The best beer this year

I was talking to my sister last night when I heard a knock at the door. I peaked through the peep- hole, and saw a distorted man looking back. 15 minutes before this heart attack, the local news told me there is a rash of armed burglaries going on in Austin.

Last week the news informed me there was a serial rapist breaking into people’s home. I spent the next four nights staring up at the ceiling wondering when I would hear my back door creak open. For obvious reasons I’m not allowed to watch the local news, and national news is out of the question.

The knocking starts again. I’m convinced this man has a gun in the back of his pants, and is waiting for me to open the door to my sparsely furnished one bedroom apartment. He’s probably doing such savage things so he can get his filthy claws on my 1920’s metal teacher’s desk and stack of Cooking Light Magazines. I quietly exit out the back door, and light a cigarette in hopes that when I get back inside I won’t hear any knocking.

I’m sitting on my back stoop when my neighbor opens his back door. “Hi Amir!” I smile up at him. “Hey.” He looks confused. “Why didn’t you open the door?”

What to say? I could tell him the truth. I am a neurotic mess who is barely capable of living in an unassisted facility due to my illogical fears spurred on by the local news. Or I could lie. What knock? Sorry I guess I didn’t hear you pounding on my door. When you heard me tell my sister that I wasn’t opening the door because some weirdo was out there, I was just kidding around.

I chose to go with the truth. It’s just easier. Amir apologized for scaring me, although he looked a little perplexed, and offered me a beer. Yes, this should calm the nerves. Amir is half Spanish and half Portuguese, and 100% not bad to look at. He pulled up a lawn chair and we sat outside talking about the spiders that decided to invade our houses, and the differences in judicial systems around the world.

It was magical in that warm summer’s night way. I sat back realizing how beautiful life is, and how beautiful people are. Unfortunately Austin is the Wonder Bread capital of the world, so the opportunity to talk to someone with a rich background is a blessing.

We talked about the lessons we’ve learned thus far. We reveled at being the youngest in our families. We laughed about our irresponsible siblings who are confused when our parents don’t bend over backwards for them.

The fireflies came and went, speaking the language of light and trying to find their way to one another. He asked me what I was going to do when my lease was up in July. I have no idea, and furthermore I have no plan. Maybe I’ll move somewhere, or maybe I’ll move home. Maybe I’ll change states, or move to the islands.

For weeks I have worried about this, and suddenly last night I stopped. I realized it doesn’t matter, and more than that I know I’ll be fine. I can breathe for the first time in months. Amir reminded me the most interesting people aren’t the ones with a plan, but rather the ones have no idea where they’re going.

I think that was the best beer I’ve had in years. Amir left to go out with friends, and I sat there in the quiet watching the fireflies try to establish contact. I’m not worried about where I’m going anymore, I’m excited about the journey.

Ugliness - I would skip this entry if I was you

I woke up this morning mad at myself. I was mad because I went out drinking, ate horrible food, and smoked like a little chimenia. I feel fat. More than that, I feel like it’s my enlarged liver making me feel and look so distorted. I made a pact with myself before I got out of bed to stop beating myself up for today. 20 minutes of self-loathing before I start my day is enough.

I jumped over to the bathroom mat, reached up to the shelf and picked up my pills. 7 little orange dots looked up at me. This explains everything, and fills me with dread at the same time. Yea me. I get to be a hormonal mess for the next week. Boo men. You will be my victims over the next week. Sorry, I know it’s wrong, but that’s what the orange pills dictate. You loose, but know that I will fluctuate between hating myself and hating you equally. It’s fair enough I suppose, considering all the stupid things you guys do. See, there I go already.

I had a quick conversation with the hubby this morning. He used his little boy voice while explaining a raccoon decided to move into the attic. The hubby and roommate have dubbed him Rocky Raccoon, for obvious reasons. It appears the cat food buffet in our garage is a welcoming bonanza for critters. The cats are pissed are pissed at old Rocky for eating all the food, but what can they do? The whole conversation irritated me immediately. First of all, how many times can I tell you the little boy voice is creepy? It is down right disturbing. Have I not explained that this element is a piece of the “I’m not attracted to you sexually” problem? Good lord. Grab your balls and flush out that animal, and do it with a manly voice.

The next part of our discussion was even more disturbing. He asks how I’m doing, to which I respond, “I’m fine, I feel a little fat today”. He replies, “I know. Me too.” WHAT? It’s obvious that thousands of dollars in couple’s therapy went to waste. In fear of my head exploding, I had to hang up the phone.

I sat there, and cried at my desk. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can’t imagine this is my life. I’m so pissed. Pissed at myself, at him, at everyone. This weekend when I saw him, I realized he gained even more weight. He’s at least 230 – 240 pounds. The doctors are pleading with him to get the weight off. He knows his MS will retaliate, and his heart condition is threatened as well. He can’t run right now, because once again he got drunk and broke another rib. (This is the 2nd time in a year he broke a rib as a result of drinking).

Again, it makes me want to cry. Why won’t he take responsibility for himself? He tells me that the last thing in the world he wants is a divorce, but when I look at the reality of it I’m confused. If you wanted to have a relationship with someone, would you do everything you could to push them away? Would you gorge yourself on alcohol and frozen pizzas? Would you damage your body to the point that someone else will have to take care of you?

Wow, my hormones must be in full effect. Let’s hope the week goes by really fast.

Cookies, Mullets, and Tards

Hooray for cookies! It appears management is taking new measures to lure us into all day meetings by providing cookies. Does this mean in 10 years I will look like the ladies who have worked here forever? You know, the ones with the shelf-asses? Damn! I knew it was their plan to make us bottom heavy. I am already a big bootie girl, so it’s not hard for me to imagine the polyesters rubbing between my thighs. I can already imagine the swooshing sound of my ass as I pass the leased greenery in the office. Is this their ploy so we don’t get out of our cubes as often? Could they be seducing us into working with the thought of sugar-laden provisions, instead of stock provisions?

Also, I was just reading an add and came across a kayak seller named Mullet Master. Wow! Mullet Master? Master of the Mullets? Can you believe it? I feel like I truly found someone of greatness. A Master, nonetheless. Do you think his people have the same haircut? Maybe they are little mullet clones. Maybe they represent the whole mulletsgalore website. Maybe they are the people who created that site to further their mission. I wonder what their mission is exactly? Or is it that he has the perfect mullet, thus enabling him to be the Mullet Master. Maybe he’s a hairdresser. I’m confused, but I know I stumbled upon something significance.

Next up, I was called a Tard this weekend. Let me explain something to you people. I don’t know what kind of Tard I am exactly. I know I have a friend we call Tard, because he is a Tard. He owns civil war memorabilia and sets up the little figurines as if they were in actual battle. Talk about scary. He buys his wife Chucky dolls and thinks it’s romantic. It’s neurotic. I’m not that kind of Tard. Ok, fine. So I didn’t want to pick up my martini glass. So I was playing a game by myself to see how much I could drink out of the fancy glass, without actually picking up the prize. It’s drinking on Saturday afternoon, what else would I do? Besides, salt looks good on my nose.

If you have to ask who the sucker is...

Last night I decided to go “slumming it” with a couple of friends. Evidently our definition of slumming it was to walk up and down 6th street and enter the first bar advertised by a 20 year old male yelling, “$1 shots and $2 pints!” 6th street is great when you’re 20. When you're 31 it’s a bit like getting wasted at your 5 year old nephew’s Power Ranger party. Trust me.

“I’m not above it, it could be fun,” yells my alcohol mushy brain. Why should I pay $5 bucks for a shot and $5 for a pint, when I can have them for a dollar or two? I’m no sucker!

Then the street reminded me, “Ya, ya you are. You’re my sucker now.” Before I know it I’m at Coyote Uglies, and I don’t mind. This is a flashy indicator that I must be drunk. But I am drunk and who cares? These girls are so cute, and they look they’re having fun. Stupid men, they get what they deserve.

And then things go from bad to worse. “Hey, my friend works at Gatsby’s – the new strip bar on 6th, let’s go!” comes lurching out of my mouth. Oh ya, that’s right - MY mouth. Off we go, in search of boobies and my friend. Steve’s outside on his cell phone, screaming at someone on the other end who could probably hear him just fine. “Want to come in?” “ Sure!” What the hell am I thinking?

Every time I go it’s the same blender mix of emotions. I love to see the pretty girls, I hate to see the not so attractive girls, I worry about their self esteem, I wonder who is controlling who (stupid man? Stupid girl?), I think about ethics, I think about hedonism and how I like it. Well, the idea of it I like a lot.

The factor I forgot that almost always comes into play is that, I am a jealous being. I lie about it all the time, and cover it up. Not so well, but I try. Oh not me, I’m above that. I find her attractive, you find her attractive – what’s the problem? I know this is the heady logical response. This is the response that I would use to cover up the dark green burning fire in my stomach. All the while a meek little insecure girl waits in the corner drinking her $5 coke. Who am I some days? What am I even doing at a place like this?

The other problem I have is with my ego. Is this a big ball of insecurity or what? I don’t want a dance from a girl that’s not as pretty as I think I am. Wow! Who’s the bitch here? If I have a better body than you, then why would I want you all over me? This from a woman who happily dated a 300-pound man, when she was all of a buck o’five.

I think a dance sounds like a beautiful idea, if the girl is pretty and has a great body. Half way through the gyrating, I am wondering how much speed she’s on and if she needs psychiatric help. Should I slip her a number to a hotline with my dollar bill? Maybe Miss Suzanna’s card would be just the thing to pull her out of this despair. Then I go back the other way, and think about women I know who use to or do bare their treasures for a living. Some of them are completely happy well-adjusted people. I would dare say one girl I know is happier with her career choices and lifestyle than I am. So what’s my problem?

Why can’t I just go and relax and have fun? Why do I make it into some huge conflict? Why do I make it about me?

Little Diablo sits on one side sneering, “you see the way he looked at her? He’s staring at her without any shame”. Little angel on the other side gaily states, “you’re looking at her too, damn she’s a piece of work”. Little shrink of mine says, “Don’t go back you fool!”

Then the street laughs at me, and reminds me who the sucker is. It’s me.

And so, I have sworn them off again like another bad habit.

The morning’s call

It was raining this morning when I started the journey to open my eyes. I snuggled in closer in hope that it wasn’t the alarm making such a ruckus. Pitter pat sounds coming through trees make a girl want to dissolve into her bed and never leave the cocoon.

I want to be suspended from time and daily routines. I want to feel that warm embrace and hold on to it for eternity. Drifting in and out of consciousness, floating through slumber and dreams endlessly.

These mornings remind me of an old house I use to live it. It smelled like clean sheets dried outside. I would wake in the morning in awe of the sunlight dancing through the blinds. It’s playful swirls of light begging me to begin. The cats draped across my feet, stretched and yawned. I’d peek through a small slit of covers to see them licking each other’s furry heads. How nice to have someone do your hair while you are still in bed.

Some mornings remind me of New Orleans. Waking up and smelling the hardwood floors, and that distinctive sent of weather wood where thousands of steps were made. The soft bed pressed up against the wall, nuzzling me up against the large windows adorned with antique molding. Clothes strewn over the end of the bed, an indication of the late night and the force of slumber which pulled me down deep into it’s body. In the morning light nudges me as I listen to the almost inaudible breath of waking, the slow hum of thoughts as they begin to take shape.

Morning light does avenge the night’s wicked ways, and allows us all the hope of sunshine’s rays.

Who’s this boob?

I try not to discuss politics. First of all, I don’t feel as though I possess the required level of academic and theoretical training on the issues. I’m an accountant. If you want to talk about the specifics of FASB 109, I will. If you want to talk about the intricacies of the constitution, I think your best bet would be to take it up with a qualified student of government. My point is that, unless you are an expert or exceptionally educated about a topic, I don’t think you have much business talking out of your ass. But that’s me.

And so, here I go. I’m going to let the bootie do the talking today. I was reading this article regarding the Iraqui Prison Scandal, and it mentions this quote from Sen. James Inhofe R-Okla:

I'm probably not the only one up at this table that is more outraged by the outrage than we are by the treatment," Sen. James Inhofe, R-Okla., said during the hearing.
"These prisoners, you know they're not there for traffic violations," he said. "If they're in cellblock 1-A or 1-B, these prisoners, they're murderers, they're terrorists, they're insurgents. Many of them probably have American blood on their hands and here we're so concerned about the treatment of those individuals."

Does anyone else think that this statement is a little twisted? First of all, “more outraged by the outrage than we are by the treatment”? My first thought was that I’ll suspend judgment on this statement, because it’s too convoluted to makes sense out of. Then when he followed it up with “these prisoners, they're murderers, they're terrorists, they're insurgents. Many of them probably have American blood on their hands and here we're so concerned about the treatment of those individuals.",I lost it.

How are we supposed to feel about American prisoners of war? Is it then acceptable that our enemies mistreat American prisoners? Isn’t that how the opposition would feel about our men and women? Would you want to serve for the military if the world consensus was “I’m not going to be accountable for how I treat you, because you killed people on my side of the fence”? What type of shirking of responsibility is this? We had a job to do, we failed that job when we humiliated, possibly raped and killed these people. They had a human responsibility to these people, and they violated it. There is not an acceptable justification for such inhuman actions, you jackass.
I feel like he put American prisoners at jeopardy. I feel like he further embarrassed me as an American, and portrayed us as egotistical narcissistic monsters void of any responsibility for humankind.

Thanks Mr. Inhofe, you boob!

Answers to all questions solved!

In a fit of boredom I just went to google and typed in my name and then chose the images engine. I’m not really sure what I thought would pop up. Maybe a picture of me in the new paper? Oh, no I have never been in the paper as far as I know. A picture of me connected with girls gone wild? Goodness, I hope not. I shudder to think of that possibility.

Instead what popped up was my tombstone. EEIKE! How surreal is that? Right there in full color – a little grassy knoll with my name and the dates 1877-1946. Geez, this explains everything!

Quick update

Guilty feeling has come over me for ridiculing drunk friend.
He really wasn't that bad.

Ok, he was.
Guilt has subsided.

Why I love me a good drunk

After a rigorous day of pedicures and margaritas in celebration of my sister’s mother’s day, I received a call from an inebriated and dearly loved friend. “Could you come get me?” he slurred, “I’m at Lavaca…” while other recognizable voices sing along to the Rolling Stones and drowned him out.

Sounds like a mission for Mighty Mandy – Here I come to save the day! I could hear the rowdiness spilling out of the bar a couple of feet away. “Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, girl”, all out of tune with Mick. Upon entry it was confirmed, positively smashed. Aren’t these my friends that got to work at 9:00 am for Mother’s Day Sunday brunch at their assorted bar and restaurant jobs? Yes they are wearing all black, further affirmation that they had been drinking straight for at least 5 hours. Lovely, I should have had another marg before leaving Maudie’s. Sigh.

Once inside the door, I was swept off my feet (literally) by another friend who apparently has learned that women are rag dolls. Let’s just say that we danced an entire song without my feet ever reaching the floor. Fortune smiled at me, and allowed me to escape unharmed.

After herding the cat, the drop off and destination was priceless. Observe, with me, a little sneak peak of what the man had to provide: (And if this is you reading, behold the reasons why I could not be mad at you – you made my night)

1)“I love you” – followed by an attempt to kiss me. Lovely man received a big lick of my arm. Advice? Aim higher.
2)“Don’t do that to me! You don’t love me like that!” This was in response to me applying poison ivy medication to said man’s face. In retrospect, I am not sure what this means. Next time I will let friend wake up with both the hangover, and the most sever case of poison ivy to the face anyone has ever seen.
3)“Do you want to have sex”, slurred out with one eye open while struggling to put the straw into his to-go cup from Wendy’s. Enough said.
4)Me: “Would you like to sit up while you eat?” I ask as I try to pull him to an upright position. At this point he starts laughing at me. Even funnier was watching him try to eat and drink. Yes, laugh drunk man! While I watch the fries scatter about your torso and the tomatoes fall into you armpit.
5)“That’s it – I’ll punch him out!” (or something bizarre to that effect) referring to another friends attraction to a man she recently met, and has yet to go out with. Maybe for her sake, she shouldn’t introduce the two.
6)“The good times are killing you, Amanda”. Umm – you or me? Again while noting drool and run-away tomato.
7)“This DJ Shadow CD is the most important thing in my life. It’s the one thing I haven’t lost tonight”. This is good. Notable for such a state.
8)Me: “What do you want to eat at Wendy’s?” Him: “A number 7, no mayo, mustard and cheese with a Drr….”. One minute later, “Can I take your order?” “Yea, a number 7, no mayo add mustard and cheese and a Dr. Pepper”. Drunk friend, “You know me so well. I love you.” Proceeds to kiss side of seat.

And you thought I would be mad? Oh Rojo, how could one be mad? Check the pit for tomato seeds.

This is what I am reduced, or enlarged, to

When my father re-married several years ago, no one really cared. The reason we were all so flippant, is because no one has a relationship with that man. My relationship with my father has boiled down to an occasional phone call which ends in either “fuck you” or a dial tone, a wayward glance across a packed room, and horrible gifts distributed by his new wife.

To grasp the concept of bad gifts, let me demonstrate. Year one of their marriage, I received clothing. This was not a bad gift, as I actually liked the clothes. By year two something had changed, and I was presented with a candle that use to be displayed on their western coffee table. Year three I was proudly given a key to their house on an alligator leather key chain adorned with hearts. Please bare in mind, my father lives three hours away and the key will never be used least I am maimed by his two dogs. Year four bore gifts of children’s wax lipstick in every imaginable color, including periwinkle. I was 25 at the time. You see the pattern.

It was only a few years ago that the gifts really started to go down hill. Headbands adorned with gemstones and mystical looking rocks. I wore it once to wash my face. Looking up in the mirror I realized I looked like a Muppet, and the headband was tossed. Oh, and there was the 15 samples of perfume I received. I could only imagine how much they loved me. I pictured them scowering through department store after department store, pleading with the perfume ladies for a sample for their daughter. As a side note, this is not a man who doesn’t have money. He could afford decent gifts without batting an eye.

This morning, I once again relished in my relationship with my father and his dedicated gift giving abilities. Running late, I found myself sifting through my underwear drawer in search of a thong. “Thong, thong, thong, were are you guys? I’m going to be late!” I sang to the silky undies in the drawer. Nothing. Try again, and what do I pull out? Ah, yes. The underwear he and his wife so lovingly gave me a few years ago. How sweet.

I can remember the look of astonishment that graced my face that cold December morning. I can recall the beauty of that red bag with red and white tissue paper peaking out. I excitedly thrust my hand into the bag, felt the prize and lifted it out for all to see. Ah, yes! A shockingly 70’s patterned thong in a whimsical patter with splashes of bight pink, purple and yellow. Just for me! How did they know? Wow. Love.

Then I looked at the tag. The “LARGE” tag stared up at me. I shook my head and glanced down again. It was still there “L-A-R-G-E”. What the hell? How embarrassing! I know I have the ghetto bootie, but really? A large? And should anyone with a LARGE ass be wearing such a spectacal?

My dad’s wife quickly stepped in a squashed the mortification that surrounded me. She smiled a quiet southern smile and said “Dear, I hope you like those. I ordered them for me, but I just don’t like thongs. I haven’t worn them, and I thought they just looked like you!”

Oh really? This appalling pair of ass floss swimming in a sea of a 1970’s multi-colored madness reminded you of me? And let’s see, you bought them for yourself. Gee, it’s good to know that my dad’s married to a woman who wears god-knows-what on her ass. Later that day, I threw them in the drawer, hoping to never see them again.

And then, at 7:10 this morning they appeared in all their glory. My sole misfortune of being rushed and late for work, lead me to put the panties on. I’m disgraced. I’m horrified. I sit here, in my cube, the only one aware of my gauche fate. What to do? Runny nose, itchy eyes, but floss hanging down to my knees due to the enlarged size – and yet, memories. Full robust memories of my father. Ah, if only father’s day was coming up instead of mother’s day. In that case, I could give him my lover’s underwear.

I can’t wait to go home.

To my loved ones

While picking up a prescription this afternoon, I thought about getting a card for the hubby. Tomorrow is our 3- year anniversary of our wedding. Searching through the cards, I realized none of them are appropriate for our situation. Therefore, I would like to suggest that Hallmark come up with the following cards for all of my ill-struck relationships:

1)Cover with a rose on it: Happy Anniversary to my estranged husband.
Inside: Even though we don’t see each other or talk, you’re still important to me. It just doesn’t seem like that, because we don’t act like that. But really…
2)Cover with a kid holding their breath: Happy Birthday to the father I don’t speak to
Inside: I could do this forever, here’s to making my life easier!
3)Cover with an enlarged picture of a large rocks glass with slightly orange liquid in it.
Inside: To my mom, there are so many things about you I would like to forget. Thanks for teaching me the art of drinking!

After this large dose of sinicism, I think I will retire to my bed of nails. Please excuse this entry, as large amounts of cold medicine have taken over my feverish brain. I actually love all these people, but life is a balance – isn’t it?

Update

Loud talking cube-mate has the directional instinct of a homing pigeon. Not only did she find her way back to the office, she is now raving (very loudly I might add) about her adventures.

Deep despair returns.