Oxymorons & Hangovers

Overheard #18

"I am not showing cleavage."

"Of course that depends which end you're talking about."

"...I'm not showing butt crack either."

Salud, Ma!

For mother's day, I went wine tasting with my Ma, Ree, and her ma. Montage (add your own soundtrack): Driiiiive, CHEERS!, laugh, drink, eat, drink, laugh, drink, music, hug. My phone blew up with happy day texts, some more heartfelt than others that triggered the waterworks up in me noggin. It was the absolute perfect day.
I was the recepient of lots&lots of purple daisies and 10k kisses because my boyfriend likes me. Cheeeese. <3

My aunt (Ma's best friend from high school) threw herself a luau on Saturday night for her birthday. There were palm trees and gaping tiki faces on every flat surface, Mai Tais, and lots of appropriate food. I brought Kiddo, having stolen her away from her weekend with dad. She's a stud in a lei, I must say. There was a ukelele serenade around the fire, beer pong and one fist fight.

Today I registered for an online art class for the summer semester. The on campus classes are almost all four days a week and even for a month, that's just impossible. Having someone else pick up, tend to, feed, bathe and kiss Kiddo goodnight for the majority of the week? I'm adamant about this witto-itto degree, but really. I have priorities. So I'm giving online a whirl. I hear it's easy but some of us are resistant to change and frankly, find it difficult to rely on computers for anything remotely important. Mine WILL crap on me, you mark my words.

Tonight is sex class and our guest speakers are from Condom Revolution. Likely to be free lube and condom samples and many a dumb question, as per usual agenda. Recall that Kim and I have elected to vote the dumbfucks off the island, per se. Something regarding a stupid question came up last week and Kim said, "Hey, at least you're still on the island." Which only we got... and still, probably, only her and I will laugh...  but I like to alienate my dear readers whenever possible. I think we have friends sneaking in for the lecture. Sex toys and masterbation tips... and I get school credit. Someone is getting ripped off.

Conversation last week at dinner:
Cousin: My ex boyfriend is a wanker, somethin' or other, his last name is Lamb.
Me: Lamb? Like--
Cousin: --yeah, like baaaah.
Friend who shall remain nameless: I thought only sheeps baaah?

I almost threw up in my margarita from laughter.

mmmm, margarita...

-Pretty Lush

A fire in your pants

Well, it's Friday and it's pay day.

And it's one day closer to: moving day, San Francisco departure (picture this Lush, white wine in hand, waving goodbye to LA as her seatmate has a panic attack next to her - must remember to bring good, calming drugs) and a quadrillion other exciting things about this summer.

And where is my focus? On my vagina, or as Kiddo might suggest, va-jeen. Out drinking with the ladies last night, two+ Cape Cods down and there's this subtle burn going on in my nethers, demanding my attention. As time passed, the pain exacerbated. I text Dr. Krazy Bitch for diagnosis today and she confirms what I thought was true: UTI. I'm flushing it out one way or another, if only because I don't want to be prodded by anyone but my boyfriend and my insurance rates went up. What was once a reasonable co-pay will now have me 'netting for holistic remedies. Will I get the same effect if I put vodka in my cranberry juice? This is not at all rhetoric.

I'm off to pick up some craigslist furniture. I'm still young/cheap enough to glorify the hand-me-down.

Love to the mothers this weekend - our job is madness with a smile - and everyone else as well.

-Pretty Lush

Better than a Smurf

I love Craigslist. I want to have a steamy affair with it. I've been fondling it all day.

I started reading A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore yesterday. During one part, the main character (Charlie) is hanging out with his sister Jane and his newborn daughter, Sophie. Jane is feeding the baby a Lil Smokie sausage.

"Get that out of her mouth!"
"Relax, she can't eat it. She doesn't even have teeth. And it's not like there's a moaning Teletubby on the other end of it. Oh geez, it's going to take major tequila to get that picture out of my head."
"She can't have pork, Jane. She's Jewish! Are you trying to turn my daughter into a shiksa?"
Jane snatched the cocktail sausage out of Sophie's mouth, and examined it, even as the fiber-optic strand of drool stayed connected to the tiny kid. "I don't think I can eat these things ever again," Jane said. "They're always conjure visions of my niece blowing a terry-cloth pupper person."

A few pages later...

[Charlie] could feel the kid watching him, wondering, he thought, how many terry-cloth puppet people she would have to blow to get a decent father over here. Still, he checked that she was securely strapped into her chair, then went off to grab the undone laundry, because he was, in fact, going to be a very good father.

I laughed, I gagged, and then my insides warmed up.

On Moving

The new place has me pretty excited in a ‘new beginnings’ kind of way. I envision many positive changes and less hide-the-cash-my-brother-is-a-thief. But the process of moving is never fun. Between packing and unpacking, something vital will be lost and something precious will be broken. I anticipate these laws like I anticipate breathing oxygen; they are inevitable. The trepidation lies in my extensive dragon collection. Some of those fuckers have a lot of meaning. The new living conditions will be the calmest I have ever endured. Forever, there’s been a sense of chaos, however organized, about my home life. Sharing bedrooms, revolving front doors, siblings, cousins, roommates, pets. I’ve lived with approximately twenty-four people and dozens of pets in my twenty-three years.

I have brief snapshot memories of my parent’s first house; cutting my own hair at the bar in the kitchen, watching E.T. on the huge papisan with my dad, sneaking through the living room to get to my parent’s bedroom (but not on the nights that my mom’s best friend, who lived with us, was up late because she would send me, defeated, back to my room), and having my finger smashed in the sliding door by a male stripper. True story.

Ending my life as an only child was my brother’s birth and off we moved to a bigger house. My mom’s best friend (Auntie) still lived with us there. Within a few more years, my younger sister was born. A year or two later, hopeful that there would be better living/money-making up north where my dad’s sister had moved, we packed up and moved out, leaving the house to my dad’s friends to rent. For a year, my family of five lived with another family of five; my aunt and uncle and their three daughters. We crammed into a four bedroom house, converting the den into a bedroom for my parents. When the quiet northern living didn’t work out as intended (for some reason or another; I was only in sixth grade and too focused on friends and boys for the first time), we moved back to my hometown, back to our same house. We stayed put until I was sixteen.

My parents bought a small business and within one year, it failed miserably and as the doors of the little frozen yogurt shop closed for the last time, our house was lost in the loan contract. It went up for sale and we moved a city over to live with some of my parent’s friends. There was twelve of us living there, in that huge four bedroom house, where the game room was converted to a bedroom for my parents. Two people even lived in the motor home in the driveway.

About a year later, my parents bought another house, where we all still live today. It was three bedrooms for five of us, and I brought with me my then new boyfriend, who would (very) shortly knock me up. Less than a year of living in this house, Kiddo was born. A fourth bedroom was illegally built in the garage and minus the old boyfriend, we all still live there today. In total chaos. Nothing stays clean or where you left it. Nothing hides the massive amount of stuff that we’ve all accumulated and tried to fit in this too small house. There’s very little privacy and a long line for the bathroom.

In between the six years we’ve been in this house, I have tried moving out on my own. Twice. The first time was in 2005, when Kiddo, her dad, and three of our friends rented a big, beautiful house one city over. In less than a year, all of our relationships were severed, the house was a disaster (the assholes not on the lease would ensure that those of that were on the lease received as little as possible of our huge deposit and thus broke windows, put holes in the drywall and destroyed the carpet). I will not mention what they did to the plumbing, but it took a lot of grocery bags worn as gloves, a bucket and one strong willed woman to clean it. The constant revolving door of that house created a vortex that sucked all positive vibes out. Everyone became depleated and sick of one another, very quickly. I left before the lease ended and some others moved in. It was a dark year. Even though my relationship carried on another few years, my ex would agree that it ended in that house. My friendship with an old girl friend from high school also carried on another few years, but it should have stopped there. There are people I never wish to see again who once resided there, and permanent impressions in the old couch cushions from all the people we let crash. The lessons I learned from that experience are numerous and well engrained. (I say all of this like a victim when I’m sure they all hated me just as much.)

I moved back in with my family for a while and then back out with Kiddo and her dad to a lovely little apartment up the street. In less than five months, we’d further destroyed our relationship, created a massive, void between us, and lost all trust in one other regarding monogamy and financial dependability. I moved home again, where I’ve been ever since.

Moving into this new place takes from me the comfort and familiarity of home, the chaotic environment in which multiple people live, the camaraderie of my siblings (sometimes much more strained than others) and the constant therapy I seek across the hall from my mom. It forces me back into independence, living on my own without my ex-boyfriend, which I’ve never done. It will test the friendship I have with Ree but I’m almost positive it won’t affect the trust. It’s a world of new and different. I have friends that do this all the time; move from one overpriced apartment to another and friends who’ve been on their own for years. I feel like a child in both my inexperience and my excitement.

-Pretty Lush

Success

It's been a very long day, revolving around one very exciting focal point:

The apartment is ours! Our karma was all we had left to hope on for the credit check, which was the only thing that would stand in the way of Ree & I's little abode. She got the call this afternoon, and we sign papers later this week. *squeal*

I cleaned out some drawers in my desk and found a dozen-plus pictures of my ex. My optimistic take on a deep cleaning of the work space was taking a turn for the nostalgic and depressing when I came across some paperwork I've been on the hunt for for several months (tax shit + SF trip details).

Also stashed in my drawer were some quotes I liked from a book I read a while back, before I started streaking my books with flourescent highlighters. From Diary of an Emotional Idiot by Maggie Estep:

"I am an emotional idiot. Because Repulsion and Attraction are strange bedfellows, married through the ages and by turns, in love and hate with each other but weathering all, staying together, the both of them now crinkly-eyed ancients, entwined, intermingled, indelibly and forever. Because it is their marriage that defies emotional idiocy. Because it is from them that I have been born and through them have been formed so that I come to you now, singing off-key, a naked idiot for all the world to see. See me, touch me, feed me, fuck me. And take out the garbage while you're at it."

-Pretty Lush

Why I love him

He titled this picture: Cunt

Will you take me to see Ironman?

Another fucking overly rushed morning and side order of guilt are part of today's complete breakfast. The anxiety of being too late (as being a little late every morning is a given) to work has worn off and I'm replacing those shakes with those of caffiene from my morning Diet Coke.

Over the weekend, Kiddo was scheduled to be with her dad but I kept her so he could frolick elsewhere. She was nothing but bored all weekend, thus up my ass for ideas. "What should I draw? When can we leave? Can we go to Marci's? Can we go to the park? Can I swim? Can I watch a different movie? Will you play Candyland with me?" I tried to keep her entertained as well as bite my tongue before a frustrated explosion of expletives was emitted. She played some Wii at the Bones' residence, watched movies, swam, read books (!!), went to the park... but I think given all the toys and ideas in the world, she is still five and never satiated.

On Saturday night, I went to a birthday dinner for my friend Bree. As I was wrapping a gift in leopard tissue paper, Kiddo offered various DVDs from her collection as gifts. I told her it was kind, but I didn't think Bree would have much interest in Ratatouille. The dinner was fabulous but I was my usual awkward self there for a bit, having gone sans date, as Jeffrey was playing a gig. An Asahi and a Surfer on Acid calmed my nerves and I ended up having a blast.

I ordered/received/watched Joe Rogan Live. The whole opening sequence is him, alone, in a limo explaining his take on the human race... how we're all super evolved bacteria and places like Los Angeles are a cancerous growth that continues to grow and spread even if we were to wipe it out. I tell you, after a couple beers you find your eyes widening at his concepts.

Probably the most interesting thing I saw this weekend was on the back patio of a little local bar where a bunch of us gathered for horse shoes* and beer. The bartender took a moment to step outside with her digital camera and had one of the regulars pose in a chair as a victim of a slit throat. She was taking a forensics photography class and this was her last assignment. Carefully, she applied ketchup to his neck and started snapping. (My aunt: "Can I get an order of fries?") Noticing a napkin ready in his hand, the bartender told him, "You can't hold a napkin if you're goddamn dead." I hope she didn't notice as I excitedly text this quote to my e-mail, which is my way of taking notes. I check my e-mail daily and have a list of text messages from my cell phone to remind me of things I overheard or wanted to look up. On mornings after a drinking binge, I have the weirdest shit in there. (This morning was that quote and the word 'oxytocin' which is a hormone I wanted to read about.)

*Has there ever existed a more white trash sport? You know a bunch of bored white dudes came up with this after a couple dozen PBRs.

And probably the best thing I did all weekend was take the much raved about, rarely experienced, highly acclaimed... nap!

So rare is this spectacle, my brother's girlfriend documented it.

-Pretty Lush

Rabbit²

WHOA, you say.

Something about May oneth had me itchin' for change on the blog. So I scratched. Any questions?

Last night was a fantastic time at an Angels game with Ree. We excited the FanFoto (grrr) boy with our enthusiasm when he handed us an inflatable bat before taking a picture. I pretended to beat Ree. It's not farfetched. We ran into my boyfriend's mom and hung out in vacant seats nearby. After several beers, we ordered pulled pork sandwiches and when questioning what took so long, Ree explained: "They have to pull it."

I reactivated an online movie subscription with Blockbuster. There's just so many I want to see. I'm hoping Southland Tales is in my mailbox when I get home. Tonight is the first a few consecutive nights I'll be with Kiddo. All she wants to do anymore is write (que the choirs of singing angels!) and draw and talk about her 'booty-butt.'* The other day she drew herself next to me, and above wrote out with barely a pause: I will take my mom to the beach. Get on it, kid. Mama needs a tan.
*Booty-butt is an insult, a part of my body that is always in her way ("Mo-oom, move your booty-butt!"), a punchline, an answer to any question, something she doesn't want messed with ("Don't kick my booty-butt!") and frankly, I am sick of it. I've tried to avoid reacting to it anymore instead of laughing like I did the first dozen times and started implementing other words. But eventually, it all comes back to her booty-butt. Which I will kick.

Mi casa es su casa: We've been talking a lot about the impending move and trying to get a feel for Kiddo's thoughts on the idea of Ree and her wee mutt Rylie as our roommates. She seems cool with it, excited even. She asked if we could get a place with stairs. I told her that luckily this place doesn't have stairs and that's a good thing, not to mention, safer option. "But mom. All you have to do is hold the side." Referring to the handrail, Kiddo's forgets the addition of alcohol in Mommy's balance factor.
Yesterday, I guess Kiddo suggested to her dad: 'Maybe you could build another house that we could live in with my mom...' He explained it would take much too long. 'It's okay. I'll just ask my mom if you could spend the night at our house.' She seems completely tolerant and acceptable about our parted ways and she adores our new significant others. But it's comments like these that make me wonder if we won't be dealing with a little match maker forever.

Let me know what you think of the new look. I'm not one for change just for the sake of change, but I'm trying it on for size.

-Pretty Lush