Mephitic Nirvana

Mommy Dearest

2007-10-10T10:26:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, I know. Truth of the matter is that between moving, working, having another two surgeries on my pelvis, and moving at the speed of frozen molasses at damn near all times has left my normally energy-stricken self absolutely drained. Regardless, Avery has made me take a day off and just sit around, and even though I've longed for the day that I could not use crutches for strategic mobility purposes, I'm sitting here longing to be at work. Odd, aye?

Anyway, I'm sitting here bored out of my mind pretty much couch-ridden and awaiting the next dose of Oxycontin which will put me in yet another narcotic analgesic coma for a few hours, and I ran upon a news article that struck me as absolutely representative of what will inevitably be the downfall of this country, if not just the downfall of any company that acts in a manner that warrants someone running to some form of a media outlet in a non-justified outrage.

The gist of the story is as follows: A woman in Arizona was about to fly from Phoenix to Baltimore for a family gathering and she was bringing her one-year-old twins. It's common fact that a baby under the age of two can travel in its mother's lap and the women decided to call Delta in advance to explicate and ask about a special condition. What's the special condition? Her children were in fact conjoined twins whom share a heart yet have separate respiratory systems, therefore linking their bodies at the chest. In response, Delta told the woman that she would have to buy two seats on account of the fact that she would require three emergency masks in the case of emergency. Accordingly, they said "Look, we're sorry but we're just trying to protect your twins in case of a pressurization failure. On a crowded flight there wouldn't be enough masks to protect both of them if you don't buy the additional seats."

Naturally, this wasn't good enough for the mother that obviously cares so much about the safety of her children. No, no! Outraged, she contacted local newspapers and news programs to get her story out there and to stand up for penny-pinching parents everywhere who expect something for doing nothing more than being a parent. What absolutely annoyed her the most was, as she stated, "the audacity of Delta to tell me to contact the Red Cross to ask for help in paying for the additional ticket." The media exposure, though limited in scope, was enough to send Delta's damage control team in to smooth things over because it's pretty well common knowledge that the airline industry, and Delta in particular, is flailing and already on the population's eternal shit list. Delta, thus, told the woman she needed the additional seat but said they would pay for that additional seat.

Wait a minute! Are you fucking kidding me?! Is it just me, or is the logical end to this story that completely lacks any form of poignancy and has no signs of the asceticism that is motherly love should be to have that womans ability to the claims of motherhood completely revoked? What kind of mother would make an absolute mockery of her children's safety simply because she's cheap? It's not as if conjoined twins are flying daily on flights, and I'd say the fact that the airlines allow a child to sit on their mothers lap is more than enough of a freebie for people who have children and choose to fly {much to the dismay of the rest of us who in turn get to hear your child cry like a fucking banshee for the duration of the flight}. I'd even understand the woman's dismay if she was traveling to a medical facility for the conjoined twins, but she wasn't. Where was she going? A family gathering, something that is completely volitional and not required in any way shape or form to begin with. I'm not saying she had no interest in going, but I am saying it's absolutely ridiculous to travel across the nation with your statistically rare conjoined twins for an event that isn't required in any way, become outraged when, for the safety of your children, the airline tells you that two separate seats are required, and then go cry about it to every media source that will listen to you so you can get your way.

If she couldn't afford it but really wanted to go, then she could do what millions of others do: Drive. Instead, she chose to take the highly dramatic route of kicking, stomping, screaming, and yelling, and instead of smacking her ass and demanding she show some respect for the reasoning behind why she said no and the authority figures right to say no, Momma USA took the woman in her arms, justified the temper tantrum, and gave her exactly what she wanted and left behind a legacy that embraces the immaturity and selfishness our real mothers literally beat out of us when we were two.

It's Emanuelle Bitches

2007-09-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

As my better half explicated, I have a bit of a boo boo, and by a bit I mean a broken pelvis and a few broken ribs. It sounds worse than it is, or maybe the pain killers I'm on are fucking incredible, I don't know for sure.

I suppose everyone wants to know what happened to me. It's really less interesting than you're thinking, and no it had nothing to do with road head. It actually has to do with me borrowing my brothers motorcycle and becoming target practice for a Land Rover. It was my moment to show off my acrobatic abilities, and, new to flying through the air, I buggerd the landing. So, off to the hospital I went where pins and rods have ventured to places not even dicks and dildos have dared to go, and I became disturbingly obsessive with the amount of liquid my catheter would yield daily. I'm fucked up in the head, what more is there to say?

So that's that. I'm home now, I walk at a pace that would make a snail feel like a speed demon, I have to intravenously dose myself with an antibiotic twice daily, and I've experienced quite the role reversal with my beloved wolf-hybrid Alex. It seems he is now the caretaker and I am the baby. Since I've come home he hasn't left my side, not even to eat. I guess that means he really, really loves me, ay? As for Avery, he's been the picture of amazing in dealing with all this, he even stayed the night in the hospital with me the first two nights I was there. I suppose he really, really loves me too!

I will say there is nothing more depressing than spending two weeks in a hospital room. You'd think they'd at least offer you full cable and not just a menu of 25 channels to entertain yourself, but no, and to add insult to my very lovely injuries the TV's they have don't even have adapters to hook up a DVD player or a video game console. Least my father let me use his PSP while there, because I shit you not I would have gone nearly as bat shit crazy as my mother naturally is just sitting there, bed ridden, with nothing to do but stare at whatever bullocks show basic cable was televising. Lucky me did get to watch the train wreck most commonly referred to as the VMA's, and I bore witness to the end of musics most fabricated creation: Britney Spears. Honestly, I don't understand the buzz concerning her being fat. Should she have worn that? No. Is she fat? I'd say most women would want to look like that period, let alone after machine gun child births and whilst eating as much junk food and crap as she does.

Right. That's the update, and Mrs. Dangerdoll I will try to get you good scar pictures but I'm not sure that's possible unless the shots are rated X.

Messenger Me

2007-09-07T08:18:00.000-07:00

I've been sent by Zee to add blogging to my epithet to inform those of you whom have been wondering where my baby is.

The short of the matter is that she was in a fairly serious accident last week and has since been in the hospital. Fear not, she is attached to a morphine pump which she self administers and is, thus, doing absolutely fine. She should be home early next week.

And so ends this update.

In Case You Care

2007-08-28T15:54:00.000-07:00

While at the movie theater last night, Avery and I saw the "Bourne Ultimatum," a movie I wasn't absolutely thrilled to see. I got bored, started to fall asleep, Avery yelled at me for falling asleep, and I decided it was time to entertain myself by doing what the young'n's called "going down."

The totally interesting part is that he chastised me for giving him head because he could not pay attention to the movie at the same time. Oh yes, the man I have chosen to procreate with happens to go far beyond being a dish of the short bus special. He also just kissed goodbye to ever getting the road head he so desperately yearns for every time we go road tripping.

Recap: My boyfriend didn't want his dick sucked in a movie theater because he was watching a movie.

Trollop

2007-08-23T16:18:00.000-07:00

It seems my beloved boyfriend has, contrary to all my beliefs, taken to reading my blog. I don't particularly care because it's not like I have anything to hide, but his silent observation of my life that he has a front row seat to at all times has become not so silent. He came home last night with a smug look on his face, and over our lovely dinner of Mac'n'Cheese he told me how disappointed he was in me.

You see, I've lied to you, sort of. I really haven't done much blogging lately because I really do have nothing to talk about, but the reason I really have nothing to talk about is because I spend every waking moment of my free time glued to the guitar remote that comes with Guitar Hero II. I'm addicted, and it's not pretty. What's worse is that my father, of all people, is insanely awesome at the game, thus making my compulsion to totally rock out that much stronger because I am the only person in my entire family with any musical/artistic ability. I refuse to let a 55 year old engineer take me down in a video game! REFUSE!

I'm sorry I lied. I hope you can understand why I did {think ashamed}.

Jislaaik, I'm Boring

2007-08-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

An anonymous person asked if I’m still alive and for the sake of all things dignified, I’ll assume said anonymous person is not the person who ever so pitiably went on a self-declared matchmaking spree on my comments section. Not that I find anything wrong with finding love on the internet, I just think there are better ways to go about such an endeavor and those ways most certainly do not include anonymity nor a blog comment section.

I am alive, I just don’t have anything to talk about outside of the drudgery that comprises day to day, and the network at work has been down therefore curtailing my ability to even access the web. Not to mention, the neighbor we so affectionately regarded because he unknowingly allowed us to use his wireless internet moved, thus leaving Avery and I with absolutely nothing in our apartment. Some people just have no manners, I swear! How could he just up and move like that, without giving us fair warning that our free internet was going bye-bye? Ungrateful sons of bitches!

I will say that Gwen Stefani depresses me more than anything lately. I think most chicks who were hip to No Doubt and her rather awesome ways are looking at her now and thinking “Ew! Ew! Ew!” I mean, not only does she have her own clothing line, her own shoe line, her own fragrance, but she’s also got two solo albums under her belt that make me ears want to reach out and grab a toothpick to end their own pain. If you like it, you like it and that’s your prerogative, but it just makes me want to rewind my life and take her out of the running for being a huge influence on the reason I want to pursue music to begin with.

Nurture This

2007-08-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

Last night, after realizing we’re now going on week three of having nothing edible in our apartment other than pet food, Avery and I figured it’d be a good time to re-affirm how broke we are. We were standing in front of the wall-o-yogurt looking at fat content to price ratios when a kid went running full force into our shopping cart and then dropped like a rock. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, with the soundtrack of Avery saying “Daaaayummm” rounding out the experience, and finished with Avery and me doing the kind of laugh that sneaks out when you are desperately attempting to not laugh at all because of the seriousness of the situation. The kids mother wasn’t paying enough attention so as to realize her kid was running on a trajectory ending in our shopping cart, but she was all eyes and ears when she heard us laugh at her fallen, precious, little angel. Naturally, prior to this juncture of the evening, she was doing the stereotypical ignoring of her out of control children with intermittent pleas/yelling for the brats to stop behaving like a wankers.

The kid drops, the kid screams, Avery and I do the don’t-laugh laugh, and Mummy comes running over to the kid, then looks at Avery and me who are very obviously holding back huge smiles and barrels of laughs, scoffs, and proceeds to yell at us for running our shopping cart into her child. Not a smart move. It’s never a good thing to accuse people of your mistakes in public, and it’s really not good to accuse people who are a mélange of emotions none of which are on the side of decent or good, and Avery and I were in foul, foul, foul moods. What do you expect? We had $65.00 to feed ourselves for the next 3 weeks. And people wonder why we’re skinny.

Shitty Mum: “You should watch where you’re going. My God, I think he’s got a concussion.”
Avery: “We weren’t going anywhere, our cart wasn’t moving. We were just standing here when your kid ran into the cart.”
Shitty Mum: “Well you should have moved the cart so he wouldn’t run into it!”
Me: “Well, you should have been watching your kid.”
Shitty Mum: “I have two other kids to watch after too, what are you two looking at?”
Avery: “Your kid drop like a rock to the ground.”
Me: “They aren’t our kids, they aren’t our responsibility.”
Shitty Mum, after giving Avery the evil eye: “Well you could have a little decency, you know? To help others out.”
Me: “We already missed that opportunity, seeing as you procreated.”
Shitty Mum: “You two have a lot of nerve telling me I’m an unfit mother.”
Avery: “Well, if our opinion doesn’t matter, we can call Child Protective Services to verify your mothering abilities.”
Me: “You know what, Avery? Out of our decency and our desire to help others out, we should call them. I’m sure once we tell them she was ignoring her child until he was potentially seriously injured they’ll be very interested.”
Shitty Mum: “You two are crazy.”
Avery, after pulling his cell out and waving it in her face: “It’s a phone call, or you shut up and keep moving. You decide.”

She kept moving.

A Pick Me Up

2007-08-13T07:20:00.000-07:00

I think anyone who haphazardly lets the spectacle of VH1 grace their TV screen is sucked in. There’s no method nor reasoning behind it, other than VH1’s programming is that entertaining and is the equivalent of visual crack. Thus, on those rare occasions I can actually take the remote from Avery’s cold lifeless hands, I switch the channel from Sports Center to VH1 and let my brain shut off and the good times roll.

The latest onslaught of visual crack is this show called the “Pick Up Artist.” If you’ve seen it and you’re female you may understand where I’m coming from, if not, I somehow still think you’ll understand where I’m coming from. The premise lies in the fact that there are 8 calignyephobics who are so frustrated and dismayed with their endeavors to attract and engage dollies they have decided to go on national television to let all of TV land know how pathetic they are and seek help from the worlds self-proclaimed best pick up artist: Mystery.

Problem Number One: This guy claims to be a master pick up artist and claims to have the expertise to engage any woman. In theory, I can see how that could be true, especially if every time he and his crew are going to pick up women they do so at a bar and they continually go for the same type of woman, but women aren’t really that simple. You men shake your head, but in reality, women aren’t. And guess what? Men aren’t that simple either. I’m not going to lie, men are much more simple then women, but in the grand scheme of relationships I’d say nothing is simple enough that it can be taught, otherwise, couples therapy wouldn’t be such a crock of shit, right? Not to mention people are individualistic enough that there can’t be a 100% surefire way to hook, line, and sinker them. Where men and women differ most is their objectives as a single person, and this is where the bar scene comes into play. Engaging a single guy at a bar, with initial attraction being a given, is as easy as some sexual innuendo and some allusion to him getting some form of action sometime during the night. If all goes to plan, that guy will be eating out of the bokkie’s palm no problem. Don’t believe me? How often do guys go out of their way to meet up with a group of chicks they’ve talked to sometime during the night, even if only one guy may possibly get laid? How many times has a guy “taken one for the team” so his friend could potentially close the deal? Now switch it: How many times has a group of women done the same? Not nearly as often, and I’m almost positive that no woman would sit idly by and talk to the ugly fat friend just so her friend could chat up the good looking bloke, let alone so she can hook up with him. Why? Because women are inherently fucked up in the head.

Engaging a single woman is damn near impossible. For starters, women always travel in herds that resemble a silent dictatorship in the sense that even if 9 girls are having fun, if girl number 10 wants to leave, the herd will evacuate and follow girl number 10’s instructions. If you want one of us you have to somehow engage all of us, and if one of us wants to go there goes the woman you’ve spent all night talking to and buying drinks for, and, though she may have enjoyed the conversation and though she may think you’re a swell guy, odds are the only thing you’ll have to show for making a connection with her is a higher than normal credit card bill. Also, if the girl does show up where you are, you can bet she’s brought her drama gaggle as well, and that crew, whether consciously or not, has one goal: to cock block you. Most often, it comes down to the fact mentioned above, because while she has you, they have no one and that’s not allowed. Even if there are 10 guys in the group and 10 girls in the group, not all 10 guys will be “attractive” and there’s no way girl number whatever will sit back and take one for the team, like anyone in the group of guys would. Catty bitches that we are, if she’s chatting up a hot bloke and we aren’t, then she won’t be for long. Even if you have the girl all alone talking to you, it’s not 100% she’ll give you her number, it’s not even 100% that she likes you. She may have her eye on a guy across the bar and, being as fucked in the head as we women can be, thinks that by talking to you she’ll get him to talk to her. Hell, she may just be waiting for the other gals she’s there with to come out of the bathroom so they can go somewhere else, and getting a free drink out of you is far better than shelling out $8 for a drink she’ll only drink half of.

Basically, the only surefire way to pick up a girl in any setting, but in particular a bar setting, is to hone in on the girls who are there for the same reason the single guy is there, which is to get physical, PHYSICAL! {pardon the 80’s song reference} You know the girl I’m talking about-the one who’s sloppy drunk, buying shots, and who generally fits into the stereotype for a sorority girl whether she is one or not. She’s the only girl that will willingly talk to a random guy that approaches her without some holier-than-thou who-the-fuck-are-you attitude prefacing the entire interaction, and in general she has nothing but getting some dick on her mind, which is a great thing for that guy, but does it really quantify as picking her up? Does doing the smack-jiggle all night and most likely never seeing her again quantify as picking a woman up? Or is it just getting into drunken debauchery? These 8 sods are characterized as “good guys,” and they all said, without falter, they would like a girlfriend. Sure, practice is practice, but is chatting up a future hook-up really the same as chatting up what could be your future? Arguable, to say the least.

Problem Number Two: The “master pick up artist’s” name is Mystery, and as part of completion of the course, it seems, each guy is assigned an equally poof nickname, like Matador and J-Dog, who happen to be Mystery’s cohorts and helpers on the show. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with their real names, and I’m guessing they proudly wear these monikers for the sole reason it makes them feel cool, but do men really think women are into the nickname thing? What girls do you know call their female friends by a nickname that isn’t something like Becks, for Rebecca? If she does have some nickname that isn’t logically related to her name, then it’s more than likely only guys call her by it. That’s beside the point, though. The point is what women in their right mind would talk to a guy that came up to her and said, “My name is Mystery”? I’d do the quintessential eye roll and attitude-soaked sigh before I’d even flutter an eyelash his way and talk to him, and the same goes for the guy named Matador. J-Dog would get a similar response, but would probably get a giggle somewhere in there and a “You let people call you that? You sure are holding onto your youth, ay?” tossed into the mix. Even if these guys were Versace model gorgeous, the nicknames alone are enough to put an end to their Pick Up Master ways. Not to mention, Mystery dubbed himself so because of the mysterious way he can pick up women, and Matador received his name because he goes in there and has to fight off women like a bullfighter. So, these guys come up to you, utter their laughable appellation, and when you ask where they got such a ridiculous nickname, I’d say their game is over. There’s something not at all desirable about a guy who is so awesome at picking up women it’s a mystery how he does it; therefore, he’s taken this apparent axiom upon himself and has dubbed himself Mystery. Mysteriously, I think the majority of women would walk away.

Problem Number Three: The “pick up artists” are nowhere near Versace Model status. They aren’t even attractive, and even though I think Mystery may very well be a decent looking guy underneath it all, the fact he wears more eyeliner than I do and the fact he insists on making macabre fashion choices are already two strikes against him. In the first episode, Mystery actually went out into the bar to show the poor caligynephobes how it’s done in none other than a pimp hat, complete with fashion goggles, a dew rag, and what appeared to be smoky eyes. I appreciate a guy I can get make-up tips from and dresses so audaciously it’s on the verge of grotesque, but I can only appreciate it if the guy has taken the steps to be forthright enough with himself to come out of the closet and openly embrace his love for all things Cher. If I were one of those 8 guys who apparently needs so much help {and I won’t lie, they are rather shoddy when it comes to chatting up women}, I’d be hard pressed to take advice about picking women up from a guy wearing fashion goggles and eyeliner. Matador makes decent fashion choices, but he’s not attractive and is a bit tubby which is something most women will not readily overlook. As for J-Dog, he’s short, he’s nerdy, and he has two black lines in his hair on each side, which is rather a faux pas unless your Vanilla Ice and it’s still 1983, and his only saving grace is the fact he has a hint of a British accent, which American women find dreamy.

In the end, what these guys need is an ounce of self-confidence and an aura of not giving a shit. That’s the secret to reeling in women, and that appears to be the mystery behind Mystery’s work. I’m not sure what’s groundbreaking or mysterious about it, I always thought that was common knowledge, but if hearing it from a white man in pimp attire on national television is what these caligynephobes need to finally understand that the initial world of dating is 90% how you portray your self and 10% who you are, you better believe I’m going to be sitting on the couch laughing my ass off all along the way.

A-Go-Go Agog

2007-08-09T14:49:00.000-07:00

Mid afternoon Monday I received the following voicemail from my mum:

"Manu, I'm not doing well. Can you come over as soon as you get a chance?"

Naturally, I call her back but she doesn't pick up. I call my brothers, none of them have heard anything from Mum, and my father chuckled to himself and said she's fine, but if I'm so concerned to go check on her.

Naturally, I go into panic mode and storm into my boss' office and proclaim that I have a family emergency and must go right away. She said "Of course, Elena, take the rest of the week off," because that bitch refuses to remember my name but that bitch also gave me four paid days of work off. I don't even bother calling Avery. No, I just stop by and trade cars with him because his Audi is much faster than my Honda. I did leave a note on the windshield saying I switched cars with him though. I'm caring.

Now, behind the wheel of an Audi, I proceed to make it from Portland to Gold Beach in a little less than 4 hours. Traditionally, that's a 5-hour drive. I get to my parents house, I immediately run into the house, and there's my mother sitting watching Scrubs on the couch.

Mum: Manu, what are you doing here?
Me: You told me to come over as soon as I can.
Mum: I did? Oh! I remember. Yea, I went to the mall today and something horrible happened, but I'm okay now.
Me: What happened? Did someone hurt you? Were you in an accident or something?
Mum: No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. It was nothing, I’m fine now. I made kunafi, it’s in the fridge, there’s some muhalabiy-yah left too, unless your father ate it.
Me: Are you kidding me? Mum! You didn’t sound fine on the message you left me. So what happened?
Mum: I was trying on pants and it seems I no longer fit into a size 2. I was near tears when I had to ask the woman for a 4. Can you believe it? How fat I've become?

Most women would die to be a size 2 at all, let alone at the age of 53 after being pregnant 4 times and having twins. Dare I say it; my mum is far from most women. For those of you who have asked how to get abs like mine, aside from surfing and kayaking which really are the best ab work outs on the planet, my answer to you is simply genetics. My mother is tiny. Before she got married and had kids, she would wade in a size 0, much as I do now. Number wise, she’s still a waif, but in her mind it’s the same as if she just went from a size 12 to a 14. That’s a shift I think most women would be aghast with.

No excuses though. I’m well aware that my mother is bat shit crazy. Bat shit crazy, though, got me a week off work. Huzzah!

Strange Ficiton

2007-08-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

Fact: The more racing stickers you have on your car, the shittier of a driver you are.
Fiction: Women cannot drive a manual transmission with 6'' stilettos on. I do it almost daily.

Fact: If you are of Asian descent odds are you fall on one of two extremes of the driving continuum--absolutely horrid or wannabe fast and the furious yet still fairly horrid.
Fiction: Rice rockets are race cars. A giant fiber glass spoiler does not your car faster make.

Fact: Dressing to flatter your figure will always trump whether or not you are categorically thin.
Fiction: Maternity style flowy shirts will look good on people of all body types. Sorry, it only works if you are pregnant or get fat in such a way that you already resemble being pregnant.

Fact: I cannot talk to Avery on any medium because he will drive me absolutely crazy. This applies to everything that does not involve vocal conversation while in close proximity.
Fiction: I talk funny. Sorry, to me you’re the one who talks funny.

Fact: The best way to entertain a 3 year old is to hand them a pile of dough and food coloring.
Fiction: Your child is special and precious. Your child is special and precious to you, but to the rest of humanity it’s just another child.

Fact: The duck billed platypus is the most amusing participant in the animal kingdom.
Fiction: Seals are cute. Once they reach maturity they aren’t so much cute anymore, as alien like in their appearance.

Fact: Women will not drop a deuce in a public restroom unless there is absolutely no way around it.
Fiction: Women appreciate when a guy is comfortable enough to break wind in front of her. We don’t work like men, we think it’s disgustingly and yearn for the days of yore when you wouldn’t have muttered the phrase “Know what I think?” and then sound your ass horn.

Fact: It’s better to regret doing something than regret not doing something once it’s too late.
Fiction: Money isn’t happiness. I’m not unhappy, but if I had a bit more of a spending budget I’d be a whole lot happier.

Fact: The majority of South Africans are surfers.
Fiction: Every South African is an expert on great white sharks. I know just as much as you know, and the fact I’ve actually had them swimming within 10 meters of me doesn’t make me an expert whatsoever. It just makes me slightly crazy. Stop asking me such strange questions as what decibel level white’s are most attracted to, or I’ll be forced to make it the sound of your voice.

Jaws

2007-08-01T02:50:00.000-07:00

For those of you who do not partake in the mighty and awesome wonder that is Shark Week, then not only am I jealous of the fact you can go to sleep before 2am because you aren’t nerdy enough to get sucked into the awesomeness, but you are missing out on a wonderful showcase of my homeland. If there’s one thing we got, it’s sharks. Lots and lots of Great White sharks. And yes, before you ask, I’ve seen a Great White, I know someone who’s been bitten by a Great White while surfing, and I continue to surf the Cape in light of that “attack.” Shit happens, aye? Can’t hate on an animal for doing what it’s intended to do just because you’re not the seal it was hoping for. Jy weet 'n blou hond se kont daarvan* the rules of the ocean , so, can't rightly get pissed at a shark for your invasion of his world and disobeyance of the rules, ay?

So, I’m sitting and watching Great Whites maul random things, listening to peoples attack tales, and the entire time I’m pining for South Af and getting more and more homesick. I’m saving up my vacation time for the inevitable moment Rachel gains another ten pounds and vows to kill my brother for getting her pregnant and am required to offer her sanctuary in my apartment, but mark my words, I will go back to South Af this year if I have to slap a jetpack onto Avery and ride his ass all the way there. I will say “Howzit?” and hear a “Ja, well, no fine” in response, and I won’t get looked at like a total idiot when someone asks me how I’m doing and I say “No fine” instead of “I’m fine.” Momma! I’m coming home!

*roughly translated means “You don’t know the rules of”

Monthly Fucked up

2007-07-30T15:10:00.001-07:00

I like to think that I'm blessed with some of the utmost and inexplicably fucked up conversations. I usually write down the amusing conversations I've been lucky enough to be apart of, but now that I have this blog I feel it's best displayed here and not in my notebook. I like to share, what can I say.

Me: Congrats on being pregnant again!
Rachel: Fuck off.
Me: [blank stare]
Rachel: Don't look at me like that! We'll see how you feel when you get pregnant for the third time in less than two years. Christ, I'm never going t loose this baby weight and I am so not looking forward to getting so big again I can't wipe my own goddamn ass!
Me: [blank stare].

Dad: Things better with Nirel?
Levi: Still haven't talked.
Me: Just talk to her, already. Ask her what's wrong and that should open the floodgate?
Dad: She's right. Most relationship issues first come about as a lack of sex in the relationship.
Avery: If you don't want to know what her issues are, just guilt her into having sex with you. Works for me all the time.
Dad: Is that so?

Random Guy: It figures that the hottest girl in this complex is married.
Me: It figures the only person in this complex to ever talk to me can't seem to shift gears on his bike and pedals like a maniac to go two feet.
Random Guy: Hey, I just complimented you.
Me: Did I not just compliment you?

New Boss: Elaine, do you have those boards ready?
Me: It's Emanuelle, and yes I finished them. Let me get them for you.
New Boss: Great, thanks Elaine.
Me: It's Emanuelle.
New Boss: Wow, you certainly draw well. Keith, you didn't tell me we had a veritable artist here! Eleanor is quite the commodity.
Keith: Eleanor?
Me: She means me.
New Boss: Yes, Elaina.
Me: Emanuelle, my name is Emanuelle.
Keith: Not worth it. Let it go.

Me: Isn't it amazing how all this shit was built in ancient times?
Avery: I know. How the fuck do you build something like the Eiffel Tower without modern construction equipment?
Me: Please tell me you aren't serious.

Afoot, Afoul, Afloat, Denial.

2007-07-27T09:28:00.000-07:00

Today is Alex's birthday! Sure, none of you care nor know who he is or anything about him, but think of me as a proud peacock with all my tail feathers showing because today I'm brimming with joy that my little boy is just a touch more grown up. Isn't he gorgeous?

3 weeks old

8 weeks old

1 year old

And, 'cause it's something to do:

The pen hit the paper with a leaky thud that was overshadowed by frantic drawing, and then the screams commenced.
“Hike!”
“Backpacking across Europe!”
“Um! Um! Explore!”
The artist shook his head, circled the bottom left corner of the large page, and allowed the pen to thud and ooze a few times before he continuing to draw.
“Bus number 11.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You idiot, stand up and think about it.”
The artist, growing increasingly frustrated, circled something else on the page and looked at his team while the pen bled out on the page.
“Trek?”
“Are those stickman supposed to be anatomically correct, ‘cause that dude is seriously lacking!”
A voice from across the room announces that 20 seconds remain.
“Draw something else you douche! No one knows what that is!”
Five seconds
“Your mom!”
Time is up.
The artist erupts “Afoot, you morons! Afoot!”
“You draw a dude with a tiny shlong and a hill, and we’re supposed to guess 'afoot?'”
The artist sighs, shakes his head, and sits down.

Save The Queen

2007-07-26T09:12:00.001-07:00

I happen to be one of those freaks of nature who has no idea they are stressed about things at all until their body completely shuts down and fucks up in every which way on them and only then do they sit down not to figure out what is so bothersome, but what in God’s name they did to their body to deserve such a mighty retaliation.

This time around my body skipped the pussy middle ground and went straight to business with a heavy weight punch that has rendered my unable to move my head in any which way or raise my arms slightly above shoulder level. This has lead to me being unable to do the most trivial of things; for instance, I actually had to use scissors to cut open my soy sauce packets because I couldn’t tear them open with my hands without cringing and/or writhing in pain. My body, the vengeful sod that it is, much like the soul that’s contained within, decided to make me into Quasimodo’s stunt double at the most inopportune time imaginable: menstruation time.

I’m sure you’re sitting there thinking that this happens to be the most inopportune time as a result of what would logically be my inability to use tampons, but, I assure you that this is a far worse fate and that I somehow manage to take a deep enough breath to get the job done without requiring a morphine drip afterwards. No, this is the most inopportune time imaginable because during this lovely time of the month I am the equivalent of a 12 year old boy who just discovered that hand + penis + stroke=amazing. I’m the walking female equivalent of a hard-on and simply breathing a certain way makes me moister than a Dunkin Heinz cake.

Naturally, Avery won’t touch me as a result of my gimp status other than to rub IcyHot on my back, and do you have any idea how hard it is to masturbate in this state? If you read an article in the newspaper tomorrow concerning a girl dying from the pain that resulted from her choice to hump a doorknob, that would be me.

Only I Could Love Him

2007-07-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

You wake up to the sweet, sweet sounds of Imogen Heap, as you do every morning, and roll out of bed. You proceed to grace the toilet with not only its beloved and often misogynistically forgotten seat, but a personal tangy gift from you to the toilet that has a dash of the asparagus you ate with dinner last night. You look at the mirror; you see nothing but a large off-white splatter. The splatter is so overbearing that you completely fail to see the note taped on the right side of the mirror. You furrow your brow, you raise an eyebrow, and you immediately locate your two puppies and make sure that they aren’t having episodes of exorcist-like shitting, vomiting, or urinating, when the disgusting creature most often referred to as a “feline” meows at you and looks at her food dish. You scoff. That little bitch of a cat must have caused the off-white firework wannabe now gracing your mirror. She meows again. You roll your eyes and think about exactly how heart broken your significant other would be if they came home and their beloved cat accidentally was poisoned by the bleach you accidentally left out in a bowl with her food and treats in it, decide that they’re a complete pussy and would fall apart, and fill the useless creatures food dish just so she can continue her existence of doing nothing more than sleeping, eating, shitting, and making you want to vomit every time you see her.

You return to the scene of the explosion, Windex in hand, when you finally see the piece of notepaper taped to the right side of the mirror just as you’re about to unleash the bottles first frothy sneeze. You gently slide the piece of paper between your middle and index finger and rip with all the style, finesse, and professionalism of a Brazilian waxer, and you read:

“HEY LOVE!
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T WIPE OFF THE MIRROR. YOU KNOW THAT GIANT ZIT I HAD IN MY ARMPIT? WELL, I FINALLY POPPED IT AND IT IS GLORIOUS! I NEED A PICTURE SO I CAN SHOW THE GUYS. PROMISE I'LL CLEAN IT UP WHEN I GET HOME. LOVE YOU!"

Stroke It!

2007-07-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Perhaps my work ethic isn’t as above and beyond as I once thought, but for the life of me I cannot understand why a woman showed up to work today presenting every possible symptom of impending stroke ever listed in any “So You May Have a Droopy Left Side” pamphlet or stroke resource. Now, I have come into work while I was just inches from officially knocking at death’s door, and I’ve done the requisite hacking up of a lung when the boss asks me if I'm sick, but I don’t think work would be my first stop in the morning if I was seemingly inches away from a stroke.

In her defense she’s up for a big promotion, but I’m willing to wager my years salary that no one would be sitting around discussing who’s best for the job and say, “Oh, yea, but she missed work that one morning because she thought she might have a stroke.” and take her out of the running.

Either way, pulling up to four ambulances with flashing lights and sirens going is a great way to start the week, don’t you think?

Oh, and this guy is my new hero. I have $20 on him being sued the minute she finds the article.

FiFi The Hut

2007-07-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

I'd blame Finn for this. I'm an artist not a writer, but when boredom calls it calls.

        “Sebastian, are you going to go greet your table?” His manager tried her best to come off as a bitch, but she was country-fried in Southern goodness, which made her more cute than a royal bitch.
        “You’re kidding me! People, in my section, on a Saturday night, in the second most popular restaurant in this city? Why must you toy with me so, Carla? Why?”
        She smiled and shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”
        “I’m everyone’s favorite, baby! I’ll head over there in a minute, they should be going to commercial soon.”
        “You’re a number one fan now, aren’t you?”
        “Not everyday your baby sister could be the next American Idol. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time to stand here and shoot the shit with you. I have a table to acquaint myself with.”
        “Context doesn’t matter, you’re still putting a dollar in the jar for that, Sebastian!” He took a dollar our of his pocket, placed it in the jar aptly labeled “Put Your Cash Here Or Have Your Mouth Washed Out With Soap”, and grabbed a pitcher of water.

        “Is that even English anymore? Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed…”
        “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. Looks like our little girl is in the middle of her own personal production of Fiddler on the Roof!”
        “More like matchmaker, matchmaker, give me a gun. Christ, at least the guys in that movie couldn’t be Jabba the Huts stunt double.”
        “Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed.”
        “Bella, shut up already. It’s English!”
        “Sorry, Yule. So, what are you going to do?”
        “She’s going to marry the fat pig and then suffocate under all the rolls while they consummate.”
        “You’re disgusting Marty, but I don’t expect anything less from a pre-op tranny.” Bella lifted her empty glass as if to make a toast.
“        I get my tits on the 20th, you bitches are jealous!”
        “Hey you!” Sebastian looked at Yule and pointed at himself, slightly perplexed. “Yea, you. Why don’t you actually step close enough to use that pitcher and fill our empty glasses, maybe tell us about your specials, and stop listening to our conversation. Goddamn nosy waiters! Do something useful, don’t just stand there and eavesdrop.”
        “I know it’s hard to believe that I wouldn’t want to stand around and listen to you girls talk about tampons, or clothing, or how fat you are, but I was actually looking at the TV over there.” He picked up Marty’s glass and began filling it. “My sister is on American Idol and since some of us have to work,” he began filling Bella’s glass, “I have to watch her while I’m here.” He grabbed Yule’s glass.
        Yule looked at him while she placed her head in her hand. “I’m sure she’s happy she got the talent of singing and not the talent of filling glassware. You win some you loose some.”
        Sebastian stared intently at her with a smirk. “That’s certainly true, but, coming from a girl sitting at a table with a man in drag who has probably done nothing more than mooch of mommy and daddy for a living, I’ll take it with a grain of salt.” He began to poor.
        “You fucking idiot,” Yule screamed as she leapt up from her seat, “my God, you can’t even poor water into a fucking glass correctly.”
        “It’s just water.”
        “Don’t ‘It’s just water’ me, my vagina feels like it should be the victim of global warming right now!”
        He laughed. “I’ll go get you some napkins.” As he walked toward the kitchen a wave of certainty bitch smacked him across the face. He was certain that it was fate’s hand that brought her into the restaurant that night, and that it was the divine hand of destiny that had her seated in his section. Sure, spilling water wasn’t the best way to get a woman’s attention, but attention is attention. If celebrity’s can believe it while they’re staring at a picture of their nostrils laced with Coke, he could believe it. He was approaching the table again, equipped with a stack of paper napkins and no less than four clothe napkins, when he honed in his highly tuned waiter ear to pick up what the ladies were talking about.
        “So, what are you doing this weekend?”
        “Work, and my parents just got a place at Bentley Square so, naturally, I have to help them move.”

        A week later, he was sitting on a bench across from Bentley Square watching her approach him. He knew she didn’t remember him, and he was determined to keep it that way. It’s not often the prongs of love-at-first-sight gouge out every ember of who you are and make you want to start anew so you can at least have a shot with this new found object of affection, but when it happens you best believe no one can resist, and that no one included Sebastian.

_____________

        Yule he said, and he repeated it to add some extra oomph to this whole situation, which, if you ask me, is just overkill. You’d be hard pressed to find more of an absolute wanker. Fydor took pompous narcissism to levels that not even Julius Caesar could ascertain. Don’t believe me? Well, lets just put it this way: At the age of six, when our families went on summer vacation together, he picked me up, waved me around, and wound up tossing me to my plummet of about sixty feet, all because there was a bee buzzing in his vicinity. Yes, even at the tender age of six years old this boy possessed a self-love that was incomprehensible and destructive to anyone who came near him. And now? Now I sit across from him at, what else, a Russian restaurant trying my hardest to explain to him why he and I will never work. Of course, he can’t comprehend why a woman wouldn’t want him and all his three-hundred twelve pounds of Gorbachev looking glory. He is his only fan.

        Yule. He says it one more time. Leave it to my father who can’t even read English, let alone write it, to change your name from Julia with a twist to the quintessential term for all things Christmas related. Happy birthday, Jesus, now stop ruining my goddamn name and giving people reasons to put disgusting decorations on everything they own.
        “I need to go.”
        “Go where?”
        “Somewhere else. I’m sure sitting here watching you get fatter is something most women delight in, but I’m two steps from vomiting and there’s no way to take two steps back.” I'm thinking 'cause opposites attract and you know! it ain't difference just a natural fact...
        “You’re so feisty, that’s why I adore you so.”
        “No, you adore me because my father promised your father that you and I would get married one day.”
        “It’s how things are, Yule.” I’m digging my nails through my jeans straight through to my thighs at the sound of him, yet again, saying my name.
        “Look Fifi, it may be how things are for you, your father, and my father, but it’s not how things are for me.”
        “My name is Fydor, not Fifi, and I just can’t understand how you can sit there and say you have no attachments to me. Don’t you remember being kids? We were inseparable.” Visions of him egg-tossing me sprang to the cinema scream of my memory.
        “Fifi, our parents are friends and live next door to each other. I think you’re confusing constantly having to be around each other with a genuine like and desire to be around each other.”
        “So you feel nothing for me? Not even sexually? How can this be?”
        “Okay, I’m leaving.”

        I’m somewhere in between realizing that these news shoes I just got are pretty comfortable and running through how many calories I’ve eaten today, when I realize I’m about two blocks from my parents house. I stop, already set up for the pivot and turn, and just as I’m about to flawlessly implement my bastard intuition starts whispering in my ear: You went this way for a reason, why not see what it is? Curiosity killed the cat, and now it’s going to kill my ability to even have a shot at living happily ever after. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. It’s not like this is something I can assume the position of daddy’s little girl for and combat every time I flutter my eyelashes. This isn’t like asking for twenty bucks. This is asking my dad to give the finger to tradition and let the family take on a new tradition-an American tradition.

        I’m approaching Bentley Square and all I can see is this guy staring at me. I do a subtle check and make sure no boobs are hanging out or camel toe is showing and I’m in the clear. So what is he staring at? I assume it’s just one of those things—like those paintings where no matter where you stand in a room, the eyes are always on you—and keep walking, but the closer and closer I get the more and more I realize that he’s blatantly staring at me. I’m about fifteen feet away from him and say “Unless there’s something gigantic hanging out of my nose that’s Technicolor I suggest you stop staring at me.”

        He blinks, finally, and I know I’ve seen this guy before. He’s voicing his apologies when I realize where I’ve seen him.
        “You’re a waiter at Fusion aren’t you?”
        “Yea, I am. Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I saw you and I was trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”
        “Just tell me you didn’t bring any cold water with you so you can refresh your memory.”

He smiled at me and at that same moment something inside me burst into flames.

My Horse is Really Coconuts

2007-07-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

Just when you think that peoples self awareness has advanced to a level of never having this kind of thing happening again and just when you rest your mind at ease that, in the absence of any Europeans or Asian immigrants, you will never have to deal with explaining the ins and outs of not only personal hygiene, but hygiene out of common courtesy. Oh yes, you were wrong. Oh so very wrong.

For as you sit, water color pastels in hand, you are greeted by none other than the smell of what can only be described as old people. The pungent waft that strays from those people who have both feet in the grave, both hands, and are holding onto dear life literally by their nostrils that seem to be the only part of their body that refuses to give up and make a subterranean home. The stench is coming from a far off place, but it’s concentrated.

You wonder if the person actually uses mothballs in the place of breath mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, and dentist visits. And just as you think that things can’t progress into anything more vile, the smell of partially digested hot wings wafts your way, and you decide enough is enough. You declare war! You will find the root of all things effluvial and squash it! You will send it back to its source smelling like sweet summer rain and puppy breath. There is no if, there is no shall, this, now, is your destiny.

You saunter towards the stink, game face on. You knock, casually, mouthing the words you will use to mount your attack, starting with gentle and rapidly mounting into a full verbal assault of rhetoric fit for a Jerry Springer Episode. If only the Lord above could bleep out the choice words that will shortly come out of your mouth to help you save some grace.

There’s a pause, a reply from behind the door, and your hands clench into fists as the door is open and you are greeted by a blast of mothballs, hot wings, and death. You falter, but only for a moment, and remember that in war there is no weakness only victory. You choke back the vomit the funk’s assault has caused. Once the initial shock of the first strike subsides, you’re greeted with the innocent face of a boy not much older than you. He smiles. You notice his dimples. You retreat for a second, but then, as wave two of the macabre stink washes over you, you realize that you must stand your ground. You must prevail. You must.

You reach in your pocket and shiver with excitement at the thought of the strategic and well thought out foray you are about to implement. You reach farther into your pocket and pull out your weapon that rests in your fingers wrapped ever so gently in a flashy silver gown.

“Take this. You need it, among other things.” You hand him the cinnamon flavored goodness resting in your hand. “I’m not sure what is up with you, how horrible your diet must be, or how much you drank last night, but I can smell all of this,” your arms flail in the air wildly, “ALL of this ALL the way over at my drawing boards and I have to say at 9am I don’t even want to smell my own perfume, let alone all of your random bodily functions and the extent of your lack of oral hygiene. If Aloise asks where I went, tell him I went to the drug store to get some air freshener, then breath on him and I’m sure he’ll completely understand.”

You walk away.

Victory is yours.

Explosive

2007-07-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

Gas is a pretty funny thing. I mean, it doesn’t take a stroke of comedic genius to know that farting and burping are tumultuously entertaining, especially when flames are involved. But, think outside of that. Think to those times when you’re so bloated and distended that you can’t decide if you’re having a heart attack or actually experiencing death, at it’s finest, and stop looking so coy! Everyone has gas, at least 200 ml at any given time to be exact, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve been there, you’ve done that, and you’ve sat there praying to Jesus in his sweet baby manger with little baby Einstein toys floating above {shout out to Love Bites on that one} to give you the power you need to just, well?, let ‘er rip.

That was me last night. I was sitting on the couch with a bulging belly outlined on its underside by my jeans and on the top by my tank top, both legs pointing straight out, my hands resting gently on my bulge, stoned out of my fucking mind.

At first I felt beyond nauseated, which led to me screaming at Avery to go to the drugstore and get me a pregnancy test before I actually did him bodily harm. I like to think that most women follow that logic: If you feel sick to your stomach at a completely random time and haven’t had any alcoholic beverages to cause a babbelas or anything to eat that is out of the ordinary, you flip and think you are pregnant. Before he left, Avery thought it would be a good idea to pack a bowl for me, so as to make me feel better. I love him dearly, he’s a phenomenal scientific mind, but he has a vagina for brains when it comes to anything medical, particularly when it comes to me. After all, this is the guy who, knowing full well I’m deathly allergic to pine nuts, made a meal in which every dish had pine nuts.

I was at the point of feeling so horrible that I would do anything just to feel better, so I hit the pipe, and then became much acquainted with the feeling of being completely subdued and feeling disgusting. It’s not pleasant. I don’t recommend it. I was laying on the couch staring at the wonders of our apartment ceiling and contemplating all the profound things that come to mind when one thinks of a ceiling, all the while praying to just vomit already so I can feel better, when things sort of shifted from that nauseated feeling to straight pain. Not just any pain, though. It was like I had too many things inside me and was going to burst. It was the pain of too much goddamn pressure inside me, and instead of my stomach hurting, my chest was killing me. Heart Attack! That’s all I could think, and I layed there thinking at the age of 22 I’m too young to die like this. Dying cause I tried something on my snowboard that I thought was death defying but obviously wasn’t, that’s fine, but a heart attack? Come now! How was God going to play me like that?

Avery came back, I told him how I felt, and he told me it sounds the same as when his Mom has really bad gas. Naturally, he had to go back to the drugstore to get me something for gas, and came back with GasX. I downed about 5 pills, and wallowed in the misery of how absolutely ghastly I felt, when I guess either my body gave into the mastery that is my mind control or the pills started to work. All of a sudden I turned into the ice cream man, if the ice cream man’s song was comprised of various alternating horns all playing a single flat note. They were the kind of farts that men gloat about. They were long, they were loud, they were full of force, and I even admit that I was rather impressed with myself at first. Avery sat on the other side of the couch just looking at me amazed, and all I could say was “At least they don’t smell.”

So, there I was, sitting on the couch, pants unbuttoned, shirt up to where my boobs would be if I had any, stoned out of my mind, so full of gas that I actually thought that at any minute I would actually take flight from the force of the gas coming out of me, with my boyfriend sitting near me laughing uncontrollably. He actually called our friends and held the phone up so they could hear me letting loose, and if they didn’t pick up, well I’m sure that’s an amazing voicemail to receive.

All-in-all, once the GasX started working, it wasn’t bad. Not only did I get to sleep in the bed all by myself because Avery was scared I’d fart all over him, which I think is absolutely ludicrous given he is the master of the Dutch oven in my world which is saying a lot since I have four brothers and a father who are all very open about their gas and spent 18 years of my life sharing a room with Mattai, but I was so cozy and warm all night.

Yum!

Queerest of the Queer

2007-07-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure how to get people to read my own blog, or maybe my own blog is just so horrible people come, they see, and then flee. Either way, I do read quite a few peoples blogs and one of them had a cutesy wootsy little survey-ish thing called a meme, and because I’m sitting here at work with nothing to do on account of my boss being fired by her boss who was fired by his boss today, I’m desperately searching for things to occupy my time.

The rules are as follows: Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Naturally, I have no one to tag.

1. Perhaps it’s not so much strange as proof-positive of the fact I’m a degenerate, but I’m the type of person who will hesitate, ponder, and actually do intensive research on something like mattresses, which lord knows Avery and I need a new one ‘cause ours sinks in the middle, before I’ll purchase it and even then I’ll hesitate because of the price; however, when it comes to clothing, shoes, art supplies, and music related things I have absolutely no reservations about dropping $1,000 and don’t see the big deal when I do.

2. It absolutely drives me nuts when the toilet paper dispenser is on the right side of the toilet, so much so that I don’t let Avery put toilet paper in any of the toilet paper dispensers in our apartment because they are all located on the right. Instead, we place them on a little table located on the left side of the toilet.

3. My natural hair color is dark brown and I have aqua-ish colored eyes. My twin brother is blonde and brown eyed. Figure that one out!

4. I can fake an American accent to the point of pure perfection except when it comes to words that have a long “A” sound, like talk. Not a huge deal, but it is amusing when I converse with people who don’t know I’m from South Af and they make a sort of perplexed face when I say such a word and you can tell they immediately dismiss it as something that is totally in their head.

5. Growing up, my pet was a black-backed jackal named Lars that I found as a puppy one day while walking home from primary. I gave him the remnants of my sandwich; he followed me home and never left my side. He even slept with me. If you don’t know what a black-backed jackal is, it’s similar to a fox and foxes, even those raised in captivity, are rarely comfortable around humans in their adult life. Not a far stretch that I’m now the Mum to a ¾ Wolf hybrid named Alex, ay?

6. I’ve been with Avery for five years. I’ve been in my band for six. Avery has never seen my band play.

7. I am a certified stunt driver. Think fast and the furious, except I drive a Honda Fit.

8. I can orgasm simply from someone biting my neck in the right spots.

Wedding Song

2007-07-09T15:26:00.000-07:00

I don't care what Avery says, this is the song that will be played if we are ever to enter a room for the first time as Wife and My Bitch.

Sorry we broke up
Sorry I missed you
Sorry I only wanted to kiss you
Sorry I promised to love you forever
Made you feel guilty
Oh! When you left me

Sorry I showed up at your party
Sorry I drank up all the Bacardi
Sorry I puked up on your bedspread
Sorry I wanted to be your girlfriend again

What can I do?
It's over it's over it's over it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Sorry I saw you and I heard birds sing
Sorry I touched you and I heard bells ring
Sorry I jacked off outside of your window
While you were sleeping, I thought you'd never know

Sorry I showed up at your wedding
Sorry I tried so hard to get in
Sorry I screwed up your picture
Sorry I had sex with your sister

What can I do?
It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Sorry we broke up, sorry I missed you
Sorry I wanted only to kiss you
Sorry I promised to love you forever
Made you feel guilty oh when you left me

Sorry I showed up at your dinner
Sorry I said those things to your father
Sorry I crashed through your window on acid
Sorry I made a mess
Sorry I bled to death

What can I do?
It's over it's over it's over it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Em-Bare-Ass

2007-07-05T14:07:00.000-07:00

Rachel: What's up?

Me: Nothing. I got some packages in the mail, and before you ask, yes! yes I did get the vibrator a few days ago. You really shouldn't have.

Rachel: Oh it was nothing.

Me: No really, you shouldn't have. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

Rachel: Please tell me you aren't saying that after using it. Wait, you did use it right?

Me: Yea, I did.

Rachel: How can you not be in love? My lord, woman! I'm getting all gooey just thinking about how good that thing makes me feel. Fuck, I might go home for lunch now and use it.

Me: Yea, to each their own right? I'd rather just have Avery or use my own little hands, I guess.

Rachel: You didn't like it? How is that possible?

Me: Honestly? It, well, it hurt. I think it bruised my vagina, like severely bruised my vagina 'cause the pain made me nauseated.

Rachel: You're kidding me. How can it hurt?

Me: I don't know. The vibrator part is cool, but that one thing you got Avery and I is all I need 'cause that way he gets some, and I get some, and I get him.

Rachel: Yea, I'm sure Avery is great in bed, but honey! earth shattering orgasms are a toy away and you say it hurts! Maybe it's just touching places that have never been touched before and you thought it was pain. Maybe you finally hit your G-spot.

Me: I don't think so, doll. I couldn't even get it in 'cause it hurt.

Rachel: You couldn't get it in?

Me: Nope.

Rachel: Use lube? Relax? Deep breath?

Me: Yea, I know how to get something in my vagina. It was too big.

Rachel: Too big?

Me: Maybe my vagina is smaller than yours.

Rachel: Are you saying I have a gapping vagina?

Me: No, that's not what I'm saying!

Rachel: Oh, I think it is!

Me: No, I'm saying I have a special ed vagina which is why Avery's teeny tiny penis with a cock ring vibrator is enough to make me want to go home for lunch and fuck his brains out, but I can't 'cause Cinco De Fuckhead is over there probably going on and on about how he's Columbian to my poor dogs repeatedly in the hopes that maybe a butt sniffing dog will lick his butt about how wonderful being Columbian is.

Rachel: Wow, you need to get laid.

Me: That obvious?

Rachel: Oh yea. I see hate sex in your future.

Me: I don't hate Avery, I hate the jumping bean that's been living on my couch this week.

Rachel: You hate him for having the taco salad on your couch.

Me: He was clipping his nails at the kitchen table yesterday when I got home, while watching a marathon of Project Runway.

Rachel: Oh! What season? I loved season 3!

Me: Rachel, not the point. Toe nail clipping at the fucking kitchen table.

Rachel: Well, take that pent up anger out on the toy, love.

Me: My vagina is still bruised, no thanks.

Rachel. Right, I'll tell your brother we're better of in a hotel this weekend. You, Avery, and his teeny tiny penis need some alone time.

Nothing beats having a sister in law who is a sex maniac and has a sex store, ay? Bullocks!

ROY G BIV

2007-07-03T07:27:00.000-07:00

To anyone who lives in the Portland area, I have an announcement to make.

If you have noticed an abundance of rainbows in the past few months and thought to yourself, much like I have, how wonderful, spectacular, and downright beautiful, while you smiled ever so gaily at the international symbol for gay pride and all things completely emasculating, I regret to inform you that the increased occurrence of rainbows is not a result of mother nature smiling down on you and spreading some of her glorious goodness.

No. I regret to inform you that the reason for the increase in rainbow sightings within the Portland metro area, though a direct result of nature or nurture depending on which school of thought you belong to, is the result of what can only be called “VW Homophile.”

For those who have not yet seen this stunning display of all things homoerotic, or, if you will, queerly female to the point of being a prototypical 5 year old girl enamored with all things pastel and fuzzy, then you are severely missing out, for in the midst of all the automobiles cruising along the roads of the 5, the 84, or the 205, amidst all the BMWs, Hondas, Toyotas, SUV’s, and disturbingly ugly hybrid vehicles, there lies a tiny jewel that emits rainbows at incomprehensible lengths, speeds, and voltage.

That tiny jewel is none other than a Gecko Green Volkswagen Bug complete with flowers in the flower holder, and bestowed with the added bonus of hundreds of beanie babies that are glued to the dashboard of the car, the rear window area between the seats and the actual window, and has choice beanie babies suction cupped to each window. This flying embodiment of all things nauseating is driven and owned by none other than a man of portly stature, who drives in total obliviousness to the stares, gawks, and homophobia he stirs in all those driving around him.

I’ve seen him four times now, each time more and more alarming than the previous.

It may seem unfathomable that a level of gayness can manifest itself in a car to such an extent that actual rainbows are diffusing from it into the sky; however, the trifecta of a Gecko Green Volkswagen Bug, a veritable zoo of bean babies residing in all visible areas of that Gecko Green Volkswagon Bug, and a man happily driving it along is a combination that defies logic, the bounds of human understanding, and resides in the compartment of life that shall remain a mystery.

Until further investigation can be done concerning this phenomenon, sit back, relax, and enjoy the exponential increase in rainbows this man has caused throughout the Portland Metro area.

Big Fucking Deal

2007-07-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

A friend of Avery's, Alejandro, is visiting for the week, which I suppose via the avenues of association, he's my friend as well. Either way, I don't particularly care for him nor do I particularly enjoy the fact he's going to be on our couch for the next week. I do rather like the fact that he and Avery will be doing "their thing" for the week, leaving me to my own devices. Yes!

If you haven't figured it out by the name, Alejandro is of Latino origin. In fact, he's Colombian. Even more of a fact is the fact that he will not let you go an hour in his presence without mentioning this fact. So, I've taken to constantly bringing up the fact I'm South African every time he brings up the fact he's Colombian.

Anyway, he called in for a job interview the other evening, and rather than go into the office room or the bedroom he opted to stay right in the fucking kitchen so we could hear him. True to form he kept on repeating the fact that was, oh yes, Colombian. He actually uttered the phrase, "Did I mention that I'm Colombian?" to the person interviewing him as if to smack that interviewer over the head with the most likely unfilled quota of Latinos in the mechanical engineering field in which he's a member.

It literally took every ounce of restraint, as well as Avery's hand over my mouth-does that boy know me? or does he know me?-to not snap at him. I'm all for being proud of your origin, hell, I'm very proud of being South African; however, I don't bring it up every time I speak with someone, nor do I make it abundantly clear to people around me that I am South African. If someone assumes I'm from England or Australia, then I am more than okay with being British or an Aussie just so I can get on with my day. Alejandro is more than offended if you call him anything other than Colombian. The first time I met him I asked him if he was Mexican. Big mistake. As if I cared, he launched into this huge diatribe of what the fundamental differences are between Hispanics and Latinos, and how vastly different Colombians are from them all. In one ear, out the other, and I asked him what his favorite Taco stand was.

It's really no wonder he and I aren't buddy-buddy, huh? How do you not fuck with someone who takes himself so seriously though? On top of that, I find it absolutely obnoxious that he constantly is throwing his ethnicity at people as if they are supposed to be completely blown away by the fact they're in the presence of a real, live, Colombian. My father is Colombian, and I've never heard him say anything about that country other than how happy he was to get the fuck out of there. So, why does he make it into such a big deal? I mean what does he want, an award for being one of the few people to make it out of his country without being a drug mule?

I at least admit not everything about South Africa is glorious, and I do feel a bit ashamed of the apartheid issues we have, but if you ask Alejandro about anything negative in Columbia it's all the fault of the United States. I'm sure the booming cocaine industry is somehow correlated to the United States {or at least Lindsey Lohan}, but I'm really not so sure that the lack of any other booming industry within the confines of that nations territory has anything to do with the United States being around. If the United States is so awful, why is he here to begin with? If he's going to wave around his Colombian ethnicity as if it's something that makes him better than anyone else, why did he even apply for US Citizenship? If Columbia is so fucking wonderful, why doesn't he go back to be with his family rather than just sending them monthly checks and not even bothering to phone them?

Point Blank: If your country of ethnicity is so wonderful that you refuse to assimilate into the society and culture of America, why the fuck are you here?

No, that's not a cheap shot to Mexicans who insist on having Spanish be the second language of the country, meanwhile every other ethnic base with a different language that makes up this lovely melting pot of a country is left to learn English with no special accommodations whatsoever. It's just the opinion of an immigrant from another country whom accepted with open arms the prospect of becoming a US citizen and becoming a part of this society. Sure, arguably I already knew English, but I didn't move here with the expectation of all the comforts and things I adored back in South Africa and I certainly didn't expect any form of special treatment and babying in an effort to make me an asset and not a drain to this society, and it boggles my mind that other people come here with exactly those accommodations.

Okay fine. Maybe it is a cheap shot at Hispanics and Latinos, but for the life of me I can't understand how illegal immigrants are even an issue, nor can I understand how people can, with complete seriousness, point to the need for Spanish as a second language of the country so as to accommodate the mass influx of Spanish speaking immigrants. Maybe this stems from the fact I grew up in a different country, and am aware of how frighteningly hard it is to become a citizen of another country. My father is still not a citizen of South Africa, despite his living there for nearly 20 years, and there are some countries in Europe who won't even give an immigrant citizenship unless they can prove a blood lineage, like Germany who has Turkish people who have lived in Germany for generations and they are still not considered citizens because they don't have any German blood in them. Thus, when you get to a country like the United States, which pretty freely gives away the right to citizenship, it's a bit ludicrous that people aren't happy with just that. No, they want special accommodations by way of being able to keep their native language and be afforded all the rights of citizenship by living here illegally. Did anyone accommodate the Asians? The Indians? What about the Europeans who came over here? No, they all had to learn English and make something of themselves alone. Kind of begs the question, why do Latinos and Hispanics warrant any kind of helping hand, while no other immigrant sect does?

Heart of Glass

2007-06-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

Levi, and I had a very serious conversation today for the first time in the 20 years we've simultaneously coexisted on this planet. I adore the fact that he and I are never serious, but I actually found myself tearing up after our conversation because my baby brother trusts me enough to show me his underbelly. The conversation gravitated around the generally question of how I knew I loved Avery and how I knew Avery loved me. Good question eh? I found it to be an especially good question given the fact that just last night we were watching "The Break Up," and as the movie unfolded and the character of Gary became more and more of a dick, he looked at me and said "Z, I'm him aren't it? I'm exactly like that. Why didn't you make me watch this right after you saw it?" I told him because it wouldn't have changed anything. Avery and I are a Ying and Yang of mental states: I am selfless, he is selfish; I give, give, give, he takes, and takes, and takes; I would change everything for someone's happiness, he would sooner tell someone to go fuck themselves than do something he doesn't want to do. But? It works out exceedingly well. In all honesty, it does, otherwise I doubt we'd be going onto our fifth year of dating. He gives me something to focus my efforts on, and he lavishes and adores the fact I will go out of my way to accommodate him. That's not to say we don't have our issues and that I don't require him to put some effort into making time for me etc, but for the most part we travel along together in this symbiotic state of complementary angles. I knew going into this that he was like that, and I knew there was no way I was going to change it. I could modify it to better suit me, but I wouldn't ever be able to change him, and that's why I said nothing would have changed. But, he looked at me with those puppy dog brown eyes and said, "You know I'd do anything if it means I'll never lose you." Disgustingly sappy, yet more utter perfection could not have dropped from his lips at that very moment. Way to seal the deal on getting some action that night, ay?

I’m not 100% sure when I realized I actually categorically loved him, but for what it’s worth I always feel like I’m home whenever he had his arms around me, and there is something euphoric that takes over me when he touches me. I can’t explain it, and it’s nothing sexual, but, at my best attempt, I’d describe it as an intense feeling of comfort. Regardless, it dawned on me that things were a little deeper than I had ever really wanted when we had our first real fight. Not a bullshit fight because that’s what two people who spend too much time together always end up at, but the kind of fight where you’re inches away from completely walking away from the entire situation because you’re so incredibly hurt and aggravated by the situation that you’d rather cut your losses and walk away then have to deal with both the hurt and aggravation repeatedly until some resolution can be found. Yes, one of those fights. It was about how we rarely spent time together because he had plans every weekend and would spend the entire weekend with his friends, leaving me just a few hours on a random week night to see him. My logical conclusion was that I didn’t want to be fit into anyone’s schedule, let alone my boyfriend’s, and there’s really no point in having a boyfriend or any form of a relationship with someone who puts everything before you with the caveat of wanting to enjoy the few days of free time they have a week. So, there we were arguing about whether or not he spent enough time with me with my mind already made up that this was the end and there was no more, when I had this deep sinking feeling and my heart actually hurt. Sure, the fact that my boyfriend was merely fitting me into his schedule rather than making me apart of that schedule hurt like hell, but the prospect of no longer having in my life hurt to the point of me feeling physically ill. My guess is as good as anyone’s, but I think it’s safe to say my assumption is correct: I’d rather be miserable and have Avery in my life than not have him in my life at all. That’s fucked up. That’s love.

As for Avery, he says he knew from the minute we first spoke that I was the girl he was to spend the rest of his life with, and, according to him, he's giving me time to make my own decision about the entire ordeal. He told me he loved me after two months of dating, but I finally let down my guard and believed he meant it when I woke up one morning and he was just staring at me with a goofy smile on his face. He wakes up a half hour before I do, goes to eat breakfast, then wakes me up so we can shower, or so I thought. For some reason that morning I woke up about 10 minutes after his alarm went off, and there he was, propped up on one arm with his head resting in his hand, his other hand gently stroking my hair, staring straight at me. Sure, that’s reminiscent of some kind of stalker freak who wants to add me to his charm bracelet of previous kills, but when I found out that this was his morning habit-to wake up and admire me for a moment-I absolutely melted, and so did everyone of my reservations about him.

I told this all to Levi who is pondering proposing to his girlfriend but isn't sure. Like I said, Avery is merely giving me time to make my decision and four years into it I still flip flop. The difference between Levi and I is that I don’t flip flop on whether I want to spend my life with Avery, I’m certain that I do, I flip flop on whether or not marriage is the answer to that. Levi is unsure of whether he wants to be with his girlfriend forever and my advice to him was not to. If you really have to think about it and the idea of it flip flops in your mind from being a totally awesome idea to a totally horrible one, then it's not meant to be. Having your doubts and your fears is one thing, but being unable to come to a final determination regarding a matter of the heart? I'd say that's a deal breaker.

Meep Meep

2007-06-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article that recommends "children" who are around 100lbs to be in a child seat for their safety. Aside from my natural inclination to roll my eyes and hark back to the days when newborn babies didn't even have car seats and they lived just fine, I have to feel a bit strange because according to that article, I should be in a fucking car seat. No, I'm not a child, although I act like one, but at 5'6'' and 102lbs, I'm about the size of a child who, apparently, should be driven around in a car seat for my own safety.

Yes, I know. I'm disgustingly skinny. There's no sugar coating it and there's certainly no way around it.

I also know to never let the words "I'm fat" fall out from my mouth around any female whatsoever, unless she's smaller than me and even then it always just launches into this diatribe of all the things the other woman is insecure about and shifts into a tournament of compliment fishing, which I suck at by the way. I'm not saying I'll never say the words "I feel fat," but feeling fat and thinking you are fat are taken in very different ways.

What irks the shite out of me is how people do look at you when you say anything about your physique as if being naturally Ethiopian thin absolves you from having any self-conscious feelings about your body. Sure, I don't look at a 300lb woman and long for the copious amount of rolls she has coming from places I had no idea humans even stored fat, like wrists, but I do look at a woman whom is my height and around 140lbs and has a shape to her. You'd kill to be a size 0, I'd kill to have hips and breasts that aren't reminiscent of thumbtacks sitting in a wall.

I'd kill to look healthy, because for as much as I eat and as healthy as I am {I am an avid kayaker, surfer, and snowboarder afterall}, most people look at me and think eating disorder. I can thank Nicole Richie and her skeleton crew for that assumption and the now omnipresent magnifying glass surrounding shapeless, disgustingly-skinny, women, but it's rather obnoxious having people look at you with total envy, because they want to be your size, or total disgust, because they assume after you finish your meal you'll be going to the restroom to see it for yet another time.

Oh, and now I'm supposed to be in a car seat.

Mensies.

2007-06-18T18:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have a serious question:

Are the signs in the women's bathroom that state "DO NOT FLUSH SANITARY NAPKINS. ONLY FLUSH TOILET PAPER." really necessary?

How stupid of a woman do you have to be to actually flush that menstration diaper you've been wearing? I have $20 riding on the fact the person who runs the company I work for is a man, because no woman would post that kind of sign on the front door of the women's bathroom, on the front of each stall, right above the toilet paper dispenser, and just in case you missed it, right between the sinks.

Disneyland!

2007-06-13T15:32:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gents, it is official. Oh yes! I am now an American citizen. That's right! I now join the ranks of the stereotypically morbidally obese, idiotic, geographically challenged of you's guys.

Do you know what else it means? It means I now also join the ranks of the African American population. I know you're sitting there with a slight furrow in thine brow because those little boxes one checks deal with race; however, that doesn't change the fact that I probably have much more right to check that box than the majority of individuals who do check it. Afterall, I did spend 14 years of my life actually living in Africa, so I have the "African" portion completely covered, and my reciept of citizenship and a US passport affirm the "American" part. Put it together, and what do you have? African American.

With this power, I will be animating for Disney by the end of the year. Woot!

Boredom at its finest.

2007-06-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

Why is it those days that you have nothing to do at work always turn out to be on those same days you want a lot to do at work to make the time pass quicker? It's only Tuesday, this week is dragging by slower than any flight I've ever been on, and I'm patiently awaiting Friday to take a flight, that will drag almost as slowly as this week is to visit my little brother, Levi, in Chicago for some brother-sister bonding over a whole hell of a lot of booze. Bring the dop for the dronkies! It'll be one hell of a babbelas flight home, oy!

That doesn't change the fact I'm bored out of my mind here, and still have about eight hours left to sit here, so what better way to pass my time than to make use of free art supplies? I seem to be on this sadistic, cute, cuddly animal kick, but I smaak it. Click on them to see the larger version.

We also got a few cool shots for the band. Once again, click to enlarge.

View Harrooo

2007-06-03T18:10:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure what is more disturbing, the fact I just ate an entire pint of Ben'n'Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream, an entire box of girls scout cookies, and a king size Twix, or that my mum actually called to ask me how to use lube. In her mind she thinks sexual education actually was education in the ways of having good sex, and not what it is in reality: a way to scare you out of ever letting a penis/vagina come near you and a crash course in how to place a condom on a banana. I hear they ejaculate something mighty.

Regardless, my mother asked me how to use lube to maximize her pleasure during the diddy because my father got a few Viagra from my grandfather who recently just got married.

All these mental images are in two words: not cool. Somebody hold me.

My Vaalie Windgat.

2007-05-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

Avery and I have been dating for a decent amount of time, and I'm honestly shocked every time a month passes or what not because we are two absolutely different people in every respect. Those differences were never more apparent than this past weekend, and no I'm not talking about the fact that he was busy all weekend and had tons of plans and had no time for me anywhere in there, not even enough time to text me back. It's his birthday and his friends and family are in town from DC, so I shall let that one slide.

I'm talking about dinner on Thursday night at the second most expensive restaurant in all of Oregon, which, when you're an artist is a rather big deal seeing as I'm usually teetering right above the poverty stricken area of the financial continuum. I mean I absolutely love what I do, but you're insane if you think you can draw/make music for a living and come out of it with a ton of money unless you hit the mortal coil's jackpot. But! That's neither her nor there. I saved up, I made reservations a month in advance, I went out and got a darling little dress and spent the entire day trying to make myself look not so much like me, and then my perfectly planned evening, which I had to reschedule four times to accommodate birthday asshole's wishes, fell to complete shit.

While we were conversing, somehow the topic of aesthetic appearance came up before we even got our drinks {thank the lord for vodka}, and somehow the focus was on my own appearance. I think it got started because I made a comment about how he hated my hair coloring motif. Regardless, I tried not to let the words spewing forth from his mouth like tiny little daggers leech my mind and overall desire to make the night all about him, but I distinctly remember the words "ashamed" and "you" coming out from the landfill of his mouth in rapid succession and it wasn't until I had to excuse myself to go to the restroom because a bastard tear fell from my eye that he openly declared a cease fire denoted by a "sorry."

Now, to be fair, the tear was purely the result of PMS, which, I'm ashamed to admit, has the effect of making me much more emotional and leads to my crying that much more easily. Rephrase, it makes it that much harder for me to hold the tears back. I had no intention of letting that little bugger carve a path in my cheek, let alone while I was sitting in front of him, but I just couldn't keep it in. Why? 'Cause it hurt, that's why.

It hurts when someone you care about, whether they are serious or not, looks you right in the eyes and says that they are ashamed of you. It hurts even more when you've spent the entire week ensuring that the night would go perfectly, fine tuning the night to comply with that persons whims, and going out of your way to look cute and presentable for them, and then be told that the person you did all this for is ashamed of you.

In his defense, he said he was sorry and that he didn't mean it in that way. He simply meant that my look is very unorthodox which is something he has to take into consideration when he has business dinners or whatever. Also in his defense, he says a lot of stupid shit and has grown quite fond of the taste of his foot. He's even started using flavored moisturizer on his toes to make his foot go down easier. In my own stupidity, I dropped it and shoved it to the back of my mind, drank a few more martinis, felt righteous when the waiter said I had an absolutely adorable accent, and acted as if nothing had happened and let the good times roll.

I dropped it, which pretty much means I'm not allowed to bring it up again per the rules of our relationship and the unyielding female ability to not let things go and the deficient male ability to think things are over with when the female is simply saving grace at that moment, but it rather bothers me. I haven't met his friends, I haven't met his family, and though I haven't told my family about our liaison, I have good reason: My ~~mother~~ parents are nutty. They would demand to meet him, demand to know the details of our relationship, and every conversation from that point of divulging would go to my relationship with him. I perish to think how the conversations would go should they disapprove, which of course they will. Thus, my reason for not telling my parents is because it's not worth it unless it's something serious and by serious I mean there's the possibility of forever in the cards, which isn't to say that's not the case here, but I'm not going to be domkop enough to put my familial relations on the prospect just yet. He knows that, and he's met the majority of my friends. Now all I know is that he's ashamed of me, and coupled with the fact that he's fairly adamant about not intermixing me with his friends and family, I can't help but see a conjointment between reality and the lovely pink elephant that is now in the space between us.

I suppose I don't understand. I know I'm not traditional in any sense of the word when it comes to my appearance and style, and I know most people probably look at me and think I'm an absolute freak, but much like he insists on wearing polo's with the caveat of "It's my personality, and I like them," I feel it's a bit unfair that my insistence on dressing somewhat rockerish, having tattoos and piercings, and dying my hair random colors, though suiting my "personality", aren't acceptable representations of who I am because they fall short of societal dictate. It's especially unfair that the man I tried so hard not to fall in love with but failed miserably at is sitting across from me and wondering when I shall grow out of this apparent "rebellious" phase I'm in and be more presentable, a term that is seemingly defined as he sees fit. Unfortunately, I'm not in any phase, and I'm not trying to be something I'm not. I'm me. Me involves burgundy hair and visible tattoos. Sure I'm not the mean, but I'm not entirely far from it I'd say.

I don't know. He says he loves me and maybe he didn't mean what he said, but it's absolute bullshit I have to sit here with the equivalent of a divining rod to get at the verity of what he said and meant. Who would have ever thunk I'd end up with such a windgat?

Just Like Eating Glass

2007-05-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

Portland, Oregon doesn't strike fear in the hearts of anyone. It's about as plain vanilla as a city can be, and aside from the benefit of being able to euthanize the fuck out of yourself when you're already old and on your death bed, there's nothing extraordinary about this place. Sure, you can surf, snowboard, enjoy the perfect 21*C weather {70*F for you Celsius haters} nearly year round, but as far as excitement goes it ranks slightly above retirement home.

Oregon is a retirement home, it's just instead of old people, we have hippies who are too hardcore to make the trek down to the land of liberal nut-jobs, California. I think Oregon, at one point if not still, had the highest number of ~~disaffected~~ homeless youth in the entire country, and that's something you can certainly tell, but crime has never really been an issue. Least not in my mind. Avery, however, did insist that we get "secure" parking at a whopping price of $120.00 a month, and I wasn't about to argue with the boy from the rough streets of Washington DC: Crime is rampant there and I've just learned to accept the fact that he is one anal retentive fucker when it comes to safety. Thus, we live in the Fort Knox of apartment buildings that offers a night guard and a supposed inability to enter the building without a key or someone within the building letting you in, and park in the parking garage of our apartment complex which offers the perk of surveillance cameras, and it all adds up in our monthly rent. Sounds pretty fucking safe, right?

So, imagine my absolute delight when I walked down to my car tonight after a 10 hour work day, blou as shit, so I can go to band practice, walk up to the driver door and see something all over my seats. Ahh yes, I come to find out that the passenger window of my car has been completely shattered and my iPod is missing. Not only was the passenger window shattered, but it it was done by the very cunning method of throwing a fucking cinder block into my car. THERE IS GLASS EVERYWHERE. So much so, that when I was looking at my car to see what the fuckers had taken, I had glass stuck in my skin.

Cinder block+ passenger window= all they fucking took was my iPod. That's it. They left the book of 200 CDs I have sitting on the floor of the passenger seat, left the CDs that sit in the area under the stereo, left the CDs that were in my armrest compartment, and left the iBook that was in my glove compartment. Kind of begs the question: Who would go through the trouble of lifting a cinder block, throwing it at someones car, being bombarded by flying particles of glass, removing whatever glass was not shattered by the cinder block, only to reach in and take a fucking iPod. Also kind of begs the question: HOW THE FUCK DID SOMEONE DO THAT TO MY CAR WITHOUT ANYONE KNOWING?! How did someone get into the garage to begin with?

Anyway, Avery is working late at the lab today and I really would rather not bother him until I'm in a position to do more than just sit here fuming, so I called building's management and the best they could come up with as far as my course of action was to call the police.

Fantastic! I pay a shitload of money to park in this garage that is under constant surveillance, and they can't even flatter me with at least the false hope of them looking at the tapes to see what fucker did this and how they got in.

I suppose I shouldn't expect too much from a country that honestly puts priority in Oprah's opinion and what she "approves of" but has no clue where Belize is.

Fiesta!

2007-05-19T07:10:00.000-07:00

Anyone ever notice that people who bag your shit at the grocery store are slightly above protist in the intelligence ranks? I realize that the people who work there aren't working there to pay for their medical school tuition, but you'd think that placing shit into a bag really isn't an artform.

How wrong I am proven each time I carry my groceries upstairs from the garage to the apartment.

Apparently it takes some spark of genius to realize that placeing seven cans of canned corn into a single plastic bag just isn't a good idea, and the trail of canned corn now leading up eight flights of stairs is proof of that.

Straight.

2007-05-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

It amazes me how fucking oblivious men are sometimes. Is it genetic? Is it a lapse between their mouth function and their brain function? Or do they just not have anythin to say and rather than keeping their fucking mouths shut they just let dribble fall out to fill th silence?

Avery and I have been dating for nearly four years. FOUR YEARS! He knows how absolutely, disgustingly, straight my hair is. How does he know? Well for one, I bitch about it constantly. For two, he bitches about it. For three, his sister has taken it upon herself to make my hair the biggest afro known to man repeatedly, only to fail and bitch to us about it.

So! Imagine my shock last night when we were sitting on the couch all cuddled up, watching his beloved Bulls kick some Piston ass, when during a commercial he asks: "Babe, did you straightern your hair?"

"Avery, why would I straighten my hair?"
"It was wavy yesterday."
"My hair was in braids all day, yesterday. We showered this morning, remember?"
"Ohhh, yea. That was good. Better the second time, after the shower."
"Fucker. So, why would I straighten my hair?"
"It was wavy, now it's straight."

He has got to be the most idiotic, brilliantly intelligent person I have ever met. Or maybe it's just his degenerate Y chromosome.

Harumph

2007-05-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

Well, I putzed around with the template a bit to make it a bit less ugly, and now it has all the appeal of ketchup, mustard, and an allergy attack. I'll figure it out eventually.

Until then, I learned how to add a picture to posts and that is teh! exciting!

Bernard the silly little wanker!

Alex (the black one), with my mum and their dog Chloe. He's only 4 months old. He's going to be HUGE!

Azon, the little bitch. God forbid she drink out of a bowl like a normal cat-sinks only.

And of course my darling, Avery (far left) and his doltish friends.

Oh, and this is me, The Zee, when my hair was black like my heart on Christmas. Total inside joke there, don't make me out to be a grinch yet.

So, here I am.

2007-05-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

Yup. I've finally joined the ranks of the masses and have culminated my existence into its pinnacle: ownership of a blog. Actually, my friend told me I need to sublimate my acerbity into more than brief moments of road rage and onstage antics, and recommended I create a blog and let it all out here.

We'll see how well that works out.

So, a little bit about me is in order, right? My name is Emanuelle Ziva, but you can call me Zee, and I live in the gorgeous state of Oregon where surfing and snowboarding are past times you can engage in nearly year round. I'm not a native Oregon, actually, and I'm not officially American yet either, but all good things come to those who wait.

I like to say I was destined to be an absolute fuck up, after all, what else can you expect when a Columbian man and a Lebanese woman have a perchance meeting in South Africa and decide to get married and set-up house and home only two days after their first utterance of the word "Hello" to each other. Just like that, my father never returned to Columbia and my mother never returned to Lebanon, and just like that they made their home in South Africa. Naturally, children followed and I am the most haggard middle child. Well, sort of. I have two older brothers and one younger brother, so I assume it's safe to say that I share my middle child syndrome with my twin brother, Matai, who is only older than me by four minutes mind you. And so we Ziva's lived happily in Soweto amongst the lions, cheetahs, and zebras, oh my! until the real world decided to bite my dad in the ass.

I should probably phrase that differently, because my dad was on cloud nine when he got word of his promotion. It was I who watched my happy little world in the bush crumble into a big black abyss of moving to a brand spanking new country. At the ripe old age of 14, my family packed up and headed east to none other than the US of A.

I've always had a mutinous edge to me. While my brothers would sit and languish at the world of dinosaurs unfolding in the books before them, I would be drawing all over the walls; while my brothers played nice in the playground with the other children, I would instigate fights; and, while my brothers excelled at all things academic, I skipped school to go do graffiti art wherever I thought appropriate. I'm a bit of a Ziva anomoly.

So, that's the gist of it. I'm a South African, half Lebanese, half Columbian, obstinate fem-fetal that lives in Oregon and has a twin brother. Pretty run of the mill, aye?

I'm also the guitarist, singer, and songwriter in a band that I'm literally putting all my faith into with regard to my financial and employment's future. Until that misplaced faith comes into some kind of fruition, I'm an artist. I currently work at an advertising firm doing drawing boards, and let me tell you there is nothing glamorous, fun, interesting, or enjoyable about it. Well, other than the fact I get to draw all day. I also live with my boyfriend of 4 years, Avery, who happens to be doing his PhD in chemistry. Much like you, I have no idea what such a brainchild is doing with me, but sometimes it's better not to ask and force people to think about things, you know? Along with Avery, I also live with our two dogs, Bernard the Bernese Mountain Dog, and Alex the 3/4 wolf 1/4 German Shepherd, and Avery's bitch of a Bengal cat, Azon. Leave it to my nerd of a boyfriend to name his cat after the world's first smart bomb. He loves the little bitch, otherwise I'd let Alex go to town on her litter-box missing ass.

And, I guess that's it. I'm sure you don't care about any of this, but it's just the first post. Sit-tight. I'll try and make this place smashing.