He's a long gone daddy-o.

Unlike most women, I don't care about chocolate. I don't hate it, but I never crave it, and I have no problem walking by it and not wanting to eat it. Now, if there's a big plate of cheese sitting out, that's a WHOLE other story.

Mmmm...cheese.

But, in the last week or two, I have been like a fiend with the chocolate. I want it ALL THE TIME. I actually left my office to go buy a stupid candy bar. I never ever do that. Ever.

Then when I was walking back to the office, eating that Kit Kat bar like it was a, um... candy bar, I realized that I've been like a chocolate crack whore.

Perhaps the fact that I laid down the "no more casual sex" law, and since then, Jason has been harassing me to come over non-stop, not to mention the online romance I am embroiled in, stirring my loins like crazy, has had something to do with my need to consume chocolate like it's going out of style. I always heard that for women chocolate is the same as sex, but I never paid any attention to it.
After eating that Kit Kat bar, and being without sex, I can say I think it's true.

However, unless I want to gain back the many pounds I've lost in the last eight months, I better get my shit together and find a man so I can stop with all the chocolate. I could call Jason any time I wanted to get some, but that's no fun anymore.

Dammit.

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Sunday, I had to go out to see my [real] Dad's side of the family, which is never good. I mean, they're my family, and I love them, but they are the picture of white trash. Poor, uneducated, producing children out of wedlock at an alarming rate, and nearly none of them living on their own and supporting themselves. Or their out of wedlock children.

They live in a part of Southern California that is revered for its white trashiness. It's the meth capital of California, and pretty much everyone outside of that area makes fun of it. And, it never fails, that ANY time I go out there, at least one truck-driving stranger will verbally assault me for having a Jeff Gordon sticker on my car (hey, I never said I wasn't white trash, too).
This particular day, it was a woman (which is a first), who yelled out the passenger seat of a Ford truck that "Gordon's a suck-ass queer!" When the truck got ahead of me, she had a 45 sticker on her truck. Which, if you know nascar, know that Kyle Petty is about the shittiest driver EVER, and only races because his dad's Richard Petty.

Ok. Enough of my dork/trashy nascar rant.

My [real] Dad and I have a strained relationship. We don't talk unless I go out there to visit. I know that it's not because of any feelings of anymosity, that's just how he is. He's like that with everyone, so I don't take it personally (anymore).

Unfortunately, his vocabulary is stuck in the 60's, when he was a surfer.

When I walked in the house and he saw me (he hasn't seen me for almost a year), he walked up and said, "Hey, babe! You look bitchen!"

"Thanks, Dad."

"Hey, come and check out this boss new stereo I got!"

He also likes to drink. Sometimes, a lot. So, after a few beers, he gets his guitar out, and starts playing it (which he's really very good at). He's partial to Beach Boys and Rolling Stones songs. This time, it was "Brown Sugar." My Dad eitehr goes ALL Mick, or ALL Keith. Meaning, he'll take his shirt off and do the Mick Jagger cock-of-the-walk dance, or he'll take the guitar, let his ciagarette dangle from his lips and play his ass off.

Well, he was Mick this time, and in the midst of his drunken dancing, he backed into a shelf and knocked it, and himself over.

Like father, like daughter. At least I know I come by my stupid clumsiness honestly.

I also had to go to a memorial for a second cousin who died about three weeks ago, who I was not close to, for the most part. Deb was a mess. Most of her teeth were gone, she was morbidly obese, her health was a shambles, not to mention (and here's the part where you all can't believe my family is really like this) the fact that she was married to a convicted child-murderer, who she met because he was her nephew's cell mate. Yeah. Enjoy.

I wish I could say that was the most embarrassing fact about my family, but it's not.

Not by a long shot.

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Today, co-worker Chris and I were talking about Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France again, and Celestia was sitting at her desk, listening, but not saying anything. We were commenting about his winning streak, and Celestia jumped up, with a look of "Eureka!" on her face, and beaming with pride, said "Ommigod! They should call it the Tour de Lance!"

She really thought she was the first person to come up with this. She was so proud of herself for making a joke.

God bless that crazy bitch.