Friday, April 27, 2007

Karma, she's a bitch

Karma, she's a cold one. She can be a cold, cold bitch. So, remember this: about my "friend" Yeah. Her ass was 86'd yesterday. Interesting. It's pretty hard to get fired from where I work. It's also pretty hard to get on the bad side of my boss. She not only managed to do one of those, but both and many more. I've gotten the flip side of all the stories she told me from the people at work. I've also found out why and how she managed to basically 86 her own ass. Wow. I really need to pay attention to my gut and my intuition. She is a woman with issues. Several subscriptions worth.

On a happy note: the students gave me a surprise graduation party yesterday! Color me feeling loved. You know, when I am able to see the trees for the forest, life is good. Life is really pretty sweet.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

inner dork: pure randomness

It's a purely random dorking today. It's madness! Madness, I tell ya!

So, without further ado. (I love how that sounds.)

Did you know...

In the 1940's, the Bich pen was changed to Bic for fear that Americans would pronounce it "bitch." (Stupid Americans.)

People didn't always say "hello" when they answered the phone. When the first regular phone service was established in 1878, people said, "ahoy." (Followed by a quick, "matey.")

The phrase "the boogeyman will get you" refers to the Boogey people who still inhabit an area of Indonesia. The natives still act as pirates today and attack passing ships. (Hmm, my Boogey man lived in my closet. Or in my nose. I can't remember which. It's definitely one or the other.)

The term honeymoon is derived from the Babylonians, who declared mead, a honey-flavored wine, the official wedding drink, stipulating that a bride's parents be required to keep the groom supplied with the drink for the month following the wedding. (Just a month? Really? I would think it would be/should be required for a much longer period. That whole "married" thing and all.)

The word constipation come from a Latin word that means, "to crowd together." (As in, my poop is all crowded together and it won't come out.) (Too, far? Did I go too far?)

In French, essay means "to try, attempt." (As in, I tried to attempt to meet the standards of my "mentor" when it came to my thesis, but I clearly failed that attempt.) (Not bitter.) (Not at all.)

The expression "What in tarnation?" comes from the original phrase "What in eternal damnation?" (Did anyone else have Yosemite Sam pop into their head?) (Anyone?) (Anyone?) (Bueller?)

Crack gets its name because it crackles when you smoke it. (So, where's the snap and pop? I guess Kellogg's was already all over that one.)

The word curfew originated from an old french word that means "cover fire." (As in, if my ass didn't make it home by curfew it was going to be covered in fire.)

That's all folks!

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

you can take the girl out of the party, but you can't take the party out of the girl

Last night was the do-over birthday. All I have to say is, god damn. God damn, but if only we could have do-overs on more things. Wouldn't that be awesome? I mean, remember as a kid when you did something wrong, or didn't hit the ball...anywhere, or when you went to kick the ball and your foot simply went over the ball? Man, you got a do-over. After last night I think I'm going to have more do-overs in my life. Even if something doesn't really need or deserve one, I'm totally going for it.

The night started out awesome. Which, considering I wasn't crying, being yelled at for something I didn't even do, or driving home in tears and falling asleep in tears, really how bad could the night have been? Anyway. The peeps from work took me to one of my favorite places. The bought me dinner and drinks and we had a lovely time. There was and is a torrential rain storm happening so I didn't drink all that much as I have enough trouble seeing at night in a torrential rainstorm without adding drunk to list. Oh, no. Waited until I was closer to home before I added drunk to the list.

I stopped at a new little bar close to home. There was a band...or rather a singer, doing cheesy covers and essentially making fun of himself (good times) and the bartender decided I was going to be his main source of conversation and entertainment for the night, thus he liquored me up quite nicely. Ah, lovely.

Very shortly into the night he asked if I would do a shot with him. Yeah. Twiiiiisssst the arm. Ow. Sure. "Jager, please." I knew I was in from that point on. Men are so easy. Or perhaps saying, "Jager" simply means, "...this girl can party and drink and I'm going to have fun with her..." Or perhaps it means, "Sweet! I'm not going to have to spend that much money after all getting her drunk..." silly. Simply, silly. Anywho. So we chatted and then a gay came up and told me I needed to join him and his friends. I passed. I mean, I was getting free drinks and more importantly, free shots. My ass wasn't going anywhere.

One shot was called: sex with (whatever the bartender's name was) when he asked if I wanted to know why, he said: "because it's more than a mouth full and it takes your breath away.."......aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand game on. More shots. More beer. The gays came after me and pretty much kidnap me to their table. Oh.MY.God. so much fun. Enough laughter to the point that I don't think I will need to do a sit-up for months my stomach hurt so bad. And they also plied me with free alcohol all night. We decided I will be joining them every Tuesday night from now on. They leave, I'm back to the bar. More shots, more beer. He made four shots, but only three people drank any, therefore I got two of them (was it my night or what?) Apparently this one was called: fuck me harder. Since I did two of them, of course my response was: "so I guess I get to fuck you harder, twice." Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd she's back ladies and gents. So yes, all-in-all the night was a good success. Home at 1:00, up at 6:19, to work 15 minutes late. Feeling awesome. See, all I needed was a night of laughter, flirting that leads to nowhere, and lots, and lots of free drinks. It's that simple. All a party girl needs is a good time party.

There was one slight Debbie Downer moment: one of the gays asked something about getting laid and if I was seeing someone. I replied, he is leaving for London tomorrow (meaning today) which they asked, "so how long is he there?" "Oh, that'd be, forever. Yeah. He's gone, forever." I'm not going to lie. They got a little forklempt. I, did not. For that, I am thankful. Yes, PG, life does go on. Even if I don't want it to, it does.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

freaks and geeks

After watching disc one of the brilliant, but canceled show, Freaks and Geeks this past rainy Sunday afternoon I got to thinking about high school and all of the glorious humiliation it brought forth. Truly, the show breaks it down quite nicely. If you weren’t part of the popular crowd, well then you were either a freak of a geek, for no other reason than the popular kids said so.
When asked about my glory days of high school, I tend to ask people what they thought I was. The over-whelming answer is: cheerleader.
So wrong.
I’m guessing it has something to do with my ability to cheer people on and my perpetually perky attitude. But, the truth is I was closer to the freak category. I was the artsy chick. The one who dressed in my own fashion statement, I was punk rock before it was cool to be. I was in all the school plays, and tended to have a, rather worn notebook and a pen in my hand at all times. My hair has been just about every shade of the rainbow and some not found in nature.
Thinking back to the fashion statement I was, my favorite item of clothing was one of my dad’s old work shirts. Now, my dad is over 6ft tall and around 300 lbs. Needless to say, I am neither of those. So a rather large and long, fitting old work shirt that I had painted the word, “What?” on...
Actually, it read like this
Complete with splatter paint and hand prints over the boobs. Yep, that shirt, a pair of black leggings and nicely worn pair of Chuck Taylor’s. Black, of course. I was drinking, smoking cigarettes and pot before it was the cool thing to be doing; therefore getting a reputation for something that everyone else was doing by graduation- I was simply making the bell curve for everyone else.
I was called a slut long before I even lost my virginity.
I was into spirituality, tarot cards, Ouija boards therefore, I was also called a witch and a Satanist. (Just made me roll my eyes and smirk. I mean, god. How lame.)(The kids in high school. Not me. I was cool. Have you not been paying attention?) I questioned just about everything that could be asked in the form of a question to the point that I am sure I would have made Alex proud and many questions that I made up myself. I was definitely one of the more popular kids, but looking back I still fell into the freak category.
Even today as I look at what I am wearing, as a grown-up I’ve been told by several people today that what I have on looks really cool: Long black silk peasant skirt, bright red Grateful Dead retro-t, black cardigan, black flip-flops with beaded flowers on the straps, hair down and tucked behind my ears, lots of funky jewelry: big, chunky rings (retro, of course) big chandelier earrings, bracelets that I made along with my standard minimal make-up. I can assure you if I was to step into a high school I would still be the freak that I was then. As a grown-up I am cool, hip, open-minded and non-judgmental- someone people can come to when they need a friend, an ear, a shoulder, a hug, a cheerleader to tell them everything will be alright. As a 17 year old I was a freak.
So, even though we can leave high school behind us, does high school ever really leave us? There are many times within any given week when a situation, a comment, a look, a word, can take me right back and leaves me thinking, “My god. This is so high school…sometimes even junior high.” The attitudes and the mentality, maybe even how we dress, it doesn’t seem to leave us.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly more fashionable, more confidant, and I would hope more intelligent than I was fifteen years ago. But somehow after watching four hours of a high school TV show that seemed to be more reality than drama, I realized I will not be attending my fifteen year reunion this summer because I am sure, to them, I would still be a freak.

How about you?

Monday, April 23, 2007

just sayin': internet and porn

Non-Disscript Male: You know, I'm surprised, considering how the Internet has taken off in the porn industry, that magazines like Playboy, Hustler, Penthouse and the like are still around.

PG: Well, people still have to poop.

NDM: True.

Friday, April 20, 2007

...and now it's time to hear about my birthday. Or why my life really does need to be a reality tv show

Monday night London left me. Tuesday was my big thirty-three. It was time to get my groove on and be fabulous.

At work all the peeps went above and beyond for me. Truly. They brought in lunch, unbeknown to me. They bought me presents, they gave me money for my trip, and they all wished me well. Color me feeling loved and special. Then some of my students who I am also friends-like with, and who when their eyes are bulging out of their heads and their bodies are all contorted with stress, I give back-rubs, back pats, and back scratches to all in an attempt to lower their pulse and heart-rate. Typically my comment during these de-stress sessions is: you know, you can reciprocate anytime, really. To one male student, I said when he was bent over a table moaning and groaning "...this isn't sexual harassment as you asked for it." and he replied, "If this is sexual harassment may it never stop..." Anyway, they bought me a 2.5 hour massage. Complete head, toe, face, scalp, body massage package. Two and half hours of pure bliss will be coming my way. When I thanked the, "...may it never end..." male he said, "...we really appreciate all you do for us and you really make a difference in our lives and all the help you give us everyday; It was the least we could for you...." Ah, what a warm-fuzzy heart-felt moment (don't cry.) So, the day was fab-u-lous.

There is a key-word in there. Day. The day was fabulous.

Oh, look. More foreshadowing.

That night Nick was taking me out to a five-star super expensive restaurant for my birthday. He was late and I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. A vodka cranberry with barely any cranberry. Ah, dee-lish. Nick shows up and is stressed. His new job is killing him. I ask him some questions about what he expected to what the reality has been. I thought they were harmless questions and I was truly just asking. He (we are now seated) told me "... we needed to change the subject because he felt I was attacking him and that I was throwing darts at him because how many ways can he say, no." At this point my eyes start to water and the tears are coming. I hate crying. I hate crying in public. I hate crying in front of people. I hate crying in a darkened movie theater, let alone in a five-star uber priced establishment. I hate how much crying I've been doing. I am trying my damnedest to stop.

To no avail. But the important thing is that I am trying.

He notices, asks why I'm crying, I tell him I'm not and to change the subject.

There is a table of four women sitting right (literally, right) next to us. They are talking about poopy diapers, vomiting children, piles of laundry and the like. Not pleasant, but I can ignore it. Apparently Nick, cannot. He leans over to the table, and rather politely, asks if they can keep it down as it is not a pleasant dinner time topic to listen to. I get a small (small) grin on my face, but don't really acknowledge it.

First there is stunned silence at the four-top all female table.

Then it turns to a murmur.

Then a grumble

Then a small boil.

Then a rolling boil.

Then the steam blows off the kettle.

They start with, "I feel sorry for your children." "May you never have any children." to "That is so rude and I'm tired of having to defend myself in public against people like that." All I'm thinking is, Nick is a 52 year-old gay man who has had the mumps, there is no hope of children in his future, but I keep it to myself. I'm also thinking, "..and I'm tired as a single woman having to defend myself against people like you." But again, I keep it to myself.
The rumble escalates to the point that they call their waiter over and tell him about us and ask us to be moved. The waiter says he will see what he can do. The grumble is now a full on rumble and I, being the person that I am and trying to save the night, a.k.a. my birthday dinner, turn to the table and say very politely, "Look, we're just...." thaaat's as far as I got because next thing I know I have a wild brunette Wilda Beast (I am naming her Wilda and she was a beast) with a manicured Barbra Streisand-esqu nail being pointed in my face, really, literally screaming at me, "Shut the hell up! Shut the hell up! I don't want to hear anything you have to say, shut the hell up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" which point, I'm still trying to get out what I am trying to say, but it is squashed by the wild looking angry mom with the pointy fingernail, "What part of, shut the hell up, are you not understanding? Shut.the.hell.up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (I think, I don't know. Maybe if you spell it out for me I would understand it better. But I don't.) Just keep repeating, "shut the hell up!!!!!!!" over, and over, and over again as many times as you can in the next few seconds that feels like a prolonged nightmare...oh, and have tunnel-vision so as not to see anyone else in the five-star extremely expensive restaurant but, I'm pretty sure everyone was looking, or at the very least, was able to hear what was going on...just a guess. Wilda Beast was loud. And angry. She was a loud and angry mom on the edge. Talk about, poor kids.

So, the hostess comes over and tells us we are going to be moved. She has my drink and our take my drink and I will move wherever you tell me to move. Nick and I decide we are just going to leave. The hostess tells us she is going to move us to some place without anyone else around " we will feel more comfortable..." at which point Nick says, "So we are being punished." "Oh, no. Just making you more comfortable." I interject with, "You had to hear how she was screaming at me, yet we are the ones being moved." She ignores me. I take my drink from her hands. It cost me $10, which I didn't have, I'm drinking my drink whether we leave or not.

We are apparently not leaving. We are now seated literally, in the corner of the uber expensive restaurant. Oh, did I mention I was crying earlier? Yeah, so that stopped during the whole, shut the hell up finger pointing escapade, only to re-start once Nick and I were seated across from one another. I try to explain, or ask, about the whole, "attacking him" thing. To which he says, I was throwing darts at him...and it just goes from there. Tears start again. I go into the restroom to try and compose myself and to become the cliche' I hate. I'm now composed. Well, I thought I was. I sit back down at the table...only to start crying again. (I so hate being a female sometimes.) I try to talk to Nick, again, to see what is going on. I tell him I think he is stressed and angry and somehow it is coming back at me. To which he responds with, he thinks all my emotions are very close to the surface and I'm overreacting.


I ask if there is a back way out of the uber expensive restaurant....oh, forgot to mention this: four-top table of women spot us from across the restaurant and point and laugh at us....that was my cue to leave out the back door and get in my car. Cry all the way home. Cry when I get home. Cry myself to sleep hours later.

My birthday night out consisted of: one vodka cranberry, sans cranberry that I drank in three gulps, one sip of ice water, and moving of the bread basket, twice.

I've had some pretty bad birthdays, but I think the night of my thirty-three just became number one on that list.

Just to recap why my, "...emotions are close to the surface..."

Nightmare that is known as school and everything that has gone on with school this past year.

Not getting the job which was promised to me and having to create a new life plan.

Working one full-time and two part-time jobs, yet still not having any money. (all still while attending school)

Friend stabbing me in the back yet still working with her.

Having another friend tell me he felt I was attacking him when I was only trying to understand why he was stressed out.

Saying good-bye to Mr. London less than 24 hours before.

My dream vacation starts in 14 days. Fourteen wonderful days I can forget about all of this and everything else and leave my life for two-weeks....more on this in a later post.

(After telling this story a few times at this point I am now laughing about the whole thing. Let's face it, if you can't laugh at crazy ass people then your ass is just going to become crazy.)

Thursday, April 19, 2007

inner dork: some factoids about me

These questions come by way of the most lovely and fabulous, Bre.
Here are the rules, there is a five question meme going around and I asked her to ask me five questions for today's dorking. I had to answer the questions she asked me and post them.
If you would like me to ask you five questions, send me an email and then post the Q/A on your blog and then pass it on.
So, without further ado:

1. Would you rather be a superhero or a super villain? Why?

A superhero. They get to save the world and usually end up with the guy/girl in the end. Super villains may have more fun, but it's only until the superhero kicks their ass. Thus, the super villain goes away, a.k.a. dies, and the superhero lives on in infamy. I'm an infamy kinda gal.

2. What is the one product you would be lost without?

Hmm, hair gel? Burt's Bees chap-stick? Eyelash curler? Body lotion? Toothpaste? Soap? Bottled water? Birth control? Condoms? KY?...this is a tough one. Although the last three are very important to me as a single gal, without the hair gel, chap-stick, eyelash curler, mascara, body lotion, toothpaste, soap, or fresh water none of those three would matter. I think I will have to say, chap-stick. This could change by the time I'm finished typing. Damn. I forgot about contacts/glasses. Damn. Without either of those I'm done for. Unless as a superhero I would have super vision. Yep. I'm guessing I would. Okay, scratch the glasses...well, not literally, cause them I'm back to the, done for part of this post. Although, I always said if I were to do "Survivor" I would want chap-stick and a toothbrush. If I had a toothbrush I could go over my lips keeping them soft and supple. Toothbrush. Final answer. (maybe)

3. If you could live in a different era, what era would you choose?

This is a tough one, too. I can see reasons why I would be fabulous in so many different eras, but I think I am going to go with the 1920's. Although I would love to live in a different century, I also like clean water and personal hygiene too much to really be devoted to say, 1762 New England, for instance.

Why the 1920's? So much change was happening for women in general with person freedoms and voice in terms of household, education, personal and sexual freedoms, and government; I really think I would have been a pretty forceful and powerful voice during this time. I also think my forceful and powerful voice would have had eggs and various other sundry goods thrown at me, as well as have done some jail time. But it would have been all in the name of empowerment, so it's all good. Did I mention my minor is Women's Studies?

4. What's the best pick-up line you have ever heard?

Ugh. Isn't this an oxymoron? Here's a list of memorable ones: (Not saying they're good, just sayin' they were memorable.)

"That dress is very becoming. Of course if I was on you, I'd be cumming, too." (drink spit out and back turned on the person.)

"Did you wash your pants in Windex, cause I can see myself in them." (eye-roll and are you 19?)

"I like my spaghetti like I like my women, hot, naked, and buttered." (Smile and a laugh)

"I'm no fruity pebble, but I sure could make your bed rock." (Okay, that's pretty cute and clever. He got conversation.)

"The word for today is, legs. Let's go spread the word." (Eye roll and a an attitude.)

"So do I have to spend money buying you drinks all night, or can we stop wasting time and just go get the strawberries and whipped cream, now?" (What do you think?)

....and my all time favorite pick-up line is: "Can I buy you drink?" (Yes, yes you can. Is it going to lead anywhere? Probably not, but by all means, spend endless amounts of cash on me if you feel you must.)

...but truly the best pick-up line ever is simply....."Hello." Hello will get you further with me than any of the others, always. The others may get me to spit out my drink, or laugh, or make my eyes bulge, but "hello" will get you conversation, which is the best pick-up line, always.

5. Would you rather find a sweet, sensitive, stable man or a wild, passionate one to grow old with?
(Sigh) Can I have both? Not two men, but all of these attributes rolled into one man? I like sweet and sensitive and stable, but wild and passionate are fun, too and can keep the embers burning. Yet so can sweet, sensitive, and stable because I won't be worrying about him and what he is doing after-hours. How about a sweet, sensitive, stable man who has a wild and passionate side that only I am privy to and it makes me fall more in love with him each day. Each time he comes up behind me when I am cooking dinner and he catches a glimpse of my neck and the casual need to lay a kiss upon the arch of my skin is just the beginning in the long list of casual and thoughtful gestures he does on any given day.

This leads me to something: I love the simple gestures. Nice grandiose gestures are wonderful, but they are grandiose. I love the simple, unexpected gestures. For example, I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner and my hair is swept up thus exposing my neck. Without cause or reason the man in my life comes up behind me and gently kisses the arch of my neck. It's so sweet and lovely and I think it can speak volumes in terms of the relationship. Or same scenario, but instead of a kiss, grabs me around the waist and gives my body a squeeze against his and I gently lean back into his arms. Or when we are laying on the big, ugly, comfy couch and I don't even realize I have my legs draped across his lap and he is running his fingers up and down my calf. His head is in my lap and I am running my fingers through his hair or vice verse. It's those little everyday things that are effortless and come without thought that I long for, that make a relationship a relationship for me. (Sigh. Ah, memories.)

But I digress. If I could have all of the above with all of those attributes with a man whose interests are wild and varied, yet somehow we still have the important things in common so as to have endless days and nights of conversation and passion, I will be happy to grow old with that person in my life. And if he can also be a dork, then the rest is just gravy. Cause I do love a man who has some dork and some geek in him. I do. I really do.

I liked this. It was an easy way to tell you all some things about me that I would never think of. If you would like to ask me something or if you would like me to ask you five questions email me: partygirl99 at gmail dot com.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

so anyway...

So, Mr. London is gone. Left very early this morning for his parent's house and then he will be in the land of princes, warm beer, and drizzly streets this day next week.

I am very glad I told him good-bye. Obviously. I needed the kick in the head (or ass, depending on which end you want) that ptg gave to me (she really is a therapy genius. Just sayin'.) I immediately called and left an, oh, so eloquent phone mail message for him. Then after a wonderful game of phone tag we made a date for Monday night. After a lovely dinner together and some much needed cuddle time on the big, ugly, comfy couch it was time for me to see him to my door one last time. Each time he left my apartment I always wondered when the next time would be that he would appear on the other side; Monday night was the last time for his entrance and exit from my apartment.

With his arm around me and my head on his chest I told him I will miss him. To which he replied, "I'm going to miss you, too, but it's not like I'm dying." Kind of put it into perspective for me, but to myself I thought, No, just going to London.

After we said our good-byes I walked him to my door, took his arm and told him I had something I needed to say to him. In my, oh, so un-eloquent way I told him what I had been keeping inside for four months. Well, almost everything. His head didn't technically explode, but I could clearly register panic on his face. Although he and I are very affectionate, cuddly, loving people, mushy sentimentality, we aren't good with. Our actions spoke volumes, but not always our words, what little sentimentality we did say, usually boomed with affection. I'll get better at expressing my emotions. (I'm almost sure of it.) (Pretty positive.) (I'm going to try really hard.) I took one last picture of us together, seeing as how he hates getting his picture taken, I had one chance, literally one shot, to capture our last moment together. He looks adorable. My mouth is open. He thought that was appropriate. Hmmmm. Apparently I'm gabby.

Anyway, the big break through moment came for me on Sunday. Once again crying without cause or warning; (been my typically Sunday since December) the reason I couldn't, didn't want to, wasn't able to find the words to express to him how I felt and what I wanted was because I was afraid that I would freak him out and then ruin what little time we had together, essentially I was afraid of losing him. The ironic part and what I hit myself upside the head with on Sunday was, I'm losing him regardless. No matter what I do or say, or didn't do or say, he is leaving. No matter what. London is not going to stop calling. Duh. Sadly or wonderfully, I didn't realize this until Sunday.

So, of course we promised each other we will keep in touch. Of course. I truly hope we do and I truly hope he shows up on the other side of my door someday, someday not too far into the future. I also truly hope I didn't miss a chance or an opportunity for happiness and for someone wonderful to be in my life. I don't think I did, but I guess the truth is I may not ever now. Learn it from me kids, fear is a bitch.

What I do know for sure is that I met, fell in love with, and had an amazing time with a man who was truly worthy. Worthy of me, truly. This is a huge thing for me. Sad that it took until I was 32 to find someone, but at least I did. I also know that I am going to be taking a break from dating. The next person who wants to date me is going to have some very big shoes to fill and will need to prove his worthiness to me in many ways. However, I know next time, when I'm in love again, that I won't be so afraid to say how I feel. I won't be so afraid to say, I'll go with you, or they can go with me. Wherever that is, I'll go with you.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

So, you say it's your birthday...

Well, what do you know, it's my birthday, too!

I'm a whopping 33! Big, big things, and good, good, great fabulous things are going to be coming my way this year. I just know it!

Friday, April 13, 2007

the hardest thing to be in the world

...seems to be a friend. Not in terms of me being a friend to someone, but in terms of someone being a friend to me. Trust is the hardest thing for me to do, yet I seem to continue to trust the wrong people. Over and over again I find this to be true.
I was recently betrayed by a girlfriend who I was very close with. She had become my “go to” person when I needed a shoulder, but easily so because we work together. I misjudge my trust.
Literally weeks ago I had confided in her why I have the issues I have with people and in terms of my relationships and why Mr. London has meant so much to me. Literally days later she betrayed that confidence and my feelings towards Mr. London.
As all things seem to be lately it is a very convoluted story, but the short of it is that she “found” all of his belongings on craigslist and then went to his apartment to buy some things.
She went over to his apartment that I know of, more than five times…to buy stuff.
She met his parents.
Something I hadn’t even had the chance to do. I was upset by this for obvious reasons, but specifically because I had told myself that if I ever met his parents I would thank them for raising such a good man. Obviously, I won’t, nor did I, have the chance to do that.
When I found all of this out, from him in a very excited way, because Gosh! What a small world and how random that a friend of mine would find and buy all of his material goods! I confronted her and told her in a very ballistic and then in a very calm and rational way how I felt about the whole situation. I wasn’t comfortable with it. I didn’t like it. I felt as if she was lying and hiding things from me, which only makes me believe more is going on. I firmly, plainly, told her to: not to email him, not to call him, not to buy anything else, not to contact him in any way. I told her this several times within the context of one phone call and then several times within the next several days.

Oh look. Foreshadowing.

Not only did she do all of the above, she also kept it from me again.
Hello. He is going to tell me.

Essentially she has become the other woman.
As a result I feel no differently toward Mr. London at this point than I do toward any other man I’ve been involved with. She has turned what I felt toward him into nothing. And I hate her for that.
I cannot believe the betrayal.
I would never treat someone who is supposed to be my friend in this way.
I would never treat anyone this way.
I feel it was all deliberate and I feel she did exactly what I told her not to do simply because I told her not to.
What kind of friend does that?
One that is no longer mine.
The sad thing is we work together.
The good thing is I think she will be quitting soon due to a reprimand she received last week.
The sad thing is Chris leaves this weekend….and I don’t care.
That…that is heartbreaking.

word origin: pussy

I know the dorking is a day late, but is it a dollar short? I was busy not working at work yesterday. I did however book my dream vacation. More on that later.

According to the Oxford English Disctionary, puss was used as a "call-name" for cats in both German and English, but pussy was used in English more as a synonym for "cat": compare "pussycat". In addition to cats, the word was also used for rabbits and hares as well as a humorous name for tigers. In the 19 century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the meaning was extended "in childish speech, applied to anything soft and furry", as in pussy willow. In thieves' slang, it meant "fur coat".
(So what would a shaved one be called in slang?)

To pussyfoot around the question or point means to be evasive, cautious, or conceal one's opinions. The reference is to the careful soft tread of the cat and has no vulgar implications, other than obvious ties to weakness, which "pussy" sometimes connotes.
(Hey, my pussy isn't weak)

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

it's called a vagina

...or a pussy. Whichever you prefer. But please, no va-jay-jays, cooters, crotches, beavers, down-theres, who-whos, yum-yums, or ho-hos.

There are two things that make me wonder about a person: someone who can't be honest about their age and someone who can't say vagina (or pussy. Whichever you prefer.) Now, this can go for men just as much as it can for women. Well, actually come to think of it I don't know of any men who don't call their penis something other than a cock or a dick..there might be a few wieners out there, but I'm thinking by a certain point men, boys, stop calling their penis a willy and it suddenly matures into a dick and then suddenly it becomes a cock. (Somewhere around 21-23 years of age. Just a guess.) Yet, women never seem to out-grow the cute little nicknames for their vagina, why? I can see the va-jay-jays, and who-ha's, but the "down there" which is usually accompanied by a finger point and a whisper? C'mon. How insecure are you about your sexuality? Well, at least that's my thinking. It's called a vagina. (or a pussy) Do women call it their who-ha during their yearly? Do they whisper, "down there" to their lover? As in, "Honey, I really want you to eat me out "down there" tonight..." Down where? Australia? Seriously.

People who aren't honest about their age: Why? Whatchya trying to hide? What are they afraid of, ashamed about? That's my perception anyway. On a lot of the blogs I read or just in general people I encounter on a daily basis and age isn't mentioned, but it is referred to in a post, as "a critical moment in my years"..."or I'm approaching a milestone age-wise..." but then a number isn't given, well why not? I guess I think we should all be proud of our accomplishments and failures and any milestones we reach and achieve age-wise or otherwise, but that's just me. On the blogs I read that don't have very much info in way of profiles the thing I am most curious about isn't location, but age. Age tells a lot in way of commonalities and also when referencing something. If a person is talking about high school and the cool band of the day, well was it Loverboy, Winger, Journey, Nirvana, or New Kids on the Block? Kinda makes a difference in the perception of the conversation.

Same with vagina's and cocks. If someone calls their cock a willie or their vagina a cooter... where's the sexiness in that? I'm going to beat that willie into a cock and I'm going to shave that cooter into a pussy. But that's just me.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Imagine London

That's what my Travel magazine asks me to do, to imagine London. When I arrive in my apartment and riffle through my mail only to discover yet another reference to a land across the pond, I am irritated and I tell the magazine that lay upon my counter-top staring back at me as much. Actually, I yell in a very defeated voice, "I get it!" I am tired of all of the signs and references to some place that I am not going, but the man who I am in love with is leaving me for. I know I won't going with him, I know it is pointless to ask or even dream about, therefore all references to the land of fairies, goblins, castles, princes, warm beer, and misty streets can cease once and for all.

I throw the magazine on my catch-all known as my kitchen table and go about my days of fuzzy memories, all consuming thoughts about life and how it isn't working out, and the life plans that are all convoluted are left swirling in my head. But, that magazine cover won't leave me alone. Every time I go into my kitchen it stares at me. It's cover screaming at me telling me to Imagine London. Imagine London in all of her glory with the backdrop of Parliament in the warm glow of a sunrise, Imagine London. Grrrrrr.

I know what you're thinking, why don't I just throw it away? Cause I can't. I need to Imagine London, after all she is beckoning me, so why not entertain the thought, the visions, the chippy accents, strange money, cocky educations, smoky pubs, and damp days, why not torture myself a little bit longer? Plus, I still need to read the $3.95 magazine and see what the glory of London would behold for me. In short, I don't want to. I like the misery.

Finally after reading the article and flipping through the pages that I had dog-eared I throw it back on the catch-all. Then I throw it into the book bin catch-all, still visible, yet seemingly out of sight.

Then I start to do my own things. I apply for jobs at Harvard and Cornell. I start to look into grad school programs that are nowhere near here. I book and paid for my trip to Greece. I start to daydream again. I start to think and imagine a life outside of here, outside of myself, outside of my current life. I start to imagine London. I start to think about London for myself, by myself. I start to dream and think about the possibility of the impossible. Me, in grad school. Me, on my own somewhere else. Me, in a different job. Me, as an artist. Me, in Greece by myself. Me, in London. Imagine. And that's what I've started to do. I've started to believe in me again. To believe in my possibilities. To believe in the impossible.

I've always been my own best cheerleader, but I've also always been my own worst critic. I'm now becoming my own best cheerleader again. Mr. London was a positive force in my life in many respects. I fell in love for the first time. I fell for a really good man and not an ass like I normally do. I met a wonderful new friend who I've had a lovely time with over the past several months. But most importantly, without him even knowing or being aware of it, he made me believe in myself and he made me imagine things bigger and better than myself and outside of my world. I started to imagine huge things and changes, I started to imagine London for myself, in my own way and in my own dream, not piggy-backing someone else's dreams and goals.

I've been asked by everyone who knows the situation, "Why aren't you going with him?" Well, for one I wasn't asked, but I also don't think I'm supposed to, not yet. I think I'm supposed to go when it's right for me, when they are my own dreams, goals, possibilities that I am imagining, not someone else's. I look forward to that day and I also think it's a lot closer than even I know or could possibly realize.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

where my ass will be in May


Specifically my ass will be in Mykonos, Santorini, and Athens.

Even more specifically it will be there from May 7-17.

I paid for it last week.

Of course there is a convoluted story to go with the booking and finalizing of it, but I'm tired of the convolutedness. I'll just say, I didn't mean to actually book and pay for it when I did (there has been a definite mind, body, brain, awareness that has been lacking with me) and I proceeded to freak-out immediately following the point, click, paid process. See, I hadn't finalized with my prof if I could go. I had purchased the, "cancel for any reason" insurance. And yes, that is literally what it is called. But, believe it or not, I cannot, in fact, cancel for any reason. I just kept telling Abby, that was the girl on the phone who I was trying to be calm and rational with, that it really needed to be renamed cause something called, cancel for any reason leads me to believe that I can, in fact, cancel for any reason.


I'm going. Barring hell or high water, which the way my life has been going for the past several months wouldn't be a stretch, my ass will be on a beach, in the ocean, meandering through ancient ruins in May. I also really want to make a weekend in New York the weekend before I leave, but I need another $500.00 to make that happen. Any takers? Or I guess it would really be, any givers. Anyone?


So yeah. As of right now and for the past couple of days I've gotten over myself and I am picking myself up. Of course there is a convoluted story to go with that as well, but I'll save it for another day.
Thanks all, for listening to me over the past months. Really, thanks.