PedNONONOphilia

So today a huge debate sprayed out over freedom of speech all over Amazon’s face. I know what freedom of speech is. In my opinion, (FREEDOM OF SPEECH I GET MY OPINION!!) freedom of speech is more times than not some loud idiot who thinks they know everything yelling about a bunch of crap that doesn’t make any sense and then when people are like, “Dude don’t yell that crap, it’s completely uncalled for,” they yell back in what I picture a Larry The Cable Guy voice, “FREEDOM OF SPEECH!” while standing behind and American flag and waving a gun in each hand with two angry pitbulls barking by their side.

Okay so I exaggerate. Freedom of speech is great in many ways. I don’t think we should be limited to what we want to see or say to an extent, but I don’t think it is something that should be taken advantage of either, and then backing yourself up by yelling the phrase the second someone says back off. I am also aware of things called courtesy, respect, ethics, blah blah blah. Of course we can’t walk around whispering, afraid that we are going to offend someone at any given moment, but we do have the ability not to act like loons too.

What I’m referring to here was the book "The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure: A Child-Lover's Code of Conduct,” being placed on Amazon.com today. Now of course everyone got really riled up, a Facebook page was created, 10,000 people joined in hours, I didn’t because I hate getting unnecessary updates on things, especially months after the fact. Amazon really didn’t have a whole lot to say about it initially. I think their PR rep may or may not have been hungover, but it was along the lines of, “We aren’t pulling this e-book , freedom of speech, words words words.”

And then it hit the news. The author, Phillip R. Greaves II, happily took on interviews of course. The scary thing is, because of all the media coverage, all the pedos out there are probably clamoring to buy this book now. He claims to be a non-practicing pedo. My ass. If you are writing a guide on how to violate children, you can’t tell me you haven’t tried something before or studied it. The book talks about how fondling and kissing children is okay, but penetration is not. The description of the book reads, “"my attempt to make pedophile situations safer for those juveniles that find themselves involved in them, by establishing certian [sic] rules for these adults to follow.”

Okay, well first of all, this guy is stoked because his book is getting exposure. Second of all, he put his stupid face out there continuing to defend and promote this. I can tell you one thing, dude is probably going to end up murdered.

Sooo, I guess since it was totally cool and nice of him to make this book, when we have kids, instead of giving them copies of “Everybody Poops,” let’s give them this “How to Get Violated by an Adult and Like It” book instead. Now listen Johnny, at some point in your life, a creepy man may offer you candy to get in his van. You should probably take that candy and let him do certain things to you, but this book outlines what he can’t do to you. Have a nice not messed up life!

But then again, I’m a person who thinks that nobody should even be allowed to exclusively date until they are 25 because even then we are still bumbling around with our still forming brains sloshing around in our too big heads trying to figure everything out. So call me weird if I think it's pretty atrocious that this dude wants to let the world know that dating children is perfectly acceptable. There is no such thing as a willing child when it comes to pedophilia.

Again, freedom of speech. I know. We can argue that until we are both blue in the face and fall over and wake up from our lack of oxygen nap and keep arguing it again. And then people start saying, “If you pull that then are you going to pull (insert hypothetical scenario here) too? I don’t want to get into hypotheticals today because the bottom line is:

NOBODY LIKES PEDOPHILES. Nobody! I bet not even pedophiles like pedophiles! I have never once heard a person say, “Well you know pedophilia, yeah, it’s wrong, but I can see where he’s coming from.” People that savagely murder people, people that beat women to pulps, people that rob banks, all of them serving time in prison feeling no remorse whatsoever for what they did, don’t like pedophiles.

So Amazon pulled the book finally. And then put it back on. And then pulled it again. Like I said, the PR person was hung over. I think, no matter what, that this is one of those instances where there is an exception to the rule, and this is where freedom of speech should not be taken into consideration. As a matter of fact can we make a “Pedophile Clause” where it doesn’t count when it comes to freedom of speech?

Work: My Eternal Purgatory

This one time, I walked out on a job. I felt like raising my fist in the air like the rebel at the very end of The Breakfast Club while "Don't You, Forget About Me" played. It's five years later. I work at eBay now. I still don't make as much as I did at that previous job, but honestly, I won't complain. Leaving that previous job was probably the best decision I ever made.

Per my previous post, I was REALLY sick at this point in my life. I don't know what officially happened to me but the final conclusion was a strong dose of antibiotics that finally fixed me. I was on FMLA at my old job and lots of people would question as to whether or not I was making it up. Basically that led to me standing up and yelling, "Guys I'll be right back! I have to take a shit!" To which my old boss finally took me aside and quietly told me that I didn't need to explain to everyone what I was doing when I stood up. I told him that everyone thought I was feigning an illness that was ruining my life, so I figured they may as well know if they were so curious. By the way, it's illegal to speculate as to why people are on FMLA, the gossip girls did just that all of the time. We even had a meeting with HR explaining this to them numerous times. They just couldn't stop though.

Also, the supervisor that wouldn't piss on me to put it out if I caught on fire? He got shitcanned from Harland awhile after I started at eBay. Why? He was playing World of Warcraft instead of doing his job. Suck it Martin! You looked like Peter from Family Guy! Your ex-girlfriend who skinned your Alf doll in High School and stuffed him in his locker knew what she was doing!

Read below:

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

So sometimes the question arises in everyone's life: Did I do something wrong in a past life? Was I a serial killer, rapist, bank robber or Dr. Laura?

I have often questioned that in the course of my years working at my job in sunny Harland. The place started off as a haven for call center holocaust survivors.

Then about two years into it we got a new director. I swear he thought we were his boot camp recruits. All respect for employees went down the toilet and just didn't quite flush.

We were treated as money making tools, our department never got acknowledged and you just got smoke blown up your ass all of the time.

So four years into it, yesterday I think I finally just snapped.

Victoria had recently just quit, my friend Aubrey had left to have her baby, I had just gotten back from vacation, and I was left with nobody to back me up in my department.

I have often dreamed of walking out on break to have a cigarette, only to get in my car and never come back. I've never been quite brazen enough to do that and I would trudge back into work with a small shudder.

Yesterday I got into work a bit late. The day had already gone to shit. Our department is generally very slow 20-30 calls a day. But somehow all the calls from other departments started routing into mine. They told us to just deal with it and to take the phone calls even though we had either not taken these calls in over a year or had not been trained in the ones coming through. All day we were 30 in cue with a 30 minute hold time, only to get a pissed off customer who would get even more pissed off when they found out we had absolutely no prowess in taking their calls.

At 4:30, everyone but me is left in my department. I am there from 4:30-6 alone.

My competent boss, note sarcasm here, didn't bother checking in to see if I was ok before he left at 3:30. One of the girls on my team called downstairs to see what we were going to do once they all left and I would be alone to contend with this mess.

They said that I should just "deal with it." Deal with it. They couldn't have suggested me routing the calls to the correct department, or sent someone up to help me out. I just had to deal with it.

So I decided maybe they should just deal with it. I packed up my shit, waited until my 4:30 co-workers left, and took off, with nobody there to take the calls.

In a moment of empowerment, I walked out of a job that paid me $12.72 an hour because finally bending over for that wasn't just much fun anymore.

My boss was PISSED today. He was so mad at me because he thought it was all about him. He spoke of never helping me out or actually I believe the correct term he used that if I was on fire he wouldn't piss on me to put it out.

Because to him, it wasn't about me. It wasn't about respect and treating your employees like they were human beings and having an ounce of sympathy for situations we are in or the daily stress we go through to get our jobs done so that we can make their damn company some more money.

I am now faced with the reality that I do not have a real job, I have a very part time night job. I have a car payment, cell phone bill, insurance and groceries to buy. I am faced with the fear of the unknown and the definite possibility of a pay cut in my next job whatever it may be.

But I don't regret a minute of it!

The Ocean Absconded With My Sea Legs

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

My trip to Vegas/California was definitely something I needed to get out of a slump. Plus I always need a nice long drive to remind me that buying plane tickets can be a good thing.

So much happened, and I don't feel like writing a book on it, but I am going to put the highlights of this trip down.

My cousin Nicole and I left at 2:00 on Friday. It was pretty non-eventful, with great conversation that made the ride go much faster and smoother. Midway into the trip we drove into a gorgeous rest stop and downed two beers each to balance out all of the energy drinks we had been guzzling.

Got into Vegas around 8:30 to stop at my cousin Kurt's house. I hadn't seen him in years. He has the cutest wife named Elizabeth and an equally cute little boy named Austin. Other cousins Suzanne and Michele were there as well. We had a good dinner and sat down for reminiscent times.

After that we followed Michele and Suzanne to their place. Michele took Nicole and I out to a casino sans strip. You will soon find that people who live in Vegas never want to go to the strip, it has become old and tedious. We had some of the best margaritas and bloody marys I have had in my life. I got drunk really fast, and we left around midnight.

Michele got more beer. Her, Nicole, and I sat on her back balcony having some of the best conversation in the world. These girls are related to me but I feel almost like they are these intelligent strong deities. I feel like I should be paying for their company. Four o'clock was bedtime.

Wake up at ten on Saturday hungover. Vegas will do that to you. You don't even have to be on the strip to want to be drunk or in some sort of party mode.

Suzanne agreed to drive us to California which was very nice of her considering Nicole and I would have been taking baseball bats to cars by the end of this trip if we had to drive them anymore.

We got into Redondo Beach at 5:00 and right over to my cousin Charise's house. Her boys Cody and Colton are eight now, I swear every time I see them they have gotten bigger and smarter. I all of the sudden feel like the old crazy cousin that wants to pinch their cheeks and kiss them all over. If I did that I am sure I would get a nice shin kicking!

Charise took us to see this view of the ocean that was indescribable. I guess anyone's first view of the ocean is just that though. It is so infinite.

Then we went to Joe's Crab Shack. Travel weary, I couldn't believe there were so many damn birthdays in one day and Joe's likes to let you know it with dancing, singing and strobe lights that were seconds away from giving me a seizure. At least the food and company made it worth it.

Sunday, Nicole and I decided to hit up the beach. It was Labor Day Weekend so there was a market going on. Everyone in California seems pretty casual, walking around in their bathing suits, no need for makeup. I thought it would be Silicone Valley of the Scary Barbie Dolls, but even people with cellulite let it all hang out.

It was 72 and a bit overcast and I took a big step in my life and gasp!!! I wore a bikini top and laid in the sun. It was euphoric. I could see now why people get suckered down there.

We walked out to the ocean and I tentatively put my feet in and stood there for a few moments before we left the beach.

Remember when I said people in Cali were laid back? Well I was wrong in a way. Nicole and I stood by a building having a cigarette, minding our own business when this woman shouted "Excuse me! Excuse me!" Instinct told me she wanted a cigarette to because that is what always happens in Utah, so as I was acknowledging her and getting ready to reach into my purse, I see this blonde the weight just melted off after I had the baby woman with her husband and child.

"Can you two please not smoke?" she said. "I have my child out here." She was literally 25 feet away from us. Talk about ownership of the air. Californians think they do. We kindly obliged and went to stand by the dumpsters like the trash we were. Muttering about how her baby was just going to get cancer anyway because of all the smog.

After showering at Charise's and having a nice dinner she cooked for us we hit up tourist trap Hollywood. It is amazing, the history of that place. But it is so dirty and sketchy out there, that you couldn't pay me to live there.

I went to Sephora and dropped $70 just like that. It was getting dark and we decided to head home. All the crazies come skittering out of the woodwork about then. We walked by a gang of guys yelling at a person with his girlfriend in front of us saying "What you lookin' at Motherfucker? Huh? Huh? Look again I bust a cap in you." Sure enough the dumbass kept looking as one of the men lifted his shirt to reveal a gun. The guy ducked into the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum only to be followed by them. Wow, if I ever go down, I don't want it to be because I looked at someone.

After Hollywood, we got back to Redondo and had a nice sit down at Bucca De Beppo. I am amazed at what one glass of wine can do to a person.

Nicole, Suzanne, and I headed to our hotel room we were staying in that night, but first stopped off at the Drugstore to get more drinks. Hey, if one glass of wine can make me feel that good what can half a bottle do for me?

As Suzanne headed down for a slumber, Nicole and I sat outside finishing the wine. In our drunken excitement at two in the morning we decided to walk down to the beach.

We passed a bar that was having last call. I always forget about the free pouring that goes on out of state so our drinks were all man. I think I would have been a lot different had I just stuck to the wine.

Bar closed, we walked to the ocean, first thing we do? Run in. The water was warm. The moon was out and the waves were crashing down like mad. After we got our clothes soaked, I decided to put my pants and shirt with my purse on the beach. We laid in the ocean for what had to be more than an hour. It was unlike any experience I have ever really had.

After a while we stumbled out to make our arduous journey home. I could not, for the life of me, find my pants. The ocean must have eaten them. Luckily I had a long sweater, but somehow managed to also lose my tank top in the process. So I am walking down the street at four in the morning with no shirt or pants with a long sweater.

Some guy stopped Nicole and I and shouted "Hey! Do you know how to get to this or that place or the other?" We told him we weren't from there and he almost acted offended that we couldn't help. He said he was from Arizona and his buddies ditched him and he was lost. I said "Look on the bright side, it could always be worse. YOU COULD BE MISSING YOUR PANTS!!!!"

We of course got lost and had to call Anthony, Charise's husband at four in the morning to come get us. He later told Charise that we looked like a bunch of hobos.

Nicole and I stumbled into bed talking pirate talk and how the ocean stole my sea legs with an occasional drunken yarrr yarrr coming out of our mouths.

Waking up the next day reminded me why I never drink wine. I was covered head to toe to crevice to orifice to crack in sand. I cannot believe I slept like that. I think I had swallowed way too much sea water the night before.

In a desperate attempt to stave off any impending doom, I drank some Immodium and had some breakfast with Suzanne, Charise and Nicole.

After getting the hell beat out of me, it was time to leave California. Suzanne, Nic and I packed up and took off.

We reached Vegas around four, hit with the reality that we still had a seven hour drive ahead of us.

We got a nice dinner of burger and fries and made our way out around 5:30. This was exhausting.

Mid way through getting home the saltwater, and all the bad food I had eaten began its course of revenge on me. Poor Nicole was stopping at every other rest stop for me which I am sure delayed our trip home by a good hour. No amount of Immodium was going to stop my stomach's protest at this point.

I took over the driving and lasted maybe an hour before I started to hallucinate and things started blurring together. Some guy had also pulled so close behind me that it was unnerving because I was going about 90 and that just wasn't good enough for him so had to start flashing his brights at me. Bit of advice for you angry drivers, don't flash your brights at a night blind person it makes it worse. I was quickly gaining on a semi too that was going far slower. The asshole passed me and pulled up in front of me. Surprise, he was behind the semi that was going slower than I and he happened to be boxed in. Nicole and I decided it was time to be funny, so I pulled up behind that guy as close as I could and started to flash my brights at him repeatedly. He couldn't do anything or go anywhere, so we had a good tired laugh over that.

After violating every bathroom from Vegas on up to Utah, we were finally home.

I ran inside put my stuff away and passed out.

I had to work the next day at 9:30 but that is a whole other story.

Wax On Wax Not Off

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


In this modern day of technological advancements and scientific marvels, I would figure there would be better methods for hair removal. I, for one, hate the whole process.

So why do you continue to torment yourself while doing it? You might say. Well, since I don't hug trees or participate in enough protests, it is just something that I feel more comfortable without on my body.

Over the years, I have experimented with several methods to no successful avail. Having sensitive skin, not a lot of things take to right to it without attacking.

I remember buying Nair, really excited about the fact that as my hair dissolved down to the roots that I would have shiny tan legs like those women who wore short shorts on the commercials. I ended up instead with a giant flesh eating rash on each of my legs, which then resulted in a lot of tears streaming down my face.

Razors. They are another shaving foe to contend with. The effect that you get from a razor doesn't last long enough at all. If I catch even the slightest cool of a breeze, hair starts prickling back out of my body. There is also no way to describe the feeling that you get when you are in the tub running a razor up your shin and out of nowhere a big chunk of flesh comes up with it. You stare down at your leg, which now resembles a potato that is being peeled. A very bloody, screaming potato.

Electrolysis is next. Since I work at a call center who gives me raises that are, say, twenty two cents a year, I cannot afford the luxury of this permanent hair removal. I suppose I could stop paying my rent for a few months, but I don't think my landlord cares whether or not I have hair on my body. So until the day my sugar daddy comes running up to me, insisting to pay for this, electrolysis is out of the question.

Finally, there is waxing. A great concept. Rips the hair out, you are baby smooth for a good six weeks or so. This is something you can pay someone to do, or you can go to a store, buy your own, and do it yourself. Well since I dread going to the doctor once a year to pull down my pants and spread my legs, it is pretty much out of the question that I am going to someone I don't know at all to rip hair out of my crotch region. So I buy my own wax.

It is never as perfect and easy as it seems though. Wax is so messy. You have to heat it and mix it up until it reaches the perfect consistency. One time, I went to pull it out of the microwave and two runny droplets fell onto my unsuspecting fingers. It was so hot that when I went to pull the wax off of my skin, the flesh came right off with it. Then I had to go the next few weeks explaining to everyone how this happened.

So, a week ago, I made my way to the beauty supply store and dropped twenty dollars on a wax kit. Yes, that is how much you have to pay to get everything for the most part. Don't forget razors, shaving gel, after shave lotion, all this crap that you have to buy for hair upkeep, of all things.

Usually with the wax I buy, you heat up, put it on your skin, wait for it to dry, yank, and it comes right off.

I pulled out my new kit to inspect what a potentially great new product I may have in my hands. I didn't notice this before but this was honey wax. You put it on your skin, take a cloth, push it down, and yank. This new stuff was also very very sticky.

I microwaved it, did a test strip on the back of my wrist to make sure it wasn't too hot. Satisfied that I wasn't going to burn the hell out of myself, I got out a dollop and tried it on my upper thigh.

I pushed the cloth strip down and proceeded to pull it off my skin. Half of the wax came off of that area. I had to try and get the rest to come off ,so three tries later I had finally succeeded.

Oh, and yes, this was extremely painful. Just in case everyone isn't aware, you are not supposed to wax the same area twice. It pulls the blood vessels up to the surface of your skin and creates bruises. So great, my upper thigh was throbbing in pain, and bruised.

The cloth strips were shedding into little lint pieces as well and embedding themselves into the wax.

I got another applicator and a gob of wax fell straight onto my bathroom rug. I promptly stepped right into it. Anything that was on my bathroom floor starts to adhere to my foot. Dirt, hair, an old wrapper.

I was also trying to get all of this done before the wax cooled. Another gob fell off and onto my favorite towel.

I felt completely sticky and disgusting, attempted a few more spots before giving up in defeat.

Oh and that test patch I did on the back of my wrist? It is now a giant red mark from when I had to try and get all of it off by scrubbing and picking at it.

Maybe I am just not quite getting it. I mean the pros that do this for people all the time don't seem to have a problem. Maybe that girl in the beauty salon could do a better job. Is it worth it though?

That, I am not sure as of yet. Maybe I should just start hugging trees.


Now: August 21, 2010


All I can say is thank you Jesus for advances in technology that were a few years away. I totally financed laser hair removal like the American consumer I am, and I slapped $1000 on a credit card to get laser hair removal. I later went on and paid another $300 to get my underarms done, that's how much I loved it.

The laser hair removal process is embarrassing, funny, and painful all at the same time, there's another blog that will explain that years on down the road. I rationalized this by figuring in the cost and time that I spent with all this wax, not to mention impending possible emergency room visits given the chance that I sealed my vagina shut with honey wax.

Saving Face

Another oldie. Oldy? Moldy.


Monday, August 15, 2005

Saving Face

So I have had a love of makeup for as long as I can recall. I think my earliest memory would be stealing my mother's blue mascara from her and learning how to apply it in the second grade. That is when it began. I have been wearing some form of makeup since about the second grade.


I don't wear it because I think I look ugly without makeup, or to make men think that I look better. I do think makeup definitely has enhancing qualities to the face and it can bring out features on somebody with it on. But I don't NEED it, I just enjoy the ritual of putting it on, seeing what I can do different with my face that day, trying to make my eyes look more blue or gray, pronouncing my cheeks or putting on some bright red lipstick to make my lips stand out, matching my eyeshadow to my clothing. It is almost like art for me. Anybody that knows me, knows I wear a lot of makeup. Some days I do it up just right, some days it is borderline ridiculous. Other times it is hardly any at all.

So, in with loving makeup, which may seem materialistic or vain, but if you read the above paragraphs it really isn't, I have to purchase it. I buy all sorts of makeup. I buy the cheap stuff, the medium price, the overpriced, and the overly super inflated ridiculously priced. When you go to Wal-Mart to buy one dollar eyeliner, you really don't put a lot of thought into it, you put it in the basket, hope it looks good, if not, oh well you are out a dollar. Sometimes after working at the bar I will stop off at Wal-Greens to pick up something I need and get sucked into the makeup aisles. I will be there for a half hour picking one or two new eyeshadows out or a foundation I have been wanting to try.


For the most part, I don't need to go to the makeup counters, you can find things that are comparable at the cheaper places. But every once in awhile, flipping through a magazine some new shiny promising product will catch my impressionable eye and I have to have it, got to try it out, need it now I don't care if it is just sparkly mascara & and it is $30 I am getting it right after work!


Then comes the dilemma of actually hitting up a, shudder, counter. I am not being paranoid or making any of this up. Dealing with the bitch at the counter. Countless times I have been to makeup counters without getting any help whatsoever, I have been completely brushed off. Once again, anybody who knows me will tell you that on a given day I am one to drop $100 on an eyeshadow,some lipstick and some blush. These girls are making commission, I assume, so I guess it makes me feel even worse when they don't pounce on me and sink their talons right in.


Granted I don't look like I am loaded by any means. Actually I am not loaded by any means. But I am horrible with money and when I get extra money there are about three things I am more than likely to spend it on even over groceries. Music, makeup, & clothing. I once went to Vegas with my friends with no intent to gamble. I knew there was a Sephora and it had every kind of makeup imaginable all wrapped into one big giant store. I went to Vegas to blow money in that one store. I believe the first day in there I spent $160. I went back the second day and spent $50.


So comes the cliche term, don't judge a book by its cover.

I made my way down to Cottonwood Mall on Friday to return a skirt I had bought that was too big (suprise!) and a shirt I had purchased months before that I never wore. I had the receipt for the skirt but not for the shirt. I returned the skirt and got money back. For the shirt, I got about $30 in store credit. I couldn't find any clothing so I figured I hadn't bought any nice makeup in awhile and I would make my way down to the counters.


I browsed around for awhile, not seeing anything that quite caught my eye. I usually don't buy from the Clinique counter but they have an overpriced $12 mascara that I love but haven't been able to afford in awhile. Also they had some new blush and eyeliners out that I was quite taken to. I stood there for a good five minutes browsing waiting for the lady that was so obviously behind the counter to help me.


She looked like she was in her 50's, blonde dyed hair, botoxed a bit that was probably in need of a touchup soon, smart looking suit on. Completely ignoring me. I tried a few times to make eye contact with her at no avail.

Bored, I decided maybe I would go browse a couple more counters. Nothing that I really wanted.


I ambled back to the Clinique counter wondering if maybe my BRIGHT FUCKING PINK HAIR hadn't quite caught her attention the first time. Well apparantly it hadn't the second time as well.

I stood there not looking at anything, kind of like when you set down your menu at a restaurant to let the waitress let you know that you are ready? Nothing.

A couple in their 30's walked up with a small child that looked maybe three. They were literally standing there for about one minute when the woman rushed over to them and asked if she could help them. They weren't quite sure of exactly what they wanted, so she coached them through what each item was, what it did, how much it cost.

Great. Well, maybe they were going to spend more money then myself. I should have just up and left by this time, but it was almost to where I wanted to make this woman help me at this point.

The couple made their purchase which came to $30, the same amount I was about to spend.

After they left, it took a good two or three minutes of me giving her a dirty look to come help me.

"Can I help you?" she asked wanely. "Yes, I would like some of this new blush you have here." "Sorry, we are sold out of that." "Ok," I said "I would like some of the High Impact Mascara in black please." She went and grabbed it and didn't politely ask if there was anything else she could help me with. Instead, she said "What else do you want?" "Well, I would like to know if you have anything comparable to that blush you are sold out of, you know something light and shimmery?" "All of our colors are on the makeup wall, you can go look at those if you want." Wow! what sales skills!!! What a great tactic! Go do it yourself if you want to find it. Nevermind. "Ok?" I said "Can I actually just get this new eyeliner you have?" She came back after a minute of rooting around and said "Sorry, sold out." Then she just stared at me. "Alright,can I get it in black?" I queried. She went and grabbed it in black.

At this point I was really unsure of what to do. Should I make her ring it up and then I pay for it? Then wait about five minutes, come back and say "You know what? You are a bitch and I don't want you to get commission for any of this, could you please just return all of this? Thanks!"

As she coldly rang up my purchases, which came to, guess what? $30, the same that couple just spent. I had my gift card in my hand, that I got for store credit and she looked at me and said "Swipe your card." I said "I can't swipe my card, it is a gift card." So she takes it, finishes with my purchases and mumbles a thank you.

What did I do? Nothing. I took my shit, and her shit and got out of there. What does one do in a situation like that?

At least I got my free gift.

Now. August 19, 2010

Now that I am all old (30 gasp) My skin has gone through second puberty. It sucks. So now I feel like I need to wear some form of makeup every day. It sucks even more balls that I have to do that.

But now that I am all old, wrinkles and weird things happen to my skin. I wake up in the morning and look in the mirror, and I wonder who the hell is looking back at me. I am in school, so I don't sleep. So here comes the giant bags. I work under fluorescent lighting all day at work. That gave me a complex so terrible that I was convinced I needed Botox forever. I will hold off another five years when I have earned my cougar merit badge.

I still spend shitloads of money on the stuff though. I still flip through the magazines and I think, "If I own this one thing, it is going to change my life" It hasn't so far, but I haven't learned so far either.

We have a Sephora in Utah now. I am embarrassed to say that I waited in line on opening day for 1.5 HOURS to get in and peruse. I am not embarrassed to say that I wasn't aware that it was opening day but I felt since I had made my way down there I felt some sort of obligation to stand in line. Plus, I was hoping for free shit. I got a free tote for waiting all that time. Shit indeed.

I'm no longer afraid of makeup counters. Of all places to thank, I have the Chanel makeup counter. This wonderful woman there did my friend's makeup for her wedding and mine as well. She was quirky, older, sweet. She loved us. She loved that we were different than the usual people she got, and that she got to have fun with our makeup. Her name was Taylor and she was so very New York. As she applied my makeup, she would tell me how she goes to other Chanel stores to see how the employees treat her. She said no matter what you look like, they should never judge and always be willing to help. She has suckered me into spending $45 on blushes, $35 on lipsticks, $30 on eyeliners. Granted Chanel is decadently splurgalicious, but every penny is worth it when you get someone like that.

I have toned down my makeup over the years. Big time. No more glitter eyeliner, no more clown cheeks, and green eyeshadows. I look like I'm trying too hard now when I do that, and I like to look unnaturally natural now. Gone is the pink hair, and the juniors clothing that I liked to purchase at Hot Topic. My skirts now ALMOST hit my knees.

Though I may look about 10% classier, I haven't started acting it.

Funstalgic

Well I haven't deleted my stupid Myspace account because I like being spammed. Okay, maybe it is because I have 330-some odd blogs just hanging out on there being all ignored by me and I have this whole journalistic teenage notion that I can't erase them lest I forget. The next probably 300-some odd blogs on this page are going to be just those so I can close my "I'm Tom and I am billionaire for running what is now all spam" site account.Plus I just don't blog anymore. I think school is stealing my thoughts. Here we go.


I'm Waiting To Be Impressed- July 20th 2005


First of all let me preface this the way somebody would before they get ready to tell a joke that is dead baby or racist:

I am not perfect in any way shape or form, these are merely opinions and things that I could probably stand to work on a little more every day in my life. I am not telling anyone what to do or how to act according to my novice observations.

I always was very paranoid what people thought about me. Scared that they wouldn't like me, that I would or that I did say something completely and utterly idiotic out of nervousness or social retardation. It was a deep panic I would feel when I would meet somebody, my heart would palpitate and I would stutter over my words and try to say all the right things and laugh at the right times. If these people that I wanted to impress would say things that were rude or judgmental, I would go along with it as well for fear that I would not be accepted. I also did it because I felt like I had no self worth unless I could think of people in terms of beneath me. In the back of my head I always knew a lot of these people that I would consider friends were saying the same things about me that we would talk about to smear other people's characters. The difference between me then and me now: I was ages 13-15 when I did all of this.

Not that I have ever quite gotten rid of my social anxiety or the need to feel accepted by everyone around me, but it is not a hunger or intense paranoia that I feel about it. Not everyone is going to like me. Same as I with people in general. It is human nature. Plain. Simple.

I am still now fascinated by the sociological interaction that human beings will have when they are all put together and decide to gang up on a person or people. A witch hunt or wolf mentality, I would say. I would like to say that I love and accept everyone and be sincere about it but a part of me will always have a love/hate relationship with humanity. I am not the type of person who will give into phony behavior and try to say the right things at the right times, try to run someone's name into the ground just because I merely dislike them. It is too much energy that gets wasted on hate when it could be used toward more productive tasks such as making someone else's life better. I know it is much easier to judge someone, to be petulant, to hate something all because you don't understand it than it is to take the time and effort out of your life to try and look at someone as an extension of yourself and not a thing that you are competing with to gain a false sense of gratification.

What have you done today to assist humanity? What can you do to assist humanity? Really it isn't that difficult of a concept to grasp. If you could do things effortlessly and selflessly for others and expect nothing in return. Learn not to be disappointed, or angry when someone "fucks you over" I think we as a hoi polloi could go along our days as much more self assured, happier, secure group.

I try to look at my intent behind wanting to or saying something about somebody behind their backs. Is it true? Would I say it to their face? Do I really mean or believe that? Am I just saying this to make myself look or feel better?

I have never wanted to be classified as a phony or someone that tries to dupe people into thinking I am something that I am not, which in turn, could make me an unlikable person or even come off as strange.

I am at the point in my life where I can take accountability for my actions. I could make an itemized list of every choice that I have made that has led me up where I am right now accounting for the very second that I am writing this. It is choice theory, and the way you choose to live, treat others and react to situations is all solely based on you. Not others.

So in an ideal world I want people to stop whining and boobing about how fucking miserable their life is because of what a person did to them or their shitty upbringing and take some accountability to realize you are who you are based on yourself. These are all things that have happened because you chose to react to them the way you did and you are accountable for your coping abilities in that should not be someone else's fault.

I used to blame a lot of my failures and discontent on other people. I was angry at my parents,friends,enemies,strangers who cut me off, someone who talked behind my back for a long time because I thought it was their fault I ended up the way I was. I have a lot to thank them for. They gave me the capacity to love, to read, write, be passionate about learning, empathy, grace, not being selfish. And it isn't because they looked at me and said "LOVE, READ WRITE, LEARN." It all is based on the way I look back situations in my life and think about what I learned off all that I considered a bad time or even a good time for that matter.

So in all this incoherent babbling, what I am really trying to say is I am waiting to be impressed. I am waiting to find people that aren't so fucking petty and fake in their daily life that they have to meddle in other people's affairs just to give themselves a temporary lift. I want to see grownups acting like grownups without being smug or pompous about it.

Don't get me wrong I have a small handful of people in my life and I love them so much for all their good qualities. These will be people whom I plan on keeping with me forever. As for those of you that don't enhance my life, or want to be nice to my face but turn around and whisper about something I did twenty years or minutes ago that bothered you, go fuck yourselves. You are merely illusions of human beings and I don't have time to waste my time on what I don't even consider real.



Today: August 16. 2010

As I read back on that, I think not much has changed. I am still socially awkward. I have to have at least three drinks in me before the thought of being in a public setting doesn't set me on edge. The comfort of talking to strangers is probably never something I will possess, yet when approached, I would like to think that I am open, honest, likable. I would like to think now though, that I may say or do things that I consider embarrassing, I have overcome being gripped with a paralysis of paranoia. I am able to shake it off and laugh now, and I love that. I do what I can to try and make this world a happier place. Even in my negativity, I try to make everything funny. That's how I cope with being a generally awkward human being, and it has gotten me by thus far.

You know what though, I have talked mad shit. I can't help it. I am fascinated by people and the things they say and do. When I make fun though, it is never out of malice. And now if I ever get busted I am willing to own up to it. Confrontation was never my forte, but now I have to say that it is. Sure I get shaky and trip over my words when I am getting yelled at. But it's a far cry from just running away like I used to. I have become a more genuinely forgiving person too. I think I am just too alzheimered out to stay mad at anyone or anything for longer than one day. Thank you goldfish brain, you are serving me well. I feel anymore lately, I don't have time for agonizing over what the world thinks about me, but there is still that tiny little piece of me that wants to be liked by everyone. Thanks nature, or nacha!

'Merica: Where Ignorance Still Reigns Supreme

Sometimes I like to peruse our "news" so that I can see what is really not happening in the world, and today I came across an article where both sides couldn't have been any more dense or wrong to me.

Meet who should be immediately fired from CNN before the next article that leaks is that human beings have not evolved at all. This is merely the first paragraph of the article, something that is supposed to be considered front page "news""


Full article can be found here:
http://www.cnn.com/2010/POLITICS/06/08/rage.obama/index.html?hpt=C1

Snippet here:

Here's proof that President Obama has indeed ushered in a new era in race relations.

Who would have ever expected some white Americans to demand that an African-American man show more rage?

If you've followed the Gulf of Mexico oil disaster, you've heard the complaints that Obama isn't showing enough emotion.

But scholars say Obama's critics ignore a lesson from American history: Many white Americans don't like angry black men.

Call me silly, but I think Obama's race rage is something that should not have even been fathomed by people. We get it. He is an African-American, and our first African-American President at that. I understand how this is huge, and I love and respect that we are able to live in an era where I got to see this happen. But with two steps forward always comes that 500 steps back. Back to the future back.

There is the fact that people are making a feebled attempt to defend him by saying he he can't get pissed because he may come down with a case of ABMS (Angry Black Man Syndrome) Comparing him to what we need is a Sam Jackson blowup. And then what happens after that?

Does he get large and green? Do his clothes rip off?

The fact that people can attach Angry Black Man as a stigma onto our President kills me. No, no, no, people he hasn't gotten mad because once he gets ABMS all the whites are going to quiver with fear and he will probably singlehandedly mug, rape, and stab us all!!

This is the most veiled racist thing I have read in a long time from a supposedly reputable site.

What did George Bush do when he was President? I didn't hear people getting antsy pantsy about him not getting mad. As a matter of fact did he spring up from that chair when her heard about the September 11 attacks or did he go back to pretending to know how to read in front of kids?

That man was like a slug that had just been salted, and every word that came out of his mouth was like Skelator with a weak chin sniveling off ninnied nonsense until someone higher up explained to him the words he had to say.

So why the attack on this current President not being angry enough? Who are these people to equate yelling about someting as comparable to, I don't know, coming up with an action plan? Were they abused as children? Daddy yells because he cares.

And the people that came up with the rebuttal of angry black man is scary, and angry African Americans are freaky to us whites. We did a survey and found out that 4 out of 5 white people don't like it when black people yell, it makes them cry. What part of the white suburbs did they come crawling out of?

And I have a novel concept. How about we go back to focusing at the issues at hand and not focus on our non-screaming President and the color of his skin which is why he doesn't yell apparently, and regardless of how you feel about him, pay attention to his actions.

No wonder this man smokes. He is surrounded by idiots.

The Accidental Bulimic

So last week, I went out of town, and Sunday morning I woke up with a sweet bout of chest pain. How many people die of a heart attack at 30? I found myself asking. I passed it off as indigestion, (which is probably why I will end up dying of a heart attack) and figured I would eat a little bit lighter that day.

Monday, said chest pain was still there. It was uncomfortable, and on my way to the airport, I felt a little barfy. I hate flying, so needless to say I always feel a bit barfy when entering an airport and being on a plane, gripping that pack of cigarettes telling myself every time a patch of turbulence hits that I will be damned if I don't at least smoke once on a plane if we die. Probably how I will end up getting arrested on a plane.

Tuesday, I had the day off, and I didn't really eat all day. I went to my mom's and eat a smorgasbord of chips and popcorn all within my lazy arm's reach. Considering that wast he first thing I had eaten that day, it felt weird how full I was. On the way into my house I started slowly throwing it up. This is the kind of vomit, for the sake of making me sound adorable when I puke, that I will call kitty pukes. It only comes up a few tablespoons at a time and I don't make that horrible retching sound. It's like...."Bleh! Oh pardon me!" as I wipe my face.

Wednesday and Thursday it continued. I felt so full every time food would touch my lips and the chest pain was just chillin' there. Well, I wasn't dead yet, so it must not be my heart attack time. Friday I woke up telling myself if I felt the same way, I would go to Instacare. I felt the same way. But I wanted to go shopppping!!!! On my way out to go shopping, rationale kicked in and I went to the stupid Doctor.

"What are we seeing you for today?" the nice lady at the counter asked. "Well, since last Sunday, my chest has been hurting and I have been vomiting up all my food" I said politely and smiling.

She didn't even bother taking any of my stuff. Instead she screamed to a nurse, "WE HAVE SOMEONE HERE WITH CHEST PAIN! GET HER IN THE BACK NOWW!!" I was petrified. Note to self: If I ever want to get into Instacare without waiting again, I will just say chest pain. And then ask them to check on my ear infection/cold/flu whatever secondly. All my blood pressures came out fine. They made me do an EKG and an X-Ray of my chest while I was in there. Well, had I known I was going to be splayed out topless on a sterile metal table with lights and stickers all over me that day, I may have done some crunches. I felt like I was in the middle of an alien abduction.

As I figured, that stuff all came out fine. The doctor came in and told me I was experiencing esophageal spasms. Beautiful. Just beautiful. My weird shoddy genes kick in again. She explained to me that I needed an endoscopy sooner than later so that they could stretch out my esophagus so that I may start enjoying life again. She told me to go on an all liquid diet. I shook my head yes and smiled.

I am not going on an all liquid diet. The only way you could get me to do that is if you broke my jaw.

My mom asked if bourbon or scotch counted. I want to thank her for thinking I am that classy when I drink.

So going on day 9 now, I am still doing kitty pukes every time I eat. It's been a wonderful experience, having a conversation with someone and my mouth fills up. I have to hold my finger up as in "hold please!" turn around and spit into a garbage can, toilet, or on the ground. The other day at work was a crowning achievement when I quietly tried to not call attention to myself by vomiting pure coffee into a napkin. It all came spraying out the sides.

On the upside, this whole time, I thought I was this withery going to die at any moment girl, because for the past few years, I have been having heart palpitations. At times they are stronger than others, and I have just accepting my doom as I have been to doctors, and they merely told me to do yoga, relax and not stress so much. After looking into esophageal spasms, turns out it was not the old ticker after all! It was my esophagus, spasming out, there to remind me how much it loves me. Also if I eat the right kind of food, ie cake or candy, at least it comes out tasting the same?

I am making a doctor's appointment tomorrow by the way, I just keep forgetting to bring the papers with me. But for now, you can just whisper quietly to your friends when we hang out and I have to run away for a second, "That's my friend Dominique, she's an accidental bulimic."

Smokelore

With more cigarette taxes coming into full effect next week and my ever lying mouth talking about how I plan on quitting all of the time, the extra money that I could be spending on beer may be the thing that will have me stop putting my nicotine where my mouth is.

I have had some weak success in the past of going a few months without smoking here and there, generally it is replaced by a sucker and running addiction, but paired together, those can't be all that bad right? Unless I trip and fall while running with the sucker in my mouth, that may not be too pretty.

I purchased an e-cigarette awhile back, convinced that it would be the perfect replacement partner for my life, but much to my disappointment, it compares to someone getting dumped and replacing their past partner with a blow-up doll.

For those of you not up to par with your vice technology, e-cigarettes are not some little avatar that you watch smoke online, they are little electronic cigarettes that you screw a nicotine cartridge into and inhale your precious, precious nicotine that way. The unfortunate downside of this method is that even though I am expelling a non-harmful to those of you who pride yourselves on your lung capacity when I expel my vapor into the air, I would never dare hang out at my desk at work and puff away on one. I fear the looks that that electronic red fake burning tip and vapor smoke would draw over to my very private desk corner. The less people that know I exist here, the better, trust me.

So you are forced out with the other smokers on break who then start eyeing you as though you are the Terminator coming in to warn them of real cigarette destruction. Then comes the slew of questions that follow about it, and before you know it you are an unintentional spokesmam for the e-cigarette, which let me tell you is much less cool looking than being the Marlboro Man. I am pretty sure I saw the real Marlboro Man in a cowboy hat and boots at the gas station yesterday purchasing a 24 pack of Bud and a carton of Marlboros. He drove away in his white pickup truck and I thought, “Damnit I want to hang out with him, I bet he won’t ever smoke e-cigarettes.”

See, way cooler than the E-cigarette Man, who is probably sporting a small track jacket faux-hawk and too tight jeans with Converse on who only wants to talk politics to me and about what shitty taste I have in music, all while smelling perfectly cologned without a trace of the nostalgic smell of burnt tobacco on him.

I think I will give that cursed e-thing another whirl though before I have to start paying exorbitant amounts of money on 20 measly cigarettes that I will more than likely finish in a day and a half, and on and on and more than likely finish the whole pack once I am a few shots of whiskey and beers down in just mere hours over the weekend.

Huffing and puffing on that contraption in my room I call an elliptical machine has been a silent shame that I've been harboring over the last month. I bet if I took my wheezing ass to the gym to show the public what I have become, I may humiliate myself into stopping right then and there. The more likely end to that scenario is the usual one though; me lighting up right outside the gym doors after a rousing and heart pounding workout. Nothing tastes better than a cigarette burning in your mouth after some calories have been burned in your body.

The things I can justify not missing from smoking are few and far between because come on, I am a junkie for it, and I have to rationalize as much as I can when I think about all the benefits I reap from this life consuming habit.

I think back to all the social aspects of it, the wonderful people I have been able to drunkenly interact with while sitting outside having a cigarette, and of course in my younger years all the dreamy boys that I have laid eyes upon all while sitting outside smoking.

Well, I am hitched now, so there is no need for the "maybe if I light up outside that hot coffee cart dude will come out" hopeful moments, and I am not 17 so I don't have the vigor and energy that my once supple lungs supported, and I suppose I could stand outside the bar drunkenly meeting new friends while irritatingly explaining to them what my e-cigarette is and then drunkenly asking them for one of their cigarettes because I want a real one and don't want to spend the $7 on a pack, therefore bankrupting a nation of drunk smoking people over the next 15 years.

Or I could just keep talking about how I am going to finally quit and probably never do it, as per always, I mean why not? Talking about stuff is fun.

Let's Talk About Sex (& The City)

I know that I am probably going to catch about ten piles of hell for this, but I can no longer be consumed with this secret that I have been harboring for ten long years inside of me: I hate Sex & The City.

I know there are a lot of women out there and maybe even a man or two that are diehard fans, but I do not fall into that demographic. Many times I have sat quietly as I do when listening to men talk about sports, while female friends and acquaintances discussed episodes and their passion for it. I never said anything because one: I was outnumbered and didn't want to risk the sharp point of a stiletto meeting my eye when bringing up my feelings on this subject matter, and two: if they were my friends and they liked this show so much, I still wanted to keep them as my friends and I was too frightened of losing them over not enjoying all of the same things.

I am still scared of strangers, and I am pretty sure that my friends still like me the way I am, even if I can't sit down for an hour in front of Carrie typing away at her computer trite stories of falling in love with the least attractive people in New York City while wearing questionable outfits that probably would cost 6 months of my paychecks.

Admittedly when I would work a lot of overtime at home, while flipping through channels I would catch and episode here and there, but it was more background noise than anything. I found myself detesting the ever so breathlessly speaking Samantha (get an inhaler already) talk about all the younger dudes she was banging and was just happy to be that way. She should have just called it quits after Mannequin and Big Trouble In Little China, because that is the way that I wish to remember her.

Okay, and I draw a blank on the rest of their names. I promise. And I am too lazy to look them up. I think the uptight prudy one is Charlotte, and all she cares about is being a Stepford wife, and her friends find that very endearing, while I find it very appalling.

The red-headed one with the freakishly tiny head that perches atop a freakishly long neck disturbs me in all her cold rationale and unwillingness to forgive. I would imagine that would be one of those marriages that you get suckered into because you knocked her up and now you are stuck sucking on ice for the rest of your life. Which is what happened in the show.

And then there is our beloved SJP, who smokes cigarettes in her apartment longing for a man named Big, who is this hoity toity rich executive type but they can never quite seem to get it together to work. Did I mention all the dudes on this show are ugly? If we are going this far with the self-indulgent materialistic attitude of glamming up New York City, at least give me something to fantasize after.

Well. I did something bad, and I rented the movie from Netflix. Because I wanted to see what all the hype was about. I wanted to see if maybe my brushes with the T.V. show were just not enough, and that perhaps I would get some sort of better understanding out of this if I got it in a condensed version. Condensed was gratuitous 2 hours and 24 minutes by the way. The only time I want a movie that long and potentially crappy is if stuff is going to be blowing up A LOT. (See 2012)

Unfortunately within the first 20 minutes in of watching the movie, I came to the realization that nothing was going to blow up, but I was on my elliptical, and I still had another 30 minutes to kill. The movie starts out by catching you up on what all the ladies are doing now, which is pretty much nothing different except for being married, two have kids, and Samantha is still a whore but a Hollywood one now, because she probably wiped out a population in New York by infesting most of the males with STDs, and Carrie is now marrying Big, the man of her dreams.

There is a lot of extravagance going on, fancy parties, looking through old clothes as Carrie rushes to move out of her apartment and into the walk in closet as big as my house that Big has built for her, complete with a "girl power" music session that is as banal and predictable as any chick flick could offer. After 30 minutes, I came to the conclusion that I had never, ever, once in my life apologized to myself or anyone around me for a movie that I had rented from Netflix. That had just changed, and the amount shame I was feeling started to wash over me in great waves. Is there a way to erase the record of a movie being rented from Netflix?

These women were supposed to be 40+ years old, but the soundtrack to the movie was built for a 14 year-old girl. They characters were so materialistic and shallow, fraught with one-liners so cheesy and terrible that it made them completely unrelateable on any level. One scene depicts them all at lunch together with Charlotte's adopted three year-old daughter where they attempt to discuss sex, but need to use a different term so as not to scar the kid. They decide to ask each other how often they color with their significant others.

Carrie responds, "All I can say is when Big colors, he does it outside the lines." Followed by a series of high pitched ooooooohhhhhs! (must be the female equivalent of a high five in this movie)

And Samantha, dead set to get this ring at an auction with her money that she has earned in Hollywood, stops bidding at $40k. For a ring. That was her limit. I am supposed to be like "You go girl!!" To something like that? Don't worry, she gets home and is on the phone with her friend when her boy toy shows up, something large protruding from the crotch of his tight bathing suit when she breathlessly gasps into the phone, "I have to go....SOMETHING just came up!" Good one. He then pulls the ring out, which he paid 60k for because he wanted to get it for her. Before being happy and accepting one 1/3rd of what my house cost, she wants to make sure it is just a ring and not an engagement ring before she can show any sort of excitement for receiving it.

Once all of New York gets word of Carrie getting married, they are on it like flies and poo. They put her on Vogue magazine where she tries on dresses, and it leads to a 15 minute scene which could have been all together cut of her just namedropping off designer names that she loves. If I want to know who all the designers in this world are, I don't need a movie for that, please just keep giving me what little plot there is, I will go Wikipedia it somewhere.

She gets the dress of her dreams, she gets the wedding of her dreams, apparently price does not matter in this film, everyone is just dripping with money, I am sure at some point there is a scene where Samantha wipes her ass with $100 bills.

Now I am adding the spoiler alert, and I probably shouldn't even forewarn because the point of all of this is to deter you from watching the movie, but when Carrie gets to the place to get married, with an overly large peacock feather sticking out of her head that just looks uncomfortable and awkward, (I could be wrong it may have been an full peacock,) she is wondering where Big is. Well, Big has been trying to call her, but Charlotte's three year-old has placed Carrie's cell phone in her purse! And in a world where there are only two cell phones they have to make a third cell-phone so Carrie can call Big to find out where he was!

He tried calling her 20 times he said. She doesn't know where her phone is she says. He says he doesn't thing he can go through with this, and SLOOOOOW MOTION, you see the cell-phone drop to the floor as Carrie clutches her heart. Is she having a heart attack? She can't breathe! Oh wait, they ask if she is okay and she says, "He's...not....coming." as the girls start to surround her she screams "GET ME OUT OF HEEEERE!!!!!!" like she just found out she was standing barefoot on a pile of hot lava.

They drive away and Big in his car says, "What the hell am I doing? Turn around DRIVER" Driver says he "I can't, it's a one way street!" Big yells, "If we go around the whole block she will be gone by then!!!" Once again, where are all the cell phones in the world; are they being held up somewhere?

He turns the car around when who does he run into but Carrie's limo! He gets out apologizing, he tells her he is sorry, and that he wants to go through with it, but that is not enough! She walks up to him and starts beating him over the head with flowers.....in front of a crowd. He says "Wait!!" trying to explain his little brain fart, but in Sex & The City land they are too self-absorbed for a moment of rationale, and Charlotte, screaming at him with a red rimmed cold look of anger in her eyes, they type of look you would give someone had you just found out they murdered your beloved simply screams, "DON'T!!!" as Carrie melts into her friends who bring her back to the limo.

Seriously? A little dramatic right?

At this point Carrie is drunk and Samantha still wants to party so they decide to take Carrie's honeymoon to Mexico. Where I left off.

I make it a point to finish all bad books and movies that I start, even the crappy ones by Gus Van Sant, but I am not sure if I am going to be able to trudge through the next 1.5 hours of slop that I have left that is in this movie. I am not a hardcore feminist by the way, but this has reduced women to shopping, whoring freaks who can only find solace in thinking that the only thing worth living for in life is love, but being so broken inside that they cannot figure out why they are incapable of meeting and keeping men.

When I see movies like this based in New York it makes me never ever want to live there, and it makes me pray that these are indeed fictional characters and that nobody ever tries to model themselves after them. I understand that some people are into the show for the good fun times, but the fun I was watching in this seems to fall a little flat for me, barren of much creativity when coming to the silly quirks and trials and tribulations that these people are supposed to be going through.

Did I mention there is a sequel coming out?

Ugh.

Latte Dawdy Who Likes to Coffee

Coffee has been a staple in my life since the age of 15. For those of you that remember angst ridden youth in 1995 and watched a lot of Singles and Reality Bites, you knew that if you were at a coffee shop, you were in the place where all the stuff happened. What stuff you ask? I don't know. Underage cigarette smoking indoors (for those of you that remember that too) acoustic guy with dreads on guitar, poetry guy that would be sitting in the corner rabidly scrawling down his feelings because we didn't have laptops yet, ready to get up and share those deep and intricate thoughts with all twenty people that were in there, and pointless fast hyper caffeinated conversational hours to waste away with friends.

I remember back then (in ye olde days) that in order to go to a coffee shop for me, it required sneaking out of the house. It wasn't approved of at all, so I always felt like I was doing something ultra cool when I made it out. I was hanging out with the older crowd, full of wit and conversation that I didn't quite have a grasp on, but so badly wanted to be a part of. When you are a kid, people that are a mere three years older than yourself seem to know a lot more about what's going on than you would ever imagine comprehending. But this was right on the cusp of adulthood, before jaded and jagged had set their little talons into your brain. Coffee just exacerbated that energy that was already flowing through my active and passionate about life and wonderment little soul that was still kicking around inside of me.

I never thought of caffeine as a necessity, maybe it was like Cocaine for wussies in those days, (for the record I have never tried cocaine) making it so that you could amplify those hormones.

Later in life, as the necessity to get up early and have a job, pay bills, learn to exist on no sleep, and getting old kicked in, it has become something that I cannot live without because it is what keeps me level. I don't go to coffee shops to hang out now. I go because I want to get in line, get that latte, and get the hell out as fast as possible. Gone are the days of the acoustic dude and the poetry writing guy, and here are the days of the people smoking their cigarette and stubbing it out before they get in the door, opening a laptop and placing it on a table in the Starbucks so that they can get some work done.

Over the years, I have become impervious to most things energy enhancing. I used to drink Red Bull because I liked the taste. It had no other job but to continue being delicious and I would consume it. Rock Stars were just a bigger version of that for me. I pick up Zing Tea Energy drinks every once in awhile and will sit on the couch watching a movie at 11:00 at night sipping away on one, and then heading to bed at 1:00 and slumbering away. I am at the fatigued point in my life that the only thing that coffees, teas, and energy drinks do for me is keep me that one step away from not falling into a coma. I just feel there, not more alert, not more tired. Just there.

I remember when Five Hour Energy Drink first came out, it was touted by many of my reputable friends (shady friends you know who you are) that it was the best thing ever. No caffeine shakes and just a natural sense of alertness. I went into the gas station and picked up my vial of potential savior and brought it home, cradling my little guy in my hand. At first I proceeded haltingly, taking down only half the bottle in case I couldn't handle the high charged happy rush that was bound to warm my body. I waited 20 minutes. Nothing. I downed the rest of the bottle thinking that maybe I just had to do it all in order to get the full effect. I went and sat on the couch. And proceeded to take a 2 hour nap.

So for the most part I gave up on the calorie laden energy drinks, and the calorie-less shots of hope and promise and stuck with my dear friend coffee and tea. Over the years I have gotten pickier with what I put in my body though, because when you are bound to a beverage for life, it is time to start researching everything you can about it in order to make sure you are getting the full benefit of your vice. I used to drink Folgers every day, but I bet if I had a cup now I would start crying while my unsatisfied taste buds rejected it. . I can only stomach breakfast blend coffee in any brand plain ol' black at this point, or a latte is my staple drink. I love Christmas time because I get the delicious egg nog/gingerbread concoction sugar in a cup mix.

Teas used to come in $3 a box green form, but now that I have discovered the wonderment of loose leaf all flavors under the rainbow stuff that in your bag and steep it type, I cannot get enough. I scour the tea shops and internets constantly looking for the next best rose or lavender or violet flavored teas. I have an affinity for consuming all sorts of plant life now.

I recall two weeks ago (I know it is amazing I can even think back that far anymore) going a week with only one cup of coffee and one cup of tea, and the narcolepsy that followed along with the pounding headachy feeling and weakly saying "Dim the lights!" every time I came near a fluorescent bulb, and began to wonder if this was an acceptable addiction that I was harboring.

I have come to the conclusion that as long as I still refuse to say things like "Caramelito Frappalatte Skinny Frozen Chickychita Blended With Cream on the Side and a dash of lemonita scabies Soy Milk Cicle" large please,” I am in the clear.

How About Some Blissful Ignorance?

For the most part, I think it is perfectly acceptable to melt my brain on the extraordinarily shallow aspects of learning about the puddle part of culture when it comes to what is going on in the world.

I like to pick up a People Magazine on Sunday and see for the millionth time that Brad and Angelina are herding their quiver of children around France and buying them ice-cream, and realize that this is what is considered "big news" in the land of the luxuriously beautiful and hot tub full of money humans.

I enjoy flipping through the glossy pages of an US Weekly and see that section that is excitedly titled “STARS! They are just like us!!” And then being regaled with photos of them doing things captioned: They clip their nails! They wear flip-flops! They have eyes, ears, mouths and noses!

Look, I use a good 40 hours of brain on my job every week. I use another 40+ hours of brain cells on school a week. I use, if I am lucky, a good 35 hours on sleep, and then we will put the rest in for my weak bladder on peeing, which is probably another 35, dog watching, cooking, running errands, getting gas, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. By the way: drinking beer is the best part.

So when I have time to sit down and sigh, and crack open something that has pages of words nestled within it, I can't have it be too serious, because what happens is I get angry, and then I start ranting, and then I want to expend all that anger energy that was supposed to be relaxation time punching a hole in the wall. And then I would probably have to fix that wall, and suddenly there goes all my couch time. So if you have ever wondered why I am a bevy of worthless information, ie what is Kate Gosselin up to, (Dancing With the Stars) this is why.

I am not the most politically savvy person out there, and it is for good reason. I keep myself subconsciously aware of what is going on, but in the same token, I know a few things about myself. Very few, but one of them is that there is honestly not much that makes me ashamed of people or disappointed at people to such a degree that I want to punch holes in walls. But there is one thing that gets me every time without fail, and that is hateful ignorance. Yes, I am biased against ignorant people that promote hate.

So it is not necessarily the politics thing that gets to me, it is the hoi polloi that bow at their feet. I know not everyone out there is a gun totin', money hoarding, camo but not in the Military wearin', Bible thumpin' hick, but Palin has been the one that gets me every time. She is like that annoying person we have all had in our lives who gets some sort of sick joy out of trying to bait you and bait you, and you know you shouldn't take it, but you do every time and end up nothing but pissed while they walk away unaffected.

If I see an article with her dim-witted face on it, I am drawn to read it whether I want to or not. It's like "Oh hey I thought I quit you, but you came back didn't you. Let’s just catch up and see how things have been going, I am sure I can check in and be able to walk away mentally unscathed." Instead it is like hearing about a kitten being drowned. I think she just takes me out of a comfortable spot that I enjoy being in, and that place is called reason. I can't quite put my finger on why she is still around. Why people keep writing about her, and why she gets any sort publicity that is outside of a joke. When one of her favorite things to say is, "You betcha!" and when she has to write on her hand to remember to say profound things, and when she is riddled full of ridiculously ignorant and violent solutions to making 'Merica a better place (Let's just whack the Iranians before they get the bomb, what are you a female Tony Soprano?) I can't help but think how she managed to get a hoard of followers to begin with. It almost makes me want to start a cult if it is that easy.

Many people will use the argument that by saying things like, "How's that hopey-changey stuff workin' out for ya?" makes her relatable. She talks to us in a voice that we understand, i.e. school teacher trying to talk to four year olds. She is just a small town bumpkin and is like you and me. The thing is, when people use the term, "He's the kind of person I could sit down and have a beer with," I would prefer that they not be referring to people that are in charge of this damn country. I don't want to sit down and have a beer with my boss at work, I want to do shots and drink beer with my friends.

Is it wrong that I want the people running the show to be more intelligent than myself? That they are able to put endings on their punctuation when speaking to masses of people? To be people to be able pronounce the word "nuclear?" I don't think so. I don't want a frat boy operating on me if my appendix bursts, so why in the hell would I want someone who is consistently trying to cater to the lowest common denominator in 'Merica running this country or having some sort of political impact on the lower rungs?

I am not just talking right-wing vs. left-wing here, (well unless I am talking about Palin who has a bad case of verbal poo and will let any ol' thing spew out of that word hole she calls a mouth without thinking) I am just talking about people getting trapped into a tunnelistic realm of thinking without researching looking at all of the facts before nodding and agreeing. Not everything can be based on faith people. Regardless of whether your opinion differs from mine or not, recklessly giving information out such as global warming isn’t real, look at all the snow outside!” is not a responsible method of delivering information to people that would consider you a credible source of where they are going to base their beliefs from.

I mean call me weird, but I don't think there is anything wrong with having a classy, well-spoken, eloquent and highly educated person who seems to be a lot better than me in charge of things. My parents weren't my buddies growing up; they were people that taught me morals and the foundation of living a life in a selfless manner to ensure that everyone gets a piece of happiness. They weren't there to party; they were there to make sure I looked up to them and respected them, and whether or not I was pissed at them for doing a thing or two I didn’t agree with, in hindsight I can see why. It was necessary for change to occur and it was imperative to ensure that I would have something to grasp onto when caught in sticky situations as an adult.

And I think it should be the same for people that have the power to influence piles of others into doing what they want. To me, hearing some of the ignorant comments and selfish attitudes that have come out in light of change all in coming to an agreement with a person who is not a human being that deeply and truly cares about others or making effective change is a slap in the face. All I see right now is just a negligent person who is drunk on power. On tequila even, and they just want to share the worm with us when they are done with the bottle.

Now pardon me, I have a couple episodes of The Bad Girls Club to catch up on, some crunk to listen to, some whiskey to drink, and a couple of puppies to romp on the ground with.

My Fearbook. Experimentation With Social Network Altercations

It's not really that often I sign up for contests, raffles, competitions, what have you. I have a mad streak of not ever winning anything, but every once in awhile I do it, and it's fun for a minute. So I signed up for this thingie to win money for a new kitchen if you whore yourself out the most and get the most votes and blah blah blah. I really want a new kitchen. Mine really is caveish...if that is a word, and it would be nice. Well somehow the MOST POPULAR people in the world have far superseded me thus far, and when checking how, (you can see where all their views are coming from) I saw something that was referred to as "Myyearbook.com" that a high scoring person and received tens of thousands of views from.

I figured I would sign up for said account and be swimming in views and votes in no time. Once I logged onto the site the first thing that I noticed was that it was like an aborted version of Myspace. It was like drunkenly walking through 40 casinos all that the same time. My eyes started to hurt as I struggled to come up with a user name and password. There were sparkles and colors, and battles and hot or nots and games and stickers and gifts and ways to "own" people's photos.

So I signed up and almost immediately I had a flurry of stranger friend requests. Drunk on the amount of votes I could get, I blindly started to approve everyone. I decided to stick with photos of me from when I was blonde so that God forbid should some of these people see me in real life, they would never know it was me. I will tell you why in a minute.

Apparently the history behind this site is that a young dude was flipping through his yearbook and he Eureka'd the idea to do basically a virtual yearbook type thing. Because God, we all miss high school right? I know I miss being teased, feeling awkward and having about 50,000 raging hormones surging through my flat chested body.

Well, this is like a virtual yearbook that yes, people can sign. And be your friend on etc. etc. Except in this case, t his would be like when you got your yearbook out at the end of school and ALL your friend's pervy uncles got to show up along with some 19 year olds that were never raised to talk to girls with the swanlike grace of a Romeo.

So. Sign in. Flurry of friend requests. I blindly accept them all in hopes to get more hits on my other account for the kitchen. Pattern erupts. All my new friends are mainly 50+ year old men with their shirts off in the photos next to their trucks. Now, I know I am 30, but is it so wrong that the only thing I could think was pedophile when I saw half of them? As soon as the friend requests were accepted, flurry of emails from said men! Flurry of "flirts",yes glittery sparkly saccharine comments you can post on someone's page. Oh it was getting a bit weird in here. I didn't respond to any of the emails, and I made some half assed attempts to be all "Heeeey vote for meeeee" on my wall, but after a week, I just was beyond wiggened out, and canceled the account.

I mean, I was in 3rd place with my contest. This was going to be cake! Then I got dumped down to 8th place. Then I grudgingly shuffled back over to myyearbook to create a new account again. Then the forum where "To Catch A Predator" probably catches most of its dudes happened to me at a mindblowingly higher scale this time I must be one of those commodities that you have to see twice before I am worth the time. But, like I said earlier, you can "buy" people's photos with your "lunch" money. Okay now picture a 50+ plus year old man without his shirt on getting into a bidding war with virtual lunch money over one of your photos. Suddenly Silence of the Lambs is all I can think of. Someone posted immediately on the photo "MINE" then they posted again, "MINE." then they posted one last time as they gave up their whooping $500,000 virtual dollars to win my profile picture, and the last comment boldly stated "MY PICTURE!"

I don't know how I feel about this. When someone is giving up their hard earned virtual bucks for a picture of me, I loathe to think of what they are doing to that photo. This site is dedicated to the degenerates, perverts, old men, slutty girls and emo kids that want to bitch 15 times a day that they are "done dating party girls" so that they can get a few other girls to send them sympathy boob shots.

Oh and I got a mini stalker out of this whole deal too. He is good at spelling too, and immediately won me over with the “I wont to get 2 know u better.” Again, I don't reply to any messages I get in there. But he thinks we are dating. I stated I was sick one day. He said "I'm sorry you're sick babe is there anything I can do for you?" A picture with hamburgers was met with how he likes "handbuggers" Then I got another message from him a few days later saying he would like to get to know me better once again. Aiesha, I want to get to know you better I am not, so I did not respond again. The last message I received was the catalyst to cancel this account once and for all before I end up having my name lit ablaze in my front yard. Sorry Ron, this one did not cut it:

"how was your day beautiful,how was school to day starting all of your new classes i wont to wish u good luck,i was hoping to hear from u i realy like to get to know u more thanks Ron"

Okay maybe it is all innocuous on his part, but dude, really, I haven't replied take a hint. Well it's much better than the message I received for an 18 year old kid who looks like he enjoys shooting up public places in his spare time, lovingly written in prose form by Stan:

shit..i would definatley tap you HARD

Whoah Stan. Back that tap up.

See the thing about yearbooks is that if someone I didn't like signed mine, none of them would say things like this, nor would they have the option of coming back and saying it again and again if I didn't have a funnnn summer and call them over it.

Lots of dudes calling me pet names that are reserved only for relationships like sweetie, beautiful, precious, honey....the filters are off and I am creeped on. I look at my friends list that I have built up in two weeks time of all 163 gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, and I realize that not one person on there is a female. It must be my charm, yes my charm that makes the fellow females scared to add me. The ones that I see posting pictures of them in a belly shirt that boasts a mountain of cleavage, with the caption that simply states, "I thought I lost this shirt, I am glad I found it!"

They are so glad that they had to show the rest of the internet and so that a hoard of men taking a cell phone picture of themselves in front of the bathroom mirror with their shirt off can proclaim "Glad u found it to baby!" “U look hawt in that shirt!”

I am actually very curious as to how many actual innocent kids get propositioned on this site as I gaze upon a photo of a man wearing a Budweiser shirt, baseball cap, Budweiser in one hand, gun in the other, with his caption stationg "I love beer!" and how heavily policed it is, as the privacy blockers on myyearbook seem pretty loose.

Maybe I have just become a social networking elitist, as I lean back on my office throne and cast judgment down upon the man who gave me his phone number in the first message he sent me, or the man who spelled you're "your" when he was attempting to say you are, or maybe I am just tired of being sent battle requests to battle it out with the person who wants to see who has the cutest pet, funniest pic, and nicest smile.

Most likely, I will never stop being baffled about how people actually come off on the Internet. The Internet. It is supposed to make you more attractive, more eloquently spoken, extra hilarious and a little cooler than you are in real life. When I see people that can't even pull off that feat, when the best photo that they have is one where they are holding their gun and they don't have the time to actually spell check things before posting them, let alone put together a legible sentence, what else can that tell me about that person? Because damn, I am much cooler online than I am in real life.

The Time of the Season For Laundry

Terrence was singing that it was the time of the season for laundry, and he was correct, it definitely was. Since we bought our house in September, we have not had a washer and dryer hooked up here, and it has been an epic pain in the ass. You know when your dog pees on something, you wash up a really disgusting spill, or your want your sheets to be fresh? Normally you would run it down to the washer and dryer and poof, everything was clean again. Not for me as of late. That favorite pair of jeans would have to be worn at a later date. A date with the laundromat, and the other piles of awful would be tossed aside in a corner to fester and be ignored by me.

The first few times I went to the laundromat, I was on a straight up mission. Get in, get food, get back, dry, go home to do schoolwork, get back, fold, get out. Last night, after getting home from work and being preternaturally happy on only five hours of sleep the night prior, I was ready to get this washing party started rather than collapsing on the bed to take a nap first. We got to our regular haunt, and I started to stuff clothing into the washing machine that was ready to eat my $3 in quarters. The walls of this laundromat are epically amazing. It is a desert backdrop that has been painted by an artist, with many rock formations looming in the background. In the beautifully clear blue sky, there are two washers with wings flying across in a happy daze, eager to make it to their location.

This time I am looking around at everyone that is there, and I note that there is a homeless man washing all of his belongings. That saddens me a bit, the fact that the moment his socks come out of the dryer, he will be sitting down to put them on under some dirty work boots, not take them home to rest them in his drawer, or curse one when he can't find its partner. A confused looking lady comes up to me and asks how much it is to run the washers. I must look like a veteran now, and I am as I tell her the price. I observe the other patrons and get to wondering as to why each and every one of them doesn't have a washer and a dryer. I know why I don't. I bought an old house that needs about $700 worth of electrical work done on it so that it won't blow a fuse every time I turn on a hairdryer while someone is watching television. I also need outlets put in to house an electrical dryer.

I leave for Bajio to get a very filling dinner, and come back to get my clothing out of the washer and put them into the dryer. I am bored now, my iTouch is on lockdown from all the wifi that is requiring passwords, and I have tapped the Hangman well dry. One can only feel so smart by guessing the word "lime" so many times. I walk over to Alchemy coffee and get a latte. I ask for soy milk, and he foams it heavy at the top. Generally I am not a huge soy fan, but for some reason it makes that latte pop. I sit on one of the velvet couches that they have in there and sip my coffee, just enjoying the atmosphere. Generally coffee shops are offputting to me, so many young kids trying to write poetry where people can see them, or milling around talking about how hard life is at the ripe age of 18. This place is full of adults and crazy women talking about Persian conspiracies. After I few more sips and a need for a cigarette. I leave. Smoke. Walk to the laundromat.

As I go to my dryer, a shaky old man who has no teeth and tufts of gray hair is removing clothing from his dryer. He says, "These machines sure don't dry very well do they?" I use that voice. The one I hate. It always reserved for old people and children, paired with the high pitched nice tone I learned to use at phone jobs. It isn't intentional, I can't stop myself sometimes. I lean in and say "Oh did you put the heat on high?" He looks at me, that look of "I am old therefore not retarded" and says nicely, "Yes, I did, the machines...they don't dry that well." I said "Hm that's weird, as I pulled out my hot dry clothing. He told me to enjoy doing the rest of my laundry.

For some reason, I started to pull out my items to fold, and I realized I was standing right in front of a huge window in front of a shop.I can assure you, nothing sets off "my underwear isn't good enough" alarms like standing in front of a laundromat window and having to fold each and every pair in front of it. And there were so many pairs! It felt weird, soul baring, having to carefully extract each article of clothing from a basket in front of a room of strangers and carefully fold it into neat little piles. The old guy passed me again. He started to speak to a large woman. She was talking to him about his cancer. And how he looked great considering he had throat cancer. And that he still had his baby face and sparkling blue eyes. I looked out of the corner of my eye, and I saw him in a different light. I could see that the things she was telling him were true. It made me happy to hear him say that he didn't make it 70 years on this world for nothing, and that he was happy to have beat cancer.

I think last night, I found my new favorite people watching spot.

Vote Up!

Help me get a new kitchen by voting for me! I have been harassing my assing off here to get everyone to hook it up, it is so easy, you can vote every day, and if I win I promise to make you cookies of your choice. I am in dire need of an awesome new kitchen.

Food For Awesome Thought

I grew up with four brothers and a set of parents that were busily working full-time to help support us in the future. Needless to say, we were basically left to our own devices to concoct any sort of mad scientist meal from the ingredients that we had kicking around in the kitchen. While I mastered the many culinary skills of cracking an egg inside a bowl of ramen to cook, pouring cereal for lunch, or placing impeccably cut hotdog rounds and placing them lovingly atop a bed of macaroni and cheese to serve up to my hungry siblings, I never quite learned how to actually cook real food, and it haunted me well into my adult life.
My friends found it humorous that late into my 20s that I was eating like a 15 year old boy with no adult supervision, so I made a concentrated effort to learn to cook real foods. It started out haltingly. At first I would thumb through home magazines picking out quaint looking recipes that I could dream of gracing my kitchen table with. Many kitchens ended up filled with smoke, and many chickens sat sadly on the baking pan covered in ham and only cooked halfway through while I rushed out to get some Chinese takeout. But one day after many efforts it just clicked, and meals started coming together for me. Having been in such a large family, and it only being my husband and myself now, out of sheer instinct, I was soon cooking up curries, stews, taco bakes, and strudels for a slew of imaginary people that were not going to get fed.
As we trudged our way through the massive amount of leftovers, I realized that we should not just be enjoying all of this wonderful food for ourselves that I have been cooking. So I would invite a few friends over at a time for dinner. We would have wonderful conversation, they would pitch in on meals, and even the confident ones would dig in and help out with the cooking. Cooking for me now has become so much more than just placing a meal on the table and mindlessly chewing it down because of the mere fact that I am hungry. It has become a bonding experience, time for good conversation, and a way to be able to interact with people in a way that is so much different than just talking about work.
When you are cutting up vegetables and throwing them into a steamer, or when you are trying to learn how to cook a turkey for the first time, things get expressed and shared on a whole different level of interaction as opposed to say, just sitting down to a bag of fast food and tuning out to watch television. I live for being able to see the joy, or even sometimes false joy at times I’m sure, on people’s faces as they take that first bite of something I have prepared and knowing that we all took some part in creating that moment.
I get a sense of solace and calm whenever I bake some sweets for people that I know will appreciate them. There is also a feeling of accomplishment that comes from being able to whip something up from scratch and then see the look of surprise on my husband’s face when I bring some cookies into a room for him. I know most people would think that it’s just cooking, it can’t be that big of a deal, but I have been able to make it into so much more. In these busy times of being in school, working, and not being able to interact with my friends and loved ones as much as I would like to, we have made food into something that we can all fit into our hectic lifestyles, because hey, everyone could always use a nice home cooked meal, and it isn’t a guilty pleasure that you have to rationalize.

Food For Awesome Thought

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