my mind is ramblin'

growing up, relationship constructs and rules in accordance made sense.
my brother lived to torture me.
my parents lived to protect us.
and my friends lived to share twinkies with me.

my brother was allowed to trap me in the kitchen corner and force me to dance with the utility knife, but not the butcher knife. he could yell, "dance bitch, dance!" but was never to call me mother-fucker.

my parents would only leave me alone with said brother when every babysitter in a 167mile radius was booked. and if they had to leave me with him, they checked mileage on all cars and warned the neighbors next door to listen for screams.

concerning friends, i would give them unicorn pens, kaleidoscope pencils, and small change for bites of twinkies. if i happened to score a $5 bill, sometimes we negotiated the entire swiss cake roll. what? i was fat and my parents were health nuts.

childhood relationship were even.
fair.
understood by all parties involved.

that shit flew the coop in 8th grade. my brother hugged me for the first time in recorded history when he went to college. my parents quit pretending that they liked each other and no one was safe anymore. and exchanges between friends became ones of emotional collateral instead of refined sugar. and it's taken me 20 years to be glad that bird is long migrated.

sure. some of my relationships still follow the rules.
take work: i don't steal stamps and don't use my corporate card for personal expenses. take the irs: i file by april 15th and pay my taxes. god, do i pay my taxes. and my car. well- i sink hundreds of dollars into it and it looks like shit.

these are rules i am still okay with. but others... i'm done.

like my ex.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hate each other.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hook up after break up.
that man and i made vows. and while i'm not keeping them, i still respect that i once made them.

like my best friend.
i refuse to covet her beautiful children and fabulous husband.
i refuse to think that she owes me any more time than she can give.
this woman and i have made it through boyfriend trades, hallucinogenics and after-birth; i think it's okay if we don't talk on the phone for a month.

like men i like to kiss.
i refuse to demand that because you can't get away from me means that you should be with me.
i refuse to think you can only get what you need in boyfriend, girlfriend and fiancé.
some people and i are connected through time, music and really great tv. no one says it's gotta fit into a 30 minute time slot.

don't get me wrong.
when you see a stop sign- come to a complete.
wear clothes when you leave the house.
for god's sake, leave the room to fart.
but don't. just don't.
tell me
that he should
and she should
and we should
be anything other
than what we are.

my friend goo

last night was a cluster fuck and i can't even work a metaphor around it.
i tried to play with the idea of all or nothing, but all i got was nothing.

so basically...
i went to see sonic youth. while i was standing in line to get in, a guy from work who wears the same bifocals his grandfather wore in 1983 (possibly his hairpiece too) spots me. i'm talking 43 years old. clint eastwood from the 80's hair. black jeans and doc martens.
seriously.
not.
reasonable.
to look at.

soooo, he leaves to sell his extra ticket and returns to suck the life force out of me. literally, the entire time he's talking to me DURING THE MUSIC i'm texting my friend and inching away. i mean i'm texting for a decade. inching away, and he still won't get away.

text transcription:
me: i've seen 2 work douches at this concert and am scared. people who work where i do are weird. now i'm getting work douche stalked.

bff: where the f are you? what concert?

me: sonic youth. punk. he found me and i am sharting myself. i hate being nice.

bff: who is it

me: he might be 46 and bought his glasses in 1983.and he has kept them since.

bff: lose him. who are you with?

me: alone. i keep inching away and he keeps getting closer. you know how bitchy i am.

bff: kick his ass seabass

me: i want to kill myself.

bff: buckling. i'm going to bed

me: and let me modify that. i want to kill myself with a toothpick.

bff: buckling

me: nite nite. if i turn up missing, fun bobby from work is wearing my skin

bff: oh god

me: just emptied the douche on the other work cat.

bff: ok good

now. if you couldn't already tell. this blog is really written by a 17 year old boy.
seriously. i may be one.

except for the fact that 3 seconds after i emptied the work douche, i met a really hot guy. we chatted. we were walking over to hang with his friends.

then.
my uterus erupted in my pants.
proving that i am not a 17 year old boy.
i'm a 32 year old woman.
who can't control her period.

maybe i should have hung out with the douche.
cause i walked out the door in shame either way.

sheep scratch fever

so last night i made it out with one cat earing missing and my afro curls a-raging.
this morning i made it home with a bitemark on my hip and a scratch on my thigh.

good times were had by all. especially the sheep dog.

see how they run

i am attracted to 2 kinds of people:
ones who are so involved in their own pain that it destroys them
and
ones who are so detached from their own pain that it destroys them

i can navigate the involved.
i can not navigate the detached.

i'm done with the detached. i can not even begin to understand not seeing the horror in who we are. it's the worst kind of blindness.

holy holy holy

it's been a long standing policy of mine to not date guys from work. probably because they have all either been gay, married, or seriously not reasonable to look at. no one yet has tempted me to break from the philosophy of "don't shit where you eat".

recently though, a friend has considered shitting where she prays. she gave her digits to a man whose wife died a few months back. are we really there yet? i mean. divorce, i can handle. but i'm not ready for dead.

anyway, they went to lunch and made a dinner date that she backed out of. then he stalked her at service and whispered in her ear during liturgy. the other day, he texted her saying that playing hard to get was working. this did not go over well.

so now i'm wondering, how is she going to go to church without wondering where the pissed off widower is sitting?
he whispers.
he stalks.
he gets defensive.

this was not the holy trinity she was looking for...

You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will

be alone forever.
i will be single forever.

and this is not one of those, nobody wants me whines
(i don't do that and people want me).
and this is not one of those, i like being alone diatribes
(cause i am reasonably sociable).

this is the stark realization that i am too judgemental to accept people.
and i think that everyone but me and my friends are total dorks.

in the past 30 months, i have gone on at least as many first dates. i tried to recount them all this morning, but got distracted by "oh my god, i forgot about that guy" too many times to continue counting. and i got the willies/shivers from remembering guys who build mc donalds playgrounds.

case in point: coffee with the guy who e-mailed me from my claynation article:
took me somewhere local (+)
is smart and funny (+)
is reasonable to look at (+)
likes baseball (+)
takes initiative(+)
ran a 5K in under 19 minutes (+)
wears Adidas gazelles (+)

BUT (a big but, as in baby got back)
he wore a necklace and some rings (really madonna?)
he wore a leather jacket (easter was like 3 fucking weeks ago)
his eyes were a little wide open (abnormal psychology)
he lives in franklin (where amy grant eats at bread and company)
and he had a lisp (i am going to hell)

he's nice. he's funny. he likes me.
but he has no idea who stephen malkmus is.
he has no possession of sarcasm.

i want a man who...
is as irresponsible, yet responsible as myself
knows who yo le tengo is
laughs when people fall down, then feels bad (a little)
has all his teeth
is a smart ass
won't let me run all over him
has has sex appeal
doesn't sit on his ass all night
is at least 5 foot 6 and not fat
has dark hair (something yuck about pasty blonds)
knows that sports events are for drinking
and lives in my neighborhood (where robert plant goes for sushi)
that's right, people. led zeppelin.

i want to date myself.

oh. one more reason i will not get married:
i'm 32 and i use the phrase "total dork".

puffy muff

my friends love eating at the puffy muffin. i don't love the congealed cranberry salad scene, but i go with them. because somehow, i always end up spewing chicken salad from my nose when we eat there. sometimes it's because we are sitting next to rascal flatts and they are wolfing jello salad. sometimes its the blue haired ladies who are sharing half a sandwich. sometimes it's sunday morning and i'm still drunk- whatever. i spew.

and spewing from orafices is a good thing.
unless you sit on said orafice.
which is what reminded me of the puffy muff.
i had surgery on my muff organs, and this made me puffy.

who knew that a human could gain 10 pounds in 48 hours? i entered the surgery center monday morning weighing 125 and weighed in on wednesday at 135.
this equates to 2 clothing sizes up (of which i don't own).
this equates to irrational crying (of which i don't do).
this equates to me trashing the percocet (of which constipates).

if someone had told me my ankles and face would swell like a pregnant lady, i may have kept the squirmy little cells that tried to turn my muff into a petri dish for st. jude's.

and i would have eaten more to earn it.