Oxymorons & Hangovers

From the sideline

Buenas tardes, sexypants.

I’ve been between wrecks and bouts of glee; today being a fine medium. (It’s not bipolar if you don’t look it in the eye.) Having things to look forward to seems to keep the serotonin flowin’. And there’s a girl’s only trip to the lake, a comedy show and a Dodger game within the next two weeks. Also playing into my mood is Rogan’s newest blog. It’s just shy of hippie and positively exciting to read. In hopes that there are like-minded people trolling about, I’m implementing a little somethin’ somethin’ in my stranger encounters.

So that little homeless black shag of a dog worked herself into a soft spot of mine but I’ve not an ounce of patience for potty training. Example: When Kiddo was four and a half years old and still refusing to use the toilet, I’d had my share of teeth gnashing and hair pulling and muffled cussing. I stuck her on a toilet and said, DO NOT GET UP UNTIL YOU PEE. My mom fought the urge to take the screaming kid off the toilet and give me a bad parenting talking to – but lo and behold, that kid screamed until she puked, and then? She peed. She’s been on the toilet ever since and has no issues about it.
I have learned that dogs do not respond to this tactic, although they will throw up. Up to my ears in the smell of urine in the once mostly clean scented abode (Mostly Clean, available in a clear gel!), she became an outside dog for the duration of the workday. So the little bitch ate through the screen in my bedroom window and jumped through! I would have killed her if I didn’t admire such determination. So I laughed instead. By the way, her name is Lucy.

Last Thursday evening, one my best friends, Kristine, was induced. Scratch that – she’d been hooked on the pitocin drip all day, when around 7:30 or later, I stumbled in wild eyed, in a state of desperate curiosity to meet my niece. She’d seemed to make light of this pregnancy. I hadn’t heard one single complaint aside from claiming the kid was evicted from the womb, and not listening. Walking into her hospital room, I expected to be greeting by a calm knowing smile, perfected only by someone as strong willed and experienced and knowledgeable as she. What I was actually greeted with was a fully dilated, slightly nervous, teary-eyed mom-to-be. And it took everything I had not to immediately burst into tears. It’s a weird confrontation of sorts to see such a strong heroine of mine looking like she might be scared. This is the girl who can whip her heels off and hair up in one motion in order to smoothly smack a bitch after a heavy verbal altercation. I’ve seen it.
It was not fifteen minutes after I arrived in the hospital room that mama was pushing. She hiked her up gown up, squeezed her knees and grunted out a little girl with nary a screech. I signed with heavy relief. THAT’s the woman I know.
Over the last few days I’ve tried multiple times to describe any part of this – this seeing my little pseudo-niece go from belly bump to exposed human – this human bearing human being phenomenon… and I can’t. I’ve been partial to it enough but my birth to Kiddo was extremely disconnected in that there was no means of participating considering the drugs, completely numb lower half, and lack of physical mobility being that I was secured at the wrists to a table top. Even the oxygen mask kept me from talking much – not that I had anything to say that differed from someone who was reeeeally high. I recall mumbling to my mom, “You look pretty.” (She was fully covered in scrubs.) (What was I ON?)

/ Digression

So I’m seeing this happen and I’m COMPLETELY losing my mind to this incredible process. As Jim Breuer says, Birth is beautiful, but it ain’t pretty. And yeah, there’s blood and guts but ARE YOU SEEING THIS, THERE IS HUMAN NOW WHERE THERE WAS NO HUMAN BEFORE.
I haven’t gotten over it. I can’t. It was ah-fucking-mazing. And Kristine was cool and calm as could be after. I stayed about three hours and she had already gotten off the bed and walked by the time I left. I looked at her and thought, No way. I could NOT do that. So I’m considering a hot surrogate if you know someone. Yes, hot is required.
(Mama-Mentor – You are incredible. You know this. I can’t thank you enough for letting be a small part of this, even as I danced on the edge of passing out. I’m in awe of you.)

I saw Batman, finally, and emanated and oozed love and its juices from my being for it was FUCKING AWESOME. It was the best movie I’ve ever seen in theaters. Not that there are a bag of gems to pick from – but hooooly. It was the only time $10.25 was an acceptable ticket rate. I would have paid that and then some. I would have given my panties and my child. It was that good.

Last night I got together with my lady friend, Taylor, from high school for a rare time together without our daughters. We saw Pineapple Express and communicated our feverish desire for a sexy James Franco. That movie is fucking funny. I don’t really believe in good comedy in the mainstream anymore (I’m not a pessimist… check your local listings). And that movie had me gasping, clapping my hand over my mouth, choking on Cherry Coke, and laughing my effin’ cheeks into a state of hurt. I give hearty approval.

The job is still going well. But if I hear ‘conference room of the future’ or any version of it again, I will vomit.

Mother Night, by Kurt Vonnegut was almost my favorite of his books. So good. Need more.

-Pretty Lush

Emerging from the warm, safe hole in the earth

Anymore, I am not motivated to do anything. I am knocking my knees together under the weight of a depression I've been reunited with. It brought its friends: Fatigue and Self-deprecation along with an unquenchable thirst for anything that makes it all go away, or at least muddles with the edges of things. And right now, I'm nursing one gnarly hangover. My physical well being is never tip top, but right now it's quite in line with my mental well being and I must say, this is not what I had in mind when I asked for balance.

I'm getting angrier. Where I would once gladly be your doormat in place standing up for myself, I'm so defensive now that I want to slap every seeming cross look. It's loosely tied to a frightening lack of self-esteem though I'm not sure how. My heart is pounding furiously and all I'm doing is slamming out some letters on this horrible laptop keyboard. Perhaps the Olympics in the background emit a contagious exhaustion.

A few awesome kids have stopped by my house already this morning. Kimberly came and blacked out my head, leaving the slightly nauseating smell of chemical flowers in my hair. My cousin Mandy came by with a beautiful little lady... a Terrier mix with longish black hair. She's sweet and soft and I see myself and a small glob of gel teaming up to Mohawk her later. She thinks she's smaller than she is... her long, lanky body is struggling to fit on the arm of the couch, pressed up against my back and shoulder. I wasn't in the market for a dog, unless a French or English bulldog were to fall into my lap, but when I found out she needed a home, I waived all the little nay-sayers in my mind and offered up this one. I hope she likes the Abode as much as I do. Kiddo should be pleased when she comes home from Dad's. Now... what to name her?

I'm going to fight the urge to sleep and force some productivity into my day. All I've done is soothe the new dog, drink four beers and slurp the majority of a Cup o' Noodle. going

I'm going to a wedding tomorrow. That outta shake up my already unstable emotions. But there's a red dress in it for me.

-Pretty Lush

De-swelling

This week is over.

And it’s been a ride.

Today concludes my first week of being officially IN my position at the new job. (Perhaps in a year or two, the ‘new’ will drop.) For the past month and a half, I’ve only been training FOR the job. Monday morning, I straddled the thing and pep talked myself something wild about how I will rock this position and I will never have another inkling of regret about leaving the Old Job. And I think that the only thing that went right all week, Monday through Friday, is that I feel very, very confident in my job performance. I’ve many a fault but my work ethic is not one. I’m comfortable and I’m getting compliments and I’m following through and following up. I’m making sure I carve a deep niche here because I unless I’m awarded and taxed on more dollars than a Trump, I could very well have my career.

Aside from work, the toll I’ve allowed stress to take is ridiculous. Yesterday I caved in to a crying fit and quit trying to salvage my morning’s eyeliner. I escalated to full fucking frenzy and just bawled my ass off on the freeway. I know I need to be medicated. Mostly, this stems from stress and emotional exhaustion as I still let the past year sit like salt on an open wound instead of making enough of an effort to heal anything. The stress comes mostly from money and I won’t even get into the details of that mess. By noon, I had calmed down… until I got the mail and a letter from a certain financial institution holding up all my dollaz in red and it was down and out again, tears like a broken hearted toddler. (Later that day, I lay on my back on a quilt in the park and stared up a canopy of tree branches and listened to Jeffrey read an article from Sports Illustrated and thought, who the fuck cares about money?)

Of course, it was a fleeting thought but it was nice to embrace for a minute.

And then today, pay day, and also, after more than five months of waiting, my federal tax return untangled from the IRS clutches and announced itself in my bank.

I will not be stupid. I will not be stupid.

Sometime during the week, a couple friends danced with Kiddo along her chalked hopscotch trails and then we all played drinking games after she’d been exhausted from all the Fast Foot Dancing she’d attempted. (Kiddo’s own patented term.) There was a hilarious round of King’s Cups and a revealing round of Never Have I Ever… my friends amuse the hell out of me. Even when wrung dry and hungover, they’re such cool cats.

I’m going to do nothing this weekend and it’s going to be a blast. Starting now.

-Pretty Lush

Honesty

Just like when it sprinkles in So Cal and CNN has everyone on STORM WATCH!, the earth shakes around a bit and it's like: APOCALYPSE. Seriously the live feed on the pharmacy where an entire box of tampons and a bottle of shampoo fell off the shelf is a little underwhelming. Let's take the hype down to a two.

I guess it was pretty crazy to feel an earthquake past the denial phase. Last time I felt one was a quick few seconds of tremor that could have either been a very small earthquake... or a fat co-worker on the second floor. Today was more like, "Is thaaat... fuck me, the room's moving!" I ran. With no direction in mind, I ran from my desk and then quickly regained my cool and fell into a brisk walk to the kitchen for some ice water. At least two people saw the panic in my eyes and probably thought, "I knew that new girl was wired wrong."

The Dodger game last night was what you'd call a great loss. They alllmost came back from being down seven with six runs in two innings. Torre was (dramatically) thrown out. And the whole damn stadium ripped up for his walk back to the dugout after standing up for his guys.

I want a Kiss Cam at my wedding.

Jeffrey got me thinking the other day. He was musing on about how people will bend over backwards for something new. And when they aquire it, it becomes a part of their life and the excitement of the new gets completely absorbed in the routine. It's true of everything. Even getting a new car is only exciting for so long. And then the monotony of the morning commute edges in. Always having to wash it because you thought black was a good idea. A new apartment, a new fuck buddy, a new gagdet... the sparkle wears right off the chrome in time. How do you avoid giving in to that? How do you keep routine from completely gnawing at your sanity and making you want to slit your wrist at six a.m.? Because um, I'm twenty-three... and it's happening. I'm gonna be one son of a bitch in my forties. I really don't think Jeff analyzed it with such a sour taste as I'm wont to do. It's scary to think of... but I'm glad I acknowledge it. Maybe I'll learn something.

The most random circumstances got me thinking the other day from behind a rum and Coke, that no one ever really prepares you for real life because no one wants to admit that you don't always win. You don't always knock it out of the park in the bottom of the ninth, or win over your nemesis, or score the winning point, or get the girl. You don't always attain the fence and the grass and the kids without real life finding a way in to your movie reel. Real life has fucking problems, man. Nightmares. In every Hollywood movie about the struggling actress, she gets a big break, right? What about the ones who die trying? What if you don't fucking win? Or what if when you do win, your love drops fatally ill? That's the reality of life. You think you're gonna get handed anything great without some sort of negative circumstances, you gotta stop watching so much Disney channel. There has to be some yin to the yang.

I guess you just gotta make the rest of it all a really good fucking ride.

I swear I'm not being a fun sponge. I'm trying to live better. I'm constantly giving myself a pep talk. A lot lately. Brash on the outside but trust me, I'm forcing a bubbly pink whirlwind on the inside to avoid being one of those people taking out my shit life on the wait staff.

I'm gonna go have lasagna and beer with some friends and make birthday cards with Kiddo. I gotta shake this day.

-Pretty Lush

Overheard #20 & then some

I'm in the middle of one of those pounding headaches, except mine are always right behind my eyes so when my heartbeat is in tempo with the throbbing pain, I think my eyeballs are going to burst from my skull.

It's warm in my house and there's a slight breeze coming in from the backyard, over the mess of Kiddo's fingerpaints from her art project yesterday, over my bare shoulders and on into the rest of the still house. I'm happy here.

The Overheard part: I was stifling a serious burst of laughter today at work when an executive on the other side of my cubicle had the following conversation: "So call Bob. Call Bob. Call Bob. No, you call Bob. Because he's your friggin' client. Call Bob. You call Bob. Call Bob. Call Bob. I'm hanging up now so you can call Bob, call Bob."

*click*

FUCK!"

I wanted so badly to tell him later, "Bob called for you, said you were lookin' for him?"

I willingly endured a chick flick the other night in a rum stupor. The Holiday was pretty good, especially when I'm all warm and dopey on the inside. There's this part when Jude Law almost perfectly summarizes the dual life of a single parent, up against this sexy bookcase. I haven't a friggin' clue what he said now, but we shared a moment for a minute there. He also uses 'inordinately pissed' as a euphemism for drunk, and that sent my thumbs clicking on Twitter.

Get Twitterpated.

Kiddo had crazy hair day at school yesterday and with my mad skillz, nabbed third place in the contest. I have no photo evidence.

Offspring sans masticles, 2008

Remember that one time I said I liked the chihuahua roommate I inherited? I was just kidding. He dragged all my edamame shells out of the trash last night while I was engrossed in an episode of Taboo. It was about pet lovers who take their adoration to a morbid extent. Like taxidemy Golden Retrievers and wall mounted Italian Greyhounds. My anger at Rylie and my fascination with the people who stuff their dogs... it all came together and I developed a master plan. (PS. In my book, most pet owners are overboard these days. If you accessorize a dog, you've gone too far. Unless it is for entertainment purposes that benefit myself and others, then, k.

I have to be productive now and also slather a vat of lotion on my itchy forearms.

-Pretty Lush

PS. I kicked ASS at work today. It was the boost I needed.

Simma Down

Ever increasing button pusher: Homosexual men or women actin' a bigot toward straight people. I frown on the freak who screws an animal or casts even a second glance at a child. Other than that, sexuality, love and expressions of each are on the individual with zero right for scorn from any other party. It took several jaw grinding moments to myself to avoid layering that little rant with thick, coarse braids of expletives and an open palm. All's well.

Whaaa....?: The blonde from the boy band hosts the sports awards.

Kiddo's ever increasing charm and wit have easily made this time - five and a half years into her role as human - my very favorite. Of course, I love and adore her down to her molecules, but right now, she's really fucking cool and I'd totally want to be her BFF and grow up with her. This needs to stick. Her being this great is what encourages my baby making hormones to want another in the future. I'd called it quits since the near death (and utterly terrifying) experience of her birth. Next time, I'll swallow Super Glue if it'll make my placenta stick.

Some friends and relatives joined Ree and Kiddo and I at the abode for a housewarming/tattoo party this weekend. Over the course of twelve hours, only seven people were able to get new ink, with seven waiting. I felt bad for the people excited to get something new that had to be turned away but it didn't stop me from going last. I finally got some scripty scrawl on my forearms. It was surprisingly easy and hasn't hurt much since. I figured I'd be sore because of my habit to sleep on my arms, but mostly it's my purse straps that irritate it.

During the madness and loud noises, my little sister relaxed on my couch and read 1.5 books. It was a perfect impression of me, ages nine through seventeen. Someone always had a comment toward my tendency to sneak off and read -- citing it as more antisocial than anything else. When really, I was having as much fun as everyone else. I hope my sister doesn't get that kind of reaction about her voracious reading. I scanned my book collection for something to lend her (sharing books with my kin is way more exciting than I can even describe) and settled on a Francesca Lia Block. I'm thinking fairies might be our only link... I don't think she's quite ready for my gritty stuff but how excited I'll be when she is!

Speaking of gritty - I have a regular habit of jerking off to the thought of The Dark Knight, namely the Joker. Just today I saw Jack Nicholson's face in his perfect white makeup during a rerun of Batman and nearly convulsed. My crush on Jack far surpasses my fantasy crush for any other male - but Jack as Joker just gets me saturated.

Yeah, I went there.

-Pretty Lush

Purrrrrrr. 

Growing out of it

Oh, three hours of sleep is hardly conducive to a functional work day, turns out. At one in the morning, I was sleepily munching a sandwich in a Denny’s booth when I checked the time and said aloud, “I’m going to burst into tears when the alarm goes off.” Damn near did too. I was grinding my teeth so bad in my sleep that my jaw still aches and I think it was the upcoming dreaded eight hours of sitting and staring that was stressing me out. Among financial issues derived from debt and irresponsibility – but let’s talk new.

The Rockstar Mayhem tour last night was even better than anticipated, save for the seeming short set from Slipknot. But by then my everything was so exhausted that I couldn’t muster a convincing complaint. I was unsure about Disturbed. I like ‘em enough but probably wouldn’t go out of my way to see them. But they opened for Slipknot on the main stage and I was really pleased. A little cheesy, mmkay, but I think I need their CD, finally. The others bands ranged from decent to annoying screechy metal noise and I was very surprised by Dragonforce. Slipknot was exceptionally great. The new(ish) masks and the drum solo and these adorable little animals:

They played a few songs that actually had me beaming with excitement. But only one from the upcoming album.

Glen Helen is one of my favorite venues if I can look past the drive and the dirt. The open air, the sound quality, the layout of the place; it all comes together perfectly for any type of music, any type of crowd. The surroundings in the early evening are unbeatable – mountains in every direction, clear view of the sunset, the moon behind you with the sun in front. Not to mention there’s STARS out there where no one lives.

But.

As far as people and crowds and scenes go, this black clad, anti-authority, pro-destruction, middle finger waving, bro & their hoes, twenty pound gothic uniform in the hundred degree heat… is not for me anymore. The assholes beating on each other bare fisted, crowding a hundred plus people around a fist fight, drinking to the point of total oblivion by noon, setting fire to every piece of trash and running around it like a bunch of uncivilized primates… my anxiety was in high gear when it looked like four hundred insane fuckers surrounding a dozen scrawny security guards. There’s no containing or controlling that kind of energy and I get it, a lot of these people get off on that kind of chaos, but as far as my taste and idea of fun go – I’ll stay home from these big outdoor metal fests. I love the music. I think a lot of good metal bands are underrated and judged as screamy, gothy crap that have an appearance and image agenda. I’ll be the first to say that Slipknot especially are a big group of really talented, really crazy, really entertaining motherfuckers. But their scene? The majority of their fans? No thanks. When they come back to the Forum or something similar, sure, I’m in. But I’ve seen my last of these types of shows. This goes for Ozzfest too, which has a mirrored fan base. I’d bite my tongue for a few select performances, maybe. But not likely. (Although it was the perfect crowd to narrate from my secluded patch of grass. The commentary we had going was a fucking show in itself.)

Call me a pussy. I’m in it for the music and the energy. Not the nonsense. I miss Coachella.

Dirty digression: On my last day in San Francisco, I dropped my prescription sunglasses in not one, but two public toilets. I didn’t learn my lesson the first time that hanging from the neck of my shirt wasn’t an effective strategy for glasses carrying when leaning over a toilet to put down a seat cover. In trying to keep the possibility of germs off my ass, I instead put the whole toilet on my face. (After a good rubdown in a vat of soap, of course.) I’m the only fucker dumb enough to do that twice in two hours. And I thought you should know.

-Pretty Lush

Expressions

Yesterday, I had my own personal meltdown of sorts. I put my head in my hands and pulled my hair and grinded my teeth and text my best friend the details of my financial shithole. Then I bucked up and went to a comedy show with some friends I don’t see enough of. Comedy venues have replaced dive bars in my social life. Some people get excited to say, “I’m on the list.” I feel like a jackass. I try to keep my voice down every time. Never fails, “EXCUSE ME?” into the megawatt unnecessary microphone behind the bullet proof glass.
So that was fun. And Dane Cook came again. There were some obnoxious, unhappy spectators that resulted in a very heated confrontation which Dane handled mighty well, until the trio was escorted out. I don’t understand spreading misery in a place where people came to laugh. Don’t mess with my vibe, cousinfucker.

It’s been about a month and a half in the new place. We still don’t have decent window coverings or a hold on the jungle of a yard, but its home and I’m very happy there. I just wonder what the neighbors think when we’re yelling all the way across our little abode with all the windows open, “Maybe the stripper is your baby daddy.”

Last weekend was roomie’s twenty-eighth birthday. It was held at my parent’s house, where there’s more room, less weeds, and a pool. Among a couple dozen lesbians and enough booze to sink a thousand lushes, enter stage left, a blonde stripper, as requested. She did things that made me question her agency and their perimeters. The cops were called because the neighbors are and always will be assholes. But the next day, when they shot fireworks under trees and power lines and INTO MY BACKYARD AT REE’S HEAD while I fretted about my parent’s roof going up in flames, they were the assholes. So I called it even. And I called the cops.

Angel stadium put on a most excellent firework show on the fourth. All fireworks are most excellent, but this was top notch. From our seats, the 57 freeway was clearly visible and at least twenty cars had pulled off the shoulder, hazards flashing, to watch the show. I don’t know why, but that was my favorite part.

Something I’ve yet to mention though it’s definitely worthy: As of three weeks ago, I have a response if anyone ever asks me about the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.
During the early evening ascent on an LA bound flight from San Francisco, the city was all twinkly below and the fog and clouds were all smooth and soft ahead. After a few minutes, the plane was on top of a thin layer of clouds, like stretched cotton, showing just enough of the city below to make it look like a mantel display of architecture and glow. The sky above was clear and it gave the feeling of being on top of a clear surface, seeing the tiny, quiet city underneath. Not to mention the early twilight colors but I’ve already butchered this totally perfect picture in my mind by trying to put words on it. You know me, mucking shit up with words all the time.

My weekday mornings are always bitchy. I cut it too close on time and I get snappy and impatient and just become a total bitch on a PMS binge. I know this. I don’t like this about myself. This morning while trying to rouse Kiddo, swaddled in her super mega oversize night shirt, I was getting more and more peeved as she squirmed further and further away and made little grunting leave-me-alone noises. As my lips pursed and teeth settled into a good clench, she flips her entire body over in a high energy 180, suddenly awake. “Is today Friday?! I’m going to the zoo with my school! I need quarters and a blue shirt!” Fuckin’ A, if anything is going to break my morning BF; it’s an ecstatic child I like to call mine.

-Pretty Lush

Overheard #19

"Oh, I'll stick something in my corn cob, but it won't be that."