Moxie has joined the Army and Day 8 of International Randomness

I say Day 8 but really it’s only been my team here for 7 days and then the countries just arrived yesterday. So technically today is Day 2.

I figure either I attempt to update this thing about what’s going on here or I don’t write for a month and considering my Good Husband’s Guide earned me an insane about of readers (and a stern talking to at home by my own husband), I need to keep at it or no one will care about all things Heather and random anymore.

So. I’ve been here for 8 days and nothing too crazy has happened. Moxie and I are doing our own thing. She comes to work with me every day and she sits and naps under my desk, snoozing and looking pretty. We snuggle together every night, under the scratchy, rayon, thin as fuck, hotel comforter that I’m sure I’d never want to see under a black light, as we watch AFN movie marathons, which are nothing more than the most extremely biased, American self promoting, proud to wave a flag and drive a tank, flicks. It’s kinda nauseating but we are just happy to have cable so GO USA! Anyway, back to Moxie’s attitude adjustment since being on an army base—She thinks she’s the belle of the ball here, since everyone is paying her so much attention, stopping in the office to see her and patting her in the hall when we walk by to run an errand. She’s not really impressed that people keep referring to her as a fat piglet or a fat raccoon or a fat puppy, but really, it’s probably just a good wake-up call for her to put a little pep in her step and get moving. Does like mother, like daughter, translate into the dog world? Fuck if it does. So that’s what she’s up to…lots of nothing but impressing foreigners who have never seen any dogs besides a lab or a slinky ass shepard.

Now me. Somehow, I am leading a very quiet and boring life here at CE so far. Could be because I live on the opposite side of the base from the countries and would have to drive through a gate to get to my room which means no drunk driving which means no drinking. Well, at least on this side of the base, where 1550 of the 1600 people are staying…so, good behavior it is. For now.

Last night some of the countries gathered in the fest tents, set up outside the barracks, for a little happy hour fun, compliments of the U.S. Here are a few things I discovered.
1. I’d say 90% of the people sent from the reserves in NY are 18. They make up a huge part of our staff, something like 150 people.

2. 83% of them have a horrible NY accent and 70% of the girls draw in their eyebrows with black eyeliner and look like they’ve killed a bitch just for giving them the side eye.

3. Two of them explained this whole, get married the minute I join and have a baby as soon as possible for money mentality. I had to laugh at their reasoning, because they did admit no one likes each other. And I for one can’t get over the fact that I saw some chick in line at the PX that looked like she was wearing size 12 kids jeans but shopping with her husband. Not a day over 17. So. Bizarre.

4. 17% of them don’t have a horrible NY accent but only because I think they speak Spanish.

5. The Danish fucking love bread. My friends Scott, Tom and I had a thirty minute long conversation with a guy named Anders (which translates to “donald duck” in his language, or so he says and no, Google doesn’t support this so I’m left to wonder if it’s true or not) about how he cannot live without this bread in his country called Rugbrød. (which in googling for a picture, I find is just RYE bread. Why in the world do these people not make it easy for me??) In fact, everything they do seems to revolve around this bread and as far as I could tell, it was junk and so hard it could probably break teeth. Anyway, we tried to tell him that the real way to go if you’re going to be all carb crazy is to get yourself something warm and soft, like sourdough or french or I don’t know, some sort of ciabatta, but no, he loves this hard bread. I knew I couldn’t trust him when he followed up with, “It is best with liver paste.” Oh fucking no. No, now your bread opinion is worthless, liverpaste on bread my ass. (which to me seems like a foi gras/catfood paste, which we all know I can’t get behind)

6. The Americans have taken on the responsibility of teaching the foreigners two great games: 1. Beer pong and 2. Flip cup and they are showing great enthuisiasm in doing so. It’s nice to teach the countries something of social value to take back and spread across the world. I hope to be tagged in a photo of someone’s page in Turkey one day, me, smiling and playing international pong. I only say Turkey, actually, because I heard a lot of talk that they are currently the country to beat. And, considering this came from some hardcore girl from NY that then threw a gang sign and said, I got Turkey, yo, as though she was going to singlehandidly put the smackdown on a whole country, I feel like I can trust the information.

Speaking of smackdowns. That brings me to 1. my nickname in my office, which is not all that flattering but appropriate and 2. the first incident where I was taken in the hall to have a talking to for my behavior.

Chokeslam. Yea, that’s my nickname. Awesome, and anyone that knows me probably doesn’t even think, huh, wonder why? So here’s how I got that little nickname.
I may or may not have been involved in an argument with someone in uniform one day that was over something stupid but pissed me off. So, being the even-tempered girl I am, I went back to my desk, slammed my hand on the wood and busted out with, If that (expletive) fucks with me one more time, I am going to chokeslam them.

And then my boss walked in with another director, both of which are easily amused and happen to be friends and wanted to know what the hell I was talking about. Considering they are both Navy, making them obviously awesome, they love a good showing of aggression and so I told them that chokeslamming was a signature move I’ve been known to make and it’s pretty lethal. So the actual move is just a swift hand thrust at someone’s throat, slamming them by the throat grab up against the wall. It’s best if it’s shocks the person you do it on and it’s also best if you perform it on someone the same height or shorter than you. This move never works on someone taller than me, as you have to kinda lift the choke move to get it to the wall.

Now, here’s the Undertaker, performing a great chokeslam, but he uses the mat, whereas I like to use a bar wall as the landing spot. To each his own….

And no, I don’t perform this a lot, just actually once on my sister and it was a huge misunderstanding which resulted in a lot of drama and my favorite bartender Trey leaping over the bar yelling, “Smith! Cut the shit!” That resulted in my sister looking like I tried to actually murder her which almost resulted in a flight change and most certainly resulted in a hole in the wall that she punched after I choked her, which I think she just did to be equally dramatic but I don’t tell her that because wow, she was bullshit that I choked her at a bar.

So that’s how I’m choke slam. NOW. How I got in trouble.

Someone in my office got lippy with me about using a password that I didn’t feel I had to give up and so I refused and when he pushed the issue, I asked him if he wanted a smack down. It was at that point that I was asked to step into the hall for a little talk about physically threatening people in uniform.

It’s at this point that I wondered if they hand out vaginas and egos when they hand out uniforms in the, I want to be in the military, store.

Every day at CE is a learning experience.

Off to Graf I go…

I’m heading out today for a month long work trip….I hope to have time to write, as I’m sure the Exercise will be endless entertainment.

I’ll keep you all posted. 🙂

The Good Husband’s Guide, circa 2010

Well, now that I had the opportunity to get my thoughts out yesterday about that 1955 sack of nonsense, we can move on to part 2 and 3 of my, How to Prolong Your Divorce, series. Up today, The Good Husband’s Guide, 2010*. This will primarily be the Heather Smith edition, as we all look for a different husband, but I’m sure there won’t be many girls that will disagree with me. And, let’s be clear, I said GOOD husband, not PERFECT husband. There is no such thing (bonus for everyone). So, in keeping with our marriage theme, let’s get to it.

Act like you have a sack. Let’s get this straight. Husbands=MEN. We do not want to hear you whining. We do not want crying or nagging or does this make me look fat, shit. We don’t want you using more hair gel than I do and wearing pastels is cute but also fair game for mockery. Do not shriek when you see a spider and for fucks sake, you should not have an opinion about the way we arrange flowers, match colors in the bathroom or have any opinion ever on anything having to do with crafting. We will NOT craft together, fucking ever ever. For the most part, women marry men because they 1. want a dick (literally) in their life and 2. want someone who will make them feel like a woman. We do not want to feel like we need to bitch slap you for acting dramatic or like a big vagina. We have vaginas, you don’t. Act like you have a set of balls, and a big one if you’re lucky. (that one might just be me, preferences welcome)

Learn proper toilet etiquette. First, it wouldn’t kill you to put the toilet seat down. Nor would it kill you to flush. And here’s an introduction for you: Husband, meet the goddamned toilet brush. Yes, that thing in its own little resting spot within arms reach has a purpose and its to wash the inside of the toilet from that awful mess you left last time you woke up with explosive ass from too many beers the night before. Make friends.

Make your wife SMILE: This is as simple as it gets. Make your wife smile daily and make her laugh. Make her laugh so hard she cries. Ideally, women will always, ALWAYS pick the one that is funny. And if she doesn’t, it’s her fault. But anyway, if you’re the husband, it’s your DUTY (oh.yes.I.did) to make her SMILE. Dance, tell a not horrible joke, do SOMETHING. You’ll smile too, I promise. In fact, let’s go that one step further and tell her that her smile brightens your goddamned day. Mmmm hmmm, it better.

Mind your OWN BUSINESS. This is very important for all parties involved. The premise is very simple, but sometimes in marriage, this valuable suggestion is overlooked and often, it earns you a divorce quickly. Here are a few examples where a wife should feel free to exercise the phrase, “Why don’t you mind your own fing business?” (“If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it”, also works nicely): Yes, it’s most certainly appropriate to eat onion rings because it’s raining. Giving the evil eye to online shopping bags that arrive like clockwork aren’t going to make them go away. When your wife wants a drink at 11am to celebrate something (the weather, days off, whatever) it’s most certainly still the middle of the night somewhere else and people are drunk all over the world for reasons less than whatever she just gave you. Pour her a stiff drink. Sweatpants are an appropriate outfit choice to wear to the store. On a Monday. If we wanted you to know who was on the phone, it’d be on speakerphone, wouldn’t it? Am I done with that dirty pan on the stove? Maybe, maybe not,but if you’re so into the dirty pan, go move it. MYOB. Very simple.

Take a lesson from Martha Stewart It wouldn’t kill any of you to cook a few times a week (even if it involves grilling), especially if your wife has a cooking handicap (moi). You can even order take-out, a wife’s best friend. But cook, really. Cooking is ooh la la sexy (picture of my favorite yummy chef Sam Talbot, who I would announce that I would screw senseless if this wasn’t a post about husbands) and men that cook deserve blow jobs. True story. Now if you’re MY husband, I’d like it if you could make sure chicken pot pie finds its way into the weekly rotation on a regular basis. In other Martha Stewart related items, the house isn’t going to clean itself. Neither is the garage. The house (including your precious man cave, you all fing have one) isn’t a college dorm and if the smell of you or your belongings for any reason smacks us in the face and makes us gag, you better turn your ass around, get the lysol wipes, the vacuum, bleach, whatever it takes or just burn your shit and start over.

Let’s match moods. If I am angry, everyone better be angry or at least goddamned quiet. Cheery dispositions do not help. This isn’t, act how you want her to act, trickery. If I am sad, depressed, miserable or just vile, no amount of ice cream or clapping like a seal will help. Neither will telling me to walk it off. If I am happy, everyone better be jump up and down, let’s throw a party, ecstatic.

When Gift Giving: Just be thoughtful. Really. All we want is to know that you would not trade us in for anything. Anyone, really. Ask any wife. She’d trade a million dollars worth of ugly red roses (the most vile flower on earth) for a letter listing the reason you love her. Or give her a day to herself at the spa. We love that shit. Or give her something that lets her know you know her, that you listen, that you went out of your way to prove that she’s all you can think about. Perfume and all things edible are for assholes and morons.

Know your role in bed. Pleasing a woman in bed is most certainly a daunting task, I’ll give you guys that. But, by the time you’re married to that vixen, you better have it right. There should be no more, to the left, to the right, what the fuck is your tongue doing there, that is MY PELVIC bone and it doesn’t like to be humped, directives. Also, if you don’t know how to go down on your wife, you are NOT a good husband, there is no negotiating this one, take a class, it’s a fact. Also, mastering the balance between sexing us, snuggling us and giving us some goddamned space in bed would make you a GENIUS. Sweartogod.

Act pumped to be with your wife and make your wife feel wanted This is a tall order, I know (especially if you’ve been together for a lifetime (5 years plus). You should be pumped to see and be with your wife, not at all times, but most. There should be high fives involved, some ass grabbing and a lot of, I want to do yous. Sending your wife a text about how hot she is for no reason (that’s the important part) or saying things that may or may not make her blush is a bonus. We want to be wanted. I’m not saying you lie to the woman. She knows you. But a little, have I ever told you how amazing you look, wouldn’t kill you. But mean it, because if you don’t, we can tell and there will be hell to pay.

Refrain from saying as much stupid shit as possible: This is important. We’ve all ended a relationship because your stupid ass made the make of saying one fucked up thing and it led to this bitch of a thing called resentment which snowballed until we hated you secretly, then publicly, then we had to let you go for good. Now as a husband, you’ll probably get a little wiggle room on this one because we can’t just divorce you for every stupid thing you say, shit, we’d all be in divorce court right now. But you can contain yourself. Here are a few key items to avoid shitting out of your mouth: “Well, that looks interesting (which could pertain to food, your child, her hair, etc) OR “should that look like that? ” OR “Well, you’re not fat” as though husky or chubby was a better answer. OR “Why can’t you be more like (insert whoever you want us to hate for life)”. Oh, that shit will get you all the silence you want for any random amount of timed that seems appropriate on the spot which could be ETERNITY. OR “You’re doing it wrong. My mother doesn’t do it that way.” Huh, your mother also doesn’t bang you out at night, clean up your shit or listen to your mouth anymore, does she? And as far as we’re concerned, sometimes she can have you back OR better yet, it’s her fault you’re like this and so keep the mother comments to yourself. Husbands have been killed over this shit. AND MORE. “Are you going to wear that?” OR “But your sister…” But my sister WHAT? If our sister is hot, you’re in fucking trouble because we know you already pictured her naked. If our sister is a fucking wench, you’re calling us a wench too, you are dead. AND MY PERSONAL FAVORITE. “You’re just like your mother.” You just earned yourself a lifetime of no sex and a death threat. Divorce would be a gift.

Know your place as a husband: It is beside me and it’s not a horrible thing to be seen and not heard. You can be the silent partner and therefore, we will have little to no reason to make excuses for you. And remember, all wives are crazy on some level and you’ve probably contributed to it. You will never win.

In summary, husbands, we just want a few things out of life. Be our friend, know how to fix things, hug us, love us more than you love video games, carry the heavy things in from the car, fuck us on Fridays and make love to us in the rain, know things about us that we forgot ourselves, kiss us like it counts, protect us and be good-looking and sweet enough that we can beat all the other bitches at the cookout for the “Who has the best husband contest”. Oh, it exists.

*this is the disclaimer where I note that this post is not about my husband or my previous relationships with men. But it kind of is. A little bit.

The Good Wife’s Guide

Today we’re going to play a little game called the 1950s, where women were slaves and men thought they were kings. Then we’re going to jump back into the present and play MY game, where I am the boss. This is going to be a fun game, I promise.

So today my friend NP jokingly sends me this piece of bullshit, better known as, “The Good Wife’s Guide”, (http://www.j-walk.com/other/goodwife/index.htm) because she knows I will
1. Lose my mind
2. Attack it
3. We need a break from work. It’s been kinda crazy lately.

So, I’d hate to make you wait to read this laughable garbage, but here it is and here’s what I’m going to do. This is going to be a two part series, today and tomorrow, because as I read this over and over, my head is near exploding and it’s going to take me two days to get this all out. So here we go… I am going to comment on each line item and then TOMORROW, I am going to create my very own follow-up entitled, “The Good Husband’s Guide.” Yay, yay, this is going to be a fun blogging week.

Now, before I start, I will admit this much:
I know for a fact that I am the type of girl that will forever be a better girlfriend than a wife. Better is an understatement. I feel badly about this, yes, I really do. I just don’t have a wife bone in my body. If I found a wife bone in my body, I’d have it removed or it would surely have broken right now, I am that awful as a wife. Review: I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I’m not a great caretaker. It’s true, I get “headaches” and I want to slap myself in the mouth for even admitting that. I can barely walk dogs, forget wipe kids and yes, I’m more concerned with ruining my nipples than transfering nutrients to a small, birdlike being attached to my tit like it’s time on the farm. I just don’t like the word wife. I never aspired to be someone’s wife and to me it means loss of self and too much compromise, too much chance of failing. Let’s just be clear. I’m a selfish, vile, terrible person, at least if you judged me off this list. So here we go.

The Good Wife’s Guide, circa 1955
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed. (Plan WHAT the night before? How am I supposed to be building future menus if I’m busy napping/drinking/watching tv/yapping on the phone/emailing? If maybe I get around to defrosting something, it’d be in the morning and the person that makes dinner is either a. the person who gets home first and b. any person that is not me because I don’t cook. I’m sorry, who cares if he is hungry on the way home? Did he also lose his hands or his sense of direction? There are at least 4 stores between work and home and last time I checked it was called a SNACK.)
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. (I did prepare myself. I came home, took off my work outfit and pulled on my favorite hoodie and sweats. I also put my hair in a bun and poured myself a glass of vino. Fucking ribbon. Ribbons are for 5-year-old girls and birthday presents and the upgrade of my nighttime outfit would be nudity, which only occurs if I’m feeling all sexy-like after 11pm. Fresh looking my ass.)
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. (First of all, this is a true statement. Being a little lesbo has always grabbed every man’s attention, though I think they mean happy here. Be happy and interesting. What am I? A fucking circus clown? Maybe my day was boring too. You don’t see me asking for some sort of juggling fire act and did they say DUTIES?? One of my duties is not to break my computer right now as I type this. It’s certainly not my DUTY to act “a little more gay” each day, though I’d keep that in mind next time things get less interesting around my house.)
4. Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables. (This is just stupid. The only thing I do that adds value to the kitchen or the household is make sure the ice-cube trays are full and frozen because in my world, having an endless supply of ice is the most important part of each night and without ice, I lose my shit. Clutter? It’s not clutter. I know what’s in those piles. I put it all there. If I folded things and put them in all the different rooms they belonged, I would NEVER find anything because it would take me so fucking long. And shut up about dusting. I did dust in April. It’s called SPRING cleaning for a reason.)
5. During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (Oh, I’m sorry, should I lay my fat ass down on the floor too so you can rest your feet on my tired back like a bear? Because no, don’t worry about me, that would give me immense personal satisfaction, about the same type of satisfaction I get after 3 beers, a session with my vibrator and a nap. Jesus FUCK.)
6. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. (This will be brief. I. AM. THE. NOISE.)
7. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. (I am thrilled. Really. Newsflash. If you have to SHOW sincerity, it’s probably not sincerity but trickery.)
8. Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
(But the moment of arrival is not the time? His topics of conversation are more important than yours? OhmyfuckinglesbianshaveitbetterLord there is NOTHING more important than what I have to say and in fact, I do not like people talking to me after OR before work. Not in the car, not in the house. I need one hour each part of the day to unwind/amp up. So, no, you don’t talk to ME.)
9. Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work. (I count this as a hall pass to guy’s night out which yes, I am a huge fan of. No one is ever late for dinner because it’s never on the table or even started. But let’s not get all i’mwickedfuckingstupid with the out all night shit. Whitney Houston didn’t write that little gem, “It’s Not Right, But it’s OK” for no reason and that bitch Angela Bassett lit that car on fire for a reason. She makes burning cars look reasonable, in fact.)
10. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
(I am not taking off anyone’s damned shoes. My voice is far from soothing and if he wants a nap or a drink, there’s the fridge and the cups and go take a nap but the pillows remain UNFLUFFED.)
11. Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him. (I have no right to what? Question him? I will lock him in a windowless room with rabid dogs and question him like I’m fighting terror. Master of the house, my ass.)

AND MY PERSONAL FAVORITE:

12. A good wife always knows her place. (And a smart husband knows that one well placed swipe with a kitchen knife will have you checking different boxes under the gender section next time your sorry ass goes to the DMV. KNOWS HER PLACE.)

Wheeeeeeeeew. I can’t tell if this post enabled me to unleash some pent-up aggression or create more. And truthfully, I’m not this bad, just don’t dare get all, You’re the boss of me. Because you aren’t.

Husbands.

Going green and great GOOGLE searches

I need one more night in the office and it’ll be good to go. I wanted to finish it today but alternated between sickness, I finished a book (Cynthia Kaplan’s, Why I’m Like This—bleh), printed a few pictures from my Canon printer and then napped like a cat for all other hours of the day. It was overcast and cool here, slightly smelling and feeling like fall, which I was thankful for, because sun and warmth mean I can’t be lazy but cool and crisp is an invitation to nap. (Heather logic)

So the office is going green in a very having nothing to do with the environment type way. I just love the color green. Here is the result of my IKEA shopping trip two weeks ago.

And the boxes, so that I never lose anything again. (I should note that my office of late is inspired by Elise Blaha’s space. She.is.AMAZING. http://www.eliseblaha.typepad.com/)

And the bulletin board that’s taking FOREVER to fill, but coming along, even though there’s way too much of my face everywhere. I did print 6 pics from around Europe on my new printer today to add, but it didn’t seem to take away from the fact that all you can see is me smiling everywhere so I’ll try to fill the rest of it up tomorrow.

I’m not up to writing for hours tonight, maybe tomorrow. That being said, tomorrow we might have to go over why 2 people found my blog today by searching “stationary dildoes woman big life” (holy what the fuck?? Were those the key words they could remember from previous posts??) and 2 more found it by just looking around for the flag of Argentina. One more found it by searching “naked trolls” (weirdo) and one more by searching “topless 16 year olds” (sicko). Honestly, I feel like I’m running a fucking porn site sometimes, or you’d think so, at least by how people find me. Jeez.

Proof I’m not Pregnant Week

Today I want a do-over. I feel awful and I am acting like a wretched troll to prove how very awful I feel. Except I’m alone in my bed, acting wretched only to myself and when Moxie decides to pay attention and so no harm done. In fact, it’s best I’m alone right now being miserable because no one should be subjected to me today. I am sick, I want attention while being left alone and I want to wake up tomorrow and feel better.

No, I am not hungover. It’s Proof I’m not Pregnant week and typically I am thrilled to just have proof that I am still without child (am still determining how great of an idea it would be for me to be responsible for someone for life. Currently, still doesn’t seem like the world’s most brilliant idea, but I’m still working on it) and things go very smoothly. I do not (typically) become a raging bitch just because I’m bleeding and I don’t need midol in large quantities or heat packs or any of that dramatic nonsense that I’m typically convinced girls do just to get attention. But what the fuck. For two days straight, I can’t stand. And today, something is trying to claw it’s way out of my uterus and through my stomach, if my uterus is where I think it is, which to be honest, I have no idea exactly where it is besides somewhere between the top of my legs and below my stomach. I want to throw up (again) and Chris actually said to me, Are you making a trying to swallow my own throwup in my mouth, noise, Heather? I feel like I have a fever, my head is pounding and I couldn’t eat the thai food we ordered. I fing love thai food. I even tried taking a potentially deadly amount of advil and still nothing. I’m still hunched over like an old woman, I’ve been in bed since 1pm and I caught myself whimpering. I spent an hour today staring at a wall trying to determine if this was the flu timed perfectly during my Joys of Having a Vagina Week and then Sarah Mclachlan’s “Do what you have to do”
(http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6mssy_do-what-you-have-t-do-by-sarah-mcla_music)

came on my playlist and I burst out sobbing like a lovesick lunatic. Then I hit repeat three times in a row, rolling around in my bed, crying and flailing around about losing a lover for absolutely no reason WHATSOEVER before I got ahold of myself and took out my headphones. I cannot be trusted with dramatic love songs today. I am apparently an emotional trainwreck. I also cried when Dante tried to bite me today for no reason and realized I was losing it when I found myself reading quotes from the Notebook online which is just absurd and dramatic but was a good reminder of why it’s my most favorite love story ever but again, I will not be watching it today for fear that the bleeding has caused me to also lose my mind and common sense. (Seriously, though, is the kissing in the rain scene not the best scene ever in romance history? )

So. I feel awful and I look like I was caught in a hurricane. I looked at myself in the mirror and was horrified. My feet are dirty from walking around outside with no shoes on, my shorts look stupid and my shirt is dirty, I have makeup smeared on my face from last night and my hair looks like I was caught in a windstorm. The sight of me today even makes me want to cry and I HATE CRYING. Goddamnit.

In other news, Chris told me I could start using the word Nazi freely as we just met our very first Nazi on Thursday when that dumb, fat, bitch, purple haired, vile, evil, whore, black souled, big mouthed TROLL excuse for a landlord came to my house. For the past year I have been asked to please not use that word for fear of deportation and because I suppose it’s just not nice even though it’s not MY fault these people put people on trains to ovens and waterless showers but whatever, I tried to keep my belligerence in check but now I no longer have to because we met one and she looks like the goddamned TRUNCHBULL and if I didn’t already feel like shit, I’d tell that story but that story raises my blood pressure still and I can’t have that when I’m feeling this awful. So, hopefully tomorrow I will be back to normal and can share with the world the story of why we’re moving by the spring and how I met the most evil person on the face of the earth.

So now I’ve exhausted myself and so I’m going to go back to rolling around my bed, watching dramatic movies and being generally miserable. Night, night.

I love sea shell things….

So originally I was told that this video is some guy, wasted out of his mind on some drug, ranting about the randomest of shit. Said guy has a brilliant friend who tapes the whole thing and then someone even more awesome animates it, adds a gecko and puts it on youtube. Fantastic. People on drugs are so awesome sometimes, in a, I love to watch you from afar but don’t get too close to me, drool on me, touch me, etc etc.

Then I find out this is some guy (Dan Deacon) that did this as some project and he’s an ARTIST, which is just a title that means you get write/perform/sing/paint as much weird shit as you can and call it art in case people think you’re terrible. Either way, really hysterical, in my favorite, I love to mock idiots from New York type way. And that didn’t mean I think all people from New York are idiots. I think all Yankees fans are most certainly awful and most likely illiterate and borderline mental and the accent is awful but really, that’s all I was implying about New Yorkers, really.

So enjoy my video of the week, Drinking out of Cups.

And I know, something is wrong with me. I’m fine with that.

Back to the office and ordering new sexy merch

So my office is shit again. Apparently since I haven’t been up here every night for hours, I thought it was ok to turn it into some sort of storage facility. I can’t even see the floor or my desk. Suitcases from Montenegro, Nuremberg, Sarajevo and now Amsterdam litter my floor. Pictures and gifts I’ve meant to send and stationary meant for letters I’ve written only in my head are tossed in random piles. My pencils are all over the floor and I stepped on the stash of lilac soap I bought in France but have never used. The new additions I bought weeks ago have started to collect dust. My typewriter hasn’t been cleaned because I didn’t have a home for it and my hopechest has nowhere to rest so it can collect.

Well, no more excuses. Here are the befores and tomorrow (probably Saturday) I’ll post the afters. Then I’ll really be back in action in my office. I’m excited to get some work done. I just ordered the 2010 Writer’s Market to add to my collection and it’s time to get some submissions out for the fall. In the past month, 3 new people wrote to me, asking why I don’t write a book and I’ll be damned if I don’t sell just those three books in my life. Even if I have to cut and paste the stories into a scrapbook and sell them on the side of the road. Seriously, I can’t be someone’s bitch for the rest of my life. I prefer to be my own bitch, and mine alone.

Now, the most awkward thing that happened to me today and then I have to get back to work. There’s no real way to jump into this so I’ll just throw it out there.

I think my German housekeeper found my vibrator and I don’t know if she touched it meaning I don’t know if I can use it anymore. There, I said it.

Seriously, I can’t stop thinking about whether or not she touched it and here’s why. Normally I just have her clean my downstairs–floors, vacuum, the windows, dusting, shit I can’t keep up with not because I’m too busy but because I’m really fing lazy. I’ve never had her do the upstairs because it’s just the spare room that no one’s used in awhile, my office that no one BUT ME is allowed in and my bedroom, which looks like a dog pound/storage facility/bedroom, if you can make out the bed as it typically looks like a holding area for clothes and blankets and six, yes six, fluffy pillows. Anyway, this week I got all regal like and decided my whole house needed a good scrub down and so I told her have it at. Seemed like a good idea until I ran upstairs after work today, like it was Christmas, inspecting every room and jumping in place, clapping because I AM FREE from the shackles of dusting and mopping and everything smells like cleaner and lemons. Yay for people that like to clean other people’s houses. (Seriously, she told me it is her passion and I believe her, she’s that good.)

But then I got to the bedroom and I felt sick. Shit, shit, shit. Everything that I knew was half kicked under my bed was now sitting on the window ledge in little piles for me to take care of and the floor was vacummed and I knew before I got on my hands and knees to look.

Sure enough, my vibrator was the lone occupant under the bed. The books were gone, as were the empty water bottles I kicked under there, the bat Chris thinks is going to save us if intruders come in to kidnap me and a few hair ties I’ve lost here and there. Instead of it being messy UNDER my bed, it was spotless, so much so that I think my vibrator had a spotlight on it, a glow around it, a neon light flashing and pointing as if to say, “Just me here. Just me left under the bed. And I won’t even tell you if she moved me.”

Fuck. Well it appears to be in the same spot I tossed it last week. And though I didn’t touch it to inspect it, I hope there’s dust on it. That would at least kind of prove it was me that touched it last. Because I just can’t have private time with myself if some German housekeeper put her grabby hands on it. How am I supposed to relax to that vision? Jesus. And that was an expensive model. I’m pissed.

So that’s my night. Back to building office stuff.

Missing the great Kevin B. Smith

“Standing in this moment,

Before the fork of time.

One path brings tomorrow,

One can bring back time…”

I am a card-carrying member of the Dead Dad Club.   Today is my worst day: Death Day.  Today.  1097 days ago he was alive.  Then he wasn’t.

When I am upset, distraught, angry or self-loathing, all things I think I am today, I do one of two things.  I’m either self-destructive in a very minor, harmless, put myself into a sobfest pino induced coma, or I write.  Considering I took care of the first of the two behaviors yesterday, I am working on a blog post today, as my other option would be to have never left bed this morning, only to lay there, hidden under mounds of feathers and pillows, listening to it pour again today, only to hope that when I wake up that it’s September.  Not even August 3.  Fucking August, you wretched, humid, good for nothing, emotionally draining, no one likes you, all my calendars are ripped of you, month.  Vile doesn’t even come close.

And so today, most hated day of the year, is the three-year anniversary of my father’s death.  One gunshot and my life changed forever.  One twelve hour car-ride later from D.C. to Maine and I told woke my sister up to tell her the news myself.  Now her life was equally ruined and we were brought closer through tragedy that no one else will ever understand.  I wish I could describe how I feel today, but even I’m not sure, as today seems different from all of the usually death days I’ve encountered.

If I close my eyes, I am back to that day, the day he died and I was told the news.  I’ve been kicked, hard, and it’s awful to wonder how one memory can rip you to shreds.  Today is no good.  I fought hard today to crawl off the couch, having not made it to bed last night, the anxiety of today weighing me down, making me lifeless and indifferent and immobile.  I fought the urge to throw up my coffee this morning, though managed not to, not feeling like tasting the bile or whiskey of yesterday so early in the day.  I didn’t bother with fighting the tears.  They are my only hope in releasing some of this pain I carry with me today.  They burn and stain my cheeks but I don’t stop them, I can’t, and as the minutes of today wear on, I feel waves of sadness and my old friend helplessness and it doesn’t matter if I wave the white towel today or not, the only person I am fighting is myself and the memory of my father and I lose to both.  This year’s pain, though, is much different, much deeper than the previous years.

The first year was my year of anger.  I was too busy being angry and lost and helpless to feel this huge sense of loneliness.  During the first year, all I could feel, if I allowed myself, was this immense and piercing pain that ripped through my chest, violent bouts of panic that constantly races and races and races, stomach aches, and my face was swollen from tear ducts that worked overtime to produce more pain by the hour.  I hated him so much for leaving me that I  alternated between wishing him back and then wishing him dead again.  I slept on the floors of my own house and I smoked heaps of tobacco and there were often days where daylight was no different from nighttime and I wasn’t sure if I knew the difference.

The second year was not worse, just different.  I could no longer say, My father died this year.  It was last year.  People like you to be over last year’s events.  No one talks about last year’s Oscars or last year’s big game.  People want you smiling again and it’s uncomfortable to be the only one left that hasn’t moved on and has no intention of doing so.  I hated anyone that used phrases stolen from Hallmark in an attempt to make me feel better to make them feel better about the fact that they were awkward and insensitive and just downright fucking stupid.  I hated people who didn’t understand me or didn’t realize I still needed attention.  I didn’t want anyone to forget my pain because I lived with it behind every smile I gave during the day and dealt with it more with every night that I cried in my bed until my pillow smelled like wet duck or goose or whatever was in there.  I wanted to be left alone but I wanted everyone to care still and it’s probably one of the hardest things I’ve had to deal with during my grief.

And now year three.  Three years is a long time.  Three years is painful.  Three years is a long time to miss someone, to be reminded every day that they are not coming back, I will never, ever see my father again.  Today, and some other days, very few but still, I feel empty and hollow and my heart beats but it’s dull pain now, dull pain that promises never to leave.  Pain that will act up just enough to suffocate but then let you breathe only to then suffocate you again.  Three years means my memory, which is typically that of an elephant, is getting worse and I wonder if I have forgotten things I never remembered to remember.  I don’t write everything down like I promised.  I’m petrified of amnesia and cracking my skull and I spent six hours last night making myself remember what he looked like and hear the sound of his laugh.  Six hours I spent doing that and crying and wishing it was just over again, this terrible week and month, so that I could start over and have my mind back, at least until the holidays, when I know this starts again.

Today isn’t the day when I remember the good times or the happy times or all the times we shared that are never to be again. I do that on his birthday, or my birthday, or a day that doesn’t involve death. And today, I’m not even that angry. I’m defeated. I’m defeated because today I’m a thirty year old woman with an eight year old mentality. I want my father. I want back what he took from me without asking or without warning this time. I want him to say he’s sorry and I want him to just be here, so I can be mad at him and love him myself, in person, not through letters that have no address for mailing or on blog posts read by people who end up feeling awkward by the end. (don’t say I’m sorry to me or I will punch you) I’m tired of crying and screaming and pleading with myself for him to have just loved me enough, wanted to be here enough. I want to believe it when I remind myself that you can’t fight crazy with logical and he was sick and this wasn’t about me or him or us. I want to accept that he and I have had our last talk and I will not see him for a very, very long time. I want to do so many things that my heart will not allow. A broken heart is a bitch, regardless who broke it.

The good that has come out of my father’s death is only the changes I have made in my own life. I’ve listed them before, the moving here, the risks I’ve taken, the love I’ve shared. There is one thing I truly believe now, and it’s that people don’t learn to live until they are faced with death, or great challenge, something that tests you and brings you to the depths of hell and leaves you, naked and indifferent in the fork between two roads. And when you are ready you have to pick. I had to pick. I could self destruct and be my own worst enemy. I could let myself die with him, feeling nothing anymore and getting sucked into the hatefulness I felt for so long. I could destroy all I had left and be nothing, because that would have been easy. Or not.

Sometimes I meet people and they ask me why I’m so unapologetic about my life and it would horrify a stranger or potential friend to hear this drawn out version. I didn’t have a choice, really. My two choices were live and live the way my father didn’t get the chance, or let my spark die with him, the one I shared with him, and I couldn’t just do that. And so the way I live each day is my choice, my tribute to my father, though somewhat inappropriate some days. I say what I feel and I make decisions based on what my heart says, not so much my head. I cross the street without looking and I lack morals. I live to make an impression and I’d rather be hated than forgettable because not everyone will like me, but at least they’ll remember me. I am fiercely loyal to my good friends and I fall in love madly, deeply, insanely and without regret. I’d rather be a work in progress for the rest of my life than fear failure. I want to see the sun rise in every part of the world and go to bed dead tired each night because there is always time for more. I want to laugh until I cry and cry when it’s worth my while. I want special people to know I love them and that I only love with everything I have. I want only to live my life in the way I don’t think my father lived his—without regret, without apology, with hope and with a passion that leaves me exhausted.

And so that’s how I’ll keep trying to live. But for today, I am still heartbroken and missing someone who can never be replaced. I love you, Dad.

***This line comes from a poem written on this blog:  http://enreal.wordpress.com/***

(PS, the childhood photos are just a bonus to lighten the mood. I was such a gem. Eat your hearts out, boys.)

Thank you, Mr. August

It’s stuff like this that I run across that makes me bang through batteries at an alarming rate.  And I do mean bang, kinda….Jesus, fuck, he has great sex tunnels. We all know what sex tunnels are, yes?

I don’t feel like writing today, but in my celebrity gossip browsing this morning over iced coffee, I came across this little number.  My ability to find amazing pictures of naked men is what keeps some of you coming back to this site (or so my blog stats note) and so you’re welcome, girls.

Alright, back to organizing my house while dancing around to Sting’s “Desert Storm” (the remix, obviously) on volume setting sofuckingloudyou’regoingtohavethegermansarrestyou in my skivs.

My six words today: She was born with extra testosterone.