit my wrists, but that would have simply been too predictable.

I guess I’ll have to rethink my makeup for the wedding now. Anyone have a black lipstick I can borrow?

Monday Marvels

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

 

10. I’m thankful to see I’m finally losing some inches from working out. Who needs boobs anyway?

9. I’m grateful that Gabby sometimes deigns to share my pillow with me at night.

8. I’m relieved that my man doesn’t own his own paintball gun, as he took an alarming amount of delight in pelting my ass this weekend.

7. I’m excited to be headed to Shangri-La Wisconsin this weekend for some quality time at the lake.

6. I’m thrilled to have regained full use of my right hand now that the swelling has subsided. Next time I play paintball I’m wearing a bubble wrap suit.

5. I’m thankful that the husband-to-be training is going so well. On the way to the family BBQ, I politely requested that Mark not do his stripper dance for my family, and he waited at least 30 minutes after arriving before treating them to this spectacle.

4. I’m proud that I demonstrated such restraint with my Juicy Lucy yesterday and - for once - didn’t burn my mouth horribly on the bubbling cheese.

3. I’m thankful for Saturday afternoon naps in the Superman Snuggie.

2. I’m glad we’re bringing fun noodles to Wisconsin this time, as it lessens my chance of drunk-drowning while swimming off the pontoon.

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

1. I’m thankful that there are definitely three joints in my body not aching from paintball, as well as two limbs without welts - and at least four square inches of skin without mosquito bites.

It Hurts in the Ass

Against my better judgment, I got up at 7:30 Saturday morning. I should have known better. Nothing good comes of being up at the rooster's crow.

We picked up his dad and the three of us headed off to play paintball.

They'd both played before and were, I thought, ridiculously overdressed in their layered garments, their winter coats, their gloves and shitkickers. I  wore a raggedy thin pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. And some slip on shoes with their rubber soles worn skating rink smooth.

The acreage was damp and muddy and smelled vaguely of farm animals. We signed waivers stating our relatives could not sue on our behalf should we die on site. Then they handed us Darth Vader masks and ginormous air compression rifles.

My Pollyanna vision of squirt guns and a cushy room suddenly felt a bit...naive. I noticed with a sour stomach that I was the only girl anywhere to be seen.

We stumbled out to the first course in a muddy slip-n-slide and donned our gear. My mask immediately fogged up so I yanked it off and promptly got myself scolded by the pimply little referee.

After my Special Ed lesson on using the gun, which only had to be repeated for me twice, the match began. I tore across the field and cowered inside a shelter. I sucker-shot my future father-in-law and took him down with a shot in the back.

Adrenaline racing, my mask fogged up again and I was blind. My heart was pounding and it was suddenly 110 degrees.

Mark advanced behind me and gleefully blasted me in the ass.

"Time OUT!" I shrieked, howling like a hog being slaughtered.

Turns out?

There's no time out in paintball. And it hurts.

I made it through five sweaty, muddy games before I refused to take any more. I couldn't see through my goggles. I couldn't hear under the mask, I couldn't breathe. My heart felt like it was going to burst through my chest and my muscles throbbed from being clenched rigidly in fear.

But I'm clearly a pretty tough tomboy, because I didn't even cry much when I got hit most times.

All Brides are Beautiful...Right? RIGHT?

I’ve always been under the impression that when a woman finds The Wedding Dress, harps play and angels sing.
My beautiful, handmade vintage dress arrived the other day but there were no angels and harps. Rather, there was an ill-fitting white potato sack with a visible black thong underneath.

And stubbly legs with saggy black socks.

This is bullshit – if Harry Potter can have a cloak that turns him invisible, I ought to be able to have a dress that turns me hot!

In fairness, the dress is horribly wrinkled from its international trek and I’ve lost several inches in the torso so it fits terribly right now. I’m sure the harps will play after the alterations.

And the ironing and pressing.

And steaming.

And bedazzling and spritzing and coifing.

And hoisting and tucking.

But if they don’t, please don’t forget that you’re still required by law to tell me I look gorgeous. Just that one day.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

And I'm still fairly certain that this is a good Plan B:

Reason #4763 I'm Going to Hell

I laughed at a crippled boy.

Now, before you jump to the legitimate conclusion that I am a horrible person, please allow me to set up this scene for you.

I’m at a stoplight in downtown Minneapolis, windows open, enjoying the breeze.

To my right, a woman is pushing her child’s wheelchair along the sidewalk.

(I feel the need to point out, too, that it wasn’t a scary wheelchair – the kind with a neck brace and built-in oxygen tank. I don’t know why this matters, but in my mind it makes me less awful.)

The wheelchair must’ve caught on the edge of the grass next to the sidewalk, because suddenly – in sloooooooooooow motion – it began to tilt.

As he tumbled out of the wheelchair into the grass, he hollered “WHOA!” in the giddy way that only a little boy can when he’s being wild.

I started to snicker.

Then I laughed.

Then I roared.

I couldn’t stop.

It was like laughing in church – you know you shouldn’t do it, but once you start you’re fucked.

Besides, he was fine. He’ll be proudly showing off his scraped elbow when he tells all his friends how his mama pitched him outta the chair.

Operation Hot Bod: Epic Fail

I've been going to the gym regularly in the hopes of looking sexy in my wedding dress and today I checked my weight.

I've gained six pounds.

So I guess we're on to Plan B.

The only trouble is, there IS no Plan B.

Because I was so confident in my abilities.

My abilities to push my muscles to their limits.

My abilities to eat like a health nut.

My abilities to remain diligent and focused.

Well, you know what?

My abilities suck ass.

We're at T minus 10 weeks, and I need a new plan. I'm thinking if I show enough cleavage, maybe nobody will notice the muffin top and love handles and extra chins.

Is it working?

Helllo?

HELLO!?????????????????

Yep.

That's Plan B.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, June 20th Tuesday, June 21st

10. I'm thankful that Monday is O-V-E-R.

9. I'm grateful that the headache monster has stopped chewing on my brain matter like Bubblicious.

8. I'm happy that y'all understand that I couldn't have put my own socks on yesterday, much less written a gratitude list.

7. I'm thankful to the pharmaceutical companies that manufacture the Ibuprofen I was gobbling like M&Ms yesterday.

6. I'm grateful that Gabby was such a vigilant guard during my time of pain and need. She never left my side. Or woke up, for that matter - but let's not split hairs.

5. I'm relieved that you'll forgive me for not coming up with a better list than this, since my head is still in a fog from the 19 hours of sleep I required yesterday.

4. I'm relieved that you'll forgive me for not coming up with a better list than this, since my head is still in a fog from the 19 hours of sleep I required yesterday.

3. I'm relieved that you'll forgive me for not coming up with a better list than this, since my head is still in a fog from the 19 hours of sleep I required yesterday.
2. I'm relieved that you'll forgive me for not coming up with a better list than this, since my head is still in a fog from the 19 hours of sleep I required yesterday.
And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, June 20th Tuesday, June 21st?

1. I'm thankful I didn't pee myself laughing at this exchange with my bestie's little boy over the weekend:

Him: I could totally beat you, Tricia...

Me: Beat me at what, buddy?

Him: Wrestling!

Me: Girls don't wrestle, silly!

Him: Uh-huh. Mommy wrestles.

Bestie: I don't wrestle, you goof! What are you talking about?

Him: You do too! I sees you jump on daddy n wrestle!

Win a Wife!

I didn't realize it would come to this. I've turned into a pimp, but I'm not afraid to step up. Some bloggers host giveaways with fun and scandalous prizes, but I don't have a dollar to buy anything and I don't own anything you want.

So I'm giving you a shot at my neighbor, and trust me - she is a prize. She's worth far more than a free vibrator or an Overstock.com gift card.

Well, now - I don't own her. So you can't technically win her. And don't you think I'm offering you her McMuffin - that would be inappropriate...and illegal. But I know that some of you readers are guys, and I wonder if any of you are single and qualified to meet her?

To qualify you must either live in the Twin Cities or be wealthy enough to travel here regularly. You will need to treat her with kindness and respect or I will hit you in the kneecap with a hammer. You will come bearing a flower or a bottle of wine - the wine might be best, now that I think of it. Save her from a life of bagged vino.

You will not boast a combover and you shall not have nose hairs blowin' in the breeze. You will not have a small weenus or a criminal record. You will not have Baby Mamas and you damn sure won't have loud sex if you and our neighbor end up falling hopelessly in bed love - we all share walls around here, you know.

This woman is nearly as jilted by online dating horrors as I was when I was ready to unplug myself forever. Since I met My Man the next day, I feel it's my duty to now help pull this girl through the black hole that is being Single & Online.

But trust me, this is no pity offer.

After tasting her homemade coconut curry rice, I considered marrying her myself. Except that gays can't marry here in Minnesota. And I'm not gay. And she's not gay, either. And also, I'm engaged to My Man.

This woman works her ass off. She's smart, she's kind, she's funny - and she cooks like Betty Fucking Crocker. She's making us Cock O'Van tonight. I don't know what that is, but it's French and it smells like joy.

She loves books and sports and my blog, but you can forgive her for that.

And since I'm a wife-in-training myself now, with my 1953 McCalls and my 1959 Bride & Home, I'll be sure to mentor her on how to make your life merry and gay if you guys hit it off.

So hit me up. Leave me a comment, send me an email at tershbango@gmail.com. Tell me why you deserve a happy hour with us so you can meet your future wife.

Shame Tastes Delicious

I’ve reached the unfortunate conclusion that it might not be Snap Fitness’ fault that my workouts aren’t working.

Yesterday, I got up at the asscrack of 4:30 A.M. to go to the gym. Yay, me!

But at lunch I ate half of a hamburger.

With cheese on it.

And bacon.

And peanut butter.

And mayo.

And some pickles.

No.

I’m not kidding.

And no - I’m not pregnant.

I rounded out my day with vegetables for dinner.
Grilled corn.

Rolled in aioli.
And cotilla cheese.
And washed it down with fresh mint and lime.

In my rum.

Now my breath smells suspiciously like shame.

Calories burned at the gym? At least 40.

Calories consumed afterward? Roughly 7,493.

Stepford Tricia

I want to thank my coworker in advance for saving my marriage before it begins. He brought me a bridal magazine, circa 1959, and it's chock full of pearls of wisdom as I prepare to embark on Life as a Wife.

For instance, it's important that Mark is never subjected to the 'sight of me in the kerchief I wear while dusting and vacuuming'. It's his right to come home to a tidy house, but he shouldn't be bothered with such trivialities as how the house gets tidied.

If he deigns to call me from the office, my responsibility is to answer the telephone sounding 'merry and gay'. This is because my duty as his wife is to make his home a place he wants to come after work. If I slack in these duties, he will likely go out for cocktails with the boys and I will have only myself to blame.

Additionally, I oughtn't leave my girdle hanging 'blatantly' to dry - the damp, limp garment is unattractive and his eyes should not be assaulted with the sight.

The magazine goes on to teach me that 'nothing kills a man's desire faster than a woman who takes over sexually'.

I should, however, use 'warm douche' every night for several weeks prior to the wedding, though, to prepare myself to passively accept his advances when he chooses to poke me with that strange thing called a penis that I've never encountered before.

I feel I really must offer sincere thanks to my colleague for sharing this gem with me, because it's taught me two very important things:

1) It's a damn good thing this isn't 1959, because I would definitely be a battered wife.

2) If this were 1959, I'd be battered by both my hardworking husband AND a raging Valium addiction.

Love Letters

I thought I'd take a moment out of my your busy day to share the love letters I've written to the people at my gym. It's easier to write them out here than speak the words while I'm at the gym - mostly because I'm too busy gasping for breath when I work out.

******************************

Dear Grunty McWeightlifter,

Nobody wants to see your O face. Nor do we care to hear your O noises.

That is all.

Love,
Tricia

******************************

Dear Skank,

Glitter does not improve your cardiovascular health, and it's not even a mandatory part of gym attire here at Snap Fitness.

Now take your Ecstasy tabs and head on down to Bally Total Fitness where you belong.

You're welcome.

Fondly,
Tricia

******************************

Dear Uncle Fester Looking Motherfucker*,

I do not come to the gym in a sports bra and subject you to my muffin top. Don't come to the gym in jean shorts and subject me to your hairy asscrack.

Gaggingly yours,
Tricia

P.S. That's Mark's nickname for you, not mine.

 ******************************

Dear Korean Body Builder Woman,

Stop it right now! Your arms are bigger than my man's, and I know your acne is from steroids and not your period.

You're not fooling anyone. I know you're growing a teeny tiny penis under those panties.

Respectfully (because I don't want you to obliterate me),
Tricia

The Princess and the Pee

My friend Janene of Moms are from Mars sent me a helpful article about wedding trends.

It mentions the rage for over-the-top bachelorette parties where women get obliterated and behave badly like men. I don’t have the budget or inclination for a bachelorette party, so I skimmed that part. I’ve had 34 years to act like an ass, I don’t need a specific weekend devoted to the cause – and I refuse to drink out of penis paraphernalia.

But then I got to the advice about diapers, and the morbid curiosity took over.

The theory is that it’s too tough to wrestle all that tulle through the door of a bathroom stall without an army of bridesmaids. My only bridesmaid is my brother, and he draws the line at urinary assistance, so I guess I’m pretty much outta luck.

No wonder Kate had Pippa there to help. I don’t want to pee on my petticoat, of course, but I’m guessing Mark might be put off a bit if I take a colossal shit during our vows.

"Don't worry, honey, my diaper is Fresh Scent!"

A few years ago my left leg was casted from hip to ankle and the first time I sat down on the toilet, my plaster leg flew upward and into the bathroom wall, and I peed all down my leg. I cried and called my mom, who explained that mommies don’t have magic wands to make pee disappear.

So we know that she’ll be no help.

What say you, my faithful readers? Shall I saddle up in Huggies for my big day? Or gamble and hope I can pee on my own? I’ve been practicing for 32 years, and my record is nearly perfect.

Except for that cast.

And that one time at the bar...

And that time when I sneezed really hard.

But mostly, I can totally pee without incident.

Monday Marvels

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

10. I'm thankful I got to check out all the fresh veggies and granola people at the farmers market with Leslie. The habanero caramel corn is delightful.

9. I'm happy to announce I gave finally birth to an eight-pound food baby this weekend. I named her Stinky McLatePoop. I'm registered in the Antacids/Heartburn aisle at the drugstore and I'll be recovering at home tonight.

8. I'm giddily - and painfully, shamefully - admitting that I spent a considerable amount of time this weekend daydreaming about trying on My Wedding  Dress.

7. I'm content to realize I can entertain myself for 47 straight minutes watching the cat chase her tail.

6. Caramelized bacon-wrapped wienies. Yes, you read that right. Caramelized bacon-wrapped wienies.

5. I'm really thankful for dinner parties with the neighbor. See above, in case you missed the caramelized bacon-wrapped wienies.

4. I'm excited to learn about the Starbucks Fairy. She leaves iced coffee in the fridge for me when I wake up, and I don't even have to give her extraneous body parts in return.

3. I've resigned myself to the fact that Gabby has me trained now. Mark feeds her breakfast at 4:30 every morning as he leaves for work, and then she hops into bed and meows indignantly at me until I wake up and pet her back to sleep. I wish I were kidding.

2. I'm continually stunned at my mother's ability to shop mercilessly until she finds the best deals on the cutest shit. She missed her calling. She should be a personal shopper.

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

1. In 11 weeks I'll be on my honeymoon!! Granted, our honeymoon might be on the couch in our sweatpants, but we'll pretend we're trendy and say we're staycationing because it's better for the environment when we don't burn gas.

Reality Bites

I've never been the brightest crayon in the box.

When I was three or four, my favorite buddy on my dad's softball team was Tony Lily. He was the only black man on their team among pasty suburban Minnesotan men, and yet when they took the field I continually asked my mom where Tony was.

I couldn't pick him out among the players.

I like to say it's because I was so worldly that I didn't see color; my mom was alarmed to see that her daughter might be mildly retarded.

Another time I ran shrieking outside to tattle to my mom that there was a wild animal loose inside our house.

She asked me what kind of animal it was.

"A hippopotamus!" I hollered dramatically.

My mom crept inside in terror, wondering if she could take down the monster, only to find a panicked chipmunk running amok in the master bedroom.

Is it any wonder that I did not grow up to cure cancer or write the next classic, or even own a little house? I'd say that if I manage to leave for work in matching socks, I done good. Look what I've got to work with.

Sweatin' AGAINST the Oldies

So my trainer fiance says to me, he says "Tricia, after yer workout, yew really gotta drink yer whey protein shake before yew smoke a cigarette..."

Yup.

I'm pretty much an icon of fitness.

I've been working out regularly for the past couple of months, but it's becoming quickly apparent that I will not be channeling a bombshell on our wedding day.

This shit is hard.

I was proud enough when I joined the gym, and now I even go there - and exercise.

One of the reasons that I love our gym is because it's no meat market. There aren't many tight bodies in spandex and bouncy ponytails.

It's mostly just average Joes and that hog lady who drinks her Big Gulp soda while she sits on the exercise bike. But I love her, because she makes me feel lean and sexy, two words which are generally not never associated with me.

Last time I was there doing my circuits, a guy told me I looked like I was working too hard and that I should go a little easier on myself, and I swooned at the thought that he believed this...until I realized two things.

He was 80 if he was a day, so it's doubtful that his vision is 20/20.

Also, he was probably referring less to the fact that I was lifting such impressive weights and than to the fact that I was sweating profusely.

And then, he smoked me on leg presses. With his 80-year-old, arthritic, knobby-kneed, liver spotted twig legs.

Wow.

I'm a catch.

Wet Dreams

My entire life, I’ve been a restless sleeper and a vivid dreamer.

I can still distinctly remember nightmares I had at age three about monsters coming out of the bathtub drain to eat me alive.

Dreams fascinate me - their repetition, the questions of their meaning. Sometimes I wake up wondering what the hell is wrong with my brain to be able to concoct such things.

And other times, it’s pretty damn clear where my late night anxiety comes from.

This morning I awoke in a panicky mess, soaked with sweat, feeling as thought I was suffocating.

I’d dreamt that Mark and I were on a road trip and after a huge fight, he called off the wedding and literally abandoned me on the side of the highway.

As I trudged along the desolate road in some unspecified state, who should pull up but my boss? He kindly offered me a ride home, but halfway there he threw me out of the car as well, letting me know my job (and apparently my ride) had been eliminated.

A quick analysis tells me that perhaps - just perhaps - I’m fearful of losing the good things in my life.

Further analysis explained the feelings of suffocation. The cat was curled up sleeping soundly…on my head.



Hot, Hot, Hot

I lost fifteen pounds yesterday.

It was 103 degrees and humid. Even my boob sweat was sweating, and I reached an important conclusion.

I need a friend with a boat.

I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’ll never be able to afford a toy of my own, so it’s time to make new friends.

Do you have a boat? What time can I come over?

What’s in it for you, you ask?

- I promise to wear a t-shirt over my bathing suit. You’re welcome…

- I’ll bring a 12-pack and a fun noodle (which, incidentally, doubles wonderfully as a lake-flavored beer bong)…

- You’ll bask in the satisfaction of helping a sweaty girl in need…

You really ought to check with your accountant, because I’m sure you can write off the gas money for the boat as a charitable expense.

The Princess and the Weather

I always thought the princess who whined about the pea was a pampered bitch. Seriously? You’ve got more mattresses than a whorehouse and you’re whining about the lump?

But now I’m starring in my own crabby fairy tale entitled The Princess and the Weather. I seem to have a two-degree range of comfort that keeps me from whining about it being too hot or too cold. It’s in the mid-nineties this week and humid, and I’m discovering sweat glands where I didn’t realize they existed.

Luckily, God has a way of humbling me every time I think my life is rough.

I popped out to buy a crisp, cool summer salad and was squelching around the driver’s seat in puddle of butt sweat, cursing the time it takes my AC to kick in when I saw him.

My favorite old vet.

There is a prolific homeless population near my downtown office, but I have a soft spot for Dean-O. He sits at his off ramp on an overturned bucket most days, holding his sign and biding his time until the cops shoo him away.

When I get stopped at his light, I always give him a few bucks or extra food if I have any with me, and he cracks a terrible joke and a toothless grin.

But there were no jokes this time.

Because it’s sweltering and sticky, and Dean-O was busy trying to shade himself with a battered umbrella. I could see the sweat rolling down his grizzled face, and I didn’t have a dollar, a bottle of water or a solution.

I don’t have AC at home, but I have a fan. I don’t have a Sleep Number, but I have a bed. I don’t have a pool, but I can take a cold shower.

And sometimes I guess I just need to be reminded of how blessed I really am.

Monday Marvels

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

10. I’m thankful for razor blades. They are helpful for making white trash shorts out of sweatpants on hot days.

9. I’m grateful for imaginary pontoon boats. I spent the whole sunny weekend on one in my head.

8. I’m happy that I managed to stifle my laughter when the obese woman walked into the gym carrying her Big Gulp soda and proceeded to sit down on the exercise bike and watch TV. I think her legs made perhaps nine rotations during her twenty minute ‘workout’.

7. I’m thankful the neighbor wasn’t outside to witness when I may or may not have accidentally sat on her brand new green pepper plants. Oops. Maybe she’ll think they’re just dying from the heat.

6. I’m grateful that I didn’t burst any blood vessels laughing at the duck video.

5. I’m happy about the rash of freckles that reappears on my face every summer when the sun comes out. I hated em when I was younger but now I figure they help disguise the wrinkles.

4. I’m excited that the zipper no longer stays up on one of the two pairs of jeans I own. It’s like instant air-conditioning for the summer months.

3. I’m relieved that I have one more pain-free day before my personal trainer fiance modifies my circuit training program and most likely cripples me.

2. I’m thankful for the monster stack of new books I have to read at home. God bless hand-me-downs.

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

1. I love, love, love my lazy Sundays with my man.

Tricia for Sale

I was Googling myself the other day, as narcissists bored folks sometimes do, when I stumbled on this website that evaluates the worth of sites.

Imagine my delight and confusion to see that someone (or, perhaps more aptly, some bot) thinks my blog is worth over $30,000.

Considering that the accumulated worth of everything I own probably hovers near the low four figure mark, 30 Gs sounds like a lottery payout.

But I can't help but think of the tragically dorky people who will stubbornly tell you how much their collectibles are worth. Sorry, sir, but your Magic: The Gathering cards, your crusty Playboys and your Batman figurines are only worth what somebody will pay you for them...right now.

Which begs the question...

Who the hell would pay me thirty large for my blog?

Maybe it's my worth in advertising. I mean, my blog has reach. Nearly all my friends read it...at times. And sometimes my mom. For the mere sum of thirty grand, you too can market your product to millions dozens of people.

Is it the literary potential? Perhaps a publisher would like to pay me to purchase the rights to my blog, so as to turn it into a NY Times Bestseller. I can't think of any recent ones from the list that cover vagina chemo as thoroughly as I do.

Or is it merely a joke? Damn you, cruel Internet. I'd better go research myself on Snopes to find out if my worth is just an urban legend.

Bond...Mom Bond....

So my mom has been telling me about this creepy prick who has been lurking around the parking garage at her office hassling people. He chased down a coworker of hers and someone else was recently held up at gunpoint in the vicinity.

The Bloomington Police Department released information about the guy today to the staff in her building, warning them to be cautious and call 911 if they see him. He’s a convicted felon who is breaking and entering businesses near hers and he’s wanted for various parole violations.

I told her she needs to have someone walk her to and from the parking garage. Her response??

“I’m not worried about walking to my car. I’ll have my antenna up.”

Excuse me…her antenna? Who the fuck does she think she is, Inspectress Gadget?

Does she think she’s gonna roundhouse his gun out of his hands and then pin him to the floor of the parking garage until the police arrive!?

I gave her two options – promise to get an escort or I’m calling her boss. It took 34 long years, but it’s finally my turn to tell her what to do.

Against the Wind

Before this week, I never posted a YouTube video on my blog. I figure, you know...it doesn't count as a blog post. I want people to read my blog because they like my writing.

But sometimes videos are funnier than my writing ever has a shot at being, and I feel I'd be doing you a gross disservice if I don't share.

Please don't judge me for watching this one eighteen times in row.

Letters to Myself

Dear Fifteen-Year-Old Tricia,

Step away from the Marlboro Red.

You don't look cool and mature, you look like an ignorant underage dipshit trying to look cool and mature. And why the hell do you want to look older anyhow? Enjoy these last few years of having small pores and perky breasts.

Also, you aren't even inhaling right - but be sure to thank Bjorn Sorenson for teaching you exactly how to suck those toxins down deep. (Yes, Mom - we're still talking about cigarettes...)

How about if I tell you that  - conservatively - you'll spend $30,000 on cigarettes in the next twenty years? But that you'll be in your mid-thirties and ashamed that you can't afford a house, or a vacation or even a pair of jeans that aren't worn through with holes. Would you put down that cigarette?

What if I tell you that every cigarette you smoke contains arsenic, lead, cyanide and polonium (a radioactive chemical)? Can you even envision, with your stupid 15-year-old brain, what 150,000 cigarettes might look like?? That's 750 cartons, and you will smoke them all.

If I tell you that, will you put down that cigarette?

What if I tell you that you'll look in the mirror and hate who you see? That you'll stink and your skin will be sallow and you're breath will smell like dirty feet? That you'll disappoint people so many times that they'll no longer even believe you when you swear up and down that this time you're really quitting.

That even after writing this down and looking up all these horrible statistics, all you will want to do is go buy a pack of smokes...

THEN WOULD YOU PUT THAT CIGARETTE DOWN?

Of course not. You're fifteen, you already know everything.

Do what you're gonna do, you stupid fuck. Just don't come crying to me about it in twenty years.

XOX,
Grown-Up Tricia

P.S. Also, your eyeliner looks really skanky. That's all for now.