Eff 2009!

Good-friggin-bye, 2009. Just four more hours and then I'm rid of you. I can't wait to watch you go and for 2010 to march in. I have big hopes for 2010, at least, I'm hoping it isn't as dumb and smelly as you were.

Things I'm looking forward to (forget the "Best of 2009"):

1. Chelsea Handler's third book will be released in March of '10.

This bitch is funny, need I say more? Go read her books My Horizontal Life, and Hello Vodka, Are You There? Its Me, Chelsea before March 9th so that you can be up to speed for her next master piece.

2. I may finally get to graduate from college (maybe).

Hopefully I will have my diploma rolled up tightly in my fist by next December so that I can move on to graduate school. If I do that, I will be one step closer diagnosing your psychoses.

3. Possible move to the East Coast.

This is all contingent on getting that illusive diploma. Once I do so, I can attend grad school in Rhode Island or Maine or New York or something. Somewhere waaay on the other side of the country from where ever the hell I am now.

4. Another of the Twilight movies will be released.

Upon release we will be one step closer to ending the pandemonium that is tweenaged girl's, and Team Jacob shirts because, it will become painfully clear that JACOB NEVER HAD A CHANCE. Though, those Jacobers could save themselves the inevitable disappointment and embarrassment and just read the friggin' books...

5. No longer having to refer to the year as "Ohsomedumbnumber"

Gayest way to state the year, ever.

New Decade's Resolution (because lets face it, I can't accomplish anything in a year, its too much pressure):

1. Write in this blog more.

I know that you all wish I would, because you have nothing better to do with your lives, and mine is oh so much more amazing and entertaining than yours. I will try hard, just for you.

2. Listen to more Country Music.

Get your jaws off of the ground. I feel like country music will be great inspiration for resolution number 1. Maybe I can start describing my life to you in Reba's lyrics. It will, if nothing else, give me more to mock for your pleasure.

3. Pay off my credit card bill.

I may have to resort to prostitution or working a fourth job at McDonald's, prostitution before Micky D's, but, whatever I have to do, I will do. I want to end this abusive relationship with the creditors of First Financial.

4. Raise a plant.

Every plant I've ever had died. Even flowers, though they're meant to die, die faster at my hands. I'm not sure what it is, maybe I don't talk to them enough, maybe its that lack of water... whatever it is, I am determined to keep a leafy green thing alive.

5. Become Chelsea Handler's Protoge.

Chelsea Handler is my number one role model, and if, after finally graduating college I can spend some time under her wing, my life would be complete. I'm also sure this would benefit you, via this blog, so pull all your strings, interweb.

Ok, this is the last time you will hear from me for the REST of the year. Be sad. Miss me, but go bring in the New Year right.

Sassy Grinch

Call me a grinch, but I seriously can not wait for the Holidays to be over. There is nothing fun about Christmas to a 22 year old single only female child who is semi estranged from her parents. Nothing, I tell you, nothing.

Though, I suppose I can't completely blame my lack of Christmas spirit on my age. I've never really liked Christmas. I mean, sure as I was growing up the gifts were amazing. As an only child, I always made out like a bandit. I didn't even know certain toys exsisted, but there they were under the tree wrapped in shiny paper waiting for me. I always got the most presents and spent days afterwards finding out what the hell each one of them actually did and where I was going to put it.

As I got older though, the gifts got less interesting- more socks less my little ponies. As I became less excited about the gifts I got, I started to notice the unfair and unequal distribution of the gifts. My mother, who worked harder than anyone else I had ever known, and was sadder than anyone I had ever met, always finished opening her gifts first, because of course I was too young to buy many gifts, and my father was too unoriginal to think of wonderful things to buy her. As I grew up I made it my mission for my mother to have as many, if not more, gifts than my father and I had to open on Christmas morning.

This task proves to be an overly stressful one every year as I have to grappel with what to buy my mother, who spends her time working, watching Judge Judy and playing Bejewled. You can only buy the woman so many off brands of Bejewled before she has every non-interesting computer game in the world. She doesn't like to pamper herself, so delicious smelling soaps and lotions are out of the question. She won't paint her nails so nailpolish sits and hardens. She doesn't go anywhere, or do anything accept for the afformentioned Judge Judy marathons and Bejewled tournies (do they have those? God I hope not...). Then, to top it all off, I grow increasingly more broke as the years fly by.

Alright, so, aside from the gift giving head aches, there are the TACKY decorations. Christmas is the season when the whole world begins to look like a grandmother from Jersey wearing her favorite golden fanny pack and a light up turtleneck sweater. People drown their homes in automated reindeer and snowmen, bright mismatched string lights, people sized unedible candy canes, and in special neighborhoods giant cardboard cut outs of 70's cartoons like The Flinstones and The Jetsons in Santa Hats. If I had my way, people who left their decorations up after Dec 27th would be thrown in jail for a lifetime without parole. There's just no reason to leave the decorations up for longer than that. I don't care if your roof is covered in snow, or its raining cats and dogs outside. You got them up there, find a way to get that shit down, ASAP.

I just can't wait until people pack those monstrocities away, and the gifts are all unwrapped and the food, which I don't even really like to eat has been put away in tupperware and I can go home, to my undecorated house and forget about it all until next year.

Dec 27th, please come as soon as possible.

Ancient

I know, I know. In my last post I promised I would stop being too busy to write in here, didn't I? I'm sorry. My life, once again, got the better of me. Its hard you know, being in such high demand. There's hardly ever a second to sit down and write one of these things. But quit your bitchin' because I'm back! School is over for the time being so I should have more free time to entertain the inter-masses. Enjoy!

While I was off living my life, neglecting my blog duties, I got a little bit older. Not much, just a year or so. You can't even notice, though, the other day I did pull a hair out of my head that was supiciously less brown than it should have been. Actually, the hair was kind of odd, it was a long strand, no dead ends in sight, and about half way through it it changed color. It looked as though the hair growing from the root was a very very light color, perhaps, blond, or... gra- no, I can't say it... while the other half the hair, the older part, was a dark brown.

I didn't necessarily pull this hair from my head, though. When I get stressed out, or I'm thinking too intensely about world peace, how to solve hunger, or how to get my minions to do my biding- I mean, how to ask my friends for a helping hand, I run my hands through my bangs. Often times bits of hair fall out in the process of being over stroked. So, a while after I'd finished plotting, I looked down on my shoulder and noticed some hair and began brushing it off. That's when I found this strange hair, picked it up and began to examine it in every light possible. I even got one of my employees to come take a look at it. We both decided that it couldn't possibly be mine because, at 22 years old, though my joints ache more than they did at 20, I'm still not THAT old. Right?

Don't answer that.

Bad Blogger, bad!

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in a really long time. I'm sorry! Is it possible that my life just isn't interesting enough to recount day in and day out? No. I didn't think so either. My life is SO interesting, in fact, that I often forget about my blogging responsibilities (because I'm so caught up in my life's interestingness). That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

Don't be upset, Blogsphere, because I've also been neglecting my Twitter. Then again, my Twitter is becoming a very scary thing. Every day I get new e-mails that this person is following me, or that person, and I don't know who these people are, which is fine... because I mean, I'm not going to keep any of the awesomeness that is Mars away from anyone who wants it, you know? I'm just THAT generous. What does kind of creep me out is that when I click on my followers so that I can look at the Twitter of my newest stalker, they don't show up on my page, so I can't see them. And one sided stalking is way creepier than mutual stalking.

So now, every time I tweet I have no idea who's phone my Tweet is going to and that scares me immensely. I've taken to posting a tweet and then looking around me suspiciously to see who grabs for their phones. I think its Twitter is going to turn me into a Paranoid Schizophrenic, and that sucks because I think I have enough problems already. Right? (I'm so glad I can't hear your answer).

Anyway, I've got to get back to my OH so interesting life. I'll try not to forget to blog, but you do understand how it could be hard for such an interesting person. Or maybe you don't, because you're sitting here reading my blog, which means you're probably not that interesting.

Go get interesting!

I love you, now please keep four feet between our bodies at all times, thanks.

I've been trying to find a way to put a funny spin on something very creepy that happened to me earlier this week, but I just can't. It wasn't funny, it was very very scary and way too real. So, because it was too scary for even ME to make hilarious, I'm just not going to talk about it.

My apologies, but if you'd like to, you can think of the creepiest thing that you'd like to happen to me and just imagine that that's what happened. I won't even ask you what you thought about. This is your only chance freaks, so make it good. After you have your mischievous dream bubble of creepiness sequence, please, continue on to your regularly scheduled Sass Attack.

---

People always ask me why I don't like hugs. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with a person who hates hugs, right? I'm sure they all think I'm incredibly weird and a bit rude for cringing and dodging every time someone, even loved ones (perhaps especially loved ones), spread out their arms and wait for an embrace.

I've decided its not just because I'm strange and rude, its also because I loathe disingenuous displays of affection.

I hate when someone gets their arms around you and you can barley feel them pulling you in. Or when they tap the top of your back but keep a bit of air and space between your bodies. Or when the hug is so quick and they let go that its almost like your skin burned them. Oooh! Or when someone wraps one arm around your shoulder and pulls you into their nasty arm pit and doesn't look at you while they "hug" you.

Its not like most people sit around thinking, "Lets give Mars a really shitty hug and make her feel uncomfortable," yet they do it anyway. Even if you think your hugs couldn't possibly suck, I can almost guarantee you that they do. I don't even want you to try on the off chance that you're a shitty hugger because after you hug me I'll be forced to pretend that you're not while I'm secretly plotting in my head how to avoid ever having to do that again.

Seriously, bad hugs are just not worth it. I'd rather jump into a lagoon filled with Barracudas than have to hug someone.

Don't feel too badly though, because its not like I'm an expert hugger. I'm the kind of hugger that barley lays her arms on you and pats your back twice and pulls away two seconds later. I'm a two-second-hugger. I don't know how many times I've let go and been pulled back by another (equally bad) hugger. Then I feel even worse, because now not only did someone give me a weird unsentimental hug but I gave them my own variety of non-committal personal contact and I have to wonder if I made them feel bad by pulling away too quickly, which I know they noticed because they PULLED ME BACK.

Now, this person that I've hugged and I both want to go home and cry and wonder why the other person who we obviously care about enough to let into our personal space and touch hates us, because a hug that bad can mean nothing else. Do we smell? Are we sticky? Do they even love us at all? This just leads to abandonment fears, and attachment issues and suicidal tendencies. All because of a fucking hug.

Have I convinced you yet? Its really for the best that we don't hug. Good thing this is an Internet blog, because otherwise this could be really awkward. The whole... not hugging thing.

For the love of Trees... maybe.

At work once I'm done ringing a customer up, I always ask them, as it is my job, if they would like a copy of their receipt. When someone pays with a credit card or a check, and the receipt has their name on it, its an automatic thing; I print a copy for them. But then there are those times when a customer purchases a pair of $2.00 socks from me so that their gross little kids can run rampant on my equipment and not get their baby foot fungus all over everything. Sometimes, these people will actually say YES to a receipt.

When this happens, in my head, I start screaming "TREE KILLER! MURDERER!!! TREEEE KIIIILLLLEEEEERRR" because really, who fucking needs a receipt for a pair of socks that you just handed me 2 bucks for? All you're doing is using up a piece of paper that didn't need to be used. Now some burly ass lumberjack has to stomp out to the forest (which forest, I'm not sure, since we have so few left) and chop down another of our oxygen and vegetation sources, and put a few hundred animals out of their homes and onto the streets to become beggars, thieves, druggies, and prostitutes (because that's what happens to the homeless, even animals) so that I can put a new roll of receipt paper in my register.

OK. So before you start picturing me as some tree hugger who wears shirts day in and day out that say "If its yellow, let it mellow..." and washes her hair with patchouli dandelion shampoo that she makes herself, I need to confess. Part of my angst, maybe all of it, comes from the fact that I'm too LAZY to print up unimportant receipts and I feel that by being offended for our earth I can legitimize the annoyance of having to print a receipt.

Don't judge me Mother Earth, you made a lazy SOB, at least I'm spinning it to your advantage.

Adventures in Babysitting

Upon arriving at my parent's house today, I learned that my father was being interviewed for some amature documentary about people who haves homes, or something along that line, and that I was to be very very quiet and out of the way. I twisted his arm so that he would give me 7 bucks to go get a Vietnamese sandwich for lunch and took off.

When I returned I found that the documentary maker brought with him his 9 month old son who was now crawling around my parent's very un-child-proofed house. They haven't needed child proofing in like... 19 years, and as it has just been the two adults living in the house for the past 4 years, all of the edges have become sharper and the scissors have gotten closer and closer to the ground. It then became my job to babysit for the next hour.

The little boy was very cute, as I think, most 9 month old babies are. He was half Asian and half Black and hate cute little chubby cheeks and puffy lips and small jello-like baby legs. When he smiled his whole face lit up, and he smelled, like all babies should when they have the luxury of a clean diaper.

When I first sat down with the toddler, I put him as far back on my parent's couch as I could, I kinda... stuffed him in the corner pocket and handed him my cell phone. That entertained him for about 15 minutes. He kept slapping my cell phone, throwing the TV remote control and singing to me. I of course found things to do with him in those first 15 minutes like play the obnoxious game where the adult in the situation (me... cringe) picked up a stuffed animal and made kissey noises with it against the baby in the situation's face. He seemed to like that enough, but like any boy in the world had enough of the cutsey kissey frog... and me very quickly.

He spotted my cat and of course, wanted to play with her. My cat does not have the best track record in playing with others. I think, if she had gone to kitty school, she would have gotten "F"s in conduct until they finally kicked her furry ass out for kicking the shit out of anyone who looked her way. Needless to say, when this toddler flopped on his stomach and began to dangle himself off of my parent's sofa and swat the air between him and my cat's nose, I got very very nervous. When I tried to pull him away from my cat he screamed at me, saying what I can only presume was in baby "LEMME EAT HER!" and flopped back. He did this for a good two minutes until I found another way to distract him.

This time I decided to take him on a walk around the house and bounce him up and down. He liked the bouncing, though I'm not sure why babies like that, it would probably make me nauseous. Don't bounce me or I'll puke on you. I stopped by a spot on the wall where my mom, some years ago in an effort to be cute, had cut out a red heart and taped it on the wall for Valentine's Day. Babies like colors and shapes right? So I brought it to his attention so that he could marvel at the color. Shouldn't babies just coo and giggle when they see something they like like a big red heart? SHOULDN'T THEY? I guess not.

This baby reached out and ripped the heart off of the wall and proceeded to try and shank me with it. He wadded it up in his fat little hand and started slapping me with the sharper edges of the paper. Death by paper cut. I think that's what he was going for. I ran over to the television and thankfully it got his attention long enough for me to switch the paper into his other hand so that when he began stabbing at the air again it was in the direction of the teletubbies and not my face.

I finally sat us back down where he happily played with what used to be my mother's home decor. I looked up for one second, then back down to see him stick the crumpled up paper heart into his mouth and take a bite out of it. Kid, seriously, you shouldn't eat paper. I lunged for the heart, threw it behind me and looked back at him to see, with horror, that he had a piece of it in his mouth. I've seen plenty of mothers in my life stick a finger in their kids' mouths to scoop out something they shouldn't have in there, so I decided it should be easy and stuck my finger inside his mouth.

THIS KID HAS SOME RAZOR SHARP CHOMPERS! He bit down, disregarding the fact that my finger was now lodged in his mouth and continued to do so. I'm sure he was trying to eat me. He bit really hard and even when I pinched his cheeks together to get him to stop chewing, the second I stuck my finger in his mouth his teeth somehow came smashing down on it! I almost lost my finger. I decided that he could KEEP the piece of paper in his mouth and if he choked on it, it would be his own damn fault. Friggin' little kid. I'm trying to SAVE YOUR LIFE HERE!

Next he decides that he wants to try standing. So he makes me put him on the floor, then he holds onto my legs trying to pull himself up on his feet. Only, his legs are still made of jello and he can't pull them up under him or straighten them to hold himself up. So of course, this is all my fault, right? So he starts yelling at me in his baby language "You wouldn't let me eat your cat, or your phone, or your fingers... the only thing you let me do was almost die of eating paper and now you won't let me stand, I hate you!" Wow, they sure learn to say the H word early these days. I blame Noggin.

So I say back, "Look kid, your legs... they're not so sturdy right now. You're pretty much made of jello and poop, and that's just not my fault. It took me a good 21 years to learn to use my legs. You can't just decide at nine months old that you're gonna stand on dessert legs. You should just stop, and stop yelling at me, and take your clubbed feet and crawl on. Here's that weird feather toy that your dad brought you here with. Its cool, go play".

Very logical right? It was my best hostage negotiation voice, too. I even gave him a toy to play with in the end. If I were a baby I would have just cut my losses and rolled away. No. Instead he sinks his baby nails (why are their nails so fucking sharp?!) into my calves and tries harder to pull himself up. Since obviously his legs don't work he decides to bite my knee and hold himself up that way. Oh small children and your stupid victories.


After about an hour his father came out and he was once again smiles and sunshine and he kept holding his arms out to me like he missed me or something. I'm so glad he was strapped into his stroller. He might've tried to come get me.

Babies.

Absolutly Wicked

So, I do realize I may be a little late to jump on this bandwagon, though I feel that I can just pull the Literary Snob card and say that I read the book five or so years ago (more like 8, damn I'm old), but Wicked, is AMAZING.

Last night a friend called me up and said she had an extra ticket to the San Francisco production of Wicked and wondered, if by any chance, I would like to come. I always thought seeing a Broadway musical would just be a dream of mine. One of those, someday when I win the lottery/marry a millionaire, and take off to NYC on the spur of the moment I'll spend my time there watching plays and eating cheesecake kind of dreams. Then all of a sudden a friend, a new friend at that, offers me a Shiny Golden Ticket to Wicked... a Fifth Row Shiny Golden Ticket to Wicked, none the less. So I say, oh so nonchalantly,

"Maybe, I get off work at 5, I'll text you later."

For the record, I am just that cool.

The rest of the day I spent kind of floating around in my own little bubble of excitement. Outwardly I held in depth conversations with customers and barked orders at my staff, while on the inside I was planning out which outfit I would wear, how I would do my hair and wondering if I had time to paint my nails before my ride arrived. I ran three stoplights and cut off a cop on the way home, not to mention that I probably caused, and escaped, three traffic accidents.

Whatever, I got home in plenty of time to get ready for my big night out. I decided to try on a dress that I had banished to the back of my closet because it didn't fit me very well, but thanks to my new gym membership, it fit just right (actually it may have been a bit big... =]), opted out of painting my nails, re-did my make-up and added some night time drama to my face.

My ride was a little later than expected, which made me a bit nervous. Maybe I had been too aloof on the phone and she thought I didn't really want to go. I was about to call her begging for the ticket when she knocked on my door and I put my "too cool for Broadway" face back on. On the way to my car I got a toothless smile from a bum, and my gardener/neighbor whistled at me. So, I suppose my gym membership and low cut black dress was working for me.

When we arrived we saw that we were the BEST dressed people in the audience, at least, in our section, which hello, was made up of prime ass seats. Some of the people around us were wearing gross pants and windbreakers, like they just ran there from the gym. "Oh, that was a good workout, now lets run to the ORPHEUM and sit our sweaty asses in some $200 seats." Eventually the lights dimmed and I no longer had to gawk at their grotesqueness.

The show, as many of you may already know, was, AMAZING. From the opening scene, when the dragon clock starts spouting and waving about, until the very last where Glinda, with her GAH now silent, clutches to the Grimmerie and the memory of her dead best friend, I was hooked. I cried one tear in the first half, and then a bucketful in the last.

The stand by for Elphaba actually performed instead of the primary actress, but she was amazing and her voice was superb. I can't imagine how much better the primary actress could be, because the stand by just blew my mind.

I can now add to G*a*linda to my list of personal idols, so now the list is as follows

1. Karen from Will and Grace
2. Chelsea Handler
3. G*a*linda from Wicked

The list is short, but come these are some fierce ass role models, don't cha' think?

Park it in my Poopway

I attract weirdos.

I know I've said this before, but I think it may be more than just attracting weirdos. I almost wonder if they were all completely normal human beings who some how, one day, received my subliminal "come creep me out" signal and a switch flipped in their brains and without reason they find themselves marching in my general direction only to do horribly creepy things. Maybe I not only attract the already weird, but turn the not so weird into creepers.

Last night I was pulling into my driveway, and had just gotten my front tires onto the sidewalk in front of the driveway when I noticed a man squatting on the side of my driveway, very far into it... like, across from my kitchen window (which is towards the back of the house so pretty deep in there). This man did not look homeless. He had on nice jeans, a clean t-shirt and a dark blue baseball cap. In other words, there were NO visible reasons for him to be squatting in my driveway. I, of course, freaked out. I threw my car into reverse and hit the gas... or at least I thought I did. What I actually did was put my car in neutral and revved my engine.

As I did this, the man stood up, and pulled up his PANTS. At this point I start screaming "AHH AHHA AHHHH. THERE'S A MAN TAKING A SHIT IN MY DRIVEWAY!!!" I'm horribly scared because he's staring straight at me, and my car won't back the hell up. I look down, and finally get my car into reverse and speed away.

I called my guy friends who were already on the way to my house "AHHH!!!! AHHH!!!! HELP ME! THERE'S A MAN POOPING IN MY DRIVEWAY (sob sob sob) AHHH!!!"

By now my friends are all used to my encounters with the strange and the boys calmly responded. "Ok, We'll be right over to check it out, just go park somewhere for a minute. And stop crying." and hung up on me. HUNG UP ON ME! Jerks!

As I'm sitting in front of my favorite sushi place in the world, wishing with all of my heart that it was open so I could go inside and drink some green tea and maybe eat a tuna roll to take my mind off of more disgusting matters, the boys went to my house and searched the area around it and the driveway for my mystery man and his feces.

They saw no sign of the man, nor his bowel movements and gave me the OK to come back only to tell me, that since they saw no poop, he was probably just jacking off. I'm not sure which is worse. Since there was no more question of dangers, we went inside and tried to have a good night.

This morning, I wake to my roommate screaming "AHH AHHH I FOUND IT!" She had been washing dishes when she looked up and out of the window and straight at a large pile of black, clumpy diarrhea. Seriously, this mound of shit was as big a round as a dinner plate. HOW did my boys miss this last night, I wonder?

I mean, I have an idea how a couple of boys can miss a big pile of poop, but I'll save that for another post.


Creeps: Five Bazillion and One
Marion: Zero.

Bombs Away

In my job, as a manager at a children's party place, I get a lot of stupid customers. Now, I know that in any customer service job, at least 75% of customers are complete morons (the other 25% is made up of veterans of the CS industry), however I feel that I get waaaay more than any other profession, except for maybe prostitutes.

The customers are so idiotic, it almost feels like they're trying to torture me with their stupidity. It literally feels like customers throw hand granades of stupid at me; Stupid Bombs is what I call them. Once you've been here long enough you can almost see the customers pull the imaginary bombs out of their back pockets, purses, or diaper bags, pull the pin, and then aim it straight at your head. The worst thing about these bombs is that they're impossible to dodge. Even if you duck under the counter right as they leave the customers' hands (which believe me I've tried), they still manage to explode all over you.

These bombs leak a horribly deadly gas that some how travels its way through your skin, and any other pore in your body, into your veins, up to your brain, past the blood brain barrier and straight to the middle of your brain. There, the gas not only suffocates your brain so that minute parts of it shrivel up and die, but it creates a build up, and after a certain number of attacks sections of your brain start to explode. I'm telling you, these things are dangerous.

Just today, a customer shot three at me, and then came back for a sneak attack, tossing another straight over her shoulder when my head was turned. I had barely any reaction time. I'm surprised she didn't knock me out. After working here for two and a half years, I'm surprised I still have my frontal lobe in tack.

I'm going to print out this blog and send it to President Obama as a lobby against Dumb Asses. They, and their Stupid Bombs, should be outlawed.

Are ya' with me?

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

Growing up, every summer, and most winters, we would "take a vacation" and go visit my grandparents. While I love my grandparents to death (rest their souls) this was in no way, shape, or form a vacation. My grandparents were on SSI or welfare, or whatever kind of government income there is for strange old people, and lived in a tiny little shak that fell apart every other week. I used to have nightmares that the back room they had built on would detach from the house in a storm and I would go flying away with it off to some redneck version of Oz. My mother, their most well off daughter, always felt the need to buy something, repair something, and restock both of their fridges and their outdoor freezers, plus cook and pay for any and all meals we ate there and clean the whole house. Meanwhile, my very ungreatful grandparents would bitch, complain, and manipulate my mother into thinking whatever she was doing just WASN'T enough. By the time we left, my whole family was emotionally drained.

Non-grandparent visits were spent with my father and I at each other's throats while my mother tried to mediate to no avail leading to massive amounts of anger filled tears. I think maybe we went to Disneyland once (which I hated... I was a bitch even as an 8 year old), and then we drove through the redwoods or something ridiculous like that.

As I got older, I began to take vacations with friends, which while fun, were always nerve wracking. We had to plan, to spend money that we'd earned on our own, and to see how well we could handle ourselves as friends out in unfamiliar settings. Some were fun, and others were eye openers... big learning experiences. I feel it defeats the purpose of a vacation if you have to learn too many hard lessons.

Needless to say, vacations make me very, very uncomfortable. As much as I complain about real life, homework, work, bills, and other various responsibility, I'm comfortable with them. The stress has become a normal, everyday thing. While the stress I feel on a daily level would probably give a more normal person several ulsers, and a few mild heart attacks, I've come to almost crave it. Real life is my security blanket. How twisted is that?

This vacation, though, was much much different. It had all of the makings of a traditional tear and angst filled vacation, being that I was broke, the people I was going with were also broke, I was going with a friend I'd had to two and a half year rift with and wasn't sure if I could be around her that long, and another friend who, on past vacations I'd had painfull experiences with.

Though I expected pain and frustration, I was met with nothing but pure relaxation, fun, and maybe a bit of healing. We had four days of mutual agreement, food, sun, exploration, laughter, and of course booze. I think the addition of the ex best friend actually balanced out the dynamic between my best friend and me. I think the most frequently used phrase of the trip was "we're never gonna get this again", and I think we might've been right. It was great.

Even though it was an amazing trip, I, being a real life junkie, was still over joyed to get back to the real world. The lack of responsibility made me a little bit restless, and after four days of care free fun, I was more than ready to charge back into school and work. At least I thought I was until I got to work this morning and the customers started bustling in. Now all I want is to lay out by the pool.

Oh life! Will you never satisfy me?

Beat that, Cher!

There is something about me that turns straight men gay and makes gay men want to take me home. Ok, so maybe I don't TURN all men gay. Just the tiny little Asian ones, but seriously, who wants those ANYWAY?!

I can still remember the first time I realized I had a secret power over gay men. I had just turned 18, and my friends were taking me to my very first gay club so that they could get some ass while celebrating my birthday. I didn't mind though; I thought it would be better than going to a straight club, where with my luck, I'd undoubtedly get a roofie slipped into my water and end up being kidnapped by a large black man.

After hours of sweaty dancing, my now drunk ass friends and I went outside to the smoking area to take a fag (what else do you call a cigarette at a gay club?) break and while I was standing there, minding my own business, this dude and his posse of very cute faeries (and one lesbian) walk over to me and begin to very obviously stare. I swear, gay men have NO shame.

I wearily smiled at the leader of the pack, who took this as an invitation to grope me.

"Oh my God your boobs are so amazing. Are they real?"

And of course, stunned and a bit drunk I said, "yes of course they are!" He then proceeded to grab as much of each one as he could in each of his hands and then ask permission to feel them.

"Oh my god, they are so nice. I fucking love your boobs" and then, all at once his friends reached out and started squeezing and caressing my boobs, including the lesbian.

My friends were too drunk to do any more than stare on in a mixture of surprise and jealousy so I didn't even try and as for help in getting those breast zombies off of me. Instead I stood there calmly, puffing on my stoge as they got their fill. They continued to feel me up for a few more minutes, a few rouge hands finding their way to my ass in the process. Finally, satisfied, they thanked me and told me how gorgeous I was and finally headed back off into the club to do more of whatever it is gay-men-who-like-boobies do in gay clubs, leaving me stunned and slightly violated, but of course flattered to no end.

Since then, it seems as if every time I go into a gay club I get more action than my poor gay friends. There is always some guy trying to get me to dance with him, make out with him, or take me home. I have gay guys coming over to me telling me how cute and small I am, and how great my ass and tits are, and I KNOW these guys like dick, but they barely even pay any attention to my fabulous boys around me.

I wonder if they think I'm a Tranny. Oh well, at least I'm a convincing one, right?

I'll never be as bad as Gabrielle Solis...

This week's episode of Desperate Housewives finds Gabrielle Solis back at the top of her world and rich once more. In one scene, she brings her cream puff of a daughter into a homeless shelter to have her work with the poor and appreciate what she's got. She asks a priest to gift her daughter with this enriching experience as she cringes at a smelly old man and scurries away from the community soup kettle.

While my dream is of course to be some lucky man's trophy wife and float forever in his swimming pools of Benjamins; I hope to at least maintain some sense of reality.


Therefore, if you, Spinner of My Fate, grant me one exuberantly wealthy husband, I vow:

1.) Never to forsake Target. I'll always remember my roots (though I doubt I'll shop there too often... without wearing a big sunglasses and a hoodie)

2.) To spray smelly homeless people with only the highest quality mace when they get too close, instead of that cheap stuff that smells OH so bad.

3.) Spend every Thanksgiving working at a soup kitchen... or at least send my personal assistant in my place.

4.) Teach my kids the value of a dollar by making them get a part time job as soon as they're 15. I'll place all earnings straight into my personal bank account... I mean, their college funds.

5.) Give any underprivileged children I can find (as long as they don't steal my jewelry) jobs doing my laundry, and waxing my Porsche to keep them off of the streets.


Ok, so maybe I'm beginning to understand Gabrielle's position just a little bit better. It must be tough being a Trophy Wife. Who would of thought?

I've got the power!

Every morning when my cell phone alarm clock goes off I fumble for my sidekick, which is usually sort of where I left it on the pillow next to my head, I look at the phone, and the time it says I set the alarm for and I accuse it of lying.

"You son of a bitch, its not EVEN 8:30 yet. Lying piece of..." and then I turn my head and look at my powerpuff girl clock that I never put batteries in and curse myself for not making it run so I could have a second opinion on the time of day. I then try and make my computer wake up and tell me, but even it is resisting my alarm. (Computers are really way lazier than humans, they're always going to sleep, or into hibertnation... I'm not sure what good will come of replacing us with them.)

Finally, I decide that even if it IS 8:30, I'm not going to get up. Why should I? If I'm so important that I have to be somewhere in an hour then everyone should just be able to wait since they can't do ANYTHING without me, right?

As all of these thoughts come about, my alarm is still bleeping at me and it seems to be getting more and more persisitant "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAAAKE UPPP!!" It gets to the point of where I can't even think anymore. I don't really know what time it is because the powerpuff girls hate me, my computer screen is a fucking lazy ass piece of plastic and weird chip things, and my cell phone is obviously a menacing patholiogical liar.

So what do I do? I hit the snooze button and smile. I fucking win. I get to sleep for as long as I like and you, fucking alarm, get to try and wake me up again in five minutes, and I WILL press snooze again. I put my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. Then, just as quickly, I jerk back up in bed and decide that I will get up after my alarm told me to, but only because its MY decision and then I leave the room as quickly as possibly so that, when it goes off again in four minutes, no one will be there to hear it scream.

Ultimatly it is my decision to get out of bed, not some stupid four inch cell phone's. I've got the power back over my life without the help of the powerpuff girls or my PC. I win, because, in the end, its my life and I get to decide what to do with it.

Right?

What would I do without...

1. Crazy men.
2. Crazy men in military uniforms.
3. Crazy men in military uniforms who sleep on exercise machines at the gym.


Believe it or not all three of these categories are completely separate from one another. While most people would be perturbed if they had to deal with these oddeties day in and day out, I wonder where my life would be without them? What kind of person would I be if hobos didn't follow me home? Probably a way less interesting one, that's for sure.

In OTHER news, I've finally done it. I've signed my soul over to Twitter. These days if you don't have one, its almost as if you don't exist. I JUST got used to the idea of having (and checking) my facebook on a regular basis what with its constant status updates and applications... and now... Twitter is demanding my presence.

While I joined Twitter for my best friend, I will continue to sign on for Nicole Richie's updates. If you don't have a Twitter, she is the only valid inspiration. Then again, you don't have to set up a Twitter to stalk, I mean... follow... no maybe I mean stalk, her.

Essentially that's what we're doing right? There is a little button on the top of everyone's page and it says "follow", but what you're doing is getting their every thought and movement sent directly to your page for you to pour over at your convinence. You can even get their updates sent to your phone so you can know what they're doing at EVERY MOMENT; I.E. stalking them.

I think if Tyra Banks' stalker had just used Twitter he'd be in a lot less trouble.


By the way, if you feel like stalking me, or you already are and would just like a new way to do so, FOLLOW me on Twitter, http://twitter.com/urladyluck =] !

Everyone wants me, few can open my car door.

Instead of walking the five long oh-so-shady blocks to school yesterday, I decided to drive and park on the street across from campus. I had some time to kill so I sat in my car going over my study guide (to no avail, I failed that test miserably). A few minutes into my studying, I realized a very grubby looking homeless man was hobbling his way through the mists of his insanity down the street towards my car.

I have a very good record with creepy people, as you will learn in time through this blog.

I of course, upon seeing the dirty man (who seemed to be having a very good conversation with the people in his head), made sure all of my doors were locked. I assumed that I should be pretty safe since it was still light out, and he probably couldn't see me through his schizo-attack. He wasn't looking at me... so, why would he all of a sudden, right?

Wrong. He keeps on his merry way until he reaches my passenger door and then all of a sudden snaps into the here and now and lunges toward my car door and proceeds to try and open it and wave at me. He most definitely wanted to eat my brains, or at least get into my car and molest me.

He only keeps this up for all of ten seconds (long enough for a person with less creep-experience to piss their pants), and then falls back into his glazed over misty look and turn, just as quickly as he lunged at my car, and hobble away.

All in a days work I'm sure.


Marion 0. Creeps of the world 5 billion.

Tell me how long before the last one? Tell me how long before the right one?

Soy Milk.
Peanut Butter.
Oatmeal.


When I was a kid, I hated all of these things. As an adult, these are the staples of my life. I wonder, have I actually grown to like these edible items? Is this the cause of that sophisticated pallet the wise adults tell you you'll gain in your old age? Or is it just the economic recession?

Reduced Fat Peanut Butter was 1.99 at Target last night. I bought two bottles.

Affordable just tastes so damn good.