Thursday, April 27, 2006 

I've Said It Before

and i'll say it again.

(by the way, i feel no need for capitalization right now, be forewarned)

but i was that kid in the back of the class, with her head always stuck in a book, that never paid any attention in class but almost always had an answer if called on.

truth? i skated by with the ability to catch on quickly and stop listening early.

so, i was not, the class clown, the goth chick, or the metal head. i was the one that tried to blend in with everyone and the only ones that knew me to be funny, outrageous, and not nearly as brilliant as everyone assumed, were my best friends.

kudos to them for trying so hard to get past my shell.

i'm all worth it and shit.


but, one bad thing, is that even though i'm completely over all that shy bullshit and can now handle crowds without vomiting or going half blind from a migraine, is that i still have shit for social skills.

complete and utter shit.

i'm fucking horrible at it.

so the other day i ran into my cousin's friend at the bank. now, i know her, and i actually like her. there's a running debate on whether or not she likes me back, but who the fuck cares? i mean, the girl's funny, and she's never said anything mean to my face, so what do i care?

she says hello.

i say hello.

and here's where it all goes to shit.

i break eye contact and start scanning my purse. why? we're in a bank. it's rude to talk to someone when they're in line at the bank right? i mean, there's all that privacy shit, and what if it was just a polite hello? how was i supposed to respond?

i really don't have a fucking clue.

but, from her facial expression, i could tell that i had just committed a minor fuck up. gah.

anyway, so then she finished at the teller and exited without saying good-bye.

yep, i definitely fucked up.


i've been doing the same thing with a guy that dated my ex-best friend for about three years now. i never know how to approach him, so i just don't. or, i see him entering the group just as i'm about to leave, and as i don't know how to handle polite chit chat, i pretty much just sprint for the door the moment i see him. and, here's the funny part, i totally took his side in the break up, which he doesn't know, and completely pissed her off. so it's not like i don't like him.

i'm just a complete social retard.


Monday, April 17, 2006 

Easter 2006 Style

Easter's my favorite holiday. In fact, it's the only holiday that doesn't make me mildly choke on my own bile.

Well... that's not true. I also get President's Day off from work, and since I mostly spend that day out of town somewhere nursing a hangover I guess you could say that I enjoy that holiday as well.

But Easter is different.

Easter is filled with family, making eggs with the children, photographing them hunting for eggs, covered with candy, held by aunt's and grandfathers. I simply love Easter.

But this year I have the Irishman. The Irishman works six days a week. He's a workaholic. And while at first I admired his work ethic I now occasionally wish his office would find itself the victim of arson, for although the Irishman could work from home, he chooses not to.

Now don't go applauding his ability to separate work from home. The man is just ass backwards sometimes. He's a slave to the fucking office.

This year he looked at me and said, "Although I could work on Easter, this year I choose to spend it with you."


What this actually meant was, "I have two days off from work, let's get the fuck out of Dodge."

Except... I LOVE Easter! Conundrum. The Irishman and I were desperately feening for time alone and a weekend away. What to do?

Finally a plan was set. The plan was simple, Saturday was to be spent in Lake Tahoe. Sunday morning Church, then head back for my family gathering.

One small problem.

Snow fucking city. In the middle of April. Sunday we woke up to a winter wonderland. It was beautiful but bad for commute.

I started to freak out, what about Easter?

The Irishman started to freak out, what about work?

Cue the six hours on the road before I talked him into a motel, and ONLY because he FINALLY let me turn on the weather station to discover the highways were closed.


By the time we snuck the dog into the room I was in a quiet fury. The kind where I watch the tv silently while he rages that his career is going down in flames and this is why he fucking hates Tahoe and never goes there.

In the morning he made me breakfast and set out my towels in the bathroom just the way I like them. I am borderline OCD and when it comes to all things house they need to be just so.

My glasses are stored upside down, always.

My towels folded a certain way.

When exiting the shower the floor should NEVER become wet.

Looking at all of the things he had set out for me I remembered that life is about compromises. Did the Irishman have any idea that I came with such a complicated set of rules when he first met me? Hell no. I am fucking positive that he had no idea such a complicated person could come in a package that he would be willing to converse with daily.

So holding my warm cup of tea inbetween my hands I crawled back into bed, kissed him, and when he said he was sorry, I said okay.

There's always Easter next year. His business will wait one day. And we will both flip out over the smallest things. These things are constants.

So we cleaned the snow off the car, let the dog play in the snow, and joked the whole way home.

Which, by the way, took six fucking hours. But we had this, and I'm sure that makes it worth it.


Thursday, April 13, 2006 

I'll Stop The World and Melt For You

I'm sick, and PMSing, and you are wondering why you care.

You don't, and don't worry, I don't think you do. The point is that all of this may be contributing to why I've been looking at the IrishMan through slit eyes for the last couple of days.

He's all, "blah blah blah blah."

And I'm all, "Hrm" arms crossed in front, cue random looks around the room. Really, I just want to talk about me. The only time I want to talk about his work is in the case that he intends to spend some of the money that he's making on me. If not, well then, hrm.

I feel restless.

And itchy.

This is bad because I tend to break things just for the sound of something different. So last night I was bored when almost automatically I began sifting through the evenings conversation to find a new topic. What did I pick out? Oh, something that would most definitely get us into an argument. I started the convo off with a smile.

Cue his unsuspecting answer.

And somewhere in the midst of his rambling I became aware that I was trying to pick a fight.

Cue self deflation.

Sometimes I'm so irritable that the sound of people talking, breathing, or even thinking within ten square miles of me pisses me the fuck off. It's like, "GAH! GO EXIST SOMEWHERE ELSE!"

I was in fact so irritated last night that I abandoned my plan to crush his self esteem.

For some time I've been planning to obliterate his self-worth. Really, he has entirely too much of it. I'm an attractive female, I have OPTIONS, he's clearly unperturbed by this. And that bothers me. What I would like for him to do is realize how fucking lucky and unworthy he is. I am sure this would trigger small idol worship from which I would benefit. So far, no such luck.







Wednesday, April 12, 2006 

Do You Ever Wonder...


if that person you hate still reads your blog?

Yeah, me too.

But let's just assume for a moment that they don't, you know all about her, and we're in mid conversation.



I'm glad she's gone.

Aren't you?

Did I tell you about the time she got knocked up and the guy told her he was hoping for a 'punch-the-baby' pregnancy?

No?! What's that?

Oh. He threatened to punch her in the stomach in the club and run. I guess this was based on the fact that they were always clubbing, pregnancy wouldn't slow that down, and he's such a piece of shit that he was in her bed laughing when he said it.

I know, why in the fuck was I even friends with her anyway?


(sip coffee)

What? Oh, her. Yeah, boy now SHE was a piece of work.

She's pregnant, did you hear?

Yeah, some fucking loser, they're planning on getting married.

Naw, it'll probably go through.

So what she hasn't told anyone that they're engaged? You know those two losers, they'll be threatening murder and break ups right until the 'I do's'.

Mmmm huh.

Did I tell her about him cheating?! Hell fucking NO! You think I want to get in the middle of that fucking mess? Shit. HA! I forgot about that ugly chick he tried to bang at the club! Shit, you have a better memory than I do. Oh my god, such ugly belts, she was always trying to look so cool. And remember, no ONE wanted to have sex with her unless they were too drunk to get it up and SHE turned HIM down!


So, technically, he didn't cheat. Because, he couldn't. Also, remember he said that he would cheat if he could just get some girl to go along? So maybe he never actually has.

Oh that's right!!!

I forgot about the time she found him hanging out with all those gay guys!!! Shit. See, she doesn't even care.

Hey, to each his own. Let's just be glad it's not us.


Tuesday, April 11, 2006 

I Hate The Doctor

I hate doctors, I've hated them ever since I was sixteen and my family physician diagnosed me as a hypochondriac.

Fucking quack.

Fucking can't diagnose a cold correctly quack. I wanted to smack him upside his god damned fucking head.

Now that I'm older I know that I internalize stress. I run around pretending everything's fucking dandy until my body starts to fall apart. I get strange rashes, blinding migraines, crippling stomach aches, blah blah blah I'm a fucking train wreck. But since I was sixteen I've refused to go to the doctor's unless I was unable to stand.


That's pretty much my checklist. Can I stand. Yes? Good, no doctor then.

Besides all that, really unless you're pregnant, have a disease or internal bleeding, doctors are a waste of fucking money anyway. News-fucking-flash, the common cold has NO cure! Go get fucking dimetapp. Also, the flu? Wait it the fuck out. Turns out IT GOES AWAY.

So last year when I stepped on a nail I thought, big fucking deal. Okay, so it hurt, well what doesn't hurt? Then a couple of weeks went by and it still hurt. WTF? So I opened up the wound and disinfected it.

Yep, you guessed it, it still hurt.

And I don't know, what with everything else going on it was just never on my high priority list of things to do. I mean, I can stand. I can walk, no problem. Besides, it's not the pussy kind of infection, it's just the 'hurts like hell and won't heal' kind of infection. It's on the ball of my foot and for the most part I just ignore it.

So last weekend I decided I should probably take time out of my BUSY schedule (because I am so fucking important) and go to the doctors.

Which is when I remembered what fucking morons these people are. The lady doesn't think I have an infection, she thinks my muscle is inflamed. Oh, yeah. That's why it hurts RIGHT WHERE THE FUCKING NAIL WENT.

And that skin discoloration?

Completely unrelated.

GAH YOU FUCKING MORON!!! So I gave her a dirty look and said I disagreed, now she's making me go to a podiatrist. What the fuck ever. Look lady, I don't have TOE FUNGUS! I don't have an ingrown NAIL! I stepped on a piece of metal! Get that through your fucking head!

You know what the worst part of this is? I'm so FUCKING CHEAP (and broke. don't forget broke, those two often go hand in hand) that what I'm most pissed off about is not all of the wasted time spent in the waiting room (wait, that does piss me off too), no, what I'm most pissed off about is the fifteen bucks I spent on the unproductive doctor's visit. I so want my fucking money back.



Monday, April 10, 2006 

Life In Motion

The Irish Man is driving my car while I read The Hollywood Dog in the passenger seat. Occasionally he let's out vroom vroom noises and punches the gas which makes me raise my eyebrow, giving him the 'I am not amused' look. He claims that I once asked him "Is this some kind of macho thing or what?"
I deny all cases of snottiness.
I am chuckling at pictures of dogs in berets when he says, "I'm so hot. You're so lucky."
"Oh really? Is this your cue for me to compliment you?"
"Yes. You never compliment me."
"What are you talking about? Every time I let you touch me that's a compliment."



Hollywood Dog

Over the weekend I ran errands. I changed the oil on my car, found a new hairstylist, and ran into petco to buy the puppy his food, his treats, his greenies, which is when I saw this:

(Okay, the fact that J Love's dog looks exactly like mine might have had something to do with it)

Now, this, THIS, has to be the best magazine EVAH! It was so beyond stupid that I purchased it. I paid 4.99 for the pleasure of viewing pictures of dogs in bikini's, reading the 'pet psychic' column, and boning up on whether or not dogs have PMS.

Like, for SURE!

There's even a section called, Puparrazzi. What is it? That's right! Pictures of dogs with their celebrity owners!

And did you know, you can purchase a replica fire hydrant for several hundred dollars? The Irish Man informed me with a sneer that he can get one from the city for free. I had to tell him that that wasn't the point. The point was that someone was actually paying for this crap.

Wait, best section ever?!!!

Queer Eye for the Scruffy Dog.

Doggy make-overs!


Friday, April 07, 2006 

The Fishbowl

What would it be like if I lived my life out in front of you? Posted my life like
Would you come to know me, my little nuances, would you love me or hate me?
How much courage does it take to live life like an open book, to say, here are my insides, my faults, my wishes. How does Gusgreeper survive? Can you tell that I am in awe?
I am raw. A bundle of nerves, sensitive underskin exposed to the world. You could destroy me with a breath. The saddest thing about the world is how we don't see the beauty standing right in front of us.
No. Scratch that.
The saddest thing is when you see the beauty but are unable to lead through example.
I grew up careful, and whether or not I led my life in over-reaction and unnecessary dramatization may or may not be up for debate. The point here is how I felt and what I learned. What I learned was that when you gave your secrets away you also gave away your power, your Achilles heel, wonderwoman's steel bracelets. People will use your deepest darkest secrets to crush you into insignificance and when they see their handi work, instead of being appalled and disgusted with the atrocities they are capable of, they will, instead, laugh.
They will brag in bars.
Boast to their friends, your friends, even your mothers.
They will make you feel guilty for being the victim and others will applaud them. Or condone them. In the end the difference will be hard to distinguish.
So I keep my secrets, and I keep my power, but then I read these confessional sites and I feel ashamed.
I should be strong enough to withstand exposure. I should either be proud of myself enough not to care, or I should be smart enough not to do those things which I might be ashamed of later.
I am tempted to call myself out for not being perfect, but then who is? No. Perfection is not my problem. Strength is.
My mother calls me this morning and the first words out of her mouth are, "So is he still alive?"
Well, yes. But barely.
The Irish man lives. I hear the Irish are like rats. They survive anything and then go on to infect you with the plague.
Why in the fuck am I dating an Irish man anyway? Seriously. I made myself a promise, "Irish Need Not Apply."
I'm going to have that sign made up. I'm going to hang it on my front door. I told him he was in dog shit and I meant every word of it. Whatever. I know I'm mean. I don't really give a fuck.
Why are all my serious boyfriends Irish? There is something really really wrong with me that I should never admit to.
So last night he showed up with the obligatory flowers. Surprise flowers are nice, obligatory flowers make me want to slap people. Well, men bearing the 'sorry I'm an asshole but I hear flowers fix everything' gifts.
Flowers are stupid.
They get pollen everywhere and then they die. Stupid flowers messing up my house.
So when he showed up he was carrying flowers and a box. The box was interesting, but I was deeply suspicious of it. Like maybe it carried a small tiny midget who was preparing to spring out and tackle me. When he handed it to me I touched the edges of the box carefully and prepared to spring into defense just in case.
Inside were cat toys and a brand new blue sweatshirt for Izzy that read PUP on the back in college letters. I'm such a girl sometimes that I make myself gag, but I couldn't help it! Izzy did really look cute in it. And although I am against dog sweaters on cute factor alone, the fact is that Izzy gets cold. And shakes. And, I have literally, seen him snuggle into a sweater after I have slipped it over his fluffy little ears and zipped him up into it. So the cat toys that Izzy will eat later and the cats will ignore along with the sweater definitely earned him some bonus points.
Damn I'm easy.
The rest of the night was spent with me bossing him around.
"Take me here."
"Buy me coffee."
"Hold Izzy's leash."
I'm actually surprised that he didn't wave a white flag and catch a bus home, abandoning his own car in a fit of survival instinct.
In my own defense, the Irish Man is bossy. Extremely so. And normally I never give orders. Really, it was simply my turn at the helm, and much to his surprise, I didn't catch anything on fire.
Or kick him.
But I did wear my boots. He gives me a suspicious looking box, I wear boots. This, people, is how things work round here.


Thursday, April 06, 2006 

Hey Liars, Hit Me Up, I'm Sooooooooooo In Love With You

You know what I fucking love? Liars! They are sooooo hot. Like, Paris Hilton Hot, like, eat a fucking burgar on top of a car while getting hosed down hot.

Fucking losers.

Fucking wishy washy can't pick a fucking side, democratic, republican, undeclared, will NEVER EVER fucking make a decision LIARS.

Ok. Here's a clue, when I ASK you if you've done something or not, it is probably perfectly okay to go ahead and admit to that. Especially considering the fact that I have ALWAYS demonstrated the fact that I will not get mad at confessions but rather at LIES.

Want a second clue? When we have a fight, don't immediately go post a personals ad that my girl friends will find and tell me about when we are once again dating. News flash, I know they don't lie to me.

Whatever. This is so Ross and Rachel screaming, "we were on a break!"



Men Are Like Horses

Best when ridden into the ground and then discarded promptly.


Wednesday, April 05, 2006 


when the outside auditor is here I'm filled with the need to stand around talking loudly about the time we jewed that customer out of his benefits.
If only there wasn't the threat of criminal trials and lawsuits to consider.


Monday, April 03, 2006 

Dude, WTF

On Friday I went out with Cindy the Lou. Mostly what I remember is this, being WAY more trashed than I have been in a very long time.
I drunk dialed Grace... twice. Heh.
You might think, big deal! Pfft. Whatever! Lighten up Terra! hehe.
But, I didn't remember doing it at all until Grace emailed me this morning. Which is when 'some' of it came rushing back. Heh.
I called twice because I couldn't hear, number one, and number two, I was under some drunken impression that I had lost cell phone reception the first time. Hrm. Nice.
Ya know I luv ya Grace! I mean, I don't ever drunk dial! Sheesh.
Saturday morning I woke up with a slight hangover, it was gone in about a half hour. Which was nice. I NEVER get hangovers. Heh. I'm all special and shit. Although, as O points out, when I DO get hangovers, I get the mother of all fucking hang overs that lasts for a week.
Not fucking kidding.
A whole fucking week.
One time I thought I was going to throw up at the mention of tequila for nine days to be exact. Apparently this is what happens to 'ME' when I drink a small bottle of tequila straight.
Fine, you're right, I don't know how much I actually drank. I think I lost count after the twelfth shot.
So Saturday morning, no hangover. SUH WEET.
Also. Friday was something of a learning night for me.
Lesson number one: Cindy is just as pissy as I am. She told someone that they couldn't sit at our table because she didn't like them. And then she repeated the sentiment. Like three times.
Later, some stupid fucked up friend of theirs tried to put her shit on our table. Just as she was about to remove it (because she was told 'hey, that's not our table') Cindy said, 'it's alright' and I interrupted with 'no. Actually it's not. Take it off the table.'
We're such BITCHES!!!
and so mother fucking proud.
Lesson number two: when a guy starts telling you about all of the books that he has read recently it's a pretty safe assumption to figure that he's been to prison. Also, if he tells you how he recently found God? Yep. That's right. Convict.
Lesson number three: move AWAY from the convict!
Lesson number four: fights break out around convicts pretty frequently. Your beer will dropped. Your purses stepped on. Your male friends will either abandon you for fear of convicts carrying knives or jump INTO the fight for NO known reason! Seeing as how they don't know ANY of the involved people, you would think that they would not be a willing participant. But, whatever, men are stupid.
Lesson number five: when you and the person you're talking to gives dirty looks to whatever drunk has just stumbled up and is now speaking incoherently at you (or the empty space to your left), eventually, they will go away.
Lesson number six: the next day you will wake to the realization that you, as well, were most likely as coherent as a four year old at disney land.