Here’s your little ice cream with a fucking cherry on top

You know when you’re having a fine day, and then all of sudden your nose starts running and it won’t stop. So you spend the next few hours sniffling, and your boy calls and then starts calling you Sniffles. This makes the whole day a little more manageable.

So does the raise, promotion, and new office I got. It makes my hours here seem a little bit better. So once again, I’m happy. But never fear my angry side is here and this one, my dear, goes out to “Just Desserts” from your comment yesterday.

Dear Just Desserts,

Funny that you wrote that, almost ironic isn’t it? There you are wishing I was still with you as you cry yourself to sleep every night. While I’m out fucking other men and not thinking of your shortcomings.

Don’t be so sad Just Desserts, it was never meant to be. You’re not the only sucker in the room who thought that I would make them happy. You’re just the only one who doesn’t understand the huge “Leave me the fuck alone” sign I’ve plastered up in front of your face.

Yes, I realize you love revenge. Peeing on your old roommate’s couch really taught him a lesson or two, didn’t it? Boy, you got him there. However, your latest revenge devices with me haven’t had the sting one would hope. You send mean emails and crude text message. You love me as close to hate me as I’ve ever seen possible. This is where you flourish. You tip toe down that tiny sting between the two emotions without a net and fall without logic.

Did I ever have feeling for you? Sure I did. I’m not too big to deny that. There was a time when you were always on my mind. I’d spend hours dreaming about you and smelling the flowers you would send. After all, it was better than the piss smell you left your X roomie.

But here we are. You’re a liar, a coward, and a cheat. You can’t love because you can’t give yourself the right. You’re cruelty refashioned on women the way your family tortured you as a child. I’m sorry for your past, but the day comes when a man has to grow up.

So grow the fuck, already. You have a lot going for you if you would pull your head out of your lazy ass. I’ve thought about seeking revenge on you for the cruelty that you’ve dished out to me, but alas that would be like loving you in your eyes. So you’ve beaten me there. There’s nothing I can do.

Except maybe tell you this. Everyday that I am not with you, that I don’t hear your voice, that I don’t see your reflection in the window, I’m happier. Each time I wake up in the middle of the night and you’re not there, I smile. Every time I fuck the shit out of my boyfriend, I scream his name to remind me that it’s not you, and the orgasm is even better. Every time I think about how fucking incredibly moody and insecure you are, I hang out with my friends and remember what it’s like to have fun with someone instead of taking care of a child. Whenever I have drinks with my friends, I’m reminded that there are people who can handle their liquor without throwing a jealous rage. Oh yea – and when I’m out with my guy and another man looks at me, he snuggles up close to me, kisses me on the cheek and tells me how happy he is that I’m with him. Then when we get home he proves it over and over and over again.

I hope that stays with you and keeps you warm at night, darling.

Is there room in that hole for me?

Okay, when did I say it? I know I said it somewhere at sometime. At some critical point in the last month I must have muttered, “It just can’t get any worse”. And some little Diablo smiled up at me, shook his horns, and gave me one more slap upside the head.

That’s right to add insult to injury; the wedding gifts to the X are being delivered to my house.

How do you get that wrong? Did he send out flyers requesting that people send gifts to the him and my replacement to an address that he hasn’t lived at in 8 months? I’m sure he’s around here somewhere trying to snap a shot of me crying for his website. That way he can mock my misery in a more public way.

Also, if anyone wants a new blender or a great new picture frame let me know. I think I can super glue them back together and you’ll never know.

Snow Angels

I know I’m suppose to be busy as fuck at work, but I just can’t seem to get there. My ankle is still swollen (this makes the 3rd week or so) and I’m just pretending I don’t look like a tree stump down there. I’ve avoided the heels for about as long as I can take it, but with each day a little piece of me grows more intense and the need for height yells my name.

You know when you’re drunky pants and you think you’re all hot, so you decide to do a little sex kitten dance on the bed only to realize your boy is passed out on the carpet and has missed the whole thing? Yea, that’s what’s it like right now.

So you throw a little blanket on the man, and then proceed to make snow angels in your bed instead. Shit, you got the whole thing to yourself anyway. That’s my life right now. I’m trying to do the rascal dance, but in reality I’m a one legged gimp at a freak show with only the mop man looking over occasionally to make sure I haven’t slipped on the wet surface he left behind.

I can’t say that I’m unhappy about it. In fact I can say that things are going pretty well. Snow angels and all.

Now if only I could remember what it is I’m suppose to be doing….

Who’s your gimp, baby

Yesterday just wasn’t my day. I’ve been grumpy all week and sleeping more than usual, so getting into work at 7:30 a.m. has been a stretch. It starts out with my hitting snooze until 6:54 and then pretending that if I move really fast I’ll make in and to my desk on time.

I have no sense of reality, just like my mom. Another trait my mother adheres to is clumsiness. Evidently, I’ve picked up that nasty habit as well. After ACL last weekend my ankle started to feel a little funny, and because I’m so bright I decided what I needed was a good long run. That nice little jaunt left me with a swollen ankle, which I’ve been denying for the past week.

The idea that I was denying it might be a little harsh. I’ve been complaining enough about it that my friends were beginning to avoid me, so I thought I better go in for an exam. I went to the Doctor’s office and spent my first hour waiting to be called so that I could wait again while he finished his yogurt or whatever it does that takes doctor’s so long in-between patients. I moved on to the second room and waited like a good kid on the table with the little paper protector crinkling underneath me.

I never know if I should get a magazine while I wait or not. The idea that a bunch of sick germ spreading freaks have thumbed through the pages hacking up golf balls of flim, makes me wonder why they have them in their offices at all. I decided a better us of my time was to day dreams that a beautiful young man would come in and take a look at my ankle. Of course he would be swept away with my gorgeous feet and we would have sex right there, but reality assured me that my piggies aren’t so great and neither was the doctor. Besides midway through the fantasy, I started considering that I could never really trust a doctor. I mean if he could fall in love with my feet and just start pounding away at it without really knowing me, then he’s probably a slut. I don’t want a man like that. I should really learn to let go when I fantasize.

Instead of the doctor and I having a tawdry affair, I ended up getting X-rays and a splint. He also gave me orders to wear tennis shoes for a week. A….wha…..week? Yep, doctor’s orders. Your little snowflake gets to run around in tennies for a week. Sounds good, unless you actually like wearing heels that make you look “tall”. Plus I’m convinced that the higher my heels are, the smaller my ass looks. I’m not sure why this would be, but I’ve somehow convinced myself that this is true. I just feel thinner in heels.

So now I’m not allowed to run or do anything like that, I can’t wear stilts, and I have to sport t-shoes. I’m not sure if this guy likes girls who look like guys, or whatever sick fetish he has, but I’m not much for that look on me. I’m pretty sure that I look like someone who’s on her way to get a mullet when I wear my running shoes in public.* The horror. I shudder.

I picture myself gaining a whole-nother body size, like say another 100 pounds, laying around icing my ankle, and then picking out golf shirts to go with my boyish khaki pants and t-shoes for the next day of work. I’ll probably start hanging out with my some of my coworkers who can pull off this look. Then I can get my own unisex nickname and learn to walk with a limp. It’s gonna be great. Once I get that mullet they’re really let me into their group, and then watch out. It’s sports bras and stud earrings for me.

Wow. Could it get any worse? Could I get any pettier? I just want to be girly – gosh!


*Mullet props go out to the Playa MC who suggested I go with him to get my mullet this week while he got his haircut.

Out of Nowhere

I realize that some of the things we turn into coincidences are trite. I know this because when things go really poorly I run a hot bath, pour in some sea salts and smelly oils, and start talking to the shower head lingering up above me.

This ritual started around the time my grandfather died and it was a way for me to “talk” to him. (Oh shut up, like you’re so normal) I would spend a good hour each night jumping into my tub and washing all the horrors of the day away. I would look up and just starting talking to him like he was in the room. For some reason it doesn’t seem creepy to me that I’m naked in the bathtub communicating with the dead. When I write that I can see why every other person on this planet would think that.

I think of it like he can’t see me, but he can hear me. If he can see me I have reasoned that he has already asked and received the gift of blindness in this situation. There must me some type of mystical gift giving for the dead.

Either way I always seem to get some type of advise out of the situation. I assume it’s from him, but who knows. Maybe it’s just the heat going to my head, but I think he often finds ways to communicate with me.

At one of the lowest points of last year, I went outside on my porch for a smoke and to ponder what all had happen in the last year. I was feeling horrible and like I had lost everything. I looked over and noticed the bulbs I had taken from my grandfather’s house after his funeral were growing. They were tall and beautifully green in the midst of our winter. It gave me the courage to get my ass off the porch and to stop behaving like a child.

Since then there have been several of these incidents.

I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately since I decided to buy another house. Will I be able to make the mortgage? Will I be able to stick to a budget? What if I end up in a financial nightmare? What if I make the wrong decision? By the time Friday rolled around I was in need of a lobotomy, but instead decided to put on my St. Christopher chain. For some reason it reminds me of my grandfather, who was neither Catholic nor a religious man. Then again I don’t know why I have manifested him in the showerhead either, so I guess it makes perfect sense.

I felt like I needed him to be with me that day. I went into work that morning feeling blue and was confronted with an argument right away. Then the phone rang and I struggled with telling Rojo that it’s over between the two of us. I went into my boss’s office a couple of hours later and received the worst excuse ever about why I haven’t received a raise or a promotion. (If you know anyone else who is not receiving their dues at work because the company ran out of office space, please let me know. I’m searching for a support group)

Of course by this time I’m thinking it can’t get any worse, and I drive home to make a gift for a friend. Once I got home I realized I lacked the energy for any such activity and called the old roomie for dinner. I was driving to the restaurant with the top of the cabrio-gay down feeling a little bit more chipper until my phone rang. It was the X calling to tell me that he’s getting married in a couple of weeks.

Wow. My X husband gets divorced from me in December, and then married to the Replacement in October. Lighting speed to you Frat Man. I had no idea your sperm was in such high demand. I was stunned and said my formal congratulatory remarks and hung up the phone in order to whimper like a beaten dog.

The minute I walked into the door of Mexican food joint, two waiters immediately came up and asked me if I needed a drink. Nice. You know you must look like hell, but do you need the confirmation of a bus boy to do this for you?

I sat down and didn’t hear a word that my friends said throughout the evening. I muscled through dinner and left as soon as the check was paid. Back in the cabrio-gay I couldn’t bare to turn on the radio for fear that Etta James would be playing. I know it’s not likely, but then again…

In the safety of my apartment I fell on my couch praying that no one would call. I looked around and saw all the little things that use to be in our house. When I got up I felt the chain around my neck and my little St. Christopher hanging safely on my chest. And I knew, it’s just one day, it’s just one thing, it goes on even after its gone.