Sweet Herald

Crackahass Crackah

2009-04-07T10:32:00.000-07:00

Initially, I had planned on sharing this on MySpace only but (surprise surprise!) MySpace won't allow me to post the player so I decided to share it here.

This is an interesting voice mail I received about a week ago, and it disturbed me for a few different reasons.

The first one being that this person called from an unavailable number, because I definitely would have called the racist shit back.

Second, I had just finished reading Your Blues Ain't Like Mine and was already feeling white and guilty.

Third, and most importantly, my son has a girlfriend, and has announced this to many. A sweet chocolate chip with the softest eyes and longest dark eyelashes, for whom he has promised to buy a pink teddy bear. And I found myself wondering if her family disapproved of him giving her his digits (my digits, my cell number) and could this be a sister of his girlfriend? A disapproving sister? I did realize just how racist this was for the thought to even occur to me, or rather cynical, but hey I'm honest, and it did pop into my head.

However, any negative thoughts I had over the voice mail were quickly pushed aside by my child. After I finished recording the voice mail into the mic hooked to my computer, my son meandered over and began to pretend he was making announcements over his school's PA system with my mic. Unbeknownst to him, I recorded one of these announcements.

It had been raining for the entire week, and lightning was close by, yet there I sat clicking away on my computer. This was his warning. Takes a minute to load and blow your eardrum out.

How could I possibly stay pissy about a stupid voice mail when my son is so cute? And, no, my kid didn't hear the voice mail.

Happy Tuesday.
Housewives tonight!

Dick Tricks

2009-03-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

To say this is a dry spell is an understatement.

I'm going on nearly a year and half now without having sex. I do realize some marriages exist on less sex than I've had in the last two years but this is getting downright ugly. Of course, by admitting to the penii famine I've been experiencing, I'm setting myself up to be perceived as "easy" and that I will take any old cock off the street.

That's not the case. So, any old cock out there, this blog is not an open invitation for you to mail me with your measurements and request to free my schedule next weekend. I do have standards, which is probably part of the problem, but when I'm asleep there's no telling what I will do.

Last night my dream had Demetri Martin standing over me on my knees and slapping me in the face with his dinger. This is the comedian from the new show Important Things with Demetri Martin which I mentioned in my last blog. If you haven't watched this show, definitely give it a chance. His deadpan delivery is hilarious and his witticisms will make you outright laugh.

So back to Demetri's dinger slapping me around (did I mention it was monster-sized? No, no unrealistic expectations here...never) making me feel like Linda Lovelace, the part that disturbed me was that I enjoyed this dream, like, REALLY enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much I slammed my fist down on my alarm this morning to gather just ten more sweet minutes of snooze time, hoping to return to the dick slaps.

Now like a lot of women I like to get dirty in bed, I enjoy taking charge, I enjoy being dominated. I'm all about the dirty talk. However, spooging in my face, hair, eyes, or making me get on my knees and whinny like a pony or bay at your balls, well, that just isn't me. I don't think it ever will be me, unless you are Demetri Martin thrusting your veiny monster in my face, then there is no telling who I will be.

My child's father used to offer the relief I needed without obligations, and most importantly, without guilt. This is the father of my child, I used to tell myself, I have nothing to feel ashamed about. He knows what I like, I know what he likes and it works. We used to live together for cripes sake, this is not some stranger I'm taking to bed.

But when he moved 1200 miles away from his only child, resentment and anger began to boil inside of me and any sexual attraction I had towards him was quickly quelled in seeing his true colors. He was no longer accessible in this sexual manner for me, both physically and mentally, and so began the dry spell.

It's not that easy to say, 'okay, I'm going out to have sex now' especially since I am older and raising a little boy on my own. Priorities become realigned when you are a single parent and before you know it, you're going on two years without so much as a spank.

The worst part about a dry spell (and women do have these just as bad as men even if they refuse to admit it) is your mind starts to play tricks on you.
Dick tricks.

That pudgy mailman with the black knee socks pulled tight across his stubby legs begins to look like Brad Pitt after a while. Okay, maybe not Brad Pitt, but you begin to find something attractive if not for the mere fact that he is a male toting a unit in those tight navy knickers, and it's not your cable bill.

Your brother's perverted, womanizing friend who has always disgusted you with his unmitigated advances toward the opposite sex actually begins to sound like Don Juan, and you wonder if he's any good in bed. Does he like to be tied up? Is he noisy when he climaxes?
Dick tricks.

Maybe I just need have some dick sense smacked into me.
Maybe that's what Demetri was doing last night in my dream.

Why I Love My Child's Teacher, A Dave Update and Mistah Kottah's Smiles

2009-03-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

We remember this, right? Of course we do, it wasn't that long ago. She did e-mail me back, promising me she did not see the crack of my ass but she wasn't sure about the other teachers. However, she did want me to know the e-mail made her laugh and she needed a good laugh that day.

(__|__)

This morning I dropped my child off at the front door of his classroom, grabbed the sheaf of papers (his work from the day before) from his cubby and made my way back to my car. As I flipped through the papers I came across this

which is the front of the worksheet. Then I flipped it over to see this

on the backside (pun intended).

I laughed and put it up on the fridge at home, after scanning it in for you all to see of course.

Later that morning I attended Journalism class where we went over public relations writing *yawn* and though the lecture was boring, I've been really pleased with Mistah Kottah lately. He's been smiling more, and seems to welcome my questions now. Also he did accept my friend's request under my "school facebook account." Maybe I'll send him a real request next time, ya know, under my real account.

You can learn a lot about a person from their Facebook page and I learned that he actually does have a sense of humor. After I clicked around and gathered some juicy details about him, and watched a few funny videos of his two-year-old, my verdict is in. He's not so bad, though he does "employ a heavy grading pen" (his words), he actually seems like a pretty cool guy, and I realized that perhaps I jumped the gun. Plus it helps that he gave me an A on my first major paper. Special thanks to one of my favorite badass writers Buddha Mama for proofing my first draft for me.
*does the I-got-an-A-from-the-teacher-who-rarely-gives-A's dance*

Last on the list of updates is sweet Dave. He is home now after being diagnosed with canine diabetes. We're still trying to get his sugar level down but he is completely back to his old self again, begging for food, getting into the trash, taking a random dump in Kellen's bedroom when he's not home.

I can't tell you how absolutely touched I was with all the e-mails I received from my readers both here and on MySpace. And the stories a lot of you shared with me made me feel I wasn't so alone. Of course some of them made me bawl like a bitch but they still comforted me, and I truly appreciate all of you reaching out to me.

I'm back to chugging Red Bulls and running on the treadmill. And I can't get enough of this new show on Comedy Central.

Life is good. Thanks, yawl.

A $5,000 Gift

2009-03-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

My son is giving me $5,000 for my birthday.
I know this because he told me I will be receiving this lump sum as his precious gift for the May 28th birthday that is my own.
I know this because he had me enter him in the Cartoon Network Clone Wars contest Friday night and proudly answered the displayed queue question from the Clone Wars finale.
I know this because he told me he doesn't want me "broke" on my birthday, and he'd like the toys that come with the $5,000 please.
I know this because he said no one else will be getting on "that computer right there" and "signing up" for the $5,000.

I know this because what he doesn't realize is I've already won...a $5,000 thought and the sweetest little boy in the world.

How Can You Not Feel That?

2009-03-19T13:45:00.000-07:00

I've gotten chubby. Like really chubby. Not cute and pudgy chubby but, well, okay...fat chubby. My rolls hang over my jeans now like thick dough. I jiggle when I walk, like the jelly inside of a fried donut. It's disgusting and it started with that phallic object above.

Actually it started when my beagle got sick about a month ago. I stopped running on the treadmill. Just like that, done, cooked, fineto...and fat.
My only concern was getting home to Dave after my classes, and sadness consumed me. My mind rapt with the realization that I might lose my dog, I just became sad and withdrawn from everyone over these last few weeks.

And I began to eat...and eat...and eat.

Usually when I am depressed all I do is not eat yet shit constantly, my innards all twisted with tension and worry leaving me to run to the bathroom with...well, runs. But for the first time in my life, food soothed my sadness and made me feel everything would be okay.

It was okay. My dog came home, sans a few of his own pounds of chub, but feeling better and acting like his old self again. He was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. Life was back to normal, somewhat.

But my addiction to these chili drenched pig lips and assholes was already in full force, and I continued to stop by the small white hut that flashes its neon "HOT" light when those bastards are fresh; the kryptonite that is Krystal's.

Today I had a scheduled parent teacher conference with my five-year-old's petite and attractive teacher so I showered and applied perfume. I blew-dry my long hair straight and down my back, I even put on mascara. When it came time to slip on the pants I planned on wearing I found myself breathing heavy as I yanked and pulled, fighting with the denim to squeeze my dough in safely. I was beyond uncomfortable as my Cuddle Duds panties wedged in my ass crack.

When I was pregnant and barely able to wear any pants other than sweats, I refused to wear underwear. The bigger the ass, the bigger the crack, and the bigger the crack the more likely the undies will take a ride up the dark crevice between my buns.

I decided to shed the Cuddle Duds and go commando under my tight jeans with a loose top hanging over my hips. Comfortable but cute, I thought.

The meeting went well. I was told my child is bright, catches on quickly and despite missing the first three months of school, he was doing quite well and chugging along just fine in kindergarten. I walked out of the meeting happy and smiling. There was a bounce to my step and not just from the jelly in my hips, but sheer pride.

On the way home, I praised Boogey and relayed all the positive to him that came from the conference, and he beamed from his booster seat in the back.

It was not until we were home and I was undressing that I suddenly felt an unfamiliar draft of air as I yanked off my top.

No, oh my god, no. Please no.

My hand flew to the seat of my pants and my cool fingers landed against my bare skin. The rip was nearly six inches in length. I ran to the mirror and there was the crack of my ass, clear as day. How could I have not felt the draft on my ass?! When did this happen? How did this happen?

Before the conference, Boogey's laces were untied when I met him at the front of the school, and on bent knee I had squatted in my oh-so-tight jeans to securely tie them. It must have been then. It had to have been then.

I e-mailed his teacher, mortified and profusely apologizing. The same teacher who I had accidently e-mailed before from my TitsMcGee gmail account. The same teacher who had just finished telling me how proud she was of my son, how much she's enjoyed him this year. The same teacher I had just exposed the crack of my ass.

I haven't been this embarrassed since I was 10 years old, and bent to pick up my napkin in Steak 'N Ale, letting a fart slip that was so loud it practically shook the table. Or when I was 15 and my first crush played keep-away with one of my maxi pads on the school bus. Mortified. I blush even as I type this. There is no recovery from something like this, only time can dull the memory and even then I will always question just how many people saw the crack of my fat ass on parent teacher conference day.

Diet starts tomorrow.

Old Man

2009-03-05T15:10:00.001-08:00

I'm watching you lay here next to me.

Your snout is white with gray now, your belly protrudes from your ribs.
How did you get old so fast?

Sure, I've seen you stumble down the brick steps outside our front door on your way to relieve yourself. I've watched as your energy for chasing tennis balls and Chew-Eez has pretty much vanished. Of course I've noticed how dry your nose has become, and the age spots that have appeared on your pink belly, and numerous times my fingers have grazed the small, stray cysts beneath your tri-color coat. I knew you were aging, but would never have defined you as old.
Not until recently anyway.

And all I can think as I watch the rise and fall of your warm body next to my thigh is, don't leave me...not yet, old man.

You've been with me for the last eleven years, mine and only mine.
I realize how stupid it is writing this about you, and that you are only a dog, an old dog with bad teeth and runny eyes, but you're my dog, mine.

Through boyfriends and breakups, worry and disappointment. Through failure. I always knew you would be there waiting for me when I opened that front door, greeting me with your languorous stretching and loud yawns, the wag of your tail thumping on the floor.
Mine.

I'd bawl into your neck, and if I began talking aloud to myself, weeping, the sound of my voice would send your tail thumping again, and I'd laugh. Then I'd ask myself how it's possible to love an animal as much as I love you.

Just reading that last sentence on the screen makes me cringe. I'm not the sentimental type. I don't gush over girly movies. I don't give random hugs. I don't cry at weddings. Even at funerals, I've been known to remain stoic. But when it comes to you, old man, and thinking of that day I will come home and you will no longer be there, it's unbearable for me and I cry like a bitch. In fact, I downright sob.

You were mine from the beginning, a fur ball of puppy who could sit in the palm of my hand, so tiny and sweet, you were always mine.

Everyone who met you wanted you for their own.

"A dog like Dave."

I can't count how many times I heard this over the years.

This morning in the vet's office a white puppy tried to play with you but too weary you barely lifted your head. Exhausted from being poked and prodded, you stood by the door with your tail curled under your hind legs. You were just too tired. Too old, too worn.

I should be studying for my exam but I can't stop watching you, checking on you, making sure you're comfortable. I can't stop worrying about how I'm going to pay for your double daily doses of insulin shots or the numerous vet visits to come, the testing and more prodding and poking. I can't stop thinking whomever said when you have a child your love for your pet wanes because they freaking lied.

You are mine, old man. And I'll just have to find a way.

Stalked by a Meter Maid

2009-03-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

Let's back up, shall we? Over a meter maid if we're so lucky. Haw haw.

Last Thursday I missed History class...again.

I skipped History on Tuesday as some of you twitters know because I overslept, whereupon waking, found my child wearing only guilt and his Superman underoos. He sat on the floor playing the Playstation with the volume muted like a slick rick, making sure not to wake me. We both played hooky that day.

My intention was to attend Thursday, really it was, but as I pulled into the small lot behind the health center I noticed a meter maid nearby, watching me. He stood with his legs apart like a guard, staring at the rear of my vehicle then pulled out his gay little pad from his back pocket.

That sumbitch is going to give me a ticket. Come on, you bastard, what are you looking at?

I should probably mention why I park behind the university's health center (*cough* where my mom is a practitioner *cough*) when the sticker on my bumper clearly states my lot is 41, way across campus and nowhere near my History class.

Because I can, that's why.

Because my mom works there. Because she gives me passes to park there, bright red ones which I slide on my dashboard, and tokens to get out of the coin-operated gate. Because damn the man! And damn the cold weather that can turn my skin into a sleeve of hives since having Kellen, and damn the parking office assigning me a parking lot that feels two miles from my classes! Wah.

Imagine my surprise two weeks ago when I saw a yellow citation flapping beneath my windshield wiper. Double checking to make sure I had placed my red pass on the dashboard, I launched into a litany of dirty names for the meter maids, and marched inside the health center to shove the ticket under my mom's nose.

"Those assholes!" I cried. "Look at this! This is the second ticket they've given me and I have the red slip in my window. They know they can't give me a ticket. I'm here visiting. Those fucks!"

My mom raised an eyebrow. "Second? You didn't tell me you got a ticket before. Let me call and see why they're giving you tickets. That doesn't make sense because as far as they know you're a patient here."

So this passed Thursday, like a chickenshit, as Mussolini Meter Maid watched, I circled out of the lot and decided to go home instead risking a ticket. Over the phone, after hearing her lecture on skipping class and not blaming a meter maid for my own decisions, I asked my mom if she had called about the two tickets.

"Yep," she said with a sigh. "I'm not giving you slips anymore. Apparently, the meter maid looked up your schedule. Probably the same one you saw this morning. He's been watching your vehicle. He knows when you're in class, Julie."

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

My mom went on to tell me the woman on the phone cleared out the tickets from the system when she learned who she was speaking with, and what relation she was to me. However, my mom was already spooked by that point and insisted I was going to get HER in trouble. Never mind the fact that this was my mom's idea to begin with.

What irks me about this situation isn't that I was "caught" but that some piss ant meter maid is looking up my schedule. The day I bought my parking pass (you know for the lot in the boonies) they told me I needed a copy of my schedule since they couldn't look it up on the system. I had to run all the way home to print out a copy to come back and pay 75 bucks for a decal to park in the sticks.

So why is this meter maid accessing my schedule? Or rather how?

I haven't decided if I am going to call the parking office and inquire about this, but I'm pissed. Yes, I was caught abusing the system, the system my mom works for, the system that refuses to give free tuition to spawns of their employees, the system that obviously employs stalkers for meter maids.

Eat it and shut up because I have no grounds?
Or should I call and find out how and why this asshole is accessing my schedule?

Mistah Kottah! Oh Oh, Mistah Kottah!

2009-02-18T09:25:00.000-08:00

The first day of my class I was surprised to find a professor as young as I am, or should I say as old (grrr...) and while surprised, this didn't bother me, if anything it pleased me.

Modern.
Hip, as my mom would say.
Excellent.

I took my seat as near the front as I could, not for kiss-ass reasons either but because I am half blind, need new glasses and have no insurance. And perhaps, unbeknownst to me, with that one simple move, I gave the impression of over-achiever, or over-enthusiastic single mom returning to school. That one simple move. Front seat. Three steps from his podium. Under his feet already.

I'm blind. Fuck me.

He offered a session of "question and answer" on that first day of class. Others asked, are you married? do you have any children? what's your favorite ice cream? what's your favorite movie?

I thought of the first question that popped into my head, have you ever been published? He threw his head back with a smile and said of course and something about a small paper in Athens. A small paper we wouldn't know much about, he had said.

It wasn't a snotty question, and I certainly didn't mean for it to sound that way, but in hind sight I can see how such a question might sound to a professor, and realized I had probably just made a mistake.

Maybe I am too sensitive, maybe it's all in my head. Maybe I have been coddled in the past by English professors. Maybe it's my own ego, and I do ask myself this, trust me I do. Maybe it's just his personality, or how he expresses himself.

I just can't help but watch his expressions, these twisted, strange expressions when I ask him a question, and think, this man does not like me.

And I do ask a lot of questions. Jesus Christ, do I ask a lot of questions. I can't help this, honestly I wouldn't want to, it's in my nature. If I am going to take the time to learn something, I am not going to learn it half-ass. I am going to learn all of it, otherwise it's pointless, isn't it?

Our first in class assignment, we had a press conference and I asked him two questions regarding a few of the details to include in the article, but he snapped at me that it was an article, and I'm a journalist who should decide what to include. Ouch.Okay.

That same week, we had an in-class quiz on the school's online system. Now, I have not been in school for the last ten years. Things have changed. I did not realize just how important it is to remember this account number the school assigned me to dat der fancy online system, and my account number and password were saved on my laptop...sitting at home.

He never told us we would need access to the system in class.

If I wanted to take the quiz I better hurry and leave, he said, and get to my laptop because the quiz would be closed out on the system in less than an hour. I had to fly home, cursing him and myself the entire way, and log on my laptop as fast as I could make it through the front door.

With less than ten minutes to take the quiz online, I scored 14/15. By the time I had written the account number on my checkbook, inside my backpack and billfold, and in every spiral notebook I own, I had the number memorized.

The next week, he assigned two essays to read of a controversial writer.
Hunter S. Thompson, author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

I asked in class if this was his favorite author, and with a half smile, he said, "Well, no, I think he's a good writer but he's not my favorite author. It doesn't really matter if he is my favorite or isn't when I grade your papers, it's your opinion of his writing. I've had students before who ask me if this person or that person is my favorite, like kissing my ass to get a good grade, rather than giving their opinion and it doesn't matter. That doesn't work with me. I won't grade you on that."

I decided to stop asking questions in class.

He hasn't accepted my friend request on Facebook either, which he mentioned in class he friends most of his students on there to remember names better.

So I friended him. *eyebrow raise*

Maybe I'm just being an overly sensitive sweat hog anyway.

He did say his favorite place is Amsterdam and to draw our own conclusions on that one, so the guy can't be that bad, can he?

Where I Go

2008-10-23T10:06:00.000-07:00

So let's recap the last six months of Julie's life for those just tuning in:

I'm arrested for a $25 ticket from two years ago that was paid late thus resulting in a suspension of my driver's license, and an oral confrontation with a state patrolman. I spend the night in jail and become "scared straight."

Nearly a month later I am fired from my job at the law firm I have worked at for the last six years because of improper use of firm technology (i.e. MySpacing on my lunch breaks). I hear three more people are fired shortly after me and I am aware that the firm was trying to make cutbacks, and are basically a bunch of assholes.

I have a breakdown and realize I'm a 32-year-old single mama who lacks both a college degree and a reference letter from my former bipolar boss, who also happens to be one of the nastiest people I have ever worked for. I decide to return to school in my hometown, obtain my degree and pursue writing.

My parents help me out immensely.

I cash in my 401k (no choice) and because the "paperwork was lost" when I requested to roll over my funds so they are no longer invested, they take a 2k hit when the market is at an all time low during the period these funds should have been protected had they been rolled over per my request to begin with.

Shortly before I move, while ordering a sandwich from Schlotzsky's Deli, I run into one of the partners, a racist prick who only just became partner this year, is arrogant and widely disliked. He tries to be chummy with me and I flat out ignore him. I have never been so thankful to no longer be working for this particular firm, or this jackass.

I rent a U-Haul and recruit my girlfriend's hubby to help me move. My own 60-year-old dad helps as well which further improves our relationship. Thanks, dad!

This past week, Department of Labor informs me that they received a phone call from my former law firm notifying them that I was re-hired with the firm October 15th. Just another little error of theirs. Ahem.

During this entire time, I do not blog much on MySpace, instead I begin to explore other blogs away from MySpace.

I have always read StephanieKlein.com because I loved her first book, and I feel she and I are a lot alike. She's blunt, raw and honest. One of her posts about BlogHer leads me to read up on other bloggers, including the infamous Dooce, who I tried my best to dislike, yet couldn't help but think is pretty funny. I also begin to read the bashers of these popular blogs because some are quite amusing and witty, including Poop on Peeps. You can google all these people if the right links do not show up.

Through all this I learn that some of these ladies make as much as 40k a month blogging. Let me repeat that, FORTY THOUSAND a month, just from advertisers on their page.

Suddenly I see dollar signs all over the net. How did I miss out on this? Where have I been? Oh yeah, blogging on MySpace.

I enroll my child in his new school.

I ask him, "What will I do while you're in school?? Who is going to play Legos Star Wars with me? Who is going to remember how to get around in Kingdom Hearts Town Plaza?" He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

Secretly, I'm glad to have him out of my hair but it's always good for a kid to know he's missed, and I know he loves hearing this. Plus he can't read yet and he's five. I can't keep him out of school forever. Imagine what his school teacher father would say!

I promise I will be back to my usual blogging with comments open next week, but until then look up some of the history on those bloggers I've mentioned. You'll be enlightened.

And rent the movies King of California and Kabluey. Excellent indie flicks I'll be writing about in the next few blogs.

See ya soon.

And sincerely- thank you for all the mails and kind wishes. It truly does warm my heart.

*stomps a titty*

They did WHAT?

2008-10-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

So I began to type out this sweet blog about me and Boogey, and our move, and how hard it was closing that chapter in my life, and all that cheesy stuff when I receive a phone call from the Department of Labor informing me why I had a problem registering for my benefits this past week.

Benefits for those who have never drawn unemployment is the welfare that the government provides you when you've been shitcanned. You have to call in weekly and answer three easy questions asking if you were actively looking for work, if you were available to work, and if you did work at all.

Turns out the law firm I worked for contacted the Department of Labor to tell them I had been re-hired October 15th. Hrm.

Dew wut?

How does a company make a mistake like that? A LAW FIRM at that!

Bastards. Set me free then try to pull me back in.

Happy Mundee.

Two Titties Down

2008-10-07T10:10:00.000-07:00

I promised myself I'd start blogging again, and more than once a week. This is rambling, long, and shitty but hey it's a blog.

I went into it with a bad attitude, I suppose. However, per recommendations from others I tried my best to be open-minded and enjoy this chick flick, especially since I had always loved the series. The first hour made it quite difficult for me, nearly falling asleep and all.

I blamed the wine, gave myself a quick slap and pushed into the second hour of the film, determined to get "it." That "it" everyone was talking about.

"IT is such a great movie, Julie!"
"IT made me cry, totally."
"IT is hilarious."

I'm going to have to turn my back on my sisterhood and tell you all IT sucked.

The first hour they show cheesy clips with Carrie and Big that are not very believable, doing their best to convince you of how happy they are. It comes across as contrived and boring. You can practically outline the tension between them, there is such a lack of chemistry there it's painful. And what is with Big showing off a spray-on tan and shaved chest? Yuck.

Big is John, by the way, and it sounds so, so, so wrong to hear Carrie call out in the corridor of a million dollar New York penthouse "John?"

How about "Asshole"?

The focal point of the film was a couple who within the first fifteen minutes together on screen made my stomach turn. The series was witty and funny, their relationship was much of the same. It came across as believable. How did this get lost in the transition from series to film? Carrie's relationship with Big should have been temporal at best. It was good for laughs in a series but terrible for the big screen.

Meanwhile, Miranda's husband Steve is flashing his ass, as he bounces off in a huff after a fight over the two of them *gasp* never having sex. What was the point of flashing us his hairy ass? Did they actually believe they were giving the female viewers a delight? When cracks are so dark with ass hair they look like they are stuffed with shit they should NOT be flashed on the big screen. 'Nuff said.

Then...as if his pale ass didn't get my attention...

BAM!

The movie completely turns in one scene where Steve confesses to cheating on Miranda. I was in the bathroom peeing and listening when this happened, and bolted up with panties still around my ankles to rush in and make sure what exactly I heard him confess. Yep, he cheated. Oh no! Will Miranda, a firm partner who now dresses like a hooker by the way, forgive him?

Now we're back in L.A. and there is Smith, who seems to have aged ten maybe even fifteen years. At least his ongoing, on the rocks, relationship with Samantha (who moved to LA to be with him and just happens to fly into New York, ohhhh, every two days to conveniently meet the rest of the girls along with YinYang for breakfast) is a bit more believable.
Though she does cook for Smith one night.

When I read back over this I saw that word as cock too. And let me tell you, it was odd to see Samantha doing anything with her hands that didn't involve a penis. They end up breaking up. Who didn't see that one coming?

Finally, we have Charlotte. Perfect Charlotte who *gasp again* turns out to be pregnant! I didn't see that one coming either, did you?! Nooooooo.

I am not sure what Charlotte does with her life now, other than jog and meet Carrie and Miranda (and, of course, Samantha because remember she conveniently flies in for every dick and pussy conversation) at their local spot to have breakfast. And she brings YingYang. I call her YinYang (her adopted Asian daughter) ONLY because I know her name ended in 'ing but I cannot remember her name because they barely used it in the movie. Once. Twice? Maybe I missed it?

Anyway, yes, Charlotte brings her five-year-old (?), six-year-old to brunch with her girlfriends. Yinyang colors as they discuss their sex lives. Ahhh yes. That's appropriate.

I envision all the poor husbands and boyfriends who had to suffer through two hours and twenty minutes of this movie, and I laugh. As much as we have to tolerate action flicks (Yippee kayay, motherfucker!) this chick flick took the cake on length and content, and I think many a man out there has now paid his dues.

If I could, I'd give this movie two titties down.

Then again, I should have known when the opening scene was Carrie saying, "Women come to New York for the two L's: Labels and Love."
Give me a fucking break.

TWO.TITTIES.DOWN.
Two very big, disappointed titties down.

If you have a hubby or boyfriend who did end up sitting through the entire movie with you, well, hang on to them. They really, really love you.

I Will Fuck You Up

2008-10-01T10:15:00.000-07:00

Some of you know me in real life.

Some of you know me through telephone conversations, blogs and e-mails, maybe even a BBS from long ago.

A close handful of you have met me, shared a beer and lamented over life, and a few, my special few, have grown up with me.

If there is anything that stands out about my personality it is my compassion towards animals. You don't mess with my dog, and not just because the fucker is old as dirt, but because you don't fuck with any dog when I'm around or I will lose it.

Now take all that passion I carry towards animals and double it, triple it, quadruple that shit, and that is how I am towards my child. If you have read me long enough, you know how I can be a Mama Bear and it's not because I am a single mom. I do believe I would be just as fiercely protective over him if I was married, or his father was in his daily life.

There is something that just doesn't turn over in my brain and register when I see harm around someone or something I love. Missing is the gear in the back that adjust the direction of rotation, and my fear will burn a fucking hole in my head if I let it. And if there is harm, anger comes to surface, even rage at times. I have had to check myself on several occasions and in many situations regarding my child, and usually, usually, I am able to remain composed.

Today... I became unhinged.

You see, when your five-year-old has been taught, practically had it beat into his head, to stop and look both ways before crossing, you loosen the reigns a bit.

Sure, you don't have to hold my hand to cross the exit of the parking garage, we're still inside the gate. You looked both ways and I crossed the same small exit three feet in front of you, there were no cars.

And then there was.

She had to have been driving about 50 mph through the parking garage (speed limit in our very crowded complex with its underground garages and numerous exits is 15 mph), and the only reason she slammed on brakes was because I jumped in front of you, pushing you over to the side. Otherwise she would not have seen you, so small, your world is only 3'5" and she would not have seen you.

I didn't lose it until the c-u-next-tuesday rolled her eyes at me as I stared at her, completely shocked, having just witnessed my child inches from being hit by a sudan. I waited for her to wave, mouth the words "I am so sorry!" or something.
Nothing.
Just a roll of her eyes.

You almost killed me kid, you fucking bitch, and you're going to roll your eyes at me???

My first thought was to chase after her car, like the lunatic my brain was telling me to become, adrenaline flowing and beat the living shit out of her. Instead I got her license plate number, and stood there screaming for her to slow down, pointing at the back of her windshield.

I know what garage she's parked in and I will find her car this evening, whereupon I will leave a kindly, cuntly note stating the following:

I have a child who turned five in August, and you almost killed him this afternoon. I have reported your vehicle to the front office. Considering we live in the same community, and I am bound to see you again, I strongly suggest you slow down.

It is taking all that I have to not write dirty words on there, not call her a stupid cooze who needs to have her license revoked, and most certainly not threaten to take a lead pipe to her head.

Tell me I am not alone. Tell me this is normal to feel this much anger towards someone who nearly harmed my child.

Nearly three hours later and I am still not calm. Though I would never act on them, I am still having evil thoughts of sneaking over this evening in the black of night and bashing her headlights in with a baseball bat.

Tell me this is normal.

*counts to ten*

Did You Know...

2008-09-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

That the Department of Labor requires you to sit through an orientation upon applying for benefits, only to demand you return a month later for practically the same orientation? And require you to take three more "classes" over the subsequent 90 day period you receive unemployment benefits? Yeah, me neither.

I'm not complaining because some of the classes seem fairly informative with titles such as "Resume Preparation" and "Financial Stress." They have an optional "Small Business Startup" anyone can attend as well. Initially, I was bothered by these requirements, scrunching up my nose and thinking of how it would interrupt my exercise routine those few mornings. As if!

I have grown accustomed to making my way through the day in my comfy Adidas flip flops. I've become quite fond of sleeping in, working out whenever the hell I feel like it, lounging around the pool, taking long baths in the middle of the day, and basically being a bum. Other than packing, there isn't much for me to do now except wait.

We move into our new duplex in two weeks.

No longer do I feel rushed, or worried, or stressed.
I've had a job since I was fifteen, and while this was the last thing I ever would have wished upon my life, it's been well...nice.

I spend my days with Boog making cookies and tacos, playing Playstation 2, whispering over books in the public library, opening my eyes underwater in the pool to guess how many fingers he's holding up. He will start school in two weeks in our new city, my own home town, while I attend the local university. Until then he is attending the school of Julie, and well, he makes it impossible to blog.

Even as I type this, I have on my headphones to drown out his humming. I don't see how these stay at home moms, whose livelihood is their blog, do it.

Again, I am not complaining. I have never been so thankful for his company while I twiddle my thumbs waiting for time to pass. His giggles, and fondness of helping me cook our meals tickle me, and he wakes me every morning with a big stank-breath grin.

I've driven him by the huge playground of his new school with its yellow monkey bars, and he lets out a squeal and claps his hands.

"That is the school you went to! Right, mama?"

I smile because it is. And every time we drive by the red brick building I can see myself at age 7, ugly as all hell, holding Stephanie Hodges' hand by the fence, and checking out Justin Dunn across the field. I can't imagine how it will be escorting my little boy through the heavy metal doors of my own childhood. Fascinating, I think. Maybe scary?

Surreal.
Just like everything else in my life right now.

The Advent of Maturity

2008-07-18T10:18:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon, 5:30 PM or shortly thereafter:

I'm pulled over by the State Patrol. He barks at me about my expired tag (one month behind) and when I try to explain my check engine light is on, it's the catalytic converter and I'm having trouble finding a mechanic to fix it, he tells me to step to the back of the car.

He informs me the Georgia Tech frame around my license plate is obstruction of tags. I bought it at a sports store, I tell him, and ask if they are illegal. He begins to yell at me like I'm retarded, repeating the same things.

Then he tells me my license is suspended. When I ask why he tells me for a ticket from nearly two years ago that apparently was paid late.

Again, I try to explain that I just went to traffic court not even two months ago and paid a recent ticket and not one thing came up about my license, not with the judge or the court clerk. This is when he tells me to put my hands behind my back because he's arresting me. The asshole was training a rookie.

6:30 PM or shortly thereafter:

I'm taken to the north county jail, crying, blubbering and drooling all over myself. I'm searched by a female officer (only after the state patrolman had searched me on the highway, facing traffic that was at a standstill, and pulling up my shirt, exposing my bra) and placed in a holding cell and wait to be booked. I hear a man in a cell down from mine banging on the wall and yelling, "I want my pills!"

7:00 PM:

I'm fingerprinted and booked. An older officer soothes me as he rolls my index finger over the black ink sponge. "How old is your little boy?" he ask softly. I begin to cry all over again and he talks me down, and assures me he will let me call my girlfriend, mom, little boy.

After explaining to me that even though I could post bond within the hour, and under normal circumstances would be allowed to leave, instead, later that evening I will be transferred to another county jail nearly an hour away. This is where the ticket from two years ago sits, waiting for me to pay it.

I'm thankful it's the kind, older officer breaking this news to me rather than anyone else.

I begin to fret over my job, and what time I will finally be released.

7:20 PM:

I meet with a bail bondsman and immediately post bail.

7:30 PM:

I'm allowed to make my calls, and the older officer even attempts to make me smile.

7:40 PM:

I'm returned to the holding cell, and my smile is gone.

8:30 PM:

I begin to ask when the officer is supposed to pick me up and transfer me, and I'm told I need to stop asking. The nice, older officer has left for the evening.

10:00 PM:

I ask for the fourth time if the other officer is on his way, and they tell me he will not be picking me up until 3:00 AM.

I'm devastated when I realize that I won't be getting out that night, and now will have to explain my absence at work, as well as my girlfriend's (co-worker) absence when she picks me up the next morning, to a boss with whom I already have a strained relationship.

I begin to debate telling the truth.

11:00 PM:

My cell mate shares her blanket with me and I'm touched. We lie on the bench, head to head, using the ratty throw as a pillow between us. I try to sleep but all I can hear is "I want my pills!" and constant clanging. I drift off and dream of the man screaming for his pills.

11:40 PM:

"I want my pills!"

*CLANG* *CLANG*

11:50 PM:

I can hear the officers taunting the inebriated man who has been screaming for his pills for the last five hours. "Oh, I'm a black motherfucker? No, YOU'RE a black motherfucker!" I hear one of the officers say to the man. Minutes later I hear them moving him to another cell, dragging him. They tape up the window so he cannot look out. He only yells louder.

12:30 AM:

The jail is quiet except for the shuffling of the officers outside the metal doors. Even the "I want my pills!" guy seems to be sleeping.

1:05 AM:

Another female is booked and placed in the cell with me and my cell mate. She's there for less than an hour, and never says a word to either of us.

1:45 AM:

"I want my pills!"

*CLANG* *CLANG*

He's awake again.

2:45 AM:

I'm collected from my cell and told the officer is there to transfer me. He's a young guy, even younger than me, and he allows me to wear my cuffs in the front as opposed to the back. We talk about Family Guy, Reno 911!, Forensic Files, and our children. He drives 110 mph the entire way there. I feel like I'm flying, and I've never been so happy to be riding in a cop car in my life.

3:30 AM:

I'm placed in another holding cell, where I stay with three other women who are snoring on their mats. I sit and wait.

6:00 AM:

One of the girls wakes and complains that she's been there for four days and they won't bring her any underwear, and she's got her period. She's wearing an orange jumpsuit.

I feel terrible for her. She's in there for hitting a man, a family friend, who tried to rape her when he was drunk. She hit him with a beer bottle.

Thursday, 7:56 AM:

I'm released and it's at this time that I finally find out the ticket that was paid late to this county and resulted in suspension of my license was only a $27.00 ticket. I feel sick.

8:30 AM:

I decide there is no way I can go into work. I look green. I stink. I'm beyond exhausted. My eyes look almost swollen shut from crying. And though I so rarely get it, I smell onions in my pits. I leave a voice mail for my boss that a personal matter has come up which I will discuss with him later. I'm still debating the truth and how much of it I want to reveal because I am completely mortified by this experience.

9:00 AM:

Boogey is in my arms and I can't stop hugging him and kissing him. He tells me I smell but that it's okay because he missed me.

9:30 AM:

On the way home I am paranoid with every police car that I see, and Boogey is quiet in the back. I ask him what he is thinking. With a tug at my heart, he tells me while gazing out the window, "I was worried 'boutchew, Mommy. Just worried, that's all."

10:00 AM:

I call my boss as soon as we get home, and tell him the truth. I spend the day cleaning out boxes of bank statements, old bills that have been paid off, and anything that has a dollar sign on it. I worry that something stupid from my college days, maybe a bad check or unpaid bill, will come back to haunt me and I will have to live through another jail experience like the one I just had.

Overnight, this makes me an organized, albeit paranoid, systemized individual. I set up automatic debit for my bills that afternoon. I find and store my tax returns in chronological order. I open up a safe deposit box at my bank where I place Boogey's birth certificate and other important documents. I call an associate at the law firm I work at and request a time for me to come in with my paperwork to draw up a living will and power of attorney for healthcare.

I grow up.

And when I tell Kelly what happened he is quiet, only listening. Similiar to Boogey, I ask him what he is thinking.

"All I can think of are those Scared Straight programs for teens."

I laugh, even though really... it's not that funny.

There's No Blogging in Jail

2008-07-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

But there is a cold steel bench in which you can prop your feet, and a lone standing jon in the middle of the room attached to a water fountain that seems to recycle the same water you just pissed in. There are brown stains smeared on the wall next to the piss bowl from either feces, mucus, old menstrual clots, or all of the above.

I kept my shoes on and tried not to touch anything. This can be difficult after ten hours.

My "mate" in the holding cell was tiny with small fingers she kept nervously running through her dark hair that hung to her waist. I sat on the bench and crossed my arms, still sniffling and trying to hold back my blubbers. It wasn't until I could no longer control the actions of my bladder that I first spoke to her.

"Does that flush?" I asked, nodding towards the metal jon in the middle of the room. My voice was hoarse and raw from pleading with the cop hours before.

She nodded, and pulled the ratty blanket they had given her tighter around her small frame and stood.

I want that goddamn blanket, I thought, watching her as I squated and peed over the bowl.

That's when I realized she was deliberately standing in front of the door to give me privacy from the cops that could see virtually everything as they walked by and peered through the glass pane.

I thanked her and asked her how long she had been there, in this "holding cell," and my mouth dropped when she told me two days.
I wanted to start crying all over again. Horrible thoughts ran through my mind, horrible dreadful thoughts. And then Boogey. My sweet Boogey. He was all my mind would give me from the moment the cop slapped the cuffs on my wrists that afternoon until the next morning when I was released.

My mate spoke broken English and was difficult to understand as she told me why she was in the holding cell, something about a fight with her boyfriend...been beating her severly... held her in a hostage state of mind by threatening to expose her to immigration if she were to report him to the police... she finally reported him...they both ended up in jail.

She seemed scared, very timid and so small. Frighteningly small.

When the broken dialect of conversation came to a lull I stretched back on the bench, finally resigning to touching the wall, and laying my head against the cool metal below me. I couldnt get comfortable. I crossed my arms under my chest to push my tits beneath my chin to act as a pillow. When that didnt work I finally stretched out on my side with one arm beneath my head, and stared at the wall. It looked as though someone had taken a wimble to it without rhym or reason. I feared insects crawling out of the dark holes, up my leg and into my mouth, so I tucked my toes under myself like a child.

Then I started to blubber all over again.

I've Been Here Before

2008-06-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

Ive come to a standstill in my life.

Do I move? Do I stay?

My family is here.
His father is there.

There are so many factors to consider.

Too many.

It's beginning to wear on me, and I feel myself withdrawing again from everyone around me. My friends. My family. Even my own child.

I come home from work, strip to my underwear and fall back on my bed with a sigh of relief, and I usually lay there for a good half hour staring up at the ceiling while rubbing my bare skin against the cool of the sheets. The renters before me left phosphorescent star stickers behind which the maintenance had carelessly painted over. They still glow, and sometimes I will count them when I'm lying in the dark, unable to sleep.

There's 18 of them.

I find myself wondering if there were more, did they try to get them off and finally say fuck it? Or did they consider the next tenant might enjoy them?

I enjoy them, shining through the paint like that, perhaps as a subtle sign from God herself.

This isnt depression. I'm just having one of those days, that's all, I tell myself over and over again. This isn't depression.

So why am I always so goddamn sad lately?