Wednesday, January 31, 2007 

What the Fuck Fucking Day Is It Because FUCK WHY IS IT NEVER FRIDAY???

I love it when my bra creaks. It makes me feel like Rosie from the Jetsons.


Sunday, January 28, 2007 

Parenting 101

Sometimes my sister (9 years old) runs past and I think, 'Oh how innocent she is, how young, how...wait a fucking minute,' because it's then I start to remember what I did and did not know when I myself was 9 years old.
Then I stop.
Because I really don't want to think about it. It's just gross.
But of course my stupid parenting side has already kicked in and I start to think about what information should be coming from us. Us. The adults. I'm the same person who took her to her first day of kindergarten, stood outside the cafeteria door with her everyday for two weeks until she built up the courage to walk in, walked through the lunch line with her until she turned to me one day and said, "Terra, I can go by myself."
But she was five! She CAN'T go by HERSELF.
I'm the same person who stood outside the cafeteria for three days watching her navigate the lunch line, making sure she sat at a table with friends, opened her milk carton successfully. And I know, I know she has actual parents that are there everyday, but... they're old. And so not cool. She needs to hear these things from someone who's hip. In 'the know'.
I don't know anyone like that so I fill in occasionally and the other day I had the following conversation with her:
So Alex, what do you think of Britney Spears? (See how cool I am?)
She's cool. I like her. I listen more to (some sister band I can't remember the name of to save my life).
Yeah, I guess she hasn't done much lately since she got married.
Yeah! But she's getting divorced.
And going out without panties!
I heard.
You know, the other day I forgot panties and sat all over your bed.
Well I guess that's a lesson about panties. I hear they're a 1.99 at walmart.
How stupid is Britney Spears if she can't remember 1.99 panties.
I guess pretty dumb.
What do you think about Paris and Nicole?
They're pretty.
Yep, really pretty.
I like their hair.
Me too... did you hear Nicole got arrested the other day?
Yeah! For driving the wrong way on the freeway!
I think they said she was smoking marijuana.
Boy, that's so cool.
Yeah, that's totally cool! Do you know how much cooler and prettier I'd be if I did pot and drove the wrong way on the freeway? When the cop knocked on her window she was on her cell phone!
Seriously. (valley girl voice) Um, like, oh my god, I think this police officer wants me to roll my window down. HOLD ON! I'm like, on the phone. So anyway Buffy, let's go to the MALL after I get out of jail. Ha, like jail is so lame.
(still valley girl voice) Maybe later we can get together do some drugs and drive around K? K! Catch you later skater!
Then we basically talked about how cool it would be to go shopping and do some drugs. There was hair flipping involved, and then some very small talk about how that is NOT cool. Which is basically what I was fishing around for because if I am EVER related to someone that thinks Paris, Nicole and or Britney is cool I would have to kill myself. Or them.


Friday, January 26, 2007 


You know you need a drink when you start looking at a wine cooler sideways.


Tuesday, January 16, 2007 

You All My Bitches

So that's it. I've gone gangsta. I'm not exactly up on all the lingo but so far I've learned that popping a cap in someone's ass is apparently not a friendly gesture.
My bad.
Last weekend the Irishman and I decided to go to a movie, he picked two movies, I picked two movies, we each cancelled out one of the other's choices, we flipped a coin, and then before we even looked at the quarter we decided, fuck it. Let's just go see Dream Girls instead. Life's about compromises, and Beyonce's ass.
But then we missed the movie's start time so what does the Irishman do? What does the fucking bitch ass Irishman do? He turns to me and says
'Let's go see The Holiday instead'
(My internal response) What the fuck, are you a FAG?? Holiday? Fucking shit ass Holiday? I would kill myself instead! I would kill small children instead! I would bang my head into the cold ass cement instead.
(My external response) hrm. Um. Hrm. I dunno know, why don't we go see Alpha Dog instead? I heard Justin Timberlake's pretty good.
Irishman- Yeah... but I don't have a good feeling about that movie. I think I should take you to a chick flick for once, like a good boyfriend.
(My internal response) CARS IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! STRANGER THAN FICTION IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! TALLAFUCKINGDEGA NIGHTS IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! The Notebook fucking kill me now is a chick flick. Whatever movie with Reese Witherspoon that my mother tried to drag me to, chick flick. Japanese martial arts movies, Will Ferrell movies, Children of Men, NOT CHICK FLICKS. Mental note: Create a graph... possibly involving checklists for him to reference.
(My external response) Uhm. Okay then. The Holiday it is... I guess.
Anyway, the point of this story is that we walked out of The Holiday within five minutes after I had already started figuring out ways to track down and kill the writers, went in to see Alpha Dog and totally loved it. Okay, so Justin Timberlake's Dick in a Box was hilarious, but the guy can seriously act. And the movie was based on a true story, so if I had actually cried at the end it would have been acceptable... especially if I were PMS'ing.
Which I was.
But that doesn't mean I cried.
Only people with hearts cry.... and I sold mine for some drugs. So there.


Wednesday, January 10, 2007 

Pulling the Pink

I've been sick for two months now. Not full on sick, but sick. It started in November with a constant queasiness and moved on in December to full on motion sickness. It comes and goes in waves and sometimes I even get sick from my own driving. Which may or may not be a reflection of my dubitable skills.
In mid December the Irishman noticed I got car sick within a half block with his driving and he turned to me and demanded to know how many days late I was.
Shut the fuck up and drive.
Except, I never know if I'm late or not because I never keep track. Also, I have a history of nausea. Stressed? I'm nauseous. Cold? Nauseous. Tuesday? Nauseous. I pay absolutely no attention to it and never have. It's just a constant. Also since my hormones are constantly out of whack I'm sometimes PMS'ing all month prior to my period, and even worse directly after it. The only break I seem to get is when I'm actually on the damn thing which makes me wonder what exactly I did to piss off the universe. So in December I'm PMS'ing all long. Which for me means muscle aches, hot flashes, nausea, constant feelings of fullness, and gaining weight at the drop of the hat.
Still I actually went to a calendar to double check if I was late or not. I wasn't. I marked the day I was to start and when that day came I started. Wow. Look. For once I'm on time.
New Years weekend and I'm so nauseous that no one else can drive me. I've gained ten pounds in... pretty much one week, and I'm throwing up everything in sight. It's beautiful. Then I feel better. Until the next Thursday when I vomit in the morning. And the next day when I vomit all morning. Then mysteriously better. Until Tuesday. I'm so sick even water gives me a heartburn and I got motion sickness from walking and changing directions too fast.
So I make an appointment to see the doctor, tell the Irishman I'll be home late, leave work and sit in the lobby until the doctor can see me and tell me, most likely you're pregnant. She orders all these blood tests (one for pregnancy) and then she sends me over to the lab to get my arm pricked.
And I have to say the most amazing thing happened on that walk to the lab, I got happy. Happy happy.
A baby.
And I thought about all that would mean. Baby baby. Would I have sufficient time at my work to allow for pregnancy leave (assuming I'm two - three months along)? Would my mother want to watch her during the day? How would I get them to each other?
Teething, weaning, soft hands, little shoes, fluffy snow jackets, Easter, and Christmas, and strollers, and cribs.
A baby.
And I'm 27 and I want that baby so much, would love that baby so much, and it never ever occurred to me until right then.
Of course the Irishman's got his three year plan and I don't know what he would say. Mostly I think he would be mad, and I'm afraid he wouldn't want the child. Would always look at it as some small object that came along and ruined all of his plans, his unlived life. You know, the way he sometimes looks at me.
Unbeknownst to me the Irishman's at work being asked by his assistant what's wrong, and he's telling her he thinks I'm pregnant. I've been sick forever, gained a bunch of weight, and now have missed work because of it. She's telling him that realistically there's only so many days a girl can get pregnant during the month (since I've been sick I've been putting out less), and also, how bad would it be? Sure, he can't use the stress a pregnancy would bring, but we make good money, he's 34, I'm 27, I'm the only girl he's ever lived with and declared he intended to marry.
And he's replying, I guess you're right. It wouldn't be the end of the world.
He's getting used to the idea and I'm getting used to the idea and the lab is processing my blood that says I have an infection.
And I'm not pregnant.


Monday, January 08, 2007 

Talk Too Much, Write Too Little

So I'm making up for it, or just using it as an excuse to start rambling.
Thing One: My neck is out. Mainly because I live in a semi-affluent neighborhood and the other night a bunch of teenagers drove by me yelling and hanging out the windows, speeding and smoking cigarettes in a brand new land rover or discovery or some other fucking vehicle that costs twenty times the value of my own car (not kidding, KBB prices my car 1000-2000), and so I then began prancing around, flinging my head from side to side, saying in a posh voice how I couldn't possible go to chem class today, I must, ABSOLUTELY MUST, go get my hair highlighted and then run over to abrocombe.
I may or may not have begun singing, "I'm a model, you know what I mean". And anyway, now my neck is out.
Thing Two: The Irishman has informed me that if Hell exists I am definitely going there. Which I find especially harsh since all I did was vocalize my wish for my grandmother and Shirley Temple to die.
Thing Three: Fuck you holidays. Fuck you scale. Fuck you hormones. Fuck you stomach and fuck you genetics.
I rarely, if ever, gain weight during the holidays. Instead I tend to pack on the pounds in the summertime. I know. It defies logic. So for you to understand this rant you'll have to know that piece of info, in addition to the fact that my father's side of the families stomachs are all fucked up. We can't eat certain foods, and we tend to retain food as well. Meaning, if we eat heavy food, it stays with us. For fucking ever. So this holiday, thanks to my hormones, I eat one meal a day and am stuffed for the rest of it.
And you know what else sucks? I ate half of what my family ate and gained four pounds Christmas weekend. My mother was all, NO WAY TERRA, YOU ATE WAY LESS THAN US! And I did. And I was pissed. So the week after I said FUCK NOT EATING, and I ate more. Because that's, you know, a good normal reaction.
End of story, I'm up ten pounds, in two weeks. It's so fucking awesome I'm going to go hang myself.
Thing Four: This new job actually requires me to work. Expect less posts and acts of prostitution. I got out my calculator last night and realized that I bring home (bring home) 1,034 more a month here. That's right. ONE THOUSAND THIRTY FOUR more a month. AND, I get an annual bonus. After I figured this out I crawled into bed with the Irishman to inform him, I used to be poor. I mean, poor. Poor, buy myself a two thousand dollar car and thank Jesus I don't have to ride the bus with the smelly old man who may or may not have pooped his pants, poor. And then we laughed because I am STILL poor. All that extra money has gone straight to my educational loans and credit card debt. I'd like to say that my credit cards were used irresponsibly, that I bought high fashion and appletinis or some crap with them, but mostly I just bought groceries. And gas.
So that sucks.
Thing Five: With all that extra money I'm going to go visit Grace! YAY! Grace is so slutty. I miss her. And her big boobs. But mostly her boobs. I have pictures, but it's just not the same.
You wish you could visit her boobs too. But you can't They're mine bitches. I just let her husband touch them. It's really nice and Christian of me.
Thing Six: I'm trying to work the word bitches into my vocabulary more often and phase out fuck. Partly because the Irishman doesn't seem to like being called a bitch and partly because fuck has become my trademark. Time to shake it up bitches.