Striving For Mediocrity: February 2005

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Clive Owen is hot.

I love awards shows. There’s nothing like watching a bunch of celebrities kissing each other’s asses and gushing over each other like they’ve just found the cure for cancer. So, you can imagine the excitement I get from watching the big daddy of all celebrity kiss-ass-fests, the Oscars.

As if you care, I have some observations.

Clive Owen is hot. Not only is he gorgeous, but he has that sexy British accent… I love accents.

Clint Eastwood, in spite of his 17 face lifts, still looks like he’s his wife’s grandfather, not her husband.

Best acceptance speech of the night : “This is the dog’s bollocks.”

Funniest thing I heard on the pre-game show on E!, with that brown-nosing Star Jones (who really has too much back fat to be wearing backless gowns): pasty whitey-white Cate Blanchett saying the phrase “bling bling”.

I want Salma Hayek’s breasts.

Would someone PLEASE give Renee Zellweger a cheeseburger?

Having Beyonce sing a song in French is like having me sing a song in French. I don’t speak French. Not good.

Clive Owen is hot.

In spite of my heterosexuality, I would SO make out with Scarlett Johannsen. Or Angelina Jolie. Or Beyonce.

I used to really dig Samuel L. Jackson until I read a Newsweek article he was in, where he said that he took his daughter out of the college she was going to because she was dating too many white boys, and not enough black boys. He stuck her in an all black school. Nice.

Giving away the less prestigious technical awards in the audience, or making the nominees stand on the stage, was lame. Chris Rock’s joke that next year they’ll be getting those awards in the parking lot was funny.

Was Beyonce the only singer available? She sang three out of the five nominated songs.

I <3 Counting Crows. Even with Adam Duritz’s Sideshow Bob hair.

Clive Owen is hot.

I wish people would stop asking that pumpkin head Penelope Cruz to speak English. Her English is about as good as Beyonce’s French.

Is Kathy Griffin the new Joan Rivers? I normally find her to be HILARIOUS, but watching her on E! read all those lame jokes was a disappointment. Waste of her talents.

Chris Rock’s monologue was like watching Showtime at the Apollo. After every joke, the camera went right on one of the ten black people in the whole building, and they were laughing hysterically, clapping, stomping their feet, and agreeing with his joke.

Sean Penn, while a great actor, is still the biggest dick in Hollywood, with the smallest sense of humor.

And, finally, Clive Owen is fucking hot.

Saturday, I had to go to a party a co-worker threw in celebration of his wife, who passed away last week. I didn’t want to go, because everyone I work with was going to be there. But I really like Bob, and I really loved Sally, so I went.

I never know what to say in these situations. I don’t know what I can say that can possibly make someone who just lost his wife feel even one little tiny bit better. I mean, there’s nothing anyone can say.

Except Celestia.

I was laughing with Bob about a Sally story (which is a really funny story I should tell here one day), and Celestia walked in, saw Bob, and just starts bawling. The whole idea of this party was to celebrate Sally, and to have a good time, with no tears. She starts telling Bob how great Sally was (which, she didn’t even really know her that well, but whatever), and how terrible he must feel, and how his life must be over, and he’ll never get over losing his wife, and she would just kill herself if her dumb sucker of a boyfriend were to die suddenly.

Stupid. Fucking. Bitch.

So I excuse myself from the most uncomfortable situation ever, and grab the boyfriend. I tell him to get her the fuck away from Bob, and not to let her talk to him anymore. He, not being stupid all the time, realized that was the smart thing to do, and grabbed her.

Later on, after she had obviously had too many drinks, she came up to me and told me I thought I was better because I was friends with Bob and Sally outside of work, and had been to their home many times for social events. I wasn’t even sure how to respond.

I never know how to respond to her lunacy.

Happy schizophrenia!

Friday, February 25, 2005

See you next Tuesday.

This morning, when I left my apartment for work, I went to my neighbor’s to drop a piece of her mail that I got my mistake. When I got up to the mailbox, I could see through her living room window that she was getting nailed by her boyfriend, and was not quiet about it.

This is not a big deal, except that she is a FANATICAL Jesus freak. I mean “church seven days a week” fanatical. “No alcohol or caffeine” fanatical. “Christian music only” fanatical. “Religious figurines on the dashboard of her car” fanatical. Now, I know even the Jesus freaks like to get it on, but I just never imagined her being quite so… nasty. I should have hung around to hear what she yelled out when she came… I mean, she wouldn’t yell out “oh God!” right?

I mean… in the living room, at eight in the morning, with the window OPEN.

Jesus-loving whore.

I am jealous.

Clearly, I have watched way too much porn.

Today, at my desk, I was watching the fax machine repair guy, all of a sudden, in my head all I could hear was “bow chicka bow wow.”

That was a perfect porn scene. Except I don’t have blonde hair and ginormous fake funbags, and he didn’t have a massive hard-on while repairing the paper tray.

Mr. Big Shot, the owner of the company I work for is gracious enough to give us worker drones free lunch on Fridays. Being that I am the lowest on the corporate totem pole, I have to coordinate these lunches.

Mrs. Big Shot, or Trophy Wife, as I like to call her, comes in every Friday and has lunch with the hubby at the office. Trophy Wife, unlike me, does have ginormous fake funbags, and even though she’s pushing 50, she looks about 35. She was a Playboy Playmate in the 70’s. And even though she is super nice to me, and never talks down to me, today I wanted to punch her.

I walked in the kitchen, and lying on the floor, underneath half of her shoe, was her $8000 (yes, THOUSAND) dollar Hermes Birkin bag. I know that this purse cost eight grand because a) I am a total purse whore, and b) I pay Mr. Big Shot’s bills, so I see everything he charges. After she saw it on Sex and the City, she made MBS get her one.

The fact that she was so unconcerned that this bag that cost so much was getting dirty on the floor really got my living-below-the-poverty-line blood boiling. I hate that she has a purse that’s worth more than what my car is worth now, and she doesn’t give a fuck that it’s on the floor and her foot is on it.

Damned rich people.

On the way home, some asshole in a Dodge Ram almost killed me. I was driving, and he was in a lane next to me that was running out, so he didn’t wait to be let in my lane, he just got over. Well, unfortunately for me, my little Corolla was in the way, and thank god there was no one in the lane next to me, because I had to swerve to get out of the way.

I laid on my horn, and started yelling and cursing and flipping him off, then he pulled up next to me, as close as he could, and yelled out “Fuck you, you stupid fucking cunt!”

Ok.

Now, I know exactly what this fucktard was thinking when he dropped the “C U Next Tuesday” bomb. Most chicks hate that word, and go completely apeshit if you call them one. I am not one of those girls.

I was more pissed that he called me stupid than anything.

I have suspected for quite some time now that my cat, Ike is gay. Tuesday night, he confirmed it.

I have always known that he is way too fluffy, pretty, and prissy to be a straight cat. He also can’t tear himself away from the television when I am watching Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.

He is always a complete asshole to my friends (and sometimes to me, for that matter). Hissing, scratching, and sometimes biting. He’s not nice.

But on Tuesday, my supergay friend John and his super HOT boyfriend Sean came over to my house, and that fucking cat whored himself out to those two queens like nothing I have ever seen. He purred, and rubbed his head up against their legs, and let them pet like he was a normal, friendly cat.

I have a gay cat.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Heh, I just added ginormous, supergay, funbags, and cunt to my word dictionary.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Andria: Social Retard.

I am… so lame.

One of my favorite co-workers, Chris, told me that one of his friends was going to be coming by the office, and for me to let him know when he gets there (I work at the front desk).

When the friend, Greg, got there, Chris was nowhere to be found. Which meant either Greg was going to have to come back, or sit in the front and wait. He decided to wait. As soon as he sat down, his cell phone started ringing.

The first thing I am attracted to in a man is intelligence. I don’t care how good looking a guy is, if he has no brain, he’s useless to me.

I was half working, half eavesdropping on his phone calls, and overheard things like, “main propulsion system”, “hypergolic (sp?) propellant”, and “transonic”( I am such a dork that I wrote some of the things he said down, so that I could look them up). Listening to these phone calls, with all his brainy talk and the jokes he made (sense of humor is #2), I was digging this boy.

So, as soon as he got off the phone, I asked him if I could get him something, and started a ridiculous attempt at small talk (I should take this moment to let you all know that I have NO GAME when it comes to talking to men I am interested in. It’s pathetic). He made some comment about how bored I must have been listening to him talk to his co-workers, and I said in my best smartass voice, “Yeah, what are you, some kind of rocket scientist?” Funny, right? Not so much.

“That’s not the technical term, but yeah. That’s pretty much what I am.” Then he explained he worked in the aerospace industry as some sort of engineer with about 18 big words in the title that I can’t remember.

Before I even knew what the fuck I was doing, I was giggling like an ass, and flipping my hair. FLIPPING MY FUCKING HAIR!! Who does that? I wasn’t working, wasn’t paying attention to anything that was going on except the conversation I was having with this guy (that and the mass amounts of hair flipping). I also failed to notice the phone ringing, because my boss walked up to my desk and told me three calls had come in, and why wasn’t I answering them?

Needless to say, Greg noticed all the flirting going on, and told Chris about it when he did finally see him. Chris hasn’t let me forget, the fucker. And, oh yeah, he’s also married.

Jesus, it’s been so long since I’ve been with a man that I have lost all respect for myself.

I am… so lame.

One of my favorite co-workers, Chris, told me that one of his friends was going to be coming by the office, and for me to let him know when he gets there (I work at the front desk).

When the friend, Greg, got there, Chris was nowhere to be found. Which meant either Greg was going to have to come back, or sit in the front and wait. He decided to wait. As soon as he sat down, his cell phone started ringing.

The first thing I am attracted to in a man is intelligence. I don’t care how good looking a guy is, if he has no brain, he’s useless to me.

I was half working, half eavesdropping on his phone calls, and overheard things like, “main propulsion system”, “hypergolic (sp?) propellant”, and “transonic”( I am such a dork that I wrote some of the things he said down, so that I could look them up). Listening to these phone calls, with all his brainy talk and the jokes he made (sense of humor is #2), I was digging this boy.

So, as soon as he got off the phone, I asked him if I could get him something, and started a ridiculous attempt at small talk (I should take this moment to let you all know that I have NO GAME when it comes to talking to men I am interested in. It’s pathetic). He made some comment about how bored I must have been listening to him talk to his co-workers, and I said in my best smartass voice, “Yeah, what are you, some kind of rocket scientist?” Funny, right? Not so much.

“That’s not the technical term, but yeah. That’s pretty much what I am.” Then he explained he worked in the aerospace industry as some sort of engineer with about 18 big words in the title that I can’t remember.

Before I even knew what the fuck I was doing, I was giggling like an ass, and flipping my hair. FLIPPING MY FUCKING HAIR!! Who does that? I wasn’t working, wasn’t paying attention to anything that was going on except the conversation I was having with this guy (that and the mass amounts of hair flipping). I also failed to notice the phone ringing, because my boss walked up to my desk and told me three calls had come in, and why wasn’t I answering them?

Needless to say, Greg noticed all the flirting going on, and told Chris about it when he did finally see him. Chris hasn’t let me forget, the fucker. And, oh yeah, he’s also married.

Jesus, it’s been so long since I’ve been with a man that I have lost all respect for myself.

When I wasn’t humiliating myself trying to get laid, I heard Celestia tell Princess that she gave her poor sucker of a boyfriend six months to put a ring on her finger, or it’s over. If he buys that crazy bitch a ring, I am going to go over there and rip his balls off myself.

And, by the way, she cried yesterday because she realized that she was going to have to use some of the money she got after her mother died (whose final stages of cancer really “wrecked” her “whole summer”) to pay off her maxed out credit cards.

The irony of it is, that she maxed out her credit cards because she buys dozens of $300 bikinis to wear to the river every summer. They were going to take her inheritance to buy a boat to take to - you guessed it - the river. I love it.

I don’t know if that’s technically irony. I’ll have to ask Alanis Morrissette.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Chick fight!

I am not a typical girl. I have always been more of a tomboy, and have always gotten along better with men than I do with women.

At any party, I am more than likely hanging out with my male friends, while the women are all congregating in the living room, telling the same childbirth stories they have told a million times before, and complaining about what retards their husbands are. Having no desire for a child or a husband, I run from those conversations like a bat out of hell. Because eventually, they all turn to me and start telling me that I am some kind of nutjob because I don’t want to get married or have kids.

I love my married friends, and I love their kids. I just don’t necessarily want that for me.

That being said, I got in a huge fight with Kay on Saturday night about my lack of bitchy possessiveness in front of a bunch of our friends.

I went to dinner with five other friends, Kay and her husband DMX included. I was sitting between DMX and our other friend Briton, and we were joking about this website we were looking at that has these whacked porn clips.

Hey, I never said we were a sophisticated group.

So we’re all laughing, and the girls, all sitting together at the other end of the table, get pissed that we’re laughing and they don’t know why. They couldn’t tear themselves away from the Oprah wrap-up conversation they were having long enough to know what we were talking about.

When I explained a particular clip that we were laughing about (which was SO not dinner table conversation, and that’s why we were laughing about it like retards), Kay got completely disgusted and looked at me and said “Why can’t you just be a normal girl? Normal girls don’t watch porn and sit around and joke around with other guys about it!” Whatever. I am not exactly sure what a “normal” girl is, but apparently, her name’s not Andria.

Later on, back at Kay’s house, many drinks were had, and we decided to play some poker. Kay is always down for cards, but on this night, she decided that she was not going to do it, and didn’t want DMX doing it, either. In fact, she tried to forbid him from drinking anymore and playing cards.

I can’t stand naggy and/or controlling chicks (men, either, but that’s not what this is about), and I certainly don’t like it when they try to crack the whip in front of their friends to look like a bad ass, and that’s just what she did. I told her that the whole night was her idea, and to lay off.

BAD IDEA.

I could tell by the look on her face that what came next was not going to be nice. She came up to me, and asked me what do I know about relationships, since I wasn’t in one, and the last one ended because I let my ex run all over the place and do whatever he wanted, and what kind of girlfriend lets their boyfriend go out with his boys and go to strip clubs, and blah, blah, blah. Actually, she said some really fucked up things after that, but I don’t want to go into detail.

I am nobody’s mother, and I am certainly not going to try and tell a grown man what he can and can’t do. I am just not that way. Maybe that was the reason my last relationship ended, I don’t know. But I know I don’t want someone ordering me around, so I wouldn’t do it either.

Anyways, in one of my rare girly moments, I cried, which I hate doing. I feel like such a wuss for crying over shit like that, but she did say some really messed up things, and in front of other people, which really pissed me off.

She called the next morning and apologized after DMX told her all the shit she said. She was so bombed on martinis, she had no memory of any of it.

Sometimes girls make it really fucking hard to be friends with them.

On a happy note, Jeff Gordon won the white trash superbowl, the Daytona 500!! YAY! for hot guys driving in circles for four hours. I love me some nascar. All my friends hate him, so it was particularly nice to rub it in all of their faces afterward.

I don’t know if any of you saw it, but a very obviously stoned (and hot) Matthew McConnaughey gave the best command to start the engines I have seen.

I want to play some naked bongos with that boy.

I also got flipped off on my way to work this morning by a crazed Tony Stewart fan who accused ME personally of cheating at the end of the race.

I love stupid people!!

Lastly, I hope you all appreciated the Bowling Ball Stud pics in my last entry. I think I kick much ass for admitting I almost went out with that guy.

And Loopy was right. Boy, did I dodge a bullet with that one.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Guys and balls - part deux.

Ok, so my two favorite (read: only) readers asked to see the pictures of the fuckwad that stood me up a few weeks ago. Being that I love to give back to my people (that, and I had nothing better to do), here they are.

I should also point out that I forgot to mention in the last entry that he changed his user ID on the site from “(blahblahblah)musicguy” to (jesus, how could I ever think I was going to go out with this guy) “MyCatRules”. That’s right. His cat rules. And he wants all the single ladies of the Dating Tech Network to know it.

This is the first picture he posted, which is not a bad picture at all.

8/8/05: Sorry, when I moved these entries over, I didn't have the picture saved anymore.

Thinking he was a decent looking guy, and having had a few nice chats online (as well as a couple on the phone), I agreed to lunch.

Then the fucker didn’t show. At the time I was pissed and bitter, but as soon as I saw how he changed his profile, I thanked Jeebus that he pussed out on me.

Ok, so without further ado, the Suave Ladies’ Man and His Bowling Ball:

Nice. Note how he really doesn’t much like the guy in the first picture.

Are your panties wet yet, ladies? If not, I don’t see how you can resist this one:

Seriously, I give up on dating. I can’t stand it anymore. I am tired of all this bullshit. I am convinced that honest, decent, smart, funny guys don’t exist in Southern California. It’s almost enough to make a girl buy a Subaru Outback and become a lesbian already.

Sheesh.

Guys and balls.

Storm Watch 2005 is upon us here in Southern California, and there is panic in the streets. People really fucking freak out when there is any rain (be it a light drizzle or a heavy downpour) coming down. It gets my road rage up, man.

So, remember the guy that stood me up? Yeah. I was perusing ads on the website where he found me, and he created a new profile with new pictures. The original ad he placed had a few dimly light pictures that were hard to make out, but the one that was the most recent was pretty good, so I wasn’t so nervous about him.

Then I saw the new ad. Clearly, the guy in the good picture was a fluke, because in the three new pictures, he is substantially heavier, and way less attractive (which I don’t care about, but be up front about it). But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that he is in this cheesy model-type pose, with no shoes on, and also featured prominently in the photos IS HIS FUCKING BOWLING BALL.

I have nothing against bowling. I don’t do it.

But don’t take pictures with your fucking bowling ball and expect chicks to get turned on by it. If I had any balls (and not the bowling kind) at all, I would post the pics here, but I don’t. And that requires more technological skills than I got, yo (my layout alone should be indication of my suave computer skills).

I have never been so happy to be blown off in my life.

This weekend is the white trash super bowl, with the Daytona 500 on Sunday. Hot damn I love me some nascar. I have embraced my hillbilly heritage, and watch it every Sunday like some trailer park lunatic.

You got to love a sport where even the announcers sound like they just walked off the set of Hee-Haw.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Penises, pussies, and bitches - oh my!

I was inspired by an entry ( I am too lazy to link… go to Rickscafe for the entry) I read today about doing home improvements and fixing the mistakes the previous owner made, when it reminded me of the guy who used to live in the apartment I live in.

When I was about 20, one of my Mom’s friends, Nancy, had been renting one of the apartments. She started spending every free moment at the bar my parents and all their beach hippie friends hung out at, and wasn’t making her rent on time anymore, so my folks had to give her the boot. Since I was making about thirteen cents an hour working in daycare, my parents offered me some extra cash to clean up the apartment and get it ready to show. Needing to support my beer and cigarette habit, I quickly accepted.

After cleaning for a while, I decided it was time to take a smoke break. I walked out to my car, grabbed my cigarettes and leaned against my car, facing the apartments. I happened to notice the door to one apartment was open (as were the blinds on the windows), and before I could do anything else (like look away and save myself from humiliation), I saw this tall boney guy walking around, completely naked, with penis flailing all over the place.

I didn’t know what to do. I knew I shouldn’t stare, but at the same time, how could I not?? I mean, he was walking around so casually, with everything wide open, that I just couldn’t believe he had no clothing on. It seemed so strange to me that he would just be naked. All the time. Always naked. Naked on the couch. Naked on the kitchen chairs. Naked cooking dinner (grease splatters are particularly hazardous for this guy). Naked doing laundry – well, really, how much laundry could a naked guy have? Bad example. Whatever.

He caught me staring, and slammed the door shut. Later that night, when I was eating dinner with my parents, I mentioned what I saw, and my Dad was like, “Oh, yeah. [Naked Boy]’s a nudist. He never has clothes on.” For some reason, this was completely bizarre to me.

The next time my Dad was over collecting rents, Naked Boy told him that he had busted me staring at him, and that I was a weirdo for staring. Uh… he’s walking around with his cock and balls out for the whole world to see, and I am the weirdo?

Flash to about four years ago. The rent was being raised in my old apartment, and Naked Boy was in a higher income bracket, and needs to own some property, so he tells my parents that he’s moving out, after living in the apartment for almost 30 (yeah, fucking 30… he moved in there when he was 17) years.

I would think that a guy whose naked body is going to be touching everything around him, he would have been a little cleaner. He had never re-painted, so the walls that were originally white were now a nice grungy brown color, and the hardwood floors hadn’t been maintained, so there was a nice thick layer of grime on the floor. Don’t even get me started on the bathroom.

Being convinced that he had dick-wiped every inch of that apartment knowing that the “weirdo” daughter was moving in, I scrubbed the shit out of that place with bleach from the floor to the ceiling.

Then I did it again.

I realized Monday that I think I am becoming one of those crazy cat people. Damn. And I tried so hard not to be.

Part one of the realization:

When I got home from work on Monday, I noticed that my little kitten Boo’s left eye was swollen, and looked it had rolled in the back of her head. Panic. I started freaking out immediately, and called my vet and said that I was bringing her in.

When I put her in the carrier and put her in the back seat of my car, she started crying. Now, being that I am already panicking myself, hearing my cat panicking didn’t help. In about two seconds, there were two pussies in the car, because I was crying, too.

After waiting a FUCKING HOUR to see the vet, I was trying to comfort my cat, who is flipping out because she has no idea where she is. He finally comes in. He takes her from me, flips her eye around, and says that my other cat probably scratched her, and that they were going to have to put some fluorescent dye in her eye to make sure that’s all it was.

$250 later, my cat has a scratched retina and a kick-ass lampshade collar on. It’s pretty funny.

Part two:

Monday night, after I got home from the vet, and scolded Ike (the boxing cat) for hurting both Boo and my wallet, my friend Alex told me he was coming over. When he walked in, Ike took the chance and ran out the door. He is mostly an indoor cat, but occasionally he likes to go outside for a few minutes, then he gets scared and comes back in.

Well, when Alex left a few hours later, Ike was not at the door waiting to come in as I had expected. I called him, and shook the treats, but still no Ike. I went to bed, convinced that he would be there in the morning.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t there when I got home from work that night, either. I walked around my neighborhood, looking for him, and calling him, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. He has a collar with my phone number on it, but I live in the ghetto. I don’t trust any of the motherfuckers in my neighborhood to call me and say they found my cat.

By yesterday, I was seriously freaking out that he was gone. I have had him since he was four weeks old, and I couldn’t imagine my couch without his cranky ass spread out on it sleeping for 20 hours a day.

Last night (or I should say this morning), I was awakened to what sounded like someone trying to break into my apartment. I went out, looked out my front window, and there he was. The fucker.

I can't believe my sorry 31 year old ass was screaming and yelling at a cat at 3 am, but I was. If they didn't think it before, my neighbors surely think I am nuts now.

I felt like a retard for being this upset over my fucking cat, but at the same time, I felt like he was my kid that was missing, and that’s when the full realization came that I was one of those people. I have nothing against those people, I have just never formed enough of a bond with a pet to think of it as a child (of sorts). Maybe it’s my whole anti-motherhood thing, I don’t know.

If I start referring to them as “my kids,” please, for fuck’s sake, help me.

One more thing, and then I swear I won’t subject you to anymore of my ramblings (and if you’re hoping this one will make up for the wasted time reading the other two crap stories, you’re wrong!). Yesterday, shortly after I got to work, I heard a loud thump, and then “FUCK!!!” come from Celestia’s desk. At the time, I was talking to Princess, another co-worker. We both laughed.

A minute later, Celestia came limping up to us, and said that she had jumped up from her desk and slammed the top of her thigh under her desk. Then she said, “I can’t believe I did that! It hurt so bad… because I am so skinny it was like it just hit the bone.” I seriously had to bite my tongue to shut my ass up, but before I could even say anything, Princess jumped right in.

“You’re not THAT skinny.” That seriously was about the best thing you could ever say to her, because she is so vain about her body, (which, in her defense, is great, I hate to say), and works out like a nazi so that she will be the best looking girl in a bikini at the river. Fuck health, she just wants to make all the other girls look bad.

She ran right into the bathroom. Twice in one week… is it my birthday???

Good times.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Roses are red, violets are blue. Fuck Valentine's Day.

I hate Valentine’s Day.

It’s not entirely related to being single; but that is a large part of why I despise this day. What drives me crazy is the forced romance by the jewelry, candy, and greeting card industries. You are bombarded with commercial after commercial, basically telling you that if your significant other (read: men) doesn’t buy you expensive gifts, candy, and flowers on this ONE day, then he/she doesn’t really love you.

While I am single this year, there have been years in the past when I was with someone. Even then I didn’t buy into it, and I would certainly never demand that the man I am with run out and buy shit for me just because some ass at Hallmark told him to.

Every year, Celestia (co-worker/devil) gets a huge arrangement of flowers from her poor misguided boyfriend. And every fucking year, she says to me, “I would hate it if I never got flowers on Valentine’s Day. That must suck for you to be single now.” Isn’t she great?

So, today, when the bouquet arrived, I took them to her desk and sat them down. She looked at me, and said, “I know you must hate this day. You never get flowers.” Bitch.

So I looked right at her, smiled, and said, “Well, [Celestia], I don’t have to threaten the person I am with by not performing the one blowjob you give him a year if he doesn’t buy you something for Valentine’s Day. Don’t you hate that [boyfriend] only gets you stuff because you force him to? I would think that would suck more. It’s kind of sad, really.” She looked at me, didn’t say anything, and ran into the bathroom. Score!! She loves to cry at work. That is her specialty. Well, that and schizophrenia.

The fact that I AM single today does lend itself a bit of bitterness, I hate to admit. Mostly because if I wasn’t, at least I would know I’m getting laid at the end of the day.

But I’m not. Damn it.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

I'll have the chicken picatta with a side of Judas Priest.

Friday night I went out to dinner with my parents for my Mom’s birthday. We went to this nice Italian place that has wonderful food, but shitty service. For atmosphere, there is a guy who plays piano.

We were talking, and the song the piano guy was playing sounded familiar, but I couldn’t think of what it was. I don’t know about you, but anytime I hear something and I can’t name the song and/or singer or band, it drives me completely nuts until I figure it out. I’m a dork. I know.

So I am sitting there, listening to my Mother yammer on and on about how old she feels being 51, and suddenly it occurs to me. The guy was playing “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath. Awesome. I couldn’t believe he was playing Black Sabbath and all the crusty white patrons had no idea they were eating along to Ozzy Osbourne.

When I mentioned it to my Dad, we started laughing, and the lady at the next table told us she was his girlfriend, and that he threw in songs like that just for fun. Later on, he played some Zeppelin song I didn’t recognize, and then he played “One” by Metallica. I never imagined those songs could sound nice and pleasant when slowed down and played on a piano, but they did.

Last night, a bunch of friends and I went out for dinner. There were eight adults, and a couple of kids. My friend Angela and her retard husband Barney were also there.

Kay asked Barney how his day was, and he yelled out in front of the kids that he was “stressed out because of all the fucking cocksuckers” at work. God knows, I love to let the expletives fly, but when there are two kids at the table, I use a little decorum. When the waitress asked him if he wanted parmesan cheese, he said, “Yeah. A shitload.” Nice.

The more time I spend with this dipshit, the more I realize that Angela settled. She was pushing 35, single, and he came along right when that goddamned biological clock started ticking and fucking with all her common sense. So she married his dopey ass, and now that she has his kid (god help that poor little baby for being saddled with his genes), she’s never going to get rid of him.

One day I’ll tell the story of our first camping trip with him (consequently, it was my first and last camping trip he was involved in). Oy.

Watching the two of them insures my resolve to never settle. And thank god I am immune to the biological clock.

My computer is sucking balls (and not in the good way, either) these days. So, in addition to wanting a man with brilliance, wit and sarcasm, and excellent make-out skills, he better be some kind of computer genius, cause I can’t figure this shit out.

Grrr.

Um… am I the only person that wants to gouge her eyes and ears out whenever the Black Eyed Peas are on?

Just curious.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Don't be a Mexi-can't, be a Mexican!

Now that I am back at work, it feels good to actually use my brain for at least eight hours a day again. Everyone has been gushing over me, telling me how much they missed me, and how great it is to have me back, and how the office just wasn’t as fun with me gone. Now, as nice as that is to my fragile little ego, it’s even better that all those wonderful things can be heard by that backstabbing, conniving, schizophrenic bitchwore (can you sense some bitterness?) Celestia. I know it is driving her crazy to have to hear every word of it.

Also, I heard one of the funniest things ever while I was talking to one of my favorite co-workers, Margie yesterday. In her spare time, she makes really nice jewelry that she sells for extra cash. She was showing me some that she had just made (some of which I promptly stole for myself), and offered a pair of earrings to an older lady that works downstairs with her, a Greek-born staunch Republican named Sylvia. Sylvia gasped, and told Margie, “I don’t have pierced ears!! What do I look like? A Mexican?”

I am not quite sure what Mexicans have to do with piercing your ears, but I laughed my ass off when I heard that.

Sometimes, racism IS funny!

Tomorrow is my Mom’s birthday and I have no clue what to buy her. I am the worst gift giver ever, because unless someone specifically says what they want, I usually never know what the fuck to buy. And, considering my utter disdain for any type of mall whatsoever, shopping and browsing for ideas is pretty much out of the question.

My stupid sister, Jackie, who is excellent in the gift-giving capacity, has been zero help to me. Bitch.

I am becoming a Diaryland whore in my dreams. Last night I had yet another dirty dream about a diarist I read (not the same person in the first dream). The thing is, I have no idea what this guy looks like, but in my dream he was incredibly hot… smart, built, tan… gorgeous. I don’t know what brought the dream on, really. I sent him an email about an entry about a week ago, but that’s all the thought I have dedicated to this guy. Hmmm. I don’t care where it came from. It was hot.

I was thinking about that dipshit that stood me up on Saturday, and it really got me. I mean, I don’t understand this game that people play. If he never had any intention of meeting in the first place, why contact me? Why ask me out? Why even agree to a set-up when his friend says “hey, [asshole], I know a fantastically awesome kickass smoking hot girl you should go out with”? Ok, maybe our mutual friend didn’t exactly put it that way. But whatever. The guy is still a big pussy in my book.

All I want is a guy who’s not a complete ass, has a brain, can make me laugh, and is a good kisser. Is that too much to ask?

I don’t think so.

Alright then. So, to the brainy funny guy who likes to make out that’s reading this: Email me! Call me! I put out!! Well, ok. Maybe the “put out” thing is not guaranteed. Whatever. Just find me already.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

I <3 Tom Brady.

Today I was stood up. I am not pleased about this. I can not possibly imagine the reason he will give me for not showing up. That I don’t care about. The unforgivable part is him not calling to tell me. He let me get all dolled up, and then sit around… and wait. And wait. And wait.

I can not tolerate people who do things like this. I hate men that play games and who lie. These kind of men make me bitter, which in turn makes it harder for me to trust the next one.

Fucker.

While I was waiting, there was a knock at my door. Expecting it to be the date, I happily opened it, smiling, only to be greeted by some Jesus freak and her son. She told me that all of the crimes, and wars, and injustices of today’s world were foretold in book blah, blah, blah, blah, and then went to start reading to me from her bible. I cut her off, and politely said that I wasn’t interested and didn’t want to waste her time. Nice enough, right?

Wrong. She looked at me scornfully, then turned to her son, who jumped the step onto my porch and said “Ma’am, do you not have time to hear the word of Jesus Christ?” First of all, don’t fucking call me ma’am. I am 31. My grandmother is a ma’am. Ass.

“I’m sorry, I’m really not interested.” I started to close my door, and the guy actually stuck his foot in the door to stop me.

“Ma’am.” Again with the fucking ma’am. “It is written in the bible that those who do not heed the word of the lord will suffer. For eternity. It is called damnation.”

My parents aren’t religious, and never forced me to go to church, so I have no clue if it says that in the bible or not. I have never read the bible, and quite possibly never will. But I am pretty sure good old J.C. isn’t going to make me spend the rest of eternity in hell because I didn’t want to listen to some lunatic and her son reading bible verses, when all I really wanted to do was get back to Nick and Jessica try to out-stupid and out-pretty each other. I probably should go to hell for watching shit like Newlyweds, but I’m a sucker, what can I say?

I had a bunch of gift cards to Best Buy leftover from Christmas, so I decided to go get some new music. Not entirely sure what I wanted, I just browsed for a while. Then I noticed that all the CD’s were either 9.99 or 13.99. Except for U2’s new record. It was 19.99. WTF? I would never pay twenty dollars for ELEVEN songs, and I don’t know where the hell U2 gets off charging their fans that much money for their records. And the industry doesn’t understand why people don’t want to pay for music.

I am looking forward to the Super Bowl party tomorrow, most especially because Tom Brady is a hot piece of ass, and I really want the Patriots to kick the Eagles’ asses. All my guy friends hate Tom Brady, so that just makes me root even more for them. Plus, he is fucking HOT!!! And at the end of the day, that’s really the only reason I watch sports anyways.

GO PATRIOTS!

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

The best tv show ever.

Since I am still “not supposed” to drink, I do believe this will be the first Super Bowl Sunday that I will actually remember. Kay and DMX throw a big party every year, and every Monday morning after, I curse myself for drinking more beer than one human being should ever consume.

I must admit, as much as I hate to be the lone sober person, not being hung over all day at work sounds pretty good, especially since that Monday is going to be my first day back.

I am not a big fan of reality TV. In fact, I hate almost all of it. But I watch shit like Elimidate and Dance 360 (only the best hour of television EVER), so who am I to judge? Anywho, I avoid most “reality” shows, except for the auditions for American Idol (after they pick all the finalists, I don’t care anymore). These lunatics that show up to sing in front of Simon, Randy, and Paula (who really should not be criticizing anyone else’s abilities as a singer) really scare the shit out of me. I mean, these people sound SO bad… I can’t possibly understand how they could think they could pull it off.

I also think their friends and families should get their asses kicked for filling these poor peoples’ heads with false hope, when it is so blaringly obvious they should be doing something other than singing. Please, crazy auditioners, go home and do ANYTHING that doesn’t involve you singing a Whitney Houston song, mmmkay? Thanks.

On the reality TV/Whitney Houston tip… A Bobby and Whitney reality show? I am all over that shit. I have heard Bobby is shopping the networks to sell a show about he and Whitney, and those two crackheads are just crazy enough to get me to watch. It sounds almost as good as the ill-fated Liza Minelli and David Gest freak show.

Good times, people. Good times.

Striving For Mediocrity