I want to preface this post by saying that making dinner for Mr. Sexy (we're protecting his identity, see) was totally my idea. When I suggested it to him the other day (using liquid courage, I'm sure), a little voice in the back of my head immediately screamed, "No, you crazy bitch! No! You'll screw it up! You'll poison him/burn the house down/have some sort of incident. Impress him some other way with something you're good at like slamming shots, owning cats or wearing a cleavage-baring shirt!"
I mentally screamed back at my inner voice to just shut the fuck up and go solve bigger problems like where my new Urban Decay eyeshadow disappeared to. She did. (It was under my car seat.)
Now, as I sit here eating cookie dough and reflecting on the night, I'm mostly glad I did not listen to her. Mostly.
See, my garbage disposal clogged up and refused to work about a week ago. Then, the other night, my dishwasher stopped draining. Water was just pooling in the bottom and threatening to flood my kitchen. Luckily for me, my good friend Stuff (again, I use code names to protect the innocent) came over (now, this is about an hour before Mr. Sexy was due to arrive, mind you) and was able to fix it for me (although how he focused with my dad hovering over him and lisping to high hell about how he knowth nothing about drainth but could fixth a Harley ANYTIME is beyond me).
The problems began after everyone left. My kitchen was all torn up, my hair was not styled and I had yet to drag my old dining room table up the very narrow basement steps (the ex came and took the set that I had been using). Mr. Sexy would be standing in my house in 30 minutes. I was freaking out a little. And wishing I kept whisky on hand for times like this.
It took me a ridiculous amount of time to remove the legs from the stupid table. After taking two of them off, I decided to leave the other two on and attempt to get the table up the steps like that (you know, to save time).
(I also decided to start my bathwater BEFORE I carried the table up. Don't ask why- in fact, don't ever ask why I do the things I do. Ask my mom or my bestie JChes, maybe they know.)
Anyway.
Bathwater is running. I'm barefoot in the basement in lounge pants and my work t-shirt. I heaved the table over to the steps and made my way up, table first. All went well till I was midway up. Suddenly I couldn't move up OR down. I was stuck. I was fucking STUCK.
The weight of the table was pushing me backwards and I was completely aware that if it somehow became unstuck, I would go flying down and the table would land on me and Mr. Sexy would arrive to find my cold, dead body in a crumpled mess on the concrete floor.
With unstyled hair.
And day old makeup.
And no dinner.
These thoughts terrified me enough to push harder. Well, that and the fact that I remembered my bathwater was still running. The following are actual words and phrases screeched by me while I pushed and stumbled:
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!"
"Oh my God. Please let me get this table up these stairs. PLEAAAAAAASE!"
"Why? WHY ME? WHYYYYYY? WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?!?!"
"I just wanted to make him dinner. JUST. WANTED. TO. MAKE. DINNER!"
[each period denotes a hard shove upwards on the table]
"Go. Up. GO. UP. Ok. OK! OUCH!"
The "OUCH!" came because with my last shove, the table lurched upwards and I was suddenly wedged between it and the wall. Along that wall is a ledge with shelving- unanchored shelving. I bumped into the shelves and a Tupperware container of cat food came flying down on my head. The impact on my head caused the top to fly off the container and a hellstorm of cat food came raining down on me, the steps and into the basement. I nearly dropped the table. Cat food was down my shirt, in my hair, between my toes. You can't make stuff like this up.
At that point I actually considered letting go and falling backwards into blissful unconsciousness.
I finally did get the table up the stairs. Then I laid on my dining room floor for two minutes. Then I remembered the bathwater (I'm pleased to share that I caught it in time; it did not overflow).
My frenzy was punctuated after I reassembled the table and got cleaned up. I had CURLERS IN MY HAIR and was putting makeup on when I realized my mascara was in my car. I knew Mr. Sexy would be pulling up anytime and I would be spotted in my driveway, hair in curlers and mascara-less like some kind of demented cat lady. I decided to make a run for it anyway... and slipped on the ice in the driveway. Luckily I fell against my car. As I laid on the hood, I wondered for a fleeting moment why these things happen to me. Then I stood up, opened the car door and grabbed my mascara and dashed back in the house...
... only to find a text from Mr. Sexy saying he was running late.
There was absolutely NO reason for me to have run around like a crackhead for 35 minutes. None.
Epilogue
Mr. Sexy did show up. I was a ball of stress for a bit but was able to calm down sufficiently (he talked to me in a slow, soothing voice and made no sudden moves- the way a person might deal with a mental patient or suicidal person) to finish making dinner. He seemed to like it (but boys do lie so maybe it was disgusting and he just didn't want to send me into a wine drinking shame spiral... very kind of him) and there were no fires, explosions, kitchen floods or bloodshed.
Joe Boxer stood there silently begging the whole time we ate. Mr. Sexy wanted to pinch his ear to teach him a lesson but I wouldn't let him.
Then T.V. was watched, I drank all the wine and Mr. Sexy went home. Once alone, I did not curl up in a ball of depression from my harrowing attempt at being domestic. I did, however, sullenly curse myself for not buying a bigger bottle of wine and not being more like Martha Stewart.
Man, I don't like that bitch.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Things I Have Learned In The Past Two Weeks
... since I'm all about you know, uh, learning.
Once you have acquired a Stage Five Clinger*, there is NO shaking him.
Seriously. Ladies, I would like to give you some solid, amazing advice: No matter HOW devastated you are when something bad happens to you, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT seek comfort/friendship/a rebound with a Stage Five Clinger. You will not be able to detach him from your leg. Ever. I'm seriously considering changing my identity, as plainly explaining that I do not want a relationship with him and ignoring his texts/calls/messages did not seem to make it sink into his beady little brain that I would rather chew off my own arm than hang out with him ever again.
Haha, I just had a thought- at least three boys are going to think I am talking about them. I could include a telling detail to put their minds at ease but I'm not that nice. Ha. Ha. Ha. HA!
Artificial Christmas trees ARE easy to assemble...
... if you're not an eager, disorganized jackass like me. I tore into the box of branches like a monkey and spent an hour cursing, throwing things and guzzling wine as I tried to figure out which ones matched and which row said matching branches should go on... only to discover they are color coded at the ends and have corresponding colors on the rows. You know, to make things EASIER.
I can stick my hand in a dark place without freaking out.
For obvious reasons, I have an aversion to sticking my hand in holes, boxes, dark corners, etc. Anything could be lurking there- spiders, a rabid chipmunk, my Stage Five Clinger (see above). My garbage disposal stopped working, see. I immediately called my stepfather and said, "My garbage disposal stopped working, see," fully expecting him to say, "I'll be right over." No. He told me to unplug the bastard and stick my hand down there to fish around for debris that could be stopping the blades.
I actually took the telephone away from my ear and looked at it, just to make sure he was for real.
He was.
I put on six pairs of rubber gloves, unplugged the wretched machine (which I had actually loved up till that point- I could dump stuff and things down there, flip a switch and it would all go bye bye... a genius invention) and peered down the hole. Sick. I shut my eyes and jammed my hand down there (is that what she said??).
I only almost puked one time, because I found a chicken bone and some hair.
After ten minutes of feeling around, it still doesn't work. BUT! BUT! I stuck my hand in a dark place! Go me!
I really suck at beer pong and busting the caps off beer bottles with my hand.
In my defense, I was already pretty tipsy when I started the beer pong. My teammate didn't even want me. I felt like I was in freshman gym class all over again- last one picked (unless my best friend was the team captain) and always dropping the ball. Still, I think I should resign myself to the fact that sports, even of the drinking nature, are something I will never be good at. I am not graceful and I am not good at handling balls (see what I did there? A little word play for my fellow pervs).
As far as popping beer bottles open using my hand and a sturdy surface... this was just a BAD idea. However, when someone, especially a male, encourages or dares me to do something that could potentially showcase just what a bad ass I am, I'm probably going to do it.
Except I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, I really did. I WANTED to pop the bottle cap open, chug it and punt the empty bottle into a raging bonfire with all the smoothness and finesse of a female James Bond. My desire to impress my peers completely overrode my good judgment and I woke up the next day with a giant bruise on my wrist and, worst of all, none of those empty bottles in the still smoldering fire were kicked there by me.
I was not meant to own earrings.
Not pairs anyway. I always lose one, just ONE fucking earring. Sometimes they are returned, other times they are lost forever. I gave up on keeping track of them. Maybe I'll just shut my eyes and reach in my earring martini bowl (yes, I said "earring martini bowl." What, you don't have one? How sad for you!) and grab two earrings, matching or not, to wear when I go places.
Growing a temporary pair of balls CAN get a girl a date (temporary because balls on a girl aren't very attractive).
I recently gave my number to a boy I have been admiring from afar who comes into my work pretty regularly. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I was also very tired of getting all flustered trying to make small talk with him whenever he was there. So, I handed him a piece of paper with my number on it. The delivery sucked ("Uhhh... I don't usually do this but here's my number and uh, I think you're cute, and uh... I'm gonna go away now" then running away like a five year old) but he actually CALLED that very night and we had drinks. Go me!
My ex is a giant douchebag and I am truly better off without him.
Surely you recall my nasty breakup back in October. As it turns out, Mr. Murder couldn't stand it when I actually started to move on. He emailed. He texted. He called. When I informed him I had no interest whatsoever in having contact with him ever again, he informed me his new girl is going to med school and I am a slut.
(I couldn't stop laughing, because he's a such a LIAR- he doesn't have a new girlfriend.)
I went and wrote his new phone number on the bathroom wall of the bar my friends and I were at, with instructions for every female to call and tell him he is a real bastard.
I hope he enjoyed fielding phone calls from drunk, middle-aged cougars. I know the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy inside and was very enjoyable for me.
The picture below depicts how happy I was.
Ok, that's actually a picture of me when I was drunk. But I'm pretty sure I was happy, so it works.
My, what a productive, educational two weeks I have had! And I haven't even touched on some of the shenanigans I got into- but my fingers hurt from typing and I need to go stare at my garbage disposal in an attempt to will it to work with my mind.
*Stage Five Clinger- an individual who latches onto another individual with deluded, one-sided notions that they were meant to be together. There is currently no cure for a Stage Five Clinger.
Once you have acquired a Stage Five Clinger*, there is NO shaking him.
Seriously. Ladies, I would like to give you some solid, amazing advice: No matter HOW devastated you are when something bad happens to you, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT seek comfort/friendship/a rebound with a Stage Five Clinger. You will not be able to detach him from your leg. Ever. I'm seriously considering changing my identity, as plainly explaining that I do not want a relationship with him and ignoring his texts/calls/messages did not seem to make it sink into his beady little brain that I would rather chew off my own arm than hang out with him ever again.
Haha, I just had a thought- at least three boys are going to think I am talking about them. I could include a telling detail to put their minds at ease but I'm not that nice. Ha. Ha. Ha. HA!
Artificial Christmas trees ARE easy to assemble...
... if you're not an eager, disorganized jackass like me. I tore into the box of branches like a monkey and spent an hour cursing, throwing things and guzzling wine as I tried to figure out which ones matched and which row said matching branches should go on... only to discover they are color coded at the ends and have corresponding colors on the rows. You know, to make things EASIER.
I can stick my hand in a dark place without freaking out.
For obvious reasons, I have an aversion to sticking my hand in holes, boxes, dark corners, etc. Anything could be lurking there- spiders, a rabid chipmunk, my Stage Five Clinger (see above). My garbage disposal stopped working, see. I immediately called my stepfather and said, "My garbage disposal stopped working, see," fully expecting him to say, "I'll be right over." No. He told me to unplug the bastard and stick my hand down there to fish around for debris that could be stopping the blades.
I actually took the telephone away from my ear and looked at it, just to make sure he was for real.
He was.
I put on six pairs of rubber gloves, unplugged the wretched machine (which I had actually loved up till that point- I could dump stuff and things down there, flip a switch and it would all go bye bye... a genius invention) and peered down the hole. Sick. I shut my eyes and jammed my hand down there (is that what she said??).
I only almost puked one time, because I found a chicken bone and some hair.
After ten minutes of feeling around, it still doesn't work. BUT! BUT! I stuck my hand in a dark place! Go me!
I really suck at beer pong and busting the caps off beer bottles with my hand.
In my defense, I was already pretty tipsy when I started the beer pong. My teammate didn't even want me. I felt like I was in freshman gym class all over again- last one picked (unless my best friend was the team captain) and always dropping the ball. Still, I think I should resign myself to the fact that sports, even of the drinking nature, are something I will never be good at. I am not graceful and I am not good at handling balls (see what I did there? A little word play for my fellow pervs).
As far as popping beer bottles open using my hand and a sturdy surface... this was just a BAD idea. However, when someone, especially a male, encourages or dares me to do something that could potentially showcase just what a bad ass I am, I'm probably going to do it.
Except I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, I really did. I WANTED to pop the bottle cap open, chug it and punt the empty bottle into a raging bonfire with all the smoothness and finesse of a female James Bond. My desire to impress my peers completely overrode my good judgment and I woke up the next day with a giant bruise on my wrist and, worst of all, none of those empty bottles in the still smoldering fire were kicked there by me.
I was not meant to own earrings.
Not pairs anyway. I always lose one, just ONE fucking earring. Sometimes they are returned, other times they are lost forever. I gave up on keeping track of them. Maybe I'll just shut my eyes and reach in my earring martini bowl (yes, I said "earring martini bowl." What, you don't have one? How sad for you!) and grab two earrings, matching or not, to wear when I go places.
Growing a temporary pair of balls CAN get a girl a date (temporary because balls on a girl aren't very attractive).
I recently gave my number to a boy I have been admiring from afar who comes into my work pretty regularly. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I was also very tired of getting all flustered trying to make small talk with him whenever he was there. So, I handed him a piece of paper with my number on it. The delivery sucked ("Uhhh... I don't usually do this but here's my number and uh, I think you're cute, and uh... I'm gonna go away now" then running away like a five year old) but he actually CALLED that very night and we had drinks. Go me!
My ex is a giant douchebag and I am truly better off without him.
Surely you recall my nasty breakup back in October. As it turns out, Mr. Murder couldn't stand it when I actually started to move on. He emailed. He texted. He called. When I informed him I had no interest whatsoever in having contact with him ever again, he informed me his new girl is going to med school and I am a slut.
(I couldn't stop laughing, because he's a such a LIAR- he doesn't have a new girlfriend.)
I went and wrote his new phone number on the bathroom wall of the bar my friends and I were at, with instructions for every female to call and tell him he is a real bastard.
I hope he enjoyed fielding phone calls from drunk, middle-aged cougars. I know the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy inside and was very enjoyable for me.
The picture below depicts how happy I was.
Ok, that's actually a picture of me when I was drunk. But I'm pretty sure I was happy, so it works.
My, what a productive, educational two weeks I have had! And I haven't even touched on some of the shenanigans I got into- but my fingers hurt from typing and I need to go stare at my garbage disposal in an attempt to will it to work with my mind.
*Stage Five Clinger- an individual who latches onto another individual with deluded, one-sided notions that they were meant to be together. There is currently no cure for a Stage Five Clinger.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sick as a Single Girl
Ok.
This is the first time I have been ill since I became single (well, ill that was not alcohol related, to clarify). Therefore, I am used to having some stinky stupid boy there to feel sorry for me, fetch me water and listen to me carry on about how I will soon be dead from said illness.
It started Saturday morning. I woke up with a scratchy throat. I thought nothing of it and went to work. The big game was on and by the time I got home at 1 p.m., I felt all body ache-y and irritable. I attributed this to the score of the game (like a zillion to two, Ohio State) and ripped my Michigan jersey off in the middle of my dining room and crawled into bed where I proceeded to sleep for hours.
I woke up even sicker around 6 p.m. This is when bewilderment set in. Who would take care of me? Who would bring me medicine at regular intervals and rub Vicks on my chest??? How does one get through being sick... ALONE? I had no boyfriend to call and whine to. On any other occasion I would call my mommy. But not this time!
This time would be different!
I steeled my nerves- I was going to go this one... alone.
Step One: Find the Nyquil. I crawled into the kitchen and rifled through the cupboard. No Nyquil. What sort of fuckery was going on? I always have Nyquil. After a moment of consideration I figured Dayquil would be better anyway, since it wasn't all that late yet.
No Dayquil. I looked around frantically and saw the half empty bottle of Wine From Hell my friend Thomas so generously stole for me on Thanksgiving sitting on the counter, gleaming like my own personal savior. I grabbed it and took a giant swig.
Note to self: Wine, especially DISGUSTING DRY WINE, does NOT help a head cold.
Step Two: Go to store. I also had to feed my friend's cat, as she was out of town for the weekend. I did not want to complete either of these tasks (again, a stinky stupid boy would have been very handy right about then). I decided to get The Cat Feeding out of the way first, then stop at the store on my way back home. When I got to her apartment to feed Hodgie, I noticed a bottle of vodka sitting out in plain sight (ok, it was in her cupboard, but who cares about pesky details?). Suddenly, the words of my grandfather rang in my head about how good, strong Southern whiskey will cure almost ANYTHING ("Have a sip- it's good for what ails ya!") and I grabbed the bottle and quickly swilled what was left (luckily it wasn't much).
Note to self: Cheap vodka is not the same as homemade Southern whiskey.
When I was sure I wasn't going to throw up, I left my friend's apartment. I thought about leaving her a note ("Sorry I drank the last dregs of your SHIT vodka in an attempt to cure my cold. Why couldn't you have homemade Southern whiskey like my Poppy makes in his garage? You suck. XOXOXOXO Amanda") but at that point I just wanted to get my medicine and go home.
The trip to Kroger was a blur. I know I left with my arms full of Nyquil, Dayquil, throat lozenges, chocolate chip cookies, tortilla chips and some Saran Wrap. Don't ask.
Step Three: Medicate. At this juncture, I was feeling that last burst of energy a person gets before sickness completely engulfs them:
"Who needs MEDICINE? Medicine is for pussies!"
I proceeded to do a load of laundry and then, I shit you not, I decided to EXERCISE. Yes, I did like 50 chair dips, my yoga rings and some weird side kick thing that I was convinced would rid me of my muffin top overnight.
Mistake.
Just as I was about to pop in Tae Bo with Billy Blanks, my body began its protest. I started to feel really, really cold even though my body was super warm from all the exercising. My head was spinning. I aborted my mission to lose ten pounds overnight and, with shaky hands, opened the Nyquil. Down the hatch it went.
Fun fact: Half a glass of wine after a dose of Nyquil makes everything niiiice. You forget that you are ill. And single. And not ten pounds lighter. Everything is just peachy. Wine after Nyquil makes spending a shit ton of money at Sephora.com seem like the right thing to do.
I chatted with my friends for awhile online. I know I told my friend Tom goodnight. I know I brushed my teeth.
I woke up at 8:20 a.m. in a puddle of my own drool. It was very sexy. Such a pity there was no boyfriend sleeping next to me to see it. I contemplated throwing myself down the basement steps so I wouldn't have to go to work, but there were SO many ways that could backfire.
I could knock a tooth out (a giant fear of mine- losing a tooth. I have a recurring nightmare about it).
I might not get hurt at all.
I might break both ankles instead of just spraining one.
I could lose an eyeball.
Etc.
Work was a clusterfuck. I found myself looking for creative ways to end my life- getting my head shut in the cooler, jumping off the top of the freezer, laying in the parking lot. My head was pounding. I coughed so much I actually threw up in the bathroom. My nose was all stuffy. It was bad, people. Really bad. To make matters worse, physically I looked like a crackwhore.
My lovely co-workers were kind enough to acknowledge that their little drama queen was on death's doorstep and let me leave first rather than third as scheduled. I came home to find the neighbor's dog blissfully going through my trash, which he had so kindly spread all over my yard. I'm not sure what I said to my neighbor when I went over there to let him know his 120 pound German Shepherd had yet again helped himself to my garbage (at least he didn't take a crap at the foot of my steps like he normally does), but I'm hoping I was semi-polite.
After TrashGate, I sank into bed. I think I even kissed my bed. Five hours later when I woke (in a puddle of drool again, but this time I think it was because I had a "sexy dream"), I felt a little better. Not enough to pop in that Billy Blanks video, but well enough to crawl to the bathroom, get myself water, etc.
The moral of the story is this: I don't need a man to take care of me when I'm ill! I can overmedicate myself and whine to friends just fine without some asshole there to help me! I didn't even bother my mommy till this evening.
Does this mean I'm a bonafide independent woman now?
This is the first time I have been ill since I became single (well, ill that was not alcohol related, to clarify). Therefore, I am used to having some stinky stupid boy there to feel sorry for me, fetch me water and listen to me carry on about how I will soon be dead from said illness.
It started Saturday morning. I woke up with a scratchy throat. I thought nothing of it and went to work. The big game was on and by the time I got home at 1 p.m., I felt all body ache-y and irritable. I attributed this to the score of the game (like a zillion to two, Ohio State) and ripped my Michigan jersey off in the middle of my dining room and crawled into bed where I proceeded to sleep for hours.
I woke up even sicker around 6 p.m. This is when bewilderment set in. Who would take care of me? Who would bring me medicine at regular intervals and rub Vicks on my chest??? How does one get through being sick... ALONE? I had no boyfriend to call and whine to. On any other occasion I would call my mommy. But not this time!
This time would be different!
I steeled my nerves- I was going to go this one... alone.
Step One: Find the Nyquil. I crawled into the kitchen and rifled through the cupboard. No Nyquil. What sort of fuckery was going on? I always have Nyquil. After a moment of consideration I figured Dayquil would be better anyway, since it wasn't all that late yet.
No Dayquil. I looked around frantically and saw the half empty bottle of Wine From Hell my friend Thomas so generously stole for me on Thanksgiving sitting on the counter, gleaming like my own personal savior. I grabbed it and took a giant swig.
Note to self: Wine, especially DISGUSTING DRY WINE, does NOT help a head cold.
Step Two: Go to store. I also had to feed my friend's cat, as she was out of town for the weekend. I did not want to complete either of these tasks (again, a stinky stupid boy would have been very handy right about then). I decided to get The Cat Feeding out of the way first, then stop at the store on my way back home. When I got to her apartment to feed Hodgie, I noticed a bottle of vodka sitting out in plain sight (ok, it was in her cupboard, but who cares about pesky details?). Suddenly, the words of my grandfather rang in my head about how good, strong Southern whiskey will cure almost ANYTHING ("Have a sip- it's good for what ails ya!") and I grabbed the bottle and quickly swilled what was left (luckily it wasn't much).
Note to self: Cheap vodka is not the same as homemade Southern whiskey.
When I was sure I wasn't going to throw up, I left my friend's apartment. I thought about leaving her a note ("Sorry I drank the last dregs of your SHIT vodka in an attempt to cure my cold. Why couldn't you have homemade Southern whiskey like my Poppy makes in his garage? You suck. XOXOXOXO Amanda") but at that point I just wanted to get my medicine and go home.
The trip to Kroger was a blur. I know I left with my arms full of Nyquil, Dayquil, throat lozenges, chocolate chip cookies, tortilla chips and some Saran Wrap. Don't ask.
Step Three: Medicate. At this juncture, I was feeling that last burst of energy a person gets before sickness completely engulfs them:
"Who needs MEDICINE? Medicine is for pussies!"
I proceeded to do a load of laundry and then, I shit you not, I decided to EXERCISE. Yes, I did like 50 chair dips, my yoga rings and some weird side kick thing that I was convinced would rid me of my muffin top overnight.
Mistake.
Just as I was about to pop in Tae Bo with Billy Blanks, my body began its protest. I started to feel really, really cold even though my body was super warm from all the exercising. My head was spinning. I aborted my mission to lose ten pounds overnight and, with shaky hands, opened the Nyquil. Down the hatch it went.
Fun fact: Half a glass of wine after a dose of Nyquil makes everything niiiice. You forget that you are ill. And single. And not ten pounds lighter. Everything is just peachy. Wine after Nyquil makes spending a shit ton of money at Sephora.com seem like the right thing to do.
I chatted with my friends for awhile online. I know I told my friend Tom goodnight. I know I brushed my teeth.
I woke up at 8:20 a.m. in a puddle of my own drool. It was very sexy. Such a pity there was no boyfriend sleeping next to me to see it. I contemplated throwing myself down the basement steps so I wouldn't have to go to work, but there were SO many ways that could backfire.
I could knock a tooth out (a giant fear of mine- losing a tooth. I have a recurring nightmare about it).
I might not get hurt at all.
I might break both ankles instead of just spraining one.
I could lose an eyeball.
Etc.
Work was a clusterfuck. I found myself looking for creative ways to end my life- getting my head shut in the cooler, jumping off the top of the freezer, laying in the parking lot. My head was pounding. I coughed so much I actually threw up in the bathroom. My nose was all stuffy. It was bad, people. Really bad. To make matters worse, physically I looked like a crackwhore.
My lovely co-workers were kind enough to acknowledge that their little drama queen was on death's doorstep and let me leave first rather than third as scheduled. I came home to find the neighbor's dog blissfully going through my trash, which he had so kindly spread all over my yard. I'm not sure what I said to my neighbor when I went over there to let him know his 120 pound German Shepherd had yet again helped himself to my garbage (at least he didn't take a crap at the foot of my steps like he normally does), but I'm hoping I was semi-polite.
After TrashGate, I sank into bed. I think I even kissed my bed. Five hours later when I woke (in a puddle of drool again, but this time I think it was because I had a "sexy dream"), I felt a little better. Not enough to pop in that Billy Blanks video, but well enough to crawl to the bathroom, get myself water, etc.
The moral of the story is this: I don't need a man to take care of me when I'm ill! I can overmedicate myself and whine to friends just fine without some asshole there to help me! I didn't even bother my mommy till this evening.
Does this mean I'm a bonafide independent woman now?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Lemon Drops, Strip Clubs and Racing Thoughts
I had started a new post yesterday with the intention of having it finished and posted by the time I went to bed last night. It had humor! It had wit! There was even some philosophic crap in there (you know, for balance).
Unfortunately, I had to delete it and start over because sometimes in life you're sitting at home on a Saturday night like a loser minding your own business and blogging and then an hour later you're sandwiched in a booth at a strip club between your crazy friends and a dude named Wayne who has perpetually sweaty hands and a bit of a lisp.
And you're not entirely sure how you got there in one piece or how you'll get home in less than seven.
It occurred to me as Wayne was leaning in and blabbing on and on about his favorite flavor of beer and the newly expanded stadium at U of M that my life has taken like a thousand fucked up turns in less than a month's time. I'm sure he thought I was hanging on his every word since I probably had a thoughtful look on my face as my brain was going a million miles a minute about so many things. It was sensory overload, especially with the strippers and glitter and techno music and Lucite heeled shoes.
My inner monologue went something like this (to the best of my knowledge- I had consumed quite a few lemon drop shots to help myself accept the fact that I was basically stranded at a strip club and sitting next to a man who may or may not want to kill me and make a coat out of my skin). It was literally a clusterfuck of thoughts:
Oh, God... I'm never going to see my dog again. Shut up. Yes you will. You'll walk if you have to. Walk? Oh, why did I wear "fuck me" shoes to a strip club?!?!?
Wayne smells a little strange- sort of a mixture of Old Spice and desperation. Haha, remember that time Dad tried to re-gift an Old Spice gift set you gave him to your ex for Christmas?
How is she contorting her body around the pole like that? It's as if she and the pole are one! Wait, I have to stop staring or I'm going to have to tip her...
Will I be able to taste a roofie in a shot???
I'm going to die tonight. Fuck, I forgot my lipstick. If someone is going to find my dead body on Telegraph Road, I should have some goddamn lipstick on... I already died five times, I think.
OH MY GOD THOSE GIRLS ARE DOING THAT TO EACH OTHER ON THE STAGE?!!? I have to go pray...
...is he still talking about the stupid Guiness he's drinking?! Guiness tastes like shit, dude. Accept it.
I really should get my nails done again, they're looking awful.
You're never going to have children, you know this, right? You will die an old maid with 100 cats if you make it out of this alive tonight. God, had I known this was the last night of my life I would've totally slept with Button Boy* this morning... he smells nice, not like Old Spice and desperation- more like classy cologne and fabric softener and zest for life... I should totally drunk text him right now and tell him. No. Yes. No! YES!
... I have to pee... where's my purse?... Aw, hell, it's under the table- nothing good can happen to someone who crawls under a table at a strip club.
I want my Mommy.
I wish I was skinny like these girls.
You do understand you are at a strip club right now, right? Also, why are the beers $6?
And so it went, till I got the brilliant idea to see if a good friend might be in the area and interested in coming to my rescue. Luckily for me, my friend Alysia and what was left of my innocence, he was willing to come get us.
So that's my post. Wait. We need some philosophy... eh, screw it for today. My body is still 45% alcohol right now.
Being a single girl isn't easy.
*Names have been changed or shortened to protect the innocent. Or at least prevent them from being so pissed off they won't want to drink irresponsible amounts of alcohol with me and kiss anymore.
Unfortunately, I had to delete it and start over because sometimes in life you're sitting at home on a Saturday night like a loser minding your own business and blogging and then an hour later you're sandwiched in a booth at a strip club between your crazy friends and a dude named Wayne who has perpetually sweaty hands and a bit of a lisp.
And you're not entirely sure how you got there in one piece or how you'll get home in less than seven.
It occurred to me as Wayne was leaning in and blabbing on and on about his favorite flavor of beer and the newly expanded stadium at U of M that my life has taken like a thousand fucked up turns in less than a month's time. I'm sure he thought I was hanging on his every word since I probably had a thoughtful look on my face as my brain was going a million miles a minute about so many things. It was sensory overload, especially with the strippers and glitter and techno music and Lucite heeled shoes.
My inner monologue went something like this (to the best of my knowledge- I had consumed quite a few lemon drop shots to help myself accept the fact that I was basically stranded at a strip club and sitting next to a man who may or may not want to kill me and make a coat out of my skin). It was literally a clusterfuck of thoughts:
Oh, God... I'm never going to see my dog again. Shut up. Yes you will. You'll walk if you have to. Walk? Oh, why did I wear "fuck me" shoes to a strip club?!?!?
Wayne smells a little strange- sort of a mixture of Old Spice and desperation. Haha, remember that time Dad tried to re-gift an Old Spice gift set you gave him to your ex for Christmas?
How is she contorting her body around the pole like that? It's as if she and the pole are one! Wait, I have to stop staring or I'm going to have to tip her...
Will I be able to taste a roofie in a shot???
I'm going to die tonight. Fuck, I forgot my lipstick. If someone is going to find my dead body on Telegraph Road, I should have some goddamn lipstick on... I already died five times, I think.
OH MY GOD THOSE GIRLS ARE DOING THAT TO EACH OTHER ON THE STAGE?!!? I have to go pray...
...is he still talking about the stupid Guiness he's drinking?! Guiness tastes like shit, dude. Accept it.
I really should get my nails done again, they're looking awful.
You're never going to have children, you know this, right? You will die an old maid with 100 cats if you make it out of this alive tonight. God, had I known this was the last night of my life I would've totally slept with Button Boy* this morning... he smells nice, not like Old Spice and desperation- more like classy cologne and fabric softener and zest for life... I should totally drunk text him right now and tell him. No. Yes. No! YES!
... I have to pee... where's my purse?... Aw, hell, it's under the table- nothing good can happen to someone who crawls under a table at a strip club.
I want my Mommy.
I wish I was skinny like these girls.
You do understand you are at a strip club right now, right? Also, why are the beers $6?
And so it went, till I got the brilliant idea to see if a good friend might be in the area and interested in coming to my rescue. Luckily for me, my friend Alysia and what was left of my innocence, he was willing to come get us.
So that's my post. Wait. We need some philosophy... eh, screw it for today. My body is still 45% alcohol right now.
Being a single girl isn't easy.
*Names have been changed or shortened to protect the innocent. Or at least prevent them from being so pissed off they won't want to drink irresponsible amounts of alcohol with me and kiss anymore.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Shopping as a Single Woman
Shopping as single woman is really, really obnoxious. Maybe it's because the wounds are still so fresh, or because I hate love in general. Either way, everywhere I looked today at the mall, I was assaulted by reminders that I do not have a boyfriend.
Or a heart.
Or a life.
During the holidays.
Also, as a sidenote, I am certainly not helping matters by being a perpetual klutz. Men are so going to be attracted to a girl who, in an attempt to escape the Seacret Spa kiosk (you know the one, where a suave looking dude assaults you with his accent and promises of free samples and then, next thing you know you're standing by yourself holding a $50 nail kit you didn't need) turns away and veers into the nearest store only to run into their "Christmas Deals" sign. I'm pretty bad ass like that.
Also, you should see me eat- it's like watching a pack of wolves tear apart a piece of meat.
Anyway.
As I'm walking through the mall, I see happy couples holding hands. Hate them. I completely and totally loathe them. I really do. I could feel myself starting to sweat (another lovely thing that happens to me when I'm nervous or upset).
Then I passed the jewelry stores. Inside one of them, a shy looking guy was perusing the necklaces- for his girlfriend, no doubt. Asshole. The next one was giving away free cuddly looking bears with a purchase. I had a momentary urge to run in and tear the heads off the bears and scream at the shoppers that this is what love REALLY does to a person.
To fight that urge, I went to my favorite clothing store for a little respite. This would have been fine, except the first store associate to come my way to greet me was a large, good-looking man. I know I had a wild stare in my eyes (internally I was screaming, "IS NOTHING FUCKING SACRED ANYMORE????? A MAN WORKING IN MY STORE???") and he looked like he regretted having to approach me to tell me about the store's current deals.
Our relationship was short lived. He was just too pretty for me, and I think I was too homicidal-looking for him (also, I may have had a red spot on my cheek from walking into the sign). We parted on good terms; I bought a necklace and pointed him out when the cashier asked if anyone had helped me with my shopping.
But I need to tell you about the kicker. I went to my second favorite clothing store and made it past TWO male associates (what the fuck is the deal??) without ripping their balls off (I need them for my Christmas tree, see) and started rifling through clothing racks looking for something pretty to make myself feel better about being a dumped, lonely, heartbroken mess. Being a lover of black clothing, I grabbed at a slinky looking black shirt.
This is what I pulled out:
Really? REALLY?? The only reason I didn't throw it across the store and head to the Irish pub conveniently located near the food court is that I felt taking a picture and blogging about it later would be entertainment for those not suffering from the devastation of a broken heart.
Also, I was considering designing my own t-shirts. Some slogans I came up with while waiting five hours in line to buy two black shirts (with no stupid Bedazzled lettering, thankyouverymuch) are:
"My Ex-Boyfriend Was a Dick and So Are You."
"No Thanks, I'm Asexual."
"I Collect Men's Testicles for my Christmas Tree."
"Facebook Ruined My Life."
I think these would sell quite well. Surely I am not the only angry man hater in the world... right?
Or a heart.
Or a life.
During the holidays.
Also, as a sidenote, I am certainly not helping matters by being a perpetual klutz. Men are so going to be attracted to a girl who, in an attempt to escape the Seacret Spa kiosk (you know the one, where a suave looking dude assaults you with his accent and promises of free samples and then, next thing you know you're standing by yourself holding a $50 nail kit you didn't need) turns away and veers into the nearest store only to run into their "Christmas Deals" sign. I'm pretty bad ass like that.
Also, you should see me eat- it's like watching a pack of wolves tear apart a piece of meat.
Anyway.
As I'm walking through the mall, I see happy couples holding hands. Hate them. I completely and totally loathe them. I really do. I could feel myself starting to sweat (another lovely thing that happens to me when I'm nervous or upset).
Then I passed the jewelry stores. Inside one of them, a shy looking guy was perusing the necklaces- for his girlfriend, no doubt. Asshole. The next one was giving away free cuddly looking bears with a purchase. I had a momentary urge to run in and tear the heads off the bears and scream at the shoppers that this is what love REALLY does to a person.
To fight that urge, I went to my favorite clothing store for a little respite. This would have been fine, except the first store associate to come my way to greet me was a large, good-looking man. I know I had a wild stare in my eyes (internally I was screaming, "IS NOTHING FUCKING SACRED ANYMORE????? A MAN WORKING IN MY STORE???") and he looked like he regretted having to approach me to tell me about the store's current deals.
Our relationship was short lived. He was just too pretty for me, and I think I was too homicidal-looking for him (also, I may have had a red spot on my cheek from walking into the sign). We parted on good terms; I bought a necklace and pointed him out when the cashier asked if anyone had helped me with my shopping.
But I need to tell you about the kicker. I went to my second favorite clothing store and made it past TWO male associates (what the fuck is the deal??) without ripping their balls off (I need them for my Christmas tree, see) and started rifling through clothing racks looking for something pretty to make myself feel better about being a dumped, lonely, heartbroken mess. Being a lover of black clothing, I grabbed at a slinky looking black shirt.
This is what I pulled out:
Really? REALLY?? The only reason I didn't throw it across the store and head to the Irish pub conveniently located near the food court is that I felt taking a picture and blogging about it later would be entertainment for those not suffering from the devastation of a broken heart.
Also, I was considering designing my own t-shirts. Some slogans I came up with while waiting five hours in line to buy two black shirts (with no stupid Bedazzled lettering, thankyouverymuch) are:
"My Ex-Boyfriend Was a Dick and So Are You."
"No Thanks, I'm Asexual."
"I Collect Men's Testicles for my Christmas Tree."
"Facebook Ruined My Life."
I think these would sell quite well. Surely I am not the only angry man hater in the world... right?
Friday, November 5, 2010
D Day
Today is D Day.
Today, Mr. I'm Gonna Murder Your Heart Five Hundred Times, Then Once More For Good Measure is bringing me my stuff that I had at his place, as well as his cat. He doesn't want her anymore- apparently the cat and the girlfriend were just too much for him. It makes me feel a little better that I'm not the only poor creature who was kicked to the curb in this mess.
So, today at 4:30 I get to try my damndest not to turn into a sniveling mess. At the time of this post, I am a sniveling mess. I even have a little bit of snot running out of my nose. I am very sexy right now.
I have to decide what my souvenir shall be. A broken heart is just not enough. Last night as I lay in bed in the fetal position wondering why the Powers That Be hate me and texting innocent friends, I got the brilliant idea to keep one of Mr. Murder's shirts. Hopefully he will not notice, and if he does I shall play dumb. I will need something to wear when I cry my eyes out after he stomps on my heart one final time.
Do you think I would look better in a button down shirt with stripes or a button down shirt in solid baby blue? I'm leaning towards blue... the striped one is primarily white and will showcase all the mascara and snot stains. They are slightly different fabrics- I wonder which one would burn better when I'm good and pissed at Mr. Murder and have a ceremonial bonfire (in my backyard, not the dining room, cross my heart!)... also, should I videotape this for YouTube? Maybe a talent scout would stumble upon it and I would be discovered and become rich and famous...
Today, Mr. I'm Gonna Murder Your Heart Five Hundred Times, Then Once More For Good Measure is bringing me my stuff that I had at his place, as well as his cat. He doesn't want her anymore- apparently the cat and the girlfriend were just too much for him. It makes me feel a little better that I'm not the only poor creature who was kicked to the curb in this mess.
So, today at 4:30 I get to try my damndest not to turn into a sniveling mess. At the time of this post, I am a sniveling mess. I even have a little bit of snot running out of my nose. I am very sexy right now.
I have to decide what my souvenir shall be. A broken heart is just not enough. Last night as I lay in bed in the fetal position wondering why the Powers That Be hate me and texting innocent friends, I got the brilliant idea to keep one of Mr. Murder's shirts. Hopefully he will not notice, and if he does I shall play dumb. I will need something to wear when I cry my eyes out after he stomps on my heart one final time.
Do you think I would look better in a button down shirt with stripes or a button down shirt in solid baby blue? I'm leaning towards blue... the striped one is primarily white and will showcase all the mascara and snot stains. They are slightly different fabrics- I wonder which one would burn better when I'm good and pissed at Mr. Murder and have a ceremonial bonfire (in my backyard, not the dining room, cross my heart!)... also, should I videotape this for YouTube? Maybe a talent scout would stumble upon it and I would be discovered and become rich and famous...
Updates soon. I want you all to pay close attention and learn from my mistakes, mmmmk?
Update: Mr. Murder just left and I am a sniveling mess.
Update #2: It just occurred to me that Mr. Murder blamed ME for his not doing a good job at work or at coaching. Do I look like a Bud Light??? Cause that's his problem.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The List
I was speaking with my oh-so-wise and lovely mom the other day about how much relationships suck, how absolutely fucking wounded I am by this last breakup, how I will never love again, my heart is frozen, etc. etc. wah wah wah.
Mom politely listened like most of my friends did last week when they were trying to coax me out of bed and I refused, citing that I was waiting for the sweet release of death. Then she told me something that actually did NOT go in one ear and out the other: make a list. Sit down and make a list of all the qualities I want in a man and do not settle for anything less.
The smart ass in me immediately began making a mental checklist:
1. He cannot be emotionally dead.
2. He cannot be a 30 second man.
3. He must be willing to clean cat litter boxes.
Of course, this was just fluff compared to what I really would like in a man (not that I will ever find one, on account of my heart is dead and I am still waiting for the sweet release of death, see). I have been pondering it for a few days. It was difficult to get started because right now, I don't particularly care for men. I think they lie, I think they are cruel and I am convinced I shall grow old alone except for the hundred or so cats who will be living with me.
However.
In the unlikely event I do not remain an Ice Queen for the rest of my life (doesn't that sound deliciously tragic? "Her heart was broken by a demon-possessed schoolteacher, shattered to pieces... she was nearly destroyed until an alcohol induced epiphany came to her- she would be reborn. She would never be hurt again. She would be... Ice Queen!"*), I decided it would be a good idea to at least start The List. I was going to blog what I had so far here for you, lovely reader, but I thought that might be giving too much away. Men are wily creatures, you see. They will glean as many details as they can about you and what you like and use them against you to break your heart later. So, rather than giving another psycho all the tools he needs to hurt me, I devised this.
I took the liberty of including sidenotes to you, faithful reader. Just hover over the questions with your cursor to get my two cents (or, for some browsers, the application may pop up in rough format with my notes in parentheses. I'm new to this. Work with me). Keep in mind, this is only a rough draft and a finalized application may never be finished. Also, please, PLEASE do not try to fill it out. I am not currently taking applications for a new boyfriend.
After all, I'm an Ice Queen, remember?
*No stealing my idea! I've already promised the rights to my life story to my friend Tom in the event of my death, either at the hands of a stalker or heart failure. Of course, he has to give my infinitely wise mother a giant cut.
Mom politely listened like most of my friends did last week when they were trying to coax me out of bed and I refused, citing that I was waiting for the sweet release of death. Then she told me something that actually did NOT go in one ear and out the other: make a list. Sit down and make a list of all the qualities I want in a man and do not settle for anything less.
The smart ass in me immediately began making a mental checklist:
1. He cannot be emotionally dead.
2. He cannot be a 30 second man.
3. He must be willing to clean cat litter boxes.
Of course, this was just fluff compared to what I really would like in a man (not that I will ever find one, on account of my heart is dead and I am still waiting for the sweet release of death, see). I have been pondering it for a few days. It was difficult to get started because right now, I don't particularly care for men. I think they lie, I think they are cruel and I am convinced I shall grow old alone except for the hundred or so cats who will be living with me.
However.
In the unlikely event I do not remain an Ice Queen for the rest of my life (doesn't that sound deliciously tragic? "Her heart was broken by a demon-possessed schoolteacher, shattered to pieces... she was nearly destroyed until an alcohol induced epiphany came to her- she would be reborn. She would never be hurt again. She would be... Ice Queen!"*), I decided it would be a good idea to at least start The List. I was going to blog what I had so far here for you, lovely reader, but I thought that might be giving too much away. Men are wily creatures, you see. They will glean as many details as they can about you and what you like and use them against you to break your heart later. So, rather than giving another psycho all the tools he needs to hurt me, I devised this.
I took the liberty of including sidenotes to you, faithful reader. Just hover over the questions with your cursor to get my two cents (or, for some browsers, the application may pop up in rough format with my notes in parentheses. I'm new to this. Work with me). Keep in mind, this is only a rough draft and a finalized application may never be finished. Also, please, PLEASE do not try to fill it out. I am not currently taking applications for a new boyfriend.
After all, I'm an Ice Queen, remember?
*No stealing my idea! I've already promised the rights to my life story to my friend Tom in the event of my death, either at the hands of a stalker or heart failure. Of course, he has to give my infinitely wise mother a giant cut.
Monday, November 1, 2010
My (Latest) New Beginning
A lot of people have been encouraging me to use my hilariously depressing personal life as fodder for a blog. Because I am a pretty open person, I'm going to try my hand at it. What could it hurt, right? I've already been dumped on my ass, drunk off my ass, a sobbing mess in a ball on the floor, a firestarter, a baseball bat wielder and a recluse- all in the matter of about six days. How much worse could it get? And who am I to deny the public a good laugh (even if it is out of pity)?
The cool part is I don't have to take even half the blame for my last disasterous relationship; the ex says it was 60/40, with him shouldering more of the fault. Does this make me over half innocent? I've never had anyone split the blame like this- usually it's all Amanda's fault, that bitch! I kind of like being only 40% responsible for the loss of the greatest love I've experienced thus far in my life.
(Just between you and me, I think it's more 80/20, with me still being the more innocent, on account of the fact I wanted to work things out because, as I mentioned, this man was the love of my life. But don't tell him, OK? He already thinks I suck enough. In a bad way.)
Since becoming "single" again, I've gotten lots of advice from all sides. "Put out." "Don't put out." "Take time for you." "Find yourself." "Break shit." "Slap his face." The problem with these is, I am still smitten by the jerk. So, while I thank you all for the well-meant advice, I'm probably going to have to come out of this one on my own. Lucky for me, he is doing a mighty fine job of making me despise the person he has become. I mourn the man he was.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have wine to clean up (it spilled in my fridge during my five day drinking binge while perched precariously on the edge of madness), fake blood to scrub off my sink (Halloween) and a dog to bathe.
My life is fabulous.
The cool part is I don't have to take even half the blame for my last disasterous relationship; the ex says it was 60/40, with him shouldering more of the fault. Does this make me over half innocent? I've never had anyone split the blame like this- usually it's all Amanda's fault, that bitch! I kind of like being only 40% responsible for the loss of the greatest love I've experienced thus far in my life.
(Just between you and me, I think it's more 80/20, with me still being the more innocent, on account of the fact I wanted to work things out because, as I mentioned, this man was the love of my life. But don't tell him, OK? He already thinks I suck enough. In a bad way.)
Since becoming "single" again, I've gotten lots of advice from all sides. "Put out." "Don't put out." "Take time for you." "Find yourself." "Break shit." "Slap his face." The problem with these is, I am still smitten by the jerk. So, while I thank you all for the well-meant advice, I'm probably going to have to come out of this one on my own. Lucky for me, he is doing a mighty fine job of making me despise the person he has become. I mourn the man he was.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have wine to clean up (it spilled in my fridge during my five day drinking binge while perched precariously on the edge of madness), fake blood to scrub off my sink (Halloween) and a dog to bathe.
My life is fabulous.
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