Striving For Mediocrity

Ramblings of a thirtysomething sometimes bitter single girl living in Southern California with her gay cat and crazy neighbors. Doing her damnedest to find one good man that won't drive her completely nuts.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

An open letter to Jesus.


Dear Jesus,

Hey. What up?

I know that I am a slacker in terms of Christianity, I curse like a sailor, and engage in all sorts of debaucherous un-lady like activities, but I need some of your godly assistance for a minute. I know you're busy healing lepers, turning water into wine, and showing up on peoples' tortillas and what not, but I need a small favor.

I would like to take a moment to point at out that I am not going to ask for any of the standard "Please help me Jesus" prayers.

I don't want money.

I don't want fame.

I don't want power.

I don't even want world peace, for fuck's sake.

I have but one small request: one decent, good man for Andria. That's it. I can't handle these men I have been meeting.

I just want to find one man who's honest, who doesn't play games, and knows what it is that he wants from a woman. He doesn't have to be rich, he doesn't have to be gorgeous. He doesn't have to be perfect at all. He should just mean what he says, and follow through with his promises.

Is that too much to ask for? I am a pretty good person. I think I deserve it. I mean, in the last seven days alone, I helped save my nemesis, Celestia, from near-mortal danger, AND saved the lives of a litter of sweet little baby kittens. Kittens!

That's good for something, right?

Also, could you please make Ashton Kutcher be less famous? That would be really great.

Thanks, Jesus. You're the best.

Love Always,
Andria


While we're on the Jesus tip, today, my neighbor, Jesus Freak, came over and told me that she was giving me her 30 days notice that she and her man are moving out of her apartment.

After catching YET ANOTHER peeping tom. One night, about a year and a half ago, I was in my bedroom on the computer (shocking, I know), and I noticed a light flashing in the backyard behind my apartment. About ten minutes later, I heard a banging on my door.

Being that I am a single female and possess no firearms, I didn't answer.

The next morning, Jesus Freak told me that she caught a guy looking in her bedroom window (about ten feet away from mine), and then later, saw him looking in her windows from across the street, so she called the cops.

Her boyfriend moved in about a week later, and she told me then that she was so creeped out that she was moving, but she never did. Until now.

My Dad had better rent that apartment to someone normal for a change.

Like a hot guy.


More adventures in instant messaging with my friend J in Boston:

Andria: Old guys are hot.
J: Yeah, if you say so. You're a skank. You think every guy's hot.
Andria: Eh, I suppose that's true. And I am not a skank. I am a whore, thank you very much. There IS a difference.
J: I am going to be there in two days!!
Andria: That's SO FUCKING WICKED. We're going to get cocked!
J: WHATEVER. DUDE.
Andria: You're the one that talks funny.
J: Oh my god!! I saw Johnny Damon in the city yesterday!!!
Andria: Who the hell is that?
J: How stupid are you?!
Andria: Do you have to ask?
Andria:Is he hot?



Update: For everyone that doesn't know, this is him:



I can be nice. Sometimes.

I am not drinking anymore.

I know I say this every time I am hungover, but this time I mean it. It’s Tuesday, two days since I have drank anything, and I still feel like shit.

Damn you, Ketel One vodka. DAMN YOU!


Many exciting things have happened in the 24 hours since my last post.

Well, not really, but you know.

First, my favorite co-worker, Margie, came over yesterday to steal music in the form of burned cds (take that, Metallica!), and hang out and talk shit about everyone we work with, since we don’t get to do it at the office anymore (she got transferred to another one of our offices).

She brought her son with her, and he is apparently some kind of psychic, because he looked at my knocked up cat Boo, and said, “She’s going to have four babies. All black. One with a white spot on its head.”

Um.

Ok.

“Your kid’s weird, dude.”

“Yeah, no shit.”


Secondly, I think I have secured my place in heaven by coming to the aide of a certain insane co-worker by the name of Celestia.

Yes. You read right. She was stuck in a really fucked up situation, and rather than stand back and laugh, which I would normally be prone to do, I was viciously attacked by my conscience, and intervened.


Dear Conscience,

Thanks, you fucking asshole.

Love,
Andria


Ok. I’ll explain.

Before Margie came over, I went to the grocery story to get some beverages and snacks.

Celestia lives within a mile of me.

When I pulled in the parking lot, I saw her car, and groaned, hoping I wouldn’t run into her. She must have just gotten there, because she jumped out of her car after I turned down the next aisle.

When I got out of my car, I saw her walking to the store, and then, in front of the store, next to a homeless guy, I saw Crack Head, a guy who used to work at our company, but got fired because he’s a speed freak and was strung out at work all the time.

Everyone (especially Celestia) hates Crack Head. I have a love/hate relationship with him. He’s a mess, and an ass, and a criminal, but having a conversation with him literally is like talking to a lunatic. You just never know what shit he’ll say next.

I saw Celestia walking, and I saw Crack Head approach her and say something. She waved, looked uncomfortable, and kept going.

When I got up to him, he yelled out, “Andriiiiiiaaaaaa! What up!”

“Oh, hey Crack Head. What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“Dude. You’re not going to believe who I just saw going in the store. Celestia. She was like ‘Oh, hey Crack Head. I am so busy, I don’t have time to talk to you anymore, because I am busy being Mr. Big Shot’s personal assistant.’” Crack Head was Mr. Big Shot’s assistant when he got fired. He is way bitter about Celestia taking his job, even though it’s his own fucking fault.

“Oh, really? Hmmm… well, I can’t really talk. I am having company and I gotta get some stuff. I’ll see you around.”

“Oh, alright, then. Later.”

So I went into the store, and was in the soda aisle when I heard Crack Head yelling out Celestia’s full name for EVERYONE to hear. What came next was a long line of expletives, including, whore, cunt, and bitch.

I started going up and down the aisles looking for Celestia, when I found her towards the back of the store on her cell phone, I presume calling her boyfriend, Sucker.

She was freaking out. I walked up, and started talking to her, trying to calm her down, when Crack Head comes up and starts screaming about how he’s going to make her sorry she got him fired, and that Sucker was going to be sorry, and pretty much everyone was going to be sorry.

Celestia was panicking, and crying, and I can’t say at this point I blame her. A lunatic 6’3, 280 pound guy is screaming and threatening her, and no one (i.e., store employee) is doing a fucking thing to help her.

I walked up to Crack Head, and tried to talk him down, and get him to go outside with me, but he wasn’t stopping. He was like a pit-bull. At this point, I was running to find a manager, or another man, or fucking anyone who would help us get him the fuck away from her. I was seriously afraid he might hurt her. I found the manager and told him what was going on, and he called the police.

I ran back and did the only thing I could think of, and started making a joke about something that happened between he and I a few weeks after we started working together, and he started to laugh. We talked about it, and laughed, and I kept him as busy as I could while Celestia got the hell out of there.

She filled out a police report, and they asked her if she wanted to arrest him, but she said no.

I suppose she didn’t want any retribution for that.

This morning, she brought me Starbuck’s (because she knows I’ll sell my soul for a venti iced vanilla latte), and a little bunch of flowers as a thank you for helping her.

She can’t be crazy all the time, and I can’t be an asshole all the time, I suppose.

But, I can say for certain that she will do something to piss me off soon (maybe even before this day is over), and I will go back to hating her guts.

Wow. That was longer than I thought it would be.

Oh!! And when I was in line at the cashier, there was a black guy in front of me with a Hitler mustache.

Yeah. A Hitler mustache.


In my last entry, I alluded to an email that I wrote to send to someone, and was relieved to see that I didn’t. In checking my sent mail, an email did in fact get sent, and I feel pretty damned retarded for it now.

I don’t even have feelings for Jason anymore, so I don’t know why I am torturing this poor boy with my drunken stupidity. More reason not to drink, I suppose.

Thank god he thinks I am so cute and funny, cause most guys would have kicked my ass by now.

Monday, May 30, 2005

My Mom's drunker at your mom - part II


Well, I hope you all had a fine, fine Memorial Day Weekend.

Mine was alright. Friday, at work, happy hour started at about 1:30, so by the time we got to leave at 3, I was feeling pretty good. I came home and did all my crap I usually drag out all weekend so that I could do whatever, and not have to worry about cleaning my apartment.

Saturday, in a fit of boredom, and curiosity, I got in my car and just started driving. I thought Pacific Coast Highway would be a nice scenic drive.

Wrong.

PCH is scenic in parts, but not so much. It runs through a whole lot of crappy looking neighborhoods. After about two hours, I got on the freeway and came home. And, for anyone who doesn't live here (which is everyone, except Wen, I think), the 405 freeway really is the most horrid stretch of highway in the history of paved road. It doesn't matter what day of the week, or what time of day, it's bad.

I also almost got killed by some deranged woman in a huge Dodge Ram that apprently couldn't see my Corolla in her mirrors, because she almost hit me about 18 times.


Sunday was Kay and DMX's bbq. I started drinking this citrus vodka/crystal light drink, and it's good. Well, it's good and bad. It's good because it tastes good, but it's bad because it doesn't taste like you're drinking booze at all. Post-surgery, after one good mixed drink, I am way buzzed. After two, I am DRUNK.

So, I was hanging out in the garage (as all good white trash do at such an event) watching nascar with DMX and my sister, Jackie, when Kay, also lit off the crystal light drinks, decided we should pretend we were Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

Yeah. She's trying to eat my face.

Kay, because she likes to torture me, also invited my parents. Everyone else thinks it's cool that my parents hang out and drink and have a good time, but I just get embarrassed. I mean, it's only a matter of time at these things before my Mom starts joking about "my domestic skills aren't the reason [Dad] married me! It's the sucking - and I am not talking about the vaccum!" Ha ha. Real fucking funny. Everyone laughs, I want to shoot myself.

Plus, my mother is a loud-mouth, and she and my Dad NEVER STOP TALKING.

Sure, you guys all laugh now, but if this was your mom, you wouldn't think it was so funny.

Not only is she boligerantly drunk, but she apparently also has no eyes.

Here's the only picture Jackie told me I am allowed to post here:

My friends Angela and Barney were there with their sweet little baby, Jack. I took about 90 (I am not kidding) pictures of him, but I think this one is my favorite. You can only see his little blue baby eye:

He's a one-eyed Jack. Goddamn, I am so clever.

Barney creeped me out (yet again), when they left, and he hugged me *gag* and said "Bye, Muffin. I love you."

First, I fucking hate that he still calls me muffin. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

It started out as a joke, and now I just want it to end already.

Second, this is the fourth or fifth time he's told me he loves me. It just creeps me out. He doesn't tell anyone else this.

Later, after most of the people were gone, DMX and I, in a drunken stupor, decided to sing "Islands In The Stream." We didn't have the music. And we didn't know the words. We just sang "Islands in the stream, that is what we are, and we'll rely on each other, uh-huh" over and over and over. Til we decided to sing "I've Got You Babe." We knew a little bit more of that song.

Thank god there aren't pictures of that.

Good times.


If I haven't pointed it out before, alcohol intensifies my feelings, and makes me want to express them to whoever is on my mind. This is not always a bad thing, but last night, it would have been. I almost sent an email to someone that would have been a huge mistake. And would have surely made me look like some kind of psycho, I think.

I woke up this morning, and the email was still sitting waiting to be sent. Thank god I didn't send it, and deleted the hell out of it.

I haven't been hung over in a while.

This is no fun.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Hold on, hold on to yourself, for this is going to hurt like hell.


First, I must say thank you to everyone who left comments and sent emails after yesterday's entry. Those words meant a lot.

I took a lot of time yesterday, and thought about things. I spent a lot of time with Sean, John's partner, and he helped me get to a place where I can begin to accept what is to come. John's sense of humor, in the face of all this, also helped to put my feelings into perspective.

This morning, on my way to work, I called his hospital room. As soon as Sean gave him the phone, before he said hello, before anything, he said, "You better be calling to tell me you got laid last night, you whore."

"No, I didn't get laid, you ass. But I am having a hot email affair with a guy in Virginia."

"You're a dirty whore. I can't believe you!"

"..."

"Well?! Is he hot?"

I realized at that moment, it felt like this weight was off of my shoulders. I mean... here he is, tied to machines, knocking on death's door, barely able to breathe, let alone talk, and he wants to know if I am getting laid. At that point, I decided that I was going to have to accept the fact that he was going to be gone, and thank god I had this lovely man in my life as long as I did.

I went to see him on my lunch break. It felt strange going into that hospital to see someone else, instead of me being the patient. And when I got there, I saw my friend in a fashion that could only be described as classic John. He had on his Madonna Virgin Tour T-shirt (our first concert together, and his most prized possession) and a pink feather boa.

I fucking kid you not.

John's humor is fantastic, and I think our two warped senses of humor are what bonded us from the beginning. Well, that and we were both total outcasts at our school.

For my 25th birthday, my Mother threw this hideous party for me with my whole family in attendance. My 25th was the only birthday I didn't look forward to. I didn't dread 30 like I dreaded 25. Kay and DMX were my only friends who were invited. John sent his gift from San Francisco.

When I was opening the gifts in front of everyone, my mom handed me John's to open. I opened the FedEx box and pulled out a long wrapped box. I opened, in front of my whole family (half of them uptight and hugely religious), a huge black double-headed dildo. I think the card said something like "Now you can go tell 25 to fuck itself and you at the same time."

To say I was embarrassed would be putting it mildly. But that is how he is, and it's why I love him.


In other news, well... soon the pitter-patter of little feet will be heard in my house.

No, not me, you jackholes. Unless you can pregnant from instant messaging, in which case, I would be having a serious discussion with a certain someone.

My sweet little baby girl Boo has been knocked up by some horny tom. Since both my cats are indoor cats, I kept putting off getting her fixed, mostly because I am a procrastinating ass. She ran out when I was taking the trash out, and in less than an hour, came home walking funny. I should have known something was up when my cranky gay cat Ike was sniffing her ass much more voraciously than usual. Then, the other night, she was laying on the bed and rolled over, and I noticed her little cat nipples showing.

When I called the vet to confirm my suspicions, I was told that I could get her spayed now, and for a little more, there would be no kittens. While I am staunchly pro-choice for all cats, I just couldn't do it with mine.

So you're all getting kittens as gifts, because I am not keeping a litter of kittens.

And the day after that whore delivers, she is getting fixed.


I had an interesting discussion with Celestia and HR Boss at work today.

I hate the magnetic car ribbons. I think they're tacky. I think they're stupid. When I said this, Celestia flipped out.

"My mother died of cancer!"

"So did my grandmother. And my uncle. But just because I don't have a stupid ribbon on my car doesn't mean I like cancer. Who likes cancer? Or autism? Or AIDS? Everyone supports cancer research. You shouldn't have to declare it on your car."

"It's just to show support. Everyone should do it."

"I support it by donating money so more research can be done, instead of buying some stupid magnet that's not supporting ANYTHING. So, what you're saying is, by not having a ribbon on my car, it's like I am driving around yelling 'YAY death! WOO HOO Terminal Illness! Yeah! Autism! War!' Um... no, Celestia. That's just stupid. " It reminded me of the Chris Rock bit when he talks about black guys that brag about being fathers:

"I take care of my kids!"

"...That's what you're supposed to do, you dumb motherucker!"

She didn't cry, but she got really close. I love these moments.

ps - if you're one of those people with a goddamn ribbon...well... don't take offense. I hate everything.


Thank god it's Friday.

And a three day weekend. Weeee!!!


Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Go away.


There's no funny here, today. You will not hurt my feelings if you leave now.

It's depressing. And sad.

You've been warned.

My day started out good enough, punctuated by some particularly wonderful words exchanged in some emails. That euphoria didn't last long.

I had to go to a doctor's appointment on my lunch break, and some complete fucking stranger made a comment to me in the elevator that shouldn't have bothered me, but it did.

Throughout my life, I have learned to dismiss the comments of strangers as just that - comments from people who don't know me. For the most part, I don't concern myself with the opinions of others. For the most part. Which means, there are those little fucked up moments when my fragile little mind allows these comments to seap in, and it just radiates, and I nearly break down.

Here's the part where you all go, "Wow, Andria. You're fucking crazy."

Yeah. I know.

On top of that, before I left work, Diva, the fanny-pack wearing uptight IT guy in our office screamed at me about how I fucked up the checkwriting program I use for accounts payable (which, with my access is IMPOSSIBLE). He loves to feel superior, so when he goes off on these tangents, he rants and raves about how no one knows how to use the programs he creates, and he doesn't understand why someone "who doesn't even have a college degree" is allowed to have such involvement in the company's accounting. Fucking prick.

He just screamed like a fucking banshee for like a half hour at me. I wanted to rip his head off and shove it down his neck so he'd just shut the hell up.

I love that I work in a place that just allows this kind of thing to happen.


I came home, still pissed off about everything. It festered just enough that I had a small panic attack (I don't know if I have talked about it here before, but I have anxiety problems occasionally... rarely these days). I tried to call Kay, who is one of the very few people who can talk me down in these situations. DMX told me that she was at some work function and couldn't be reached.

I had to work through it myself, until finally, I could breathe again. Less than five minutes later, my friend Sean called me to tell me that my oldest friend, John, was admitted to the hospital earlier today. He's dying. He won't go home, and it is likely just a matter of weeks, if not days.

I have known for 15 years that this day would come. John and I have talked about it for hours. I have written pages and pages and pages in my journal about this. I have rationalized in my mind that, given his failing health in the last few months, he will be free from the burden of this disease, and in a place where he doesn't have to worry about having the AIDS stigma attached to him any longer. He would be relieved. No more suffering.

But I am not ready. I am not ready one fucking little bit. I don't know how I will handle seeing him, knowing that it is going to be the last time I ever see his face, hear his voice, hold his hand. God, I feel so selfish for feeling this way, when he is the one who has to accept that his death is eminent.

I feel like a selfish asshole, but I can't help it.

I love this man.


And, at the very end of all of this, I am dealing with some feelings for someone that I wasn't expecting.

I wish he was here right now.


Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Fuck the cup. Pour it in my hand for ten cents.

Dude.

Phil.

Seriously. It's going to be really hard to convince people you're not a homicidal maniac with that hair.

Even Don King is laughing at you.


In light of Andy's entry about his frustration with the neverending New England rain, and his ark, I decided to take this picture to show him how shitty it is where I live.

Man, it sucks to live here.


I got a fantastic prospect from myspace. Be jealous ladies.

Here are two of the pictures on his profile:

Fucking hell.

It's always black guys that dress like pimps, and thugs that contact me. Those boys love some junk in the trunk.

His other pictures included many gang signs, as well as many pictures of the young hunk smoking pot.

God, what a turn on. I can't help myself.

A gangster, a pothead, multiple jailhouse tats... what more could a girl ask for?

It's so fun to be single.


I just got "I'm Gonna Git You, Sucka" on dvd for $6.

Fuck yeah.


ps... Pimp - the new Gorillaz CD - Excellent.

Phat beats, yo.

Whatever.

Crap. I can't think of a title.


I got the monumentally stupid idea to re-organize my CD collection alphabetically.

I’ve already admitted to being a dork. So shut the fuck up.

Now I’ve got about 500 CD’s piled on my living room floor and I don’t want to deal with the project anymore. It’s not all the fun I thought it would be.

I also realized I have CD’s that I thought I tossed out years ago. Like “Spellbound” by Paula Abdul.

Yeah. Paula Abdul.


Did anyone see Lindsay Lohan on SNL this weekend?

Holy shit. That girl is falling apart. And, she got rid of the red hair and has a horrible blonde disaster dye job.

And speaking of girls I don’t like, Tom Cruise was on Oprah yesterday (Yeah, I tivo Oprah. Want to make something of it?).

Jesus.

I thought his little romance with Katie Holmes was a publicity stunt (as has been speculated everywhere), but after his over the top theatrics every time someone said her name, now I am convinced it can’t be real.

It was bizarre. I thought he was going to eat her as soon as she came out. It’s creepy, I tell you. CREEPY.

I think Dixie nailed it on the head when she called the Brad and Jen divorce vehicle, “Mr. & Mrs. Smith” - “True Lies 2: Electric Boogaloo.” I finally saw a clip of it, and what a big unoriginal piece of crap this movie looks like.

But it’s got Brad. And he’s pretty.

And Angelina. And she’s hot.


Tuesday is my favorite day of the week. Well, actually Wednesday is, because it’s the only day people refer to using the word “hump.” But I love Tuesdays because that’s the day new records are released, and because I buy cd’s like most women buy shoes, today I am getting the new Gorillaz and Audioslave records.

Gorillaz, if you’re not listening to them, are awesome. Seriously.


Fuck me.

I was changing the syrup in our soda machine at work, and I spilled fucking diet coke syrup down my shirt.

Nice. And since I sit at the front desk, everyone that comes in the door will see what a clumsy dipshit I am.

I doubt any pervy old guys will tell me I smell "intoxicating" today.

Well, unless I spilled some bacardi on me, too.

Good times.



Saturday, May 21, 2005

Proper work conversation.


As I type this from my bedroom in my apartment, I can hear fucking mariachi music blaring like they're playing live in my house.

Goddamn the ghetto. This is pretty commonplace as the weather warms up and it gets closer to summer. My neighbors in the house across the street (all 726 of them) invite 1500 more of their relatives over and have a bbq.

Most of the time I don't care about it, but sometimes enough is enough already, and I retaliate by turning up Tom Jones' Greatest Hits as loud as my stereo will go. Nothing says "pass me another cerveza and cook up that carne asada" like "It's Not Unusual."


More stupidity in the media: I was reading this article on People magazine online about how silicone breast implants are legal again, and that women may be getting those instead of the saline implants. They cited Pamela Anderson, and said "Anderson won't comment on what type of implants - if any - she has."

If any?? Do they think there's a possibility those volleyballs on her chest might be natural?

Or anything else on her, for that matter?

It clearly takes no brains to be an entertainment journalist. I am in the wrong line of work.


My company has baseball and basketball season tickets. Usually, the baseball tickets are available for employees to use, but Mr. Big Shot NEVER lets anyone use his Lakers or Clippers tickets. His Clipper tickets are on the floor, and his Laker tickets are good enough that you can touch Jack Nicholson. He uses those to take his friends and show off what a big shot he (thinks) is. Eh, I'd probably do the same.

So, Chris sent out an email to the office that said "blah blah blah days of Dodger tickets are available. Let me know if you want them." I almost always grab the Friday night games, because even though I don't really like to watch it on tv, I love going to a ball game.

I used to be an obsessed Dodger fan as a kid, which was fueled by my lusty crush on Steve Sax - which is pretty much why I watch all sports, at least initially - the men. I had the blue satin jacket, hats, and shirts. During the summer, my Dad always used to take the day off of work and we would go to the game. I miss those days.

I replied to Chris' email that I wanted last night's tickets. Plus, they were playing the Anaheim Angels of The OC from Los Angeles In California, or whatever the fuck they're called now. He told me I could have them, but after, he told me he also told Fajita, another co-worker, that he could have them, too. Being that neither Fajita or I are complete assholes, and since there's four tickets, instead of fighting for them, we split them. He was going to bring his girlfriend, and I was going to bring my friend Colm, which I was nervous about, because as much as Fajita and I get along at work, he's never seen me outside of work, let alone with a drunken Irishman.

We were joking about the game at my desk yesterday, which resulted in me getting called in to the boss' office.

Thanks, Celestia, you bitter, sense of humor-less whore.

Andria: Dude, what are the Angels called now?
Fajita: I think it's the Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. But I am not sure.
Chris: Maybe they should be the Disneyland Angels.
Andria: Disney doesn't own the Angels anymore.

Chris starts suggesting all these dumb names, and the last one was what got me in trouble.

Chris: Maybe Michael Jackson could buy them, and they'd be Michael Jackson's Angels.
Andria: Wouldn't that have to be a little league team?
Fajita: Oh boy.
Andria: Exactly.
Chris: Andria, I think you're going to hell.


Celestia overheard that, and told HR Boss that I was making child molester jokes, and that she didn't think it was appropriate "for the corporate office." She, of course, didn't explain the conversation entirely, she just said I was making jokes about molesting little boys. Fucking bitch.

When I explained it, my boss didn't care. She just told me to watch for Celestia next time.

You know, the conversation Chris and I had earlier in the day was WAY more worth a scolding than a dumb Michael Jackson joke. We talked about anal sex, the proper moment to stick a finger up a guy's ass during a blowjob, and midget porn. That, I will admit, is not wholly appropriate for the corporate office. Now that I think about it, most of our conversations sound like that.

Goddamn, I am such a lady.

When we met Fajita at the game, I met his girlfriend, Cherry for the first time. When Fajita was first hired, I was absolutely certain that he was gay. And I am usually right about such things. But, since he has a girlfriend and a kid on the way, I will assume he's straight. He's just a fabulous dresser. And maticulous. And a fanatical work-out guy. And a little tiny bit effeminate.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Colm had about 30 beers at the game, and with his Irish tongue, managed to offend Cherry, who in spite of her out-of-wedlock-living-in-sin-impending motherhood, is quite a conservative girl. When he called the peanut guy a "fucking cunt" for ignoring his request, I think her jaw dropped to the ground. It also didn't help when he asked Fajita what it was like working with a "that fucking toerag Celestia."

Good times.


I am supposed to go to dinner with Jason and his *gag* girlfriend tonight. I don't want to do this. I have no respect for this girl, and I can't sit and act fake for an hour or two, and pretend I don't think she's a giant retard.

Jason tried to be serious with her once before, which was one of the few times when he gave me the "let's just be friends with no sex" speech. But it lasted all of about two weeks. Because as much as he liked everything else about her, she was uptight and boring in the sack. Rather than experimenting with sexual adventure, she told Jason he could do that stuff with other people, she just didn't want to know about it.

How boring, you ask? No blowjobs. EVER. It's all missionary, all the time.

Maybe she's changed her ways, and became a dirty whore, I don't know. But now the fucker wants me to go and hang out with them, and that makes me uncomfortable.

I need to find a way to get out of this.


Since I have talked about sex throughout this entry, I will close by saying I have had some of my raciest dreams ever in the last few weeks. Like crazy, graphic, groping myself in my sleep, waking up turned on dreams.

The only bad thing about these dreams is waking up alone. I am tired of being single. I am frustrated. I am tired of random guys that don't mean more than a good time for a few hours at a time.

Jesus. Am I becoming a mature adult?


Friday, May 20, 2005

Adventures from the midget rodeo.

You think New Jersey drivers suck? This is how we roll in SoCal:

Christ.

Los Angeles freeways are not very far off from Frogger. You really have to dodge and weave sometimes to get off of one alive.

If it's even moving.


Man, am I glad this week is done. That pervy guy that told me my perfume was "intoxicating" grossed me out for the whole day.

There is this whole group of old guys who constantly kiss up to Mr. Big Shot, hoping he'll give them money. At the Christmas Party the year before last, Perfume Perv was loaded, and came up and kissed me, and before I could stop him, he kissed me on the lips. I think he would have tried to slip me the tongue if I didn't pull back as fast as I did. It's a good thing that party is open bar, because I was drinking my ass off after that.

I think half of them have a crush on me, because I am so nice to them on the phone. But that's only because it's my job. They always ask me how my love life's going, and "who's heart are you breaking this week?"

Dipshits.

My company has this investment program, that works like CD's, only they offer a better rate than traditional banks, but the money is not insured.

All of the investors are at least 1000 years old, and they're cranky, and impatient. One, in particular, Mrs. Foster (or as she says "Missus Faawwstuh"), is a serious pain in my ass. She calls every month to say that her statement envelope wasn't sealed completely, or she didn't get it exactly on the first of the month.

Yesterday, I had to go downstairs to deliver something to the woman who deals with all the investors, and as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw an old woman on a Rascal going inside our building. She kept hitting the side of the door, so I nudged her over so she could get in, and she said "Oh, thank you sweethaawwt. My, aren't you a pretty girl? Isn't she such a pretty girl, Syl?" She was about 85, and was wearing a satin Celtics jacket, that I am guessing was from 1974, and a Red Sox hat, also decades old.

Now, the funniest thing about this woman was that on the back of her Rascal, was a Sex Pistols sticker, and a Pennywise sticker.

What. The. Hell?


I have been meaning to tell this story for a while now, and PorkTornado's entry yesterday reminded me again.

Before I went, I had never heard of the midget rodeo, and to be honest, I thought I was a nicer person than one who would go to an event and laugh at the expense of the little people.

Surprisingly, I found out that I am an asshole.

We sat there, waiting for the madness to begin. Finally, this little (and I mean LITTLE) car comes out, and four or five midget clowns jump out, and they all start running around, chasing each other, and pretending to shoot each other with imaginary guns. All the music that played was in Spanish, and the announcer spoke Spanish, and all the "little people" were Mexican.

Suddenly, one jumped up on the tiny car and started singing and dancing to "Livin' la vida loca" by Ricky Martin. After the song, the music stopped, and all the midgets froze, and looked afraid. The spotlight went to the bullpen, and when they gate went up, a goddamn bulldog came out. Yeah. A bulldog. They were all running around, trying to save themselves from the fierce beast that is the bulldog.

Have you ever seen a bulldog run ANYWHERE? Exactly. So they were all running around from nothing.

There was a lot of the singing and dancing to bad latin music, midgets riding donkeys, a bulldog sitting doing nothing, and midget clowns spraying water into the audience. I am afraid of clowns. Like SERIOUSLY afraid. I don't even want to tell you how disturbed I was by midget clowns. My friend Mongol, who was drunk, kept asking one of the crew if he could take one of the midgets home. He said he would care for it, and feed it, and let it run around in the backyard all day. The guy he was talking to didn't think it was funny. Mongol's persistence in wanting a midget souvenir got us kicked out, and he was yelled at in Spanish.

He told me on the way home that the manager told him that the midgets have feelings, and they shouldn't be taken advantage of by stupid drunk Americans.

Uh. Ok. Instead they can be taken advantage of by greedy exploitive Mexicans I guess.

If you ever get the opportunity to see this spectacle, I recommend it. You won't feel good about yourself afterward, but it's worth it.


Happy Friday, bitches.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Butch isn't butch, but femme.


Yesterday may have been the most entertaining day at work I have had ever, except maybe for the day I ratted out Celestia for outing an employee from another office in front of a bunch of other people, and she got reamed for two hours in HR Boss’ office (our sales department is a good ol’ boys club. If they found out one was gay, it would not be too good for him, and for that stupid bitch to shoot her mouth off pissed me off enough to tattle tale, which I don’t like to do).

So, Butch (not making that name up, I swear), the plumber I found in the gay pages, was fanfuckingtastic. He didn’t have on denim cut-offs, unfortunately, like Jenna had hoped for, and no pink thong like I had hoped for, but he did have the tightest goddamn Calvin Klein jeans (only a queer would do his plumbing work in Calvins) I have ever seen. His voice was not high and hissy, but there was a definite gay twang. And he was hot. Very, very hot.

When he came up to my desk to let me know he was here, the only other people in the office were Celestia, and another co-worker, Princess, but she had her office door shut. So, after chit-chatting for a few minutes about how nice it must be to work at the beach (which everyone who comes to our office tells me), and how nice the weather was, I told him where I found him, and just why I chose him specifically. He laughed, and told me he was going to over-do it a little bit at certain moments to up the discomfort factor for the other people in the office. It’s moments like these when I really love my job, and the way my warped mind works.

He was working in the bathroom downstairs, and I was talking to Snotty Downstairs Receptionist*, when I heard something hit the floor, and then I heard a high-pitched “Sssssonofabitch!” And then a Ned Flanders-like scream. I didn’t laugh (though it was hard not to), and Snotty Downstairs Receptionist just looked at me, puzzled.

“What do you think he’s doing in there?”

“Hmm… I have no idea. He’s a plumber. I don’t want to know what he’s doing in there. But he knows all about pipes, and how to properly take care of them, so I am sure it’s alright.” See how clever I am? Jesus.

Later, after he was done, he was back at my desk talking to me, and told me how he was talking casually to another co-worker, Smut Peddler,** (who is male) and he asked him if he’s ever seen him at Rage (a popular gay bar in West Hollywood). Smut Peddler, a traditional sexist hetero, told him “Fuck no!” when he told Smut Peddler what Rage was.

When he was going over the details of the bill with Soccer Mom, who oversees all the maintenance done in the building, he made a comment that the color of her jacket was “fabulous!” Soccer Mom thanked him, but looked puzzled.

After he left (and we exchanged email addresses), Soccer Mom quietly said to me, “I think that plumber might have been gay?”

“Oh my god! Do you think?”

*I am sad. Margie, my very favorite co-worker, and butcher of the English language, took a job in one of our other offices, so I don’t get to see her every day anymore.

**She named Smut Peddler because she was cleaning up one day and found a bunch of porn he printed from his computer. Because she hacks English as much as possible, at first she called him “Smet Puddler.” I love her.

I miss her.



Oy. Yesterday.

I had to go have a blood test for my doctor, and they took TEN fucking vials of my blood, because at this point, my doctor has to check every single thing they apparently can check for in a blood test. As if God hasn’t afflicted me with enough medical maladies, he also gave me tiny, deep veins that no one can find. EVER. I get stabbed at least three times every time I have a blood test. They hate me at the hospital lab.

The worst part is, 99% of the time, they can’t find a good vein in my arms, so they have to take it out of the top of my hand. That, my friends, is pain. Serious pain. Not to mention the huge black bruise I am going to have for a week.

The hospital lab is around the corner from the OR waiting area, and you can’t go to, or leave the lab without going through this area. When I was leaving the lab, I had to haul ass because I was already running late for my doctor’s appointment. When I turned the corner, there was about 30 people huddled around a doctor, being told why someone in their family didn’t survive their surgery.

At this point, I was conflicted. I knew I was already late for my appointment to my doctor’s office who has NO sympathy for people who don’t make their appointments, and will bump me, but I didn’t want to be a big asshole and try to get through this crowd of people who just found out someone they love is dead.

I stood there for a few minutes, and watched these poor people cry, and hug each other, and listen to the doctor, and I became emotional myself. I was instantly taken back to when I was 15, and lost my favorite Uncle, who was the first person I loved that died.

My heart sank at the memory of it, and I felt a little hollow all over again. I haven’t felt that way in a long time. I was crying, and completely out of the moment. I was back in 1989, seeing my Grandmother weeping because she lost her son, and my Grandpa trying to console her, and seeing my Real Dad cry for the first (and only) time.

Finally, not realizing where I was immediately, I heard someone say, “Are you ok, honey?” I looked up to see the entire family I just saw crying, staring at me.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just said, “Yeah. I was waiting to walk through, and I was just thinking about someone I miss.” One of the women in the group came up and hugged me, and stroked my hair, and I’ll be goddamned if it didn’t make me feel better. A few other people hugged me, and I was taken by how, in the midst of their own grief, they reached out to a total stranger.

It was a wonderful moment.

Dammit. I am crying again.

I gotta stop writing about this serious shit.


Time to change the subject.

I had many weird dreams last night, which I am sure were brought on my by some racy emailing I was doing, because they were all dirty (which my dreams usually are, but never three or four in one night).

One in particular, was a lovely romp that involved a few accessories with Portishead playing in the background. It sticks out in my mind the most, and, well… let’s just say that this morning in the shower I remembered it again.

I have to work on my segues. I went from having a poignant moment with strangers about the loss of a loved one to masturbation.

Nice.

I blame the dirty e-mailer.

Ewww. Gross. Some pervy old guy who kisses Mr. Big Shot's ass just walked up behind me, got close to my neck and told me I smell "intoxicating." *gag*

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

A gay plumber will do more than just snake your pipes.


I work with a bunch of snooty, uptight conservatives.

I have heard Mr. Big Shot (company owner), a staunch Catholic, make several disparaging comments about gay people, and anyone who reads this diary knows that I can't stand homophobia of any kind. However, I can't stand not being able to pay my rent more, so I keep my mouth shut (but if I'm out in public and someone says something, I'm a little PFLAG pit bull).

About a year ago, a bunch of phone books were delivered to the office. What made these particular directories different from standard yellow pages was that they were gay. As in gay-run businesses marketing to gay customers. When I saw it, I thought it was hilarious, and looked at every single page. My co-workers, a bunch of Jesus-loving, Bush-voting conservatives did NOT find the humor in it. In fact, they were pretty disgusted by the whole thing. There was a lot of "Now they have their own phone book! It's disgusting! What would Jesus Do?! The sky is falling! Apocalypse now!" Ok, maybe not the last part, but you get the idea.

The books were immediately thrown out, except for one copy I stashed under my desk. This book is fantastic. It has gay mortgage brokers, gay bail bondsmen (because you don't want some straight fucker getting you out of the joint, he must be a homo), gay car dealers (all Jeeps, all the time), gay, gay, gay. You get the idea. I love it because the pictures are SO GAY. I mean, you think that they would not want to play up to stereotypes, but they totally do. There is a finance company, and the two men talking to the banker look ultra swishy, and one is so femme that he literally has the "limp wrist" that is used so often when imitating the gays. And they're both wearing super-tight t-shirts. Yeah, that's a look that'll get you that home loan.

Anyway, today an emergency came up in the office and I was asked to call a plumber. So, naturally, I found the fruitiest plumber I could find in the gay pages, and he's coming (haha) tomorrow morning. Goddamn, I hope he's wearing a feather boa and a pink sequined thong and singing Bette Midler songs the whole time. That would be so awesome. Ok, that won't happen. But I hope he has a high, hissy voice. Goddamn I love those hot gay boys.

And I hope it makes all of my homophobic co-workers uncomfortable as hell. I hope he charges my company up the ass for it, too.

I am SO clever with the gay puns.


The Britney and Kevin car wreck was a disappointment (shock). I didn't know it would be 60 minutes of a hand-held video camera shoved up Britney's nose, highlighting her jacked up skin the whole time.

I sure hope they speed up the chaos and get to the tweaked-out-cheeto-eating-bad-hair-extension-pink-flip-flop era. That's what I want to see.

They're no Nick and Jessica, dammit.

Speaking of Nick and Jessica, I have admitted to being hopelessly addicted to all the dumb shows on MTV before. Have you seen "Meet The Barkers?" Does anyone else think Travis is going to be panhandling on a freeway offramp soon?

Man, that guy loves to spend money. And he's high (on any number of things) all the time.

Between his wife, his cars, and his various hangers-on, he'll be broke in no time.

I also have a violent reaction to Tina on "Real World/Road Rules Challenge." I hate her, and want to do harm to her whenever her big face is talking all her shit on my tv. Maker her go away.

Man, I suck. Am I really commenting on these shows?

I need to get a life.


Since I got a hit in my diary for "naked Andria", it's also been googled for "Andria booty" and "Andria's cock." Who is this Andria, and why is she getting all the action that I am not? Damn her. DAMN HER!


Well, I am glad all of you (or at least the ones with the tolerance to read all of that shit) enjoyed the Celestia saga. She is indeed crazy, and to prove it, in spite of her ignoring me every chance she gets, and talking shit about me to everyone all the time, the bitch brought me a little present back from her vacation.

What the....?

She said she got it for me because I burned a couple cd's for her, but she gave me blank ones in return (which I told her she didn't have to do), so I thought we were straight.

I know I wouldn't spend a dollar on someone I didn't like. Hell, for all I know she beat some little Mexican kid and stole it.

That chick is a wingnut, to be sure.


Finally, it makes me giddy beyond belief when people whose diary I have been reading forever add me as a favorite. It makes me all giggly and dorky (more than usual) that people read this, because when I started, I never thought anyone would read it.

Ok, really finally - I hate when it says my buddies just updated and it's still showing the previous entry.

Grrrrr.

Ok. Really REALLY finally. I just got the Kaiser Chiefs record.

Fuck yeah.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Dave Chappelle can kiss my (white) black ass.


Oy.

I should have learned from DanjerusKurves' recent entry about having a few too many drinks and letting loose on the internet.

But, really... Do I ever learn anything? Of course not. If I did, what the fuck would I write about here?

After not hearing from Wolf for a few days, I got a few shitty messages about how crazy work was, and that it was normal for him to work 14-16 hour days, five to seven days a week, so a relationship would be really hard right now, but that he still wanted to see me.

Uh... who the hell said relationship??

So, since I am not going to play the game on his terms only, I am out. I can't have him calling all the shots. And, because I must always have the last word (usually to my detriment), I had some wine, and left him a few paragraphs in the form of an offline message letting him know how I felt about him and his work schedule.

After that, I called Jason's cellphone, and thought it would be funny to do the Pat O'Brien voicemails. I just kept saying "You are so fucking hot" and "Let's get crazy. Let's get some coke. Hire some hookers. You are so fucking hot." Ok, so maybe it's funnier when you're drunk. Whatever. Jason didn't think it was so funny, because he was on a date when I called, and his date could hear the whole conversation.

I was scolded on Sunday morning.

No one made him answer his phone in the middle of a date.

Sheesh.


So, when you have major abdominal surgery, and your insides get moved around, and cut, and re-directed, things change. And when 3/4 of your intestines are bypassed, the length of time that you can... hold things - decreases drastically.

I have learned that when that "special feeling" strikes, there's not time to play games. You must go. Now.

Today, my boss, Mr. Big Shot was talking to me (which he never ever does, so go fucking figure this is the one time he wants to chat me up). About mid-conversation, it hit me. I stood there, listening, wishing he would finish blathering on and on and on about this protein drink he wanted me to try (he is fitness OBSESSED and he is always telling me about this crap since he knows protein is the biggest thing in my diet now). So I was smiling, and nodding, and agreeing profusely, as a good lowly employee does when being talked to buy the guy who owns her ass. I soon realized that it was go time. Literally.

I tried to wrap it up, and I just kept saying, "Oh, ok then, I'll be sure to try that powder next time I'm out shopping," but the fucker wouldn't stop talking. Things were rumbling, and I could feel knots in my stomach. It was bad. Finally, thankfully, Chris walked up behind him, and he picked up on something not being right, and took Mr. Big Shot away to talk about whatever shit his junkie son fucked up this week.

Jesus.

Seriously. It's like five minutes, and then it turns into me running like an idiot with my legs crossed.

Later, I told Chris why I was freaking out, and he laughed hysterically. Asshole.



Did anyone else that reads dooki(and if you're not, then why the fuck aren't you? She rules) download the songs from her last entry and love them? Holy hell, did I fall in love with some bossa nova cover songs. I immediately went to itunes and got the whole record, and I think I listened to it about ten times at work today.

It's awesome.


I heard on Howard Stern today (yeah, I listen to Howard. Shutup), and they were talking about how Oprah had lunch with Brad Pitt so she could talk to him out of divorcing Jennifer "I'm the biggest victim in America" Aniston. Who the fuck does Oprah think she is? And why would Brad leave Angelina Jolie, whose sex elicits sounds that cause strangers to knock on their hotel door to make sure animal sacrifices aren't going on?

Somehow I get the impression that Jen is too worried about how her boobs look during sex, and if 69 makes her look fat.


So. Dave Chappelle's not crazy. And not on drugs. He's just stressed out. It's kind of hard for me to sympathize with someone who just got paid $50 million for two fucking seasons of Chappelle's Show. That's like, 24 episodes in total.

God bless those poor over-worked and under-paid celebrities.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Celestia Part Three, or how I became a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Ok, so if you missed the first two nail-biting installments to the story of Celestia, click here and here.

In November 1997, I had a hugely serious near-death medical scare (I won’t go into detail, but if you really want to know, email me). I was in the critical-care unit, lucky to be alive (according to the doctor) with fucking nitro-glycerin being pumped into my body, had an oxygen tube in my nose, and was pissing through a tube in a bag. Celestia comes in the room and says, “You look like shit.” Later, my nurse, Charlene (who was awesome beyond words) came in and was talking to me, and told me that outside, in the waiting area, Celestia was talking to X (who was freaking out because I was almost DEAD) about breaking up with me, and how everyone would understand him breaking up with me, since no one (read: her) could understand why we were together in the first place. Charlene (the nurse) told me that he yelled at her to get out of his face, and not to talk to him anymore.

Kay and DMX got serious, and decided to move in together. Celestia didn’t like this, and told Kay that it wouldn’t work. Kay laughed, told her she was jealous, and she moved out. Celestia flipped out and told her over and over and over what a mistake it was, and how she was going to regret it, and blah blah blah, but then she helped her move.

With Kay out of her apartment, we saw less and less of Celestia. She and Dick still came around the bar, but it was different now, because no one really liked her anymore (although everyone still liked Dick). We still kept it friendly, but none of us went out of our way to talk to her if we saw her.

In late 1998, Dick finally broke down and proposed to Celestia. He told me over beers a few days after that he did it to get her off of his back, but that he never actually saw the wedding happening. I asked him why he didn’t just break up with her if he was so miserable, but in typical Dick fashion, he said she was a good in bed and a good cook. (Later he told me she was a dead lay, and that he only said that because he thought I would go back and tell her. I take great enjoyment in knowing that she sucks in bed, too. She should be a fucking porn star with as much experience as she’s had).

In January of 1999, Kay found out that she was pregnant with RAM. Which was a surprise, for sure, but still something everyone was happy about. Kay saw Celestia in the bar and told her that she was pregnant, and Celestia, without blinking an eye, told Kay to have an abortion, that she was fat and would have a miscarriage, that she got knocked up to trap DMX into marrying her, and that there was no way she could handle being a mother. Kay didn’t say anything back to her, but DMX had to calm her down and restrain her.

Want to know how fucking crazy she is?? The next day she showed up at Kay and DMX’s place with baby books, acting like nothing had happened.

Coockoo.

A few days later, we saw them at the mall, and Kay showed Celestia her engagement ring, and Celestia just looked at it and said “mine’s bigger.”

At this point, I have to tell you all that I have no idea if any of this will make sense. I am trying to put in order chronologically, but I start typing and don’t pay attention. So if it doesn’t make sense, well… tough. Now keep reading, dammit.

The summer before RAM was born was the summer X broke up with me. As I mentioned before, this was way beyond a crushing blow. This truly was the lowest I had ever remembered feeling, except for the death of my Uncle and my Grandmother. I was depressed, and stayed in my apartment for weeks, leaving only for work. When I finally did come out from under my bed and hit the bar to see my friends I hadn’t seen in a while, she was there with Dick.
I was talking to my friends Mongol and Turtle when she came up to me. I remember this conversation like it happened yesterday, because this was the very last thing that she said that I ever let hurt me, and I have hated her ever since.

“I heard about you and X.”

“Yeah.”

“You must be so sad. Who knows when you’ll find someone.”

“What?”

“Well, you know. It’s going to be hard to find someone else.”

“Why would it be hard? I found him, didn’t I?”

“Well, yeah. But he was your friend first.”

“If you’re trying to say something, then say it.”

“It’s just… hard… for girls like you.”

“Girls like me? What the fuck does that mean?” I knew exactly what it meant.

“Well, I suppose I could be a skinny girl who just lays there and sucks in bed, drives away all her friends, and acts like a psycho. It might be easier to get a guy that way".

What she said after that will not be printed here, because thinking about it makes me want to punch her, and well, I have to work with her. I also don’t want this to become a “poor Andria” story where I beg for encouragement from you guys, because that’s not what it is. It’s just an explanation of why I feel about her the way that I do.

I didn’t see or hear from her for a few months after that. I was at the bar one night, and she came in with Dick, and sat down right next to me. I didn’t talk to her at first. Her eyes were glassy, and I could tell that she was going to start crying. I have seen this trick before, so I wasn’t going to fall for it.

”Why do you and Kay hate me?” I think the fact that after all the shit she’d done (and truly, I think I’ve only reported half of it here) she had the nerve to ask that question proves just how fucking crazy this broad is.
“Are you serious, Celestia? Are you really asking me that?”
“Yeah. I don’t understand. I saw Kay at the grocery store and she just walked right by me.”

“Hmmm. Let’s think about it. On the happiest day of her life, you told her to abort her child. That just might have something to do with it. No one likes you because you’re miserable and jealous of everyone else.”
That’s about the extent of my memory of that conversation, but it ended with her running out of the bar in tears.
I didn’t see her again for a while.

The next time I saw her was around early 2000, right after I had quit my nanny job, and was having a hell of a time finding a new one. I knew that the crazy woman at her company could never hold on to staff (because she scared them all off), so I casually mentioned that I needed a job.
At this point, you are all probably asking yourself, “Why the fuck would this crazy bitch ask that other crazy bitch to get her a job where she has to be with her for eight fucking hours a day, every day?”

Good question.

The answer is desperation, and common sense. Yes, I hated her, and wanted to choke her every chance I got. BUT, she also worked at a great company, with good benefits. I also knew I would not be working with her directly, that she would be upstairs and I would be downstairs.

When I started at my company, I was a celebrity in my department because they all knew that I was friends with her, and I knew all her secrets. Everyone had questions, and the more I talked to them, the more I realized that Celestia had been talking such shit about Kay and I FOR YEARS to people who didn’t even know me. She told them things about me that they had no business knowing. She said horribly mean things about me, never thinking any of the people she told would end up working with me and telling me. She told them I made up being diabetic (another time I nearly died) to get sympathy from people. I was beyond pissed when I heard that she had been talking about me like this.

At that point, I decided that I was going to tell some of her secrets, like she had done to me (childish, yes, I know). I told them how Dick broke off their engagement because he caught her fucking her present boyfriend, Sucker, on a camping trip. How she had gotten pregnant more than once in high school. How she told Kay to abort RAM. How she slept with every male friend she had. How she fucked over every female friend she ever had. How she came home from work every day and told us how much she hated every person she worked with, especially Cat Lady (the crazy one who couldn't keep employees for shit - so named because she had seven cats that lived in our office, in addition to the ELEVEN she had at home). How she was literally mental, and that she had been taking medication for it on and off. That wasn't the worst thing. I could have told her worst secret, but I didn't. And I won't.
So, our working relationship was at first rocky, because I fit right in with the people I worked with, and she didn't. We hung out together after hours and on weekends, and we would be laughing about something every time she came in the office. She was completely jealous, and hated every minute of it. She couldn't get along with Cat Lady and I did.

Long story short, after a long legal battle, our department was effectively eliminated, and every one lost their job except me. Celestia, who was the receptionist at the time, was adding to her job duties, so I was going to fill in for her while she moved to do something else. This was good and bad. It was good because I was going to get to be around the execs all the time, and woo them with my wit and charm, but it also meant that not only was I going to be working with her ALL THE TIME, she would be training me for the first few weeks.

Because I had to spend so much time with her, I just put my hateful feelings off to the side, and decided that for the sake of my mental health, I had to try and maintain some sort of cordial relationship with her. I don't go out of my way to be nice to her, but I don't act like a dick all the time, either.

She loves to say things that she knows will sting, and tries to make it sound like she really cares about you, when in fact, she doesn’t give a fuck, and just wants to hurt your feelings with her goddamned mouth. Example (this happened about a week and a half ago):

“Scott told me X is back in town. What are you going to do?”

“Um, what am I supposed to do? I am not even friends with him. I don’t care where he lives.”

“I heard he got married and has a beautiful wife, and she comes from a really rich family. He’s so happy now. Scott said they just had a baby. His wife is really pretty. And she gained like, no weight during her pregnancy. She’s so pretty and weighed like 120 pounds in her ninth month.”

See what I mean? She’s just evil. Evil. Evil. Evil.

Her moods are eratic. She goes out of her way to ignore me and be rude to me one minute, and the next she tries to act like she's my best friend. Every morning, when I walk up the stairs to the office, she is the first thing I see. She never says hi, never looks up, nothing. Whoever is behind me, doesn't matter who, she goes overboard with greetings. By now, you know of her constant crying fits. She's a gossip, and instigator, a manipulator, and a fake. It pisses me off that I have to act different with her, because I am not someone who can put on an act very easily. If I don't like someone, I just don't talk to them. But I don't have much choice in this situation. She truly is poison. The most frustrating thing about it is that everyone at work knows this about her, yet she still has a job.

I don't get that. At all.

Celestia, from what I can gather, had a really fucked up childhood. I don't care what happened, that doesn't make it ok to be a schizo whore to everyone around you and say whatever you want. At some point you have to be a grown up and put the past behind you and realize that there's a normal way to behave. She won't do that. But, I don't know if she really is so fucked up that she doesn't think she's acting any worse than anyone else. I have no idea. I give up trying to figure her out.

So, I think that's pretty much it. Like I said, I don't know if any of it will make any sense, because I had ten plus years worth of memories to sort through. I hope it provides a little insight into why it is that I feel the way I do.

Jesus. That was long.


So, all the Star Wars freaks get to come out of their mom’s basements to see the next crappy installment of George Lucas’ money-making ego boost this week. Finally. I am so tired of hearing about it I can’t fucking stand it anymore. I just really don’t give a shit how Darth Vader became the big meany that he was.

As I said in twobaddogs’ comments, when they make a prequel to Sixteen Candles or Caddyshack, then I’ll get excited.

I was watching tv with RAM yesterday, and we saw the commercial for it, and I said “Hey, RAM, do you want to go see that movie?”

“No way, TT. Star Wars is for dorks.”

Heh. I would love to take credit for him thinking that, but I’ve never made a joke about it because my friends are into Star Wars (I liked Star Wars and The Empire Strikes back, I just don’t care about the prequels). Like I said, the kid’s a genius.

By the way, if you’re one of the people who get a stiffie at the prospect of this movie, don’t take my comments personally. I make fun of everyone. It’s because of my low self-esteem.

Besides, I proudly admit that every week I watch 43 hicks drive in a circle for four hours, and I get excited about it. I am just as much of a retard as the Star Wars dorks. I am just a white trash nascar dork.


I was talking to my friends DMX and Briton about this disgusting porn website we go to all the time, and when we were laughing about something, our other friend The Good Girl came up. She has this name for a reason. She grew up on a farm, incredibly religious, incredibly sheltered.

Well, she wanted to know what we were laughing at. How do you explain bukkake to a chick like that? After we told her what it was, she gagged and told us that we were disgusting, and that we were dirty, and she couldn’t believe we could talk about such things.

I prefer to think of it as well-cultured.

Celestia Part Two


If you missed part one of the history with Celestia, go back or click here.

Part Two: The Honeymoon's Over

One night, at the bar, I was sitting at a table with Dick and X. As I have mentioned before, I am much more comfortable hanging out with the guys than I am a group of girls. Therefore, guys talk to me differently than they do other girls (which is good and bad, because you end up hearing shit like “I wish my girlfriend was more like you” – fuck that). Dick told me that Celestia couldn’t get over how X chose me, and why was he dating someone like me when he could date someone “more his type,” which I can only figure “type” means “skinny.” This was my first taste of hearing about her incessantly talking behind my back. I had heard her talk about everyone else, I don’t know why I never assumed I would be one of those people when I wasn’t around.

For my 22nd birthday, my parents took me and a bunch of my friends to drinks and dinner. After my parents dropped around $400 for dinner and drinks for me and my friends, we went to our bar, where to Celestia’s credit, she and Kay went crazy with decorations for me. I had a great time, and had people buying me drinks left and right. My Dad was sitting at the bar, talking to Celestia (this is the first time they had had a chance to talk to her at length; every time they had talked to her before it was quick, when we were running out the door somewhere). Later (luckily before I blacked out completely), I was standing behind she and X in line for the bar, and I heard her ask him why he liked me. I don’t even remember what he said, I just remember how pissed I was. At that point, she was just someone in the group, and I no longer considered her my friend.

I didn’t know it until years later, but X was on the short list of men that hadn’t slept with her, despite her best efforts to get him. I guess she couldn’t handle that he rejected her and later chose me, someone who embodies everything she considers unattractive.

The next day, my Mom told me that my Dad was pissed that Celestia popped off and said something to him at the bar, but he wouldn’t tell her what. It pissed me off, considering how much money he dropped to make sure my friends had a good time. He said what it was didn’t matter, just that he had better not be around the next time she was in our house. To this day, I still don’t know what she said to him, and he still hates her for it.

Kay broke up with Mama’s Boy, and started dating DMX, who she met at our bar. DMX had a whole group of friends at the bar, too, and Kay and I found ourselves spending more time with their group than with our own. Not having to listen to Celestia talk shit about everyone else was a nice break.
When Celestia’s mom moved in with her boyfriend, she needed a roommate. Logic would think her boyfriend would move in, but he knew he didn’t want to live with her, and Kay needed a place, so she became Celestia’s roommate. This meant if I hung out with Kay, I was going to have to hang with her all the time, too. This is also about the time I started drinking A LOT more.

Kay and DMX were spending a lot of time together, being that they were just starting to date. Celestia called Kay at work one day and told her that she didn’t want DMX there when she got home from work every day anymore, because it made her uncomfortable. She also suggested that he might pay 1/3 of the rent since he was there so much, and had some of their food while he was there. Kay pretty much laughed in her face and told her to fuck off. For principle, I started showing up everyday right when she got home.

I think that Celestia’s jealousy and insecurity in her own self is the reason for her behavior. Obviously. Her relationship with Dick was a joke. He played softball seven days a week, and only showed up on the weekends when he needed someplace to crash. He also slept around, which everyone knew about, including Celestia, and she just took it. I was in a normal, happy relationship (at least it was at the time), and then Kay hooks up with this awesome guy who wants to spend all of his time with her, and it was in her face everyday.

But if she was unhappy, she could have changed it, and she didn’t. So fuck her.

We play a lot of poker. And a lot of drinking games. One night, after we came home from this little Hawaiian themed bar in which I got shitfaced drunk off Scorpions (BAD BAD BAD. These drinks are good, but they will fuck you. Trust me). We decided to play cards. Celestia and Kay were tired, and went to bed, so Dick, DMX, Briton and I were staying up playing poker. I don’t know how it ended up this way, or how I even agreed to it (oh yeah I do – the fucking Scorpions), but we decided the only logical thing to do: Strip poker, of course.

I was so drunk that I didn’t realize that they were cheating their asses off every chance they got so that my clothes would come off. I was so drunk I didn’t even notice that it might not be possible for them to keep getting royal flushes every hand.

Needless to say, I kept losing, and those three fuckers got to see the girls, before I realized that I took my shirt off thinking I still had my bra on (which of course, I did not).

The next morning, we were all hungover and laughing about it, and Celestia stormed off and slammed the door to her bedroom, telling Dick that he was an asshole for looking at my boobs, and why did he want to play strip poker with me anyway, and blah blah blah.

I think because I was always hanging out with Dick and the other guys and laughing and having a good time, and I never gave him grief about shit the way she did, she must have been in some little way jealous that her boyfriend liked hanging out with me. It was nothing I had done intentionally, I am just a guy’s girl. Always have been. On many Sundays, Kay and Celestia would go shopping, and I would hang out at the apartment drinking beer and watching sports with Dick and DMX. I still do that with my guy friends.

To be continued...


Today was my friend Angela's son's Jack's baptism. Given my ambivolence with religion, I don't really like these events. But they're my friends, and it means something to them, so I go. I am always afraid that I am going to spontaniously combust as soon as I walk into a church for the things I've done. Needless to say, I am a little uncomfortable. Not to mention that it's a catholic ceremony, so there's a lot of standing up, sitting down, kneeling, praying, and doing the sign of the cross.

While I don't find much comfort inside a church religiously, I find a beauty in them artistically. I especially love mosaic art, so I was particularly taken with this:

and this (it's a little dark):


The weather today was fantastic. After the baptism ordeal was over, I decided to go out into the sunshine and go for a drive, and maybe take a few pictures.

This is what it looked like by my house:

Sunny. Warm. Beautiful.

But when I got to the beach, where I wanted to take the best pictures, it looked like this:

The Pacific Ocean is in there, somewhere.

It amazes me how it can be so warm and sunny in one place, and five miles west it's completely foggy and overcast.

Luckily, it cleared out and it was nice the rest of the day.


Today, I white-trashed it up and watched nascar with my friends. RAM came up and asked me a question.

"TT, how come you and Mom have these big things and Dad and Uncle [Briton] don't?" (Pointing to my chest)

"Because only girls have them." Then he walked over to our friend Good Girl, who is not as... busty as Kay and I.

"[Good Girl], where's yours?"

I love kids.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Celestia Part One, and hanging out with The King.

Ok. By request, here is the story of me and Celestia.

First, I should explain her name in this diary. When Anne Heche went all wacko a few years ago, and she was speaking in tongues saying she was an alien, she said her name was "Celestia". It fits her perfectly.

On with the show.

When I was about 20, Kay was dating this guy Mama’s Boy. Mama’s Boy played on a Friday night softball league with a bunch of his high school friends. One of those guys was Dick. He was a flake, irresponsible, cheap, and a liar. And not attractive, yet all the girls wanted him.

Celestia started showing up at the games, because she knew all the guys from high school, and also because she was one of the girls that liked Dick (haha). Celestia brought with her a trampy reputation. She slept with everyone.
She also had a list of ex-best friends a mile long. At the time, Kay and I didn’t know anything about her except that she was a slut (and given our own personal history, neither one could judge her strictly on that).

During the course of the games, we started talking to her, and getting to know her. She seemed cool to us, so we considered her a friend.

When she and Dick started dating seriously, we saw her more and more. She still seemed alright to me, but there was something not quite right, although I couldn’t figure out just what it was. I had heard her talk about other girls in a vicious manner, criticizing their looks, their weight, their boyfriend, everything. Everything was up for ridicule. It was easy for her to criticize, because she was hot. Red hair, blue eyes, and a gorgeous body.

I remember Kay and I had to celebrate our 21st birthdays together (we are a month apart), because Kay had her wisdom teeth pulled the week of my birthday, and I didn’t want to do anything without her. Mama’s Boy took us to this bar at the beach and got us completely shit-faced. We had a blast. When it was time to go home, Celestia offered to drive me, since she lived pretty close to me. We stopped at Jack in the Box on the way, and were sitting in my house eating when she told me something. She told me something about her that was very private (as much as I despise her, I have never told anyone this, and won’t), incredibly personal, and completely threw me for a loop. I mean, we were buzzed, and laughing and having fun, and then she drops this bomb on me. I didn’t even know what to think except “why the fuck is this chick that I barely know telling me this?” That was my first clue that she was not quite right.

Dick, a painter, turned us on to this divey Irish pub that he and his dad painted, and told us how cool it was and how awesome the family that owned it were. We started hanging out there all the time. Every weekend, before we would go to the bar, we would go to Celestia’s apartment and have some beers before. It was one of these nights when I got a little insight into her insanity (and makes me sympathize with her just a little bit).

Celestia’s mom was fucking crazy. I mean, certifiably crazy. Celestia told me on a few occasions that she was not normal, but I had no idea what that meant until that night.

We were sitting in her bedroom, listening to music and drinking some beers, waiting for everyone else. Her mother was in her own room, packing her things to go stay at her boyfriend’s (which she did every weekend).

All of a sudden, her mom charged in, and starts screaming at the top of her lungs about how Celestia kept taking her clothes and her make-up, and never putting it back in its place, and what the fuck was wrong with her, and how the fuck did she end up with such a selfish, ungrateful, worthless daughter. Celestia didn’t cry. She didn’t react at all.

When her mom left, she just looked at me and said, “See what I mean? Not normal.”

About this time, I started dating X. He was on the softball team that Kay’s boyfriend played on, so we had been friends for a while before it got serious. I was stunned when he asked me out, because he a) never dated fat "voluptuous" girls before, and b) was truthfully way hotter than I thought I would ever get.

See what a talented seductress I am?

To be continued...


The only good thing I can think of that exists in North Carolina (besides bbq pork...mmm...pork), warcrygirl, gave me some questions to answer. I love answering questions. It must be the rambling whore in me. Here goes:

1. You've been assigned to write a new cheer for the cheerleading squad. You hate the cheerleading squad. What is your cheer?

How could she have guessed that I hated the cheerleaders? God, did I ever. Here's a cheer you'll never hear:

We're so fine, we're so thin,
we like to sleep with our best friend's men.
We're dirty whores, and we don't care
at least we don't have frizzy hair.
We've had abortions and we'll have more still,
cause we're too stupid to get on the pill.
We're not smart, but that's ok
our boobs will take us all the way.
We're skanks, we know it,
we've got the STD's to show it.
Goooooooooooo team!

2. You're in a foreign country attending a dinner with heads of state. You are served a local delicacy and it still has its face and feet attached. What do you do?

After I gag, I would politely say that I am a vegetarian, and couldn't possibly eat whatever the fuck was on the plate. I have learned that anything called a delicacy will never enter my mouth.

Ever.

3. What was your reaction the very first time you heard of fellatio?

I didn't have any reaction. When I was a kid, my uncle, who is about twelve years older than me, used to keep piles of porn in the bathroom of my grandparents house. As soon as I discovered it, I couldn't stop looking at it (which is still the case). I knew what sex was, so I figured that was something that went along with it. So, I was never grossed out about it, and never apprehensive about doing it (much to the enjoyment of every man I've dated). Now, my reaction the first time a guy came in my mouth is a whole other story.

4. What one trend from the 80's would you like to see make a comeback?

Oh, god. There were so many horrendous trends in the 80's, I don't know if I want to see any of them back. I mean, it's bad enough feathered bangs are back in, I don't know if I could handle acid-washed jeans, flourescent clothes, valley girl talk (which, unfortunately is still part of my vocabulary), men in pastel colored suits with shoes and no socks... I guess if I had to pick one, I would like to see hair metal make a comeback. Bring back the power ballad!

5. You get to spend 24 hours with anyone you want. Who do you spend it with and what would you do?

Ok, I probably should answer with some bullshit philosopher, or dead president, or some great writer. Fuck that. I didn't even have to think about this answer. I would totally hang with Elvis. First, we would kick it in the safari room at Graceland wearing sequined jumpsuits. After doing some ass-kicking karate moves, we would eat some pork chops and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches (which I have had, and are GOOD). After that, we'd jam for a bit, and sing "Burning Love," and "Love Me" after which I'll talk shit about 'Scilla just enough to talk him into singing my two favorite Elvis songs, "Always on my mind" (though I am partial to Willie's version) and "Suspicious Minds." Then we'll jump on his jet and go to Vegas, where we'd hang out with Frank and Dino and fucking tear that town up.

Fuck. Yeah.


Thursday, May 12, 2005

My eyes, my eyes, my eyes are on fire. We don't need no water let the motherfuckers burn.

Maybe when Kenny takes his new bride home to Tennessee to meet his mama, she'll make her eat some biscuits and gravy. She could use it.


Tonight I made a colassal retard move, even by my standards.

I cook for myself every day. While I am no gourmet, I know what I am doing in the kitchen, and I know how spices and peppers work. I was making a pot of pinto beans. I chopped a white onion, a head of garlic, and three jalapeno peppers.

I like my food hot. Sometimes so hot that my eyes water and I feel like if I take one more bite, flames may shoot out my ass. I love spicy food, so when I cook, I use a lot of heat.

Well, I chopped up the jalapenos, threw all my ingredients in the crock pot, and walked away.

I came in to check my email, and took my glasses off to rub my eyes (something I do regularly at the end of the day - I don't know why, it's a habit I've had since I was a kid). Well, guess what my dumb ass didn't do after I chopped the jalapenos? Wash my fucking hands.

So, after a couple seconds of vigorous eye rubbing, they started burning. Burning badly. So badly, that I started crying, which made it worse. I ran into the bathroom, washed my hands and started flushing my eyes over and over and over, hoping to make it feel better, only to make it worse. It sucked. My eyes are still swollen, still burning, still red.

I feel like a total ass.

Well, more than usual, anyway.


Dear Jack Johnson,

Want to be my boyfriend?

Ok, I realize that you're married. But if you ditched your wife for me, you wouldn't be sorry.

Seriously. I don't want to brag, but I know things. Things you've only read about in books.

Call me.

<3,
andria


Thank god it's Friday.

I have been enjoying blissful Celestia-free time, and I am sad that it's coming to an end.

I have thought about doing an entry that tells the story of my friendship with her, and how she fucked it up, because it occurs to me that as you people read the way I talk about her, and the things I do to her, that I must look like a real asshole.

While I admit I'm an asshole, in this particular case, she deserves every bit of it.

It's pretty long, though, so I would have to do it in parts, and I really don't think anyone gives a shit anyway.


I have no idea what I am going to do this weekend. My friend's sister is visiting from Ireland, and I am sure some sort of alcohol-induced shenanigans will occur. The last time she was here, she talked a bunch of Irish guys into taking their clothes off and singing happy birthday.

Scott, if you start driving now, you could be here before the weekend is up. Hehe.

I would be perfectly happy to hang out at Kay's, have some drinks and bbq. Thank god bbq weather is here.

Although, I must admit I would be really happy if a certain someone was around this weekend. We'll see.


The demise of Tattoo Face.


Updates:

Remember the lady that locked her kid in the car last week that Celestia yelled at? Well, we got a call from the Sheriff’s department yesterday, and someone did call and report that woman, and because she admitted that she did it “all the time,” Celestia and I may have to go to some hearing about it. The manager at the store we were shopping at knows us, and gave them the number to our office. God, I hope some judge rips that woman a new asshole.

Sunday, when I walking Wolf to his car, there was a police car in front of the house next door, and Tattoo Face was being taken away in handcuffs. I find it shocking that someone who tattoos his face might do something to get himself thrown in jail.

Ah, ghetto life.

It’s funny, because the night before, Wolf jokingly asked if his car (which is nice) was going to be ok overnight parked on the street.

“Of course it will… my neighborhood is just run down, but nothing bad ever really happens.”

Then the next day he walks out and my neighbor is getting carted off by the cops. Yeah, he should be in a hurry to come back after that. I tried to tell him that my neighbors don’t steal cars like 200 ZX’s, but I don’t think he was buying it.

We’ll see.


I have had many google hits for “naked Andria.”

There’s no naked Andria here.

Move on.


Jenna’s entry about the Kentucky Derby and mint juleps reminded me of my own run-in with the deceptive cocktail when I was in North Carolina visiting family a few years ago.

I had always heard people ordering them, but never had one, so I decided when in the south, you must do as the southerners do. Assuming it was a sweet, lady-like girly drink, I ordered one.

WRONG.

I think what I had was a glass of bourbon with a sprig of mint in it for decoration. It was strong. I didn’t want to drink it, but my one of my idiot cousins made some crack about my “California umbrella drinks,” and that I might not be able to hang. As much as I despise all things scotch, whiskey, or bourbon, I like to rub shit in peoples’ faces more, so I drank it. Fast.

It didn’t take long before I was completely drunk, and jokingly suggested to one of my many racist family members, “hey, let’s go scare some black kids!”

He thought I was serious, and was ready to go.

Then I started joking that he was hot, in a “mutually-shared DNA kind of way,” and that hooking up with my cousin was a fantasy of mine.

This also did not surprise him.

How am I related to these people?

Thank god there is an entire country in between us.


The new Weezer record kicks ass.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Me and The Wolf.


So, after dating for six minutes, Renee “Sourpuss” Zellweger married Kenny Chesney.

What the…????

I used to like Kenny Chesney (I like some country – pretty much nothing in the last five or six years though, since it doesn’t sound anything like country), until he tried to turn himself into a twangy Jimmy Buffet. There’s already a Jimmy Buffet, Kenny. Go back to singing how girls like your tractor, mmmk?

I don’t know what happened to Renee Zellweger. I think she was completely adorable in Empire Records and Jerry Maguire, then she hit the wall. I don’t know where it went wrong. Someone also needs to start stuffing bacon cheeseburgers down her throat NOW. She is way too skinny. And she always looks like she’s sucking on a lemon.


Something happened on Saturday that I was hesitant to talk about, because I didn’t want to jinx it, but at this point, I don’t care.

Backstory: I am in a couple of groups on Yahoo, and a guy that is also in one of them started IM-ing me a few months ago. We chatted off and on, mostly leaving little offline messages because we were never on at the same time. About a month ago, we started having actual conversations that were a few hours at a time.

His name (at least here) is Wolf. 32, single, engineer. As soon as I heard engineer, I got excited, because I am so drawn to geeky smart guys. He was very smart, very sweet, and a really nice guy. I noticed through the course of our conversations he never cursed, which is fine, but I figured as soon as he found out what a potty mouth I am he’d be out the door, so I kept it pretty clean in our chats.

Our chats got disgustingly sweet and complimentary (as unbelievable is it is to think this kind of crap could come out of my mouth, my friend Jeremy can attest to the cheesiness). Example:

Wolf: You are too darn cute!
Andria: No, you are too cute!
Wolf: No you’re the cute one. You are insanely sweet and adorable.
Andria: hehe… so are you! (insert dumb yahoo smileys at the end of every sentence)

See? Fucking SICK. I don’t even know who that chick is. And, it only gets worse from there, believe me. I won’t subject you good people to any more of that. After we admitted how attracted we were to each other, I tried to dirty up the conversation a little to see exactly what I was dealing with (because one thing I have learned is that my first impressions of men are almost always wrong – if I think he’s shy, conservative and uptight, in the bedroom he’s a naked picture-taking dirty boy), and at first he just said that I was leading him to have “unchaste thoughts.” It took a few chats, but I finally got him to admit what those unchaste thoughts were, and… oh, boy. I thought Jason was the dirtiest guy ever, but this guy could give him a run for his money.

Our conversations started becoming really intense, and it was clear we had lots of attraction going on, so I was tired of all the online interaction. I started asking him to meet (he lives in OC, which is about an hour from me), but he kept telling me his work schedule was hectic because of a project he was working on. I got frustrated, and started wondering if he’s one of those dickhead guys who talk girls up online but never back up all that talk by meeting offline. I didn’t get my hopes up.

Well, Saturday, after I got home from RAM’s tee ball game and dinner at Kay’s, he IM’d me as soon as I signed on, and he said rather than talk for three hours online, he would just drive up and we could hang out and talk in person.

He came over, we talked and talked and talked, watched some tv, and… well… some stuff happened that I honestly was not planning on happening, but there was a ridiculous amount of chemistry going on between us. Needless to say, he went home the next afternoon.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a hoar.

Save it.

It was satisfying in about a million ways besides sexually. It was just what I needed.

Now I get to sit here with my girly self-doubt and wonder what (if anything) is going to happen next.

I hate this part.


New Weezer today!

Weeeeee!!


Monday, May 09, 2005

I've had the time of my life.


Well, it seems a couple more diarists have gone public with their budding romance.

I really am the last one to do anything.

Are blog sites the new singles bar? If so, I need to get all you whores off my favorites list and fill it up with single men. Ok, married men, too. At this point, I will consider everyone.

So who wants to be my online boyfriend?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

Goddammit.

I guess I am just going to have to go back to putting out for random guys that answer my personal ad.

I wonder if that bowling ball guy is still available.


My date with RAM Friday was fun. And more proof that that kid is way more swishy than any 5 year old boy should be.

We kicked it off with a gourmet powdered-cheese feast of macaroni and cheese and Cheetos (Britney and Kevin aren’t the only hipsters that are down with Cheetos), followed by my usual lesson in musical appreciation. As I mentioned before, I got the kid totally hooked on Bob Marley, so I decided to take it to the lower end of the quality music spectrum, and we listened to some 80’s hair metal (which I LOVE, by the way).

We started off with Poison, then some Skid Row, and my very favorite metal band, Motley Crue. Oh, how I love the Crue.

After he jumped around on my furniture like a little head-banging maniac, I told him to pick a dvd to watch. He loves Caddyshack, and we watch that one almost every time he’s over, but this time, I was really shocked by what he picked.

I can’t believe I am about to admit I have this movie on dvd. Oh, who cares… every girl that reads this diary has seen this movie a million times, too. It’s good shit.

He chose Dirty Dancing.

Dirty fucking Dancing.

“How come you want to watch that one?”

“I don’t know. I want to see the guy dance.”

“Alright then. I don’t want to be there when you tell your Dad this is what you wanted to see.”

So we watched the movie, and he was mesmerized by the dancing. He literally did not take his eyes off the tv. When it was over, he looked at me and said, “That guy was a good dancer, TT. His shirt was tight.”

Um.

Ok.

The next day, Kay called me. “Why is my son singing “Girls, Girls, Girls?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe [DMX] took him to a strip club. That’s where I always hear it.”

“You let him listen to Motley Crue, didn’t you?”

“You never said I couldn’t let him listen to Motley Crue.”

“Jeez, did you let him watch porn, too?”

“No, but when [DMX] finds out what he did watch, he’ll wish it was porn instead.”

“What was it?”

“Dirty Dancing.”

“Oh fuck. Don’t tell him he watched that.”

I also taught him how to dramatically point his finger in someone’s face and say “nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

If he’s going to be gay, he may as well be theatrical.


I am back in Celestia’s good graces today, because, as proof that I am not an asshole ALL the time, I burned a bunch of cd’s for her.

See... I am a nice person.

Mostly.


Friday, May 06, 2005

Why you shouldn't leave me in charge of your kid.


Last night I had this really hot, sexy dream, and, strangely, it was entirely in French.

I don’t speak French. Well, not very well anymore. I took three years of it in high school, and haven’t used it much since, so if I was stranded in France and had to use my French to ask how to get back home, I would more than likely end up with a pencil, some cheese, and maybe the location of the bathroom. And some very badly conjugated verbs.

In spite of my sorry skills dans la langue francaise, one my very favorite movies is Amelie (thank god for subtitles). If you haven’t seen it, do it. You will not be disappointed.

It is simply wonderful. Sweet, funny, charming… a perfect film.


Well, my “oh, happy day! your period is here!” card backfired on me. Since she was having a meltdown because her friend couldn’t go on vacation with her, Celestia thought Margie and I got the card to make her feel better.

Damn it. I had to hug her.

Thank god she’ll be gone next week.

I have to give her Highness of Insanity props, though. She went all kinds of apeshit on this bitch at Trader Joe’s yesterday. We went to pick up things for our office lunch today, and when we were putting the stuff in my car, she said the parked car next to mine was running, but there was no one in it.

I looked, and noticed two little feet kicking in the backseat. Someone left their kid, in a car seat, locked in the car with it running. ALONE. I went crazy. She said we should call 911 and report it, but I said let’s wait for the retard and let him know what a fucking ignorant assfuck they were for leaving their goddamned kid alone in a running car in a busy parking lot.

While we were standing there, I noticed this woman run out of Trader’s and into Starbuck’s, which is in the same shopping center. Her dumb outfit stuck out in my mind, and in my head I made a little joke about her.

About five minutes later, that lady came up to the running car. Celestia got right in her face, and told her that she is lucky we didn’t call the cops and turn her in, that leaving her kid in the parking lot in a running car is about the stupidest fucking thing you could ever do, and started screaming at such a high pitch I am pretty sure only dogs could hear her.

The woman offered up a list of excuses. We shot them all down, and just yelled at her like two red-headed pit bulls. People were starting to stop and stare, and the manager of one of the stores came out to calm us all down, but when we told him what the woman did, he started going off on her, too.

After a few minutes, and her final excuse of, “I do it all the time,” I was so disgusted I told her that I hope someone takes her kid away from her and pours cement in her vagina so that she can never have anymore. Then we left.

I can’t believe someone would do that. I can’t even wrap my head around it. Jesus.


Thank god it’s Friday.

Tonight I have a big date with RAM, where we will be hanging out at my place, eating macaroni and cheese (haute cuisine!), and watching Finding Nemo for the eighty kagillionth time and The Incredibles, which I haven’t seen yet, but am looking forward to.

We will also play the Memory game, in which he’ll kick my ass because of the sick photographic memory little kids have, and listen to Bob Marley and dance around, and then I’ll ply him with enough sugar to amp him up and drive his parents crazy all night when they pick him up.

I have brainwashed this kid into loving all the things I do, and it drives his parents crazy.

For example:

“RAM, who’s the best driver in nascar?”

“Jeff Gordon.” Everyone I know hates Jeff Gordon, and has tried to get this one out of his head, but it’s not working. My idiot friends don’t realize I worked in childcare for ten years. I have mastered the art of brainwashing.

“What’s the best movie ever?”

“Raising Arizona.”

“What’s the funniest part of that movie?”

“Get that diaper off your head and put it back on your sister,” at which point we both laugh hysterically.

He also loves Caddyshack, but I suspect it’s only because he gets to see boobs. He almost pisses himself when they put the candy bar in the pool. The kid knows comedy. His parents don’t know we watch that one when I babysit. Animal House, either. One day, we were hanging out at Kay and DMX’s bbq-ing, and our friend Briton, in a beer-induced stupor, fell out of his chair. RAM walked up to him, totally deadpan, and said to him, “fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life.” He’s 5 ½. The kid’s a fucking genius.

They know what a flake I am. They take the risk when they put their kid in my care.

“What’s the best song?”

(He sings)”Don’t worry, ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, is gonna be alright. We like Bob, TT.” Damn right, we do.

“RAM, who’s your favorite person in the world?”

“You are, TT.”

That’s the raddest kid ever. And, in spite of all of my bad influence, he is also the most polite and well-mannered kid around.

Say what you want about my qualifications as a child-care provider, being childless and all. But I quit working at the YMCA over five years ago, and every kid that was in my group still keeps in contact with me, and the parents love me enough to still buy me gifts for my birthday.

Kids love me.

And why the hell wouldn’t they? I let them watch movies with boobs and food fights.