My birthday weekend, or “why ziplines and beer don’t mix”

Oh jolly ole’ birthday weekend, you are so wonderful!  I can be a bitch and then be all “it’s my birthday weekend” and all is good in the hood.  I don’t really mind getting older because I’m still not ancient so another year doesn’t mean another medication at this point.  I am now the age of Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix when they died so I am skipping the heroin altogether this year.  It’s kinda my birthday resolution.

Saturday night my friend threw me a party at her house.  This was not a good idea since last time I was there I got drunk and went down her half pike on my ass (there was a skateboard involved).  on purpose.  They now have a sky chair and a zip line.  I guess you can see where this is going?  When you are 15 feet in the air and you tell someone to “drop you” you should probably be specific.  I wasn’t, and they dropped me.  on purpose.  Happy Fucking Birthday to me. 

There was also a zipline, and a mystery gigataziod cut on my leg, but other than that I played rockband until the sun came up and had a merry old time.

Looking back on my life thus far I can pretty much say that I am rad as shit.  To be so young (which I am) I think I have accomplished a lot.  So much in fact that I’m not doing shit this year.  That’s right, I’m taking it easy and taking up marijuana, because something has to replace the heroin, right?


(Jim) Beam me up, Scotty

Aliens don’t seem to be such a huge part of my life anymore, in that I don’t always think about them every single day.  Maybe because the booze makes me pass out puts me to sleep waaaay before I have time to sit and stare at the ceiling and think I see aliens in my room, or just their shadow, which still means they are there.  Or just their goo they leave behind.  Which, really?  You are so much smarter but you haven’t figured out a way to not leave goo behind?  YUCK!

I first started thinking about aliens all.the.time after I saw ET.  My mom really shouldn’t have let me watch that movie at such a young age because I cannot see him as a friendly extra terrestrial that loved Reece’s Pieces (which that we do have in common, because they are like little pieces of heaven) now, but instead I think of him as a creepy short guy with long arms that I don’t want following me down the hall.  I lived in fear of dark halls for the better part of the 80’s because all I could imagine behind me was little ET bookin’ it down the hall behind me.  I don’t care how much you love ET, if you saw him running you down in the hall you would shit in your pants.  It’s that simple. 

Once I outgrew my ET phobia (which really? do we ever totally get over those things? NO!) I started thinking about real aliens (y’know, as opposed to the Steven Spielburg made-up variety) and it would just keep my up at night!  I had so many questions and so few answers.  Like?  That guys I went on a date with last week, I wonder if he was an alien that can take human form? Y’know, shit like that.  Whatever though, I’m over it.  I just started thinking about it because someone at work said something about scary stuff and I was all like “Yeah, that’s as scary as ET chasing you down the hall” *crickets* then the sound of everyone going about their business.  So I wrote about it on the internet because when you do that it’s like you’re reaching out to all the people in the world with a fear of ET and they’re all like “We feel you, we just don’t read your blog” which is better that “wow, that girl in marketing is bat shit crazy”.

Also, in unrelated news, I had the stragest dream last night that pissed me off sooooo bad! I was in this little boardwalk type place and there was a pizza place that my friend and I were going to eat at but I had to use the restroom first.  When I went in the stall there was pee everywhere so I started wiping it off with TP but then there was pee on the floor and I got my feet covered in pee (apparently I had sandals on) (also, I dream about pee covered bathrooms often, so often in fact that I may need to see a hypnotist about it or something).  So, I walk out of the bathroom where I got pee all over my feet and I walk up to the counter/bar thing where they are serving drinks and ask for a glass of water.  They ignored me so I was all like”Excuse me, I stepped in pee in your bathroom and need water to wash my foot off with” and they were all, “you need to get in line” so I do because even though I am pissed off AND pissed on I still don’t want to be rude.  So, I wait my turn and then I get up to the counter and ask for the water again and the little high school fuck behind the counter says “That’ll be $14” and then he and all his hs fuck friends start laughing, all the while I have pee on my foot.  So, I do what any adult would do and scream “FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOU” and walk out.  It was ok though b/c I went somewhere with a sparkly clean bathroom and ended up seeing an old friend there. so HA!  Stupid loser that worked at the pizza place!  You’re stupid and you probably smell like cheese when you go home at night!

Things to do before I die

1. Gerard Butler- actually I may move this to the end of my list because, seriously?  I’d probably die afterwards of shock and utter fascination.

2. Learn to surf- this has replaced “learn to dive” because I’m radical and learned how to do that about 2 weeks ago because I got tired of my 5 year old showing me up.  I can body surf semi-well so I am hoping surfing-surfing is only, like, 3 times harder.

3. Perfect my own at-home Chai Latte- I have found heaven in a cup but a Venti Soy Iced Chai Latte a day runs me about seventy bajillion dollars and is a habit that is harder to break than crack.  My kids will probably not have a college fund and I will lose my house if I don’t do something quickly.

4. Buy the teenyest tiniest house on the beach (or near) and make it all cottage-y and blue and white and seashell-y inside and then always have sand on everything and not even care.  Not even a little bit.

5. Train a dog from puppy-hood (because it’s waaaaay to late for my beast of a dog) to be all super kick-ass trained where I can put their food down and then make them stay and stay and stay and then say “OK” and then they’ll eat.  If they save little kids lives like Lassie and bring me beer that would be an added bonus.

6. Own some sort of obnoxious little shop that sells the most random stuff that probably only appeals to about 28% of the population and then be all lax about everything, like, oh, gee, maybe we’re open today, it depends on how I feel.  And then have a cat that lives in the shop so then that shaves off another 6% of people because maybe peeps are allergic to cats or they don’t want cat hair on their completely random brand new stuff.  Hmmm, unless it’s a pet related store that only sells stuff for cats!  BRILLIANT!  Then it would just be stupid and lame for people to complain about having cat allergies or having cat hair on their stuff because I’d be all like “You DO know that this shop only sells stuff forcats so unless your cat is allergic to cats, in which case you have a stupid cat, yeah, I called your cat stupid, whatcha gonna do about it, oh, your wanna talk to a manager, well guess what?  You’re looking at her.  fine.  leave”.  Ok, so I need to work a little more on the business model, and I’ll probably have to have a katrillion dollars in savings because I’ll be lucky to break even but whatever.

7. Live to be really old so I can wear visors and pastels all.the.time. and drive really slow and be in a bunch of clubs for only old people and maybe even live in a neighborhood for only old people and then it can be like high school all over again, like, “yeah, I’m a senior, how old are you?  72?  Pshaw.  Wait until you get to be my age.  You don’t even know the half of it.” and then make them feel really uncool because they are only 72, which is actually pretty old but I’ll be older and thus radder.

I need to still think about more stuff.

Going to the beach beyotch

I’m headed off to the sandy beached of Florida tomorrow, just me and the kiddos.  Everyone is having a fit because they are worried I need someone to go with me so they can stress me the fuck out with their agenda on my vacation and tell me how to raise my children help me.  I, on the other hand, am stoked!  To those of you that wait with bated breath for me to post again (ok, so nobody) I’ll be back Monday with tales of the beach.

Now I have to go to the tanning bed EVERY DAY!!!

I started training with a personal trainer recently and, as it turns out, I’m actually in pretty tip-top shape (he didn’t believe me when I told him my fit test results, whatever.  jealous).  He is convinced that in the next year he will be able to get me into perfect physical shape, meaning I may have to quit blogging in order to pursue my bodybuilding career.  I can see it now, my leathery skin gleaming in the spotlight, a mixture of sweat and lube reflecting the light back to the crowd.  I turn to the right, point my toe, curl my left arm, and smile my white gleaming smile.  I get extra points because I used all of Bean’s college fund on a super snazzy number, a beaded American flag get-up.  The music (Salt ‘n Pepa’s ‘Push it’) begins and  I manage to flex every muscle in my body WHILE DANCING!  The show ends and I take my place on the stage next to my super buff peers.  The winners are announced and I place third.  I feel validated but yet, there is a hint of jealousy as I watch the judges struggle to place the medalion over 1st place’s 36 in neck.  Today I am third but I will train harder, consume nothing but protein, spend all of my money on supplements and all of my days at the tanning bed so that next year I will reign supreme as the butchest woman IN AMERICAAAAAAAAA!

Seriously though, I told my trainer that I just want to look super smokin hot so that I can get a sugar daddy but I was tooootally (not) kidding because old rich guys so (do not) gross me out to the maxx.  He thinks I’m crazy but he did say I make him laugh and I think my new weekday trainer assignment, James (can we say yummy), was a little “Thank You” from him to me.

Rock, Cardboard, Scissors

I am the rock in rock paper scissors.  Rock beats everything.  Rock crushes scissors and it bust right through paper.  Paper is no match for rock!  If you ever play with me I will always be rock and you will NEVER beat me.  You may think you beat me, but instead you will listen to me go on and on about flimsy little girly-mon paper!

Who even made up that stupid game?  Paper covers rock?  In paper’s dreams!

Rock, Cardboard, Scissors, now that I can see.

Speaking of rock, I am totally obsessed with this game ‘Rock Band’ on Xbox.  I am soooo not a video game person but this video game has a microphone.  I am pretty much Ms. Popular on the ‘Rock Band’ circuit because even though I sing like maybe a goat sounds or something, I am able to hit all the notes.  I am in 3 bands and I have a solo career.  My rocker is named Zora and she totally looks like a crackhead.  I did that on purpose because if I wanted to be wholesome I would play some lame game like ‘Singing in his name’ which is a name I just made up about a game for people who want to have a Christian rock band (yo! I capitalized Christian so I’m not going to hell).  On ‘Rock Band’ you buy skanky stripper clothes and tattoos, but on ‘Singing in his name’ (c) (yeah, I just copyrighted it b/c if you make something up about Jesus they let you copyright it super fast-like) so, on that game you buy different goatees and crosses and you can buy piercings but only for your ears b/c you are trying to sound like a real rock band but you are still a Christian band so no Prince Alberts.  You can have long hair on ‘Singing in his name’ too b/c Jesus did.  Well, at least back when he and I were road dawgs he did.  He may have cleaned up his act now.  Anyways, Zora rocks and I am living vicariously through her.  I even left a kegorator, pool, and BBQ to go home and play rock band and the peeps I played with ended up sucking so it was a waste b/c when I wanna rock I wanna rock with some people in my league. 

Suck it spellcheck, kegorator is a word. 


Definition:  When you are suuuuper tired but then you decide to have a beer, and then another, AND THEN another and you start doing stupid things like having another beer and then going outside and then night air hits you and you’re all like “I need to go pee” and then you think, “Oooooh, I should blog about this” and you do, but you’re drulirious and it’s soooo cold in your house (who is in charge of the thermostat, shit!) so you are shaking AND druliriuos, so you have to backspace after every.single.word. no kidding! and you still think “Someone will want to read this” so you hit publish without even then slightest desire to hit spellcheck.

Do you ever feel crazy? Like in a special genius super-hero way?

I swear on all that is holy that I hear “Come on Eileen” playing right now. 

No one else at work does soI am INSISTING that it is playing versus saying “Oh, maybe it was a car that was passing by” instead of “No, listen, too-ra-loo-ra-too-ra-loo-rye-aye, you still dont hear it?”.  I believe in my super sonic hearing that only applies to songs from the 80’s because seriously?  please don’t say anything to me and expect me to hear you.  ever.  ok, unless you are telling me to the tune of “Jesse’s Girl”, maybe then.

But sometimes do you ever wonder if maybe you are the only person hearing it but it’s still real and it’s maybe your own little personal soundtrack?  Like maybe Zeus or whoever was all like “Hmm, she looks like she could use an after lunch pick-me-up” lemme see what I’ve got here.  I think maybe Oprah said at some point that believing in something that other people don’t think is real is like some big secret but then poof, that shit works, and then you are all walking down the street to the Saturday Night Fever music which causes you to make a million dollars because you are all inspired, so inspired in fact, that you find the cure for Feline AIDS, but not people AIDS.  You may be inspired but you’re not that smart.

Also, I need to get the 411 on saying Oprah’s name in my blog, yo.  I know she and Tom Cruise are pretty tight and I heard somewhere that if you talk negatively about Scientologists that they will blow your house up (which?  I toootally don’t think is true!  I’ve never met a Scientologist I didn’t like as a matter of fact! and?  why would they want to come all the way to Atl…Montana [not Atlanta] and do that? too far from the mothership headquarters!).  Sorry, back to Oprah, since the scientologists are tight with the aliens and aliens are watching everything we do, is Tom going to tell her I’m blogging about her? 

I fought the law and I won! (Alternate title: I’m a badass)

OK, so I didn’t actually *fight* buuuut I have been going to court over this STUPID ticket for the past 3 months and missing a heap of work.  I worked a little of my magic and the cop dropped the charges.  Just like that.  As in, bye, you can leave now, no need to see the judge.  My bf is an attorney by day (superhero by night, duh) and she said that NEVA happens.  I maintain that I am a badass.

What a judge can’t fix a nice set of legs can, honey, haven’t you heard? 

Episode II: Attack of the Fleas

I spend about 86 mazillion dollars a month on my pets.  I love them, and they are worth it, and I don’t want them to have fleas, or worms, or mites, or anything that may crawl on me at night and lay eggs in my hair (have you guys heard that story about the lady and the spiders?  Snopes says false I say yuck! I don’t wanna take any chances!).

Enter new yellow kitty, left stage

So, about the sad baby tiny kitten that was left alone in the abandoned house, yeah, that one.  I, um, well, er hmmmm…Ihaveanothercatnow.  This, my dear friends, is somthing I needed about as much as I need a hole in my head.  Seriously?  The world needed another folk singer before I needed another cat, so put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Cracker.  The sad tiny baby kitten was pretty bad off so I immediately took her to my vet.  She does not have FIV and whatever else they test for but she does have ALL of the creepy crawlies!  I practically had to take out a second mortage before I was able to bring her home to my plethora of cats.  Six baths and some major(ly gross) ear cleaning later, I am the proud owner of a kit lovingly named Peach (not Peaches b/c I don’t want her to grown up to be a stripper people) (and sorry if anyone named Peaches ever happens to read this, but your mom gave you a pole name).  I am going to have her spayed and then try to re-home her.  She will be well socialized with kiddos and other cats so if you know of anyone that may need a kitten in about 2 weeks and they live in the greater Atlanta area, give me a shout.

Meanwhile, stay tuned for Episode III: Pass me a Fifth

edit: I found a home for Peach on Sunday.  I went to the home yesterday to clean, only to find 2 more kittens.