Getting Old Sucks Ass

I know I should be all hopeful and shit. But my gradmother's health has deteriorated so much in the past six years that it's really hard to do. It's difficult to see her, my mom, aunts and uncles get older and go through crazy health issues. It's even more difficult to recognize the same oddities beginning to creep up on me.

Even though I realize that this is just how life goes sometimes, it seems like the ultimate in crap. To spend the last few years of your life in and out of hospitals, taking more meds then you even knew existed and relying on others to do basic things for you. We, mostly, appear to regress once we hit a certain stage. We become children physically but still have memories of glorious adulthood and independence. I cannot tell you how many times I've tried to stop my mom from hushing and rocking my grandmother obsessively when she was scared and in pain. For an 80-year-old a little bit of that is soothing, but once you cross the line you are going to piss her off by making her feel even more incapacitated than she really is.

Mom never listened. Grandmother always had to snap at her.

This time of sickness has also shown me how selfish I am. My mom has been so consumed with caring for my grandmother that she rarely does anything for herself. She's depressed, tired, angry, sad, too thin, exhausted, and often sick. Getting mom to go to the doctor is like pulling teeth (oh yeah, she complains about how bad her teeth are but I haven't been able to get her to a dentist yet). I've offered many times to stay with my grandmother. Usually when she takes me up on it it's just to go to the grocery store. My mom has high blood pressure. The only reason she knows this is because she had to rush to the hospital 4 years ago with nausea and a massive headache. She literally almost died from her self-neglect.

I know I'm selfish because no matter how much I offer to help and actually do I usually don't want to. I know I'm selfish because sometimes I think I'll be a bit relieved when my grandmother dies. Until I remember how guilty my mom will feel when she does. I know I'm selfish because every time mom mentions another ailment she has all I can think is, "If she doesn't start taking care of herself, I'll end up living solely to care for her in twenty years. Just like she does for my grandmother now."

I don't want to take care of my mother. I will if I have to, but I will not like it. I want her to be healthy and happy until the end. Not just for her, but for me too. So we can both live the lives we want without the restrictions of health and immobility. So we won't have arguments about whether or not she feels like taking the medicine that will keep her alive. So mom won't feel like I'm berating her every time I ask her to do something she doesn't want to. So I won't have to consider, and then reject, putting her in a home when I know I can't care for her myself anymore. Because, you know, "We don't give up on our people." So I won't secretly wish she would just die already so I could have some peace.

It's all too hard. I fear I'm too frail to handle it well.

A Lifetime Of Updates

The phone will not stop ringing at work and I feel like I'm going insane. Don't they realize I'm trying to think here!?

I finally picked up the screenplay again on Saturday. I had to ease myself into it, so:

I've sat down to write my script but felt this was the best way to start working again: a journal entry. Most of Saturday is gone. I woke up at 1:30pm, watched 2 movies with my boy and went back to sleep. I got up again an hour ago, 8:30pm. I'm a lazy-ass & terrorfied I'll never be able to finish this story. And if I never finish this story I fear I'll never be able to finish any other. That I'll never realize my full potential or accomplish anything. I've actually put pen to paper. Leaving the laptop at home feels less stressful. It's just me, two pens and a notebook. Here I go

I've now written everyday Monday through today, Thursday. I've been writing at work during the day. My boss would be pissed if he were here to see me. Ha! By the by, I'm really fucking proud of myself at this juncture.

I've decided to start a script consulting service. I'm not sure how much I'll charge or how I'll get the word out or if I'll set myself up legally as a real company. But this is something I need to do. I'm good at analyzing scripts and movies, and I am convinced this would be a good foot-in-the-door type job that I can have without leaving regular employment behind. Keep your fingers crossed!

I've been exercising and watching what I eat more. This means that everything hurts. Even my sternum. I knew I had gained weight, but to go to the doctor last week and hear my actual number was scary. Until now I was my heaviest in high school, but, you know, not anymore. This changes ASAP. No more Taco Bell runs at midnight because my boy suddenly got hungry. In fact, unless it's fruit or the occasional bowl of cereal, no eating after 10pm. That's my new rule. Well, one of many. 180 is my goal weight, I know that sounds huge to most people, but I'm kinda tall and naturally thick, so that should look pretty good on me. At least I won't outweigh my boyfriend anymore!

Does anyone know where to go for good deals on flights? I can't find anything under $350 for my trip to Vegas in June.

I really, really, REALLY want to go shopping. This is due to the fact that a) I'm running out of funds from my last paycheck, b) I need to have my breaks fixed, and c) I'm about to get paid again tomorrow. Lord, help me.

I'm Supposed To Be Writing

I've got a screenplay to work on. I made a rough outline while taking my first screenwriting class in 2003. Once I started writing the story of my parents' divorce, I got into it. I liked writing and I liked what I was writing. The way it flowed, and even looked, on the page. My instructor gave me positive reinforcement. I thought, briefly, that I was onto something.

Then, my class ended. I had the best intentions of continuing and finishing my script. I made a schedule to be sure to fit in time to write and reflect. But, naturally, I went back to what I do best. Slacking. Dreaming of great heights I have yet to achieve. Watching tv and movies and pretending to soak everything in so I could call it 'research'. I made many promises to myself to start up again, but I kept pushing the dates and letting them pass by.

In three years time I had taken more classes on script development, the entertainment industry and film history. That story, though...MY story. It was still in the back of my mind. Quietly filed away along with several other ideas that hadn't ever been written down. I wanted to go back to it, but I just couldn't.

Then I started dating my boy. He comes from a well educated, history-loving, artistic, literary family. Everyone writes. Poetry, fiction, blogs...they've done it all. There was a local screenplay contest coming up. He was very encouraging and inquisitive, as were his parents. In January I made a feverish bid to finish at least a first draft for the contest. I'd finally be able to say I'd completed a script. I'd finally have some solid evidence that this film obsession wasn't full of shit. You know I didn't make the February 15 deadline, right? And to think, those three were so looking forward to me making it.

This is why I've never told my mom about the screenplay. She would care. Mom would want to know how it was going. Just like my boy and his folks. As it stands I feel bad enough not having updates for his parents. I can't stand the idea of letting my mom down too.

Since the deadline passing I've written twice, getting to a solid page 50. Around page 30 I headed into un-outlined territory. It felt like a good place so I went with it, then came to a natural stopping point. I didn't know where to go next. Back to the outline? Revise the entire second half? So I decided to take a break and think through it. We know what this means, right? I've completely ignored my script, for over a month now, like a red-headed stepchild.

This is it, people. This weekend I start the really hard and painful work. I have to sit with it, past text and blank pages right in my face. I'll have to face the fear of failure and the fear of possible success. I'll need to stew over it and sweat over it. I may have to blind write. I fucking hate that. Just writing with no real idea of where it's going. Getting all the crap out on paper so you can get to the good stuff that's buried beneath your fears and insecurities. Yeah, that's what I'll need to do.

I can feel it. Wish me luck.

Where I Give the Internet Too Much Information

You know internet, I'm glad we're friends. So much so that I'm going to test the limits of said friendship by relaying some personal stuff you might not even want to hear. Just so I can tell it to somebody and get it off my chest.

I used to have a well trained body. Monday through Friday, between 5:30 and 6:30pm do you know what would happen, internet? I'd go to the bathroom. I was regular internet, and it was amazing! I don't even know how I did it. One day while noticing some coworkers potty habits I realized I had somehow trained myself to (delicately, now) drop a deuce only during those specific times of the work week.

This was a fascinating moment. I always had deuce difficulties growing up. Overflowing toilets one day, rampant constipation the next. Between the two extremes I used more old towels and Fletcher's Castoria than any other child EVER. Don't ask how I know. Just trust me.

Well, to be an adult and have all that craziness settled? Absolutely the best gift of working adulthood given to anyone EVER. This fact is close to verification from Guinness record people. Do not distrust its veracity.

My issue now is so radically different. Ever since my first vacation of the year (we love Austin!) about a month ago, I've been all out of wack. Sad, internet. So very, very sad.

At first I assumed it was just a holdover from my trip. I never doody out of town. EVER. I don't know why this is, just that it's a fact of my life. Maybe my subconscious is afraid of stopping up some innocent, unassuming hotel toilet and so it locks me up for the duration of my travels. Who knows? Anyway, I had two days back without going to work. When I returned to the job I had a scare. I had to go, and bad...and at 11:30 in the morning.

What!? What the hell is this?!?! The trend has continued. 10am, 1pm, 7am (before my clock even goes off!), 4pm, and on and on. Will this madness never end? I miss the old days so much, internet. I could count on never worrying about overflowage away from my home potty. I never needed to sit and stew with my thoughts for long periods of time because I lacked bathroom reading. On the other hand, I have become well acquainted with our friendly work accessible toilet. In the days of yore, before I needed the private time, it frightened me. There are windows, mottled glass with a leaf pattern to protect privacy. A corner is broken out and reveals a cobweb. This bathroom is completely separate from our regular ladies loo. In its own single toilet/sink room. Because it's not a stall, the door is waaaaaaaaaay over there when you sit down. Therefore, it's IMPERATIVE to make sure you've locked yourself in prior to doing your bidding. There are also strange green stains under the commode I'd rather not think about.

This place has become my refuge. I see no turning back, internet. Maybe I should bring magazines for next time.

Let's Get Drunk, WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Wow. There is nothing like a work sponsored happy hour with a three hour all-you-can-eat/drink special to bring out the best (worst) in co-workers. NOTHING!

Me and my boy set out late on Thursday so only had an hour and a half to get our $25 worth outta the deal. Not being much of a drinker myself, I ate my way out of another pair of pants. Meanwhile, my boy had 5 (totally different) martinis, 1 margarita and a beer. Can you imagine how stone cold drunk my boy was? Maybe you don't know enough about him yet. Let me relay an excerpt of our conversation as an example.

Me: "Oh my God. You are really drunk!"
My boy (whispering/slobbering in my ear): "I would like to make sweet loving fuck to you."
Me: "Unh hunh..."

Anyhoodle. My work buddies were there. AM came without her fiance' because he was an ass the night before and she didn't want to see his face while she was trying to have fun. My supervisor NM came, staked out a bar stool and didn't move all night. BFF AR and SW organized the shindig to raise money for us and brought a huge crowd of friends. Unfortunately they both found themselves getting bitched out by a bartender when a patron lost his dinner all over the floor, and went right back to drinking without hesitation. Oh, and that patron? The father of my good friend J, who had already mortified the poor girl when he changed pants in the middle of the room for all to see. Yay, drunk people are so much fun! Luckily, our NM heard some of the bitch-out and put Mr. Mean Bartender in his place. We all love our NM, she kicks ass without even trying!!

This particular bartender was a total asshat tiddyfuck. Yes. I said it. We all paid $25 to suck down as much food and drink as we could, right? Well, this assjack got pissed because people were taking too much food, according to him. Why was he paying attention? More importantly, who cares? If they paid their presidents they should be able to take as much food at a time as they want. The bar's job is simply to refill the food table. M'kay? And about not letting folks take more than one drink at a time? That, if nothing else, elects ken-doll bartender dude to the post of Supreme Bungholery. Yeah, that's it. Also, fuckface, next time the all-you-can-drink portion is 5 minutes next to done and people rush the bar to get their last orders in...DO NOT IGNORE THEM FOR THAT FULL FIVE MINUTES JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE APPARENTLY A LAZY SCHLONGHEAD. Are we clear, blondie? We should never do another event there.

In other news, Tux attacked me several times on Saturday night and then took to clawing/biting our feet as we tried to sleep. WTF!?!?! I guess the fact that we feed and house and play with that little fucker isn't enough for him. Any cat educated people out there know why a 7 month old kitten would do such a nasty, beastly thing? Even better, know how we can stop it?

One Of Those Days

I'm thinking about all the crap I'm severly behind on
I feel fat but know it's my bloat talking
I just got paid and want to blow a wad of cash
I'm craving lots of junk food
I'm ready to plan my June trip to Vegas
I should plan to get my brakes done so I don't go careening off the road as a means of stopping
I want to dance
I miss the new fun I had last year
I don't want to call my mom but know I should
I'd like to leave work now, but can't
I should walk at lunch; too bad I don't want to
I'm wondering why it has to be a hot-ass 88 degrees today; it's only spring, fuckers
I hope I can implement a legal plan to make more money this year
I'm disappointed that I grew out of a pair of jeans
I want to know why the rash on my neck won't go away
I wonder when I can stop living check to check
I'm trying not to hate my body
I wish I didn't care if people read this blog or not, but I do
I want my boy and I to do more than watch movies and eat and fuck
I need to learn how to feel sexy, womanly

Side note:
Why does everything smell like cat food or maxi pads?!?!

Lord Chazbot and the Jingle Tags of Death

I am now officially 12 cats and one scary house away from being the crazy cat lady at the end of the block. I say this because Tux has been living at my place for 3 days and, well...it's kinda fun. Fuck.

My boy brought him over on Monday since he'd be spending most of the week at my place and we couldn't just leave little Tuxy alone all that time. Even though he jumps on the kitchen counter, the stove, and in the bathroom sink I like him. We've discovered Tux has 'Magic Hour' about twice a day. And aren't we lucky that it's right when we wake up and right when we want to go to sleep? This means he runs around like a demon spawn, jumps maniacally at our legs, tries to bum rush us and gnaws on our hands when we attempt to pet him. My boy thinks Magic Hour is oh so cute. I find it to be the most terrifying thing ever. Imagine a tiny little beast with claws and fangs and glowy eyes coming after you suddenly. All you hear is a slight 'jingle, jingle' and then...DEATH!

Just last night Tux did the most insane thing ever. We all know that cats hate being wet, right? I mean hate from the very depths of their kitty-crazed souls the being wet. So I'm in the shower. Minding my own, as it were, and listening for the death jingle. I heard nothing but the sound of running water. Drip. Drip. Dri...AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! That little sum'bitch jumped into the tub! My howler monkey-like wail scared him away and I stood stunned under the spray. I yelled at my boy to "keep that damn cat outta the bathroom!"

I took a crack at drying off in peace. Tux was sitting straight ahead and staring at me from across two rooms and a hallway. He was planning something. I could feel it. I look away for a moment to tend to my tootsies...AAACCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!! Tux morphed into Speed Racer and flung himself at my legs at the speed of light. I screamed so loud and fierce that my boy thought I was actually hurt. Let us note here that this did not make the man GET UP OFF THE BED to see if I was ok, though. Whatever. Much cursing ensued as I called the beastie every name I could think of and my boy laughed at my fear of a five pound pussy.

Having been through all this I only know one thing. Tonight, when my boy and I are far away at his place and Tux is alone in mine, I will miss him. Not much, but just enough.

Adventures in Cat Hair

That shit is everywhere! Half hour in the car, and it's all over the place. I'm surprised that little beast has any fur left on his body. Thank God he's going to spend most of his time at my boy's apartment. Not that it matters, though. I'm sure I've got Tux hair on me right now. I think cat hair may be capable of reproducing on its own.

He won't sit still if you want him to. If you need Tux to move, he won't. Try going to the bathroom. He'll sit outside and wait for you to finish. He likes to jump on the stove(we've tried to break him of this but I'm sure he'll have to learn the hard way). Tux also likes to lounge on the kitchen counter and drink from the sink. There goes any hope I had left of being able to eat hairless food. Seriously.

He'll ignore Taco Bell, but if you make a cheap pizza he will NOT stay off the table. Ditto if you try to eat an orange. You ever had kitty paws on your plate before? What about kitty tongue? I made my boy eat those pieces.

We had to put Tux in the laundry room while we ate. Then there was the meowing. Incessant, pitiful meowing. As badly as I wanted to eat in peace that was hard to listen to. I heard a thud. I think Tux threw his body against the door to try freeing himself. It didn't work. Poor thing.

This is going to be an interesting interlude for this non-animal loving gal. Even so, I'm already sorta liking the little kitty monster. I mean, you know, he purred on me.

House Puma

So, yeah. I don't know if you know this, but I'm not an animal person. My mom, bless her heart, is scared of all beasts. Domesticated or not. Especially those of the feline variety. In fact, cats sort of disgust her. As you can probably imagine she transferred much of that feeling to me.

Anyway, my boy loves animals. Most of all cats and dogs. Or as he would say, kitty cats and shnuggers. Often when he would come to visit me he'd come across one of the many stray kitties that populate my apartment complex and stop to, uh...talk to them. 'Cause that's how my boy rolls. Well, one night it took him forever to get to my place. When he finally arrives I find out he was busy following strays into the creek near my apartment. I believed that behavior a bit extreme, even for my aminal(I know what I said) lovin' man, so I decided to try to break him of his habit.

A few days later my plan backfired. The Saturday after his creek adventure I took him to our local humane society. I figured he could get this animal thing out of his system. That sounds logical, right? Who am I kidding!? In the back of my mind I knew it was possible he'd find someone he liked. And so, of course, he did. I also knew it would be possible that he'd be so overcome with love and joy and a savior complex that my boy'd be near death if he couldn't go home with that cat.

One week and a long story involving landlord trickery later, I own a kitten named Tux who likes to walk on my stomach when I lie down.

Jeez...

...But, I'm a Grown-Ass Woman...

I'm 31 and feel like I'm beyond milestones. I'm at the age where society tends to expect me to have reached certain markers of "true" adulthood. The marriage, house, real career, kids ideal that most people have of a capitol 'A' adult. I haven't hit any of those. Some because I don't want them. Some because I procrastinate. Others because I spent all of my 20s making very little money and saving none of it.

I never gave any thought to what I'd be like as an adult when I was a kid. Mostly I just wanted to get away from the little nuts I went to grade school with. Then, since most of them followed me to high school, I just wanted to graduate. When I was in college all I could think about was getting out of school once and for all. I gave no honest thought to post-collegiate plans. Not where I would live, who I would date, or how I would dress. Not even where I would work. I wanted to move on, but had no idea to what.

I was seriously depressed and unmedicated through most of my pre-teen to early adult years. All I ever envisioned for my future was one where I was finally happy. I thought that if by some miracle I could sustain some joy in living that everything else would fall into place. So I made no plans, held out no hopes. Just in case happy never came.

My catch-22? I'm mostly happy now (thank you Effexor), but the plans I failed to make all those years ago are haunting me. I have $5,000 in credit card debit, no savings, a job I hate, interest in an industry that's hellishly hard to break into, a paycheck that barely covers my bills, an interest in buying a house next year without much real hope of making it happen and fear coming out of my ass like water.

Once you become a real live grown-up the only milestones left are the ones you create on your own timetable. That's one of the cool things about finally being one of "the big people". The crappy thing is that nobody is obligated to make decisions on your behalf. Primary equation: adulthood=it's all your fault.

Damn Dirty Birds!

A strange thing happened last Friday. It was late, probably after midnight. Me and my bald boy were watching a movie and stuffing our faces with hot, hot pizza. The drama was intense, the cheese was gooey, our fingers messy. A lull in the action facilitated our hearing something odd. Birds. Not just one kind either, but several. These strange species were singing, chirping and crowing at night.

What the hell. Every night since then, there they are. Listen...hear that? Where did these demon spawn aviary come from? What the shit kind of birds sing during the darkest hours of the night? What are they up to in those trees out there? More importantly, should I be worried? Are they planning a takeover? See, this is what happens to me when random strange things occur that I can't get away from. My mind takes odd detours from the realm of real possibility. I daydream, fantasize, create macabre situations that I honestly pray will never come to pass.

Please, if there is any justice in the universe, the crazy-birds will stop interrupting my late-night puttering with...what the hell ever they're doing. It's hard to concentrate on Conan, uh, I mean (something constructive like) writing my screenplay, when I'm thinking up ways to escape a terrorist bird attack.

Damn. I should probably just be going to sleep as soon as I get home to skip the whole thing. Including the screenplay avoidance.

Why Must Boys Play With Their Hair?

I'll admit it, I like it now, but two weeks ago it was terrorfying. Not to sound like too much of a girl, but it actually made me cry. It wasn't those child-like hiccup sobs that cut off oxygen, but I cried nonetheless. Damn him for not warning me!

I should have known, I suppose, that something was up. My boy told me he was going to shave and cut his hair (which I assumed meant trim). I occupied myself by playing with flickr, but noticed that it was taking a long, long, loooooong time. Much more so than usual. Then I heard him, all sweet-voiced and innocent-like, behind me, "Honey?" I turned and quickly regretted it, "Oh God!" I spun around in the chair and buried my face in my hands to hide the horror that was now his head.

"Hee hee hee! Woooo hah!"
"Oh God! God, oh God! Why God?"
"Honey, come on, now."
"Why, why, why would you do that? God!"
"Oh honey. I just got tired of it."
"But why?! What...why...but...there's nothing..."
"I kinda just wanted to see how you'd react. Yeah. Hee heeeeeeee!" (mischievous grin)
"Oh....God." (sad and whimpering)

I recovered enough to wander into the scene of the crime. His bathroom sink was covered with a towel that held all his hair in several thick tufts. My face fell. The evidence was real and could not be denied. My boy was bald. Symptomatic of my photographic addiction, I grabbed the camera from my purse and captured it as a way to try to adjust to the newness. It didn't work. I got sadder and sadder. After a few minutes I couldn't take looking at it anymore. I sat too close to the computer screen. I closed my eyes. I cried.

"One day you're not going to have any hair left and you'll be sorry you did this!"
"Oh, honey."

I screamed at him. He answered by drawing out the 'e' in honey to soothe me. This did not help.

"It's only hair. It'll grow back. In a couple months it'll be right back where it was."

I miss his chicken hair. Standing straight up on his cute little lightbulb shaped head. I could run my fingers through it. Shuffle it around. Muss it and mold it into odd formations. The stubble feels sorta like velvet, but that's a small consolation.

Prepare me next time!

Ugghhh

Wow. I'm sitting at work right now and the boredom is just unparalleled. I am honestly having a hard time staying awake. Seeing as how I'm the receptionist, and have no privacy with which to hide my sleepiness, I might actually drift off right here out in the open. I've done it before, you know. Luckily it was the sound of the phone ringing and not my boss smacking me awake that brought me back from sleepy time. Maybe if I nap, drool and short out a major circuit we can all just go home for the weekend.

My boy thinks that the 2 hour lunches and month of vacation time many Europeans get as immediate perks from their jobs is a bit insane. He says this is why those nations tend to be less productive than us or, say, Japan. While that makes all kinds of sense, I would lu-u-uuuuuuuuuve to have a two hour lunch. I mean, for real folks, who the fuck are we kidding? If you would refuse a paid two hour lunch, raise your hand...Ok, now all those with their hands raised STOP LYING TO YOURSELVES!!

Do you know how refreshed I'd be after taking a nap, grabbing a bite and then getting back to the grind (where, truthfully, in my current position, I do little more than read blogs, surf flickr or watch movie trailers)? In fact, even though I'm still in this job completely of my own accord, I feel I deserve more time off. Just for putting up with this boring crap in relatively good humor and not coming to work with an automatic weapon, forcing everybody into a tiny windowless office, typing a separationist manifesto then a suicide note detailing my dissatisfaction with all the processes of the modern world and then blowing people away. Lord, it's a good thing I haven't told anyone at work about this blog. I'd get Dooced for sure.

Anywho...I love the idea of starting a job with a full month of available vacay time. Don't you think Americans as a whole work too much? Sure, it means we're more productive but productivity does not equal happiness. And who the hell is happy with their job? Truly happy? So happy that if you won enough cash to quit and live the rest of your life without needing to work, you'd do your job on a regular basis anyway? So happy that you don't daydream about early (like, now) retirement daily?

I've always been a pessimist, but, honestly, I don't think anyone likes to work. It's a hassle. The only consistently good thing about it is that it gives you the ability to NOT live on the street naked, dirty and hungry. If you're lucky you get to do fun things with the leftover dough. Movies, clubs, traveling, fancy dinners out or in, accessorizing. That last one is very important, by the by. My boss once got mad at me because I (foolishly) revealed that my job was 'just a job'. Just for the money. Just so I could have a roof over my head. No, sir, I am not interested in answering phones and typing address labels for the rest of my life. What's wrong with that? He got pissed off that I wasn't all pleased as pie to come to work everyday. The man really did not seem to get that there is a difference between being glad you have a job and loving to work. I suppose that's what happens when you pull in over $200K a year. No matter how little you do. Because you're the boss.

If everyone were independently wealthy nothing would ever fucking get done.

True that, y'all.

Wallflowers

I suppose I'm a rare bird, because while I was single I was almost always in. Alone at home watching tv or movies or reading. Now that I have a boy we go out often since we like the same things: movies, music, books and good, cheap food. We're both coming out of our lonely wall flower days, and if we need to retreat into the warm solice of home, we know we can do it comfortable at either place we live.

The thing that's getting to me is that I know I'm better at talking to new people when I'm alone. If I'm with somebody when I go out all I do is cling to that person. Why step out and do the different thing if I don't have to? He's becoming my path to least resistance, my easy way out, if you will. I can feel myself closing into a little ball and only letting him in. New people are hard for me, so why not hold onto this one person for dear life? At least I don't look lonely anymore.

Strangers see me with my boy. Sometimes we're holding hands. Often we're kissing or nuzzling. All things I never thought I'd be willing to do in public. But it's HIM. He makes me comfortable so I don't care. Unless we're surrounded by teenagers during a late-night Wendy's pitstop in rural Arkansas. But that's another story.

He's a sweet boy. He feels he's holding me back. Last weekend in particular. We went to SXSW. I want to write and produce films. He loves movies, but has no interest in the business. He deals in lasers for fuck's sake. He's the most perfect, smart, sexy, funny geek-boy ever. But he knew last weekend. No parties, no celebs, few films, one panel. This is all my fault and I know that. This is why I spent so much time cranky in Austin. How could I demand he spend more for a badge, like me? That's not fair. Maybe I should have gone alone. But that would have sucked; to spend four days so many miles apart. I wanted him there, here. With me, always. I can't be selfish with his time and pissy when his desires monopolize it.

Right there. That last sentence is wrong. If we're gonna do this right, his time is my time. When together we have OUR time. We'll need discussions on how to spend it. We'll both give and take, stand and sway. It's the only way to make it work. The only way not to hold anything over each other. The only way to both get what we need and want. He goes to Fry's, I take time out for photographs. He sleeps, I bop around the convention center. He reads a thick novel, I try to pry my way into a film panel and then have a hearty cry because nothing is going like I want it to.

I'm still new to this thing, still confused and figuring. Still like a little girl playing house. Still an irrational adult, driving angry and scaring my passenger/prisoner. He's sat willingly beside me since then, but I sense the tension. I'm still sorry for that.

We can't go backwards. Two shy seekers peering at life through a little hole in the world. Alone, depressed and sometimes shattered. Teach me how we move ahead together.

Holy Fuck!

People, being stuck in traffic is no joke!! For an hour we literally DID NOT MOVE. I even left on time today. In fact, I skipped brushing my teeth so I could get on the road early. What, I ask you, did my commitment to getting to work on time get me? NOTHING!!! I leave at 7:50 am. I get to work at 9:40 am when this trip, with normal traffic, should have only taken about 25 minutes. AAARRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Of course, when I need to hear traffic on the radio there is none to be found...anywhere. I had to get to work to find out that the highway I was on was actually CLOSED DOWN, folks. This is why we had no movement for a solid hour. Granted, there was a bad accident. Granted, I'm lucky to not have been involved in that accident. But fuckity-fuck-fuck y'all! Look how damn-ass long it took me to get to work.

I made the mistake of leaving my car on for most of that time. I kept thinking "We're going to start moving soon, right? We have to start moving before long now. Don't we?" Oh, foolish little girl! How wrong I was. And I was so close to an exit, but I was in the fast lane and couldn't get over. No one would move! A few brave souls managed to maneuver themselves to the exit after backing up or driving over the grassy knoll between us and the exit. I was so proud of them. "Tell my mom I love her," I shouted after the escapees. "Send help," I pleaded. They didn't listen. Bastards.

I feared for awhile that we would never get out. In the year 2929 archaeologists would find me, fossilized, in my '98 Ford with my foot on the brake, hands on the wheel and mouth locked into a perma-scream. Upon my arrival at the j.o.b. I had a friend suggest that this should not have been excruciating at all, seeing as how I had a chance to relax as I sat hostage in my vehicle. Look everybody, right now I will tell you that after about 10 minutes of sitting in the same spot and staring at a viable exit I could not get to that the only thing that began to relax me was the idea of bitch-back-handing EVERYONE I could! Multiple times. For days to come.

I suppose that's the end of my rant. Now I need to go find cookies to soothe my soul and some sucker to punch.

Vent

I HATE MY PERIOD. And I will tell you right now that I DO NOT want to hear any crap about it being a gift because it means I can have kids. I am, at 31, pretty positive I NEVER want to actually birth my own spawn. I sorta think it's kinda selfish without at least considering also adopting one of the millions of children who've been abandoned for whatever reason. But now I'm getting off topic.

I HATE MY PERIOD. I was fine for most of this morning. Within the last hour, though, I've had every negative emotion humanly possible rattling around in my brain. Hate, rage, anger, sadness, depression...I can go on but won't. I should mention that all that bad juju was directed at ME. FUCK! Like I don't have enough to put up with from the outside.

I HATE MY PERIOD. Did I tell you it's messy? Nobody likes to talk about it, but hell! Is it ever fucking messy to deal with. The worst for me is at night. I use ultra-super-jumbo maxi goodness with WINGS and WALLS and wear two panty liners people, and STILL cannot keep my damn period in that area. I have to sleep on my side to try and keep it in the desired space and often even that doesn't work. Finally fucking-ass tired of ruining sheets about two years ago, I resorted to sleeping on my old robe. On my side. With all that feminine padded protection. Do I need to say, really, that this sometimes still DOES NOT WORK?! And I'm not talking massive quantities here. Sometimes there will be just a little dribble. But If I've disrespected the menses goddesses somehow...well, it's gonna end up somewhere crazy. Like, no lie folks, THE MIDDLE OF MY BACK! Dammit!! I had to wash my shirt in the bathroom sink. Pure fucking ridiculous dick sucking shit!!! Thank God the robe is dark plaid so that the stains don't show well. Shit.

To top off my excellent day my negativity has led to my eating like a starved giant on his way to the gas chamber. Which means gaining weight. That means added bloat and assorted puffiness. This will all lead back to more depression/sadness which may lead to me ripping my lower woman bits out with my bare hands.

Who's with me?

Well Now

I have a sneaking suspicion that this blog, and the ones I've come to read/comment on, only give me another means by which to allow the world to ignore me.

Citygirl

The last one is my favorite. Courtesy of googlism

citygirl is a graduate of both the american academy of dramatic arts and ccny
citygirl is ryles
citygirl is extremely pleased to confirm james earl jones for the postscreening discussion to be moderated by eugene nesmit
citygirl is a dumbass on tue sep 10 14
citygirl is a dumbass subject
citygirl is my last name
citygirl is the director of yet another upcoming theater group called salaam
citygirl is walt
citygirl is a hobitch

Mean Green

What is it about realizing I have my hands on more money than I thought I did that makes me want to spend every cent of it? It's deeper than that actually. Even when I have NO cash to spare, my instinct is to throw it away on useless stuff. And not just some of it, people. Copius amounts of my limited resources. I have a serious problem. Does anyone else suffer from this affliction?

I find myself in a bind now, needing to plan a trip to Austin for next month, buy pretty much everything one could need to keep an 8-year-old car running and purchase a new mattress and box spring. Ask yourselves what I most want to do? Buy shoes? Yes! Acquire a new (and obscenely expensive) camera? Certainly! Add to my already bloated collection of lip glosses considering I only have two pairs of lips and only one of them is lip gloss material? You bet your sweet asses!

Why does spending make me feel healthy and alive and like a real living grown-up? I used to be able to budget, I swear I did. This is back in the days when I had just moved out of my mom's and was only a year and a half out of college. I bought nothing. No cd's (I still used the double deck tape player I got for my 16th birthday), no videos (what's a dvd player?), no clothes, no meals out. Financial stability through simplicity. And total boredom. I never went out, but since I was sad all the time and felt like a blob of useless semi-humanity I guess that's understandable.

Then something happened. I decided to just go ahead and get a frivolous little thing for myself. Fuck, ya'll; that was hella fun!! Then I actually found myself with a few friends. Naturally they wanted to go to movies and eat out and shop. Why not join them? I never did anything fun. I've even roped my recently acquired boyfriend into it. Baseball bat for burglar protection? Check. Nerf guns and ammo? Check. Ultimate Mahjongg cd-rom? Check and re-check.

Five years later here I am. I'm not in the poor house but I have the checking account of a 12-year-old. Savings? Wait, say that again. I think I need to look it up. I even had a part-time gig to supplement my income. Guess where I worked? Lord and fucking Taylor! They could have just kept my check because most of it went back to them anyway. I'm actually glad they fired me.

So now I look cute and have friends and fun but no reliable stores of dinero. There's got to be a middle ground.

To All the Men I've Loved...

Don't get too excited (I'm looking at YOU boyfriend), this isn't as glorious as it sounds. See, my boy and I have a thing we do. I've given him permission to ooogle any "cute black ladies" as long as they are on tv or otherwise so far away from him that he will never actually come into contact with them. He can feel free to share his erection-inducing desire for their girl parts with me. He can even suggest that I have wild lesbianic sex with them while he watches and then cums all over us. (He likes to say, "Any jizz I get on that other lady will just be incidental, honey. 'Cause that's all for you. Just for you." Grin. Thanks babe.)

Granted, when I gave him the ability to speak freely he didn't realize it meant I'd be doing the same thing with any men I found even slightly attractive on tv. Ha!

So here, because I feel like listing past and present obsessions, are some of the men I hanker for. Grrrrrrr, meow!

1)Daniel Craig: The new James Bond. So very, very smooth.
2)Eric Bana: It's the eyes. Deep.
3)Shemar Moore: Holy fuck! He's just plain hot-ass!!
4)Larenz Tate: Revived in a new tv show and cuter than EVER before.
5)Lenny Kravitz: He sings. Need I say more?
6)Clive Owen: I like an accent, ok? Wanna make something of it?
7)Hugh Jackman: Wolverine's not afraid to play gay for pay 7 times a week. That's hot.
8)Joe Flanigan: I'm a sci-fi nerd. This Stargate:Atlantis actor is my secret boyfriend.
9)Colin Farrell: It's the bad boy thing. And the fact that he's so damn fine.
10)Kelly Jones: None of you know who this is. And that's alright with me.